Watching the Dark

Chapter 10

Saturday morning was a little cooler than it had been earlier in the week, with a fresh wind off the Baltic bringing in a few ponderous clouds. Merike was wearing a patterned jumper that reminded Banks of Sarah Lund’s sweater from The Killing.

‘Haapsalu is a spa town, right?’ she was saying, as they drove through the outskirts of Tallinn on a major road, all apartment blocks and shopping centres. ‘Like Harrogate and Bath.’

‘I understand,’ said Banks, sitting next to her in the front of the messy yellow VW Bug. He was keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror. It was perhaps too early tell, but he didn’t think they were being followed.

‘It has an old castle, the Episcopal Castle, some beautiful old wooden houses and a nice waterfront. Peter the Great used to go there. And Tchaikovsky. There’s a bench dedicated to Tchaikovsky.’

‘I’d like to see that,’ Banks said. ‘But this isn’t exactly a day at the seaside.’

‘I know,’ said Merike, casting him a sideways glance. ‘I am hoping we are successful, too.’

The plan, such as it was, was for Merike to first talk to Larisa, try to set her at ease, assure her there would be no comebacks or consequences, and then for Banks to question her, with Merike’s help as a translator, if necessary, about her past. If her husband didn’t know, and if he was there, they would get her away from him for a while. Joanna Passero, who had a special interest in this part of the investigation, would be taking notes and asking questions whenever she felt it necessary. Banks could hardly sideline her on this. They had not telephoned in advance. There were many reasons why Larisa Petrenko might want to forget her past, and they didn’t want to scare her away before they got there.

The suburbs of Tallinn gave way to fields and woods. Here and there, a narrow unpaved lane led between rows of hedges to a distant village. The road they were travelling on wasn’t very busy, though it was obviously a main east — west route, with bus service and all, so they made generally good progress. Merike had the radio tuned quietly to some inoffensive pop programme. In deference to her passengers, she refrained from smoking, though Banks assured her she was welcome to do so in her own car, which was pretty thick with the smell of tobacco anyway. Joanna sat in the back gazing out at the scenery. She didn’t seem ill, the way she had on the way to Garskill Farm, but then the road here was much smoother. Banks was thinking about the phone call he had received from Annie late last night. Warren Corrigan had been shot. She said she would call when she had more news. He wondered whether that triggered bad memories, or whether she could disassociate from what had happened to her.

Soon they were entering a town — Haapsalu itself, Merike announced — with a few modern buildings dotted around grassy areas, all very low-rise, then streets of old wooden houses as they drove slowly down the main street. Merike found a place to park and pulled to a halt. She pointed out of the window to a restaurant. ‘There,’ she said. She glanced at her watch. ‘They should be open for lunch. It is very popular because the restaurant is above Alexander Petrenko’s gallery, where he has some paintings for sale.’

‘It seems a good business idea,’ said Banks. ‘Have a stroll around the gallery, see something you like, head upstairs for a nice meal and a couple of drinks to think it over.’

‘He does very well, I think, but he is so rarely there, of course. His studio is elsewhere in town.’

Banks could sense, if not smell, the fresh sea air when he got out of the car. He took a deep breath to rid himself of the tobacco smell that lingered in the upholstery. The first thing Merike did when she got into the street was light a cigarette. ‘You want me to go in alone first, right?’

‘Yes, please. I don’t think we should all go traipsing in there at once and scare the living daylights out of her,’ Banks said. ‘You go have a word with her, tell her what we have in mind. See if she can get someone to cover for her for a while, and we’ll all go for a walk on the seafront. Sound OK?’

‘OK,’ said Merike, stamping out her cigarette. ‘I feel like a cop.’

Banks smiled. ‘There’s no need to take it that far. Just be yourself.’

‘Who else could I be?’ said Merike, then she checked for traffic and wandered across the street. Banks and Joanna hung back by the VW. There were a few tourists walking about, checking antique and gift shops. ‘It’s famous for shawls, Haapsalu,’ said Joanna. ‘Beautiful shawls of knitted lace.’

‘Maybe later,’ said Banks, thinking something like that might make a nice present for Annie, though on second thoughts, she didn’t seem much like a lace shawl kind of girl. Still, there were plenty of gift shops in the Old Town. Some amber jewellery, perhaps, or ceramics.

Joanna wandered a few yards down the street to look in a shop window while Banks kept his eye on the door of the restaurant. It was about ten minutes before Merike came out. At first Banks thought she was alone, then he saw the woman behind her. Larisa Petrenko. She was a slighter figure than he had imagined — for some reason he had thought her a tall, leggy, exotic beauty. The closer they came, the more he could see that she was definitely a beauty, though in a very natural way. She now she wore her hair tied back in a ponytail. Her jeans were not the kind you had to put on with a shoehorn, but they certainly showed off the curves of her hips, rear end and legs. She had put on some weight since the photograph with Quinn had been taken, but not much. She was still slim and petite, and very young-looking. And she was nervous. Banks gave Merike a quizzical glance.

‘This is Larisa,’ Merike said. ‘She is willing to talk to you. Her husband is not here today. He is at his studio working. She does not believe she can tell you very much, but she will help if she can.’

Banks smiled at Larisa and offered his hand. She shook it. Her grip was firm, her skin soft. ‘I cannot be gone for long,’ she said, in clear but accented English. ‘Kaida is by herself, and we should be busy soon.’

‘Can we walk?’

Larisa led them down some quiet streets of wooden houses, and they soon came out at the sea. There was a large white wedding-cake style building on the water in front of them with a covered walkway all around it, like the covered porches in the Southern USA. To the right was something resembling a white bandstand sticking out from the shore. They walked along the waterfront path. Larisa had already told them on the way about her simple life in Haapsalu with her husband and her cafe, about how she had gone to university to study modern languages, and wanted to teach, but changed her mind. Now she made pottery and ceramics and ran a successful restaurant in a tourist spa.

‘I take it that’s a long way from your old life?’ Banks said.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ Banks had already showed her the photographs, which had embarrassed her.

