Watching the Dark

Chapter 11

On Sunday morning around eleven, Banks took the lift down to the Metropol lobby and went out to meet Erik and Joanna for coffee in Viru Keskus. Last night he had spoken for a long time with Annie on the phone. She had been worried and upset by the disappearance of a young Polish girl who had been staying at Garskill Farm with the migrant workers. She had run away on the day Mihkel Lepikson had been killed, and Annie was worried that someone might think she knew too much and try to harm her. He had reassured her as best he could, but he could tell it hadn’t done much good. Annie had also told him about Curly’s lengthy, and quite perceptive, deposition, and that Rachel’s friend, Pauline, remembered the club with no name, that she even had a card bearing its sign. Rachel, too, might have been given such a card, Banks thought, and if the place looked familiar to her, that might well have tempted her to go inside. Perhaps she had thought it was where her friends had gone after St Patrick’s. Bit by bit, he felt, he was getting closer to the truth of what happened.

Annie had also come up with some more names Banks could try on Erik, including the name of the killer Robert Tamm. Surely it could only be a matter of time now? Perhaps most importantly, Joosep Rebane’s name had come up in her inquiries into Corrigan’s business, as well as in Banks’s inquiries about the nightclub. Larisa had named him as Juliya’s boyfriend. Now they had a direct link between Rebane, Corrigan, Flinders and the whole migrant racket. But he still had to find out if, or where, Rachel fitted in.

He made his way inside and up the escalators. The shops were open, and the shopping centre was busy, even though it was Sunday. After a few wrong turns, he finally found the cafe in the large bookshop, where Erik had arranged for them all to meet. Estonians must be great readers, Banks thought, with so many huge bookshops in the capital.

Erik was sitting at a table alone drinking Coke from a bottle and reading a newspaper. Banks went and bought himself a coffee and joined him. People bustled all around them, carrying bags, looking for tables, heading to the shops.

‘Where’s your charming colleague?’ Erik asked.

Banks checked his watch. ‘Shopping,’ he said. ‘She’ll be here soon. I want to thank you once again for that information you got for us the other day.’

‘It helped?’

‘A lot.’

‘I spoke briefly with Merike last night, and she said you seemed happy with your talk with Larisa.’

‘Interesting woman,’ Banks said. ‘And she was able to give us— Ah, the wanderer returns.’

Joanna bent down and set her bags and packages on the ground around the third chair, like presents under the Christmas tree. Banks noticed designer names he didn’t recognise: Marc Aurel, Ivo Nikkolo. There would be no carry-on only going back for Joanna, Banks could see. She might have to buy a new suitcase. Ever the gentleman, Erik offered to go and get her something to drink, but she insisted on going herself. They waited politely until she returned with a bottle of fruit juice.

‘We’ve got a few more names for you to check out, if you will,’ said Banks.

‘It’s getting to be like a hall of mirrors,’ said Joanna. ‘Every time we get one name, it leads to another, and so on.’

‘It’s always like that when you’re getting close,’ said Banks. ‘The storm before the calm.’

‘Don’t you mean—’

‘No. It always gets more and more confusing until it settles down, when you know. The storm before the calm.’

‘A good story can be like that, too,’ Erik said. ‘Mihkel knew that. He always talked of so many balls in the air. Like a juggler. Give me the names. I will try tomorrow. I feel like I am working for the British police.’

Banks laughed. ‘We’d snap you up like a shot. First of all,’ he said, ‘I’m curious about a bloke called Robert Tamm. He lives near Glasgow, but my source thinks he’s Eastern European, perhaps Estonian.’

‘It could be an Estonian name,’ said Erik.

Joanna looked puzzled, and Banks realised that he hadn’t had a chance to talk to her since Annie’s phone call. She had been in her room sleeping, he assumed, when Banks took the call, and he hadn’t seen her so far that morning. This time, it was simply circumstances; he wasn’t deliberately keeping her out of the loop. He explained to her briefly what he had learned, including that Joosep Rebane claimed to have a DI Bill Quinn in his pocket.

‘So we’re pretty sure this Robert Tamm is the killer?’ she said, when he’d finished and she had scribbled some notes.

‘So it would appear.’

‘That’s the case over, then, isn’t it? I mean, I know we have to get the Glasgow police to go—’

‘Hang on,’ said Banks. ‘Wait a minute. Are you going to abandon Rachel Hewitt, just like that? Like everyone else?’

‘That’s not fair. She’s not our case.’

‘Dismissing her isn’t fair, either. She deserves more than that. She became our case. You said you were with me on that.’

‘Yes, but only if it helped lead us to Quinn’s killer. It has done, so we’re finished now.’

‘You can do what you want, but I’m not leaving Tallinn until I find out what happened to Rachel.’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic.’

‘I’m not being melodramatic. We owe her. You know what your problem is? You lack—’

‘If you will excuse me for interrupting, children,’ Erik said, holding up his hand. ‘Perhaps you two can save the argument for later? I do have to go home soon. My mother-in-law is coming for dinner.’

‘Sorry,’ said Banks, giving Joanna a dirty look, which she returned with bells on. ‘Robert Tamm, yes. Perhaps you can find out if he has any Estonian underworld connections. Also, there’s a nightclub on an alley off Vana-Posti. It doesn’t have a name, but there’s a sign of—’

‘A gentleman helping the lady into a coach?’

‘That’s right. You know it?’

‘I’ve passed by. I just assumed it was some sort of exclusive sex club.’

‘It is now. Well, not that exclusive. They let me in. And there’s a waitress from Wigan.’

‘Then what do you need to know?’

‘Its history,’ said Banks. ‘Specifically what sort of place it was and who owned it, or ran it, six years ago, when Rachel disappeared.’

Erik made a note. ‘OK. Now you mentioned another name.’

‘Joosep Rebane,’ said Banks. ‘We think he’s the one who hired Tamm to kill Mihkel and Bill Quinn. He said he had Quinn in his pocket but started to get nervous as soon as Quinn’s wife died.’ Banks paused and waited for Erik to catch up, but he put down his pen. ‘Well, aren’t you going to write it down?’ Banks went on. ‘Joosep Rebane. I think I’ve got it right.’

