Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery) (34 page)

‘Where did they work?’

‘All over the north, from Carlisle to Teesside. Darlington. Middlesbrough. Stockton.’

‘What sort of work?’

‘The worst. Slaughterhouses, chemical packaging plants, fertiliser factories. You name it. The work was hard and the hours long. Mihkel’s first job was at a mushroom farm, picking mushrooms, but that was only for one shift. He never saw any money from that. Then he was sent to a frozen-food factory on day shifts, twelve hours a day, seven days a week, picking any bad beans or peas from the conveyor belt after they had been frozen and before they were packaged.’

‘A lot more than fifty hours,’ Banks said.

‘Yes. After two weeks he had worked a hundred and sixty-eight hours and he received his first payslip. It was for sixty-five euros.’

‘How did they explain that?’

‘There were many discrepancies. He was not paid minimum wage to start with, but only five euros for each hour. Would this be easier in pounds?’

‘No, it’s OK,’ said Banks. ‘I can keep track. Besides, there’s not a hell of a lot of difference these days.’

‘Too true,’ Erik agreed. ‘Perhaps we should have kept the kroon. Anyway, Mihkel was also told that Rod’s Staff Ltd withhold two weeks’ wages and pay . . . what is the word?’

‘In arrears?’ Banks suggested.

‘Yes. Two weeks in arrears. Of course, one hundred and twenty euros for two weeks’ rent had also been deducted, but had not been included in the deductions on his payslip. By then, he also owed money to people, and when he had paid them back, he had almost nothing left. This was when someone from Rod’s Staff Ltd, perhaps even Mr Flinders himself, approached him and told him he knew someone who lent money to people in Mihkel’s situation and asked if he was interested. Mihkel said yes, he was, as he had no money left for cigarettes or food. Anyway, this was the stage of the investigation he had reached when he was killed. It was on Tuesday evening he told me about the payslip and the errors on it.’

‘How did he get to work and back?’

‘Someone with a van picked them up in the morning and dropped them off at night. They got weak coffee and stale bread for breakfast. If they were lucky and had enough money, they could just make a dash to the nearest fast-food outlet before the van arrived to take them back, and buy a burger or fried chicken.’

‘Are you sure he never mentioned someone called Corrigan?’

‘No. I will check my notes, but I would remember. I have a very good memory.’

It was too much of a coincidence, Banks thought, for someone else to be in the same business in the same general area. Corrigan must have used his minions to reach out to operations like Flinders’, while he remained at the business centre in Leeds. The two men knew each other, had drinks together, so it seemed obvious to Banks that they were in cahoots over this. Flinders created and supplied the victims, not only on city housing estates, but also in remote dormitories like Garskill Farm, which cost him nothing and netted him about a grand a week in rents. To say nothing of the kickbacks he was getting from the employers.

On Wednesday morning, more than likely, the killer had arrived at Garskill Farm and Mihkel had been kept back from work that day. He was tortured, at which time he had probably agreed to the mobile call to Quinn to set him up, arrange to meet in the woods later that night, which had set off the detective’s alarm bells, though they had not rung loudly enough to keep him away from the rendezvous completely and save his life. Quinn had, however, kept the photographs in his room, and perhaps had planned, if all turned out to be above board, to go back and get them for Mihkel. But it wasn’t Mihkel who turned up in the woods at St Peter’s that night.

‘Who knew of Bill Quinn’s friendship with Mihkel?’ he asked Erik.

‘I don’t know. It was not something they hid. Anyone could know. Sometimes Mihkel wrote updates on the Rachel Hewitt case, and he often mentioned his connection with the English policeman.’

‘In the newspaper?’

‘Yes.’

‘So anyone at all could know?’

‘It would surely not be of much interest to anyone. What are you thinking?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Banks. ‘But someone wanted Bill Quinn out of the way, and that same person also wanted Mihkel out of the way. Can you think of anyone who would want that?’

‘No.’

‘I’m missing something,’ Banks went on. ‘There has to be some connection between Rachel Hewitt and the illegal worker scam.’

‘Why? How?’

‘Because we believe someone sent the same killer to get rid of both Bill Quinn and Mihkel.’

‘But why bring up Rachel Hewitt? You have already said that Bill Quinn was also involved in investigating the workers.’

‘That’s true. Maybe he was working both sides.’

‘And perhaps with Mihkel’s help he was about to become a danger to them, and they knew that? Perhaps they were both killed for the same reason. The Rachel Hewitt case was simply what brought them together in the first place, not the reason for either of the murders.’

Banks had always been aware of that possibility, that he could be wandering way off target by taking Rachel Hewitt into consideration. But there was something about her disappearance that bothered him, and something had obviously been gnawing away at Bill Quinn ever since his trip to Tallinn six years ago. There were the photographs with the unknown girl, too. Banks knew, however, that he had to try to keep an open mind on this, that he was in danger of allowing one set of facts to obscure or distort another. Maybe the two events weren’t connected, but that didn’t mean Banks shouldn’t try to find out what had happened to Rachel as well as solve Quinn’s and Mihkel’s murders. He didn’t think he could go through the rest of his days not knowing what happened, the way Bill Quinn had. Look what it had done to him. And her parents deserved better.

