Watching the Dark

Chapter 8

Thursday turned out to be another warm day, and by lunchtime Banks and Joanna were ready for a cold drink and some food. They had spent the morning getting the feel of the city in which Rachel Hewitt had disappeared and discussing their strategy for the forthcoming interview. They had been all the way up to Toompea and seen the onion domes of the Russian Orthodox Nevsky Cathedral, walked around the Dome Church, admired the views of the city in various directions from the different viewing points, and wandered the quiet cobbled streets. There were very few shops and cafes up there, and it seemed remote, even from the rest of the Old Town, quiet and peaceful. Not the sort of area for a hen party.

They found Clazz, back down in the Old Town, opposite a large restaurant Banks had seen mentioned in his guidebook called Old Hansa, a cream-fronted building with lots of wooden benches on its covered patio, which seemed to contain almost as much shrubbery as it did customers. The waitresses were dressed in medieval-themed costumes, and Banks could imagine evening sing-alongs with everyone waving tankards of foaming ale in the air.

But Clazz was much less ostentatious. A man sitting at one of the outside tables waved them over and introduced himself.

‘How did you know it was us?’ Banks asked, when they had sat down.

‘Two foreigners looking lost? It does not take much detective skill to work that out, Hr Banks.’

‘Please, call me Alan. This is Inspector Joanna Passero.’

Joanna smiled and shook Rätsepp’s hand. ‘Joanna,’ she said.

Banks noticed that he held on to it for a few seconds longer than necessary. Joanna clearly noticed it, too, but she said nothing.

‘And I am Toomas. Do you enjoy our lovely weather?’ Rätsepp went on. ‘We often have good weather at this time of year. You are very lucky you come now.’ His English wasn’t quite as good as Merike’s, but then he wasn’t a translator. It was far better than Banks’s non-existent Estonian.

‘It makes a pleasant change,’ said Banks.

Rätsepp was in his late fifties, overweight, with a head of thinning grey hair, wary, hooded eyes and bushy grey eyebrows, rather like a pair of horns above his eyes. Banks decided he must cultivate them that way deliberately, thinking they were sexy or something, because he couldn’t fail to see them every time he looked in a mirror. He reminded Banks of the actor who had called Michael Caine ‘Eenglish’ with a sneer in his voice in Funeral in Berlin. Oscar Homolka. He was wearing a white shirt, open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up, showing hairy forearms and throat. A grey sports jacket hung over the back of his chair. There were sweat stains under his arms, and the buttons were tight around his middle.

The waiter wandered over and handed out menus.

‘I would recommend the steak,’ Rätsepp said, ‘but of course, it is entirely up to you. Perhaps you are vegetarian, yes?’

They ordered steak and A. Le Coq beer for Banks and Rätsepp, and a Diet Coke for Joanna. She had told Banks she felt a little the worse for wear this morning, so he guessed she was laying off the wine for a while.

‘I understand you retired recently,’ Banks said as they waited for their drinks. ‘How is that working out?’

‘Excellent, excellent,’ said Rätsepp. ‘It is something I wish I have done many years ago.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

He rubbed the thumb and fingers of one hand together. ‘I must work to earn money.’

Their drinks arrived, and Rätsepp proposed an Estonian toast. ‘Teie terviseks!’

They sipped their drinks and chatted about police work and for a while, then when their lunch arrived, Rätsepp indicated he was ready to talk.

‘It is terrible shame about Hr Quinn,’ he said after his first mouthful of very rare steak. A drop of blood hung at the side of his fleshy mouth like a teardrop. Fortunately, he used his serviette a lot while he ate. ‘He was good man. Very good man. What happen?’

‘That’s what we’re hoping to find out.’ Banks didn’t want to get on to the subject of Quinn’s transgressions so early in the conversation, though he hoped that at some point Rätsepp might be able to help him with the photographs, if he felt he could trust him enough to show him them. If, on the other hand, he got the impression that Rätsepp was in any way involved with what had happened to Quinn or Mihkel Lepikson, he certainly didn’t want to give too much away. But he would reserve judgement for the moment. He was half-surprised, and very pleased, that Joanna didn’t jump in with some comment about Quinn’s murder. She must be learning; she must have listened to him after their set-to the previous evening. ‘I’m afraid we’re all still a bit at sea about it all.’

‘At sea?’

‘Sorry. Confused.’

‘Ah. I do not really see how an old case will help you, or what it has to do with Hr Quinn’s death,’ Rätsepp said. ‘It was long time ago, and Hr Quinn had only minor role.’

‘I understand he was over here for about a week?’

‘That is correct.’

‘How soon after Rachel Hewitt’s disappearance?’

‘Perhaps two days.’

‘That’s very quick, isn’t it?’

‘There is no real measure for such things.’ Rätsepp paused and ate more steak. ‘I think the girl’s parents demand he come,’ he went on. ‘They call local police in England and ask them to do something. I think the parents are, how do you say, very pushy? It is quite understandable, of course. We do our best, but what can I say? This is beautiful nineteen-year-old girl, young woman, and she is missing forty-eight hours. I know it is very confusing and upsetting for her parents, to be so far away, in foreign country. They do not understand our country. They want someone to communicate what is happening before they come here themselves. Difficult time for everyone.’

‘What did DI Quinn actually do in the investigations?’

‘Nothing very much. What can he do? He is not involved here. He is not Estonian. He attends meetings, of course, so he can go back and tell his bosses what we are doing. But that is all.’

‘He didn’t do any searching, any questioning, any investigating?’

‘No. Observing only.’

Banks wasn’t sure he believed Rätsepp, but he moved on, nonetheless. What reason could he have to lie? ‘Were there any leads at all?’

‘Sadly, no. We check the hospitals, airport, railway station, buses, ferries. We check other hotels. We speak with staff at Meriton to ask if she go back there and go out again. We visit many bars and clubs popular with young tourists. Ask everywhere. Nothing. It is like the girl disappear into air.’

‘What about since then? Any nibbles? Any traces?’

‘For two months we investigate. More. Sometimes now we send out her description again. Nothing. I am sure you also get many mistaken sights, which is all that we have had. From St Petersburg to Prague, and in the south, Odessa and Tirana. Her parents encourage many of these mistakes. We have also work with an artist on what Rachel look like now. It is not so very big change in six years, perhaps, but it helps.’

‘What about CCTV?’

‘What is that?’

‘Closed-circuit television. Cameras. In the streets, in bars. We have them all over England.’

‘Ah. Yes. We have here, too. But then not so many, of course. We examine all we can find, but nothing show us where Rachel is gone.’ He paused. ‘As I am sure you know, many camera images are not so good.’

‘True enough,’ said Banks. ‘Most CCTV’s crap, no arguing with that.’ He gazed around at the other diners. Many were obviously tourists, given away by their cameras or bulging dayglo bags. He heard some people speaking German, and some Italian. There were also quite a few of young professionals, and he took most of them for locals, who perhaps worked in the Old Town or had come in from the suburbs to have lunch with friends during the spell of fine weather. ‘This is very good steak,’ he said.

‘I am glad you approve. And the charming lady?’

Joanna, the ‘charming lady’, smiled sweetly at him and said, in her best Morningside accent. ‘Absolutely delicious, Toomas. One of the tastiest I have ever eaten.’

Rätsepp beamed at her. ‘In what capacity exactly are you here?’ he asked, his forehead wrinkling into a slight and, so Banks thought, definitely choreographed frown.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Joanna. ‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘I apologise for my bad English. You work for Professional Standards, am I not right?’ he went on. ‘But Inspector Quinn’s murder is matter for Homicide, no?’

‘I can see there are no flies on you, Toomas,’ Joanna said, waving her fork at him and smiling to take the sting out of her tone.

He checked his arms. ‘Flies? I do not understand.’

‘She means you’re very quick to grasp a situation,’ Banks said. ‘It’s just a saying.’

‘Ah, another of your charming English idioms. I see. It is one I do not know. I will remember. She is here to keep an eye on you, Alan, you lucky man? Have you been naughty boy?’

‘It’s nothing like that,’ said Banks. ‘Inspector Passero is training for her transfer to Homicide and Major Crimes. Her boss thought working on this case with me would help.’

‘So you are her teacher?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You must be very good to be trusted with such lovely pupil.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I hear things about you.’

‘All good, I hope?’ said Banks.

‘But of course.’

Banks wasn’t sure he liked being such common knowledge. First Corrigan, now Rätsepp. True, one of them was a cop, and it would be only natural for him to find out something about a visiting officer from another country. Even so, it was disconcerting, and he felt it put him at a disadvantage. He wondered exactly how much Rätsepp knew about him, and what.

Rätsepp turned back to Joanna again, still smiling. ‘But I am not so certain that you tell me complete truth.’

Joanna smiled at him again. ‘Toomas! Would you doubt a lady’s word?’

‘But of course not.’ Rätsepp took her hand again for a moment. ‘It is merely that I understand there is some... shall we say... confusion over Hr Quinn’s circumstances, some possibility that he was involved in affair of the heart, or perhaps a business transaction of some kind, and you think it happens here.’ He let go of Joanna’s hand and gave it a light pat.

‘Well,’ said Banks, ‘you’ve certainly done your homework, haven’t you, Toomas? But that’s really a non-issue. We’re here because we’ve managed to make a connection between Bill Quinn and an Estonian journalist called Mihkel Lepikson. Have you ever heard of him?’

