Watching the Dark

Chapter 12

Stone walls do not a prison make / Nor iron bars a cage. The lines from the old poem came to Banks as he got out of the taxi in front of Patarei. Perhaps in some cases, that was true, he thought, but nobody had mentioned it to the builders of this prison. Beyond the rusted, graffiti-covered gates, a guard tower stood commanding a view over a prison yard overgrown with weeds and scattered with rubbish. The long grey brick building stretched alongside it.

Banks followed the signs to what he thought was the entrance, all the while keeping his eyes open for a tail. But he saw no one. Eventually he came to the entrance. Beside it stood a small ticket office in which an old woman sat alone. She took some euros from him, gave him a guidebook, then smiled, showing a relatively toothless mouth, and pointed the way in. Banks thought she was probably the first Estonian he had met who didn’t seem to speak English. Perhaps she didn’t speak at all.

Though it was warm and sunny outside, the interior of the old prison was dank and chilly. There were puddles on the floors and damp patches had discoloured the walls and ceilings. In places, the whitewash and plaster on the arched roof and the institutional green paint on the walls had peeled away to expose red brick underneath.

And the place smelled. Probably not as bad as when it was a functioning prison, but it smelled. Damp. Rot. Sweat. Fear.

Banks was alone, or so he thought until he walked into one of the cells to get a better look and saw a young couple already there, guidebook in hand. They might have been a honeymoon couple, handsome young man and pretty girl, and Banks wondered what the hell they were doing visiting such a place. They smiled, and he smiled back.

On the wall of the cell were head-and-shoulders shots of young girls, along with a few nude models. Further along the corridor, Banks passed what must have been an office. It was impossible to get in the doorway now, as it was piled almost to the top with rubbish, mostly old telephones, radio parts, bits of desks and chairs, papers, various broken circuit boards, and in front of it all, a rusty old mechanical typewriter. Banks crouched and saw that the keyboard was in Cyrillic script.

The next floor seemed to be have been devoted almost entirely to the prison hospital. The cells were larger, more like wards for ten or twelve people, with tubular-metal frame beds and thin stained mattresses. It reminded him of Garskill Farm. In the doctors’ offices, medical forms, sheets of handwritten figures and old newspapers still littered the desks, next to old typewriters, again everything in Russian. One of the newspapers had a colour photograph of a beach and palm trees on the bottom corner, and Banks guessed it was probably an advert for vacations in the sun.

Worst of all were the operating theatres. Metal gurneys slatted like sinister beach recliners stretched under huge bug-eyed lamps beside old-fashioned machines with obscure dials and buttons, like something from a 1950s science-fiction movie. The glass-fronted cabinets still housed bottles of pills, phials, potions and boxes of ampoules and syringes. The tiles had come away from the walls in places to reveal damp stained plaster. The dentist’s chair with the old foot-pedal drill just about did it for Banks. He moved along quickly, tasting bile.

He had been wandering for about fifteen minutes and was standing in an eerie room with splotchy brown and red walls when it happened. The sudden but surprisingly gentle voice came from behind him.

‘They say it was used as a pre-trial holding facility, but have you ever seen an execution room in a pre-trial facility?’

Banks turned. The man behind him was youngish, mid-thirties perhaps, prematurely balding, with a goatee beard and moustache. He was slightly taller than Banks, and skinny, and he didn’t seem in the least threatening. Banks recognised him immediately as the man who had been following him around Tallinn.

‘You get my message, then?’ he said, in heavily accented English.

‘Who are you?’ Banks asked.

‘My name is Aivar Kukk. I was policeman many years ago.’ Even though he spoke softly, his voice still echoed in the cavernous corridors of the decaying prison.

‘Why have you been following me?’

‘To make certain that you were not being followed by Hr Rätsepp or his men.’

‘And am I?’

‘Not that I have seen. Perhaps he does not see you as much of a threat.’

‘To him? I’m not.’

‘But you may be when we have finished talking. Even so, I do not think it is Hr Rätsepp you need to fear. Shall we be tourists? This is an interesting place. The execution room was used before it became a pre-trial holding facility, of course. It was first a sea fortress, but is most famous as Soviet-era prison. Many were executed and tortured here. Now art students work on projects, and there are exhibition openings and many other functions. People even get married here. It was to be an art college, but nobody can get rid of the damp.’

There seemed to be no one else around except the young couple about fifty yards down the corridor, Banks thought as he walked along with Aivar Kukk. He wondered if the young couple were thinking of getting married here. The arched corridors seemed to stretch on and on ahead for miles, and the chilly damp had seeped into his bones. Banks gave an involuntary shudder. ‘I can believe it. So what’s all the cloak-and-dagger stuff about?’

‘I do not understand.’

‘I mean why the note, and following me. And why meet here?’

‘We will not be disturbed. You were not followed here. Patarei has just opened again for the tourist season. Nobody will come here at this time. Do you not think it is an interesting place?’

‘All prisons give me the creeps.’

‘This one certainly should.’

As they walked and talked, Banks wasn’t paying quite as much attention to the crumbling decor and the claustrophobic cells, but in some places he noticed there was so much graffiti and paint splashed over the walls and floors, as if someone had let loose a bunch of drunken art students. ‘How did you know I was here in Tallinn?’ Banks asked.

‘I read what happened to Bill Quinn in the English newspaper, and then Mihkel Lepikson. I knew it would be a matter of time. If nobody came soon, I would have sent a message. I still have friends in the department and at newspapers. We meet, drink beer, gossip, and they keep me informed. Tallinn is small city. Estonia is small country. Is not too difficult to know when a policeman comes from England, or what he is doing here.’

‘And what am I doing here?’

‘You are looking for killer of Bill Quinn and Mihkel Lepikson.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Is not difficult. You have talked with Toomas Rätsepp, Ursula Mardna and Erik Aarma.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. You are looking for Rachel Hewitt.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I saw you go in club, remember? Club with no name.’

