Read Online The Last Exile by E.V. Seymour - Free Book Online Page B

And that, he supposed, was the beauty of this particular job. He was not constrained by police procedure. He did not have to abide by the rules of PACE—Police and Criminal Evidence Act. He could be a maverick and go with the flow. But against this, he had no back-up, no armaments, no fibre-optic cameras, no listening devices, battering rams, no body armour or respirator. No listening ear, no guiding light, no companion, he thought sadly.
    Tallis returned to the map. According to the notes, Demarku, now thirty-one years old, had left Wormwood Scrubs two and a half months ago. He’d still have a young man’s hunger, Tallis believed. Still have that burning desire to make up for the stolen years of childhood and time wasted in the nick. But the world would be a very different place to the one young Demarku had briefly left behind—more rush and thrust, more watching and checking, more pen-pushing and paper-chasing. Tallis rested his finger on the road outside the prison. Which route had Demarku taken? Via the bright lights of trendy Notting Hill in the hope of bumping into one of the beautiful people, or had he slunk off in the opposite direction to the lesser charms of Acton or Ealing? Which had it been?
    He needed to get inside Demarku’s head, to throwaway his own values and adopt the attitudes of a psycho, a bit like learning a new language. People with great vocabularies and grammar often failed to convince because they lacked mastery of their accent. They continued to speak by using the same muscles and lip and tongue movements employed for their native speech. In learning a new language, you had to forget all that, and converse with new sounds, new speech patterns.
    Tallis didn’t doubt that the police had already done their homework and carried out the usual enquiries, talked to close associates and friends, visited Demarku’s old haunts, so the only way forward was to look with a different eye and find something extra, something that would lead him to his man. Start with the obvious, Tallis thought. But first he needed to cover his tracks.
    Across the road from the avenue was a long row of shops that included a mini-supermarket, newsagent’s, an Indian take-away and launderette, a couple of charity outlets, anything-for-a-quid stores, and cheap-price booze emporiums. The mobile phone shop was at the end next to a hairdressing salon called Wendy’s. Twenty minutes later, he came out with the latest up-to-the-second gadgetry, not because he fancied a new phone but because he needed a new identity.
    As soon as he returned home, he called the Met, and asked to be put through to Detective Chief Inspector Marshall at Kentish Town Police Station, Camden.
    Several minutes later, he was told that DCI Marshall had taken early retirement. Tallis scanned the report, found the name of his right-hand man, DI Micky Crow.
    “On a rest day. Can I take a message?”
    Tallis exhaled slowly. “Can you say Mark Strong wants to discuss an old case? Mention the name AgronDemarku.” Leaving his number, Tallis rang off, briefly considered calling Wormwood Scrubs, but decided that a black man stood more chance of attending a BNP rally than he had of pumping the governor for information. Instead, he phoned into work and said he wouldn’t be coming back then rummaged in his bedroom for the weights he’d slung under a pile of blankets. Changing into a tracksuit, he gave himself a thorough workout, followed by a run to offset any stiffness in his joints. On his return, he showered, felt a million times better and checked out the train times from New Street to Euston.
    Birmingham seemed small and parochial by contrast, Tallis thought as he stepped off the train and was swallowed up by a tidal wave of human traffic. It had been a while since he’d seen so many people, so many different shapes and sizes, nationalities and styles of dress. In the space of five minutes, and as his ear became attuned to his environment, he caught snippets