Watching the Dark

Chapter 9

Tony Leach lived in an old terrace house off the Skipton Road on the outskirts of Ilkley, where the streets eventually ran into fields, woods and open country. The bay window in the high-ceilinged living room had a fine view of the Cow & Calf, though the rocky outcrops were partly shrouded by mist and low-lying cloud that morning.

Annie and Winsome had driven down from Eastvale, avoiding the A1 this time, to find out what Rachel Hewitt’s ex-boyfriend had to add to the picture they were building up. Annie had had a long chat with Banks the previous evening, and he had told her of his talks with Toomas Rätsepp and Erik Aarma, and of being followed in Tallinn. It had been a lot to digest, but Annie was glad to be up to date and pleased that things were moving along. She told him to be careful, and meant it. She had shared the information with Winsome on their way to Ilkley. The only other welcome piece of news that morning had been the analysis of DNA from the trace amounts of blood on the tree the CSIs thought the killer used for balance when he shot Bill Quinn. There was no match on any of the databases, but at least if they found him they would be able take a sample and compare them. It probably wouldn’t convict him in itself, but it might help. The way this case was shooting off in all directions, Annie thought, it was as well to remember that this was the man they were after: the killer of Bill Quinn and Mihkel Lepikson.

Tony worked at a car dealership in the town centre, but that day, his boss had told them on the phone, he was at home with his wife, who was in the final stages of her second pregnancy. The fruits of the first, little Freddie, toddled around in a playpen filled with safe soft toys in the corner of the living room. They looked as if you could eat them, hit yourself on the head with them and jump up and down on them, and neither you nor they would be harmed in any way. Luckily, he was a quiet toddler.

Melanie Leach was lying down on the sofa listening to Woman’s Hour. When she asked for a cup of tea, Annie suggested that she and Winsome accompany Tony to the kitchen to chat while he made some. Annie hoped they might get a cup of tea out of it themselves, too, but most of all she didn’t want to talk to Tony about his ex-girlfriend while his pregnant wife was in the same room.

Tony was reluctant to leave Melanie alone, at first, but Annie reassured him that he wouldn’t be far away, and that he had two able-bodied police officers in the house. Why that should comfort him, she had no idea — though they were able enough in many ways, neither Annie or Winsome had any experience in delivering babies or attending to pregnant women — but it did. The only thing Annie knew was to shout for plenty of boiling water. She supposed, if anything happened, they could manage to call for an ambulance without panicking too much, and maybe even persuade it to arrive a bit quicker than it normally would, but she wasn’t even sure about that.

‘She’ll be fine,’ Tony said nervously, filling the kettle. ‘She’s just a bit jittery because it was a difficult birth last time, with our Freddie.’

‘I’m sure,’ Annie agreed. She studied the view from the window, a small back garden full of bright plastic toys, including a blue and yellow tricycle, orange skittles and a purple ball. There was also a swing, which reminded Annie of the swing her parents had put up for her in the artists’ commune where she grew up. She had loved that swing. She had very strong memories of her mother pushing her up higher and higher in it when she was very little. At the end of the garden was a brick wall and a privet hedge. ‘It’s just a quick word we wanted, really,’ Annie went on. ‘I can see you’ve got a lot on your plate.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. She’ll be all right. Doctor says there’s nothing to worry about.’

Tony was a handsome lad in his mid-twenties, fair hair combed back, a lock slipping over his right eye, tall, footballer fit, a nice smile. He pulled two teabags from a Will & Kate Wedding tin and dropped them into a large teapot, warming it first with hot water from the tap. The teapot was easily big enough for four cups, Annie thought. She might be in luck. The kettle soon came to a boil and Tony filled the teapot.

‘Why did you and Rachel split up?’ Annie asked. She had taken a chair at the kitchen table, and Tony was leaning against the draining board by the window.

‘Why does anybody split up?’ he said. ‘We stopped getting along. Fell out of love.’

‘But you were in love once?’ Winsome said.

Tony paused before answering. ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘We’d been going out for two years, after all.’

‘Was there someone else? Another boy?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Did Rachel go out with other people?’

‘Sometimes, in the early days. We both did. We weren’t exclusive.’

‘But you got more serious?’

‘I’d like to think so.’

‘You never got engaged, though?’

‘No. It never got that far.’

‘Sex?’ Annie asked.

‘None of your business.’

‘Fair enough. Milk and two sugars for me, please.’

Tony brought some mugs down from the cupboard, asked Winsome how she wanted hers and poured them both some tea. Then he put what seemed like half a pint of milk and three tablespoons of sugar into one mug and took it through to Melanie. Annie heard their voices, but not what they said. He came back and poured himself a mug of black tea, builder’s strength. ‘I get the impression that you’d rather continue the discussion in here,’ he said, sitting down opposite Annie. Winsome joined them at the table. ‘Not that I have any secrets from Melanie.’

‘All we want from you,’ said Winsome, ‘is some insight into Rachel, what she was like. It might help us understand what happened to her.’

‘But I went over all this years ago with the other detective. Why drag it all back up now?’

‘It never went away,’ Winsome said. ‘Rachel was never found. Now her name’s come up again in connection with another case we’re working on, and we have to pursue the line of inquiry.’

‘What line of inquiry?’

‘The “other detective” you mentioned was murdered a week ago. You might have heard.’

‘DI Quinn?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Bloody hell. I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard, actually. He was the one who talked to me back when it happened.’

‘That’s right.’

‘He was a decent enough bloke.’

‘So they say. What happened to Rachel might have some bearing on what happened to Bill Quinn. That’s why we’re going through all this. I can’t really tell you any more than that.’

‘That’s all right. I understand.’

‘Only you can tell us certain things. Her parents have one view — it was their darling daughter — but you might be able to provide a different perspective.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Tony. He glanced at Annie. ‘I’m sorry. You asked about sex. It was fine. No problems there.’

‘She enjoyed it?’

‘As far as I could tell. Rachel wasn’t promiscuous or kinky or anything. I’d say she was pretty normal in that department.’

‘Did you argue much?’ Winsome asked.

‘Every couple argues, don’t they?’

‘What sort of things did you argue about?’

‘I don’t remember, really. Nothing important. Holidays. She liked beaches, and I preferred cities. Money. We never seemed to have enough to go to all the fancy clubs and shops she liked. That sort of thing.’

Annie gestured around the kitchen and garden. ‘You seem to be doing all right now financially.’

‘All this came later. I’ve got nothing to complain about. Melanie and Freddie are happy here. It’s even big enough to accommodate Chloe, when she comes along.’

‘So you already know the gender?’

Tony beamed. ‘Yes. Ultrasound. We couldn’t resist.’

‘A girl,’ said Winsome. ‘One of each. That’s nice.’

‘So you’re doing all right?’ Annie pushed on. ‘Can afford a decent house and two kids to bring up. That’s pretty good in these tough times.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t mind a raise and a promotion, but yes, I think I’m damn lucky to have a job I like, and I’m good at. The thing is, this would hardly have made it as “all right” for Rachel.’

‘What do you mean?’ Annie asked.

‘It was probably the one thing we argued about most. She liked money and the things it bought. Maybe a bit too much for my liking.’

‘She was greedy?’

‘Not greedy or grasping or anything like that. It was just... like the magazines she read, with pictures of fancy cars and houses and yachts and stuff.’

‘But that’s just fantasy, surely?’

‘Not to her it wasn’t. It was her dream. She was serious about it. The worst thing I could do was criticise her dream.’