‘Oh, you have got it right, my friend,’ said Erik. ‘I don’t even need to go to my files for that one. Where do you want me to begin?’

Annie had slept badly on Saturday night. She had tried to phone Stefan to see if she could beg him to come over and translate the note for her — or she would even drive out to his place — but all she got was his answering machine. She even got hold of Jan from Traffic, but he explained politely that, whereas he could manage a few phrases in Polish, he certainly couldn’t read and translate the language. Annie realised when she got up that she had been lying awake waiting most of the night, waiting for a knock on the door, for a phone call that she wouldn’t be able to understand. She tried Stefan’s number again. Still no reply. Bastard, she thought. He must have picked up some slut or other and was still at her place for a morning shag. She wished it wasn’t a Sunday, then she might be able to gather a posse, get an official search or something going. On the other hand, Krystyna wasn’t a criminal; she was a victim. Annie didn’t want to frighten her, make her feel she was being hunted and chased. God only knew what she would do then. She might also be a witness, able to help against Flinders and Robert Tamm, when the Glasgow police found him. But mostly she was a victim. She had no papers, no passport, but she was a citizen of the EU. Annie could report her missing, she supposed, but Krystyna was over eighteen, and they wouldn’t exactly pull out all the stops so quickly, unless perhaps she stressed that the girl might be in danger because of something she knew. That was what worried Annie most, that Krystyna didn’t realise the danger she was in, that she might go back to these people. The inactivity was driving her crazy. She needed to do something.

Krystyna hadn’t known where her colleagues were being taken after leaving Garskill Farm on Wednesday morning, but Annie remembered that she had spoken of another Polish girl, Ewa, who had been her friend at the farm and, Annie assumed, had also worked with her at the yeast factory. It didn’t prove very difficult to locate Varley’s Yeast Products in the phone directory, and given the hours that Flinders’ agency demanded of its workers, it also seemed likely the place would be operating seven days a week.

Before she left, Annie tried Stefan one more time. Nothing. She left a message for him to call her as soon as possible on her mobile, and took Krystyna’s note with her in case she got a chance to meet up with Stefan before going home again.

It wasn’t a long drive to the northern edge of Eastvale. The shops soon gave way to housing estates, several leafy enclaves of the wealthy and, finally, after a stretch of wasteland, the old industrial estate where the yeast factory was located. The weather had turned wet, and wind lashed the rain against her car windows. Those few brave souls who had ventured outdoors, most likely on their way to or from church, struggled with umbrellas, many of which had blown inside out.

Annie arrived at the factory gates shortly after eleven in the morning, and she was pleased to find them open. There was a little gatehouse where visitors were required to report and sign in. Annie wound her window down and flashed her warrant card at the man on duty. He barely glanced up from his newspaper before waving her through. As soon as she had opened her window, she could smell the yeast, and she wondered what it must be like to work there day in, day out. It must permeate everything. How could you even get the smell off your skin or your clothes when you got home? Even if you had a decent bathtub or a shower, which the workers at Garskill Farm didn’t.

There were several buildings scattered about the compound, and the yard was filled mostly with pallets, some of them loaded down with containers, others waiting, all getting wet. She found a place to park outside what appeared to be the offices, which must be working on a skeleton staff on a Sunday. She noticed a couple of people standing outside one of the other buildings having a smoke and went over to introduce herself. One of them told her she needed to talk to one of the white hats. She wouldn’t find one inside the building they were closest to, he added, as that was where the yeast grew in vats. The white hats would most likely be over in the main building, where the yeast was processed.

Annie entered through a door at the far end and soon found herself in an open area, where several giant rollers, like the front wheels of bulldozers, turned slowly as the yeast coated them, dried and was shaved off by a fixed razor-sharp blade into large boxes, and then no doubt fed into the other machines. The smell was even stronger inside.

She found a white hat, which happened to be a trilby. He was also wearing a white coat and carrying a clipboard. He seemed to be standing around doing nothing, so she went over and showed her identification.

‘Can I have a word somewhere?’ she asked over the noise of the factory.

He jerked his head in the direction of a row of small offices, and when he closed the door behind him, the volume level dropped considerably. It was a shabby office, furnished only with a cheap desk, chair and gunmetal filing cabinet. There was an ashtray on the desk with several cigarette stubs in it. The room felt uncomfortably small to Annie with the two of them in there. ‘Len’, as he was called, was a red-faced, paunchy man in his fifties who, to Annie’s eye, was fast heading for a coronary, if he hadn’t had one already. He rested one buttock on the desk, which creaked in complaint. Annie remained standing by the door.

‘I’ve come about some migrant labourers you employed here recently.’

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘They come and go. That’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Are they here now?’

‘Not any more. They wouldn’t be in here, anyway. Most of them usually work over in the extracting department.’

‘In particular, I’m trying to find a Polish girl. I think her name is Ewa. She’s friends with another Polish girl who worked here until a week last Wednesday.’

‘I don’t know anything,’ Len said. ‘Like I said, they come and go. I don’t know their names. As long as they do their jobs, I don’t give a fuck what they’re called. You’ll have to try Human Resources, and they don’t work on a Sunday. It’s not my department.’

‘Said Werner von Braun.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Thanks for your help.’ Annie left the office, muttering ‘arsehole’ under her breath. She stood for a moment in the doorway watching the people work. Most seemed absorbed in their tasks, such as they were, and they didn’t return her gaze. Krystyna certainly wasn’t there. Not that Annie had expected her to be.

Before leaving the factory altogether, she thought she might as well drop by the extraction department and see if she could find out any more there. As there was only one large building left, she assumed that was it, dashed across the yard, avoiding puddles as best she could, and headed inside.

The factory floor was quiet, no thrum of machines or banging of gears and metal drums. There was one man, sans white hat, walking around the equipment, checking things and jotting notes on his clipboard. Annie coughed loudly enough that he could hear her, and he turned, surprised to see her there.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Police.’ Annie came forward and showed him her warrant card.

He put his clipboard down. ‘What can I do for you?’ He was younger than Len, and a lot more trim, as if he played football in a local league on Saturdays maybe.

‘I’m looking for someone who works here, or used to work here,’ Annie said. ‘Len over in the other building said I’d have a better chance here.’