Rätsepp seemed taken aback at the name, Banks noted, and he got the impression that he was quickly trying to think how to respond. Rätsepp already seemed like a tricky person to pin down, and Banks hadn’t expected smooth and easy sailing. How had he known about Quinn and the girl, for a start? There could be a leak in Yorkshire. Or was Rätsepp in touch with the villains themselves? Was he feigning surprise at the mention of Lepikson? He was hard to read. It was entirely possible that he had something to hide, but even if he didn’t, the habits of a lifetime die hard. Given his age, Rätsepp must have been a cop during the Soviet era. He would be used to keeping his own counsel. Or lying. Policing must have been a whole different business under the Russian rulers, who would no doubt have brought in their own security organisations. Banks had heard and read many things about the Stasi in East Germany, for example, and he wondered if things had been at all similar here. If so, Rätsepp might be a very skilled dissembler, and he would also make it a point to know everything about everyone. He obviously already knew something about the Quinn case, and the girl, but Banks didn’t know exactly how much. Did he know about the photographs, the possible blackmail, the crossbow?

‘Lepikson... Lepikson...’ Rätsepp muttered. ‘The name sounds familiar, you know. A journalist?’

‘The Eesti Telegraaf. He wrote about Rachel at the time she disappeared, then on and off over the years. Mihkel Lepikson was found dead under very mysterious circumstances in North Yorkshire, not far from where Bill Quinn was killed, a few days ago. Your government has been advised, and his parents have been located. I believe they have already left for the UK.’

‘Ah, yes. I can know only what I read in the newspapers, of course,’ said Rätsepp. ‘Now I am retired, just private citizen like everyone else, I am out of the loop, as I believe you British say.’

‘Of course. And I’m sure you can understand that I can’t tell you any more, even as one police officer to another, with this being an ongoing investigation.’

‘Naturally,’ said Rätsepp. He sounded disappointed, and gave Banks the kind of look that seemed to beg for ten minutes alone with him in a soundproof interrogation cell. ‘I understand completely.’

Banks could tell the Estonian was reevaluating him; he could almost hear the cogs turning, new gears engaging. Rätsepp had no doubt expected someone he could get information from easily, but now that was proving not to be the case, he was having to rethink his strategy. Banks tried to work out exactly where the Estonian stood in this whole business, but he had too little to go on. Was Rätsepp involved with Corrigan, with the crossbow killer, with Rachel Hewitt’s disappearance? It was all possible, especially as he seemed to know so much, but there was no evidence to believe so yet. It was more than likely that he had made mistakes in the Rachel Hewitt investigation and was simply covering his arse.

The waiter came around again and asked if they wanted anything else. Banks and Rätsepp both ordered a second A. Le Coq, and Joanna asked for a cappuccino. She pronounced the word deliberately, with what Banks took to be a perfect Italian accent, not the way most Scots or Yorkshire folk would say it.

‘I am sorry,’ said Rätsepp, ‘but there is really nothing more I can tell you about Hr Quinn, or why he was killed.’

‘Can you think of anyone here who might have wanted him dead?’

‘Here? But why?’

‘A connection with the Rachel Hewitt case, perhaps?’

‘What possible evidence is there?’

‘No evidence, Toomas. Just a gut feeling. Don’t you ever have gut feelings?’

‘Of course. But not about this.’

‘Mihkel Lepikson wrote about the case, and Bill Quinn investigated it. That seems like a connection to me. Were there many of you working on it?’

Rätsepp sipped some beer before replying. ‘I have support investigators, as usual. And I report to Prosecutor.’

‘That would be Ursula Mardna?’

‘That is correct. Very senior and very competent Prosecutor, of blameless character.’

‘We’ll be talking to her later,’ Banks said. ‘I understand that DI Quinn mostly coordinated the investigation back in Yorkshire?’

‘Yes. He talk with Rachel’s parents and friends. Make some interviews. Communicate with us relevant information.’

‘Such as?’

‘Times, places, minor details.’

‘Do you have such a thing as a map of the girls’ movements that night?’

‘Impossible. We try to make one, of course, but it is too difficult. Their memories... unreliable. The girls so drunk. The next day also.’ He made a gesture of disgust. ‘These girls. They come here and act so indecent and noisy. They must expect...’

‘What? To be abducted?’

‘No, of course not. That is not what I am saying. But they must learn to be more careful and more respectful.’

‘They were just having a good time, Toomas,’ said Joanna. ‘They weren’t doing any harm.’

‘They ruin the peace of our Old Town.’

‘You should try Nottingham on a Saturday night,’ Joanna said.

Banks glanced at her, impressed. She was baiting Rätsepp, and doing it with great charm.

‘My dear Joanna,’ he said. ‘It is not the same. They are visitors. Guests in our country. They should not behave that way.’

‘Well, it’s a bit late for Rachel Hewitt, isn’t it?’

Rätsepp looked as if he’d been slapped. His face reddened. ‘We do our best. We cannot do more. Now you come here and...’ He waved his hand in the air disgustedly.

Their beers arrived, along with Joanna’s cappuccino. Time to put the bridges back together again, Banks thought. He could play good cop when required. ‘I’m sure you all did your best, Toomas,’ he said. ‘But these girls... well, as Inspector Passero says, they’re young and wild and out for a good time. They don’t think about public order and upsetting people. Yes, it’s selfish, but you must have been a young lad once. Surely you sowed a few wild oats?’

Rätsepp gave Banks a knowing man-to-man smile. ‘Certainly I did. But those were very different times. Russian times. You must very careful what you do and who see you. Much more careful. I do understand it is important, your case, but I do not see connection to Mihkel Lepikson and Rachel Hewitt. I do remember the journalist. He write about case back then. But why do you think the murders were connected to this?’

‘It’s just too much of a coincidence,’ said Banks. ‘Quinn befriended Lepikson while he was over here consulting on the case, your case. And both were murdered within about ten miles and ten hours of one another just after they’d been in touch again, just after a telephone conversation in which Bill Quinn told Mihkel that he might have a very big story for him.’

Rätsepp frowned. ‘Big story, you say? What big story?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘I’m just saying it’s too much of a coincidence. We also have forensic evidence to indicate that the same man and car were present at both scenes. Most likely the killer. We don’t know who he is yet, but we’re getting close.’ Banks realised that he was probably telling Rätsepp too much, but he felt that if he didn’t give at least something up, he would get nothing in return. If Rätsepp thought he was getting the best side of the bargain, if he believed that he had succeeded in tricking Banks into giving up too much, it might make his own tongue a bit looser. It was just a matter of exactly what Banks did give away and how valuable it was.

Rätsepp nodded. His chins wobbled. ‘I still do not understand how I can help you. Our case records are in Estonian, of course, but you are most welcome to see them. Everything is in correct order. We can get translator, though it will take long time. We have nothing to hide. But I assure there is nothing about Hr Quinn.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Toomas. And I don’t want to read your case files. All I really want is a general picture of what happened while he was here. And the girls, of course. I know some of the details of the night in question, the drinking, clubbing, no doubt boys following them around. But where did they go, for example? You say you don’t have a map, but you must have some idea.’

‘This was six years ago,’ said Rätsepp. ‘So many bars, clubs and restaurants open and close since then that it is impossible to say. And the staff are all new. People have moved on. Even at the time it is very difficult to get an idea of their movements. Yes, we do have list of bars and nightclubs I am happy to give you, but we do not know the times and order of visiting. There are many Irish pubs with names like Molly Malone’s and O’Malley’s, for example. And many others in Old Town. Nimeta Baar — that is Pub With No Name now. Club Havana. Venus Club. Stereo Lounge. Club Hollywood. The girls go to many of these.’

‘But not beyond the Old Town?’

‘We do not think so.’

‘Where did they lose Rachel?’ Banks asked.

‘In Irish pub on Vana-Posti, near south edge of Old Town. St Patrick’s. Nobody see Rachel after there.’

‘Except her killer.’

‘Yes,’ said Rätsepp with a sigh. ‘The other girls go to bar on Raekoja Plats, main square, with some German boys they meet at Club Hollywood. They notice Rachel is not with them perhaps twenty minutes, half an hour, after they get there. Then it is too late, of course. They cannot find her. They cannot remember where they were before. It is only later that we can put some pieces together.’

‘And then you went to these places and asked about Rachel?’

‘Of course. But we find out nothing.’

Annie had already told Banks as much, but he wanted to find out if Rätsepp knew any more. ‘Rachel didn’t know where her friends were going, did she? They had no destination in mind, just picked somewhere at random. She could have just wandered around trying to find them for hours in the Old Town, couldn’t she?’

‘It is possible,’ admitted Rätsepp. ‘But I do not think so. Nobody report seeing her, except a waiter in St Patrick’s, who say he think she go wrong way, other way from her friends. But he not so certain. As you see for yourself, it is not a very large area. It is very busy that night. We can find nobody who see her. That is because it is two days later before girls can tell us where they go. Tourists go home. German boys gone. Everybody gone.’ He shook his head in frustration.

‘Did no one report seeing her at all after she left St Patrick’s?’

‘Nobody. And we do not hear about her disappearance until the following morning. It take us two days to get information from her friends about where they go and what they do. They were so drunk they cannot remember. By then everyone who is there on that night is gone. Nobody knows anything. She is gone. Pouff.’

‘And that’s the last of Rachel,’ said Banks. ‘No body. No nothing.’ He felt a wave of sadness ripple through him as he imagined what fear and pain Rachel must have gone through, whatever had happened to her. His daughter Tracy had gone through a terrible ordeal not too long ago, and thoughts about what might have happened to her still gave him nightmares. He could hardly begin to imagine the horrors Rachel’s parents must have visualised over and over in their minds, the loop tapes of porn and snuff films. He took a hefty slug of beer.

