Watching the Dark

Chapter 6

On Tuesday morning, Banks was in his office early again, and this time the first to knock on his door was an excited Gerry Masterson brandishing a sheaf of papers, her wavy red hair cascading over her shoulders in all its pre-Raphaelite glory.

‘It’s not that there haven’t been a few crimes involving the use of crossbows,’ she began before even sitting down, ‘but nearly all of them are domestic, or they involve some nutter going on a spree and either getting caught or killed.’

‘And the ones that aren’t?’

‘That’s what’s interesting. I looked for a pattern.’

‘And did you find one?’

‘I found three unsolved murders overseas involving the use of a crossbow — same make of bolt used as in the Quinn killing, too, by the way — all in one way or another connected with the world of people-trafficking and illegal immigration.’

‘Now that’s interesting,’ said Banks, taking another sip of coffee. Masterson had brought her own mug with her.

‘I thought so. There was one in Vilnius, that’s in Lithuania, one in Amsterdam, and one in Marseilles.’

‘How hard is it to get a crossbow across European borders?’

‘Not very,’ said Masterson. ‘You probably wouldn’t want to carry one on a plane, but you could take it apart and put it in with your checked luggage. Or why not just buy a new one in each country, if you’re paranoid about getting searched? It’s not as if you need a permit or anything. However you look at it, it’s a lot less trouble than a gun.’

‘True enough,’ said Banks. ‘The victims?’

‘Not known to us, sir, but with definite Interpol profiles. In all cases the conclusion was that the victims were either skimming the profits or about to blow the whistle on a lucrative people-trafficking route, usually connected with Eastern Europe.’

‘I don’t suppose any suspects’ names cropped up, did they?’

‘Afraid not, sir.’

‘Pity. You said overseas. What about in this country?’

‘I was just getting to that, sir. We’ve had two over the past three years: a gangmaster in South Shields, and a hoodie on a housing estate in Stockton-on-Tees. Both unsolved. The gangmaster was connected with illegals, and local intelligence suggests that the hoodie was attempting to break into the loan-sharking business on his own.’

‘Interesting,’ said Banks. ‘So we’ve got some sort of enforcer for the people-trafficking and loan-sharking business?’

‘It seems that way, sir.’

‘Any links to Corrigan?’

‘No, sir.’

‘OK. Do we have any idea who this bowman works for?’

‘No, sir. I suppose it could be just one person, some sort of crime kingpin who employs him when he’s needed. Or he might be for hire. A freelance.’

‘Hmm. Anything more on the car?’

‘I checked with the local rental agencies. There was a Ford Focus with similar cross-hatching on the front left tyre, the same shade of green paint as the scraping we found, rented from Hertz in Leeds last Wednesday and returned on Friday.’

‘Details?’

‘Arnold Briggs, address in South London. UK driving licence. But it’s all fake, sir. I checked. There’s no such address.’

‘I suppose if these people can forge passports and work visas, they can forge driving licences, too. So whoever Arnold Briggs is, he’s long gone?’

‘Afraid so, sir.’ Her expression brightened. ‘But the car hasn’t been rented out again. It’s been cleaned, of course, but forensics might still find something, mightn’t they?’

‘Indeed they might,’ said Banks. ‘It’s worth a try, at any rate. Get on to them and—’

‘I’ve already talked to DS Nowak, sir.’ DC Masterson flushed slightly as she spoke Nowak’s name. ‘I took the liberty. I hope you don’t mind. He says he’s on it. This does get us forward a little bit, doesn’t it?’