Annie remembered the photograph of the BMW outside the art deco mansion on Rachel’s bedroom wall. ‘MINE ONE DAY!!’

‘How did it manifest itself?’ Annie asked.

‘She had a lot of rows with her parents. They wanted her to go to university and get a good education — she was certainly bright enough, and they were willing to pay — but she wanted to get right out there and start making money. She said she could learn any job she wanted and make her way up the ladder quickly, as she went along. She could, too. She got a job in a bank. Not as a teller, but at head office, in the investments department. She was doing pretty well. She was smart, quick, ambitious. I know she would have gone far.’

‘And by then she would have left you behind?’

‘That was always a fear. Yes. Or she would have found someone richer.’

‘It sounds a bit mercenary. Was that why you split up?’

‘Mostly. I just wasn’t doing well enough for her, not progressing fast enough. And it didn’t exactly sound glamorous — a car salesman. At best you could say I wasn’t a used car salesman, I suppose. It’s true I’m not very ambitious, but is that such a terrible thing? Does everyone have to be pushy and grabbing? I’m happy as I am. She saw me stuck in a dead end job — I was in a showroom in Drighlington then — and never getting any further, wasting away her life in some dull suburb. It wasn’t what she wanted. I told her surely family came first. We could get a mortgage, buy a home, make it our own. But it wasn’t a home she wanted. It was one of those bloody mansions she goggled at in the celebrity lifestyle magazines and that other rubbish she read.’

‘Surely a girl can dream,’ said Annie. ‘Was there someone else on the scene? Someone who promised her all this?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Tony. ‘No, we didn’t split up over someone else. After Rachel, I’ll admit I went wild for a bit. I don’t know. I just didn’t care. Love them and leave them. Not very nice, but there it was. Then I met Melanie, and she turned everything around. It was like I’d finally found what I wanted in life.’

‘And Rachel, after you split up?’

‘Her ambition made her restless. I don’t think she’d found anyone else. She wasn’t going to settle for a loser like me next time, that’s for sure, and as it turned out, she didn’t have to, did she?’

‘But as far as you know, there was no one else in the offing, no one she might have invited to meet her in Tallinn, for example?’

‘No. Besides, that was a hen weekend. Strictly no boyfriends.’

They all paused and sipped tea, then Annie said, ‘This might be a rather indelicate question, but we think it’s important. You say that Rachel was ambitious, liked money and its trappings, that she rowed with her parents about getting a job instead of going to university, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Do you think that might have led her to do anything illegal?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Drugs, for example.’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘I mean selling, smuggling. Not necessarily taking them.’

‘Dealing? Rachel?’ He started shaking his head. ‘No way. Rachel wouldn’t get involved in anything like that. Rachel really did want to do good and help people, you know. If she’d realised her dreams and got hold of oodles of money, she’d probably have ended up like Warren Buffett or Bill Gates or someone, as long as she could have her Disney mansion and her magic carpet. No, you’re on the wrong track entirely.’

‘Believe it or not,’ said Winsome. ‘We’re perfectly happy to know that. It would have made our job a lot more complicated if it were true. But we have to check on these things.’

‘Leave no stone unturned, right?’

‘Something like that. We’re just trying to find reasons for what might have happened to Rachel in Tallinn, and falling foul of international drug-smugglers was one scenario. They can be very ruthless.’

‘When did you find out what happened?’ Annie asked.

‘I suppose it was about three or four days after she’d disappeared. A policeman came around. Uniformed. Wanted to know if I knew anything about where she was. Apparently DI Quinn was over in Tallinn then. He interviewed me in more detail when he got back a few days later, but I couldn’t help him.’

‘How did you react when you heard what had happened?’

‘I was gutted. Naturally. God, it was a terrible time. I went to see her parents, you know, just out of support and friendship, like, but they weren’t interested. I was yesterday’s news.’

‘How had you got along with them before?’

‘Well enough, I suppose. Or as well as anybody who wanted to steal away their precious little girl.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It was weird. Sometimes it was like they didn’t want her to grow up, and she didn’t want to. She was very childlike in some ways. If ever she was away, she had to phone her mother every day. They were always lovey-dovey, you know, with pet names and lots of hugs and kisses. You must have seen those awful stuffed animals if you’ve been to the house. And there was a stupid budgie she doted on. She’d spend hours talking to the bloody thing. I never thought I’d be jealous of a budgie, but if I’d had the chance I’d have opened the front door and the cage.’ He smiled. ‘But it was just a facet of her, that’s all. The little girl who doesn’t want to grow up, but who wants to be rich, a Disney princess. But she was bright and ambitious, good at her job, and she could be ruthless if she needed to be. At the same time, she couldn’t cut herself loose from her mother’s apron strings. It sometimes seemed like a tug of war between me and them, with her in middle. In the end none of us won.’

It sounded like a nightmare to Annie, who had enjoyed a relatively liberal childhood in the commune. Admittedly, she had lost her mother at an early age, but there had been surrogates, even if there was no replacement. And her father Ray always did his best, even if he was a bit forgetful when he was ‘in’ a painting, as he used to say.

‘Did the two of you ever go away together?’ she asked.

‘Once,’ said Tony. ‘The year before... you know. We went on holiday together. Well, not just the two of us, a group, like.’

‘How did her parents react?’

‘They weren’t too keen at first, but Rachel was good at getting her own way. She probably had to promise not to sleep with me.’

‘Did she?’ asked Annie.

Tony gave a wistful smile. ‘It was one of the best times of my life,’ he said.

‘I’ll take it she did, then. Where did you go?’

‘An all-inclusive on Varadero Beach, Cuba. We’d been saving up for it. It was expensive, but worth it.’

‘Cuba hardly sounds like the sort of environment for a girl like Rachel,’ said Winsome.

‘You’re right about that. She hadn’t much to say for the political system or the cleanliness of Havana. But she did love the beach and her Danielle Steele. And she phoned her mother every day.’

‘Dutiful daughter,’ Annie commented.

‘Look, I know some of this is coming out all wrong,’ said Tony. ‘But Rachel was a good person, despite it all, the ambition, the love of money. She had the biggest heart of anyone I’ve known. She’d do anything for you. She wasn’t greedy, and she wasn’t selfish. In the end, I suppose we just weren’t meant to be together.’

‘Did she make any friends over in Cuba, at the hotel, on the beach?’

‘Like who?’

‘Europeans, perhaps? Especially Eastern Europeans. Russians or Estonians, for example?’

‘Not that I know of. We pretty much stuck together the whole time.’ A sound came from the front room. ‘Is that Melanie calling?’

Annie heard the voice, too. ‘Sounds like it,’ she said. ‘I think it’s time for us to go now.’ She was certain that when Tony took in the tea they had prearranged some signal to bring the interview to an end, and this was probably it. Annie looked at Winsome, who just shrugged, and they followed Tony through to the front door, wished him and Melanie well, and left.

‘I am not at all sure how I can help you,’ said Ursula Mardna. The Office of the Prosecutor General was in a neo-classical style two-storey house on Wismari, a peaceful, treelined street, not far from the Parliament building and the British Embassy. The place was an old private house, and Ursula Mardna’s office had probably been the master bedroom. It was a large space, with all the trappings of an important and powerful government official. Banks had been watchful on their walk over there, and he didn’t think they had been followed. If his theory were correct, and Rätsepp had put someone on his tail to keep track of the progress of his investigation, then he probably already knew that Banks would be visiting Ursula Mardna this morning.