Banks tried not to show how perplexed he was by all this. ‘Seeing as you know so much of my business,’ he said, ‘perhaps you can tell me where Rachel is?’

‘I am afraid I cannot. I do not know.’

‘Then why are we here?’

‘Please come here,’ Aivar said, entering another open cell with rows of bunk beds in it. Banks followed him over to the window and saw through the bars the beautiful pale blue waters of the Baltic dancing with diamonds of sunlight, the undulating line of a distant shore across the bay. It made him think what the view must have been like from Alcatraz. He had looked out on the prison island from Fisherman’s Wharf just last year, but he hadn’t taken the boat out and seen the San Francisco skyline from the inside. He hated prisons, and he wouldn’t have come here today if he hadn’t been curious about the note.

‘I think that must have been the greatest punishment of all,’ said Aivar. ‘To look on a view like that and to be locked in a cell.’

They remained silent, admiring the view that had represented unattainable freedom to so many. ‘I can help you,’ Aivar said finally. ‘I was junior investigator. I work with Bill Quinn on original case.’

‘I know,’ said Banks. ‘Ursula Mardna told me.’

‘Ursula Mardna was good Prosecutor. Toomas Rätsepp was lead investigator. Boss. I was junior. But I work with Bill, all night we are asking questions, walking streets, just two, three days after girl disappear, as soon as we have some information where they had been drinking.’

‘What really happened?’

‘I have never told anyone.’

‘Why not?’

‘Fear. First for my job, then for my life. But now it is too late.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean I no longer have anything to fear. Nothing anybody does can stop truth coming out now. Too many people know things. Too many people are asking questions. Murder was a desperate move.’

‘We think Bill Quinn was killed because his wife died, and he got in touch with Mihkel about what really happened over here. There were photographs,’ Banks said. ‘A girl. Bill. Here in Tallinn. He was blackmailed. With his wife dead, they didn’t matter.’

Aivar gazed out over the water, a sad, wistful look in his eyes. ‘So that is what it was,’ he said. ‘I wonder how they get to him. They cannot use the same threats they use with me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Let’s walk again.’

They left the cell. Banks just caught from the corner of his eye the figure of a blonde woman disappearing into a cell several yards away. Joanna Passero. Aivar clearly saw her, too. ‘Your colleague?’ he said, smiling.

‘Inspector Passero.’

‘A good idea. I approve. I do the same in your position. Perhaps she need to learn how to keep better hidden, but let her follow. Very beautiful woman, is she not?’

‘What happened?’

Banks saw a small room off to the side that looked as if its walls had been splashed with blood from a bucket. Someone had drawn red hearts and written LOVE in big dripping red letters. In the old library, there were still books on the wooden shelves, piled haphazardly, all in Russian, or so it appeared from their covers. On one window ledge stood a big old reel-to-reel tape recorder, its innards partially exposed. And everywhere the damp and the smell.

Aivar leaned against a rickety wooden desk. ‘We walk around Old Town, Bill and me, asking questions. Tuesday night. We know they are in St Patrick’s bar because girls have remembered some things. That is last bar they are all together. Australian boy, bartender, he tell us he see Rachel leave after her friends and turn in the wrong direction. I think he likes her, so he quickly runs after her to warn her, and he sees her turn corner into side street. Not far along is nightclub with no name, where I see you.’

‘What happened?’

‘Outside is a car, very expensive car. Mercedes. Fill whole street.’

‘What colour?’

‘Silver grey. Barman, his name is Steve, he sees Rachel go in club. He thinks to go after her, then he thinks perhaps she meet someone, she is not so lost after all.’

‘He was sure it was Rachel?’

‘She wears short yellow dress. Blonde hair. He can see.’

‘Jesus,’ said Banks, glancing towards the window. ‘I knew there was something about that place.’

‘You have hunch, yes?’

‘Something like that. So what happened?’

They left the library and walked back down the arched brick corridor. There was no sign of Joanna, but Banks knew she was not far away. Not that it mattered now; he didn’t feel he was in any immediate danger.

‘Nothing,’ said Aivar. ‘It was late. We go in club, but nobody knows anything. No silver Mercedes. Nothing. Do not like cops. We report to Investigator Rätsepp in his office, and he says to leave it with him. Next day. Next day. Nothing happen. We hear no more. When I ask, he tell me it was not a good lead, that barman was mistaken. We look for Steve again, even though Rätsepp says not to, but we cannot find him. His friend in St Patrick’s tell us he return to Australia.’

‘So let me get this clear,’ said Banks. ‘You get a lead to where Rachel went after St Patrick’s, probably the last place she was seen alive. You take it to your boss. He tells you to leave it with him. It evaporates.’

‘I am sorry?’

‘It disappears. Nothing more is done. No follow up.’

‘It disappears. Yes. Goes nowhere. No further action. Hr Rätsepp insist.’

‘Did you talk to Bill about it?’

‘Next day, I try. He is very quiet. Says Rätsepp must be right and barman must be mistaken, and it is not worth following. I do not understand. We are both excited when we talk to Steve. Then Rätsepp call me in his office and tell me I must never question his orders or judgements if I care about my career. I do care then, but not later. I leave after a year. Second day I am at home, two men come and, how do you say... they beat me up.’

‘How bad?’

‘Not so badly I need hospital, but they know how to hurt. Then they tell me if they ever find out I mention Rachel case or club again, they will kill me. I believe them.’

‘So you told no one until now?’

‘No. I get job in tourist business. Learn better English. Mind my own business. Keep my head down. But I never forget.’

‘Did Ursula Mardna know?’

‘No. I do not believe Rätsepp tell her.’

Banks felt some relief that his suspicions about Ursula were probably wrong and not everyone on the case was bent or intimidated. But she hadn’t known about the lead. Rätsepp hadn’t passed it on to her. It stopped with him, and he was Rebane’s man.

They passed the execution room with the hole in the floor, where the Russians used to hang people before the Second World War, before the Nazis took over for a few years. Banks had had enough of Patarei by now and suggested they get out of the place. Aivar said they must leave separately, as they came.