Banks admired her enthusiasm, and he didn’t want to dampen it. ‘Yes, it certainly does,’ he said. ‘That’s good work, Gerry. You showed initiative. Let’s go through what we know, or suspect, point by point.’ He counted off on his fingers. ‘One: the same car was at both crime scenes. The methods of killing were different, so maybe there are two killers. Two: Quinn and the victim at the farm had spoken twice on the telephone shortly before their murders. Three: we think the victim at the farm was also a victim of some sort of migrant labour scam. Four: Quinn had in his possession a number of photographs of himself in a compromising position with a young woman, most likely taken six years ago in Tallinn. Five: Quinn was briefly involved in investigating the disappearance of Rachel Hewitt, also in Tallinn, at that time. Six: Warren Corrigan, on the surface a petty loan shark, is connected with Roderick Flinders, owner of Rod’s Staff Ltd, a front for migrant and illegal labour scams. Seven: Bill Quinn was involved in the investigation of said Corrigan. Have I missed anything? I’m running out of fingers. Yes. Eight: There were rumours of a bent copper, possibly Quinn, and possibly through blackmail. It’s all giving me a headache.’

‘Arnold Briggs was the fake name of the person who rented the car,’ said Masterson. ‘It’s not that easy to kill. I think it would be a bit unbelievable, not to mention too much of a coincidence, if there were two different killers, sir.’

‘Good point. Now, what could Bill Quinn possibly have in common with the Garskill Farm victim, a migrant worker?’

‘Unless he wasn’t a migrant worker, sir,’ said Masterson. ‘You said yourself he didn’t have the hands of a manual labourer. What if he was an informant, or even an undercover police officer?’

‘Possible,’ said Banks. ‘But I’m certain Ken Blackstone or Nick Gwillam would have brought it up, if he was Quinn’s informant. But it’s an interesting thought. Perhaps our man was at the farm under false pretences. Either that or he got all the soft jobs.’

‘Maybe West Yorkshire didn’t know, sir? Not if he was an undercover officer from Poland or Estonia or somewhere.’

‘Maybe you’re right, at that,’ Banks agreed. ‘One of the numbers called from the telephone box in Ingleby was an Estonian mobile. Again, though, it’s bloody untraceable. Annie’s tried ringing it, but there’s no answer.’

‘Just the sort of phone an undercover officer might have, or his controller,’ said DC Masterson. ‘A throw-away?’

As Banks thought over what Masterson had just told him, there came another knock at his door. When Annie and Joanna Passero walked in, the office started to feel crowded.

‘What is it?’ Banks asked.

‘I just got a call from a woman who says she knows the Garskill Farm victim,’ said Annie. ‘She recognised his photo in the paper this morning.’

‘Why didn’t she call before?’ Banks said. ‘It’s been all over the papers and TV for the past two days.’

‘Says she’s been away on some sort of retreat.’

‘Religious?’

‘Dunno.’

‘You think she’s genuine?’

Annie rolled her eyes. ‘We’ve had a few cranks. I think I can tell the difference. Yes, I think she’s genuine.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Anyway,’ Annie went on, ‘she’s in Manchester, but she says she’s willing to drive over now and identify the body, tell us all she knows. She was upset, naturally, and I offered to arrange a car for her, but she said she could manage it by herself.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Merike. Merike Noormets. And according to her, the victim’s name was Mihkel Lepikson. She said he was her boyfriend.’

‘Dutch? German? Scandinavian?’

Annie grinned. ‘Wrong, sir. Estonian. Both of them.’

‘My, my,’ said Banks, rubbing his hands together. ‘This is starting to get interesting, isn’t it?’

Before Merike Noormets arrived, Banks and Annie agreed that they would interview her together, preferably in a more congenial environment outside the police station, after she had identified Mihkel Lepikson’s body down at the mortuary. But they hadn’t reckoned with Joanna Passero, who claimed that she couldn’t be excluded from this interview because it impacted directly on the Quinn case. She actually said ‘impacted’. Banks cringed, but there was nothing he could do except let her come along under sufferance. She would only go crying to Superintendent Gervaise if he didn’t. Having three people present, four including Merike Noormets herself, would be a bit of an overload, but Banks trusted that Annie knew when to keep quiet and take notes, and he stressed to Joanna that she was present only to observe. He would do most of the talking. She didn’t like it, clearly didn’t like any of it, but she grudgingly agreed. Annie seemed rather more sympathetic to Joanna’s predicament than Banks, but then she had worked for Professional Standards herself.