Banks saw a polar bear in the water near the shore, then he realised it was just a statue of a polar bear. Haapsalu’s version of The Little Mermaid, he guessed. They came to a stone bench that was inscribed ‘P.I. Tsaikovski 1840–1893’ under a circular etching of the man himself. ‘Let’s sit here,’ said Larisa. ‘I like to sit here when I walk by the sea.’

‘Do you like Tchaikovsky’s music?’ Banks asked.

‘Not particularly. But I like the idea that he was here. I like to think of him enjoying the same view and hearing great music in his mind.’

Banks liked that idea, too, and he also liked Tchaikovsky’s string quartets and symphonies very much. The four of them sat in a row, Banks half-turned towards Larisa. ‘Do you remember that night when the photographs were taken?’

Larisa gazed out to sea, screwing her eyes up against the glare from the water. ‘Pieces of it,’ she said. ‘I met him in the hotel bar. I was pretending to get change for the telephone, and I caught his eye, as was planned.’

‘So you didn’t approach him directly?’ Joanna asked, from beside Banks.

‘I smiled at him. He came up to the bar and asked if he could help. He gave me some change. A few minutes later I came back in to thank him, and he offered to buy me a drink. After that, it was easy.’

‘But at no time did you proposition him?’ Joanna asked.

‘What kind of girl do you think I am? Of course I did not proposition him. We talked. He was nice. He was lonely. He had nobody to meet, nobody to talk to.’

‘What did you talk about?’ Banks asked.

Larisa frowned. ‘I do not remember. Wait. We talked about fishing at some time. He did. I remember how intense and alive he became when he talked about fishing. The rest is gone. Small talk. How he liked Tallinn. The sights. That sort of thing.’

‘Did he talk about his job?’

‘I do not know what his job was. Perhaps he did.’

‘He was a police detective.’

‘I would have remembered,’ Larisa said. ‘And I would have left. In those days I avoided the police.’

Banks let that one go by. ‘So you talked,’ he said. ‘Then what?’

‘Dinner. I said I was hungry, and he took me to dinner. And we drank some wine. And we talked some more.’

‘When did the subject of going to his room come up?’

‘Towards the end of dinner. We were perhaps both a little drunk. He said it would be nice to continue the conversation up in his room. I agreed.’

‘You did this all of your own free will?’ Joanna asked. ‘Not for money?’

‘Yes, of course for money,’ said Larisa. ‘But not from him. I am not a prostitute. Not even then.’

‘So someone paid you?’ Banks said.

‘Two thousand kroon. It was a lot of money.’

‘Do you know who paid you?’

‘Of course I do. It was the same man who gave me the powder to put in his wine.’

There had been no point heading down to Leeds on Friday evening, as it was West Yorkshire’s crime scene, and they would only be in the way, so Annie had given in to her softer nature and taken Krystyna home to her little cottage in Harkside. They had spent the evening in companionable silence watching American cop shows on Channel Five while sharing an Indian takeaway and a bottle of chilled Sauvignon Blanc. Annie’s clothes hung on Krystyna, but she seemed to appreciate just having something clean to wear. She had spent over an hour in the bath and used most of the scented salts that Banks had bought Annie for Christmas. She never touched the stuff herself. He was crap at presents, Banks, but at least he tried.

Annie had got Stefan Nowak on the phone that morning and had him explain to Krystyna where she was going and that she was coming back soon, where the food was, and so on. She could tell by the coolness and distance in his voice that he didn’t approve of her taking Krystyna home with her, but Annie didn’t care. Stefan said he expected to be in the lab all morning, barring another murder scene, so Annie left his number for Krystyna in case there were any problems. She promised to be back by late afternoon. When she thought about it, she realised that she actually expected Krystyna would still be there, and that she would be disappointed and sad if she weren’t. Then she shook that feeling off and got into Winsome’s car, come to pick her up for another drive to Leeds.

The way Annie managed to piece it all together later, this was what happened: Late on Friday afternoon, Corrigan was in his ‘office’ in the Black Bull with Curly, finishing up for the day, and counting the take brought in by several of their debt collectors that afternoon. It had been a lucrative day, and Corrigan was in a festive mood, ready to take his wife to Anthony’s in central Leeds. Curly was about ready to head off to his local in Wortley with his mates for a Friday night darts match. They were both enjoying an end-of-the-week drink, as was their habit, a pint of bitter for Curly, and a double Glenmorangie for Corrigan.

A man walked into the Black Bull at about 5.45 p.m. Of medium height and build, with a short dark beard, he was wearing a navy blue overcoat and a woolly hat. None of the staff had ever seen him before. He bought a half pint of Guinness and a packet of pork scratchings and sat down at a table by the far side of the public bar. He didn’t remove his overcoat, though it was warm in the pub. Nobody paid much attention to him. The Black Bull wasn’t very busy at that time. Apart from one or two punters dropping by for a stiff one on their way home from work, it was too early for the two-for-the-price-of-one dinner crowd and the karaoke night regulars.

Somebody noticed the man get up and go to the toilet shortly after he had arrived. He was gone for about five minutes. The theory was that he had spent that time checking out the lie of the land. At 6.05 p.m., he went back to the bar and bought another half pint of Guinness and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, with a new ten-pound note, fresh from the cashpoint. Getting up his nerve, so the theory went. The barmaid who served him noticed that he had a foreign accent, but that wasn’t so rare around those parts. His hands were also shaking slightly, and he spilled a little beer when he picked up his glass.

It was about 6.15 p.m. when he went to the toilet a second time, or so the woman at the next table, who was the only one who noticed, assumed.

According to a barmaid who was walking past the office on her way from the staff room to the main bar, the man negotiated the maze of corridors and bars in the back of the pub and approached Corrigan’s office. Both Corrigan and Curly were sitting on the banquette sipping their drinks. Hence, there was no one to prevent the man from walking straight into the office.

Curly got immediately to his feet and moved forward to stop the man coming any closer. ‘Hey, you!’ he said. ‘Private office. Nobody’s allowed back here.’ Startled by his loud voice, the barmaid paused to see what was happening and glanced into the room.

