Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery) (21 page)

‘I know Kelly at the bar checked your ID, but you don’t mind if I have a butcher’s, myself, do you? One can’t be too careful.’

‘Not at all,’ said Banks, showing his warrant card.

Corrigan examined it. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Banks,’ he read slowly. ‘Impressive. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Mr Banks. I’ve heard so much about you. Sit down, sit down. You’re a long way from home. What brings you to these parts? But please excuse my manners. Can I offer you a drink?’

‘I wouldn’t mind a coffee,’ said Banks.

‘Coffee, it is.’ He called Curly in. ‘Get Mr Banks a coffee, Curly. How do you take it?’

‘Black, no sugar,’ said Banks.

‘You might think this set-up a bit odd,’ said Corrigan, gesturing around the room when Curly had gone for the coffee, ‘but I find it far more congenial than some soulless office in a building full of soulless offices. This place has history, atmosphere. And I’m comfortable here. Don’t you think it’s comfortable?’

‘Very,’ said Banks.

‘Of course, I travel quite a lot, too, but when I’m in town, I find it most pleasant to work here. It’s also useful for entertaining, too, of course. The chef can put together a decent menu when the occasion demands it, and there’s never any shortage of drink. Plus, I find it’s a good way to stay in touch with the neighbourhood. It’s a part of the community.’

‘You’ve sold me on it,’ said Banks. ‘I’ll ask my boss if I can relocate to the Queen’s Arms as soon as I get back to Eastvale.’

Corrigan laughed, showing rather long, yellowish teeth. The coffee arrived. Corrigan didn’t have anything except the bottle of sparkling water already in front of him. ‘It’s a lovely part of the country you come from, the Yorkshire Dales,’ he said. ‘You should be proud of its heritage. I’d live there like a shot if I was in a position to retire. Do you know Gratly?’

‘I do.’

‘One of my favourite spots. The view from the bridge, the old sawmill. Picnic by the falls on Gratly Beck on a warm summer’s day. I like nothing better than to take the wife and kids there for a day out when I can manage it.’ He paused. ‘Still, I don’t suppose you’ve come here to talk about the beauties of the Yorkshire Dales, have you?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Banks. He knew that Corrigan was trying to rile him, or scare him off, by showing that he knew where Banks lived, which he had no doubt checked up on after Bill Quinn’s murder, but he was damned if he was going to rise to the bait. ‘It’s about DI Quinn. Bill Quinn.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Corrigan scratched the side of his nose. ‘Poor Bill. Tragic. Tragic. I understand it happened in your neck of the woods. I should imagine that’s why you’re investigating the case and not the locals here?’

‘Got it in one,’ said Banks. ‘But I shouldn’t worry too much. DI Quinn might be dead, but he’ll be replaced so quickly you won’t even notice it’s happened. I understand he was causing you a few problems?’

‘Problems? Bill? Not at all. I enjoyed our conversations, though I must say he was a rather dour man. It was hard to get a laugh out of him. Still, an intelligent man. Well informed. Well rounded, too. I like a man who has an interest in outdoor pursuits like fishing and gardening, don’t you, Mr Banks? I think it adds character, dimension.’

‘Frankly,’ said Banks, ‘I couldn’t give a toss. What I’d like to know is where you were last Wednesday evening between about eleven and one in the morning.’

‘Me? I’m assuming this is to do with Bill’s death, but I’m surprised you’re asking where
I
was. Surely if I had anything to do with what happened – and I assure you, I did not – then I’d hardly do it myself, would I? Do I look like an assassin?’

‘Assassins come in all shapes and sizes,’ said Banks. ‘And it’s murder. Not just death. Bill Quinn was murdered. I think we’d be best calling a spade a spade.’

‘As you will. Plain speaking. I’m all for that.’

‘What kind of car do you drive?’

‘A Beemer. Some think it’s a bit flash for these parts, but I like the way it handles.’

‘So where were you?’

‘At home, I should think. Certainly nowhere near St Peter’s.’

‘But you knew where Bill Quinn was?’