Merike Noormets was an attractive woman in her early thirties, with hennaed hair and a couple of minor piercings, wearing jeans, and a light yellow cotton jacket over an embroidered Indian-style top of some kind. She also carried a stitched leather shoulder bag. She looked a bit hippy-ish to Banks. She had clearly been crying when Annie and Joanna brought her up from the basement of Eastvale General Infirmary.

Banks had waited for them outside in his car, feeling that he had no need to see the man’s body again. The rain that had threatened yesterday afternoon had started during the night and was still falling. With it, a cold front had moved in, and the temperature had dropped considerably.

The identification was positive, Annie told him, and now they could get in touch with the parents back home in Tallinn and arrange for them to come over. As soon as the three women had piled into the Porsche, Banks headed out of town. It was a Tuesday lunchtime in late April, so a lot of country pubs and restaurants would probably be closed, but he knew he could depend on the Blue Lion in East Witton.

It was very much a silent journey from the Eastvale mortuary. Banks concentrated on his driving and listened to the lovely strains of ‘The Lark Ascending’ and ‘Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis’. He thought the music might help sooth Merike Noormets and relax her enough to make her open up.

All the parking spots in front of the pub were taken, so Banks parked opposite the long village green, and they walked back over the road to the rambling old building. Merike smoked a cigarette on the way and got through about a third of it before they went inside and found a table in the bar. The menu was chalked on a blackboard over the enormous fireplace. Rain dotted the windows. A few logs burned in the hearth and threw out more than enough heat to compensate for the weather outside. The starters were written on another blackboard over the bar, and to read all that was on offer would have taken all day. Merike said she would like a glass of white wine, and Banks was unable to resist a pint of Black Sheep, but the other two stuck to diet bitter lemon. Annie because of her medication, Banks supposed, and Joanna Passero just to show him up. He bet she was making a note, too: ‘DCI Banks drinking on duty, during interview of important witness.’ Well, screw her. Banks knew how to interview an important witness, and it wasn’t in a dingy interview room smelling of stale sweat and fear with a styrofoam cup of canteen coffee in front of you. Especially a witness who had just come from identifying her boyfriend’s body.

Merike pushed her hair out of her eyes, pale green flecked with amber, Banks noticed. For some reason he thought of the Jimi Hendrix song ‘Gypsy Eyes’, though she was hardly a Gypsy, and they were hardly gypsy eyes. There had to be some connection somewhere in his mind, but, as so often these days, he couldn’t grasp it. Maybe there was a hint of wildness about her that chimed with the music, he thought; perhaps she had a gypsy soul, whatever that was.

When the landlord came around to take their orders, Merike said she wasn’t hungry. The other three ordered. Banks went for his favourite, smoked haddock with a poached egg, leeks, mushrooms and Gruyère cheese.

‘I suppose you want me to tell you everything I know?’ said Merike, with a hint of irony. Her husky voice was only slightly accented. If she was in her early thirties, Banks calculated, she would have been in her teens when Estonia won its independence from the Soviet Bloc. Old enough to remember life under the old regime. He found himself wondering what her childhood had been like.

‘Not everything,’ he said. ‘Just what you can. First, I’d like to thank you for coming forward and getting in touch.’

Merike seemed surprised. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Not everyone does. That’s all. Sometimes people just don’t want to get involved.’

Merike shrugged. ‘It was such a shock, seeing Mihkel’s photograph in the newspaper like that.’

‘What was your relationship with him?’

‘I suppose he was my boyfriend. My partner. My lover. I don’t know. With Mihkel it was always difficult.’

‘Why?’

‘He is the kind of person who comes and goes in your life. Sometimes he disappears for weeks, or months. At first, it used to drive me crazy, because he would tell me nothing, but now he tells — he told me — a little more, and we talk on the telephone.’

‘When did you last talk?’

‘On Tuesday. Tuesday evening, at about nine o’clock.’

Banks searched for a sheet of paper in his brief case and showed it to Merike, pointing to a number. ‘Is this yours?’

‘Yes, it’s my mobile number. It’s a pay-as-you-go I use when I’m over here. Cheap phone, occasional top-ups.’

‘Did you and Mihkel live together?’