He remembered the time he had been lost in a foreign city, and how frightening that had been. He was fourteen years old, on a school exchange with a French family in Lille. They had all gone to see Gone With the Wind in the town centre. Banks thought it was boring enough in English, so it would be even worse in French. He found a horror film showing around the corner, one of the old Dr Mabuse films, and said he would go there and meet them afterwards. Naturally, his film was much shorter than Gone With the Wind. Finding himself with plenty of time to kill, he bought some Gauloises at the nearest tabac and then went and sat in a bar, ordered a beer and waited. When it was time to meet up, he took a wrong turn and couldn’t find the cinema. He wandered and wandered, deeper into the backstreets, rows of brick houses, little corner churches, washing hanging across the street, the locals giving him strange looks. He knew enough French to ask directions but not enough to understand the answers. The feeling of utter helplessness came over him, verging on panic. In the end, Banks had got to a main street he recognised and boarded a tram back to where he was staying. But Rachel... where did she end up?

Rätsepp held his hands open in a gesture of openness. ‘What more can I say?’

‘What do you think happened to Rachel, Toomas?’ asked Joanna, cappuccino in her hand. ‘Just out of interest.’

Banks was glad that Joanna had asked the question, feeling he was pushing a bit too hard himself. It was perfect coming from her. Rätsepp seemed to have forgotten her earlier insensitivity, because he favoured her with a condescending smile and patted her knee. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘you must know as well as I do that it cannot be good news. The most obvious theory is that someone take her, some stranger or someone the girls had meet earlier in some in nightclub or bar. Perhaps it is someone who has stalked them, or someone she has arranged to meet. We have no evidence of this, of course, and it poses many questions and many problems, but it is the best explanation.’

‘She must have been taken by car,’ Banks said. ‘Cars can get into certain streets of the Old Town, can’t they? I’ve seen them.’

‘Of course,’ Rätsepp agreed. ‘Certain streets, certain areas, mostly near the edges. There are many cars around Niguliste, for example, which is not far from the pub where she was last seen. Yes, you are right. It is likely that this person persuade her to get in car. Perhaps she know him from earlier and trust him. We do not know.’

Banks remembered the big bookshop, the grass slope and the church, the restaurant where he had eaten dinner with Joanna last night. They were just around the corner from there right now. Somehow, the area was taking on a greater significance in his imagination of what might have happened to Rachel. It was true that a lot of cars and taxis seemed to drop people off there and turn around. It was also quite likely that nobody would notice a girl getting into a car or a taxi. Even if someone was pushing her, it might easily appear he was helping her. ‘Did you talk to the taxi companies?’

‘Of course. We talk to all drivers who work that night. Nothing.’

‘Could one of them be lying?’

‘It is always possible. But we do our best.’

‘I’m sure you did, Toomas. I’m not being critical, believe me.’

‘Is all right. I believe she meet someone from earlier. Maybe from Club Hollywood, where they dance and drink before. Is near St Patrick’s. Perhaps he invite her to party or say he drive her back to hotel. She go with him. Then...’

‘Possibly,’ said Banks. He remembered Annie telling him that Rachel could be impulsive, and he knew only too well the bad misjudgements that can be made when drunk. ‘So, however it happened, you think it happened quickly. Someone got her out of there, abducted her, took her away from the Old Town and then...?’

‘Otherwise we would surely find body.’

Banks gestured around to the three- and four-storey buildings. ‘Some of these places must be like rabbit warrens inside,’ he said. ‘There must be old cellars, crypts, attics, places where nobody goes, places nobody’s been for centuries. You can’t have searched every nook and cranny of an area like this. Could she have been taken inside one of them?’

‘Is possible,’ said Rätsepp. ‘And there may be such places as you say. We cannot search every room in the Old Town with no information, but we make thorough search.’

‘Somebody must have seen something,’ Joanna said.

‘No, my dear. Do you think your people in Nottingham on Saturday night see something? A girl get in a car? Is that so unusual there people notice? No. I do not think so. It is not so strange. Do you not agree, Alan?’

‘The general public can be remarkably unobservant,’ Banks agreed. ‘Even when they’re sober.’ But especially, he thought, a milling, drunken crowd, as had probably been out on the streets of the Old Town at the time of Rachel’s disappearance. Rätsepp was right. You could probably commit a murder on the street on a night like that, and everyone would just assume it was part of the fun. Maybe that was what had happened. ‘Any other theories?’

‘We try to consider everything. Perhaps her friends somehow kill her accidentally? Perhaps she fall down some steps, or somehow poison herself through alcohol? They panic, get rid of body and lie. Or they have a fight and she is accidentally killed.’

Banks had a sudden flash of the office girls outside at Whitelocks talking of their exploits in Cyprus, laughing about a friend being taken to hospital for alcohol poisoning, joking about another girl who was so drunk she pissed herself in public. Was it only a week ago? Less, even. ‘And got rid of the body where?’ he asked. ‘You checked all the hospitals and searched all the waste ground and possible hiding places, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. That is problem with all theories, of course,’ Rätsepp said. ‘No evidence. No body. And girls do not have car. We even talk to car rent companies. Nothing.’

‘Any other theories?’

‘Well,’ said Rätsepp, scratching his head, ‘it is not a popular line of inquiry, but we think perhaps Rachel get involved in crime. In drugs, for example. Young girls do such things, for some boy they like, perhaps. They become mules, couriers.’

‘Did you find any evidence of that?’

‘None. But, of course, nobody wishes to think ill of Rachel, and it is not something people talk about. We have cases of foreign girls killed by drug-trafficking gangs they have become involved with, for stealing or for threatening to talk.’

‘So you still think there might be something in this?’

‘Is possible, yes.’

‘I was just thinking that drug-traffickers might also be the kind of criminals who would consider a hit on Quinn, if he was getting too close to the truth.’

‘It is professional job, Hr Quinn?’

‘We think so,’ said Banks. ‘Both killings.’

‘Then you can perhaps believe that some big drug-trafficker did not want to be named. That is another area you must investigate. I understand drugs are big problem in England.’

‘But why after so long?’

‘That I do not know. There could be many reasons. It take Hr Quinn so long to find him, perhaps? This could be “big story” for journalist.’

‘In all these possibilities you’re talking about,’ said Joanna, ‘Rachel Hewitt is dead. What if she’s alive? Is there anything that could explain what happened to her if she’s still alive and well?’

‘That is, of course, what her parents wish to believe,’ said Rätsepp solemnly, ‘and I do not want to rob them of all hope. But what is the explanation? She hit her head and lose her memory and wander off somewhere? Poland? Russia? She is working in flower shop in Minsk and married with two beautiful little children? Or she do not like her parents and run away from home? This the parents do not wish to accept. They must continue to believe their daughter loves them.’

‘What if she was abducted and forced into prostitution, trafficked?’ said Banks.

‘Again, is possible,’ Rätsepp admitted. ‘But we are not Albania or Romania. Estonia is not destination for such victims, and is not usually a source. Is a station on the way. Traffic passes through here to England and Finland and Sweden, from the east, from the south. Drugs. People. Girls. Illegal immigrants. So it is possible. But her parents and many others search over the years, send out pictures, and find no trace of her.’

Banks thought of Haig and Lombard trolling the Internet sites for the girl in the photographs with Quinn. He had decided not to bring her up with Rätsepp, after all; he didn’t trust the man enough. He would save her for Erik, Mihkel Lepikson’s friend and contact at the Eesti Telegraaf. He could think of no more questions.

Rätsepp seemed to sense they had got to the end of their discussion and glanced at his watch. ‘I must be leaving now,’ he said. ‘I have appointment.’ He took out his wallet and left a card on the table. ‘If you need to get in touch. Anything.’ He started to pull out some bills, but Banks held his hand up. ‘No, Toomas,’ he said. ‘Remember, tourists pay.’

Rätsepp laughed. ‘Ah, yes. Thank you very much. I hope to repay the favour in England one day.’ He stood up, bent gallantly to kiss Joanna Passero’s hand, gave Banks a quick salute, grabbed his jacket and disappeared into the crowds around the corner on Viru.

Pauline Boyars lived in a flat above a fish and chip shop on the Wetherby Road. She was at home when Annie and Winsome pressed her doorbell at half past two on Thursday afternoon, and she buzzed them up. The fish and chip shop was closed, so there was no smell of deep-frying, Annie thought gratefully. It was probably a good thing. Fish and chips was one of her weaknesses, and had played havoc with her fading dream of vegetarianism. At least most places didn’t use lard for deep-frying any longer.

Whether Pauline overindulged in the services downstairs, Annie had no idea, but she was certainly on the large size, and her complexion was pasty and spotty, as if she ate too much fatty food. Her hair was lank and uncared for, and her nails bitten to the quicks. More signs, Annie thought, that Pauline Boyars had very much let herself go. She was only twenty-five or — six, but she looked over thirty.

The flat was untidy, with clothes lying on the floor, piles of gossip magazines and unwashed dishes, but it didn’t have that all-pervasive smell of fish and chips Annie had expected. Several windows were open, and she could hear kids playing football in the small park at the back. Didn’t anyone go to school any more?

Pauline cleared some newspapers from a couple of chairs, and they sat down. She didn’t apologise for the mess, the way many people would have done, but lit a cigarette and sat on the sofa, leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees. ‘What’s it about?’ she asked.

‘It’s about Detective Inspector Bill Quinn,’ Winsome said.

‘Sounds familiar. Refresh my memory.’

‘The detective from Leeds who worked on Rachel’s case?’

‘Oh, yes. I remember him. Worse than useless, like the rest of them.’

