Free The Last Exile by E.V. Seymour

of at least seven foreign languages, including Russian, Arabic and Portuguese. It was all so different to when he’d driven up a couple of days before. Cars, even crap cars, had a habit of sanitising one from the outside world and, given the circumstances, he’d been too zoned out to engage with it anyway. Here he felt a stranger, but he couldn’t escape the undeniable buzz, the sense of being at the hub, that he was important again.
    He caught a tube north, standing room only, swaying with the roll and clatter of the tube’s manic flight through narrow tunnels, feeling like a human cannonball. The confined space strongly smelt of spices, body odour and unwashed clothes. Catching the eye of a pretty young woman, he smiled, his reward a downturned mouth anda look of distrust meshed with scorn. Most of the faces were tired looking, or disinterested, he thought. Bunched up with others, he was given the unsettling impression of fleeing refugees. Maybe they were in a way. Not fleeing from war or destruction but life.
    He surfaced into wet air and schizophrenic weather—one moment sunny, the next clouding over and tipping it down. Instinctively, he scoured the faces, wondering if Demarku was among them, unsure that he would recognise the guy even if he were. For all he knew, Demarku could have radically changed his appearance. Detective Inspector Crow hadn’t contacted him yet, but Tallis planned an ambush. First, he needed food.
    He started walking, taking it all in—busy-looking car park, wheelie-bins, a skinny guy with a baseball hat on back to front crouched down on some concrete steps, unbelievably lighting a rock of crack in broad daylight, litter, dirty doorways, used condoms and spent syringes. He passed a fire station and a meeting house for Jehovah’s Witnesses, shops and more shops, some rundown, some holding it together. At last, he found a café to suit his taste. He went inside and ordered an all-day breakfast from a youngish woman who definitely didn’t want to be there. She didn’t so much walk as slouch to the table.
    “Fried bread?” Nasal whine. Eyes glued to the notepad.
    “Please.”
    “Tomatoes or mushrooms?”
    Both, he wanted to say but thought it might further upset her day. “Tomatoes are fine.”
    “Eggs—fried or poached?”
    “Poached would be good. Oh, and …”
    “Yes?” Her eyes swivelled from the notepad. Never hadhe witnessed such an innocent word convey so much menace.
    “Tea?” he said, giving her the benefit of his best smile. Without replying, she bellowed his order for all of London to hear, and did a nifty turn on her heel that must have taken hours to perfect. Miserable cow.
    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,