‘No. I travel also, for my job, and we are never in the same place together for long enough. It would be too complicated.’

‘How long have you been seeing each other?’

‘Three years now.’

‘What are you doing in Manchester?’

‘I work as a translator. I’m on a two-week course at the university there. Almost finished.’ She glanced at Annie. ‘I just returned from a weekend retreat in the Lakes, and I haven’t seen any newspapers or television from Friday until this morning. Part of the course. It was beautiful. Much more grand than our Estonian lakes. But it rained a lot.’

‘It always does in the Lake District,’ said Banks. ‘Your English is excellent, by the way.’

‘Thank you. I lived in London for many years, in my twenties.’

‘Do you speak any other languages?’

‘German,’ Merike said, ‘Finnish, Russian, French and a little Spanish. I’m learning Italian. When you grow up in a small country like Estonia, you soon realise that nobody from anywhere else is going to understand you unless you speak their language. Who learns Estonian except Estonians?’

Who, indeed? Banks thought. He hadn’t even known Estonia had a language of its own. He had assumed they spoke Russian there, or perhaps some version of Polish. But languages were not Banks’s strong point. ‘Was Mihkel a translator, too?’

‘Mihkel? Oh, no. His English was very good, but he was no linguist. It seems so strange to be talking about him in the past tense. I must get used to it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Banks.

‘Mihkel knew the risks.’

‘What risks? What was he doing at Garskill Farm?’

‘Is that where he was when it happened? I don’t know it. I had no idea where he was, except that he was somewhere in England. It seemed so strange to be in the same country and not be able to meet. I couldn’t even telephone him. I had to wait for him to ring me.’

‘Mihkel phoned you from a public telephone box in Ingleby,’ said Banks. ‘It’s the nearest village to where he was found. It was about two miles away from where he was staying.’

Merike smiled sadly. ‘Mihkel walked four miles just to talk to me? I would never have thought it of him.’

Annie gave Banks a sharp sideways glance. He knew that she was hoping he wouldn’t spoil Merike’s illusion by telling her that she wasn’t the only reason Mihkel had walked all that way to the telephone. ‘Do you know what he was doing there?’ he asked.

‘He was on an assignment. Mihkel was a journalist. He specialised in investigative reporting. He was freelance, but he worked mostly for a weekly newspaper called Eesti Telegraaf. They specialise in the sort of articles he liked to write.’

‘What were they?’

‘In depth, usually about crime. He also contributed sometimes to a weekly column called “Pimeduse varjus”. In English it means “in the shadow of darkness”. Very sinister. The idea is looking into the darkness. Watching. It’s also about crime.’

‘Watching the dark,’ said Banks.

Merike flashed him a brief smile. ‘Ah, so you like Richard Thompson?’

‘Yes, I do. Very much.’

‘I like that,’ she said. ‘A policeman who admires Richard Thompson.’

‘His father was a Scotland Yard detective,’ Banks said. ‘And a lot of his songs are about murders.’

‘I didn’t know that. About his father, I mean.’

‘My own son’s a musician,’ Banks went on, unable to stop himself, now he felt he was bringing her out of herself a bit, and enjoying the way the gypsy eyes were seeing him in a new light, not just as some faceless authority figure. ‘He’s in a group called The Blue Lamps.’

‘But I know them!’ said Merike. ‘Their new CD is wonderful. The best they have ever done.’

‘Brian will be pleased to hear that.’ Banks felt proud, but he could tell from the waves of impatience emanating from Joanna Passero that she wanted him to get the interview back on track. It was one reason he hadn’t wanted her around. She didn’t understand how important it was to find some common ground with the interviewee, to forge a bond. She was used to interviewing dirty cops, where there was never any possibility of her creating a link because it was an adverse situation from the outset. Annie had been more impatient and aggressive in her interview techniques at first, when she had come from Professional Standards, despite the courses she had taken, but she had learned over the years since then. She knew how Banks operated.

Their food arrived. As they were getting it sorted out, Merike excused herself and went outside for another cigarette. When she came back, they were eating, and her henna hair was damp with drizzle.