Before Curly could get any further, the man pulled a gun from the pocket of his overcoat and shot him. Curly fell to the floor, clutching his side. The man then turned his attention to Corrigan, who was now cowering on the banquette, pleading for his life, trying to shield his body with his briefcase. The waitress was terrified, but she said she was rooted to spot; it was like watching a road accident in slow motion. Corrigan picked up a handful of money and held it out, telling the man to take what he wanted and leave. The man fired again, and Corrigan jerked up off the banquette, holding his arm out, trying to make a dash for the door. The man shot him again, this time in the stomach. Corrigan fell to the floor and groaned, trying to hold in his oozing insides. The man stood for a few moments and surveyed the scene, perhaps enjoying the sight of Corrigan suffering before he died, then he raised the gun again and emptied it into the prostrate body. Corrigan jerked with each shot, but not another sigh or groan escaped his lips, only a final bubble of blood that slid down his chin and hung there.

By this time, the waitress had snapped out of her trance and made a run for the back exit, which proved no problem. Nobody tried to stop her. The shooter wasn’t interested. It would appear that once he had completed the deed he set out to do, he sat down on the bench where Corrigan had been sitting and simply waited for the police to come.

It didn’t take long. The manager had heard the shots and phoned 999. The customers had all dashed outside before anyone could stop them, and most of them had gone home by the time the police arrived, about ten minutes later.

When Annie and Winsome met Ken Blackstone there the following morning, the pub was still taped off as a crime scene, and the CSIs were still busy, but there was no sign of Corrigan. His body had been removed from the back-bar office, though his blood had spread in great stains across the floor like a map of the world, and the CSIs would have the time of their lives deciphering the spray patterns that had spurted over the nicotine-stained walls. Curly was in Leeds General Infirmary.

‘It’s Killingbeck’s patch, of course,’ explained Blackstone, ‘but they know we have an interest, and of course, we know you have an interest. Besides, I’d say this counts as Homicide and Major Crimes, if anything does. Nice to see you again Annie, Winsome.’

‘Yeah,’ said Annie. ‘We must stop meeting like this. People will talk.’

‘Not Warren Corrigan, it seems.’

‘The other bloke?’

‘Curly? Aka Gareth Underwood. Last I heard, they had some hope for him.’

They stood and surveyed the scene of carnage for a while, before the CSIs shooed them away, after which they took a table in the main bar.

‘Drink?’ Blackstone offered. ‘Manager says to help ourselves.’

‘It’s a bit early for me,’ said Annie.

Winsome agreed.

‘Suit yourself,’ said Blackstone. ‘The sun must be over the yardarm somewhere. I’ll have a small brandy, Nick. Get one for yourself as well, then come and join us.’

The man did as Blackstone said. When he came back, he sat down opposite Annie.

‘This is Nick Gwillam,’ said Blackstone. ‘Trading Standards, Illegal Money Lending Unit.’

‘Where’s your boss?’ asked Gwillam.

‘Tallinn,’ said Annie.

‘Lucky for some.’

‘So what’s the story?’ Annie asked Blackstone.

‘Not long ago, a young girl called Florica Belascu topped herself here in Leeds. She’d borrowed money from Corrigan, or one of his minions, and it had come time to collect. Naturally, she couldn’t pay, and she had a small drug habit to support. Corrigan suggested she try going on the game, make a bit of money from kerb-crawlers. He wasn’t into that line of business himself, he said, but he thought he could fix her up with someone who’d take good care of her. She refused. Seemed she hadn’t sunk so low that she’d sell herself on the street. A couple of days later, the minion and one of his underlings came back and raped her, gave her a bit of a slapping around and left. Reliable witnesses bear that out. Next morning, she was found hanging from an old wall fixture in the bathroom. CSIs had little doubt she did it herself, despite the rape and beating. Either way, the finger points at Corrigan.’

‘Who was the minion? Curly?’

‘No. Curly’s mostly for show. Like a guard dog. It was a scumbag called Ryan Currer. We’ve already got him banged up for an assault on another estate.’

‘Who found the body? How did you find out about all this? Surely the girl didn’t tell you?’

‘Florica was too scared to talk, but her girlfriend wasn’t. She had no debts, and she hated what Corrigan was doing. Florica was a lezzie, but she wasn’t out of the closet. They lived together, but kept it low key. Tatyana, the girlfriend, was the smarter of the two. She’d managed to keep herself hidden during their visits. They didn’t know about her. She’d tried to help Florica with the money, but she didn’t earn enough herself, even though her employment was legitimate. She’d witnessed a lot of what had happened, though not the rapes and beating. She’d been at work then, cleaning offices in the city centre. We checked. She found Florica afterwards, which is how we know she was still alive when she went to bed that night. Florica didn’t want the police involved, and she refused to go to hospital. Tatyana patched her up. In the morning, Tatyana found her hanging in the bathroom.’

‘She talked to me, Tatyana did,’ said Gwillam. ‘Me and Bill.’

‘Is this connected with Bill Quinn’s death?’

‘Don’t think so. Can’t be a hundred per cent certain, but I don’t think so. This is a family matter. A matter of honour, of vengeance. The man who walked in here last night and did us all a favour is called Vasile Belascu. He’s the girl’s father. He said he shot Corrigan in revenge for his daughter’s death. They believe in vendettas where he comes from, apparently.’

‘How did he know what happened and where to find him?’

Gwillam winked. ‘A little bird told him.’

‘You’re sailing a bit close to wind, aren’t you?’ Annie said. ‘You, too, Ken.’

‘We contacted the girl’s father in Romania,’ Blackstone said. ‘We told him his daughter had committed suicide, and we wanted him to come and identify the body. We had no idea what he would do.’

‘So who told him about Corrigan?’

‘Same person told us, I should think,’ said Gwillam. ‘We didn’t tell her not to tell anyone else. But we might never know. She’s gone back to Odessa now, it seems.’

‘Christ,’ said Annie. ‘This just gets better and better. I think I will have that drink, after all.’

‘You’d better tell me who it was,’ said Banks. ‘Who told you to seduce Bill Quinn and drug his wine?’

‘It does not matter,’ said Larisa. ‘The man who instructed me was not the man who wanted it done.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I heard him on the telephone.’

‘Who was it, anyway?’

‘The club manager at the time. I do not remember his name. Marko or something.’

‘Where was this?’