‘There is just one thing,’ Banks said as they shook hands.

‘Yes?’

‘The silver Mercedes. I don’t suppose the barman got the number?’

‘Only part.’

‘Did you ever find out who owned it?’

Aivar shuffled his feet in the grit. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘That was another reason to do as Rätsepp told me.’

‘Why is that?’

‘I cannot help be curious, so I check. Not so many silver Mercedes. A name comes up.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Banks. ‘Joosep Rebane.’

‘No. It was Viktor Rebane. His father,’ he said, then he turned and walked off towards the exit.

Krystyna looked a little nervous, as well she might, thought Annie, as she sat in front of the large screen television and watched the VIPER display. With any luck, she was about to identify Robert Tamm as the man who came by Garskill Farm on Wednesday morning over a week ago, the morning that Mihkel Lepikson was murdered. She had already identified Roderick Flinders as the man who had abducted her, tied her up, gagged her and locked her in the basement of his house. Flinders was in custody, and a whole range of charges were being prepared against him. The CPS was having a field day. Annie and Winsome thought they would let him sweat for a while longer before talking to him. All the better to let him contemplate his options, which were getting more limited by the hour.

Of course, Krystyna’s identification wouldn’t prove that Tamm murdered Mihkel Lepikson, only that he was at Garskill Farm on the morning in question, but taken in concert with the rest of the forensic evidence, including fabrics and the DNA tying him to woods where Bill Quinn was murdered, and the tyre tracks and fingerprints in the glove compartment of the rented Ford Focus tying him to both crime scenes, it would go a long way towards helping convict him. The Glasgow police had found a crossbow in Tamm’s cellar, too. So Krystyna was about to bear witness against a hardened hit man.

Luckily VIPER, the Video Identification Parade Electronic Recording, had replaced the old line-ups, where a witness walked in front of a row of people of similar description to the suspect and picked out the guilty one. She didn’t have to face that sort of confrontation with Tamm. But she was nervous, nonetheless, especially after her experience with Flinders.

Eventually, it turned out to be a simple matter. He was the fourth individual to be displayed on-screen, and she recognised him immediately. Every little helped. The Glasgow police had located Tamm and picked him up easily enough, and the two officers who delivered him to Eastvale had seemed happy to dump their prisoner and head off for a night on the town on expenses. Annie wished them luck. She knew what a night on the town in Eastvale was like. Glasgow, it wasn’t.

Krystyna had returned with Annie to the Harkside cottage on Sunday night after a mandatory stop at the hospital for a quick examination. She was no worse for wear, but a little tearful and contrite. Annie had pampered her with a long bath, pizza, wine and television. Krystyna had even learned a few more words of English, and, to Annie’s eye at least, she was putting a bit more meat on her bones with every meal. At Annie’s suggestion, Krystyna had actually telephoned her parents in Pyskowice, and there were more tears and talk of reconciliation and going home, or so Annie gathered the from the tone, and from Krystyna’s sign language at the end of the conversation. Krystyna seemed more cheerful after the phone call, at any rate, though Annie had a feeling that she wouldn’t stay very long in a small town in Silesia. But she did hope that perhaps the next time Krystyna left home, she would do it the right way, with a real job in hand. There might even be something in Eastvale to suit her, if she improved her language skills.

Leaving Krystyna with Winsome in the squad room, Annie took Doug Wilson with her — he needed the experience — and they went into interview room three, where Robert Tamm was sitting as still as a meditating monk, and as expressionless as a stone.

Annie spread her files on the table and leaned back, tapping her pen on the metal surface. ‘Well, Robert,’ she started. ‘Quite a pickle you’re in, isn’t it?’

Tamm said nothing. Whether he understood her or not, she couldn’t tell. She thought ‘in a pickle’ might be too obscure an expression for a foreigner. ‘You’re in a lot of trouble,’ she said.

Tamm still said nothing. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer yet, but they could get a duty solicitor for him quickly enough if he did. He had already been cautioned, and he had indicated that he understood, but he still wasn’t saying anything. Clearly he had another plan. Silence. He wasn’t the kind to blurt out a confession.

It had been a long day, Annie felt. She and Winsome had done about as much as they could do. She thought they could probably get a conviction on the murders of Bill Quinn and Mihkel Lepikson, especially with the testimony of Gareth Underwood, aka Curly, Krystyna and Roderick Flinders, but they still had nothing to link Tamm to Joosep Rebane. Doug Wilson seemed bored with the lengthening silence already. So much for learning from experience. For that you needed experience of something other than silence.

As for Rachel Hewitt, Annie knew that was not their case, but she also knew that it had become a personal mission for Banks, and she knew what he was like when he got his teeth into something. She wished she were with him in Tallinn, not in a romantic way, but helping on the case. She had seen the trail of damage that Rachel’s abduction had left behind — Maureen and Luke Hewitt; Pauline Boyars, the bride that never was. She wondered how Banks was getting on with the Professional Standards woman. Were they still speaking? Was she getting under his feet all the time? Could they possibly be sleeping together? The woman might be married, but she was an icy blonde, after all, and Annie never trusted icy blondes. Not even to be icy.

The case was over bar the formalities now. They had Robert Tamm and Roderick Flinders in custody, and the next few days would be a matter of working with the forensics experts and the CPS to build up a solid case. Flinders was a weak link. He had already talked plenty, and he would probably talk a lot more tomorrow if he thought there was a chance of saving his own skin. A night stewing in the cells would do him good. There were still a few migrant workers from Garskill Farm on the loose, but they would find their ways home, or into the hands of the police, wherever they ended up. Krystyna’s friend Ewa had turned up in Liverpool, and Annie had arranged for her to pay a visit to Eastvale sometime over the next few days. Krystyna herself was safe now. Warren Corrigan was dead, and Curly was going straight. He was happy with his deal. He would talk, too, and he knew a lot. Result, then, Annie told herself, as she gestured for Doug Wilson to leave the room with her. Tamm was a dead loss. They’d get no confession from him. She told the officers on duty outside the interview room to take him back to the cells, and she and DC Wilson headed back to the squad room.