You couldn’t really compare the function of the Prosecutor here that closely to the Crown Prosecution Service back home, Banks thought. From what he had read, the relationship was a lot more complicated and political, rather than just a matter of decisions being made on whether there was enough evidence, and whether the evidence was good enough to merit a prosecution. The Prosecutor guided an investigation in a very hands-on way, including the collection of evidence and use of surveillance. In some ways, he imagined, the Prosecutor was more like the American District Attorney, but perhaps even more complicated. Prosecutors would also turn up at crime scenes. Of course, the disappearance of a young English girl in Tallinn was a high-profile case, especially when she hadn’t been found after several days, or years.

‘We’re just trying to cover all the angles we can,’ said Banks, ‘and you were instrumental in the Rachel Hewitt investigation.’

Ursula Mardna waved down Banks’s comment. ‘Please. It was not a most glorious success. I wake up still and think about that poor girl some nights.’ She had a strong accent but her English was clear, and for the most part correct. Banks placed her at about forty, or just over. That would have made her in her mid-thirties when she worked the Rachel Hewitt case. Quite young. It could have been a career-making case, if it had been solved. As it was, she didn’t seem to be doing too badly. She was stylishly dressed and attractive, with an oval face, lively brown eyes and reddish-blonde hair cut short and ragged around the edges, in a rather punkish, pixie style. She had no piercings that Banks could see, but wore some rather chunky rings and a heavy silver bracelet.

‘You don’t believe she might still be alive somewhere?’ he asked.

She gave Banks a pitying glance. ‘No more than you believe it, Hr Banks. Or you, Pr Passero.’

‘It would, indeed, be a miracle,’ Joanna said, and turned a page in her notebook.

‘We got most of the details from Hr Rätsepp,’ Banks went on, ‘but we were just wondering if you have a different view of things? Perhaps there were things he didn’t tell us?’

‘Toomas Rätsepp was a fine investigator,’ said Ursula Mardna. ‘One of our best. If he could not solve the case, nobody could.’

‘What about his team?’

‘Fine officers.’

‘So in your opinion, everything that could possibly be done was done?’

‘Yes. We were most thorough.’

Banks wondered about that. Rätsepp had said the same thing. He also had to keep reminding himself not to expect too much, that he was talking to a lawyer, basically, however high-ranking and however close her role was to that of the investigator. What was she going to say, that Rätsepp was a sloppy copper and the investigation was a shambles? No. She was going to defend her team, especially to an unwelcome foreign detective. ‘Do you remember DI Quinn?’ he asked. ‘That’s really who I’m here about.’

She tilted her head to one side. ‘Of course I do.’

‘What exactly was his role?’

‘His role?’

‘Yes. The part he played, his function in the investigation.’

‘Ah, I see. I think he was ambassador from the British police, no?’

‘But he must have got involved somehow?’

‘He was here for only one week.’

‘But quite soon after Rachel’s disappearance, I understand?’

‘Then you will also understand that there were many obstacles in beginning of the investigation. The girls, themselves, they could not remember.’

‘I understand that,’ said Banks. ‘Hr Rätsepp said the same thing. But DI Quinn was in at the start?’

‘You could say that. He was allowed to accompany a junior investigator to get some feel of the city, to observe the investigations we were starting to make.’

That was the first Banks had heard of it. Another thing Rätsepp had neglected to mention. In fact, he had told Banks and Joanna that Quinn had played no active role in the investigation, had merely attended meetings. ‘Who was this investigator?’

‘I cannot remember his name. It is so long ago.’

‘Would it be in your files?’

Ursula Mardna gave him an impatient glance and picked up the telephone. ‘It would.’

A short scattershot phone conversation in Estonian followed, and several moments later a young pink-faced man in a pinstripe suit knocked and walked in with a file folder under his arm. Ursula Mardna thanked him and opened the folder. ‘His name is Aivar Kukk. According to this file, he left the police force five years ago.’

‘A year after the Rachel Hewitt case. Why?’

‘To pursue other interests.’ She pushed the folder away. ‘It happens, Hr Banks. People are sometimes lucky enough to find out that they have made a wrong choice in life early enough to correct it.’

‘Do you have his address?’

‘I am afraid we do not keep up-to-date information on ex-police officers. Even if we did, there would be much red tape involved in giving it to you.’

‘Of course.’

She favoured him with an indulgent smile. ‘We have come a long way since the Soviet era, but red tape is still red tape.’

‘Never mind,’ said Banks. ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to find him if we need to.’

Ursula Mardna gave him an assessing glance, as if trying to work out whether he would be able to, or perhaps whether it mattered.

‘What were your impressions of DI Quinn, Ms Mardna?’ asked Joanna.

‘He seemed a good man. Very serious. Dedicated.’

‘Did he change at all during the course of the week he was here?’

‘Change?’

‘Yes. His attitude, his feelings about the case, his commitment, his mood. Anything.’

‘I did not see much of him after the first two days,’ she said, ‘but I did get the impression that he placed himself more in the background. Is that how you say it?’

‘He stood back?’ Joanna said.

‘Yes. When he started, he was so full of energy that he did not want to sleep. He just wanted to walk the streets looking for the girl. I suppose he became tired, and perhaps depressed when he realised there was so little he could do here. I think he perhaps lost hope.’

Or he gave up when someone showed him the compromising photos, Banks thought.

‘I suppose so,’ said Joanna. ‘It must also have been intimidating, a foreign city, different customs, different language.’

‘As you can see, the language is not much of a problem here, but the other things... yes. I think he came to feel, how you say, out of his depth? That things were best left to us. The locals.’

‘That would explain it,’ said Joanna, making a note.

Ursula Mardna seemed a little alarmed. ‘Explain what?’

‘The change in him.’

‘Oh, yes.’

Banks showed her a photograph of the girl who had been with Quinn. He hadn’t shown her image to Rätsepp because he hadn’t trusted him. While he thought Ursula Mardna might well be erring on the side of caution and self-protection in all her responses, he took that as the reaction of a canny lawyer, not a bent copper. But he still didn’t want her to see Quinn and the girl together. There was something rather too final and damning about that. ‘Do you recognise this girl?’ he asked.

She studied the photograph closely then shook her head and passed it back. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have never seen her. Who is she?’

‘That’s something we would very much like to find out,’ said Joanna.

‘I am sorry I cannot help.’

‘Was there any possibility that Rachel Hewitt’s disappearance was connected with drugs?’ Banks asked.

‘Naturally, it was a direction we explored. We found no evidence of such a connection, but that does not mean there was none. Perhaps back in England. I do not know... Why do you ask?’

‘I suppose you kept, still keep, pretty close tabs on the drug-trafficking business around here?’

‘Tabs?’

‘Keep an eye on. Watch.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And there was no link between Rachel or her friends and drug smuggling?’

‘We did not reveal any such link.’

‘Could it be possible that any... er... uncovering of such a link might have been, shall we say, diverted, suppressed, avoided altogether?’

‘What are you saying?’

Banks leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. ‘Ms Mardna,’ he said. ‘I’ve worked as a police officer for more years than I care to remember, most of that time as a detective. I have worked undercover, vice, drugs, just about anything you would care to name, and if there is one thing I have learned, it is that there is always the possibility of corruption and intimidation, especially when drugs are involved, mostly because of their connection with organised crime. Now, can you honestly sit there and tell me there has never been a whiff of corruption in the Tallinn police?’