The man, who introduced himself as Dennis, laughed. ‘Len’s very old school. There’s nothing much he doesn’t know about yeast.’

‘How can you stand the smell?’ Annie asked.

Dennis shrugged. ‘You get used to it, like anything else.’

‘Hmm. Anyway, I understand you employ a number of migrant labourers around here?’

‘That’s right, though I don’t actually do the employing. That would be the personnel officer, or Human Resources as they call it now. I believe we have a contract with Rod’s Staff Ltd, who supply most of the workers.’

‘Do you know anything about them?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The conditions they live in, the wages they’re paid, that sort of thing.’

‘No. I just make sure they do their jobs, and they’re treated well enough on the shop floor, get their tea breaks and all. There’s quite a turnover. As you can imagine, nobody wants to do this sort of work for very long.’

Annie took in the row of industrial washing machines and the racks of hanging canvas sheets, about twenty of them in a row, stretching from one side of the room to the other. ‘What kind of work would that be?’

‘As you can see, we’re not in operation normally today. We have to do maintenance and equipment checks once in a while. That’s me. As a rule, we make the yeast extract here. Basically, you force the yeast through those canvas sheets and collect what gets through to the far end. It’s concentrated and thick by then, sort of like Marmite.’

Annie felt her stomach churn. She hated Marmite, more because of its consistency than its taste. ‘What do you do with the used canvas?’ she asked.

‘That’s what the big washing machines are for. You flip them in there and wash them. It’s a dirty job because by then they’re covered in slime. It’s sort of the consistency of—’

‘I can guess, thanks,’ said Annie. ‘You don’t have to spell it out.’

‘They usually wear neck-to-toe leather aprons.’

‘I’ll bet they do. Do you remember a young Polish girl, very thin, short dark hair, pretty if she had a chance. She could hardly lift one of those canvases.’

‘She sounds familiar, but as I said, they come and go. A lot of them are thin and seem none too healthy.’

‘Haven’t you ever wondered why?’

‘Not really my business. I assumed it was because of where they come from. Poor national diet.’

‘As opposed to the north of England, where we all eat so well?’

‘No need to be sarcastic. I’m only saying.’

‘Sorry.’ Annie scratched her head, thinking a visit from Trading Standards might be in order. Or Immigration. ‘Sorry. It’s just a bit frustrating, that’s all.’

‘There was a girl hanging around the gates this morning about the time the shift started. She sort of fits your description. She might have worked here at some time.’

‘Did anyone talk to her?’

‘I don’t think so. We get quite a few Eastern European girls here. Poles, Ukrainians, Lithuanians, Estonians and Latvians.’

‘That’ll be Rod’s Staff connections.’

‘I suppose so. If it’s illegal immi—’

‘No, no,’ said Annie. ‘I know we’re one big happy family now they’re all in the EU. They might not all have the correct or up-to-date permits and visas, but we won’t worry about a little thing like that.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘Murder.’

Dennis swallowed. ‘I knew something was up,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘When they didn’t turn up for their shift yesterday.’

‘Who didn’t?’

‘The nine people we’ve been employing from Rod’s Staff. The van usually drops them off at eight o’clock. Yesterday it didn’t turn up.’

‘Why not?’

‘No idea. The boss was furious. They’ve always been reliable before. That’s one reason we use Flinders. But the boss got no warning at all. He couldn’t get in touch with the Rod’s Staff office. Mind you, it is a weekend, and most offices are shut.’

‘So none of the casual labour turned up for work yesterday, but this girl you think might have been Polish, and you might have seen working here, was standing at the gate this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could she have been one of the Rod’s Staff girls?’

‘She could have been. Yes.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘A car came, and she got into it.’

‘Whose car?’

‘Roderick Flinders. I know because I’ve seen him here before.’

‘What make of car?’

‘A grey Clio.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. I wasn’t watching. I was just crossing the yard, coming here, as a matter of fact, when I saw her walk out of the gatehouse and get in the car.’

‘Did she get in of her own free will?’

‘I suppose so. I mean, I think I’d have noticed a struggle. I can’t really say I paid a lot of attention. I had other things on my mind.’

‘It’s all right, Dennis,’ said Annie. ‘I’ve finished now. You can put it out of your mind again. For the moment.’ Then she turned away and walked off.

When she got in her car, out of the rain, Annie thought things over and realised that Flinders would certainly have heard about what happened to Corrigan, and that would have shaken him up a bit. He wouldn’t necessarily know who had shot Corrigan and Curly, that it was an angry parent of a girl their organisation had exploited, or why, so he might well have imagined that it was something to do with the murdered policeman and journalist, and that the whole enterprise was falling apart. Perhaps he thought that he himself was next for the chop. The sensible thing to do would be to abandon ship.

And no doubt Joosep Rebane back in Estonia, or wherever he lived, would have heard the news by now, too, and his most sensible course of action would be to extricate himself as completely as possible from the whole business. Three murders meant way too much pressure and scrutiny. Best to wash his hands and walk away.

But where, Annie wondered, did that leave Krystyna? And how had she got to the yeast factory? She probably knew the name of the place, Varley’s, having seen it day after day, and she had enough money for a taxi. She thought she would find Ewa there, but she had found Roderick Flinders instead.

Annie stopped at the gatehouse on the way out. The man was still reading his paper.

‘Got a minute?’ she asked.

He acted as if it were a great hardship to tear himself away from the Sunday Sport.

‘What is it?’

‘There was a young girl here earlier this morning. She was seen coming out of your office and getting in a car, Roderick Flinders’ car.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Want to tell me why?’

‘Because Mr Flinders asked me to get in touch with him if I saw any of them. They weren’t supposed to be here, see. He’d placed them all somewhere else, but I suppose not all of them knew. She couldn’t speak English, anyway.’

‘You work for Flinders?’

‘No. Varley’s. But he treats me well, and I keep an eye on his crews. It’s good for everyone.’

‘What did she want?’

‘I think she was looking for someone. She kept saying a name. Sounded like Eva. I told her to come in out of the rain and sit down for a minute and I’d try to find out for her.’

‘And you phoned Flinders.’

‘Yes.’

‘What did he say?’

‘To keep her there, and he’d be over as soon as he could. He only lives about fifteen minutes’ drive away. I gave her a fag and a cup of tea. She seemed content enough. A bit nervous, maybe.’