Haig and Lombard, the DCs on loan, were long gone, but Winsome and Geraldine Masters were still there, along with Krystyna.

‘Come on,’ said Annie, dropping her file on the desk. ‘It’s celebration time. Let’s all go and get pissed.’ When Krystyna looked puzzled, she said, ‘You, too,’ and mimed drinking. Krystyna nodded and smiled, and they picked up their coats and filed out to the Queen’s Arms.

Chapter 13

‘Viktor Rebane and Toomas Rätsepp grew up together in the fifties in Narva, near the Russian border,’ said Erik on the way out to Viimsi on Tuesday morning. Ursula Mardna had arranged a meeting between Banks, Joanna and Viktor Rebane, from which Viktor would walk away as free as he arrived. Joosep, as expected, had disappeared from the radar. Banks was now certain that Ursula knew nothing of the lead that Bill Quinn and Aivar Kukk had passed on to Toomas Rätsepp six years ago, or she wouldn’t be helping him so much to uncover the truth. She wasn’t in thick with Viktor Rebane; that, as Erik was explaining, was Toomas Rätsepp. Ursula was so angry about what had been done that she swore Rätsepp would go down, despite his friendship with Viktor Rebane, and Banks believed her.

Erik carried on with his potted history. ‘It was a very strange time there. Much bomb damage, many Russian immigrants. They came to Tallinn together with their families as young men, and remained friends. When he was old enough, Viktor worked for state industry, and after independence he bought into utilities. Toomas first joined the militia, then he became policeman. At the time Rachel disappeared, Viktor also had a major interest in the nightclub around the corner from St Patrick’s. It is said that he never went there, himself, that he was not interested in such pursuits, only in the profits. He had many cars, and his son liked to use the silver Mercedes most of all. Viktor spoiled and indulged him then.’

‘And he’s powerful enough to get away scot-free.’

‘He knows a lot of secrets. But it is not only that. You must understand, Viktor Rebane is really not a bad man. Everyone knows that his son is psycho crazy and feel sorry for Viktor. He has done a lot of good for this country since independence. Much charity work. Many jobs. Remember that. He is a respected citizen. We are close now.’

They had driven from the Metropol and were skirting Kadriorg Park, turning on to the coastal road to Viimsi. Everything had happened so quickly after Ursula Mardna had made the phone call that Banks’s head was still spinning. He was sitting in the front of the VW beside Merike, with Erik and Joanna in the back. Joanna had been very terse and offhand with Banks since they had dinner at Mekk on Sunday evening, and he guessed she was wishing she hadn’t opened up and told him her personal problems in a moment of weakness. That often happened. You tell someone something that shames you, reveals you, makes you vulnerable, then you close up and wish you’d kept quiet in the first place. It feels almost as if they’ve got something on you, got a hold over you, the way Joosep Rebane and Warren Corrigan had over Bill Quinn. He wanted to tell her he didn’t feel that way, but it wouldn’t go down well. Instead, he kept quiet on the subject. If she was still annoyed about trying to solve the Rachel Hewitt case, she was hiding it well, now, and had been as excited as Banks at the latest revelations, and the forthcoming meeting with Viktor Rebane. He felt that she could scent the end, as he could, and the aroma intoxicated her. She might make a homicide detective yet.

Viktor Rebane had agreed to meet the foreign police detectives, who had no power or jurisdiction over him, as a courtesy in a public place of his choice, and they were heading for the restaurant. Apparently he lived in Viimsi, where he had a large modern house in its own grounds, with tennis court and swimming pool.

‘So why has he agreed to see us?’ Banks asked Erik.

‘He is an old man. Sick with cancer. He is tired, and he wants to make amends before he dies. I think he has much on his conscience. He also has assurances from the very top that nothing will come back on him.’

‘Even murder?’

‘We will see,’ said Erik. ‘As a journalist, I would give a lot to be at your meeting, but he specified only you and Joanna. We will wait in the car in the parking lot. Perhaps you can help me with a story later, let me interview you? An undisclosed police source?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Banks. ‘If there is a story.’

Merike pulled into a car park off the road, by the shore. ‘It’s up there.’ She pointed ahead to a path by the beach. ‘It’s called Paat. That means boat. It looks like an upturned boat. Good luck.’

Banks and Joanna walked towards the path. It was another fine day, blue sky striped with milky white cloud, and the sea lapping at the breakwaters. The beach was mostly pebble, with a few sods of grass here and there. Over the other side, to the left, they could see the Tallinn shoreline, and straight ahead was a large island.

The path led them into the restaurant’s outside area, where a few sheltered picnic-style benches were set out against the low sea wall. The restaurant itself was nearby, and it did resemble an upturned boat. Banks, however, found his eyes more drawn to the outside area, where an old man in a windcheater sat alone at one of the picnic tables, a mug of tea or coffee steaming in front of him, while two neckless bruisers stood, hands clasped in front of their privates, scanning the grounds. Probably ex-KGB agents, Banks guessed.

When Banks and Joanna approached the table, the bruisers stepped forward and patted them down. They were gentle and discreet enough with Joanna, Banks noticed, but she clearly didn’t like it, and he didn’t blame her. They were a little rougher with him, but not enough to hurt. When they were satisfied neither had a weapon or a wire, they stood aside, and Banks and Joanna sat opposite Viktor Rebane.

He was a hunched figure, and his chin was tucked into his throat in such a way that he looked permanently on the verge of a particularly noxious burp. His bald head was liver-spotted, as were his lizard-like hands. Frown lines had eaten deep into his brow. He must have been about the same age as Rätsepp, Banks guessed, if they grew up together, but he seemed a good ten years older. The ravages of cancer, no doubt. Or its treatment.

‘First, let me not forget my hospitality,’ Viktor Rebane said. ‘May I offer you both a drink?’

