Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery) (30 page)

‘All good, I hope?’ said Banks.

‘But of course.’

Banks wasn’t sure he liked being such common knowledge. First Corrigan, now Rätsepp. True, one of them was a cop, and it would be only natural for him to find out something about a visiting officer from another country. Even so, it was disconcerting, and he felt it put him at a disadvantage. He wondered exactly how much Rätsepp knew about him, and what.

Rätsepp turned back to Joanna again, still smiling. ‘But I am not so certain that you tell me complete truth.’

Joanna smiled at him again. ‘Toomas! Would you doubt a lady’s word?’

‘But of course not.’ Rätsepp took her hand again for a moment. ‘It is merely that I understand there is some . . . shall we say . . . confusion over Hr Quinn’s circumstances, some possibility that he was involved in affair of the heart, or perhaps a business transaction of some kind, and you think it happens here.’ He let go of Joanna’s hand and gave it a light pat.

‘Well,’ said Banks, ‘you’ve certainly done your homework, haven’t you, Toomas? But that’s really a non-issue. We’re here because we’ve managed to make a connection between Bill Quinn and an Estonian journalist called Mihkel Lepikson. Have you ever heard of him?’

Rätsepp seemed taken aback at the name, Banks noted, and he got the impression that he was quickly trying to think how to respond. Rätsepp already seemed like a tricky person to pin down, and Banks hadn’t expected smooth and easy sailing. How had he known about Quinn and the girl, for a start? There could be a leak in Yorkshire. Or was Rätsepp in touch with the villains themselves? Was he feigning surprise at the mention of Lepikson? He was hard to read. It was entirely possible that he had something to hide, but even if he didn’t, the habits of a lifetime die hard. Given his age, Rätsepp must have been a cop during the Soviet era. He would be used to keeping his own counsel. Or lying. Policing must have been a whole different business under the Russian rulers, who would no doubt have brought in their own security organisations. Banks had heard and read many things about the Stasi in East Germany, for example, and he wondered if things had been at all similar here. If so, Rätsepp might be a very skilled dissembler, and he would also make it a point to know everything about everyone. He obviously already knew something about the Quinn case, and the girl, but Banks didn’t know exactly how much. Did he know about the photographs, the possible blackmail, the crossbow?

‘Lepikson . . . Lepikson . . .’ Rätsepp muttered. ‘The name sounds familiar, you know. A journalist?’

‘The
Eesti Telegraaf
. He wrote about Rachel at the time she disappeared, then on and off over the years. Mihkel Lepikson was found dead under very mysterious circumstances in North Yorkshire, not far from where Bill Quinn was killed, a few days ago. Your government has been advised, and his parents have been located. I believe they have already left for the UK.’

‘Ah, yes. I can know only what I read in the newspapers, of course,’ said Rätsepp. ‘Now I am retired, just private citizen like everyone else, I am out of the loop, as I believe you British say.’

‘Of course. And I’m sure you can understand that I can’t tell you any more, even as one police officer to another, with this being an ongoing investigation.’

‘Naturally,’ said Rätsepp. He sounded disappointed, and gave Banks the kind of look that seemed to beg for ten minutes alone with him in a soundproof interrogation cell. ‘I understand completely.’

Banks could tell the Estonian was reevaluating him; he could almost hear the cogs turning, new gears engaging. Rätsepp had no doubt expected someone he could get information from easily, but now that was proving not to be the case, he was having to rethink his strategy. Banks tried to work out exactly where the Estonian stood in this whole business, but he had too little to go on. Was Rätsepp involved with Corrigan, with the crossbow killer, with Rachel Hewitt’s disappearance? It was all possible, especially as he seemed to know so much, but there was no evidence to believe so yet. It was more than likely that he had made mistakes in the Rachel Hewitt investigation and was simply covering his arse.

The waiter came around again and asked if they wanted anything else. Banks and Rätsepp both ordered a second A. Le Coq, and Joanna asked for a cappuccino. She pronounced the word deliberately, with what Banks took to be a perfect Italian accent, not the way most Scots or Yorkshire folk would say it.