‘And Flinders took her away?’

‘She went with him. He nodded when she said Eva, to let her know he knew what she meant and he could help her, like.’

‘Where did he take her?’

‘Now, how the hell should I know?’

‘So, am I to understand that Joosep Rebane is something of a celebrity?’ said Banks, lowering his voice. Joanna had stopped sulking and pricked up her ears now.

‘Celebrity criminal, you might say,’ Erik answered, scratching at his bushy beard. ‘Nothing proven, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Banks.

‘It does not harm his reputation that he looks like a rock star and has the lifestyle to match,’ Erik went on.

‘But I’ll bet he doesn’t play an instrument.’

‘He plays many. The gun. The knife. The baseball bat.’

‘A veritable symphony,’ muttered Joanna.

Banks sipped some coffee. It was cold but strong.

‘Thirty-one years old, and for the past four of them, he’s been the leading man in the drug-dealing and people-trafficking rackets and, clearly, also is involved in these migrant labour schemes that your friend and Mihkel have been investigating. Baltic Mafia. Estonia is not a destination, you understand, but it is a route. Rebane is a skilled fac— what is the word?’

‘Factotum? Facilitator?’ Banks suggested.

‘Facilitator. Yes. He has connections with all the organised criminal groups in Eastern Europe, especially the Russians, but in some ways he stands very much alone and aloof. Very Estonian.’

‘Have the cops ever got close to him?’

‘It is possible,’ Erik said. ‘But I do not know. My guess would be that he always has someone powerful on the inside. He greases the palms. Is that how you say it?’

‘That’s how we say it.’

‘We have corruption here, like everywhere. Police, local government, parliament, for all I know.’

‘You say he’s been in the business for about four years?’

‘Yes. Before that he was just another wild, spoiled, rich kid who got away with far too much, and spent his time with the wrong sort of people. He came to prominence in his own right when a storage container full of illegal immigrants was found at Southampton docks. A container that was discovered to have shipped from Tallinn. You may remember the incident. Two of the people inside were dead. Of course, there was no evidence to link him to the crime, but his name was whispered in many circles, and it soon became something to fear.’

‘Was the newspaper involved?’

‘We could not name him, but we came as close as we could without risking a libel suit. His father is Viktor Rebane, a very famous and powerful businessman. He was fortunate enough to be able to buy into utilities after the Soviets left and everything was privatised.’

‘I wonder what he thinks of his son.’

‘Viktor Rebane has never spoken publicly on the subject. He is a very well respected figure, himself, but he must be aware of his son’s activities. Sources, however, say he becomes furious every time Joosep’s name is linked to some crime or bad behaviour, but he can do nothing to stop him. Joosep is headstrong.’

‘Did Mihkel write about Joosep?’

‘Yes. In “Pimeduse varjus”.’

‘So there was no love lost between them?’

‘Pardon?’

‘I mean, they didn’t like each other.’

‘I do not know if they ever met. I do not think so. But no. Mihkel recognised Joosep Rebane for what he was, a thug come into power. And Mihkel could be merciless in his attack, so that everyone knew who he meant.’

‘Does Joosep have a reputation with women, too?’

‘There have been complaints. Rape. Violence. All withdrawn.’

‘Any deaths?’

‘None that could be directly linked to him.’

‘His name comes up six years ago,’ Banks explained, ‘when Larisa worked at the club, and her friend Juliya was Joosep Rebane’s girlfriend for a while. Juliya left town rather suddenly around the time Rachel disappeared. Larisa thinks she went back to Belarus. His name has also come up more recently in connection with Warren Corrigan, Roderick Flinders, and their migrant worker scheme. Rebane probably runs the agencies here, Flinders does the staffing and accommodation in northern England, and Corrigan puts them all in debt. Nice little scam. Robert Tamm is probably Rebane’s enforcer, or one of them. Can you search around for any links?’

‘I can try,’ said Erik. ‘But as I told you, he’s low profile. He manages to keep his name out of the newspapers. Even ours.’

‘Yes, but people know things. You, for a start. You know things you can’t print. I’m not after evidence I can use in court, just something that might help me sort this whole mess out and find out what happened to Rachel. I’d also like to know where I can find Joosep Rebane.’

Erik laughed. ‘That is very unlikely to happen,’ he said. ‘Rebane has the money and contacts to disappear, and if he has any sense that is exactly what he will do the way things are now.’

Joanna sighed. ‘The case is over,’ she said again. ‘Or it will be when the Scottish police pick up Robert Tamm and deliver him to Eastvale. My priority, after what you just told me, is to get back home and interview this Gareth Underwood.’

‘Fine, then,’ said Banks. ‘Why don’t you go home? Be my guest. You’d have found out more if you’d stayed there in the first place, wouldn’t you?’

‘Maybe I will go back if you keep playing the tough guy, going off hunting hardened criminals. What is this, a pissing competition?’

‘My job.’

‘Well, don’t expect me to scrape you up off the street.’

‘Please,’ said Erik. ‘You must stop quarrelling. People will think you’re in love. And while you’re here, you should try some real Estonian food. It will help you make peace. There is a very good restaurant on Vana-Posti called Mekk. Have you tried it?’

They both said no.

‘Go there tonight, eat some smoked eel and roast duck and bury the hammer.’

‘It’s hatchet,’ said Joanna. ‘And I don’t like eels.’

‘Whatever. Veal cheeks, then. I will make a reservation for you myself. Seven o’clock.’ He wagged his finger. ‘Do not be late. And be thinking of me having dinner with my mother-in-law.’ He picked up his newspaper, put on his cap and waved goodbye. ‘I will be in touch.’

Joanna gathered her shopping bags, and they followed Erik down the stairs and out of the Viru Keskus. They were just across the road from their hotel, but it was a wide road and the system of traffic lights was a little haphazard.

Banks stole a glance at Joanna as they waited for a light to change, a tram rumbling by. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘You know what I think.’

‘I mean what Erik said. Mekk. Burying the hammer. Seven o’clock.’

‘I suppose I’ve got to eat.’

‘Once more with enthusiasm.’