‘Why not?’ said Banks. ‘I’ll have beer, please. A. Le Coq if they have it.’

‘Excellent choice. And the lady?’

‘Just a cappuccino, please,’ said Joanna, clearly still smarting from her patting down.

Rebane snapped his fingers and the closest no-neck went off to the bar. As if sensing Joanna’s mood, Rebane said, his yellowish eyes twinkling, ‘I do apologise about the body search, my dear, but man in my position cannot be too careful. Beautiful woman is often most dangerous weapon.’

‘Is that an old Estonian proverb?’ said Joanna.

Rebane smiled. ‘No. Is old Viktor Rebane proverb. The reason I agree to see you now, so soon,’ Rebane continued, ‘is I have appointment at hospital this afternoon. I am very tired and sick after chemotherapy, for many days. I am sure you understand.’

‘Of course,’ said Banks. ‘And we’re very grateful you took the trouble to talk to us. Perhaps you can help us answer a number of questions?’

‘Perhaps. First thing I tell you is I do not know where my son is, so please do not ask. Joosep and I have not spoken for many years now. He is always difficult child. Wild, unpredictable. Especially after his mother die. He is only ten at the time. He keep very bad company. Perhaps I spoil him. It is fashionable to blame parents, is it not? Do you have a son, Hr Banks?’

‘I do,’ said Banks. ‘He’s a musician.’

‘Is good. In Estonia we love music. My son is drug-dealer, people-trafficker and gangster. But he is still my son. Do you understand that?’

‘I think so,’ said Banks.

‘How far you go to protect your son?’

Banks thought for a moment. ‘Probably a long way,’ he answered. ‘But I might draw the line if he raped and killed women.’

An expression of pain passed across Rebane’s face, and immediately Banks felt guilty for being so brutally cruel; it had been unnecessary. No-neck came back with the drinks.

‘Joosep tell me the girl die of a drug overdose,’ Rebane whispered.

‘What girl?’

‘The one you are interested in. I am a father. I have daughter, too, with my third wife. She is twenty-one. I am proud of her, and I love her. That is perhaps the real reason I am talking to you. I feel something for the parents of this girl.’

‘It’s taken you a bloody long time.’

Rebane gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘It is easier to forget when nothing reminds you. There are always many other things to think about. I regret most of all the things I did not do, not the things I did. But now...’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Too much has happened. Old wounds have reopened. I am a businessman, Hr Banks. I am not interested in your moral judgements. I have perhaps done many wrong things for my business interests. I have made many enemies. Do you understand?’

‘I think so.’

‘Six years ago Joosep is my beloved son. Now, he is a stranger to me.’

‘Will you tell me what happened six years ago?’

Viktor remained silent for a few moments. Seagulls squealed over a shoal of fish close to shore. ‘Joosep come to see me. He is very upset. Most agitated. When I ask him what is wrong, he tell me a girl die of a drug overdose at his party. An English girl. He tell me he is sitting in nightclub. You know which club?’

‘I know.’

‘He is sitting in nightclub with friends. My nightclub. They are ready to leave, and this beautiful girl comes in. A vision. She has lost her friends. Joosep, he tells me he ask her if she want to go to party, and after he will drive her to her hotel. She says yes, and they go in his car. But at party, girl drinks more and takes drugs, and in morning they find her dead. She has... how do you say...’ He pointed to his throat, what little there was of it to see, ‘Choke.’

‘Asphyxiated,’ said Banks. ‘Choked will do. Choked on her own vomit?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what happened?’

‘He is in trouble, and he wants me to help him. Then, on Wednesday morning, Toomas, my old friend, telephones to tell me that Joosep’s name, my name, and the nightclub also, have come up in the investigation, and I ask my friend Toomas to stop it, if he can, to make sure it goes no further. It is not too late. Toomas will do that for me. He will help Joosep. And for money, of course. He know I will be very grateful.’

‘Of course,’ said Banks. ‘It’s comforting to know that corruption’s no different here than anywhere else.’

‘Perhaps. I am not so certain. Or you are being ironic, yes? You English.’

‘Maybe just a little bit. So Toomas Rätsepp shut down the investigation?’

‘He close off that direction. Yes. Is easy because not many people know. Barman from St Patrick pub, of course. But he is easy. Threat of beating and ticket back to Australia. And junior investigator who report his findings to Toomas. Also easy if he want to stay in job, have promotion. Beating, too. English policeman is problem.’

‘Bill Quinn,’ said Banks.

‘Yes. We cannot warn him to stop or threaten him. Is madness to assassinate foreign cop on Estonian soil. We need different solution.’

‘And you thought of one.’

‘I have trusted colleague pick out pretty girl from club and give her money. You know the rest. Accidental meeting arranged in the hotel bar. Drinks. A sleeping powder. Dinner. Photographs. Easy.’

Joanna charged in now, as Banks had expected she would. This was the part of the story that interested her the most. ‘So you’re saying that you arranged with the girl to have Bill Quinn seduced, drugged and photographed in a compromising position, then you blackmailed him?’

Rebane nodded, which made him look even more as if he were about to burp. ‘It is only way to save my son. I help him out of many difficulties. Back then I always had hope he would change, that he would stop being wild and foolish. But he has gone other direction. I can help him no more. He is lost to me. But you will never find him. Despite everything, he is still my son, and I will not have him locked in prison or mental hospital.’

‘And when Bill Quinn’s wife died, your blackmail didn’t work any more.’

‘No,’ said Rebane. ‘By then Joosep know what I have done, and he has taken photos some years before. He now has business, criminal business, in United Kingdom, and he think it useful to have policeman... how you say?’

‘In his pocket?’ Banks suggested.

Rebane didn’t quite seem to understand but grunted his agreement anyway.

Banks said, ‘But Bill Quinn was going to tell all after his wife died, wasn’t he, so you had to find another way of dealing with him. You sent Robert Tamm.’

Rebane seemed puzzled. ‘Robert Tamm? He does not work for me. He work...’

