Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery) (26 page)

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

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

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

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

‘No. I would remember her.’

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

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

‘You know it?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And with a much older man.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 7

Banks and Joanna were barely talking when they got to the hotel. Banks had spent the long flight from Manchester to Helsinki listening to Arvo Pärt’s piano music and reading the only Estonian novel he had been able to find in Waterstones:
Purge
, by Sofi Oksanen. It was heavy-going at times, but absorbing nonetheless. Sometimes the engine noise drowned out Ralph van Raat’s delicate piano playing, but the noise-cancelling headphones Banks had bought at Manchester helped. Joanna had sat beside him with her laptop on the tray in front of her, to all intents and purposes working on a report. During the stopover at Helsinki, she went off to do some duty-free shopping, and Banks sat by the gate drinking a latte and reading his book, occasionally glancing out at the planes through the large plate glass window.

At the Metropol, there was a message waiting for them at reception. It read simply: ‘Lunch at Clazz tomorrow 1230. Tourists pay.’ The name was Toomas Rätsepp.

‘Cheeky bastard,’ said Banks. ‘Fancy a bite to eat now? Discuss strategy?’

Joanna shrugged. ‘Fine with me. Let’s just dump our stuff and get freshened up first.’

Half an hour later, map in hand, Banks led the way across a broad, busy avenue, where traffic swarmed and trams rattled by. They brought back childhood memories. There had been no trams in Peterborough, of course, and he was too young to remember the ones in London, but he was sure he had visited one or two cities with his parents and ridden on them. Leeds or Manchester, perhaps, where they had relatives.

The weather was absolutely gorgeous, bright sun low in a clear blue sky, with a faint half moon in the south. Banks hardly even needed his jacket, which he carried slung over his shoulder because he did need its pockets for his carefully stowed wallet, book, iPod, mobile, pen, notebook and various other bits and pieces. It was all right for women, he thought, glancing at Joanna; they had handbags. Bottomless pits, most of them. Some Frenchmen carried little leather bags with straps, too, but that trend had never caught on in Yorkshire. Banks just used his pockets.

Though it was still light, the evening shadows were lengthening in the cobbled streets of the Old Town, which were lined with three- or four-storey buildings with pastel facades of lemon, white, orange, pink or pale green, many of them cafes with tables outside. Some had ornate gables and dormers. Even narrower alleys led off to the left and right, some with signs above doorways indicating cafes or bars, others bare, perhaps with hidden cellar clubs, the kind you had to get text messages to know about. Most of the streets were free of traffic, though the occasional delivery van or utilities vehicle edged its way along, bouncing on the cobbles.

They reached a broad crossroads, almost a square in itself. There seemed to be a few cars and taxis around this area, though they all came to a halt and turned back about where Banks and Joanna were standing, by a large bookshop. Banks guessed that traffic wasn’t allowed beyond that point and, indeed, most of the streets were not wide enough for cars anyway.

On their left was the bookshop, and beyond that Banks could see the sign for Fish & Wine, which was recommended in his guidebook. Over the road was a grassy area sloping up to an ancient church. According to his guidebook, the church was called Niguliste and was famous for the medieval painting,
Danse Macabre
. By the sloping lawn in front of Niguliste, young people lounged around, smoking and talking, enjoying the early taste of summer, young girls in short shorts and skimpy tops, tanned tapered legs, henna or bottle-blonde hair.

The church stood in all its majesty, drawing the soft evening light to itself, the top of the white square tower pale orange in the glow.

Joanna stopped for a moment. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.

‘You religious?’ Banks asked.

She gave him a funny look. ‘No.’

‘Me, neither.’

All the outside seating at Fish & Wine was full, according to the waitress, but they managed to get a table at the end of a bench inside that was right next to the open doors of the side patio. It was a good spot, and they could see the edge of Niguliste and all the people walking by.

They made themselves comfortable and read the English language menu. Like most places in Tallinn, the restaurant had free Wi-Fi, and Joanna checked her email and text messages before slipping the phone back into her handbag without comment. Banks was curious as to what she was expecting, the way she seemed obsessed with constantly checking her phone. Was it something to do with the job? Coded messages from Professional Standards headquarters? Reports on his behaviour? If she wanted to tell him, he assumed that she would do so in her own time. They both ordered the turbot, along with a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Banks poured the wine. Joanna was wearing an off-the-shoulder frock with a gathered waist. During the flight, she had worn her hair tied back, but now she wore it piled up on top in elegant blonde tresses, the way it had been when he first saw her, showing off her long graceful neck to best advantage. She also wore some dangling silver earrings and a locket around her neck. She smelled of the hotel’s body lotion and shampoo. She must have checked the Tallinn weather forecast before setting off that morning to know what to pack, Banks thought. It had been raining in Manchester.