They arrived at the hotel. Joanna favoured him with a small smile. ‘I’ll meet you in the bar here at half past six,’ she said, and headed for the lift, manoeuvring her packages. Banks made for the bar, but before he got very far the receptionist called his name. ‘Hr Banks?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have message for you.’ She took a small envelope from under the desk and handed it to him.

‘Did you see who delivered it?’ he asked.

‘No. Sorry. I just come on.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Thank you.’ Banks tapped the envelope against his palm thoughtfully as he took a stool at the bar and ordered a beer. Who was it from? Rätsepp? Merike? Ursula Mardna? There was only one way to find out. He was thirsty from the day’s walking and from the sticky, unpleasant taste of cold coffee. When he had taken a few sips of chilled beer, he turned the envelope over in his hand and opened it. There was no signature, just a short message in block capitals. ‘MONDAY 1400 PATAREI. COME ALONE.’

Stefan Nowak lived in one of the new luxury apartments about half a mile outside town, down by the river. The building used to be an old monastery, but it had been gutted and converted into a number of apartments of all shapes and sizes. Stefan’s was one of the smaller units, but he had a balcony and a fine view down to the riverbank and the woods beyond.

His answer to Annie’s message had been brusque and clipped, but he had agreed to see her if she would drop by. This she did after she left the yeast factory. His flat was, as she expected, immaculate and tasteful, with framed prints of art exhibitions and classic movies on the wall, module or Ikea-style furniture, and not a speck of dust to be seen. She had to admit, whatever he had been doing last night and this morning, he didn’t seem at all the worse for wear. Casually dressed in jeans and a black polo neck, he looked every bit as cool and elegant as ever. The room smelled vaguely of cinnamon, and Annie wondered if Stefan had given his date cinnamon buns for breakfast before kicking her out. Did he bake them himself? That would be too good to be true. The smell reminded her that she hadn’t eaten anything since last night. She had been so worried about Krystyna.

Stefan frowned as he read over the notes. ‘I’m afraid the grammar and spelling aren’t very good,’ he said. ‘And her handwriting...’

Annie was sure her mouth flapped open. It felt as if it did. It was hard to get the words out. ‘You bloody complain about the spelling in a language that as far as I can see has nothing but consonants with funny squiggles on them?’

‘It matters,’ Stefan said. ‘And if you understood anything at all about the Polish language, you would know it’s not as simple as that.’ He waved the note. ‘This girl is barely literate.’

‘What do you expect?’ Annie said. ‘She’s from a poor working-class area, and she ran away hoping for a better future here and ended up working in a bloody yeast factory. I’ve been there. Believe me, Stefan, you wouldn’t want to set one Camper-shod foot in the place. Can you just please translate the fucking note.’

Stefan stared at her, perplexed and annoyed, but he started to translate, anyway, stumbling and correcting himself here and there to make his point. ‘This first one’s quite easy,’ he said. ‘It says “I owe you thirty-two pounds sixty. Sorry. I will pay back.” In the other note she says she’s very sorry and she thanks you for all you’ve done for her. Also the clothes and money that she promises to pay back. She stole money from you, Annie?’

‘Borrowed. The poor creature couldn’t even go to the shop and buy a chocolate bar or a packet of fags, for Christ’s sake.’ Krystyna must have seen Annie take some cash from an old cocoa tin in one of the kitchen cupboards to pay for the takeaway, and she had stolen the rest, but she wasn’t going to admit that to Stefan. ‘Carry on.’

‘There’s not much more,’ Stefan went on. ‘She wants to find out what has happened to her friends, to Ewa particularly, and she can’t sleep until she knows they are all right. She was foolish to run away without saying goodbye. She will be in touch with you when she can. There’s a heart and—’

‘Yes, I could read that bit, thank you,’ said Annie, snatching the note back.

Stefan shook his head. ‘Annie, why are you getting so involved? It’s not like you. Do you know what you’re getting yourself into? You’re letting this get to you, you know. It will only end badly.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The girl. She’s a user. Probably a junkie as well as a thief.’

‘She’s no junkie.’

‘But she is a thief, isn’t she? She stole that money from you, didn’t she?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Her words. The way she says it in the note. I didn’t translate exactly, but she says something about being sorry for money she took.’

‘You bastard!’ Annie felt her face burning. She had no answer for Stefan’s questions. Had no idea why she was going out on a limb for this pathetic young girl, who had lied and stolen and taken advantage of her hospitality, and left without so much as a by your leave. Perhaps it was because she had watched the way she ate the Big Mac and fries in the interview room, and then cleaned up after herself with the serviette. Or the way she had watched the American cop shows intently while eating her takeaway, although she didn’t understand a word. It was true that she was unsophisticated, but that didn’t mean she had no manners or breeding. Or feelings. It was true she was a thief and liar, but those are habits that are easy to come by when you are exploited and have nothing of your own. Did Annie want to change her? Maybe. But all she had really wanted to do was offer the hand of friendship in a world that had so far proved unfriendly.

She grabbed her jacket, thanked Stefan grudgingly and went back down to the car. After she had sat down and taken a few deep breaths, gripping the wheel tight, she phoned Winsome who, as she had guessed, was at the station. ‘You did say to call if I needed anything,’ she said. ‘Are you up for an adventure?’

‘I know you don’t approve of my direction on this,’ Banks said, between tastes of delicious smoked eel, ‘but I just feel that we’ve got so close to solving the mystery of Rachel Hewitt, it would be a disservice to her parents, for a start, if we just turned away now.’

‘I’m not as heartless as you think I am,’ said Joanna. ‘I’m just not used to the ways of... the ways you... I mean, I haven’t been involved in this kind of investigation before. When you explained it to me the other night, that finding out what happened to DI Quinn might depend on finding out what happened to Rachel Hewitt, I understood. It made sense. But we know who killed Bill Quinn now. It’s just a matter of finding him and bringing him in. Rachel Hewitt isn’t your case. Never was. We should go home. But you’re all over the place. Usually things are a lot more focused and straightforward in my job.’