Her face reddened. ‘I cannot tell you that, Hr Banks,’ she said. ‘But I can tell you that in this case, the possibility of drugs was thoroughly investigated by Investigator Rätsepp and his team, and reviewed by myself. The girl had no connections with any of the known drug-traffickers at that time, and as far as I know, investigations back in Britain found no hints of any such a connection there either. All of which led us to believe,’ she went on, ‘even in the absence of a body, witnesses or forensic evidence, that we were dealing with a sex crime.’

‘Stands to reason,’ said Banks. ‘Attractive young girl, alone in a strange city. Odds are someone might take advantage of her. But why kill her?’

‘We worked on the assumption that whoever abducted her — or whoever she arranged to meet during the evening — also killed her to avoid identification and disposed of the body somehow.’

‘Why should somebody she arranged to meet do that?’

‘I can only speculate. Perhaps things went too far? Something went wrong? The girl became nervous, tried to back out? Protested, struggled. I do not know. There could be many explanations.’

‘And the body?’

‘Estonia is a small country, but there are many places to get rid of a dead body. Permanently. And before you ask, we did search as many of them as we could.’

Banks scratched the scar by his right eye. ‘It seems the most convincing scenario,’ he said. ‘In which case we’re probably wasting our time here.’ He gestured to Joanna and they both stood up.

Ursula Mardna stood up with them, leaning over the desk to shake hands. ‘You would never waste your time in Tallinn, Hr Banks. Especially as we have such wonderful weather this week. Goodbye. Enjoy yourselves.’

That, Banks thought, was what Rätsepp had wanted them to do, too. Have a holiday, don’t bother chasing ghosts. But it only made Banks all the more suspicious.

‘Since when have we been arresting people for begging in the street?’ Annie asked PC Geordie Lyttleton, who had just nipped into the Major Crimes office to report an incident.

‘Well we don’t usually,’ said Lyttleton, ‘but she was getting quite aggressive, ma’am. She scared the living daylights out of one old lady, following her down the street shouting some sort of gibberish after her.’

‘And what sort of gibberish did it turn out to be?’

‘Polish gibberish, ma’am. She can’t speak English. Jan from Traffic speaks a bit of Polish, though. His mum’s family’s from Warsaw. Anyway, he got it out of her that she has hardly eaten since last Wednesday. She lost her home and left her job. She was in a bit of a state. What she actually meant was that she was squatting up at some ruined farm and—’

‘Garskill Farm?’

‘She didn’t know what it was called. I just thought, with the murder and all... well, there might be a link of some sort.’

‘Excellent thinking, PC Lyttleton. Good work. We’ll make a detective of you yet. Where is she now?’

‘Well, ma’am,’ said Lyttleton, scratching his head. ‘She was bit, erm, aromatic, if you catch my drift, rather ripe, so I took her down to the custody suite and got WPC Bosworth to show her to the showers and fix her up with one of those disposable Elvis suits.’

Annie smiled. He meant the coveralls they gave to prisoners while their clothes were being examined for trace evidence. A bit of embroidery in the right places and they might look a bit like the jumpsuits Elvis Presley wore in his Las Vegas shows. The basement had been modernised recently, and there were decent shower facilities for the use of anyone being held there. Letting the girl use them was stretching it a bit, but if Lyttleton was right, it beat sitting in a small warm room with her as she was. ‘Did you arrest her? Charge her?’

‘No. Not yet. I thought I—’

‘Well done, lad.’ She thought of the starving girl, set the vestiges of her vegetarianism aside, put some money on the table and said, ‘Go and get her a Big Mac, large fries and a Coke, will you, and get someone to send DS Stefan Nowak over from next door, if he’s not too busy. I know he speaks Polish.’

‘Yes, ma’am. What shall I—’

‘When she’s finished with the shower, take her up to interview room two and let her eat there. Try to put her at ease. Tell her she’s nothing to be frightened of.’

‘She doesn’t understand English, ma’am.’

‘Do your best, Constable. A kind smile and gentle tone go a long way.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Interview room two was no different from any of the others, except that it had a viewing room beside it, with a one-way mirror. Annie wanted to see what sort of shape the girl was in before Stefan arrived, so she installed herself in the tiny room and waited there.

The girl was shown into the interview room. A lost, pathetic figure in the overlarge jumpsuit, small and frail, skinny as a rail, clearly scared, wide-eyed, starving and exhausted, damp brown hair clinging to her cheeks and neck, she seemed no older than fourteen, though Annie estimated she was probably eighteen or more. When the door closed and the girl thought she was alone, she flicked her eyes around the room as if checking for monsters in the corners, and then just sat there and started to cry. It made Annie want to cry herself, it was so bloody heartbreaking. Just a frightened, hungry kid, and there was no one here to comfort her, to hold her and tell her that she was loved and everything would be all right. You didn’t have to be a Guardian reader to raise a tear or two for that predicament.

Lyttleton entered the interview room and handed over a McDonald’s package. Before Annie even had the chance to feel guilty and wish she’d sent her a salad sandwich or a tofu burger instead, the girl fell on it and ripped off the wrapping paper. Annie had never seen anything quite like it, but it reminded her of one of those nature shows on BBC with David Attenborough. In a matter of moments, burger, fries and Coke were gone. Lyttleton had been decent enough to leave her alone to eat — he must have suspected it would not be a pretty sight — and Annie now felt guilty that she had been riveted to the spot by such a personal degradation as someone eating like there’s no tomorrow. She felt like a voyeur, or a participant in a sick reality TV show.

When the girl had finished, she carefully picked up all the scattered wrapping paper and put it in the wastepaper basket, then she used one of the serviettes to wipe the table where it was stained with grease or ketchup. Christ, Annie thought.

A few moments later, DS Stefan Nowak arrived in the viewing room. Annie explained the situation. ‘Can you help?’ she asked him.

Nowak looked through the one-way mirror at the girl. ‘I can speak the language, if that’s what you mean. I’m not a translator, though. It’s a special skill I don’t have.’

‘This isn’t official,’ Annie said. ‘We’ll get a statement and all the rest the correct way later. Right now, I need information.’

‘Does AC Gervaise know?’

‘I’m sure she would agree if she were here.’

Stefan grinned and held up his hands. ‘OK, OK. Only asking. Come on, then. Let’s have at it.’

The room still smelled of McDonald’s, and it made Annie feel slightly queasy. Fish and chicken she could handle, but she always avoided red meat. The girl jumped up when they entered, but she stopped short of running away and curling up in the corner. Instead, she regarded them sullenly and fearfully and sat down again slowly. She had a sulky, downturned mouth, lips quivering on the verge of tears and dark chocolate eyes. Her fingernails were badly bitten down, some showing traces of blood around the edges. All in all, she was probably a very pretty girl under normal circumstances, Annie thought, whenever she was lucky enough to experience them.

‘Could you ask her name, please, Stefan?’ Annie said.

A brief conversation followed. ‘She says it’s Krystyna,’ Nowak said. ‘After her grandmother. She wants to know when you are going to let her go and what she is accused of doing.’

‘Tell her she’s got nothing to be afraid of,’ Annie said. ‘I just want to ask her a few questions, and then we’ll see what we can do to help her.’

Nowak translated. Lyttleton came in with a pot of hot coffee and three styrofoam cups, powdered milk and artificial sweetener. Annie guessed the girl might crave real sugar, but then she’d just had a large Coke. It was a wonder she wasn’t bouncing off the walls.

‘Ask her how old she is,’ Annie said.

