Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery) (25 page)

‘I’m sorry,’ said Banks.

‘Mihkel knew the risks.’

‘What risks? What was he doing at Garskill Farm?’

‘Is that where he was when it happened? I don’t know it. I had no idea where he was, except that he was somewhere in England. It seemed so strange to be in the same country and not be able to meet. I couldn’t even telephone him. I had to wait for him to ring me.’

‘Mihkel phoned you from a public telephone box in Ingleby,’ said Banks. ‘It’s the nearest village to where he was found. It was about two miles away from where he was staying.’

Merike smiled sadly. ‘Mihkel walked four miles just to talk to me? I would never have thought it of him.’

Annie gave Banks a sharp sideways glance. He knew that she was hoping he wouldn’t spoil Merike’s illusion by telling her that she wasn’t the only reason Mihkel had walked all that way to the telephone. ‘Do you know what he was doing there?’ he asked.

‘He was on an assignment. Mihkel was a journalist. He specialised in investigative reporting. He was freelance, but he worked mostly for a weekly newspaper called
Eesti Telegraaf
. They specialise in the sort of articles he liked to write.’

‘What were they?’

‘In depth, usually about crime. He also contributed sometimes to a weekly column called “
Pimeduse varjus
”. In English it means “in the shadow of darkness”. Very sinister. The idea is looking into the darkness. Watching. It’s also about crime.’

‘
Watching the dark
,’ said Banks.

Merike flashed him a brief smile. ‘Ah, so you like Richard Thompson?’

‘Yes, I do. Very much.’

‘I like that,’ she said. ‘A policeman who admires Richard Thompson.’

‘His father was a Scotland Yard detective,’ Banks said. ‘And a lot of his songs are about murders.’

‘I didn’t know that. About his father, I mean.’

‘My own son’s a musician,’ Banks went on, unable to stop himself, now he felt he was bringing her out of herself a bit, and enjoying the way the gypsy eyes were seeing him in a new light, not just as some faceless authority figure. ‘He’s in a group called The Blue Lamps.’

‘But I know them!’ said Merike. ‘Their new CD is wonderful. The best they have ever done.’

‘Brian will be pleased to hear that.’ Banks felt proud, but he could tell from the waves of impatience emanating from Joanna Passero that she wanted him to get the interview back on track. It was one reason he hadn’t wanted her around. She didn’t understand how important it was to find some common ground with the interviewee, to forge a bond. She was used to interviewing dirty cops, where there was never any possibility of her creating a link because it was an adverse situation from the outset. Annie had been more impatient and aggressive in her interview techniques at first, when she had come from Professional Standards, despite the courses she had taken, but she had learned over the years since then. She knew how Banks operated.

Their food arrived. As they were getting it sorted out, Merike excused herself and went outside for another cigarette. When she came back, they were eating, and her henna hair was damp with drizzle.

Merike sipped some wine and made an apologetic shrug in Banks’s direction. ‘Can’t smoke anywhere these days, even in Estonia.’

‘So what assignment was Mihkel working on at Garskill Farm?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know any details, except that he told me before he left it was something to do with migrant labour, and he wasn’t sure how long he would be away. That was typical Mihkel. He didn’t even dare to take his mobile phone for fear of what would happen if they found it. Not so long ago, a Lithuanian journalist disappeared while he was working on a similar story, all because they found a mobile with a built-in camera among his belongings.’

‘How did Mihkel deliver his story to the newspaper?’

‘I assume he gave it in short pieces to his editor over the telephone. So I am sure he didn’t walk four miles only to talk to me, however gallant it sounds. Though I would like to believe he did. He might have risked writing some things down if he had a good hiding place, in the lining of his clothes or somewhere like that.’

Banks glanced at Annie, who shook her head. They would have taken his clothes apart already, and had clearly found nothing. If Mihkel had hidden any notes, then his torturers had found them first.

‘Why was it so secret?’