‘True. But you’re here to learn, aren’t you? You do want to make a move out of Professional Standards. We do things differently here.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘What I was going to say back at the coffee shop was that you lack breadth of vision. That’s the difference between your job and mine. And if you want to make a move, you’re going to have to learn to think in a different way. Yes, you could argue that you’ve solved your case. Or Annie has. We know who killed Bill Quinn and Mihkel Lepikson, and he’ll no doubt soon be in custody. There’s probably enough forensic evidence to put him away even if he doesn’t sign a confession. We also know that Quinn was bent, in thrall to Joosep Rebane, and through him to Warren Corrigan. For you, it stops there. That completes your chain of thought. But Rachel Hewitt hasn’t been found, and we have several leads on what might have happened to her. Now, you might worry about expenses and justification, but I’d pay my own hotel bill and airfare to stay here and settle my curiosity about what happened to Rachel and, with any luck, give her parents a bit of peace. That’s the difference between us.’

‘What? You’re a romantic, a knight in shining armour, a tilter at windmills?’

‘I’ve been called worse.’

‘I’ll bet. But isn’t it someone else’s job now?’

‘Probably. Technically. Officially. But I’m doing it. You can either come along with me, or go back to Eastvale and write your report.’

Banks ate some smoked eel. It was delicious. He had to admit that Erik had done them proud. Not only a reservation, but attentive service, a table for two in a quiet corner far from the kitchen and toilet doors. He must have told the maître d’ that they were VIPs. The restaurant was a joy, with its modern decor, dark orange walls, muted lighting and unusual food. Banks’s smoked eel came with potato cakes and a horseradish sauce, among other things. Joanna Passero’s artichoke soup came with pork crisps and rye bread.

‘What do you think about your precious DI Quinn, now you know a bit more about what happened?’ Joanna asked.

‘Bill Quinn let himself get compromised. He was a fool. He should have known to stay away from Larisa, that she was a honeytrap. It’s not the first time that trick’s been used. They caught him off his guard, just like Robert Tamm did at St Peter’s. Do I feel sorry for him? Yes. Do I condone what he did? No. There were other ways out.’

‘Like telling the truth?’

‘That’s one strategy. Not necessarily the best in his case.’

‘But whatever strategy he used, it got him killed.’

‘Yes. Like too many other people in this case. But we also have to think of the good ones left alive. Rachel’s parents. Erik. Merike. Larisa. Even Curly, if what Annie tells me is true about him wanting to go straight.’

They finished their starters and sipped some more wine, then the mains came: duck fillet for Banks and baked cod for Joanna. Much as Banks spent far too much of his time microwaving Indian takeaways, eating fish and chips on the move and munching on Greggs pies, he loved a fine meal when he got the chance. Joanna made sounds of delight at her first mouthful, then stopped to check her mobile. Whatever it was she saw, it made her frown.

‘What is it with that?’ Banks asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your mobile. I know people get obsessed with checking their email on the go, and all that — it makes them behave rudely at dinner parties — but you’re never off it. It’s as if you’re waiting for the announcement of the end of the world or something. What is it that’s so important?’

Joanna gave a sound halfway between a sniff and a snort. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, snapping the case and putting her mobile away. ‘It’s personal. Private.’ She wouldn’t meet his eyes. ‘None of your bloody business.’

‘Don’t you think we know each other well enough by now, even if no one could call us the best of friends? And if we’re working together, it is my business. It’s a distraction.’

Joanna raised her eyes, and Banks saw a vulnerability and pain in them that he had never noticed before. She must have realised because she quickly reasserted her usual ice-maiden manner. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘Come on, Joanna.’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘My curious nature.’

‘So you can laugh at me, make fun of me?’

‘What? Why would I do that?’

‘You’ve been doing it right from the start.’

‘So what is it? Come on. Tell me. I promise I won’t make fun of you.’

Joanna toyed with her food, obviously trying to decide whether to tell him or not. In the end, she averted her eyes and said. ‘It’s my husband. I think he’s having an affair.’

‘So who keeps texting you?’

‘A colleague. I asked her if she’d keep an eye on him, see if anything unusual happened.’

‘And has it?’

She nodded. ‘The bastard.’

Banks could tell that she was welling up by the way she kept her eyes down on her food. He didn’t say anything for a while, but when he sensed she was in control again he rested his hand on her arm and said, ‘I’m sorry, Joanna. Really, I am.’

She looked at him then, and he thought she seemed surprised by his words and his tone. At least she didn’t jerk her arm away. ‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘I should have seen it coming. He’s Italian. He’s always maintained that it’s perfectly OK for the husband to take a mistress. I feel such a fool. I always thought he was teasing, you know, but...’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’ve been trying to decide. I’ll have to have it out with him when I get back, of course, then I’m leaving him. We don’t have any children, so that’s one less thing to stand in my way. I can’t bear it. I can’t bear living like this. Some people might be able to put up with such behaviour, but I can’t do it. I’ve got a nice flat in Northallerton, I like it there, so I might as well just stay up north.’ She smiled. ‘I’d still like to work in some other unit. Maybe I’ll chase after your job.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said Banks. ‘Do you still love him?’

‘What kind of a question is that?’ Joanna said nothing for a while, just stared down at the tablecloth. Then she spoke so softly that Banks could hardly hear her. ‘Yes.’

They ate on in silence, Joanna quaffing her wine rather quickly now, and needing a refill well before Banks. ‘So now you know everything about me,’ she said, when she was able to manage a cavalier, fuck-it-all tone in her voice.

‘I doubt that,’ said Banks. ‘But I am sorry to hear about your problems. I’ve been there. If you ever want—’

She waved her hand. ‘No, it’s fine, thanks. I don’t need to talk about it. I don’t suppose your wife was unfaithful to you, was she?’

‘As a matter of fact, she was. Knocked me for a six.’

She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Well, well. Wonders never cease. And I’d have thought...’

‘That I’d be the one at fault?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not saying I wasn’t at fault.’

Joanna studied him for a moment. ‘For some reason,’ she said, ‘I find myself unusually hungry after this conversation. Have you got room for pudding?’

‘I think so,’ said Banks. ‘And I’ve got a little job I’d like you to help me with tomorrow.’

There was a grey Clio parked in front of the newish, detached house outside Eastvale, and the man who answered the door seemed very nervous indeed. When Annie and Winsome showed their identification, he kept the door on the chain while asking them what they wanted.

‘Mr Flinders?’ Annie asked. ‘Roderick Flinders of Rod’s Staff Ltd?’