‘Everyone knew where Bill Quinn was.’

‘Did you tell anyone?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘You tell me.’

‘No.’

Banks suspected he was lying. ‘Where’s home?’ he went on.

‘Selby.’

‘Any witnesses?’

‘My wife, Nancy. Lily and Benjamin, the kids, ten and twelve respectively. Quite a handful.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Isn’t that enough?’

‘How about Curly out there?’

‘We don’t live together.’

‘Where was he?’

‘Curly!’ Corrigan called.

Curly stuck his shiny head around the doorway. ‘Boss?’

‘Mr Banks here wants to know where you were last Wednesday night.’ He glanced over at Banks, an amused expression on his thin pale face.

‘At the infirmary,’ Curly said.

‘What happened?’

‘Bumped into a lamppost. They kept me in overnight for observation.’

‘We can check, you know.’

‘Then check.’ He lowered his head. ‘You can still see the bump.’

Banks saw it. ‘Ouch,’ he said. ‘Nasty one. Dissatisfied client?’

Curly grunted and walked away.

‘So, as you can see, Mr Banks,’ said Corrigan, showing his palms in a gesture of frankness, ‘we have nothing to hide. Our consciences are clean.’

‘I can’t see how that could be,’ said Banks, ‘when you prey on the most vulnerable members of the community. You’re nothing more than the school bully demanding cash with threats in the playground.’

‘Unfortunately, there will always be the weak, and there will always be the strong,’ said Corrigan, ‘just as there will always be the poor and the rich. The poor are always with us. Didn’t Jesus say that, or something very much like it? I know which I’d rather be in both cases. Do
you
, Mr Banks?’

‘Misquoting the scriptures doesn’t help your case,’ said Banks. ‘Besides, I think it’s more a matter of the decent and the morally bankrupt, and I know which I’d like to be. But that’s just me.’

‘Oh, we have an outraged moralist here, do we? Yes, I remember I’d heard that about you. One of those religious coppers, are you? I provide a service. Do you think these poor vulnerable people, as you choose to see them, are any more decent than the rest of the rabble? Well, let me tell you, they are not. They think this country is the land of milk and honey. For a start, they’re greedy. They have no money, no jobs, they’re already in debt up to their eyeballs, but they want that new flat-screen television, they want the new car, their wives want to shop somewhere other than Primark for their clothes and their children’s clothes. They are also lazy, but they still want to be able to go out to fancy restaurants for dinner, and the younger ones want to go clubbing. All that takes money, and I supply it. I’m doing them a service.’

‘You make it sound very generous, Mr Corrigan, if it weren’t for your rates of interest.’

‘High risk, high interest. A businessman has to make a living.’

‘And the occasional broken leg? What happens when they can’t pay, and you come around asking for the money?’

‘Now, what good would my clients be to me if they weren’t healthy enough to work, should an opportunity and inclination present itself? Ask yourself that, Mr Banks. Yes, we have had to administer a gentle reminder on occasion, as an example, let’s say, but is that so different from any other line of work? Examples must be made. The message soon gets around.’

Banks had dealt with criminals like Corrigan before. They don’t really see themselves as criminals, or else they are so cynical about society and human nature that it doesn’t matter to them what they are, as long as they have the power and the money. On the surface, everything is all very cosy and upper-middle class, ponies and piano lessons for the kiddies, cashmere sweaters, Hugo Boss suits, Beemers and Range Rovers, golf club membership, perhaps even a friend or two on the local council. Underneath, it’s another matter. A trail of misery and woe, broken bodies and trampled souls going back as far as the eye can see. Someone has to pay for the Corrigans of this world to live in luxury, after all, whether they be junkies, gamblers or just poor sods who have fallen for the whole consumer society deal hook, line and sinker. But there was no point in saying it; there was no point arguing.

‘Tell me what you know about migrant labour camps,’ said Banks.