‘He’s been murdered,’ said Winsome.

‘It didn’t do anybody any bloody good, though, did it?’ Pauline went on, as if she hadn’t heard. Her right foot was tapping the whole time they were talking. ‘It didn’t bring Rachel back, did it? If you’re going to be asking me about all that stuff, I need a drink. I won’t offer you any because you’re on duty, and because I don’t have much left.’ She got up and poured a hefty shot of vodka into a tea mug.

‘Pauline, we’re hoping you can help us here,’ said Winsome, in her most soothing voice. ‘Getting drunk won’t help.’

‘Are you crazy?’ She held out the mug. ‘You think this would get me drunk? If only. What do you want to know?’

‘You might have read in the papers that Bill Quinn was killed a few days ago, and his death was suspicious. We’ve been assigned to investigate.’

‘Well, bully for you. It was probably some vicious tattooed drug-dealing Hells Angel he put away years ago.’

‘That’s one possibility,’ said Winsome. ‘But another is that his death was somehow connected with what happened to Rachel.’

‘Nobody knows what happened to Rachel. That’s the bloody point. She might as well have been abducted by aliens.’

Annie saw that Winsome was struggling with Pauline’s hostility, so she gave a quick signal and cut in. ‘You were there that night, Pauline? What do you think happened?’

Pauline stopped tapping her foot and gazed at Annie. Then she stubbed out her cigarette and gulped some vodka. The foot started tapping again. ‘What good would it do to go over it all again? Don’t you think I’ve been over it a million times with the bloody Estonian police, and with your mate Quinn?’

‘I’m sure you must have,’ said Annie. ‘But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Maybe over the years you’ve remembered things you didn’t say then?’

‘Remembered? Some hope. Forgotten, more like. I didn’t remember much in the first place. That was the problem.’

‘It’s not surprising,’ Annie said. ‘You were out celebrating. Having a good time. You couldn’t have had any idea what was going to happen.’

Pauline stared at Annie again and sipped more vodka, then stared into the depths of her mug.

‘I’m not judging you, Pauline,’ she went on. ‘I’ve been in this job long enough to know that the best will in the world can’t stop a criminal getting his way. And I’ve been pissed often enough to have done more than a few things I’m ashamed of.’

‘So why do you do it? The job, I mean.’

‘Now there’s a question. I wish I knew the answer.’

Pauline managed a brief smile, which changed the whole structure of her face and showed a flash of the beauty that might still lurk under the ravaged surface. She lit another cigarette.

‘Come on, Pauline,’ Annie said. ‘Tell us about it.’

‘They didn’t believe us, you know.’

‘Who didn’t?’ Winsome asked, picking up the questioning again.

‘The Estonian police. Can you believe it? They thought we’d done it and hidden her body somewhere. They kept going on about it, asking us where we’d put her.’

‘That was probably one of the many theories they developed,’ said Winsome. ‘They have to cover all the angles, no matter how unbelievable some of them seem.’

‘But they never found anyone, did they? They never found Rachel. I think they decided it was us but couldn’t prove it, and they didn’t bother to look any further.’

‘This policeman I’m talking about, Bill Quinn,’ Winsome went on. ‘He was haunted by the failure to find her. We think he might still have been trying to find out what happened right up until the end, when he was killed last week.’

Pauline stared down at her fingernails and nicotine-stained fingers. ‘I don’t get many visitors,’ she said. ‘You must forgive me. I seem to have dropped my social skills down the toilet.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Winsome. ‘Where’s your husband? Is he not around?’

It could have gone either way, and Annie was mentally ready to give Winsome a bollocking later if it blew up in their faces, but Pauline actually softened. Her eyes dampened.

‘We never did get married,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that a joke, after everything that happened?’

‘Whose idea was that?’

‘Both of ours, really. But I suppose I started it. I stayed on in Tallinn. It seemed... I don’t know... disrespectful to leave before the police discovered anything. I couldn’t just leave Rachel like that, could I? But in the end I had to, or I’d still be there, wouldn’t I?’

‘So you postponed the wedding?’

‘At first, yes. It seemed the best idea.’

‘So what happened?’

‘We just postponed and postponed for so long that in the end the whole idea lost its appeal. I was preoccupied with Rachel. I neglected Trevor. He found someone else. They got married two years ago. The old, old story. When I look back, we were way too young in the first place. Young love. What a joke.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Winsome.

Pauline straightened up. ‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘I’m not. Good riddance. That’s what I say.’ She ran the back of her hand over her eyes and glanced from one to the other, then clapped her hands together, showering ash and spilling vodka on the already stained and threadbare carpet. ‘So, enough of this maudlin rubbish. What is it you want to know?’

‘First off,’ said Winsome, ‘about Detective Inspector Quinn. Do you have any idea why he would remain interested in the case, and why it might get him killed six years later?’

‘Absolutely none at all. I hardly saw him. I mean, I only talked to him once or twice. I know he saw a bit of Maureen and Luke, too. That’s Rachel’s parents.’

‘Yes, we’ve talked to them,’ said Winsome.

‘Well, we keep in touch, like, occasionally. I’m afraid there’s not much more I can add. But why do you think it was that? Rachel? Couldn’t there be many other explanations for why he was killed?’

‘We have our reasons,’ said Winsome. ‘Did you like Bill Quinn?’

‘Like? I never really thought about it. I must admit, I was a bit of a mess back then, and he was kind enough, his manner, you know... nicer than some of those Estonian cops. There was a bloke called Rätsepp. “Rat’s arse”, we called him. He was the one who kept going on about us doing it and dumping her body.’

‘They were probably all very frustrated,’ Winsome said.

‘I’m sure they were. Sexually, most like, the way some of them were giving us the eye.’

‘You don’t have to go to Estonia to find sexist cops,’ said Annie. ‘Come to Eastvale with me now, and I’ll show you a few.’

‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘But I appreciate the offer.’ The kids started shouting down on the playing field, and Pauline went over to shut the back window. When she returned, she poured herself another shot of vodka to replace what she had spilled, and lit another cigarette from the stub of the old one. ‘Noisy little buggers,’ she said.

‘Whose idea was it to go to Tallinn?’ Annie asked.

‘Mine. I was the bride-to-be, after all.’

So much for the idea that Rachel had arranged the hen weekend so she could meet up with a foreign boyfriend in Tallinn. She could have met someone between the decision to go there and the trip, but that seemed too much of a coincidence.

‘What was Rachel like as a friend?’ Winsome asked.

Pauline paused. ‘Like? She was full of life, loved to help people, bright, beautiful, funny, stubborn, a bit wild sometimes, spontaneous. Christ, she was just nineteen, you know. What are nineteen-year-olds like? I don’t remember. Do you?’

‘Did you take drugs?’

Pauline paused and looked at Winsome through narrowed eyes. ‘We might have done E once or twice, you know, at a club.’

‘In Tallinn?’

‘No way. Far too dodgy getting drugs off some stranger in a foreign city.’

‘Rachel?’

‘No.’

‘In your opinion, was she likely to go off with a stranger in a car?’

‘Maybe, if it was a nice car and she liked the look of him.’

‘So what do you think happened to her?’

‘I think she got lost. Wandered off the beaten track. Some sick bastard abducted her, raped her, then killed her and buried her, or chucked her body in the sea, and it floated all the way to Sweden or somewhere.’

‘You don’t believe she’s alive? That she lost her memory, or decided to start a new life?’

‘No. That’s not Rachel. She loved her family and her friends. And her bloody budgie. If she was alive she’d have been in touch. She would have gone home. And this amnesia business is just a load of bollocks. I don’t blame Maureen and Luke for clinging on to hope, you know, but sometimes I find them a bit hard to take.’

‘And why haven’t the police found Rachel, or the person who abducted her?’

‘Because they’re useless.’

‘But you weren’t able to give them much help,’ Winsome went on. ‘From what I’ve been able to make out, it wasn’t until the following morning that you reported her missing, and then it took the police nearly two days to get any sort of coherent story out of you about where you’d been, who you’d talked to.’

Annie had to give it to Winsome, she was coming along nicely, developing a tough edge. Many others would have shied away from asking an obviously disturbed person like Pauline those sorts of questions.

To her credit, Pauline just shook her head sadly. ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘since I came back from Tallinn, there isn’t a day gone by when I haven’t tortured myself with the same thoughts. If only we hadn’t forgotten her in St Patrick’s. If only we’d told her where we were going. If only she hadn’t forgotten her mobile. If only I had insisted right from the start that we call the police. If only I hadn’t passed out in my room. If only I hadn’t been so drunk and then so hung over I couldn’t remember a single useful snippet of information. If only. If only. If bloody only. And there isn’t a day gone by when I haven’t imagined what she went through, played the movie in my brain of what he must have done to Rachel, and how much pain and fear she must have suffered before she was killed. It varies a little each time, the details, but it’s basically the same movie.’

‘Any chance you would have recognised who did it in your movie?’ Annie cut in.

Pauline looked at her in surprise. ‘That’s a bloody clever question,’ she said. ‘Nobody asked me that before. But I’m afraid not. No. He’s always just a vague shadow. It’s only Rachel I see clearly. One of the cops suggested it could have been someone we met during the course of the evening, but we danced with a lot of lads, and nobody stands out as particularly weird. Still, they wouldn’t have to, would they? Don’t they always say it’s the boy-next-door type you have to watch out for?’

‘It was worth a try,’ said Annie. ‘I just thought it might have been someone you’d seen in the course of the evening, even just from the corner of your eye, and for some unconscious reason, you cast him in that role.’