‘I was working in a nightclub. Not doing anything wrong, you know, just a waitress, coat check girl, sometimes hanging out and talking with the customers. Downstairs was a big noisy bar and a dance floor with spinning balls of light and strobe shows, but upstairs was just a quiet bar where people could relax and have a drink.’

‘Where was this club? What was it called?’

‘Here in Tallinn. On a small street off Vana-Posti. It had no—’

‘With just a sign outside showing a man in a top hat and tails helping a lady into a coach?’

‘That is right.’ She seemed surprised. ‘You have seen it? It is still there?’

‘I’ve seen it,’ said Banks. It was the place just around the corner from St Patrick’s, where Rachel Hewitt had possibly been spotted going the wrong way by the Australian barman. ‘It may have changed quite a bit since your day. It’s a sort of exclusive sex club now, or at least that was the impression I got. What sort of club was it back then?’

‘Just a nightclub, for dancing, parties. Mostly young people. It was very good class. More expensive, perhaps, than Hollywood and Venus, more popular with Estonians than with tourists. As I said, it has no name. We just called it The Club.’

‘How does Bill Quinn come into this?’

‘It was just fun, really. A joke. I was given his picture and the name of the hotel where he was staying, told to seduce him, to pretend we were making love. We never did. It just looks like it. But we never did have sex. He was asleep by then. It was all really very funny. Someone took photographs. I got two thousand kroons. That was that.’

‘You didn’t know who ordered it?’ Joanna Passero asked.

‘No.’

‘You didn’t know why you were doing it?’

‘No.’

‘Weren’t you just a little bit curious?’

‘Two thousand kroon was a lot of money.’

Joanna looked at Banks and shook her head as if to say a promising lead had turned to dust right in their grasp. Banks wasn’t too sure.

‘Were you taking drugs then?’ he asked.

Larisa hung her head. ‘Yes. My life was a mess. I was only eighteen. I had run away from home. I drink too much. But soon after, maybe one, two month, I left, left Tallinn, went home to Tartu, became sober. When I was well again, I enrolled in the university. After three years I met Alexei, and here we are. I left that life behind me, Hr Banks. Now I am only twenty-four, and I sometimes feel I have lived a whole lifetime. I am sorry if I cannot help you more. I have done nothing wrong.’

Except drug a man and set him up for blackmail, Banks thought. But he said nothing. He couldn’t see any point in trying to ruin a young woman’s life over a misguided act committed six years ago, no matter what its consequences had been. ‘You said the man who actually instructed you and paid you was not the man who ordered it done, that you overheard a telephone conversation.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know who he was talking to?’

‘No, but it was someone who was... I do not know how to say this. His boss? Someone who told him what to do?’

‘Do you have any idea who that might be?’

‘No. I only know the club manager who tell me. Perhaps other people employ him.’

‘Why did you leave the club, Larisa?’

Larisa paused and picked at a fingernail, as if struggling to find an answer. ‘I had a friend there, a friend called Juliya. She was from Belarus. She was a very beautiful girl, very funny, clever, and very nice. She was good to me. She made me laugh when I felt bad. She showed me how to live in that world. We shared a flat together.’

‘Did something happen to her?’ Banks asked.

‘She ran away.’

Banks and Joanna looked at one another. Banks also noticed Merike’s eyes open a little wider. ‘Ran away?’ Banks echoed.

‘Yes. Just like that. One day she was there, then she was gone. All her clothes and belongings — not that she had much — gone. Not a word of goodbye, not a note to say where she has gone. Nothing.’

‘But she took all her things?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you think happened to her?’

‘I think she went back to Belarus. She had a boyfriend who came to the club a lot. He was very rich and handsome. What do you call it, like a playboy? He always had good drugs, the best clothes, a fast car, and women were drawn to him. He was charming, but I think underneath he was dangerous. Young, rich and wild. For him there were no boundaries, no rules. There were many rumours about him. I do not know if they were all true. Juliya did not go into details. Wild orgies. Kinky sex. Every drug you can imagine. He had friends in St Petersburg, people said, criminal friends. Russian Mafia.’

‘And this was Juliya’s boyfriend?’ Joanna said.

Larisa gave her a sad smile. ‘We were living in a very strange world back then. Very unreal. It all feels like a dream, sometimes like a nightmare. At first he excited her, but soon I think she became frightened of him.’

‘So you think Juliya left to get away from this boyfriend?’ Banks asked.

‘Perhaps. I just knew that was the end for me after she had gone. I was alone. I had to get away, too.’

‘Why? Because of Juliya?’

‘Because he was turning towards me. I always thought I was safe. He liked blondes. But I realised soon that he was not so particular as I thought. When he turned his attention to me at The Club, asking me to go away with him for weekends in St Petersburg or Helsinki, that was the end. I disappeared quickly, too.’

‘Just like Juliya?’ Banks said.

‘Yes. But I went first to Tartu,’ Larisa said. ‘I think Juliya went home to Minsk. I have never heard from her again until I got married. She must have seen something in the newspaper because she sent a postcard with congratulations to Alexei’s studio. It was from Athens.’

‘What about the man? Weren’t you worried he’d try to find you?’

‘No. A man like him has no attention span. Someone else would come along. A new toy. He would forget what I look like in a few days.’

‘Do you remember his name?’ asked Banks.

‘Yes, of course. It is Joosep Rebane.’

‘That’s an Estonian name,’ Merike said.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Larisa. ‘He is Estonian. Not all the bad people here are Russian you know.’

‘Do you know where he is now?’ Banks asked.

‘I have no idea. I turned my back on that life. He is not a man who seeks to have his picture in the newspapers, or his name, I think. Then he was just rich and spoiled, but now I suspect he is in the criminal underworld, trafficking drugs, girls, perhaps in St Petersburg. Maybe even in Tallinn. But he keeps out of sight. And perhaps he behaves differently from when he was younger.’

‘Do you think he could have been the one who ordered the club manager to get you to set up Bill Quinn?’

‘I do not know. Perhaps. But why?’

‘I have a few ideas about that,’ said Banks. ‘When did all this happen?’

‘It was six years ago. Summer.’

‘Around the time the English girl disappeared?’

‘I think so. I do not remember. I really... I did not hear much news.’