‘I am sorry,’ said Rätsepp, ‘but there is really nothing more I can tell you about Hr Quinn, or why he was killed.’

‘Can you think of anyone here who might have wanted him dead?’

‘Here? But why?’

‘A connection with the Rachel Hewitt case, perhaps?’

‘What possible evidence is there?’

‘No evidence, Toomas. Just a gut feeling. Don’t you ever have gut feelings?’

‘Of course. But not about this.’

‘Mihkel Lepikson wrote about the case, and Bill Quinn investigated it. That seems like a connection to me. Were there many of you working on it?’

Rätsepp sipped some beer before replying. ‘I have support investigators, as usual. And I report to Prosecutor.’

‘That would be Ursula Mardna?’

‘That is correct. Very senior and very competent Prosecutor, of blameless character.’

‘We’ll be talking to her later,’ Banks said. ‘I understand that DI Quinn mostly coordinated the investigation back in Yorkshire?’

‘Yes. He talk with Rachel’s parents and friends. Make some interviews. Communicate with us relevant information.’

‘Such as?’

‘Times, places, minor details.’

‘Do you have such a thing as a map of the girls’ movements that night?’

‘Impossible. We try to make one, of course, but it is too difficult. Their memories . . . unreliable. The girls so drunk. The next day also.’ He made a gesture of disgust. ‘These girls. They come here and act so indecent and noisy. They must expect . . .’

‘What? To be abducted?’

‘No, of course not. That is not what I am saying. But they must learn to be more careful and more respectful.’

‘They were just having a good time, Toomas,’ said Joanna. ‘They weren’t doing any harm.’

‘They ruin the peace of our Old Town.’

‘You should try Nottingham on a Saturday night,’ Joanna said.

Banks glanced at her, impressed. She was baiting Rätsepp, and doing it with great charm.

‘My dear Joanna,’ he said. ‘It is not the same. They are visitors. Guests in our country. They should not behave that way.’

‘Well, it’s a bit late for Rachel Hewitt, isn’t it?’

Rätsepp looked as if he’d been slapped. His face reddened. ‘We do our best. We cannot do more. Now you come here and . . .’ He waved his hand in the air disgustedly.

Their beers arrived, along with Joanna’s cappuccino. Time to put the bridges back together again, Banks thought. He could play good cop when required. ‘I’m sure you all did your best, Toomas,’ he said. ‘But these girls . . . well, as Inspector Passero says, they’re young and wild and out for a good time. They don’t think about public order and upsetting people. Yes, it’s selfish, but you must have been a young lad once. Surely you sowed a few wild oats?’

Rätsepp gave Banks a knowing man-to-man smile. ‘Certainly I did. But those were very different times. Russian times. You must very careful what you do and who see you. Much more careful. I do understand it is important, your case, but I do not see connection to Mihkel Lepikson and Rachel Hewitt. I do remember the journalist. He write about case back then. But why do you think the murders were connected to this?’

‘It’s just too much of a coincidence,’ said Banks. ‘Quinn befriended Lepikson while he was over here consulting on the case,
your
case. And both were murdered within about ten miles and ten hours of one another just after they’d been in touch again, just after a telephone conversation in which Bill Quinn told Mihkel that he might have a very big story for him.’

Rätsepp frowned. ‘Big story, you say? What big story?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘I’m just saying it’s too much of a coincidence. We also have forensic evidence to indicate that the same man and car were present at both scenes. Most likely the killer. We don’t know who he is yet, but we’re getting close.’ Banks realised that he was probably telling Rätsepp too much, but he felt that if he didn’t give at least something up, he would get nothing in return. If Rätsepp thought he was getting the best side of the bargain, if he believed that he had succeeded in tricking Banks into giving up too much, it might make his own tongue a bit looser. It was just a matter of exactly what Banks did give away and how valuable it was.

