‘Nah, gone to the social club.’
Twenty minutes on, Tallis was sold. Two days later, he was the proud owner of a flat-screen seventeen-inch iMac with web cam and full Internet connection.
The bungalow looked the same: elderly. In the carport, his Rover stood mute and accusing. He presumed nobody thought it worth nicking.
Inside there was a musty and neglected smell. After dumping his stuff in the bedroom, he set about opening all the windows and, ignoring the phone winking with messages, stepped out into the garden. Since losing interest in home DIY, he spent more time outdoors. Not that his efforts proved much of an improvement. The grass had grown with a speed that was only rivalled by weeds, his half-hearted attempts to nurture some plants whose names escaped him a resounding failure. Still, there were always the birds. He had a bit of a theory about them. In the criminal sphere, he reckoned the sparrows and robins were bobbies on the beat, wagtails private investigators, rooks and crows hit men, buzzards and sparrow hawks the Mr Bigs. The blackbirds, clever little bastards, were CID on account of setting up their own early warning cat alarm. Every time next door’s moggy appeared in his garden, there would be the most terrific racket, giving him enough time to turn the hose on the feline intruder. He thought the bloody thing would have got the message by now, but it kept coming back, strutting its stuff as only cats could. Maybe they were the real Mr Bigs, he thought idly, his thoughts turning to Garry Morello once more, and the potential people he’d crossed.
Back inside, Tallis made himself a cup of coffee, black, with sugar to make up for not having any milk. Finding a pen and a piece of paper, he steeled himself to play back his messages. Only one message was urgent. It was from his mother. His father had died.
‘Where have you been? We’ve been trying to get hold of you.’ It was Hannah, his sister.
‘I’ve been away.’
‘Well, we know that,’ she said accusingly. ‘Why didn’t you tell anyone?’
‘It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Look, when did he pass away?’
‘Over a week ago.’
Tallis closed his eyes. Perhaps they’d already buried him. Please.
‘We’ve been waiting for you to get back so we can have the funeral.’
Oh, God. He muttered apologies, his sister admonitions. ‘How’s Mum?’ he said.
At the mention of their mother, some of the heat went out of Hannah’s voice. ‘A little better than she was. Hard to say.’ She paused. ‘Look, I know you and Dad never got on, but now he’s dead, you might feel…’
Nothing, he thought coldly. ‘Hannah, let’s concentrate on Mum, make sure she’s looked after.’
‘Of course, but—’
‘Mum must come first,’ he said firmly. This was not the time for an examination of his feelings towards the man who’d done his best to break him. And yet the man had been his father and, as his son, Tallis felt it wrong to harbour such animosity towards him. He’d often wondered what it would feel like when his dad died. If he was honest, there had been times in his life when he’d wished for it. Now that his father was dead, his emotions were less easy to pin down.
The silence throbbed with hurt and disappointment. Then he heard his mother saying something in the background.
‘Hold on,’ Hannah said, strained. ‘Mum wants to talk to you.’
‘Hello, Paul.’
‘Mum, how are you?’ Stupid bloody question. And then she took him completely by surprise.
‘You of all my children know how I feel.’
It was the first time she’d openly acknowledged his grief for Belle. She must be feeling pretty dreadful, he thought. ‘Mum, what do you want me to do?’
‘Come home.’
‘I’ll be right there.’
She waited a beat. ‘But could you to do something for me first?’
‘Anything.’
‘I want you to get Dan out of Belmarsh.’
Something in his stomach squelched. ‘Mum, I really don’t—’
‘Please. I know what he did, but it was your father’s dying wish for Dan to be at his funeral.’
Always Dan, even to the last, he thought bitterly. The compassionate part of his nature was having a difficult time shining through, yet even he realised that Dan needed to be there as much as his old man had desired it. How the hell he was going to manage it was another story. Dan was in no ordinary prison for any ordinary offence. His only hope was Asim. ‘I’m not making any promises, but I’ll see if I can pull some strings.’
‘Thank you.’
They talked a little more. Now that he was home, they planned to go ahead with the funeral in five days’ time. To his surprise, his father was going to be cremated. Somehow Tallis had envisaged a full Catholic funeral, all bells and whistles. He had to remind himself that his mother was the religious one. His father never had much time for it. So much he hadn’t had time for.
‘You’ll let me know,’ she said, ‘about Dan.’
‘Soon as I can.’
Asim got to him first. Tallis was halfway down a bottle of fine malt whisky, all peat and bog, the taste suiting his mood, when Asim called. ‘The Moroccan was a guy known as Faraj Tardarti,’ Asim told him. ‘He’d trained at camps in Pakistan, was not considered to be a main player, although known to have contacts to those who were.’
‘Looks as though the Americans have a different take on him.’
‘He was on their watch list. Of more interest as far as Morello’s concerned,’ Asim continued, ‘two British men flew out of Heathrow to Istanbul and back again in the very twenty-four-hour period in which Morello was shot. Customs cottoned onto them because they were travelling light, and alerted the embassy.’
That prat Cardew, Tallis thought. Damn him and his blasted procedure. Either he didn’t make the connection or he was bought. ‘Names?’
‘Toby Beaufort and Tennyson Makepeace.’
What sort of names were those? ‘Having a laugh, were they?’
‘They were indeed.’
Forged passports.
‘Looks like they might be good for Morello’s murder,’ Asim said. ‘Must have picked up their gear the Turkish end.’
‘I’d say so. Still think there’s no connection between Morello and our Moroccan?’ Tallis couldn’t disguise the playful note in his voice.
‘Go on,’ Asim said, humouring him.
‘I went to visit Morello’s widow. She told me that Garry was working on a book exploring the link between organised crime and terrorism.’
‘Historically, there’s always been a link. Only have to look at the IRA.’
Asim could be so infuriating. ‘I don’t believe it was in a general sense,’ Tallis persisted. ‘Garry wanted to pick my brains, ask me about my patch, Birmingham, who the movers and shakers were. My take is that he was talking about current events. Gives more credence to what we already suspect.’
‘Birmingham, you say?’
‘Yes.’
Asim remained silent. Tallis assumed this to be a good sign. What he said was being taken seriously. ‘Maybe we should have left you at home.’
‘And deny me my two-night stay in a Turkish gulag?’ Tallis cracked.
‘Still