‘You never linked the events in your mind? The English girl disappearing. You being asked to seduce an English detective?’

‘I did not know he was a detective. This Quinn man. He did not talk about his work. And my brain did not make link.’

‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘Can you remember whether Juliya disappeared before or after you went to the hotel to meet Bill Quinn?’

‘I think it was just before. Can we go back now?’ Larisa asked. ‘I do not know any more. I cannot leave Kaida alone for too long.’

‘Of course,’ said Banks, standing up. ‘We’ll walk with you. It’s a lovely town.’

Larisa smiled. ‘Yes. Is very small, but in summer many tourists come. There is much business. Much to do.’

‘Perhaps we can eat at your restaurant before we return to Tallinn?’ Banks said.

Larisa looked alarmed.

‘Don’t worry,’ he went on. ‘I only say that because we’re hungry. If I think of any more questions, I will be very discreet. We have no intention of spoiling the life you have made here.’

Larisa gazed at him seriously for a while, as if trying to decide whether he was telling the truth, then she said, ‘Yes. Yes, that will be nice. I will cook for you myself.’

Annie and Winsome managed to fit in a quick sandwich at Pret with Blackstone and Gwillam before they got a call from Leeds General Infirmary saying that Gareth Underwood wanted to talk to them. It took a moment for the penny to drop: Gareth Underwood was Curly.

There was a police guard on the private room in which Curly was being kept for observation after a bullet had been removed from his left side the previous evening. As far as the doctor was concerned, it was nothing but a flesh wound, having missed all the important organs, though it had done some minor tissue damage, and one always had to keep an eye open for infection.

Curly was lying propped up on his pillows, connected to various machines that displayed his heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen levels and other bodily functions comprehensible only to doctors and nurses. Annie swallowed as she walked into the room, her mouth dry. It brought back too many memories, most of them bad. Curly was also hooked up to an MP3 player, with his eyes closed. He had a large glass of water with a bent straw on his bedside table.

Neither Curly’s doctor nor Blackstone wanted to crowd the room, so only Annie and Ken Blackstone went in, leaving Gwillam and Winsome outside. Gwillam seemed put out by his exclusion, perhaps because he felt it was because he wasn’t a real copper, being Trading Standards, but Winsome took it in her stride.

Curly seemed to sense someone in the room. He opened his eyes and took out the earbuds. ‘Woz is a goner, isn’t he?’ he said, as they sat beside the bed in the hospital chairs.

‘Woz?’ said Blackstone.

‘Mr Corrigan. Warren. It’s what I called him. Woz.’

‘Yes, Curly, he’s a goner.’

‘Would you mind calling me Gareth? I always hated Curly.’

‘What do you want, Gareth? We’re busy.’

‘It’s that copper who came to see Woz on Monday I want to talk to. Where is he?’

‘DCI Banks?’ said Annie.

‘That’s his name.’

‘I’m afraid he’s out of the country,’ said Annie. ‘I’m his partner. You can talk to me.’ She checked with Blackstone, who nodded. Her dry mouth had turned into a tightening sensation in her chest when she entered the hospital room, and she wondered whether it meant the onset of another panic attack. They happened sometimes when she skirted too close to her recent experiences. Careful, slow breathing soon brought it under control. This was nothing like what happened to her, she told herself. Curly, or Gareth, seemed fine. He’d be back out in a day or two, right as rain, not spending months in and out of places like this, having operations, fearing for his legs. But she was past that now, she told herself. It was over; she was fine. And Gareth might well be spending the next few months and more in a place even less pleasant than a hospital room.

‘First off,’ said Gareth, ‘before I tell you anything, I want to do a deal.’

‘What sort of deal?’ Blackstone asked.

‘I want immunity. I know all about Woz’s business. I even know where he keeps his books. I can name names. I know a lot, and I’m willing to tell it all, but I don’t want to go to jail. And I want protection. A new identity.’

‘I don’t know about all that, Gareth,’ said Blackstone. ‘It’s not up to me. We can put in a word for you.’

‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘Gareth,’ said Blackstone, ‘you haven’t been charged with anything yet. You’re not even under arrest. No doubt you have done many bad things, but they’re not our concern at the moment. Corrigan’s shooting is.’

‘It’s not as if you don’t know who did it, and why.’

‘Tip of the iceberg, Curly, tip of the iceberg.’

‘Gareth. And some of these bad things you think I’ve done might just become your concern if I start talking.’ He rested back on the pillow and grimaced with pain. ‘Bloody painkillers they give you around here are useless.’

Annie could certainly relate to that. There never seemed enough painkillers available when you were really in pain.

‘Why don’t you just tell us, Gareth?’ Blackstone pressed on. ‘You know it can only count in your favour. Otherwise, you’ll be spending countless hours in detention, in smelly interview rooms. No painkillers there.’

‘You can’t fool me, Mr Blackstone. I know my rights, and medical attention is one of them. But I’ll admit you’ve got a point. See, the thing is, I want to go straight. I’ve had enough of this.’

‘Of what?’

‘This life. Woz, and what he was doing. Robbing the poor to pay the rich. It’s disgusting. He was scum. I’ve got a conscience, you know.’

‘A bit late for that, isn’t it?’

‘It’s never too late to repent.’

‘Don’t go all religious on us, Gareth.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t. I just think that every man should be given a second chance, that’s all. I want to go straight. I want to go back to my old line of work.’

‘What was that?’

‘Club bouncer.’

‘That’s a step up in the world.’

‘At least it’s honest work.’

‘That’s debatable.’ Blackstone leaned forward. ‘Gareth, I appreciate your change of heart, I really do. But I’ll appreciate it a lot more if you actually tell us something useful.’

‘What did you want to talk to DCI Banks about?’ Annie added.

Curly paused for a moment. The mental turmoil was clear for even Annie to see, as he debated whether to open up or not. ‘I want a lawyer first,’ he said. ‘I’ll make a deal, but I need some guarantees. On paper.’