Stefan talked with Krystyna and said, ‘Nineteen in July.’

She’s of age, then, Annie thought. Though of age for what, she didn’t know. For the life she had been leading? ‘Where does she come from?’

Nowak spoke to Krystyna, and the answer came slowly, hesitantly.

‘She from a small town in Silesia,’ he said. ‘Pyskowice. Industrial. Coal mining.’ He paused. ‘She... I mean, she doesn’t speak very good... Her Polish is very... provincial. She’s not well educated.’

‘Spare us the Polish class distinctions, Stefan. Just do the best you can, OK?’

Nowak’s eyes narrowed. ‘OK.’

Annie had always thought Stefan could be a bit of a stuck-up elitist prick at times. He was well educated and probably descended from some Polish royal family. Maybe he was a prince. She’d heard there were a lot of Polish princes about. Maybe it was a good line for getting laid. Stefan did all right in that department, she’d heard. She wondered if a line like that would have worked on Rachel, with her dreams of wealth and opulence. Then she got back to the matter at hand. ‘Ask her why she came here.’

Annie watched Stefan translate. Krystyna’s expression turned from puzzlement to surprise.

‘For a better life,’ was the answer Stefan translated. There was no irony in Krystyna’s voice or her expression. ‘Why do they all think we owe them a better life?’ Stefan added.

Annie ignored him and paused for a moment, then asked, ‘Where was the farm she lived on?’

‘In a wild place,’ came the answer. ‘There was nothing to do. No shops. No movies. No television.’

‘What was it like?’

‘Cold. The roof leaked. The garden was all overgrown with weeds and nettles. There was no proper place to wash and no real toilet.’

‘It sounds like Garskill to me,’ Annie said. ‘Can you ask her when and why she left?’

‘Wednesday morning,’ the answer came. ‘They were all told to pack up their belongings — not that they had any, apparently — and that they wouldn’t be coming back there after work.’

‘Where was she working?’

Nowak and Krystyna conferred for a while, then he said, ‘A yeast factory. There was a sign outside that said “Varley’s” she said. I think I know the place. They make yeast products for animal feed and for prisoners, diet supplement pills and suchlike.’

‘A yeast factory? Sounds bloody awful,’ said Annie. ‘How did she end up living at Garskill Farm and working there?’

This time the conversation in Polish was longer, with a clearly frustrated Nowak asking for more repetitions and clarifications. Finally he turned to Annie and straightened his tie. ‘She went to Katowice, the nearest large town, but there were no agencies there, so she went to Krakow and found someone who took her money and gave her an address in Bradford. I think she said Bradford. It was all phony, of course. These people are so gullible. Anyway, she ended up at the farm with about twenty other hopefuls doing a variety of rubbish jobs until they found somewhere to place her permanently, or so they said. And they kept most of her earnings back for bed and board and to pay off her debt to the agency.’

It was a familiar story. Annie looked sympathetically towards Krystyna. ‘Where is this yeast factory?’ she asked Nowak.

‘Northern edge of Eastvale. That old industrial estate.’

‘Ask her why they had to leave.’ She thought she knew the answer, but she wanted to hear Krystyna’s version, nonetheless.

‘A man came to the farm in the morning,’ Nowak said a while later. ‘Different man. She hadn’t seen him before. He came in a dark green car. A shiny car, I think she said. It looked new. The other two men, the regular ones who drove them to their jobs and back in the white van, seemed frightened of him. He told everyone to pack up, that they wouldn’t be coming back tonight. That was it. She didn’t mind so much because she didn’t like living there. Apart from everything else, men kept trying to mess with her. That’s what she said.’

‘What language did this man speak?’

‘English,’ Stefan translated. ‘At least, she thinks it was English. She actually does know a few words. And then someone translated for the workers who couldn’t understand.’

‘Did he have an accent of any kind?’

Annie saw Krystyna shake her head before answering. ‘She doesn’t know. She couldn’t understand much. She’d hardly be likely to know if he had a Scottish accent or something.’

‘Can you describe this man?’ Annie asked Krystyna. Nowak translated.

Krystyna nodded.

‘Excellent. We’ll see if we can rustle up a sketch artist after our little talk. If the worst comes to the worst, I can always have a go at it myself.’

‘Do you want me to translate that?’

‘No. Don’t bother,’ Annie said. ‘Ask her what happened next.’

Nowak asked Krystyna and translated her reply. ‘They all piled into the van as usual. All except for Mihkel. They held him back. He had told her his name was Mihkel. He was from Estonia. She liked him. He was nice to her, and he didn’t... you know... want anything.’ Stefan cleared his throat. ‘Some of the men tried to touch her at night. They were very crude. Apparently, there were two couples at the farm, and everyone could hear them when they made love, however quiet they tried to be. These men imitated them, made funny animal sounds and laughed. Mihkel protected her and her friend Ewa. She would like to see her friend Ewa again. She is sorry for leaving her, but she was scared.’

‘That’s probably how Mihkel gave himself away, the poor bastard,’ Annie said. ‘Being nice to people and asking too many questions. At least one of the men in the work gang was probably a plant for the other side. Don’t translate that. Did she ever see Mihkel again?’

‘No,’ said Nowak after another brief exchange. ‘They were taken to work, as usual. She was to be picked up outside the factory at six o’clock, but she says she got out early and ran away.’

‘Why?’

Krystyna seemed confused when Stefan translated the question. She muttered a few words. ‘She doesn’t really know,’ he said. ‘She was unhappy at the farm. She thought she would not see Mihkel again, and the new place would be worse.’

‘Was there anything else?’ Annie pressed.

After a while, Krystyna cried and told Stefan that the regular van driver had been pressing her to sleep with him, and that he wanted her to go on the streets to make more money. He said she could earn money very well that way and pay off her debts in no time, but she didn’t want to do it. She ran away.

Annie found some tissues in her bag and handed them to Krystyna, who thanked her politely in Polish. Even though she had nothing, Annie thought, Krystyna had chosen to flee the work gang rather than stay there and suffer their mauling and end up deeper and deeper in debt, trawling the streets for prospective clients. What had she thought would happen to her, on the run, alone in a strange country? She had been desperate enough not to care. ‘Do you know where they are now, the others?’ she asked.

When she understood Stefan’s translation, Krystyna shook her head. Then she spoke again.

‘She doesn’t know where they were taken,’ Nowak explained. ‘She’s been in Eastvale ever since. She walked from the factory. She has no food or money. Since then she’s been living on the streets, sleeping in shop doorways and alleys.’

Krystyna spoke again. A question, this time.

‘She wants to know if she can have a cigarette,’ Nowak said.

‘Afraid not,’ Annie replied. ‘But tell her I’ll buy her a whole packet when we’ve finished in here.’

Krystyna merely nodded at that.

‘She says Mihkel asked her about herself,’ Annie went on. ‘Did they talk much? How did they communicate?’

‘They couldn’t speak the same language,’ Nowak said, after listening to Krystyna for a while. ‘But Mihkel knew a little Polish, so they managed a few basic exchanges. His accent was funny.’

‘What did he ask her about?’

Annie could tell by Krystyna’s gestures and facial expressions that she wasn’t going to get much of answer.

‘Just her life in general,’ said Nowak finally. ‘She said mostly he asked about her, like you. How did she get there? Where was she from? Why did she come? He wanted to know her story. She asks if he was a policeman, too.’

‘No,’ said Annie.

‘She also asks where has he gone.’