Merike sipped some wine and made an apologetic shrug in Banks’s direction. ‘Can’t smoke anywhere these days, even in Estonia.’

‘So what assignment was Mihkel working on at Garskill Farm?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know any details, except that he told me before he left it was something to do with migrant labour, and he wasn’t sure how long he would be away. That was typical Mihkel. He didn’t even dare to take his mobile phone for fear of what would happen if they found it. Not so long ago, a Lithuanian journalist disappeared while he was working on a similar story, all because they found a mobile with a built-in camera among his belongings.’

‘How did Mihkel deliver his story to the newspaper?’

‘I assume he gave it in short pieces to his editor over the telephone. So I am sure he didn’t walk four miles only to talk to me, however gallant it sounds. Though I would like to believe he did. He might have risked writing some things down if he had a good hiding place, in the lining of his clothes or somewhere like that.’

Banks glanced at Annie, who shook her head. They would have taken his clothes apart already, and had clearly found nothing. If Mihkel had hidden any notes, then his torturers had found them first.

‘Why was it so secret?’

‘The people who run these things are all connected with very powerful and dangerous criminals. It’s not a one-man operation. Everything must be in place. Every step of the way must be planned. It takes capital, organisation, enforcement, and the ones in the best position to do that are organised gangs. There is much at stake.’

‘Russian Mafia?’

‘Like everyone in the West, you think the Russian Mafia is behind everything. They may be involved, yes, of course, if there is money to be made, but it is not the only one.’

‘Baltic Mafia?’ said Banks.

‘Something along those lines. When people speak of the Baltic Mafia, they usually refer to Latvia, Lithuania and Poland, but we are not without our own bad men in Estonia. We don’t have to import them all from Russia or Latvia, you know.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Banks. ‘I don’t know much about your country.’

‘Don’t worry. Nobody does. It is very small and has a troubled history. May I have another glass of wine?’ She held out her glass.

Banks gestured to Joanna Passero, who glowered, but took it to the bar for a refill. ‘Is there anything you can tell us about the people Mihkel was investigating?’ Banks asked.

‘All he told me was that he was posing as an unskilled labourer. He started out at an agency in Tallinn, where you go to seek for work overseas, and this place you mentioned...’

‘Garskill Farm.’

‘Yes. That is where he ended up. I assume he was with others in the same position, and they would be taken out to their places of work at the start of the day in a van, and delivered back to the dormitory at the end.’

Dormitory was a rather grand word for Garskill Farm, Banks thought. ‘We think so,’ he said. ‘About twenty of them altogether. Unfortunately, they’ve all disappeared.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’

Joanna returned with the wine and handed it to Merike, who thanked her.

‘What did Mihkel say to you during your conversations?’

‘They were very brief. He would just tell me he couldn’t talk long, that he might be missed. He told me that he was all right. He told me...’ she paused and lowered her head down shyly. ‘He told me that he loved me, that he missed me.’

When she looked up again, Banks saw there were tears in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry if this is difficult,’ he said. ‘But we need to find out everything we can if we are to find the person who killed Mihkel.’

‘I understand,’ said Merike. ‘But I have told you all I know.’

‘Are you certain? Think. Was there nothing else he said to you?’

Merike bit her lip. ‘He did say something a bit mysterious the last time we talked.’

‘Last Tuesday evening?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was it?’

‘He said he thought he was on the verge of finding a big story to work on. There was something about some photos, too.’

Banks’s ears pricked up. ‘A big story? Photos? Was it connected to the story he was already working on? Did he give you any idea what it was?’

‘No. He was very guarded. He said I would know soon enough if he was right. Only that it was big, and that it could mean trouble for some very important people. He could say no more about it.’

According to the logs from the telephone company, Mihkel Lepikson had rung Merike after he had talked to Bill Quinn on Tuesday evening. Within a short while, both Mihkel and Bill were dead. Did their conversation, and their murders, have something to do with this big story he was talking about? It would be too much of a coincidence, Banks thought, if they didn’t. Perhaps Quinn was going to pass on the photos to Mihkel, but he never got the chance. But there was also a third number Mihkel had called. ‘Can you give me the names of Mihkel’s contacts in Tallinn, at the newspaper or elsewhere?’