‘So what do you think of it all,’ Joanna asked Banks that evening. They were dining alone this time, and as it had been a long day, and the weather had turned a little chilly, they had decided to eat at the hotel, but changed their minds when they heard the noise from the Karaoke Bar. Instead, they skipped over to the steakhouse at the bottom of Viru, near the gate, away from most of the parties and noisy groups. They found that wearing jackets or sweaters, and with the help of the well-placed heaters, they were fine outside, and plenty of others seemed to agree. The steaks were a bit more pricey than Clazz, but excellent quality.

‘I liked her,’ Banks said.

‘I expect most men would agree with you.’

‘Hey, now, wait a minute before you start getting all women’s lib on me. I admire what she’s done. She was on a downward slope — drugs, sex clubs, bad boys, the lot — and she pulled herself up by the boot strings. She’s got guts, and a fair dollop of common sense. Not a bad-looking broad, either.’

Joanna nudged him playfully. ‘Bastard,’ she said.

Banks drank some more wine. ‘You don’t believe her story?’

‘Most of it,’ Joanna said. ‘I’m inclined to think she abridged it, and censored it a little here and there for general consumption.’

‘Oh, you’re such cynics in Professional Standards. Don’t you believe anybody?’

‘I’ve always found it’s a good starting point.’

‘So what are you going to put in your report?’

‘Which one?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The one on Bill Quinn, or the one on you?’

‘If you’re planning a report on me, I can guarantee you’ll have met with a mysterious accident before you get to the airport.’

Joanna laughed. ‘Oh, you’re not as bad as you like to make out. There’d be no point doing a report on you. Nothing to put in it. Boring.’

‘I don’t know what’s worse,’ Banks said, ‘being a fit subject for you or not.’

‘Oh, take my word for it, not is best. As for Bill Quinn... I don’t know. He’s dead. I think that whatever I have to say, I’ll do my best to make sure it remains internal, depending on how far he went. Unless anyone else, anyone still alive, that is, turns out to be involved. There’s still the possibility that someone was manipulating him, though, that he was a rotten apple.’

‘Do you think that’s the case?’

‘I don’t know. Tell me what you think. Instruct me, oh great homicide cop.’

Banks finished his glass and poured another. Joanna held her glass out, too. He emptied the bottle. They were both a little tipsy, partly with the success of the day, and partly with the wine. ‘Larisa worked at that club I saw just around the corner from St Patrick’s. A waiter in the pub said he thought he saw Rachel turn the wrong way when she went out after her friends, but later he said he wasn’t certain.’

‘She didn’t even know where her friends were going.’

‘Let’s assume she went the wrong way. The others turned right. Rachel turned left.’

‘OK. I’m with you so far. But after that?’

‘After that, it gets a bit speculative, of course, but I think I’m assuming that Juliya’s boyfriend was involved somehow, by the sound of him. Joosep. Perhaps Rachel wandered into the club, intrigued by the sign, the lack of a name, whatever, and she bumped into him. He liked blondes, remember.’

‘He liked anything in a skirt, according to Larisa.’

‘But blondes especially. Rachel was a very pale blonde. And very lovely. I think he turned on his charm, or he did the caveman routine, one or the other, and he got her away from there, back to his flat, or wherever. Maybe she felt she was in a new exciting city, so she should have an adventure. Everyone seemed to think she was an impulsive and spontaneous sort of girl. I don’t know the details. But I think she soon realised what a big mistake she’d made, and perhaps she struggled. He didn’t like to let her go. He liked his own way. I think he had it, and then he got rid of her.’

‘How? Where?’

‘I don’t know the answers to that yet.’

‘How does DI Quinn come into it?’

‘I think Bill Quinn and Toomas Rätsepp came to the club asking questions. That’s the link we’ve been missing. That’s what Rätsepp lied to us about. They ruffled too many feathers somehow, got too close, and Joosep Rebane had to think what to do pretty fast. I think he bribed Rätsepp, but he couldn’t do that with Bill Quinn. He was a foreign cop. Another kettle of fish entirely. So he made a few enquiries. No doubt friend Rätsepp would have helped, for a fee, and found out that Bill Quinn was a happy family man with a wife and two kids he adored. But Bill Quinn was also human, and you’ve seen Larisa. So Rebane got the club manager to pick the prettiest girl in the club to set a honeytrap for him. The rest is history. They showed him the photos, told them what they wanted of him, and that was that. He didn’t like it, but what could he do? When Quinn’s wife died, word got back that the hold was broken, and perhaps that Quinn had been haunted by guilt at not being able to do anything all those years. We know Joosep Rebane likely has connections with a rough crowd, gangsters, whether in St Petersburg or Tallinn, Russian or Estonian, and he sent one of them over to deal with Bill Quinn and Mihkel Lepikson, who was going to help Quinn get his story out without incriminating himself.’

‘But how did this Joosep Rebane come to have so much power over a senior police investigator?’

‘That I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘I don’t know how the system works here, but I can guess there’s just as much corruption as there is back home. Maybe you should get a job here?’

‘No, thanks. Do you think the Prosecutor, Ursula Mardna, was involved?’

‘Probably not. I don’t think she would have told us about the young cop Bill Quinn went out investigating with if she was involved. Aivar Kukk. I’d like to talk to him. There must be something there. Rätsepp omitted to tell us about that. But there are obviously a lot of connections we don’t get yet.’

‘And what about Mihkel Lepikson?’

‘Mihkel was the journalist on the original story, and he became friendly with Quinn. He’s an investigative reporter and contributes to a column on crime in Eesti Telegraaf called “Pimeduse varjus”. Watching the dark, or something along those lines. Joosep Rebane would have known this. He would also have kept an eye on him. Mihkel didn’t know anything, not at the time. Quinn didn’t confide in him about the photos and the blackmail. He didn’t tell anyone. Joosep Rebane nipped the investigation in the bud when it had only got as far as Rätsepp and Bill Quinn. But when Rebane found out Lepikson was also in England, he got nervous and commanded a double act. No point only killing Bill Quinn, if Mihkel Lepikson was going to blast the true story on the front page of Eesti Telegraaf.’

‘And the bonded labour scheme?’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me if Joosep Rebane doesn’t have his finger in that little pie, too. I’ll bet you he knows Corrigan and Flinders, at any rate. Drugs, people. It’s all the same to some, as long as the profits are good. What do you think?’