‘No. I’m sorry. No.’

‘Were you aware of anybody following you, or paying undue attention during the evening?’ Winsome asked.

‘I’ve racked my brains to dredge up something time and time again, but I just can’t do it,’ said Pauline. ‘It makes me want to tear my hair out. We talked to a lot of lads that night. Just for fun, nothing serious. We danced, chatted, had a good time. I mean, I was getting married, so I wasn’t interested in other blokes. Rachel had just split up with shit-for-brains dickhead Tony Leach. The others, I don’t know... I don’t even know if I would have noticed if someone had been stalking us.’

‘Do you still see the others?’ Winsome asked.

‘No. Funny that, isn’t it? People used to say we were inseparable. Course, Janine topped herself. Took an overdose. That’d be three, four years ago now.’

‘Because of what happened?’

‘Boyfriend troubles, but that covers a multitude of sins, doesn’t it? She was always the sensitive one. Gillian’s all right. She got married last year, and she plans on turning herself into a baby factory. First one’s out already. She even sent me a wedding invitation and a Christmas letter. I think they’re living in Canada. Helen’s an alcoholic. I don’t know where she lives. On the streets in London, I think. And Brenda’s a social worker. She finally got it together after treatment. She’s discovered she’s really gay, so she’s shacked up with some African woman. Our Brenda. Sweet little naïve Brenda. Would you believe it? What a turn up.’

Five young lives destroyed, Annie thought. Except maybe for Gillian and Brenda, who seemed desperately trying to put their lives back together, even if the paths they had chosen were difficult ones.

‘How bad was Rachel, really, that night?’ Winsome asked.

‘Well, she wasn’t totally legless. She was a bit wobbly, like, but she could have got back to the hotel on her own, or at least managed a taxi. She had some money. Other than that, it’s hard to say. Her judgement was probably a bit fucked up, but I think if someone had grabbed her, she’d have known what was happening. She was streetwise enough. She wouldn’t just have gone along with it.’

‘She would have struggled?’

‘And screamed. I think so. Yes. But if it was someone strong, with an open car door, or maybe even two people, there wouldn’t have been much she could do, would there? All he’d have to do was put his hand over her mouth and push her in.’

‘Is that how you think it happened?’

‘More or less.’

‘What happened in St Patrick’s?’ Winsome asked.

‘We were just talking to the German lads. They all spoke good English, and they had a great sense of humour. You don’t think that about Germans, do you, but they did. It was busy, but not as crowded or hot as that dance place we’d been to. Club Hollywood. I think we even had something to eat.’

‘A bit of an oasis, then?’

‘Something like that. A breather. Then we went off to another bar, and we were thinking of leaving there and going dancing again when I missed Rachel.’

‘It was you who noticed she was missing?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you do?’

‘First we searched through the place we were in, then we went back to try to find her.’ Tears welled up in Pauline’s eyes. ‘Me and one of the German boys. But we couldn’t remember where we’d been, could we? We were too pissed. Neither of us knew the city, and we couldn’t find it again. We didn’t remember St Patrick’s until later. Too late.’

‘So what happened there?’ Winsome asked.

‘It’s all very vague, but I remember someone asked us to leave. Quietly, like. It was one of the places where they didn’t like English stag parties, or hens. They had a bit of a reputation for hell-raising by then.’

‘And did you leave?’

‘Yes. We might have given a bit of lip, I don’t really remember, but we left. That’s why we left. And Rachel had been flirting with the barman. Good-looking bloke. Australian. Can’t remember his name. Steve, or something.’

‘They’d been talking?’

‘Flirting. On and off. I mean, he was really busy, so he couldn’t just stand there and chat, but I remember myself thinking, I’ll bet she’s back here again tomorrow.’

‘Did you tell the Estonian police this?’

‘Yes, of course. When I remembered. But it was too late by then. When I asked them about it, they said the barman was gone. They didn’t know where. Back to Australia, I suppose. Anyway, they couldn’t trace him, so that was that. Dead end.’

‘Do you think he had anything to do with it?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Pauline. ‘I mean, he was working, wasn’t he? He couldn’t just disappear. And the police said he didn’t have a car. It was just that he might have known where she’d gone, that’s all. Rachel might have said something to him.’

‘Maybe she arranged to meet him later,’ said Winsome, and she and Annie looked at one another. The three of them sat silently for a moment, thinking over the implications. Winsome seemed to have covered just about everything, Annie thought. She couldn’t think of anything else to ask. Pauline’s company was becoming depressing, and the messy flat oppressive.

‘We should be off now, then,’ Winsome said. ‘Thanks for your time, Pauline. I’m sure you’ve got work or something.’

‘Work? Huh. That went the same way as marriage.’

‘You packed it in?’

‘Sort of. Though I think they made the final decision for me. I’d got my A levels, but I wanted to start work — like Rachel — and I got a job with Debenhams. In management, not shop floor. Anyway, it was a start. Sort of a management trainee. I got transferred here after things started to go off a bit in Bradford, then... I don’t know. Couldn’t keep up my concentration. Still can’t. It was rude of me, I know, but I didn’t even offer you a cup of tea. Sure you won’t stay and have one?’

Annie could see the desperation in her eyes, but she didn’t feel she could stand another fifteen or twenty minutes in this mausoleum of guilt and shame. Luckily, Winsome must have agreed, because she was the one who refused the offer of tea, gently, and led the way out.

Erik Aarma had agreed to meet Banks and Joanna in the hotel lobby at five o’clock, and they spent the time in between talking to Rätsepp and meeting Erik going over their notes and clarifying theories. Both agreed that Rätsepp hadn’t been much use and had told them nothing Annie hadn’t already gleaned from reading over Quinn’s files.

It had taken a long time to set the investigation in motion, Banks thought, but that was more than likely for the reasons Rätsepp had given: the memory of the girls, or lack of it, being paramount. For a start, the police didn’t hear about the disappearance until the following day, and the girls were unable to give an accurate account of where they went, what they did and who they talked to, even on Monday morning. Thus, Rachel had been missing for close to thirty-six hours before anything approaching an investigation stumbled into motion. By then, of course, the rest of that night’s revellers were long gone.

Perhaps if one of the girls had pushed a little harder a little sooner and reported Rachel missing to the police the night she had got lost, rather than the following morning, something more might have been done. But that was a long shot. Rachel was nineteen, hardly a minor, and there was no guarantee that the police would start an immediate all-out search for her. Most likely they wouldn’t, unless they had good reason to think something had happened to her. It was natural enough to think that she may have simply wandered off, or met some young man, and would turn up by morning. It is all very well to apportion blame in retrospect, but at the time, nobody thought for a moment that they were never going to see Rachel again, that she was about to disappear from the face of the earth. You don’t plan for these things; nobody is ever prepared.

Erik Aarma was a big bearded bear of a man with piercing blue eyes and straggly, ill-cut hair, wearing a baggy checked work shirt and jeans. He was carrying a scuffed leather satchel of the kind Banks used to carry back and forth to school every day, in the days before rucksacks became de rigeur. He wished he had kept his now; it looked cool.

Erik lowered his bulk into the semicircular Naugahyde chair and apologised for being late. He gave no reason, and Banks suspected he was a person who was rarely on time. They ordered coffees and quickly got down to business. Joanna had agreed to make notes, so she took out her notebook and pen. Erik’s English was excellent, and it turned out he had worked in London on the Independent for a few years. Banks was wondering if he would ever run into an Estonian who needed a translator. That reminded him to get in touch with Merike soon.

As a rule, Banks didn’t trust journalists; in the past they had screwed up so many of his cases in the name of people’s right to know. But he felt he had no choice as far as Mihkel and Erik were concerned. They were his only allies, and Mihkel was dead. Bill Quinn had clearly trusted Mihkel enough to become friends with him. This from a man who, according to his own daughter, didn’t have many friends outside work, followed solo pursuits, preferred his own company. Now Banks was in a position of wanting to trust Erik a lot more than he had trusted Toomas Rätsepp. He hoped his faith would be justified.

Erik’s handshake was firm, and his anger and sadness over the loss of his friend and colleague clearly genuine. ‘I do not know how I can help,’ he said, glancing from Banks to Joanna and back, ‘but I promise I will do what I can.’

‘Thank you,’ Banks said.

‘Poor Merike. She must be heartbroken.’

‘She was very upset, yes,’ said Banks. ‘Perhaps you’d like to call her?’

‘Yes. Yes, I will.’

‘How long have you worked with Mihkel?’

‘Fifteen years. Ever since he began to work at the paper.’

‘Was that before “Pimeduse varjus”?’

‘Yes. He worked on general duties at first, then he later came to specialise in crime stories. He started the column in 2001. Sometimes others contribute, but it was his idea in the beginning. Can you give me any idea what happened to him? The stories we heard were very vague.’

Banks quickly weighed his options before answering and decided that, given the information he wanted from Erik, it would be best to tell him as much as realistically possible. ‘He was found dead at an abandoned farm called Garskill in remote North Yorkshire last Saturday morning. We think he had been dead since the Wednesday before. The place looked as if it had been home to a group of about twenty bonded or migrant workers, possibly illegal, most likely Eastern European. We found a paperback book on one of the mattresses, and it turned out to be in Polish. When we found Mihkel, everyone else was gone, and we suspect that they left for work on Wednesday morning and were later directed to new quarters. We haven’t been able to discover where they are yet.’

‘But how did he die? How did you come to find him there?’

Banks paused. ‘He was drowned,’ he said. ‘In a water trough. We know it wasn’t accidental because there were bruises to indicate he had been held under. I’m sorry if this is distressing, but you asked, and I’m telling you as much as I can.’