‘For Joosep?’

‘I do not kill Detective Quinn, or order kill. I have nothing to do with murder.’

‘Of course not. But your son does, doesn’t he? He has already used the blackmail against Quinn over the years to smooth his illegal operations in the UK, and suddenly they’re threatened. He finds out that Bill Quinn and an Estonian journalist called Mihkel Lepikson are planning to tell the whole sorry story. So Joosep has them both killed. You might not do it yourself, but you’re quite happy to leave him free to murder and maim and rape and ruin as many lives as he wants, aren’t you?’ said Banks.

Rebane banged his skinny fist on the table. ‘He is my son! What would you have me do? I tell you I am not interested in your cheap morality. Take what you are given and be grateful. Like scraps for the dogs. Georg!’ One of the no-necks came over. ‘Georg. Help me. We will leave now. I am tired.’ Viktor Rebane struggled to his feet with Georg’s help.

Banks and Joanna remained seated. ‘I have one more question,’ said Banks.

Rebane stared down at him, still shaking with fury. ‘You have great deal of nerve, my friend,’ he said through gritted teeth.

‘Where is Rachel Hewitt?’

During the three hours it took to drive to Võrumaa, Banks sat in the back with Joanna and dozed or gazed out on the scenery, going over the whole case in his mind, especially the end of the meeting at Paat where Viktor Rebane had glared at him for so long he was certain the old man was not going to tell him anything. But Rebane finally whispered a location, then hobbled off with Georg’s help.

Erik and Merike sat up front navigating and chatting quietly in Estonian. The radio played quiet jazz.

Perhaps, Banks thought, he had been too hard on Viktor Rebane, but he didn’t like gangsters who pretended to be respectable. Maybe Viktor was a respectable businessman who had done a lot for his country, but Banks was willing to believe he had done more than a few things that needed sweeping under the carpet, too, and that Toomas Rätsepp had helped him more than once. You don’t keep company like the no-necks Viktor was with for no reason. But he was untouchable, and that didn’t really matter too much; he was clearly dying. Joosep Rebane was out of sight, perhaps hiding in St Petersburg with his Russian gangster friends, Banks guessed. There would be plenty of police forces watching out for him across Europe, but it was more of a waiting game than a chase or a hunt.

Banks had a suspicion that Joosep would most likely meet a sticky end at the hands of his criminal colleagues once the story came out. Gangsters could be a very moral lot. Murder and mayhem were fine in the service of business. Torture, arson and maiming all had their place in the pursuit of profit, but anything to do with young girls or children was frowned upon. At best, Joosep’s colleagues would view him as careless, at worst, as a possible rapist and murderer of an innocent young woman. Either way he would become a liability, if he wasn’t one already. The odds were also that Joosep had pissed off enough people before now, and that this would be the last straw.

The countryside rolled by outside the car window, forest and farmland, along with the occasional village and small town. The woods were thick with evergreens, Banks noticed, which must make it beautiful in winter, especially under a blanket of snow. Everyone was quiet, perhaps contemplating the hours ahead, or thinking about the past. He recalled his telephone conversation earlier with a slightly hung over Annie. She seemed pleased with the way things had wrapped up in Eastvale. He hadn’t known then, of course, that he would be close to the end of his own investigation in Tallinn.

Viktor Rebane had told Banks that his son had not taken Rachel Hewitt to a party in Tallinn, but to a lake house, which happened to be in an area of small wooded lakes called Võrumaa, in the far south of the country, about a three-hour drive from the nightclub. Joosep often held late night parties there, parties that sometimes went on for two or three days. Cocaine and amphetamines kept people awake, and barbiturates put them to sleep. The lake house belonged entirely to Joosep, Viktor had stressed. Nothing was in his name, and he had never been there. No doubt he had his own secret playgrounds.

Banks couldn’t help but wonder whether Rachel had quickly sobered up when she found herself being driven out of the city, far away from everything she knew, unless Joosep had somehow drugged her the way Larisa had drugged Bill Quinn. Rohypnol, or some such thing. Or had she agreed to go? Was it adventure she was seeking? Did she really think it would be fun? By all accounts, Joosep Rebane was a rich, handsome and charming young man, with rock-star charisma and a fancy silver Mercedes. Rachel wasn’t a party girl, according to everyone who knew her; she wasn’t promiscuous, but she was spontaneous, and she was certainly attracted by wealth and its trappings. Did she believe that Joosep Rebane was the Prince Charming she had been looking for?

Immediately after Viktor and the no-necks had left Paat, Banks had phoned Ursula Mardna, who had pinpointed the location of the lake house for them and said she would arrange for a local CSI team to get over there and start work immediately. If Banks wished, he could set off from Viimsi and meet up with her at the scene.

Merike had a little trouble finding the particular lake once they had left the main highway, and they spent some time driving along unpaved roads through thick forest, stopping to read signs, before they arrived at the end of a long, winding entrance road that led to the simple wooden lake house, with a lawn stretching down to the water’s edge. Banks couldn’t see any other cottages around, though there were a few outbuildings that clearly belonged to the main house. It seemed the ideal, isolated place for Joosep Rebane’s antics.

The path to the house and lake was taped off, and a surly uniformed officer stood on guard. Erik tried to talk to him but got nowhere. Fortunately, Ursula Mardna arrived within half an hour of them and sorted everything out. Erik and Merike were not allowed past the tape, though, only the police, and that infuriated Erik, as he had come so far. He stayed in the car for a while, sulking and smoking with Merike, then they walked as close as they could get. No doubt, Banks thought, he would keep his eyes and ears open for a story, and his mobile phone would have a decent camera. Banks had no problem with the story being told, and he doubted very much that Ursula Mardna would. She was assuming control now, directing the CSIs. If her initial failure in the Rachel case hadn’t done her career much harm, finally solving it after all these years could only do it good.