‘The people who run these things are all connected with very powerful and dangerous criminals. It’s not a one-man operation. Everything must be in place. Every step of the way must be planned. It takes capital, organisation, enforcement, and the ones in the best position to do that are organised gangs. There is much at stake.’

‘Russian Mafia?’

‘Like everyone in the West, you think the Russian Mafia is behind everything. They may be involved, yes, of course, if there is money to be made, but it is not the only one.’

‘Baltic Mafia?’ said Banks.

‘Something along those lines. When people speak of the Baltic Mafia, they usually refer to Latvia, Lithuania and Poland, but we are not without our own bad men in Estonia. We don’t have to import them all from Russia or Latvia, you know.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Banks. ‘I don’t know much about your country.’

‘Don’t worry. Nobody does. It is very small and has a troubled history. May I have another glass of wine?’ She held out her glass.

Banks gestured to Joanna Passero, who glowered, but took it to the bar for a refill. ‘Is there anything you can tell us about the people Mihkel was investigating?’ Banks asked.

‘All he told me was that he was posing as an unskilled labourer. He started out at an agency in Tallinn, where you go to seek for work overseas, and this place you mentioned . . .’

‘Garskill Farm.’

‘Yes. That is where he ended up. I assume he was with others in the same position, and they would be taken out to their places of work at the start of the day in a van, and delivered back to the dormitory at the end.’

Dormitory was a rather grand word for Garskill Farm, Banks thought. ‘We think so,’ he said. ‘About twenty of them altogether. Unfortunately, they’ve all disappeared.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’

Joanna returned with the wine and handed it to Merike, who thanked her.

‘What did Mihkel say to you during your conversations?’

‘They were very brief. He would just tell me he couldn’t talk long, that he might be missed. He told me that he was all right. He told me . . .’ she paused and lowered her head down shyly. ‘He told me that he loved me, that he missed me.’

When she looked up again, Banks saw there were tears in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry if this is difficult,’ he said. ‘But we need to find out everything we can if we are to find the person who killed Mihkel.’

‘I understand,’ said Merike. ‘But I have told you all I know.’

‘Are you certain? Think. Was there nothing else he said to you?’

Merike bit her lip. ‘He did say something a bit mysterious the last time we talked.’

‘Last Tuesday evening?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was it?’

‘He said he thought he was on the verge of finding a big story to work on. There was something about some photos, too.’

Banks’s ears pricked up. ‘A big story? Photos? Was it connected to the story he was already working on? Did he give you any idea what it was?’

‘No. He was very guarded. He said I would know soon enough if he was right. Only that it was big, and that it could mean trouble for some very important people. He could say no more about it.’

According to the logs from the telephone company, Mihkel Lepikson had rung Merike
after
he had talked to Bill Quinn on Tuesday evening. Within a short while, both Mihkel and Bill were dead. Did their conversation, and their murders, have something to do with this big story he was talking about? It would be too much of a coincidence, Banks thought, if they didn’t. Perhaps Quinn was going to pass on the photos to Mihkel, but he never got the chance. But there was also a third number Mihkel had called. ‘Can you give me the names of Mihkel’s contacts in Tallinn, at the newspaper or elsewhere?’

‘Of course. He always worked with the same editor. Erik Aarma. It was a close relationship. They were good friends. Erik is a good man. Mihkel wouldn’t work with anyone else, and his reputation was big enough that he could make his own rules like that. Erik will be broken-hearted. It was like, how do you say, a spy and his handler. Like in Mr le Carré’s books.’

Banks smiled. He was a le Carré fan, too. ‘I understand,’ he said. Then he referred to his notes again and showed Merike the Estonian number. ‘Do you know if this is Erik’s number?’

She shook her head. ‘I have no idea. He would probably use an untraceable mobile. Secrecy was very important, and the work was dangerous, as I have said. Erik might be able to help you with some other names and contacts, people in the organisation. Mihkel would have spoken to Erik and only Erik on the telephone. He would also have discussed his ideas for the story first with Erik. In his line of work, you learn not to trust many people, and he trusted Erik.’