‘Of course. He always worked with the same editor. Erik Aarma. It was a close relationship. They were good friends. Erik is a good man. Mihkel wouldn’t work with anyone else, and his reputation was big enough that he could make his own rules like that. Erik will be broken-hearted. It was like, how do you say, a spy and his handler. Like in Mr le Carré’s books.’

Banks smiled. He was a le Carré fan, too. ‘I understand,’ he said. Then he referred to his notes again and showed Merike the Estonian number. ‘Do you know if this is Erik’s number?’

She shook her head. ‘I have no idea. He would probably use an untraceable mobile. Secrecy was very important, and the work was dangerous, as I have said. Erik might be able to help you with some other names and contacts, people in the organisation. Mihkel would have spoken to Erik and only Erik on the telephone. He would also have discussed his ideas for the story first with Erik. In his line of work, you learn not to trust many people, and he trusted Erik.’

Banks bet that other number dialled from the telephone box in Ingleby was Erik’s dedicated line to Mihkel. ‘Will Erik reveal his sources?’

‘I don’t know. I am sure that Erik will help you all he can without compromising himself.’

‘Will he come over here?’

‘Perhaps, if you pay his fare and reserve a room for him at the Dorchester.’

Banks laughed. ‘Not much chance of that, I’m afraid.’

‘Has Mihkel worked on this kind of assignment before?’ Annie asked. ‘Crime. Migrant labour. That sort of thing. You said he contributed to a weekly column about crime.’

‘“Pimeduse varjus”. Yes. But not all the assignments are dangerous. It is true that Mihkel always did like living on the edge a bit too much. He got beaten up once when he wrote about the sex trade in Tallinn. Mostly he keeps his head down. He was very good at blending in with the scenery, which is strange when you think how handsome he was. People would notice when he walked into a room, but he could lose himself in a role, be an uneducated, unskilled migrant labourer and nobody would look twice at him. He could be invisible when he wanted. It was very useful in his work.’

Except he couldn’t hide his hands, Banks thought. And that might have been his undoing.

‘So he habitually sought out dangerous situations?’ Annie said.

‘Good stories,’ Merike corrected her. ‘There was sometimes danger involved, and Mihkel didn’t shy away from the risks. I said he lived on the edge, but he wasn’t a fool. He didn’t put himself in harm’s way without good reason. He wasn’t a thrill-seeker. Perhaps more of an adventurer, the way he liked to travel to exotic, dangerous places like Somalia, Syria or Haiti. He was very fond of the writings of Graham Greene.’

‘How do you think the people who did this to him found out who he really was?’

‘I don’t know. He must have made a mistake. That isn’t like him, but it must be what happened. They could have seen something he wrote. Or perhaps they had a spy in their dormitory? An informer in Tallinn? Or somewhere along the route. Maybe somebody followed him to the telephone box that night? There are many ways it could have happened.’

‘Have you ever heard of a policeman called Bill Quinn?’ Banks cut in. ‘Detective Inspector Bill Quinn?’

‘Bill? But of course. He was a good friend of Mihkel’s.’

The three police officers looked at one another. ‘A good friend?’ Banks repeated. ‘Close?’

‘Well, they knew each other, talked on the telephone sometimes, met on occasion when Mihkel was in England. But not very close. Mihkel was not very close to anyone, except perhaps to Erik.’

‘Did you know Bill? Had you met him?’

‘No. But Mihkel talked about him sometimes.’

‘So it wouldn’t surprise you that Mihkel also called Bill Quinn the same night he phoned you?’

‘No. Not really. Why shouldn’t he?’

‘No reason. I’m just trying to get all this clear. You see, we didn’t know of any connection between Bill and Mihkel.’

‘It was before we met,’ Merike said. ‘There was a big case in Tallinn. An English girl disappeared, and Bill came over to help the investigation. Mihkel was covering the story. They kept in touch. Mihkel also came to England to talk to the girl’s parents and friends.’