‘I’m all right. Please go on.’

‘There isn’t much more to tell,’ Banks said.

‘I talked to Mihkel on Tuesday evening,’ Erik said. ‘He told me he was calling from a telephone box. He had to be very careful. The men in charge were suspicious because someone had smuggled a mobile phone into another group and used it to take photographs and make calls to a Lithuanian magazine.’

‘What did you talk about?’ Banks asked.

‘Conditions there. He said they were terrible. It was cold. There were holes in the roof. They did not get much food, and what they did get was bad. The pay was low.’

‘Where were they working?’

‘Different places. A chicken hatchery. A frozen-food factory. A chemical-packing plant.’

‘Can I get the full details from you later?’ Banks asked. ‘We’ll need to track these places down. That’s not my immediate concern, but it will have to be done.’

‘Of course.’

‘So he was writing a story for you about this?’

‘Yes. We have known about these illegal labour schemes for a long time, but Mihkel thought it would be useful to go undercover, to follow one from the beginning to the end and write an in-depth article. He could not know what that end would be, of course. That it would be his own.’

‘Did he mention someone called Quinn at all? Bill Quinn?’

‘Bill? But yes, of course. They had talked.’

‘That was all he said, that they had talked?’

‘He spoke about another story, a possibly big story, but that was all he could say.’

‘And this was connected with Bill Quinn?’

‘I think so.’

‘Do you have any idea what it was?’

‘No. Not unless Bill Quinn had found out what happened to Rachel Hewitt.’

‘Or had always known,’ Banks said to himself.

‘What?’

‘Sorry. Nothing. So you know about that, about Rachel?’

‘Of course. That was how they met, Bill and Mihkel. The Rachel Hewitt case. Mihkel wrote much about it, and he and Bill became friends. They kept in touch over the years.’

‘The thing is,’ Banks said, ‘Bill Quinn was killed, too, around the same time and, we believe, by the same person.’

Erik’s mouth opened and flapped like a landed fish. He rubbed his forehead. ‘I... I don’t...’

‘I know. It’s very confusing,’ Banks said. ‘We don’t pretend to know what’s going on, but there are some very far-reaching connections here. One of them is the Rachel Hewitt case, and another is the migrant labour scheme you mentioned, the one Mihkel was writing about and Bill Quinn was investigating. Have you ever heard of a man called Corrigan? Warren Corrigan?’

Erik thought for a moment, then said, ‘No. I’m sorry.’

‘No matter,’ Banks went on. ‘Can you tell me how Mihkel ended up in North Yorkshire?’

‘His story?’

‘Yes.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Erik. ‘It’s not as if he can tell it himself now, is it?’

‘It might help us catch his killer.’

Erik thought for a moment, then a brief smile flickered through his beard. ‘I am sorry. It is difficult for me, as a journalist, to give information to police. Old habits die hard.’

‘If it’s any consolation,’ Banks said. ‘It’s very difficult for me even to be in the same room as a journalist.’

Erik stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. Joanna joined in. ‘I have no problem with most journalists,’ she said. ‘We’d very much appreciate it if you could give us a few details.’

‘Of course. As I said, it was Mihkel’s idea. Well, mostly.’

‘Pardon me for interrupting so early,’ said Banks, ‘but was that usually the case with his stories, or was he given assignments?’

‘It varied. Sometimes, if a subject was hot at the moment, he would be given an assignment like any other reporter. But something like this, something that would take him undercover for some time, and perhaps expose him to danger, that would have to be his own idea.’

‘I see. Carry on.’

‘Like most of us, Mihkel had heard about unskilled workers heading for what they thought was a paradise in the UK and other countries, and finding quite the opposite. He wanted to follow the whole process through every stage, find out who the main players were and how it was done. It was actually Bill who told him about this.’

‘Bill Quinn sent Mihkel in there?’

‘No. No. He simply told Mihkel about how the business operated and gave him the name of the agency in Tallinn. It was Mihkel who had the idea to start at the beginning and follow the trail. He was always... what would you say?’

‘Adventurous? Impetuous?’

‘Both,’ said Erik, smiling sadly.

‘Did he send you written reports?’

‘No. Not this time. It was too risky. No phones, no cameras, no paper and pencil. We talked on the telephone, and I made notes. He was allowed out, of course, when he wasn’t working. They weren’t prisoners. At least not prisoners in solid prisons. You understand?’

‘I think so,’ said Banks. ‘He was living in a very remote place. It was a two-mile walk to the telephone. Did you write up the reports in Estonian?’

‘Of course.’

‘OK. Go on. Can you give me the gist?’

‘It’s a simple enough story. He first approached an agency here in Tallinn, where they charged him two hundred euros, gave him a telephone number and told him there was a job waiting for him in Leeds.’

‘Did they say what kind of job?’

‘No. But he knew it would be casual labour of some sort, perhaps in a factory, or on a battery farm. About fifty hours a week at minimum wage. I think that is about seven euros an hour, perhaps a little more. That’s three hundred and thirty euros a week, anyway. He travelled by train and was met at St Pancras by another agent of the company, who asked for another two hundred euros. So already this job had cost Mihkel four hundred euros and his travel expenses. For all this he had no receipt. The man told him he could get a train to Leeds at King’s Cross, just across the road, and he disappeared with the money. Mihkel never saw him again.’

‘These people, the agents, do you know their names?’

‘Yes. The man in London was a Latvian, but he worked with the same agency as the one in Tallinn.’

‘If it came to it, would you turn these names over to the police or the immigration authorities?’

Erik hesitated. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It would be... perhaps unethical. Even though Mihkel is dead. I would have to think.’

‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘No pressure.’ Not yet, he thought.

‘Mihkel went to Leeds and contacted the number he had been given. It was a staffing agency.’

‘It wouldn’t happen to be called Rod’s Staff Ltd, would it?’

Erik’s eyes widened. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Run by a Mr Roderick Flinders?’

‘Yes. The agency said they had never heard of Mihkel, that there must have been some mistake, there was no job waiting for him in Leeds, but they might be able to help him. They gave him a bed in a room shared by ten people in a converted barn outside Otley and told him to wait for further instructions. Four days later he was told he was moving to another area right away. They took him to that farm you mentioned, where he was killed three weeks later.’

‘What happened during those three weeks?’

‘The conditions were terrible, Mihkel told me, and he was sharing with about twenty people. They had only one toilet, a shower that mostly did not function. Filthy drinking water.’

‘I’ve seen it,’ said Banks. ‘I know.’

‘Then you will understand. Did you also know that not all the workers were men? There were three young women also, and two couples, all together in the same damp, cold dormitory. Sometimes some of the men tried to touch the women. There were fights. Mihkel said he tried to help. He spoke to a girl from Poland and another from Lithuania. The third girl never talked to anybody. Mihkel didn’t know where she was from, but her skin was darker. He thought Kazakhstan, or Georgia, perhaps. For the privilege of living there, they had to pay Rod’s Staff Ltd. Sixty euros each week in rent. This was deducted from their pay.’

‘Where did they work?’

‘All over the north, from Carlisle to Teesside. Darlington. Middlesbrough. Stockton.’

‘What sort of work?’

‘The worst. Slaughterhouses, chemical packaging plants, fertiliser factories. You name it. The work was hard and the hours long. Mihkel’s first job was at a mushroom farm, picking mushrooms, but that was only for one shift. He never saw any money from that. Then he was sent to a frozen-food factory on day shifts, twelve hours a day, seven days a week, picking any bad beans or peas from the conveyor belt after they had been frozen and before they were packaged.’

‘A lot more than fifty hours,’ Banks said.

‘Yes. After two weeks he had worked a hundred and sixty-eight hours and he received his first payslip. It was for sixty-five euros.’

‘How did they explain that?’

‘There were many discrepancies. He was not paid minimum wage to start with, but only five euros for each hour. Would this be easier in pounds?’

‘No, it’s OK,’ said Banks. ‘I can keep track. Besides, there’s not a hell of a lot of difference these days.’

‘Too true,’ Erik agreed. ‘Perhaps we should have kept the kroon. Anyway, Mihkel was also told that Rod’s Staff Ltd withhold two weeks’ wages and pay... what is the word?’

‘In arrears?’ Banks suggested.

‘Yes. Two weeks in arrears. Of course, one hundred and twenty euros for two weeks’ rent had also been deducted, but had not been included in the deductions on his payslip. By then, he also owed money to people, and when he had paid them back, he had almost nothing left. This was when someone from Rod’s Staff Ltd, perhaps even Mr Flinders himself, approached him and told him he knew someone who lent money to people in Mihkel’s situation and asked if he was interested. Mihkel said yes, he was, as he had no money left for cigarettes or food. Anyway, this was the stage of the investigation he had reached when he was killed. It was on Tuesday evening he told me about the payslip and the errors on it.’

‘How did he get to work and back?’

‘Someone with a van picked them up in the morning and dropped them off at night. They got weak coffee and stale bread for breakfast. If they were lucky and had enough money, they could just make a dash to the nearest fast-food outlet before the van arrived to take them back, and buy a burger or fried chicken.’

‘Are you sure he never mentioned someone called Corrigan?’

‘No. I will check my notes, but I would remember. I have a very good memory.’

It was too much of a coincidence, Banks thought, for someone else to be in the same business in the same general area. Corrigan must have used his minions to reach out to operations like Flinders’, while he remained at the business centre in Leeds. The two men knew each other, had drinks together, so it seemed obvious to Banks that they were in cahoots over this. Flinders created and supplied the victims, not only on city housing estates, but also in remote dormitories like Garskill Farm, which cost him nothing and netted him about a grand a week in rents. To say nothing of the kickbacks he was getting from the employers.