Rätsepp nodded. His chins wobbled. ‘I still do not understand how I can help you. Our case records are in Estonian, of course, but you are most welcome to see them. Everything is in correct order. We can get translator, though it will take long time. We have nothing to hide. But I assure there is nothing about Hr Quinn.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Toomas. And I don’t want to read your case files. All I really want is a general picture of what happened while he was here. And the girls, of course. I know some of the details of the night in question, the drinking, clubbing, no doubt boys following them around. But where did they go, for example? You say you don’t have a map, but you must have some idea.’

‘This was six years ago,’ said Rätsepp. ‘So many bars, clubs and restaurants open and close since then that it is impossible to say. And the staff are all new. People have moved on. Even at the time it is very difficult to get an idea of their movements. Yes, we do have list of bars and nightclubs I am happy to give you, but we do not know the times and order of visiting. There are many Irish pubs with names like Molly Malone’s and O’Malley’s, for example. And many others in Old Town. Nimeta Baar – that is Pub With No Name now. Club Havana. Venus Club. Stereo Lounge. Club Hollywood. The girls go to many of these.’

‘But not beyond the Old Town?’

‘We do not think so.’

‘Where did they lose Rachel?’ Banks asked.

‘In Irish pub on Vana-Posti, near south edge of Old Town. St Patrick’s. Nobody see Rachel after there.’

‘Except her killer.’

‘Yes,’ said Rätsepp with a sigh. ‘The other girls go to bar on Raekoja Plats, main square, with some German boys they meet at Club Hollywood. They notice Rachel is not with them perhaps twenty minutes, half an hour, after they get there. Then it is too late, of course. They cannot find her. They cannot remember where they were before. It is only later that we can put some pieces together.’

‘And then you went to these places and asked about Rachel?’

‘Of course. But we find out nothing.’

Annie had already told Banks as much, but he wanted to find out if Rätsepp knew any more. ‘Rachel didn’t know where her friends were going, did she? They had no destination in mind, just picked somewhere at random. She could have just wandered around trying to find them for hours in the Old Town, couldn’t she?’

‘It is possible,’ admitted Rätsepp. ‘But I do not think so. Nobody report seeing her, except a waiter in St Patrick’s, who say he think she go wrong way, other way from her friends. But he not so certain. As you see for yourself, it is not a very large area. It is very busy that night. We can find nobody who see her. That is because it is two days later before girls can tell us where they go. Tourists go home. German boys gone. Everybody gone.’ He shook his head in frustration.

‘Did no one report seeing her at all after she left St Patrick’s?’

‘Nobody. And we do not hear about her disappearance until the following morning. It take us two days to get information from her friends about where they go and what they do. They were so drunk they cannot remember. By then everyone who is there on that night is gone. Nobody knows anything. She is gone. Pouff.’

‘And that’s the last of Rachel,’ said Banks. ‘No body. No nothing.’ He felt a wave of sadness ripple through him as he imagined what fear and pain Rachel must have gone through, whatever had happened to her. His daughter Tracy had gone through a terrible ordeal not too long ago, and thoughts about what might have happened to her still gave him nightmares. He could hardly begin to imagine the horrors Rachel’s parents must have visualised over and over in their minds, the loop tapes of porn and snuff films. He took a hefty slug of beer.

He remembered the time he had been lost in a foreign city, and how frightening that had been. He was fourteen years old, on a school exchange with a French family in Lille. They had all gone to see
Gone With the Wind
in the town centre. Banks thought it was boring enough in English, so it would be even worse in French. He found a horror film showing around the corner, one of the old Dr Mabuse films, and said he would go there and meet them afterwards. Naturally, his film was much shorter than
Gone With the Wind.
Finding himself with plenty of time to kill, he bought some Gauloises at the nearest tabac and then went and sat in a bar, ordered a beer and waited. When it was time to meet up, he took a wrong turn and couldn’t find the cinema. He wandered and wandered, deeper into the backstreets, rows of brick houses, little corner churches, washing hanging across the street, the locals giving him strange looks. He knew enough French to ask directions but not enough to understand the answers. The feeling of utter helplessness came over him, verging on panic. In the end, Banks had got to a main street he recognised and boarded a tram back to where he was staying. But Rachel . . . where did she end up?