At last it became clear to Banks. He hadn’t seen the Rachel Hewitt files yet, only got the bare bones from Annie’s research, and he hadn’t known who Mihkel Lepikson was, or what he did for a living, until just now, so no one had made the connection. Now it made sense. ‘Was it just the Rachel Hewitt disappearance, or did they have other things in common?’ Banks asked.

‘Mihkel was mad about fishing,’ Merike said, smiling at the memory. ‘I used to tease him about it. That he’d rather be sitting by a river with a hook in the water than be in bed with me. I think they went fishing together once or twice, him and Bill. In Scotland. And there was Rachel Hewitt, of course. Bill kept Mihkel abreast of all the developments over here. The Rachel Foundation. What her friends and her family were doing.’

That made sense. A hobby in common. And Rachel Hewitt. But what did it all mean? For one thing, it meant that the Rachel Hewitt case was coming up with such alarming regularity that it was now number one priority. But they still had to find a link to Corrigan, Flinders and the migrant labour racket. There were too many pieces missing.

Banks reached for the envelope in his briefcase and tipped out the photographs of Quinn with the girl. ‘Could these be the photos Mihkel was referring to? Bill Quinn had them in his possession. Do you recognise the girl?’ he asked.

Merike studied the photos. ‘I don’t know if these are what he meant,’ she said, ‘but I don’t know her.’

‘They would probably have been taken about six years ago,’ Banks added.

‘No. I would remember her.’

He pushed the blow-up of the beer mat towards her. ‘I assume that’s familiar to you?’

‘Yes. Though I prefer Saku, myself. Can I see that one again?’ She pointed at the photograph of Quinn and the girl having a drink in the bar. After studying it for a moment, she said, ‘I think that’s the bar in the Hotel Metropol.’

‘You know it?’

‘Yes. I’ve been there many times for my work, and with Mihkel and Erik.’

‘Pardon my being a little indelicate here,’ Banks said, ‘but is it the kind of hotel where... certain women might be found?’

Her eyes widened. ‘You think I would go to a hotel like that.’

‘No, of course not,’ Banks blustered on. He could tell that Annie and Joanna were enjoying his discomfort tremendously, and he was desperately thinking of a way to get out of this without putting his foot any further down his throat. ‘No. I mean, we think, you know, that...’

‘This girl?’ said Merike. ‘The one in the photograph?’

‘Well, yes. Possibly.’ He hadn’t shown her the bedroom shot, so she wasn’t to know the context of the business.

‘But she does not look like that sort of girl. Is that how you say it? That sort of girl?’

‘I suppose so. Yes. You don’t think so?’

Merike examined the photo more closely. ‘No. Just because she is young and beautiful?’

‘And with a much older man.’

‘Many women prefer older men. I’m not saying it isn’t possible. Perhaps you know something I don’t. But the Metropol is definitely not that kind of hotel. It doesn’t mean you can’t have a drink with an attractive woman there, though.’

‘Thank you, Merike,’ Banks said. ‘That’s a great help.’

The question was: where next? There was one thing Banks was certain of, and that was that if he wanted answers, before very long he would have to pay a visit to Tallinn himself, whether Madame Gervaise liked the idea or not.

It was after seven o’clock when Banks walked through his front door that evening. He picked up the post, gave it a casual glance and tossed it on the computer desk behind the door, along with his briefcase. It had been his habit lately on arriving home from work to put on some music, make a cup of tea, and relax in the conservatory with a book before microwaving the remains of yesterday’s takeaway, or throwing together a sandwich from whatever he happened to have in his fridge. Today was no exception. He put the kettle on, dug out his old CD of Arvo Pärt’s Fratres, put it in the CD player and, when the tea was ready, took it and the book he had bought earlier to the conservatory. He wasn’t even hungry. The smoked haddock he had enjoyed at the Blue Lion was enough to last him a while, and if he did get hungry later on, he had some Seriously Strong cheddar in the fridge. He could grill himself a sandwich. If that wasn’t enough, there was always the leftover Indian takeaway from Saturday.