‘There’s a lot of holes,’ said Joanna. ‘Like how Joosep Rebane knew Mihkel Lepikson was in Yorkshire, and in contact with Bill Quinn. But it’s not bad, as theories go. From my point of view, Bill Quinn obstructed the full investigation of a disappearance, perhaps a murder, for six years. I’d hardly say he comes out of it smelling of roses, no matter what his reasons. God knows what else he did, too.’

‘True,’ said Banks. ‘But you can’t crucify a man who’s already dead.’

‘As I said before,’ said Joanna. ‘I’m not out to crucify anyone. It’ll be an internal report, I hope, but there will be a report.’ She paused and swirled some wine in her glass. ‘There’s still one big question we haven’t answered yet,’ she said.

‘I know,’ said Banks.

‘What happened to Rachel Hewitt?’

‘I wish I knew. I wish I could think of a way to find out. I’m pretty sure she’s dead, but...?’

‘Erik might be able to help.’

‘How? We still need a starting point.’

‘The nightclub,’ Joanna said. ‘You seem to know a bit about it.’

‘I’ve been there,’ said Banks.

‘You’ve what?’

‘I went there after dinner the second night we were here. I was wandering around, trying to follow what I imagined might have been Rachel’s footsteps on the night she disappeared, and I just stumbled across it. Rachel might have done the same, too.’

‘You didn’t tell me you’d actually been inside.’

‘You’re starting to sound like my ex-wife. Do I have to tell you every time I go to a sex club?’

Joanna flushed, then saw Banks was teasing her, and smiled. ‘What did you find out?’

‘Nothing. That’s why I didn’t tell you. There was nothing to tell. I talked to the manager, Larry something-or-other, and a buxom waitress from Wigan. That’s it. Oh, and I had kinky sex with a ladyboy from Bangkok, but that was nothing to write home about. The place has changed ownership God knows how many times in the last six years. There’s no connection left to the old days, or none that I could find.’

‘But there is a connection to Larisa and probably to Joosep Rebane.’

‘And possibly to Rachel,’ Banks said. ‘I’m sure Erik will be only too happy to do a bit more digging, maybe even find out what happened to Aivar Kukk, if we ask him nicely.’

It took close to two hours, but Blackstone and Annie managed to rustle up a lawyer from the CPS and a duty solicitor, who thrashed out a deal for Curly between them. There was no way he was getting a new identity, but they found they could keep him out of jail if he told everything he knew, and if he was guilty of no major indictable offence. Curly thought about this for a while, no doubt going over in his mind exactly what he was guilty of, and agreed. When it came to it, he had probably done no more than intimidate a few people and administer a minor beating or two. When everything was signed, the lawyers took a back seat, and Blackstone and Annie pulled their chairs close to the bed. Annie had phoned Stefan and asked him to tell Krystyna she would be late, and she was worried because he had got no answer. She tried to tell herself that Krystyna had just gone to the shop for some food or cigarettes, but it gnawed away at her even as she listened to Curly’s story.

‘So give,’ said Blackstone.

‘I saw him,’ he said.

‘Saw who?’ asked Annie.

‘The bloke who killed Bill Quinn and that foreign reporter.’

‘You know about Mihkel Lepikson?’

‘Course. Woz knew he was up at Garskill Farm. Flinders had a bloke on the inside keeping an eye out for things like that. They’ve tried it before. The reporter was just too good to be true. Always asking questions. Making friends with the others. Always off to the telephone box. That’s what they said. Flinders came down for a chat with Woz, who gets on the blower to Rebane. Flinders is another cunt, by the way. I can tell you things about him would make your hair curl.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ said Annie. ‘Slow down. Are you telling me that Warren Corrigan gave the order for the deaths of Bill Quinn and Mihkel Lepikson?’

‘Not him, no. Not directly. He was what you might call a station on the way, but it went through him, if you see what I mean. He supplied the crossbow, I can tell you that. Had me go and get it, actually. But he was doing it on orders.’

‘Whose orders?’

‘Bloke called Joosep Rebane, or something like that. Not sure how you pronounce it or spell it. Russian or something.’

Annie made a note of the name, though she was also far from sure about the spelling. ‘And who’s this Joosep Rebane when he’s at home?’

‘The boss. Kingpin. He says jump, Woz asks how high. Like I said, he’s Russian Mafia or something, but he’s behind all these migrant labour schemes, the phony agencies, bonding them with debt, all that stuff. It’s also a front for drugs. That was going to be the next big thing. Woz was gearing up for it. Flinders and Woz both worked for Rebane, when it came right down to it. They didn’t see him very often — he liked to keep a low profile and was paranoid about secrecy and security — but I can tell you, they were shit scared of him. He had a reputation as a bit of a wild man, which I think he liked to cultivate. You know, like in those Mafia movies. Horse’s head under the bedclothes. Kind of bloke who’ll be asking about your dear old mother one moment, and laying into you with an axe the next. I must say, he gave me the willies.’

‘Did you meet him?’ Annie asked.

‘Only twice. At the pub. Back way, of course. Car waiting, dark windows.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Youngish bloke, about thirty, maybe a bit over. Tall, good-looking. I suppose the girls would find him attractive, if you know what I mean. Wears nice expensive suits, Armani, Hugo Boss, that sort of thing, hair always cut perfectly. Dark brown. Brown eyes. More like black. Charming on the surface, but there was something in his eyes that told you you wouldn’t want to upset him.’

Annie took out the sketch of the man Krystyna had described, hoping to God that nothing had happened to her. ‘Recognise him?’ she asked.

‘He’s the one Woz gave the crossbow to. He’s done a couple of jobs for him before.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Robert Tamm.’

‘Nationality?’

‘I don’t know. He had one of those sort of Russian accents, too, but it might have been Bulgarian or Slovakian for all I know. I can’t tell one of those buggers from another.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘Aye. Glasgow. He came down on the train and picked up a rental car. But he’s not Scottish. No way. I could spot a Jock accent a mile off.’

‘Arnold Briggs,’ said Annie. ‘OK, let’s get back to Mr Big. You say you met this Joosep Rebane on two occasions. When was the most recent?’

‘About six months ago.’