Annie sighed. Bugger it. This just wasn’t fair. Should she tell Krystyna the truth? That they suspected the man in the dark green Ford Focus had tortured and drowned Mihkel? If she did, she risked scaring the girl so much that she might balk at giving a description of the man. If she didn’t tell her, she was being dishonest. She topped up everyone’s coffee and moved on. ‘Can you ask her if she ever saw anyone else around the place who wasn’t part of the normal furniture and fittings?’

Krystyna seemed surprised at the lack of an answer to her question, and the change in direction, but she listened to Stefan’s translation as she sipped her coffee.

‘A man came once who seemed to be in charge,’ Stefan translated. ‘He was dressed better than the driver and his friend, who brought them stale bread and weak coffee in the morning before work. He was wearing a hat and an overcoat with a fur collar. He was English, she thought. Probably half the people there were Polish, and some of them spoke English, so word got around that he wanted them all to know that if they needed money, there was a way. A friend of his would lend them money, and they could pay him back when they got more pay for their jobs, after they had paid off the agency.’

No mention of interest, of course, Annie guessed. She bet the boss man was Roderick Flinders, himself, or one of his men, and that Corrigan was involved somewhere down the line. She excused herself for a moment, reassured Krystyna that she would be back soon and went to her office. She had photographs of both Corrigan and Flinders, which she took back with her and set in front of Krystyna. ‘Do you recognise either of these men?’ she asked.

Krystyna studied the photographs and pointed to Flinders. ‘This one,’ Nowak translated. ‘He was the one who came and told them he could get them money. She hasn’t seen the other man.’

It figured, Annie thought. Corrigan wasn’t likely to venture out into the trenches when he had others to do that for him.

‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘I’m going to see if I can rustle up a sketch artist. We can use Menzies, from the art college, if he’s available. He doesn’t live far away. I’ll send a car. I know it’s upsetting for her, but I don’t want her to leave here until we’ve got sketches we can use. This is the first time we’ve got anywhere close to a description of our man, and I don’t want to lose it. Do you think you can entertain Krystyna for a few minutes while I’m gone? I promise I won’t be long.’

‘Sure,’ said Stefan. ‘We’ll have a laugh a minute.’

Annie gave him a cold look as she stood up. Some people, she thought. Krystyna’s eyes followed her, as if she wanted to go with her, too, but Stefan’s voice was soothing enough when he started to speak Polish, and Annie turned at the door, smiled and gave Krystyna a thumbs up sign.

Erik Aarma said he would be happy to have dinner with Banks and Joanna that evening, and that he would like to bring his wife Helen along. Nobody had any objection to that, so it was arranged for half past seven. In deference to the tourists and the fine weather, Erik said, they would eat in the Old Town, something he rarely did, and a nice treat for Helen, too. She loved pasta, and they didn’t have it very often. They had an apartment in Kristiine and usually ate locally, or at home. Perhaps an evening out would dispel some of the gloom they had been feeling over Mihkel’s death.

It was a Friday night, and getting quite busy, as they took their table at a small Italian restaurant on Raekoja, quite near the main square, and just around the corner from Clazz, shortly after half past seven. The revellers weren’t out in full force yet, but the chain gang was back, and a group of girls dressed as Playboy bunnies tottered by on their high heels, attracting many wolf whistles, searching for a bar in very loud Glasgow accents. Whenever Banks saw groups of girls such as that now, he thought of Rachel. In a way, he felt that since he had been in Tallinn, he had drifted away from his starting point, the murder of Bill Quinn, then the discovery of Mihkel Lepikson’s body at Garskill Farm, and his case had turned into a quest for the truth about what had happened to Rachel. Not that he believed she was still alive, but her body had to be somewhere, even after all this time. Annie was doing the real work, back in Yorkshire, he thought, getting closer to identifying Quinn’s killer with every moment. It would be a great success for her to have on her first case after the injury. A real confidence booster. Banks had not entirely lost sight of Bill Quinn, or of Mihkel Lepikson, but it was Rachel he sought in the winding cobbled alleys and long evening shadows of Tallinn’s Old Town.

Erik seemed pleased with himself, so Banks was hoping for good news. Joanna was chatting happily away with Helen, only pausing to glance at her mobile every now and then. Helen was almost as large as her husband, but minus the facial hair, and quick to laugh. A fresh breeze had picked up during the day, and Erik said it might mark the end of the warm spell. It was still pleasant enough to sit outside, but they definitely needed to wear jackets. Joanna had a wool shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Where did she get these things? Banks wondered. She had the perfect item to wear for all occasions. Every once in a while, Banks caught a whiff of burning tobacco as a smoker passed by.

‘I am not going to beat about the bush, as you say,’ said Erik as they clinked glasses and toasted absent friends. ‘I will not keep you in the suspense. I have found your girl.’

Banks almost dropped his glass. He looked at Joanna, whose eyebrows shot up so far they were almost lost under her blonde fringe. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘I am sure.’

‘But... how?’

Erik tapped the side of his nose. ‘Ah, but we have our resources. People say sometimes we have more files than the Stasi did.’

‘Seriously?’ said Banks.

‘Do you want to know who she is?’

‘Of course we do.’

‘Her name is Larisa Petrenko.’

‘Like the conductor?’

‘Vasily Petrenko? You know of him? Yes, like that.’

‘She’s Russian, then?’

‘It is a Russian name. But that should not be a surprise to you. Forty per cent of Tallinn is made up of Russian-speaking citizens. Helen is Russian-speaking, but we speak Estonian. The most popular last name in the whole country is Ivanov.’

‘I thought people were changing their names to Estonian to have a better chance of getting on here?’

‘You should not believe all you read in the newspapers, my friend. The next thing you know they will have us dragging Russian-speaking Estonians away at midnight and locking them up in Patarei.’

‘You don’t do that already?’

Erik laughed. ‘Not for some time.’

It was clearly a touchy subject, though, Banks sensed. The whole Russian — Estonian thing was beyond his comprehension, though he knew the basic facts, the history of the relationship. He felt it was something you had to live through, grow up with. ‘You don’t happen to know where she lives, do you, this Larisa Petrenko?’

‘Of course. She lives in Haapsalu. She has a restaurant there with her husband.’

‘I can’t believe this,’ Banks said shaking his head slowly. ‘Where is Haapsalu?’

‘On the west coast. About one and a half hours to drive. We will not be able to join you, I am afraid. Family matters. But Merike is back. I have spoken with her. She will pick you up at your hotel after breakfast tomorrow. Is ten o’clock too early?’

It was all moving so fast. Banks glanced at Joanna, who shook her head. ‘Not at all.’

‘Merike is very sorry she could not join us tonight also,’ said Erik, ‘but there you are. You will see her tomorrow.’

‘I’m still rather taken aback by this,’ Banks said. ‘What you’re telling me is that you found the girl in the photo with Bill Quinn, and she lives an hour and a half away, and runs a cafe with her husband, right?’

Erik beamed. ‘That is correct. You pay attention. A restaurant. Haapsalu is a tourist town. Nice. You will like it.’

‘So she’s not a hooker in Budapest, or a stripper in Belfast?’

‘Not at all. She is a most respectable young woman, which makes me think she might not enjoy to talk about her past.’

‘We’ll manage it somehow,’ said Banks. ‘I have to know how you found her, Erik. Come on, you can’t just leave us guessing like this.’

Erik tilted his head to one side. ‘I could,’ he said. ‘You only asked me for the information. Not how I found it. Should I give up my trade secrets so easily?’