Banks bet that other number dialled from the telephone box in Ingleby was Erik’s dedicated line to Mihkel. ‘Will Erik reveal his sources?’

‘I don’t know. I am sure that Erik will help you all he can without compromising himself.’

‘Will he come over here?’

‘Perhaps, if you pay his fare and reserve a room for him at the Dorchester.’

Banks laughed. ‘Not much chance of that, I’m afraid.’

‘Has Mihkel worked on this kind of assignment before?’ Annie asked. ‘Crime. Migrant labour. That sort of thing. You said he contributed to a weekly column about crime.’

‘“
Pimeduse varjus
”. Yes. But not all the assignments are dangerous. It is true that Mihkel always did like living on the edge a bit too much. He got beaten up once when he wrote about the sex trade in Tallinn. Mostly he keeps his head down. He was very good at blending in with the scenery, which is strange when you think how handsome he was. People would notice when he walked into a room, but he could lose himself in a role, be an uneducated, unskilled migrant labourer and nobody would look twice at him. He could be invisible when he wanted. It was very useful in his work.’

Except he couldn’t hide his hands, Banks thought. And that might have been his undoing.

‘So he habitually sought out dangerous situations?’ Annie said.

‘Good stories,’ Merike corrected her. ‘There was sometimes danger involved, and Mihkel didn’t shy away from the risks. I said he lived on the edge, but he wasn’t a fool. He didn’t put himself in harm’s way without good reason. He wasn’t a thrill-seeker. Perhaps more of an adventurer, the way he liked to travel to exotic, dangerous places like Somalia, Syria or Haiti. He was very fond of the writings of Graham Greene.’

‘How do you think the people who did this to him found out who he really was?’

‘I don’t know. He must have made a mistake. That isn’t like him, but it must be what happened. They could have seen something he wrote. Or perhaps they had a spy in their dormitory? An informer in Tallinn? Or somewhere along the route. Maybe somebody followed him to the telephone box that night? There are many ways it could have happened.’

‘Have you ever heard of a policeman called Bill Quinn?’ Banks cut in. ‘Detective Inspector Bill Quinn?’

‘Bill? But of course. He was a good friend of Mihkel’s.’

The three police officers looked at one another. ‘A good friend?’ Banks repeated. ‘Close?’

‘Well, they knew each other, talked on the telephone sometimes, met on occasion when Mihkel was in England. But not very close. Mihkel was not very close to anyone, except perhaps to Erik.’

‘Did you know Bill? Had you met him?’

‘No. But Mihkel talked about him sometimes.’

‘So it wouldn’t surprise you that Mihkel also called Bill Quinn the same night he phoned you?’

‘No. Not really. Why shouldn’t he?’

‘No reason. I’m just trying to get all this clear. You see, we didn’t know of any connection between Bill and Mihkel.’

‘It was before we met,’ Merike said. ‘There was a big case in Tallinn. An English girl disappeared, and Bill came over to help the investigation. Mihkel was covering the story. They kept in touch. Mihkel also came to England to talk to the girl’s parents and friends.’

At last it became clear to Banks. He hadn’t seen the Rachel Hewitt files yet, only got the bare bones from Annie’s research, and he hadn’t known who Mihkel Lepikson was, or what he did for a living, until just now, so no one had made the connection. Now it made sense. ‘Was it just the Rachel Hewitt disappearance, or did they have other things in common?’ Banks asked.

‘Mihkel was mad about fishing,’ Merike said, smiling at the memory. ‘I used to tease him about it. That he’d rather be sitting by a river with a hook in the water than be in bed with me. I think they went fishing together once or twice, him and Bill. In Scotland. And there was Rachel Hewitt, of course. Bill kept Mihkel abreast of all the developments over here. The Rachel Foundation. What her friends and her family were doing.’