On Wednesday morning, more than likely, the killer had arrived at Garskill Farm and Mihkel had been kept back from work that day. He was tortured, at which time he had probably agreed to the mobile call to Quinn to set him up, arrange to meet in the woods later that night, which had set off the detective’s alarm bells, though they had not rung loudly enough to keep him away from the rendezvous completely and save his life. Quinn had, however, kept the photographs in his room, and perhaps had planned, if all turned out to be above board, to go back and get them for Mihkel. But it wasn’t Mihkel who turned up in the woods at St Peter’s that night.

‘Who knew of Bill Quinn’s friendship with Mihkel?’ he asked Erik.

‘I don’t know. It was not something they hid. Anyone could know. Sometimes Mihkel wrote updates on the Rachel Hewitt case, and he often mentioned his connection with the English policeman.’

‘In the newspaper?’

‘Yes.’

‘So anyone at all could know?’

‘It would surely not be of much interest to anyone. What are you thinking?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Banks. ‘But someone wanted Bill Quinn out of the way, and that same person also wanted Mihkel out of the way. Can you think of anyone who would want that?’

‘No.’

‘I’m missing something,’ Banks went on. ‘There has to be some connection between Rachel Hewitt and the illegal worker scam.’

‘Why? How?’

‘Because we believe someone sent the same killer to get rid of both Bill Quinn and Mihkel.’

‘But why bring up Rachel Hewitt? You have already said that Bill Quinn was also involved in investigating the workers.’

‘That’s true. Maybe he was working both sides.’

‘And perhaps with Mihkel’s help he was about to become a danger to them, and they knew that? Perhaps they were both killed for the same reason. The Rachel Hewitt case was simply what brought them together in the first place, not the reason for either of the murders.’

Banks had always been aware of that possibility, that he could be wandering way off target by taking Rachel Hewitt into consideration. But there was something about her disappearance that bothered him, and something had obviously been gnawing away at Bill Quinn ever since his trip to Tallinn six years ago. There were the photographs with the unknown girl, too. Banks knew, however, that he had to try to keep an open mind on this, that he was in danger of allowing one set of facts to obscure or distort another. Maybe the two events weren’t connected, but that didn’t mean Banks shouldn’t try to find out what had happened to Rachel as well as solve Quinn’s and Mihkel’s murders. He didn’t think he could go through the rest of his days not knowing what happened, the way Bill Quinn had. Look what it had done to him. And her parents deserved better.

Banks took out copies of Bill Quinn’s photographs, including the blow-ups and the cropped version showing only the girl. He laid them before Erik on the table. ‘We believe that these photographs were taken here in July 2006, when Bill Quinn was over at the start of the Rachel Hewitt case. This is the only real evidence that convinces me that what happened to Bill Quinn was connected with Rachel’s disappearance, otherwise I’d accept that he and Mihkel were both killed because of the migrant worker scam. The rest is simply copper’s instinct. But the photographs are important. Trust me on that. We believe that someone set him up with this girl. It’s possible that she drugged him or got him so drunk he didn’t know what he was doing, then got him up to his hotel room so these photographs could be taken. Are you with me so far?’

Erik looked puzzled, but he said, ‘Yes.’

‘We don’t know why, but one good guess is that he had somehow or other got close to whoever it was abducted Rachel. Everyone said he was haunted by the case right up until his death. I wonder. One thing that would explain it is that he found out what happened to Rachel and was unable to do anything about it, that he was blackmailed into silence. Bill Quinn was devoted to his wife, but he stumbled this once, and it came back on him in a very big way. When his wife died a month ago, that silence was no longer so important. What he had to do was find a way of making his knowledge public without revealing that he had hidden the truth for six years.’

‘And to that end, he enlisted Mihkel’s help?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘I think so. I know it’s only conjecture at this point, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. The killer knew that Mihkel and Quinn were in touch, knew that Quinn was free now that he was no longer troubled by anyone showing the pictures to his wife. That Mihkel was in England at the time was irrelevant to the killer, really. He could have been anywhere. It simply made things more convenient for the killer, or whoever sent him. Two birds with one stone, so to speak.’

‘How did the killer know Mihkel was at this farm?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘But it would be my guess that Mihkel slipped up somehow, despite taking such care. I would imagine that all these migrant gangs have spies planted to keep an eye out for infiltrators like Mihkel. They’ve been stung too often before, as you yourself mentioned earlier. Then someone was sent to tidy up.’

‘But surely if Bill had discovered anything about Rachel Hewitt, the Tallinn police would know? There was no way he could simply go about and make the investigation by himself.’

‘That is a problem, I agree. Unless it was something he uncovered on his own, either here or back in England.’

‘But if it happened here, he would have told someone, surely? The Investigator. The Prosecutor?’

‘Yes, he probably would, wouldn’t he?’

Erik stared at Banks in disbelief. ‘Are you saying the police here were corrupt? The Office of the Prosecutor?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. But again, it’s mere speculation. So much police work is. I’d like you to do me a couple of favours. First, I’d like you to see if you can find out who this girl is. She’s probably local, or was in 2006, and may well have been connected with the sex trade or perhaps worked in one of the nightclubs. She might also have been trafficked from somewhere, forced into prostitution. You must have extensive files at your newspaper. You’ve got the resources, and I don’t. Can you do it? Will you help us?’

Erik examined the photos and nodded slowly. ‘I can try,’ he said. ‘If it helps to uncover who killed Mihkel. You mentioned two favours.’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘There’s a retired cop called Toomas Rätsepp and a Prosecutor called Ursula Mardna. I’d like you to find out all you can about them, too.’

After dinner at a Thai restaurant not far from the hotel, at which they discussed their conversations with Toomas Rätsepp and Erik Aarma, Joanna begged off early for the night, pleading the jetlag and the change of scene were catching up with her. Two hours wasn’t much of a time difference, Banks thought, but travel itself certainly was tiring. He didn’t know why, as all you had to do was sit there and be delivered to your destination, but it was.

It was only half past nine. Banks felt restless, and he knew it would be no use heading up to his room so early. Besides, having got at least some sense from Toomas Rätsepp of the places the hen party had visited, he wanted to wander the Old Town after dark and get a better feel for the streets, where the cars were, the nightclubs, the bars. It was just around sunset, so he decided now was as good a time as any to set off. Of course, it would have stayed light much later in July, but Banks guessed that the girls would also have been up a lot later than nine fifteen, and that it would have been quite dark when they left St Patrick’s. Some clubs didn’t even open until midnight or after, like the ones in cities at home that opened when the pubs closed. He imagined that Tallinn was the sort of place where you could get a drink at any time of the day or night.

It was Thursday, close to the weekend, and the Old Town was much livelier than it had been the previous evening. Walking past the front of Old Hansa, Banks saw a line of young men shuffling along wearing chain-gang uniforms. A stag party, no doubt. One of them raised a bottle of Saku, smiled and said, ‘All right, mate?’ Banks recognised the northern accent.

Once again he found himself by the large bookshop on the corner of Harju and Niguliste, opposite the church at the top of its grassy slope. He walked along the front of the bookshop, recognising a few of the English titles he saw displayed in the window, past Fish & Wine, where he turned left, past the corner where he and Joanna Passero had been sitting last night, and continued on, down Vana-Posti.

It was one of the narrower streets in the Old Town, but there were a few cafes and bars, including St Patrick’s, and further down, on his right, an elegant four-storey hotel with dormer windows on top and a white facade stood on a corner. It formed a little triangle with benches and fountains, and on another side stood the concave front of a building with SOPRUS written across the top in large letters. It looked like an old cinema, with its steps and massive pillars along the front. There were a couple of large movie posters on the wall, one for Submarine and another for a series of classics by master directors. To the left of the second poster was a sign for ‘Hollywood’, where the girls had been dancing and met the German boys in July 2006. Banks was tempted to go in, just to check out the place, but he realised there would be no point. It would simply be a hot, noisy, jam-packed club, which would stifle his breath and hurt his ears. There were some things worth suffering for the job, but not that.

Instead, he started to walk back up Vana-Posti to St Patrick’s, went inside, stood at the bar and ordered a beer. The place probably hadn’t changed much since 2006, he reckoned. Their food was supposed to be pretty good and it wasn’t one of the major stag-party haunts. There were no guys in chain-gang uniforms in evidence, at any rate. It was busy, though, and most of the tables and all the chairs around him were taken. There was quite a mix of age groups and accents, from what Banks could make out, and he reckoned it was the kind of place you might kick off an evening, or somewhere you might end up to mellow out for a while. It didn’t seem like the sort of establishment that would tolerate rowdy behaviour.

There was music playing, but Banks had no idea what it was. It wasn’t obtrusive, at any rate. He finished his beer and left, turning right, the way the girls had turned. He turned right again at Fish & Wine, the way he had come, and followed the street straight across Niguliste. In no time he was at the Raekoja Plats, the main square. It had taken him no more than five minutes from St Patrick’s, but the girls and their German friends had probably taken a bit longer. There were plenty of lively bars and restaurants opposite the town hall on the large cobbled square, all with tables outside under awnings, nicely lit by candlelight and dim table lamps: Molly Malone’s, Kaerajaan, Fellini, Karl Friedrich. The girls would probably have stayed outside drinking wherever they went in the square, and at some point, they realised they had lost Rachel.