‘I’m not asking—’

Erik waved his large hairy hand in the air. ‘It is all right, my friend. I am only kidding. Is that what you say? Kidding?’ He winked at Joanna.

‘Damn right, it is,’ said Banks.

A pretty dark-haired waitress appeared to take their orders. She wore a nametag that identified her as ‘Irena’. Nobody had had a chance to study the menu, as they had all been too busy talking, so they took an extra minute to scan the list, then Irena came back and they all ordered pasta and a bottle of Chianti. It was starting to get dark now, the shadows long and deep in the narrow cobbled streets of the Old Town. Someone was singing in the distance. A glass smashed a little closer. Banks fancied he could hear a zither playing somewhere.

‘We have some very good facial-recognition software,’ Erik said. ‘Perhaps you do not know this, but Estonia is very famous in high technology. We invented Skype.’

‘I had heard that,’ said Banks. ‘So that’s how you did it?’

‘Not exactly.’ Erik pointed to his head. ‘I also have a fantastic memory.’

Helen laughed. ‘He does,’ she said. ‘It is true. He has memory like steel hat.’

‘I think that’s “steel trap”, Helen,’ Joanna corrected her.

‘Yes. That is right. Like steel trap.’

‘So how did you do it?’ Banks asked.

Erik paused for dramatic effect, then he said, ‘I’m a newspaper man. It is in my blood. The ink. The hot lead. Which we do not use any more, of course. When I first saw the photograph, I knew the face was familiar, but the context was not. I do not know any escort girls or prostitutes. Only through news stories, and that was not where I had seen her. No, it was something else. Two years ago there was a big celebrity wedding in Haapsalu, which is unusual in itself. This beautiful Russian girl, who had just graduated from university in Tartu, married one of Estonia’s most famous artists, Alexei Petrenko. Very handsome. He had a reputation for being a ladies’ man but he seemed to have settled down at last. We reported on the wedding, with photographs. Not me, of course. And not Mihkel. But a reporter who writes such celebrity stories. But I am editor for many different reporters.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘And that is how I remember.’

He seemed exhausted by his long speech in English, took a long swig of wine and leaned back in his chair.

‘You are certain?’ Banks asked.

‘Yes. As soon as I stopped thinking she was an escort or a hooker, I started to remember and looked through file photographs.’ He pulled a photo out of his inside pocket and slid it over the table to Banks. ‘This is her, is it not?’

Banks studied the picture. There was just enough light at the table to make it out. The happy couple. It was definitely her, all right. There was no mistaking those cheekbones, those eyes, even though her hair was shorter and styled differently. Banks felt a frisson of excitement. He showed the photo to Joanna then made to pass it back, but Erik waved it away. ‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘I made a copy for you. I don’t need it.’

‘That picture was in the newspaper?’ Banks asked.

‘But of course. All the newspapers. It was big news.’

If anyone had been searching for the woman, Banks thought, the photo would have been a giveaway. But if anyone had been after her, he told himself, she would have known not to invite public scrutiny that way. Which meant that she probably had no idea what she had done, or why. The problem was that things had changed over the last month, since Quinn’s wife’s death, and that might include her situation, too. There was no reason why she should become a liability if she knew nothing — if all she had done was play a seduction game six years ago with a man she didn’t know while someone took photographs — but she could be a loose end, and it seemed as if someone had been tidying up loose ends. Banks felt no reason for undue alarm, but the fact that two people had been killed already, and that he had been followed around Tallinn, made him a little nervous. Ten o’clock the following morning hardly seemed soon enough. Still, if she had survived unharmed up until now, there was no reason to fear that tonight she would meet her doom. Banks quelled his concerns and thanked Erik profusely for the information.

‘My pleasure,’ said Erik. ‘Especially if it helps to catch whoever killed Mihkel.’

‘It could help,’ said Banks. Their food arrived, and there was a short break in conversation while everyone got settled with serviettes, side dishes and knives and forks. Irena smiled at Banks and refilled their wine glasses.

‘I think she fancies you,’ joked Joanna.

‘Get away with you,’ said Banks. ‘My charm only works on the over sixties.’

‘I don’t know. She may have visions of an English husband, an English passport, an English country house.’ She turned to Erik. ‘Irena? Is that a Russian name?’

‘Probably,’ Erik said. ‘Could be Polish, too. Or Slovakian. Many names are common to more than one country.’

‘There you are,’ she said to Banks. ‘An exotic Eastern European bride.’

Banks twirled up a forkful of spaghetti and smiled at her. ‘Rather like an exotic Italian husband.’

Joanna seemed to freeze for a moment, then she blushed. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Not at all like that.’

‘Anything on Toomas Rätsepp and Ursula Mardna?’ Banks asked.

‘The prosecutor’s clean as a whistle. High-flyer. Tipped for even bigger things. The Rachel case set her back a bit, but she’s more than made up for it since then. Feared and respected.’

‘She seems so young.’

‘It is a young woman’s job.’

There were plenty of young women around the CPS offices, too, Banks realised, but he had never really thought about it that way. ‘What about Rätsepp?’

‘Nothing definite. No dirt that sticks, so to speak. There are those who think he mixes too closely with the wrong elements. Not real gangsters and criminals, you understand, but businessmen, rich and powerful people who might need occasional favours, who sometimes move very close to the edge.’

‘“Businessman” is a word that covers a multitude of sins, I’ve always thought,’ said Banks.

‘He has a very nice apartment in Kadriorg, which is most unusual for a retired police officer. It is an expensive area.’

‘Wouldn’t he be more careful if he had something to hide?’

‘Of course. That is why there is no dirt that sticks. He would not dare to be so open, as you say, if he could not explain the money.’

‘How does he explain it?’

‘Inheritance. It is true that his father was quite wealthy. He began with one small shop and ended up running a chain of electronics stores. He died around the time Rätsepp retired. Rätsepp didn’t get everything, of course — he had brothers and sisters — but he ended up with a decent share.’

‘And that explains the flat, the money?’

‘To the satisfaction of most people,’ said Erik. ‘You must draw your own conclusions.’

‘Was Rätsepp involved with anyone who might be responsible for what happened to Rachel Hewitt, for Bill Quinn and Mihkel?’

‘“In the right circumstances don’t you think, everyone is capable of anything.”’

‘Chinatown,’ said Banks. ‘Or close enough. Is there any way of finding out more?’

‘Not without ruffling too many feathers. The wrong feathers to ruffle. We have a free press, but with freedom comes responsibility.’

‘That’s a lesson we’re still learning back home,’ said Banks.

‘Yes. I know.’

‘Thanks for all you’ve done.’

‘You are welcome. As I said, it is for my friend Mihkel. And now to other things. Vasily Petrenko. Is he still with the Liverpool Philharmonic?’

Joanna pulled a face, and Helen started questioning her about her job, investigating bad cops. ‘Yes,’ Banks said to Erik. Yes, he is.’ And as he went on to talk about the young conductor’s successful career, he noticed a familiar figure sitting outside across the small square. It was the man who had been following him the previous night.

Banks returned to his conversation, and when he looked again a few minutes later, the man was gone. But Banks knew he was around somewhere, watching, watching the dark.

It was getting on towards the end of Friday afternoon, and the working week for most people would soon be over. It wouldn’t be much of a weekend for Annie — she would still have plenty of tasks to keep her busy — but things slowed down when the people you relied on weren’t around. It was hard to get any lab work done, for a start, let alone a rush job. Thankfully, they had Stefan Nowak and Vic Manson and the team next door, but they weren’t equipped to do everything, and they liked to keep as normal hours as possible if they could.

