The Last Exile. E.V. Seymour

I need your help.”

      Her face sagged. She looked down at the floor. He’d blown it, he thought. “My name is …” He wanted her trust but knew that telling the truth could get both of them into a lot of trouble. He started again. “The guys out there know me as Marco,” he told her, “but my real name is Max.”

      “Max,” she said softly, as if committing his name and her lifeline to memory.

      “Yeah.” Tallis smiled warmly. “I have a wife and kids and I live in a lovely big house in a village called Belbroughton, not far from Birmingham.” Then, meshing fact with fiction, he told her about where he’d grown up, that he hadn’t always been so successful, that he, perhaps like her, had come from humble beginnings.

      She gazed at him in awe. “Thing is,” Tallis said, wondering how long he’d got before the others became suspicious. “I need to find this man.” He pulled out the most recent photograph of Demarku, showed it to her. “You recognise him?”

      The girl drew back, shook her head sadly, disappointed that she couldn’t help.

      “His name is Agron Demarku. He’s an Albanian with a history of violence towards prostitutes.”

      Again, the closed-down expression.

      “Do you talk much with the other girls?” Tallis said.

      She gave a mournful shrug.

      “All right,” he said, gently slipping the jacket off her shoulders. “See what you can find out. I’ll return tomorrow night.” Without looking back, he left the room.

      There was no sign of Janko or Goran. “They left,” Duka said tonelessly.

      “They say anything?” Tallis said.

      “Nothing.” Duka glowered.

      Retracing his steps, Tallis found his way back to the chip shop. He caught the eye of one of the two men who’d greeted Goran and Janko. “Here,” the man said smiling, handing Tallis a portion of fish and chips in a small plastic tray. Small and wiry, he had a broken front tooth and blunt features. He spoke Croatian, his accent suggesting that he, too, was from the north. “Goran says to meet him back at The Courtfield tomorrow night at eleven.” Tallis thanked him and began to eat. Food customers came and went. Other punters, knowing the ropes, walked straight through. Tallis dismembered a piece of fish. The batter was chewy, but he was hungry and didn’t care. During a lull Tallis turned to the small guy.

      “Known Goran long?”

      “Three years.”

      “Good guy to do business with?”

      The small man leant over the glass, the genial manner gone. “No questions.”

      Tallis smiled a fair enough. “Thanks again for the chips. Be seeing you. She was good, by the way,” he called over his shoulder.

      The evening was spitting with rain. Logging the exact location of the chip shop, he began to walk, finishing his supper on the way. He soon found himself in a mixed sprawl of residential and industrial estate. Low-flying aircraft indicated he was near the airport, the sheer density of houses suggesting that they’d been there first. A gang of kids shambled along the road towards him. One was on a bike, zigzagging along the pavement, the others larking about behind, effing this and effing that. On seeing two girls walking up the other side of the road, they let out a stream of sexual abuse. The oldest lad, who happened to be of mixed race, looked to be about fourteen years old. Tallis wondered if this was the future, if they were the next generation of thugs. Drawing near, it became clear from the feral expressions on the boys’ faces that nobody was going to step aside, nobody was giving ground. He should have done the simple thing and walked round them. Better to be safe than wind up dead with a knife in your stomach, but Tallis felt in a perverse mood. He kept on walking, calling their bluff, his eyes fixed on the ringleader riding the bike. As Tallis predicted, the lad swerved at the last minute to avoid him, the others following suit. Not quite so hard as you think you are, Tallis thought with a smile.