Banks walked back to St Patrick’s, but this time he didn’t go inside. He continued past the pub, in the other direction. Rätsepp had mentioned that a bartender thought he saw Rachel go the wrong way when she left St Patrick’s. Maybe he was right. Banks wanted to know what was around there other than Club Hollywood and the My City Hotel. Then he saw, just to his left shortly after passing the pub, one of those long, narrow lanes curving into the distance, mixed facades of four-storey buildings on each side, narrow strips of pavement, and a cobbled road perhaps wide enough for a car.

Banks turned left and started walking along the street. In places some of the plaster had fallen away from the fronts of the buildings, revealing the stone and brickwork underneath, like the skeleton without flesh, bared teeth and jawbone where the cheek has been ripped away. There were flags hanging above some of the doorways, and Banks guessed most were residences, or perhaps business offices with flats above.

Then he noticed a small illuminated sign above one of the doorways about thirty feet along. It had nothing written on it, only a stylised cartoon of a man in a top hat and tails, who seemed to be helping a voluptuous woman into a carriage. Banks paused and looked at the door. There were no prices or opening times posted — he supposed it was a place you just had to know about — and all he could make out was a vague sort of reception desk and perhaps cloakroom area lit by a reddish glow behind the heavy glass doors. It was elegant, with polished brass and dark wood, certainly not like some of the seedier sex clubs he had seen in Soho, if that was what it was. And it was open.

Would anything have been likely to draw Rachel down here, Banks wondered, assuming she actually had turned the wrong way, unless she perhaps recognised the street, thought it was a short cut to the hotel or the main road and the possibility of a taxi? Vana-Posti would lead eventually to Pärnu, a broad boulevard with a constant flow of traffic and trams running along the southern edge of the Old Town. But that was not in the same direction as the Meriton Hotel. Still, if Rachel might have known she could get a taxi on or near Pärnu. It was a very busy road, beyond the confusing and possibly by now claustrophobic and frightening maze of the Old Town, and she could soon get herself reoriented there. Might something have drawn her down this street, caught her attention? The illuminated sign? Something else? Someone? Had the toilets at St Patrick’s been too busy, and did she still need to go? Perhaps she was looking for a quiet, sheltered doorway to pee in. Or perhaps she had spotted a taxi with its light on down the road and dashed to try and catch it. Then what?

Banks sensed, rather than saw, a shadow entering the street behind him. He had been wary of being followed most of the time he had been in Tallinn, but it had been impossible to tell in the busy streets and bright sunshine. If someone wanted to find out where he had been and who he had been talking to, it wouldn’t have been too difficult. This was the first time he had been in the Old Town after dark by himself. It could just be someone taking a short cut, of course, or someone who lived on the street, but it was still enough to make Banks nervous. More likely than not, Rätsepp had sent a man to follow him and he was in no danger, but he didn’t need to make the man’s job too easy.

He tried the doors of the mysterious club and found himself in the small reception and coat check area. The woman standing behind the front desk wore a black bustière that left little to the imagination. Her breasts looked augmented to Banks’s unskilled eye. She had a beauty spot painted to the right of her mouth, bright red lipstick and tumbling black waves of hair. Beside her stood two bruisers. Well-dressed, in Armani suits, relaxed, at ease, both giving Banks pleasant nods of welcome, but bruisers nonetheless, with no necks and cauliflower ears.

‘Do you speak English?’ Banks asked the woman.

‘Of course, sir. What is it you require?’

‘Can I go in?’

‘Are you a member, sir?’

‘No. I didn’t realise that...’

‘If you would just like a drink in the bar, then a one-time membership is available for twenty euros.’

‘That’s just to go in?’

‘Yes, sir. Into the lounge.’

‘There’s more?’

She gave an enigmatic smile. ‘There are many rooms, sir.’

‘Is there any entertainment?’

‘Here, we make our own entertainment, sir.’

Already feeling as if he had fallen down the rabbit hole, Banks forked over twenty euros, for which he got a stamped pass, and the woman directed him to a pair of swing doors. ‘Just through there, sir.’

It was a dimly lit lounge bar with leather chairs around low round tables, definitely not built for bottles and litre glasses. Each table bore a shaded lamp with a low wattage bulb. There was no music and no windows. Waitresses in tastefully scanty clothing with a vaguely S & M theme drifted between the tables, carrying silver trays. Banks had no sooner sat down when one appeared at his side. ‘What is your pleasure, sir?’

English, it seemed, was the language of choice here, and her accent was impeccable. ‘Perhaps a glass of red wine,’ Banks said.

‘We have a very good Merlot, sir, a Rioja or Chianti Classico by the glass. We also have an extensive wine list.’

‘I’ll have a glass of Rioja, please,’ said Banks.

‘Very well.’

What the hell am I doing here? Banks wondered as he waited for his drink. The conversations around him were hushed, most of the customers in business suits, men from their thirties to sixties. There were no women other than the waitresses. Occasionally, the door at the far end would open and someone would leave or enter.

‘What happens in there?’ Banks asked the waitress when she brought his drink. Her breasts were not augmented, he decided, as she bent to place the wine on a white coaster. She said nothing. ‘Can I talk to the manager?’ he asked.

‘Police?’

‘How did you know?’

‘They’re the same the whole world over, sweetie.’ She held her tray in one hand and pointed to a man standing by the cash register beside the bar. ‘He’s over there. Good luck.’

Banks picked up his wine and walked over. He had no idea whether the manager spoke English but was now used to the idea that everyone in Tallinn did. It was a skill, he thought, that the manager of a club like this ought to have. And he did. In fact, he spoke as if he had just got off a plane from London.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

Though he knew it was no use here, Banks flashed his warrant card. Humour twinkled in the manager’s eyes. ‘You can buy those in the shops over here, you know, mate.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Banks, ‘but I figured that seeing as I’m not here to cause you any trouble, merely just to ask a couple of questions for curiosity’s sake, it wouldn’t do any harm.’

‘There’s certainly no harm trying,’ said the manager. ‘I’m Larry, by the way. Larry Helmsley.’

Banks shook hands. ‘Pleased to meet you. How did you end up in a place like this?’

‘I started working the clubs over in London years back, but I wanted to travel, see new places. Mostly, I see the inside of a dark club and sleep all day.’

‘What kind of club is this?’

‘Private. Gentlemen’s. Members only.’

‘OK. I get it. What I’m interested in happened six years ago.’

‘Then I’m not your man. I was in Brussels then. Or was it Barcelona?’

‘Was this place here?’

‘I assume so. It’s been through a lot of changes over the years.’

‘Who owns it?’

‘A consortium of interested parties.’

‘And that’s who you work for?’

‘I’m more of a freelance, but they’re my employers at the moment.’

‘How long have they owned the place?’

‘About two years. What is it exactly that you’re after, mate? What is it that happened six years ago?’

‘An English girl disappeared near here. She was leaving a pub around the corner—’

‘St Patrick’s?’

‘Yes. And she may have taken the wrong direction from her friends and got lost. Maybe she came in here.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Looking for a phone, maybe. She’d forgotten her mobile. To use the toilet. Or trying to find her friends.’

‘Was she drunk?’

‘It was a hen party.’

‘If it’s anything like it is now, she wouldn’t have got past the front door. Just a minute. I think I remember the case you’re talking about. Her parents have been in the news. Rachel something-or-other, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Rachel Hewitt. She was never found.’

‘Tragic. I didn’t know she was near here when she vanished. But I can’t help you, mate. Like I said, I wasn’t here then, and the present owners have only been around a couple of years.’

‘It was a long shot, anyway,’ said Banks.

‘I appreciate a man who goes for a long shot. Nothing like it when one pays off. Sorry.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Banks. He finished his drink, left the glass on the bar and made for the front doors. He passed the waitress on the way, and she touched his arm. ‘You did quite well with him. You two seemed to hit it off.’

‘Two strangers united by a common language,’ he said. ‘Tell me, is anyone here from Estonia?’

Her accent slipped. ‘I wouldn’t know, sweetie. I’m from Wigan, meself.’

Smiling to himself, Banks walked outside, careful to scan both directions of the street. His shadow could easily be hiding in a doorway, like Orson Welles in The Third Man, but there was no obvious sign of him. Come to think of it, the whole place had a look of The Third Man about it. Banks put his hands in his pockets and strolled watchfully down the curving narrow street until it ended at a square full of packed and well-lit cafes. There, he decided to sit and have a final glass of wine before heading off to bed, and to see if his shadow turned up. The Rioja he had paid ten euros for at the club had not been very good, and it had left a nasty taste at the back of his throat.

The person whom Banks thought had been following him was still there, though it was sometimes hard to make him out through the crowds passing back and forth. He was of medium height, about the same as Banks himself, in his late thirties or early forties, already showing signs of thinning on top, casually dressed in jeans and a dark shirt underneath some sort of zip-up jacket. He sat down at the cafe across the square. Good. They could sit and stare at one another.

Banks ordered a glass of Shiraz, sipped and watched the people go by. A group of girls in red micro dresses, carrying heart-shaped red balloons on strings, snaked by in a conga line, giggling and chanting, hips bumping this way, then that, some almost tripping in their impossibly high heels on the cobblestones. When they had passed by, he glanced across the square again, only to find that his shadow had disappeared. He jotted a few notes in his notebook, finished his drink and decided to call it a day. It was two hours earlier in Eastvale, so he could probably still call Annie and get up to date when he got back to the hotel. On his way back, he noticed the man once again, about a hundred yards behind him walking down Viru. It didn’t matter, Banks decided. He was going to his room for the night. The streets would be well lit and full of people all the way. He would make sure the door to his room was secure. Tomorrow, he would keep his eyes open and his wits about him.