The CSIs were busy inside the house, and outside two of them were digging up areas of the lawn they had decided offered the most potential for buried bodies. Viktor had said Joosep told him he had buried Rachel’s body in the garden, but not exactly where. Banks wondered why he hadn’t just dumped her in the lake, but dead bodies in the water all float eventually, and perhaps he had worried that there was more chance of someone seeing her, even in such an isolated place as this. Others must live not so far away, and surely ramblers, cyclists or boaters came by occasionally.

Banks and Joanna stood on the deck with Ursula Mardna, watching over the scene. A small motorboat lay moored to the dock at the end of the garden, alongside a rowboat. The opposite shore was about a quarter of a mile away, and as far as Banks could see, there were no lake houses or dwellings of any kind over there. It seemed as if Joosep and his friends had the lake to themselves. Banks could smell the fresh pine and hear the birds singing up in the trees.

There were no signs of recent inhabitation, the Crime Scene Manager told Ursula Mardna; in fact, he said, there were no indications of anyone having being there at all recently. Other than the occasional discussions between CSIs, it was perfectly quiet, much like Banks’s own cottage by the beck outside Gratly. The lake house itself was large enough for four bedrooms upstairs and a poolroom in the basement, and the outbuildings were fitted with bunks for extra guests.

The main floor consisted of one large open room incorporating living area, dining table and kitchen. It smelled musty and stale, as if it had been locked up for a long time, and dust motes danced in the rays of sunlight as Banks walked the uncarpeted floor. A few rugs had been thrown here or there, but mostly it was bare boards. There was a wood-burning stove in the living area, which must have been nice and cosy on a winter’s night. There were a few battered armchairs, a decent stereo set-up, along with a pile of punk and heavy metal CDs, a collection of hash-pipes, a large flat-screen TV with DVD player and a pile of martial arts movies and Korean bootleg porn. The walls were covered with stylised prints from the Kama Sutra mixed in with cubist and abstract expressionist works.

Banks was happy to go outside again, and when he did, one of the CSIs digging in the garden called out. Banks and Joanna hurried over with Ursula Mardna to join him, as did several of his colleagues, standing around the edge of a three-foot deep pit. Banks could see Erik straining his neck behind the tape, no doubt snapping away with his smartphone camera.

The CSI, a forensic archaeologist, Ursula Mardna explained, carefully brushed away soil from an empty eye socket. The bones had darkened from years underground, where various compounds had leached into the soil. The CSI worked carefully with his brush, and Banks and Joanna watched as the skull slowly came into view. It was going to take a long time, he explained, so there was no point their standing over him. He would call them when he was finished, then would begin the difficult and painstaking process of getting the body from the earth to the mortuary. Only the photographer remained as the archaeologist continued his delicate work.

Banks, Joanna and Ursula Mardna paced the deck as they waited. Someone had a flask of hot coffee, and Banks was grateful for the loan of a plastic cup to drink from, even though it was a warm day, and he would have preferred a cold beer. It was at times like this that Banks also wished he still smoked. When Ursula Mardna brought out a packet of cigarettes and a small tin to contain the ashes, so she wouldn’t contaminate the scene, he was tempted to ask her for one, but he controlled the urge.

Everyone seemed vaguely interested in the arrival of the English detectives, especially in Joanna Passero, casting them curious glances every now and then, but nobody paid undue attention to them. Fewer people seemed to speak English here than Banks had encountered in Tallinn. It was early evening, and though it was far from dark, the shadows were lengthening over the water, and the light through the trees was taking on that muted, filtered evening quality.

Eventually, the archaeologist and his assistants called the three of them over. The skeleton Banks looked down on could have been male or female as far as he was concerned, though the pathologist, who also now arrived at the graveside, quickly assured them it was female.

When Banks and Joanna stood at the edge of the shallow grave with Ursula Mardna, Banks knew he had found what he had come for, though he felt no sense of triumph, just a kind of sad relief. It was impossible to see the yellow colour, of course, but fragments of the dress still clung to the darkened bones, as did the white open-toed high-heeled shoes, though they were no longer white, and pieces had disintegrated. There were also the remains of a small handbag, a metal clasp and decayed leather strap. Everything looked as if it might have been tossed on top of the body, and Banks wondered if Rachel had been naked when she was buried.

After all the photographs had been taken, and soil and vegetation samples carefully removed and packaged, one of the CSIs very carefully retrieved the handbag. The fabric had rotted, but some of the contents were still intact: a tube of lipstick, a tattered, mostly rotted leather purse, a plastic hairbrush, keys, some loose coins, mostly Estonian kroon, along with some British pounds, and a Meriton Hotel ballpoint pen. If there had been anything else, it had decomposed over the years, like the flesh.

The pathologist knelt by the body and borrowed the CSI’s brush to clear more soil from the neck area. After much umming and ahing, in addition to the use of magnifying glass and a delicate physical examination with gloved fingers, he stood up. Banks heard his knees crack. The man spoke with Ursula Mardna in Estonian. She turned to Banks and said, ‘He cannot say for certain, but he thinks she was strangled. There are many small bones broken in the throat.’

‘However she died,’ Banks said, ‘somebody buried her. There’ll be an investigation, I assume?’

Ursula Mardna nodded. ‘Of course.’

Banks asked whether he could examine the purse, and after a quick glance at Ursula Mardna, who nodded briefly, the CSI handed it to him, after first having him put on a pair of protective gloves. It wasn’t because of fingerprints, Banks knew — none would survive after so long — but simply crime scene protocol.

With Joanna Passero by his side, Banks opened the purse carefully. The one thing you could usually depend on surviving most of the elements except fire was plastic, and sure enough, there it was. Or there they were. Tesco, credit and debit cards, Co-op, Boots, Waterstone’s, and half a dozen others. All in the name of Rachel Hewitt.

He had found her.

The last thing Banks took out of the purse, stuck in the slot behind her credit card, was a small laminated card inscribed with an image of a man in tails and a top hat helping a voluptuous woman into a coach. Or was he pushing her?