The question of what to do with Krystyna remained paramount in Annie’s mind. They had got Rick Menzies, their sketch artist from the art college, and between them, Rick, Krystyna and Stefan had come up with a good description, which Annie thought translated into a more than usually clear sketch, from the five o’clock shadow to the cropped hair and crescent scar by the hairline, the bulbous nose and ears slightly sticking out, to what Annie could only describe as a cruel mouth.

Annie glanced briefly at the notes and message she had received throughout the afternoon. The most interesting item was that Vic Manson had managed to get a couple of fingerprints from the inside of the glove compartment of the Ford Focus they thought the killer had hired under the name of Arnold Briggs. Of course, there could be no guarantees they were his at this point. Like the DNA, the fingerprint was not on any of their databases.

AC Gervaise poked her head around the door. ‘Got a minute, Annie?’

‘Of course,’ said Annie, following her out into the corridor. She was surprised when Gervaise led her towards the staircase down to the ground floor and the exit, rather than up to her office. She was even more surprised when they crossed to the corner of Market Street, heading straight for the Queen’s Arms.

‘I guessed you might feel like a break,’ said Gervaise. ‘It’s been a long week.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And you can stop that. I enjoy it about as much as you do.’

Annie grinned and followed her through the door. The place was busy, a popular destination for the post work crowd on a Friday, but a lot of people liked to stand at the bar and relax, so they found a quiet round, copper-topped table by the window looking out on the market square, which was in that in-between twilight period, after work, so few shoppers were around, but before play, so the young revellers hadn’t arrived yet. The chairs and tables were outside, on the wooden stand, but nobody was sitting there at the moment. A brisk wind was blowing, and if Annie wasn’t mistaken she could see a drop or two of rain on the windows.

‘My shout,’ said Gervaise. ‘What’s it to be?’

‘Am I off duty?’

‘As far as I’m concerned you are.’

‘Right, then. I’ll have a pint of Cock-a-Hoop, please.’

‘Excellent.’

Gervaise came back a few minutes later with two pints. Judging by the colour, Annie guessed them both to be Cock-a-Hoop. The name made her think of A. Le Coq, and of Banks and Joanna Passero, no doubt enjoying another nice open-air dinner in Tallinn.

‘Where’s DS Jackman?’ Gervaise asked.

‘She’s talking to some of the other girls who were at the hen weekend, to see if they remember anything Pauline Boyars didn’t.’

‘I’m not sure about this sudden concentration on Rachel Hewitt. I hope you remember we’re looking for the man who killed DI Quinn and this Estonian journalist.’

‘Of course. And we’re getting close. But they’re connected.’

‘Hmm. We’ll see, no doubt. Anyway, how was your first week back at work?’

‘Fine,’ said Annie. ‘Busy, of course, but it’s great to be back.’

‘I did advise you to take it easy.’

‘With all due respect, I’ve been taking it easy for long enough already. It’s time to get back in the saddle.’

Gervaise sipped some beer. ‘You’ve got a point. How did you get on with the Polish girl?’

‘Krystyna? We got an excellent sketch of the suspect,’ Annie said. ‘I’ve sent it off to everyone I can think of. NCS, Trading Standards, Force Intelligence Unit, SOCA, the Human Trafficking Centre and Interpol. Not to mention the county forces nationwide. Wanted: handy with a crossbow, interested in waterboarding.’

‘That should do it,’ said Gervaise.

‘I’m not too sure,’ said Annie. ‘I mean, there’s definitely foreign involvement in this. Estonian and Polish for starters. If our man was sent to kill Quinn and Lepikson, there’s every chance he doesn’t live in the UK, and if that’s the case, the odds are that he’s left the country. Who’d hang around after a double hit? He could be anywhere.’

‘Interpol’s got pretty good data these days. They’ll pull something up on him if there’s anything there.’

‘Let’s hope so. They drew a blank on the DNA. Anyway, I’m not expecting a lot until after the weekend, but I’m trying to stay hopeful.’

‘What have you done with Krystyna?’

‘That’s the problem,’ said Annie, leaning forward and resting on her elbows. ‘She’s down in the cells right now. She’s not under arrest or anything — she hasn’t really done anything wrong except yell at an old woman in Polish — but I want to keep her around until we find our man, then see if she can make a positive identification. Besides, she’s got nowhere to go, poor thing. She’s got no fixed abode, and if immigration get their hands on her, they’ll whisk her away from us.’

‘I see your problem. We might be able to stretch to a B & B for a couple of days.’

‘I’m not sure she’d stay. She’s scared. It took me and Stefan a while to put her at ease and convince her she wasn’t going to be locked up. She’s got no clean clothes to wear, either. I mean, you can only get so far in an Elvis suit.’

‘A wha—’ Gervaise said, then stopped herself. ‘Oh, I see. That’s what you call them. Well, no. You’re right about that. You could take her to Oxfam or Sue Ryder and buy her a few things.’ She checked her watch. ‘Though you’d probably have a job at this time.’

‘And then what?’

‘Well, short of taking her home yourself, lending her some of your cast offs, I don’t really know.’

‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. She doesn’t speak any English.’

‘People get by. I had a Spanish roommate once, when I was at police college. She didn’t speak a word of English, and I know no Spanish, but we managed all right. I’m not saying you should do it, if the idea bothers you, though. I suppose we can accommodate her in the cells for a few days at the taxpayers’ expense, though let’s hope it doesn’t get leaked to the local press, or we’ll have swarms of homeless heading up from the cities.’

Annie laughed at the image. ‘Think what the press would say if a female police officer took a young girl home with her. Not that I care.’

Gervaise paused. ‘Do we know for certain she’s illegal?’

‘We know nothing except that she’s Polish, and Poland is a member of the EU. I don’t know if she has the right documents or filled in the right forms. She has no identification now, no passport, no money, nothing. God knows where they are. I’m thinking of ordering a raid on Roderick Flinders’ business offices and home. Krystyna identified him from a photograph as someone who came around with offers to lend money, so that clearly links him with Corrigan’s nasty little business. He’d probably be too canny to keep anything incriminating there, but I might just do it anyway, just to put the jitters up the bastard. And for my own pleasure, of course.’

Gervaise finished her pint and glanced at Annie’s glass, still about a quarter full. ‘Another?’

‘No, I shouldn’t. I’d better—’

‘Oh, come on with you. How often do we get a chance to take a break from the station and have a good old natter?’

‘Well, seeing as you put it like that.’ Annie drained her glass and handed it over. ‘I’ll have the same again, please.’

As Annie sat waiting for Gervaise to come back with the drinks, she thought of poor Krystyna shut in the cells. Though an inner voice warned her about getting involved, perhaps, she thought, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take Krystyna home. Just until the dust settled and she could get her life sorted out. They could communicate through sign language. She could sort out some clothes for her. Nothing would fit her well, of course, as she was so thin, but there were ways of making do, a little nip here and a tuck there. Anything was better than the oversized Elvis suit. Best of all, Krystyna would be in a clean and comfortable house, not a cell. Annie would order a pizza. They would watch television. Krystyna could sleep in the spare room. Annie saw Gervaise talking into her mobile at the bar. When she came back her hands were empty, and her face was serious.

‘I’m afraid that second pint will have to wait,’ she said. ‘I’ve just received notice from West Yorkshire. Warren Corrigan’s been shot.’