Banks sipped the green tea and let Pärt’s slow repeating piano chords and flurry of strings drift over him; the strings reminded him of Philip Glass. He was due to fly out of Manchester the following morning at 10.25 for Tallinn, changing in Helsinki. Area Commander Gervaise hadn’t liked the idea of the trip at all, as he had expected, but after complaining for ten minutes about budget cuts and constraints, she saw that it was the only logical next step in the investigation and approved his travel application, with limited expenses.

The only drawback was that Joanna Passero was to accompany him. Gervaise was quite firm on this. Annie Cabbot had been livid. Having been cooped up in hospital or in St Peter’s for so long, she complained, a nice trip abroad would have done her the world of good. Gervaise argued that someone had to handle the investigation back in Yorkshire, and the budget wouldn’t run to three detectives going abroad. Besides, hadn’t she just got back from Cornwall? As it appeared that Tallinn was where Bill Quinn had committed his unforgivable sin of adultery and got his photo taken in the act, then Inspector Passero had to be there.

Despite the company, Banks felt excited about the journey. Estonia was a country he had never visited before, and he loved new places, especially cities he could explore on foot. He had picked up the Eyewitness Top 10 Tallinn guide from Waterstones before coming home, and he glanced through it as he listened to the music. ‘Fratres’ gave way to the solemn, tolling bell and eerie strings of ‘Cantus In Memoriam Benjamin Britten’, slowly building in volume.

The visit would be mostly taken up with work, Banks knew, talking to the police who had investigated the Rachel Hewitt case, and to Erik Aarma, Mihkel Lepikson’s friend and editor, but there would always be a free hour or two now and then to take a walk. They had booked in at the Metropol, and he soon discovered from his guidebook that the Meriton, where Rachel Hewitt and the hen party had stayed, wasn’t very far away.

Banks had the names of the Investigator and the Prosecutor on the case. The Investigator had now retired, but he had said that he was sorry to hear about Bill Quinn’s death, and he would be happy to talk to Banks at a place to be agreed upon later. Someone would contact him at the hotel.

Merike Noormets had also told Banks that she was returning to Tallinn the following day and would be happy to help out as a translator, or to drive them around if they needed her. She said most Estonians spoke English, but difficulties may occur with some words or concepts. Banks had her telephone number in his mobile, and he thought he would get in touch. She would be grieving over Mihkel for some time, and perhaps something interesting to do would help take her mind off her loss.

After his talk with Merike, Banks had gone back to his office and looked over the Rachel Hewitt files. As Annie had already told him, there wasn’t much in them because it had been essentially an Estonian case, starting as a local investigation by the Tallinn Central Prefecture, then quickly becoming a case for the National Criminal Police Department when the seriousness of the matter, and the involvement of a foreign national, became apparent.

The investigation itself had gone on for about two months, but the case was still officially open, as Rachel Hewitt was still a missing person, not a murder victim, though most people outside the family believed that she was dead. Banks could glean very little from Bill Quinn’s reports, and it seemed to him very much as if the whole thing had been a matter of national niceties and ticking the boxes. Still, Quinn had been there for a week shortly after Rachel disappeared, and he had worked closely with the Investigator from the Criminal Police Department, whose name was Toomas Rätsepp, and with the Prosecutor, Ursula Mardna.

Annie and Winsome would be questioning Rachel Hewitt’s parents and friends from the hen party while he was away. Banks also asked Annie to slip in a few questions about the night of the disappearance to Rachel’s friends, to fill in some of the gaps and details, if possible. From what he had read so far, it all sounded very vague and haphazard.

The haunting ‘Spiegel Im Spiegel’ was playing when Banks put the book aside and took another contemplative sip of tea. He felt the stirrings of excitement in his chest, not only at the prospect of a trip abroad, but at the possibility of making some sense out of this irritating, puzzling and complicated case that had been gnawing at his brain for six days now.

Maybe, with a bit of luck, a bit of help, and the right questions, he might just find out what the hell was going on. There was one idea he couldn’t get out of his mind now, and that was that Bill Quinn may well have been killed because he found out what happened to Rachel Hewitt. And finding out who killed him might depend on finding out what happened to her.