Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery) (20 page)

‘Of course,’ said Banks. ‘Be my guest.’

He shook his head slowly at Nowak’s departing back.

Though Winsome, Banks and the rest of the team gave Annie a heroine’s welcome when she arrived in the boardroom for the morning meeting, she nonetheless felt disassociated from the investigation, from the processes of police work as a whole. As she listened to Banks and Winsome, who did most of the talking, and watched them stick photographs and write names on the glass board, it all seemed very remote and distant from what her life had become, and she found herself drifting away, missing bits and pieces, unsure of the connections. Sometimes the voices sounded muffled, and she couldn’t make out what they were saying; other times she would notice that two or three minutes had passed by and she hadn’t heard a thing. She didn’t even know what she’d been thinking. It was only to be expected, she told herself. She had been away a long time.

Area Commander Gervaise dropped in at the end of the meeting to welcome her, and to remind her to take things easy for the first few weeks, not go running around the county. If Annie felt tired, Gervaise told her, she only had to say so, and she would be allowed to go home. The most important thing was that she make a full recovery.
Bollocks
, thought Annie, making a rude sign at Gervaise’s departing rear. The main thing was that she got back on the tracks again before it was too late, and she lost all her skills, not only her powers of listening and concentration. She didn’t want to be treated like an invalid, like one of those wounded soldiers back from the war who nobody wants to know, or even acknowledge.

She had spent a pleasant weekend reacquainting herself with her tiny cottage in Harkside after over a month at the sprawling artists’ colony near St Ives. The cottage in the heart of the maze, or so Banks had described it when he had first visited her there, years ago. She remembered those days well, the late mornings in bed, the warmth and humour, the lovemaking. Whatever their relationship, however it had ended, at the beginning it had felt like falling in love, full of promise, with that joyous sense of abandon, of falling without a net: feelings that she very much doubted she would let herself experience again, should she be fortunate enough to have the chance. None of those things was a part of her life now, and she had an idea that they weren’t a part of Banks’s life, either. Maybe she was romanticising their time together. Perhaps it hadn’t been that way at all. Memory plays strange tricks on us, she thought. We often remember things the way we would have liked them to be. Besides, it’s foolish to try to rekindle what has gone. She had ended her last day of sick leave with a long hot bath and a stack of gossip magazines.

In the large open-plan squad room she shared with the rest of the team, there were flowers on her desk from Banks, along with a box of chocolates from Winsome. The rest of the squad had had a whip round and bought her a fancy teapot, a little gizmo that made it easy to use loose leaves instead of tea bags, and a nice selection of exotic teas, from green to lapsang souchong. It was a nice gesture, and by half past eleven, as she sipped her late elevenses of Darjeeling, sampled a chocolate and looked at the flowers – roses, of course, what else would a man think to buy? – she thought things might not work out too badly after all.

Her main job on her first day was catching up on the Bill Quinn case. Banks had told her a fair bit on Friday night, and at the morning meeting she had learned about the other murder, at Garskill Farm, and its connection with Bill Quinn’s murder. Now she had to fill in the gaps, read the witness statements, study the forensic and post-mortem reports.

Over in the corner at the spare desk sat two detectives she didn’t know. They were on loan from County HQ, Winsome had said. Haig and Lombard. From what Annie could see, they were watching porn on their computers, and the most unattractive of the two, wispy-haired, shiny suit, skinny as a rake, with bad skin and a Uriah Heep look about him, kept giving her the eye. She couldn’t remember from the briefing whether he was Haig or Lombard. All she knew was that they were supposed to be checking Internet sites for the girl in the photo with Quinn. They seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Annie returned to the growing pile of statements, reports and photographs. As she flipped through them, something caught her attention, a blow-up from one of the photos found in Quinn’s room, and she went back to it. If anyone had mentioned it at the meeting, she had been drifting at the time. She put the end of her pencil to her lower lip and frowned as she thought through the implications.

Closing the folder, she stood up and walked over to Haig and Lombard. The one who had been ogling her averted his gaze like a guilty schoolboy caught smoking or masturbating in the toilets. They appeared furtive, pretending to concentrate on their respective screens. As they both showed images of big-breasted women in lingerie with knowing expressions on their faces, that didn’t help the two detectives to appear any more innocent.