‘Do you know what the meeting was about?’

‘No. Woz sent me out to the main bar.’

‘But he was hardly a frequent visitor.’

‘No. I should imagine this was one of the far-flung outposts of his empire. He communicated by phone and through the agents mostly. Untraceable mobiles, of course.’

‘So what were these recent developments you want to tell us about, whatever resulted in death warrants for Bill Quinn and Mihkel Lepikson? I assume this Robert Tamm worked for Joosep Rebane?’

‘That’s right, far as I could tell. Enforcer. Hit man. What have you. Did his dirty work.’

‘So you acquired the crossbow that Warren Corrigan gave Robert Tamm, on the orders of this Joosep Rebane, to kill Quinn? And the same man tortured and drowned Lepikson?’

Curly swallowed. ‘Yes. But it sounds bad if you put it like that. I didn’t know what he was going to use the crossbow for, did I?’

‘A spot of grouse hunting, perhaps?’ said Blackstone.

Curly looked towards the solicitors again, who both seemed fascinated by the discussion. ‘See what I mean about me wanting some guarantees here?’

‘You’ve got all the guarantees you’re getting,’ said Annie. ‘Go on.’

Curly sighed. ‘See, Joosep Rebane always let on that he had a cop in his pocket, had something on him. Bill Quinn. But when Bill Quinn’s wife died, Rebane started to get worried. Woz got more phone calls from him. Rebane asked him to keep an eye on Quinn, then... well, you know what happened.’

‘Did you know why he was worried?’ Annie asked.

‘Not at the time, no. We didn’t know what Rebane had on DI Quinn.’

‘And now?’

‘Well, I’ve only really been able to work it out while I’ve been in here, but remember I mentioned that things started to go pear-shaped around the time Bill Quinn’s wife died?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it must have meant that Rebane didn’t have anything on him any more. Stands to reason. So I reckon it was probably a woman. That was the only thing that made sense, really. Why Rebane would get worried and all. If Quinn didn’t have a wife, then he didn’t have to worry about Rebane telling her he’d been playing away from home, did he? And he obviously had videos or photos or some sort of proof. Again, it stands to reason.’

‘You’re not as thick as you look, are you, Curly?’ said Annie.

‘Gareth. And no, I’m not.’

‘Are you telling me that Bill Quinn was bent?’ said Blackstone. ‘Alan mentioned the possibility, but I...’ He shook his head.

‘I’m telling you that I think Quinn was being blackmailed by this Joosep Rebane to go easy on Woz,’ said Curly. ‘I’m not saying Quinn liked it, but he had no choice. He was in a position to warn Woz about raids, and anything else that might act against his interests. But something put the heebie-jeebies up them all around the time Quinn’s wife died. Not immediately, like, but over a couple of weeks. If you think about it, and if Quinn was being blackmailed, then he couldn’t just suddenly go to his boss and say, guess what, guv, I’ve been passing information on to Woz Corrigan and doing my best to keep him out of jail this past while. Could he? Anyway, when they found out that this reporter had infiltrated the migrant group, and that Quinn knew him, it was double trouble. They figured Quinn had put the reporter on to the operation in the first place, to give him a good story like, but that the real story was going to be what Joosep had been up to. Apparently Quinn and the reporter had been buddies for years. Quinn was looking for a back door to spill the beans without getting any comeback, and the reporter was it. The way Woz explained it to me was that if Quinn could find a way to use the reporter to get his story out, then Rebane and Woz and Rod Flinders wouldn’t be safe any more. So they both had to go.’

Annie rubbed her forehead and stood up. ‘What a tangled web we weave,’ she said. Her thoughts returned immediately to Krystyna. She wanted to get back to Harkside as soon as she could, but there was one more stop to make on the way, something Banks had asked her to do.

As Winsome drove, Annie phoned home again but still got no answer. She phoned Stefan and managed to get through to him at the lab, but he had heard nothing from Krystyna. Annie cursed and ended the call.

‘What is it?’ Winsome asked.

‘Krystyna. She’s gone.’

‘I shouldn’t worry too much. She’s probably just gone for a walk or a drink.’

‘She’s been gone for hours. She’s got no money.’

‘We’ll be home soon. Sure you want to make the stop?’

‘We’re almost there now. Might as well.’

Pauline Boyars was already well into a bottle of vodka, and the place was still a tip.

‘It’s just a little thing,’ Annie said, without even bothering to sit down, ‘but we were wondering if you remember a nightclub in Tallinn that didn’t have a name? All it had was a sign with a man in top hat and tails helping a woman into a coach.’

‘I don’t think we ever went to such a place,’ said Pauline, ‘but it does sound awfully familiar. Just give me a minute will you?’

She brought a tin down from one of the bookshelves and scattered its contents on the table. It was full of all kinds of rubbish, a keychain with a plastic Eiffel Tower on one end, an old cigarette lighter, a ticket for an exhibition at the Prada, a postcard from Rhodes. And there, amid the detritus of Pauline’s travels and memories, was a small laminated card which bore an image of a man in top hat and tails helping — or pushing? — a woman into a carriage.

‘I don’t think we ever went there,’ said Pauline. ‘Though I can’t be sure. I think someone was handing these out in one of the other clubs.’

Annie thanked her and they left, grateful as before to get out of the cloying atmosphere.

‘What was all that about?’ Winsome asked.

‘Something Alan asked about. Apparently this club has come up in connection with Rachel’s disappearance, and he wanted to know if any of the others knew about it.’

‘Well, he’s got his answer, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ said Annie. ‘I’ll phone him when I get home.’

When they arrived at Annie’s cottage, Winsome got out of the car and went up to the door with her, and they both went inside. Everything looked normal, but there was no sign of Krystyna. Annie checked upstairs and Winsome checked the kitchen.

‘You’d better see this,’ she said, when Annie came down.

Annie went into the kitchen and saw the cocoa tin where she kept her petty cash. It was open, and there was nothing but a brief note in Polish inside.

‘How much was in there?’ Winsome asked.

‘About thirty quid.’

‘She won’t get far on that.’

There was also a note in Polish stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a buttercup. Winsome put the kettle on and Annie returned to living room, flopped on the sofa and started to cry.