‘What if I am?’

‘Mind if we come in for a moment?’

‘As a matter of fact, I’m busy. It’s not convenient.’

Annie gave him the scathing look she reserved for the most obvious liars, and after a thirty-second staring match, during which she could swear she saw sweat break out on his brow, Flinders shut the door, fiddled with the chain, and opened it to let them in, ushering them towards the living room at the front. The furniture was all slightly old-fashioned, as if it had been bought at auctions. The large plasma TV was probably worth a small fortune. Flinders himself was not quite what she had expected of the sleazy exploiter of unskilled labour, but an overweight, red-faced, balding man in his early fifties, wearing a chunky-knit cardigan, who looked as if he would be more at home behind a desk in an insurance office than shepherding poor migrant workers around from factory to factory. His skin was baby smooth and had the sheen of wet plastic. Still, Annie realised, he didn’t do much of the shepherding himself; he had minions and gangmasters to work for him.

‘What is it?’ he said, turning to face them. ‘As I said, I’m very busy.’

‘With what?’ Annie asked.

‘Pardon?’

Annie glanced around the room. ‘What are you so busy with?’ she asked. ‘I don’t see anything in here to occupy your time.’

‘A business matter. In my home office.’

‘Ah, I see. Then we’ll get straight to the point. Winsome?’

Winsome consulted her notebook. ‘We’re investigating a series of infringements of the law under the Asylum and Immigration Act, and the Anti-Slavery Act,’ said Winsome. There was no Anti-Slavery Act, but it sounded more dramatic than Coroners and Justice Bill, under which such matters came.

‘What are you talking about?’ Flinders cried. ‘I’m a legitimate businessmen. Everyone who goes through my company is closely vetted. We have no truck with asylum seekers or illegal immigrants.’

‘They don’t need to be illegal, sir,’ Winsome went on. ‘All we need to prove is that violence, intimidation or deception were used to bring a migrant worker into the country.’

‘And, of course,’ Annie added, ‘moving people around the country without their consent is also a form of trafficking under the law, and is therefore prosecutable under the Act. Sentences can be rather excessive, as many judges take a dim view of these activities. In other words, mate, you could get banged up for a long time.’

‘But I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘Do you know a man called Warren Corrigan?’

Flinders averted his eyes. ‘I’ve met him.’

‘Perhaps you’ve heard he was shot on Friday evening?’

‘I... yes... I... on the news. It’s terrible. Just terrible.’

‘Indeed it is,’ said Annie. ‘A real tragedy. Do you know the circumstances under which he was shot?’

‘No. I don’t know who did it, either. I was here at home. It was nothing to do with me.’

‘We know that, sir. But we understand that you met with Mr Corrigan on a number of occasions?’

‘We did some business together, yes.’

‘What sort of business would that be?’

‘Business of a financial nature. Warren was a financier.’

‘That’s a nice name for it, isn’t it?’ said Annie. Winsome nodded.

‘For what?’ Flinders demanded.

‘Loan shark.’

Flinders did his best to appear indignant, but succeeded only in looking more scared. ‘I know nothing about that. As far as I was concerned, Warren Corrigan was a legitimate businessman, like myself.’

‘“Like me”,’ corrected Annie. ‘What about Mihkel Lepikson?’

‘Who?’

‘The Estonian journalist found murdered at Garskill Farm.’

‘I know nothing about that.’

‘But you know Garskill Farm, don’t you?’

‘Yes. The company used it as temporary accommodation for some of our workers.’

‘The “company” being you?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘I’m glad to hear it was only temporary,’ Annie said, ‘though it turned out to be a bit more permanent for Mihkel Lepikson.’

‘I told you, I don’t know him.’

‘Did you visit Garskill Farm the other Wednesday morning?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘I’m not sure if I believe you,’ said Annie. ‘Still, we’ll leave that for the moment. Mind if we have a look around?’

‘Have you got a search warrant?’

‘No, But I’d be happy to wait here with you while Winsome goes and gets one.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I must remind you, though, it’s Sunday, and magistrates can be awfully hard to find on a Sunday. It’s unlikely we’d be able to get hold of one until tomorrow morning, at the earliest. In the meantime, we might as well take you to the station, and you can spend a night in the cells. Don’t worry. It’s not as terrible as it sounds. It might not be as comfortable as this place, but you get three square meals a day, there’s a working toilet and the showers are hot.’

‘All right. Get on with it then.’

‘Like to give us the guided tour?’

Flinders led them around the house — his office, first, with the filing cabinets and computer, which would definitely be worth a search warrant in itself — then a large well-equipped kitchen complete with island and pots and pans hanging from a ceiling fixture, too spick and span to have been used recently, a cloakroom, plenty of cupboard space, dining room with heavy dark wood table and overstuffed chairs. Upstairs were four bedrooms, two of which were empty, and one of which was set up for guests.

‘Do you live here all alone?’ Annie asked.

‘My wife and I have separated,’ said Flinders. ‘I’ve been thinking of selling the place and moving somewhere smaller, but the market is poor.’

‘Oh. Sorry to hear that. About your wife, I mean.’

The final room was Flinders’ bedroom. He seemed reluctant to open the door, but he clearly sensed that he wasn’t in much of a position to refuse. Two suitcases lay open on the four-poster bed, half filled with clothes and toiletries.

Annie glanced at Winsome and raised her eyebrows. ‘Going somewhere, Mr Flinders?’

‘If you must know, I was planning on taking a short holiday. It’s been a stressful time at work lately. My heart... angina, you see.’

‘Somewhere nice, I hope?’

‘Acapulco.’

‘Very nice. All alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about the business?’

‘It can run itself for a little while. I have helpers. One needs to recharge one’s batteries every now and then. Even a police detective should know that.’

Annie laughed. ‘I’ve been recharging mine for the past few months. They’re in pretty good shape by now. Right, Winsome?’

‘Right,’ said Winsome, smiling.

Flinders’ chin started to wobble. ‘You can’t possibly read anything into this,’ he said. ‘It’s a coincidence, that’s all.’

‘What’s a coincidence?’

‘Well, you know...’

‘No. Tell me.’

‘You coming here just before I was about to leave. I know it might appear bad, but...’

