In spite of the waitress’s distinct lack of customer-facing skills, the breakfast was surprisingly good, and fifty minutes later Tallis was back on the street, halfway between Camden and Kentish Town, standing on the pavement in front of a battered wrought-iron gate. Almost off its hinges, it opened onto a stone flight of chipped steps leading to a raddled-looking basement flat. As Tallis leaned over, catching a strong whiff of dead flowers, a cat shot in front of him and darted across the road. He watched it skitter along the pavement before disappearing down an alleyway then returned his gaze to the tightly drawn and grubby curtains, felt the cloak of silence. Kitty, it seemed, was the only sign of life.
Walking away, Tallis wondered whether the current occupants knew that, just over a decade before, the place had served as a knocking-shop, that a young woman, tortured and beaten, had lost her life there.
Tallis didn’t know who was more taken aback.
“Micky, short for Michelle,” the DI explained, as if she were talking to a deaf simpleton.
They were standing outside the police station, mainly because Crow, who had the build of an all-in wrestler, needed to smoke. She had short brown hair, and a rumpled expression that matched her trouser suit. Her complexion was that of a drinker, cheeks stick-of-rock pink and premature lines around her sagging mouth. She looked knackered, Tallis thought. He launched into his hastily prepared spiel, explaining that he was writing a book, non-fiction, and had an interest in the Demarku case.
“Why?” Her eyebrows moulded together to form a long, dark, hairy line.
“I’m partly Croatian,” Tallis said.
The look on Crow’s face suggested that he’d just pissed in her vodka.
“Several generations ago,” he added with a reassuring smile. “I’m British born, British bred.” Christ, it sounded like a strap line for meat traceability.
“Right, well, that’s very interesting,” she said, puffing away, “but I don’t do chats with press unless I have to.” Her eyes flicked to her watch. He noticed her fingers were trembling. He’d observed the same symptoms in Stu. Drinkies, Tallis thought, Crow was counting the hours.
“But I’ve come all this way.”
“Shouldn’t have wasted your time.”
“Off the record, that’s all.”
Crow narrowed her puffy eyes. “You’re starting to annoy me. How can I put this nicely?” she snarled, squaring up to her full height so that her bloodshot eyes were level with Tallis’s shoulder. For a worrying moment, Tallis thought she might lump him one. Time for one last roll of the dice, he thought. “I’d love to take you for a drink after your shift.” He almost gagged at how charming he sounded.
Crow threw her head back and laughed. Sounded like threatened consequences. “Persistent bastard, aren’t you?”
“That’s me.” Tallis grinned. “So what do you say?”
“Tried the press office?”
So it wasn’t a downright refusal. “They’ll only tell me what they want me to hear.” At least, that’s what Finn always told him.
“Off the record, you said?” Crow’s eyes narrowed against a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“You have my word.”
At that, she actually smiled. It was horrible, like a cheap, nylon nightdress. Tallis smiled back, he hoped with more sincerity than he felt.
“All right,” she said, won over. “The Freemasons Arms, Downshire Hill, opposite Hampstead Heath. Meet me there at six.”
He did, but not before booking into a two-star hotel in Cardington Street, Euston. It was the wrong side of basic, but would fit the general image he hoped to convey. Sooner or later, he’d be mixing with criminals. Wouldn’t look right to be staying at Claridges.
To maintain his new fitness programme, he went for a fast run through streets heavy with car fumes. He still reckoned he was better off than the lowly cyclist. At least people didn’t try to actively kill you. After a shower and brush-up, he got to the Freemasons ten minutes early and ordered a pint of Fuller’s London Pride. He liked the place immediately. Nice and airy, a little bit Eastern looking, and it had the most wonderful windows providing great views of the garden. The courtyard was already filling up.
After taking a glance at the sumptuously inviting menu and realising that he was hungry, he took his drink out the front into warm evening sunshine and managed to bag the last table. The crowd, he noticed, was young and well dressed, even the girls, which he found refreshing. He was getting tired of the bare belly and roll-up fags routine. He wanted his women, to look like women not dockers.
Crow arrived, looking hot and sweaty.
“Get you a drink?” Tallis said.
“Large V and T. Been a fuck of a day,” she said, plumping herself down, dragging a crumpled packet of cigarettes from her jacket pocket.
Tallis went to the bar and returned with Crow’s drink. She took a deep draw, as though she’d walked halfway through a desert for it. “So,” she said, blowing two thin streams of smoke through her nostrils. “What do you want to know? Presume you’re already familiar with the details.”
“Most of them,” Tallis said. “I understand after Demarku finished his sentence he was inadvertently released instead of being deported.”
Crow grinned knowingly. “So that’s your angle.”
“One of the angles,” Tallis countered.
“Fucking disgrace. If I’d had my way, he’d never have been let out.”
“But he was,” Tallis said, trying to keep her on track, “and now he’s on the loose somewhere.”
“Frankly, not my problem,” Crow said. “We did our bit twelve years ago.”
“So no effort’s been made to find him?”
“Seen my workload?”
“I’m not criticising.”
“Should hope not,” Crow said, taking another pull of her drink. At this rate, he was going to be making an early trip to the bar, Tallis thought. “Put it this way, we’ve trailed likely haunts, talked to the usual suspects …”
“Informers?”
“Uh-huh.”
She didn’t sound very convincing. Actually, it cheered him. Demarku wasn’t so much as eluding the cops as they weren’t exactly busting a gut to find him. It meant he was in with more of a chance of unearthing his man. “What about the guys he shared a cell with, all that kind of stuff?”
Crow cast him a withering look. “Two words—targets, clear-up rate.”
“That’s more than two.” He laughed.
“You get my drift. It’s all about moving onto the next case,” Crow said, stubbing out a cigarette and lighting another. A young woman with a child in a pushchair cast her a venomous look, but Crow either didn’t mind or wasn’t taking any notice.
“What was Demarku like?”
Her face drooped then she began to cough, eyes watering and streaming, mouth opening and closing like a struggling perch as she tried to get her breath. Beating her large chest with one hand, she grabbed at her glass with the other, taking a large swig. It seemed to do the trick. “Disturbing,” she croaked. “Came across as being very polite, quiet, thoughtful even, the type of guy who most mothers would want as their son. If only they knew.” She frowned, taking a drag of her cigarette. “Underneath the little-boy-lost facade, he was seething with fury. He’d as soon