Chapter 14

Late June sunshine flooded the market square as Banks looked down from his open office window on the shining cobbles, smelling coffee and freshly baked bread, listening to the ghostly harmonies of Erkki-Sven Tüür’s Awakening from the iPod dock. The gold hands against the blue face of the church clock stood at a quarter past five. A group of walkers dribbled into the square in ones and twos, gathering at the market cross after three or four hours out in the dale, all kitted out with the latest boots, red and orange anoraks, rucksacks and walking sticks, trouser legs tucked into their socks. One of them was clearly the leader, and he carried an Ordnance Survey map in a clear plastic cover around his neck. Already the little wooden platform and tables with umbrellas had been set up on the cobbles outside the Queen’s Arms, reminding Banks of his evenings in Tallinn, eating out in the Old Town with Joanna Passero.

It seemed like years since then, but it was only a month and a half. Annie was back at full throttle, as if she had never been away, especially as she had solved Banks’s case while he had been off tilting at windmills. She also told Banks with great glee that she had got a letter in very basic English from Krystyna, who was now living in Krakow and working in a traditional Polish restaurant, studying English in her spare time.

Joanna Passero was still at County HQ, about to leave Professional Standards for Criminal Intelligence. Banks thought often about their trip to Tallinn, the city, the people they had met, the discovery by the lake in Võrumaa. They never had got to see the Danse Macabre. Another time, perhaps.

As Banks had expected, Joanna’s report on Bill Quinn leaked to the press, and there had been a minor furore about policemen and prostitutes. But the brouhaha hadn’t lasted long; celebrity phone-hacking had once again taken over most of the media’s attention.

Erik Aarma’s story, which appeared in late May over two weekly issues of the Eesti Telegraaf, did a great deal to restore Bill Quinn’s reputation. Erik opened with the murders of Quinn and Mihkel Lepikson, then worked his way through the migrant labour scam, Corrigan’s shooting, and all the way back to the disappearance of Rachel Hewitt, making connections with Joosep and Viktor Rebane wherever he could legally do so. Soon the article appeared in translation, sometimes in digest form, in newspapers all over Europe. After all, Rachel’s disappearance had been a major story six years ago, and had been kept very much in the public eye since then by her parents’ efforts. Though many of the players had to remain anonymous, there could be few readers — in Tallinn, at any rate — who could remain in any doubt to whom Erik was referring when he wrote of a rich and wild young man and his wealthy businessman father.

Viktor Rebane died of lung cancer in Tallinn in the first week of June, just after the article appeared. His son did not appear at his funeral. The following week, a body was pulled out of the Neva river outside St Petersburg with two bullets in the head, and there was little doubt in anyone’s mind that it belonged to Joosep Rebane, a conclusion soon borne out by DNA analysis. His criminal masters had clearly taken the moral high ground when they learned that he had been responsible for the death of an innocent young woman. They had no doubt already known he was something of a liability, Banks thought, and his days had probably been numbered anyway.

Ursula Mardna came out of the whole affair triumphant, her earlier lack of vigilance forgotten, and Toomas Rätsepp was prosecuted for a number of serious offences under Estonian corruption and bribery laws.

Banks returned to his desk and picked up the three sheets of paper he had received in the post that morning, along with a brief covering note from Erik explaining that he had received the letter in response to his article, and Merike had translated it from the Russian. The quiet music, with its drifting harmonies, long notes and high strings, seemed both peaceful and tense at once. Banks sat down, sipped some lukewarm tea and read:

Banks folded the sheets, put them back in the envelope and massaged his temples. ‘The Wanderer’s Evening Song’ was playing now, and Banks let the strange choral harmonies flow over him for a few moments. As he did so, his mind went back to Rachel’s funeral in late May, the crowded crematorium, hordes of media outside with their hand-held cameras and boom microphones, oblivious to everyone’s pain and loss. As the coffin slipped away, Coldplay’s ‘Fix You’ had played over the music system. It had been Rachel’s favourite song around the time of the hen weekend, her best friend Pauline said.

Banks went with Annie to the funeral tea afterwards at the Hewitts’ house, where they sipped Harvey’s Bristol Cream and ate little triangular sandwiches with the crusts cut off. The media were consigned to the pavement beyond the garden gate, though occasionally an adventurous reporter managed to sneak closer and press his nose up against the window behind the lace curtains.

Banks managed to get Maureen Hewitt alone for a few moments, though her daughter Heather stuck close to her. The young girl made a ghostly presence, pale-skinned, dressed wholly in black, and Banks didn’t recollect her ever saying a word. Her expression remained unchanging, too, a sort of blank grief mixed with anxiety, as if she were always on the verge of tears, or of jumping up and running away.

Maureen Hewitt thanked Banks for getting to the bottom of the mystery of her daughter’s disappearance and assured him that, while she and her husband were devastated that they had not been right about Rachel still being alive, all their lives were much better for the sense of closure that knowing the truth brought. Banks assured Maureen, as best he could, that her daughter’s death had been quick and painless, that she had died of a drug overdose on the very night she had disappeared, probably without regaining consciousness. Maureen refused to accept that her daughter would take drugs willingly, and Banks told her that they were probably administered without her knowledge, though he had no real evidence of this at the time. It helped Maureen a little. She said that she and her husband would continue with the foundation and its work for the sake of all the other missing children out there.

Pauline, the would-be bride at the hen weekend, was the only one of Rachel’s old friends to turn up. She had clearly had too much to drink, even before she arrived. Her voice soon became too loud, and when she smashed a glass, Mr Hewitt had a quiet word with her. She left in tears. Banks and Annie made their excuses and left shortly afterwards.

Banks looked at the envelope one more time, then he got up, put it in his filing cabinet and walked over to the window again. Juliya’s letter and the questions it begged would still haunt him tomorrow, and the day after that. For the moment, though, it was a beautiful late afternoon, the best of the year so far. The tables were fast filling up outside the Queen’s Arms, reminding him of the Old Town in Tallinn, and he wanted nothing more than to sit by himself with a cold beer in the cobbled market square and watch the world go by.