‘And here’s me thinking you meant us coming here after Warren Corrigan was shot, and after Mihkel Lepikson was murdered by a hired killer called Robert Tamm, in your presence.’

‘I wasn’t there, I tell you!’

‘We think you were.’ Annie actually doubted that Flinders had the bottle to watch Robert Tamm torture and drown Mihkel Lepikson, but she was aiming for maximum discomfort. People seemed to think the police fitted people up all the time, so why not let Flinders believe that he was going to get fitted up for conspiracy to murder.

Flinders licked his lips. ‘I should go. I have to get to the airport. I have a flight to catch.’

‘I don’t think that’s going to happen,’ said Annie. ‘You might as well relax and get used to the idea. I hope you took out some cancellation insurance.’

‘But you can’t... I mean, I have freedom of movement. I—’

‘Like your workers?’

‘I resent that.’

‘Shut up, Mr Flinders I’m sick of your whining. Where’s Krystyna?’

‘Who?’

‘Krystyna? The girl you picked up this morning at the yeast factory where some of your migrant crew used to work.’

‘I don’t know wh—’

‘You were seen. Your car was seen. Your man in the gatehouse told me everything. Didn’t seem to think he’d done anything wrong. We know that nobody showed up for their shift yesterday morning, the morning after Corrigan was killed. We think you’re running scared because you’re worried that what happened to him might happen to you. You cut the crew loose, but the guard on the gate phoned you when he saw Krystyna hanging around the gates. She was looking for her friend Ewa. Krystyna had been gone for over a week, since the day Mihkel Lepikson was killed, in fact. You were worried she knew something. What have you done with her?’

Flinders was very red. He flopped into an armchair beside the bed and his head sank to his chest. His breathing sounded laboured. Annie glanced at Winsome, a little alarmed, worried that he’d had a heart attack or something. He fumbled in his pocket, brought out a little cylinder, then opened his mouth and sprayed lightly under his tongue. ‘Nitro-glycerin,’ he said, patting his chest.

Annie knelt so that her eyes were level with the top of Flinders’ head and spoke softly. ‘Take it easy. It’s all over now, Roddy. Tell us where she is and things will go better for you.’

‘I never wanted any of this,’ Flinders said. ‘Nobody was supposed to get killed. Nobody. Do you understand? That wasn’t part of the plan. I abhor violence. Nobody was supposed to die. I had nothing to do with any killing.’

Annie felt a chill run through her. Was he referring only to Corrigan, Quinn and Lepikson, or did he mean that Krystyna was dead, too? ‘That’s what you get for playing with the big boys. You can’t just pick up your toys and go home whenever you want. You’re in, and you’re in deep. Accessory to murder. It’ll help if you tell us where Krystyna is.’

Flinders raised his mournful, tear-stained face to hers. ‘I told you, I don’t know. I haven’t see her.’

‘But you do know her?’

‘If you say she’s one of my workers, then I suppose I must do. I don’t know them all by name. Can’t even pronounce most of them.’

‘Have you hurt her, Roddy?’

‘I haven’t hurt anyone.’

They went back downstairs. Annie looked towards the open kitchen. ‘Is there a cellar here?’

‘No.’ Flinders answered just a little too quickly, and sounded just a little too desperate.

Annie pointed to a door beside the stainless steel fridge. ‘Where does that door lead?’

‘Nowhere. It’s just a larder.’

‘I’ll go see,’ Annie said to Winsome. ‘Why don’t you stay here and keep Mr Flinders company? He still seems a bit peaky to me. We don’t want him having a coronary or something, do we?’

‘You can’t do this. It’s private. It’s—’

But Annie had already opened the door, and what she saw was a flight of stairs leading down to a basement. It probably wasn’t a cellar in the old sense, coal cellars having been out of fashion for many years now, but a lot of modern houses had basement areas that could be used for storage, entertainment rooms, or even extra living space. Annie flicked the light switch, but nothing happened.

She turned to Flinders across the room. ‘No lights?’

‘I never go down there.’

‘Got a torch?’

‘No.’

Annie searched through the drawers and cupboards in the kitchen, and finally found a small torch, along with a box of candles and matches. She checked to make sure the battery worked and set off down the wooden steps. The basement floor was concrete, and the large area under the house was separated into a number of rooms or storage areas by wooden partitions. Annie could make out some lawn furniture, an old barbecue, a bicycle with flat tyres, an upturned wheelbarrow, some camping equipment, an ancient radiogram.

She stood still, shone her torch into the dark the corners and walls and called out, ‘Krystyna!’

She thought she heard a sound. Hardly daring to breathe, she listened closely. It could be a mouse or something, though it sounded more like a muffled voice trying to speak. She couldn’t be completely clear where it was coming from, so she began a systematic search in the general direction.

In the third partitioned area she entered, the torchlight picked out a small bundle curled on the floor in the foetal position. On examination, this turned out to be because Krystyna’s feet and arms were tied in such a way that she could stretch neither without tightening the rope around her neck.

Annie dashed over and tore off the sticky tape that covered Krystyna’s lips, then she pulled out the rag that had been shoved in her mouth. Krystyna gagged and coughed while Annie worked on the ropes, which she finally managed to untie. When Krystyna was free at last, she threw her arms around Annie’s neck and buried her face in her shoulder, crying and muttering thanks or prayers in Polish. Annie got her to her feet, and together they made their way upstairs. When Annie appeared with Krystyna in the kitchen, Flinders held his head in his hands and wept.

‘What were you going to do with her while you buggered off to Mexico, Rod? Leave her down there to starve or suffocate to death alone in the dark? She’s half starved to start with. It wouldn’t have taken long. Or had you been in touch with Robert Tamm? Was he going to come down and take care of her after you’d gone, do your dirty business for you? Like he killed Mihkel Lepikson and Bill Quinn?’

‘That wasn’t my idea,’ said Flinders through his tears. ‘None of it was my idea. I told you. Nobody was supposed to get killed. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.’

Annie stood up. For the first time in many a year she wanted to kick someone hard in the balls. But she suppressed the urge and tightened her arm around Krystyna. ‘We’ll sort out the blame later,’ she said. ‘First we’ll get you to the station and see how sweetly you can sing.’