‘Enjoying yourselves?’ Annie asked, arms folded.

‘We’re working,’ said the wispy-haired one.

‘Who are you?’

‘DC Lombard, ma’am.’ Generally, Annie didn’t like being called ma’am, but these two young pups needed a lesson. She would put up with it.

‘Getting anywhere?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Where are you looking?’

‘Lyon,’ said Haig. ‘It’s the only place we know DI Quinn has visited in France.’

‘What makes you think the photos were taken in France?’

‘Huh?’

‘Huh, ma’am.’

‘Right. Huh, ma’am?’

‘I asked why France? I suggested to DCI Banks that it had probably happened in a foreign country, but it didn’t have to be France.’

‘It’s the beer mat, ma’am,’ explained Lombard, as if he were talking to a particularly backward child. ‘You must have seen it. It says “A. Le Coq”.’ He pronounced the last word with the requisite manly gusto and bravado, a smirk on his face. ‘That sounds French to me.’

Annie could see it took them all they had to stop bursting out sniggering. She held her ground. ‘Did you look it up?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The beer, the brewery. A. Le Coq. To find out where it is.’

‘No need to, was there?’ said Lombard. ‘I mean, it’s French, isn’t it? Stands to reason. Or maybe Belgian.’

‘But DI Quinn never went to Belgium, did he?’ Haig said.

‘I thought so,’ sighed Annie. ‘You pair of bloody idiots. You can stop that right now. You’re miles off.’

‘What are you talking about? Ma’am.’

Annie leaned over the nearest computer and typed the words ‘A. Le Coq’ into the Google search engine, then she brought up the first site on the list, moved back so the two DCs could both see the screen. ‘
That’s
what I mean,’ she said. ‘See how simple it is? Ever heard of Google? And you couldn’t be bloody bothered to check. That’s sloppy police work.’

Annie walked away, leaving the two open-mouthed. Time to talk to Banks. She picked up the phone.

Banks found a parking spot on North Parkway and walked to the Black Bull. The road, not far from the big Ring Road roundabout, had a central grass strip dotted with trees, and two lanes of traffic on either side. The houses, set back behind pleasant gardens and walls or high privet hedges, were brick or prefab semis, with a smattering of bungalows and the occasional detached corner house. There weren’t many small shops, but he passed a mini Sainsbury’s and a Job Centre Plus, and saw a small church with a square tower across the street. The area had a pleasant open feel to it, with plenty of green in evidence. There was a council estate behind the opposite side, and two tower blocks poked their ugly upper stories into the quickly clouding sky like fingers raised in an insult.

Banks was feeling pleased with himself for getting rid of Joanna Passero for the day. Naturally, she had wanted to accompany him to Leeds, but Dr Glendenning was performing the post-mortem on the Garskill Farm victim, and seeing as she liked post-mortems so much, Banks had suggested she should go along with Winsome. The rest of the time she could do what she wanted; there was plenty to keep her occupied. She didn’t like it, but in the end she reluctantly agreed. With her along, Banks knew he would have an even tougher time with Warren Corrigan, and he probably wouldn’t get anything out of Nick Gwillam at all, even though he wasn’t actually a copper himself, not with Miss Professional Standards sitting next to him. Still, it remained to be seen whether he got anything useful on his own.

Before Banks got to the Black Bull, his mobile rang. At first he thought he would just ignore it, but when he checked, he saw the call was from Annie, and he felt he owed her all the encouragement he could give her. He stopped and leaned against a bus shelter. ‘Annie?’

‘I’ve just been having a word with those two young lads from County HQ,’ Annie said. ‘Where on earth do they find them these days?’

‘Needs must,’ Banks said. ‘Why? Surely they can’t be doing any harm on a soft-porn search?’

‘No harm, no, but they’re wasting time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The beer mat.’

‘What beer mat?’

‘“A. Le Coq”. A blow-up from one of Quinn’s photos. It came in after you left. I don’t think they bothered to check on the brewery’s location. They’re checking escort agencies in the Lyon area.’