‘Only what I read in the papers. People come over here seeking for jobs, unskilled workers, asylum seekers, illegals, and they don’t always find one. Then they start whining about how badly done to they are. Well, that’s a big bloody surprise isn’t it, given that half our own people can’t find a job either?’

‘You mean that sometimes they start out in debt to someone like you, are made to work at jobs no one else wants to do, forced to live in squalid dormitories for exorbitant rents?’

‘You’ve been reading the
Guardian
, haven’t you? No wonder your heart’s bleeding all over your sleeve. I told you, I know nothing about them except what’s on the news, and I can’t say I pay I much attention to that. If they come over here stealing our jobs, they get what they bloody deserve.’

‘What about the people who bring them here? The agents? The gangmasters? The staffing companies? You must have some contacts with them?’

‘Don’t know what you mean.’

Banks sensed that he was lying again but moved on quickly, anyway. ‘Ever heard of a place called Garskill Farm?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Corrigan. ‘It sounds a bit Dales-ish, though. Is it somewhere near you?’

‘Close,’ said Banks. ‘We just found a body there.’ He slipped a picture of the victim out of his briefcase and put it on the table. ‘Recognise this man?’

Corrigan examined it. ‘No. Not looking very healthy, though, is he?’

Banks followed it with a blow-up of the girl Quinn was with in Tallinn. ‘How about her?’

‘Nope. Wish I did, though. She looks good enough to eat.’ He ran his pink pointed tongue across his upper lip.

There was no evidence that Corrigan trafficked in young girls or acted as pimp, so Banks couldn’t really push him on any of this. It had been a long shot, anyway. All of it. Corrigan was a villain, no doubt, legally and morally, and Quinn had been on to him. But had Corrigan murdered Quinn, or had him killed? Had Quinn been in Corrigan’s power and tried to escape? And the man at Garskill Farm? What part had he played? There were still too many unanswered questions.

Leaving the rest of his coffee, Banks stood up. As soon as Curly heard the chair scraping against the stone floor he was in the doorway again. Corrigan gave him an almost imperceptible signal, and he stood aside.

‘It’s been a pleasure, Mr Banks,’ said Corrigan. ‘Next time you come, let’s make an occasion of it. Have a real drink. They’ve got a very nice selection of single malts in the main bar. You should enjoy the ten-year-old cask strength Laphroaig especially.’

Banks smiled. ‘Your information’s a bit out of date, Corrigan,’ he said. ‘I’m more of a red wine man, these days.’ Then he left.

Annie had experienced an extraordinary amount of satisfaction after bollocking Lombard and Haig for doing a half-arsed job on A. Le Coq, but now she was feeling guilty. It had been like shooting goldfish in a bowl. After all, they were just probationers, still wet around the ears, transferred in from elsewhere to help out. And they had done a lot of the shit work. For all the jokes made at their expense, it can’t have been a lot of fun spending day after day trawling through sleazy Internet sites searching for a face.

On the other hand, if they didn’t have what it took to carry out a simple Internet search, a no-brainer, then it was best they should find out now, rather than later, when they had more responsibility and could do more damage. They would get over it and move on. They might even make decent detectives one day. At least now they were checking the Estonian escort sites.

Though Annie had been to Tallinn for a dirty weekend with a DI from Newcastle four years ago, she knew very little about the place. They had done some sightseeing, but not much, sat at tables outside bars in an old part of the city drinking beer – A. Le Coq, as it happened – and eating pasta. The rest of the time they had spent in the hotel room having sweaty sex.

To Annie, that whole part of the world was tainted with the old Soviet curse, and she assumed that the Baltic states were an extension of Russia when it came to crime and Russian Mafia activity. Drugs, people-trafficking and illegal labour scams would be right up there. Perhaps Quinn got involved in something like that, and the Russians were behind it? Weren’t they behind almost everything illegal these days? The girl herself could be Russian. There was no way of telling from the photographs, but she did have that certain sad and tragic aspect to her beauty that Annie had associated with Russian women ever since she saw
Doctor Zhivago
on late-night television. It was one of Banks’s favourite movies, she knew, but that was because of Julie Christie.