‘I don’t follow. Look, Annie, I’ve got rather a lot on my plate and—’

‘A. Le Coq is
not
a French brewery.’

‘It’s not? Sounds like it to me. Belgian, then?’

‘Not Belgian, either.’

‘OK, you’ve got my attention. I have no idea where it is. Never heard of it. Enlighten me.’ A woman, not much more than a girl really, passed by with a two-tier pram in which her twins lay sleeping. She puffed on her cigarette and smiled shyly at Banks, who smiled back.

‘If either of them had taken the trouble to find out,’ Annie went on, ‘they’d have discovered that A. Le Coq is an old established Estonian brewery.’

Banks paused to digest this, work out how it changed things. ‘But . . .’

‘As I mentioned the other night, I’ve been to Tallinn,’ Annie went on. ‘I’ve even tasted the stuff. It’s not bad, actually. You do know what this means, don’t you?’

‘That the photos were most likely taken when Bill Quinn was in Tallinn six years ago on the Rachel Hewitt case.’

‘Exactly. I’ll start researching the case immediately. Where are you now?’

Banks explained.

‘Will you keep me informed?’ Annie said.

‘I will. And you me. Thanks a lot, Annie.’

‘No problem.’

‘One more thing. Don’t forget that one of the calls we think the Garskill Farm victim made from the telephone box in Ingleby was to an Estonian number. You might check if anyone’s run it down yet. Or do it yourself. It shouldn’t be too difficult.’

‘Will do.’

Banks put his phone back in his jacket pocket and made his way towards the pub, which rather resembled a rambling old house, with a red pantile roof, a whitewashed facade and a small area of picnic benches in a stone-flagged yard out front, separated from the pavement by a strip of grass and a low wall. Banks made his way past the empty tables to the door and entered the cavern-like space. The ceiling was high, and the room seemed to swallow up the little groups of tables, even the bar itself, though it was long, and the tiers of bottles reflected in the mirror gave the illusion of depth. The place had clearly seen better days, but there was a certain warm welcome in the shabby velveteen, brass fixtures and framed watercolours of old Leeds scenes on the walls. It smelled of domestic cleaning fluid, but all the Domestos in the world couldn’t get rid of the years of stale smoke. A few slot machines flashed and beeped here and there by a nicotine-stained pillar, but no one was playing them. Peter and Gordon were singing ‘A World Without Love’ on the jukebox. It was lunchtime, and there were a few family groups picking away at baskets of chicken and chips or bowls of lasagna, and the usual ensemble of regulars stood at the far end of the bar chatting up a buxom blonde barmaid. She looked like a retired stripper, Banks thought. Or perhaps not even retired yet. He walked over to the barman, who was studiously polishing a glass.

‘What can I do for you, sir?’ the barman asked.

‘I’d like to see Mr Corrigan.’

The man’s expression changed abruptly from welcoming to hostile. ‘And who may I say is asking for him?’

Banks showed his warrant card.

‘Just a moment, sir.’

The barman disappeared. The blonde pulling pints at the far end of the bar glanced over and cocked her hip. A few moments later, the barman reappeared, and a giant materialised beside Banks.

‘Curly here will take you to him,’ said the barman, then he turned away. Curly was as bald as one of the balls on the snooker table at the far end of the room, and about as unsmiling. Banks followed him through a maze of small lounges, past another bar, through doors and down corridors by the Gents and Ladies toilets towards the back of the pub, until they came to a small private function room, perfect for the office lunch. Curly gestured for Banks to enter, and he did. The decor was much the same as the rest of the pub, with plenty of brass and velvet in plush dark shades, with heavy varnished tables, ornate iron legs. Banks had expected an entourage, but one man sat alone at a table, a few papers spread in front of him. He gathered them up and put them in a folder, then smiled and stood up when Banks came in. Banks was surprised at how slight and skinny he was. He had a sort of ferret face, thinning ginger hair, no eyebrows and a high forehead. Banks put his age at about forty. He was casually dressed, wearing a navy sports jacket over his shirt. No tie. He extended his hand in greeting. Banks thought it churlish to refuse, so he shook.