Banks took out copies of Bill Quinn’s photographs, including the blow-ups and the cropped version showing only the girl. He laid them before Erik on the table. ‘We believe that these photographs were taken here in July 2006, when Bill Quinn was over at the start of the Rachel Hewitt case. This is the only real
evidence
that convinces me that what happened to Bill Quinn was connected with Rachel’s disappearance, otherwise I’d accept that he and Mihkel were both killed because of the migrant worker scam. The rest is simply copper’s instinct. But the photographs are important. Trust me on that. We believe that someone set him up with this girl. It’s possible that she drugged him or got him so drunk he didn’t know what he was doing, then got him up to his hotel room so these photographs could be taken. Are you with me so far?’

Erik looked puzzled, but he said, ‘Yes.’

‘We don’t know why, but one good guess is that he had somehow or other got close to whoever it was abducted Rachel. Everyone said he was haunted by the case right up until his death. I wonder. One thing that would explain it is that he found out what happened to Rachel and was unable to do anything about it, that he was blackmailed into silence. Bill Quinn was devoted to his wife, but he stumbled this once, and it came back on him in a very big way. When his wife died a month ago, that silence was no longer so important. What he had to do was find a way of making his knowledge public without revealing that he had hidden the truth for six years.’

‘And to that end, he enlisted Mihkel’s help?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘I think so. I know it’s only conjecture at this point, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. The killer knew that Mihkel and Quinn were in touch, knew that Quinn was free now that he was no longer troubled by anyone showing the pictures to his wife. That Mihkel was in England at the time was irrelevant to the killer, really. He could have been anywhere. It simply made things more convenient for the killer, or whoever sent him. Two birds with one stone, so to speak.’

‘How did the killer know Mihkel was at this farm?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘But it would be my guess that Mihkel slipped up somehow, despite taking such care. I would imagine that all these migrant gangs have spies planted to keep an eye out for infiltrators like Mihkel. They’ve been stung too often before, as you yourself mentioned earlier. Then someone was sent to tidy up.’

‘But surely if Bill had discovered anything about Rachel Hewitt, the Tallinn police would know? There was no way he could simply go about and make the investigation by himself.’

‘That is a problem, I agree. Unless it was something he uncovered on his own, either here or back in England.’

‘But if it happened here, he would have told someone, surely? The Investigator. The Prosecutor?’

‘Yes, he probably would, wouldn’t he?’

Erik stared at Banks in disbelief. ‘Are you saying the police here were corrupt? The Office of the Prosecutor?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. But again, it’s mere speculation. So much police work is. I’d like you to do me a couple of favours. First, I’d like you to see if you can find out who this girl is. She’s probably local, or was in 2006, and may well have been connected with the sex trade or perhaps worked in one of the nightclubs. She might also have been trafficked from somewhere, forced into prostitution. You must have extensive files at your newspaper. You’ve got the resources, and I don’t. Can you do it? Will you help us?’

Erik examined the photos and nodded slowly. ‘I can try,’ he said. ‘If it helps to uncover who killed Mihkel. You mentioned two favours.’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘There’s a retired cop called Toomas Rätsepp and a Prosecutor called Ursula Mardna. I’d like you to find out all you can about them, too.’

After dinner at a Thai restaurant not far from the hotel, at which they discussed their conversations with Toomas Rätsepp and Erik Aarma, Joanna begged off early for the night, pleading the jetlag and the change of scene were catching up with her. Two hours wasn’t much of a time difference, Banks thought, but travel itself certainly was tiring. He didn’t know why, as all you had to do was sit there and be delivered to your destination, but it was.

It was only half past nine. Banks felt restless, and he knew it would be no use heading up to his room so early. Besides, having got at least some sense from Toomas Rätsepp of the places the hen party had visited, he wanted to wander the Old Town after dark and get a better feel for the streets, where the cars were, the nightclubs, the bars. It was just around sunset, so he decided now was as good a time as any to set off. Of course, it would have stayed light much later in July, but Banks guessed that the girls would also have been up a lot later than nine fifteen, and that it would have been quite dark when they left St Patrick’s. Some clubs didn’t even open until midnight or after, like the ones in cities at home that opened when the pubs closed. He imagined that Tallinn was the sort of place where you could get a drink at any time of the day or night.

It was Thursday, close to the weekend, and the Old Town was much livelier than it had been the previous evening. Walking past the front of Old Hansa, Banks saw a line of young men shuffling along wearing chain-gang uniforms. A stag party, no doubt. One of them raised a bottle of Saku, smiled and said, ‘All right, mate?’ Banks recognised the northern accent.

Once again he found himself by the large bookshop on the corner of Harju and Niguliste, opposite the church at the top of its grassy slope. He walked along the front of the bookshop, recognising a few of the English titles he saw displayed in the window, past Fish & Wine, where he turned left, past the corner where he and Joanna Passero had been sitting last night, and continued on, down Vana-Posti.

It was one of the narrower streets in the Old Town, but there were a few cafes and bars, including St Patrick’s, and further down, on his right, an elegant four-storey hotel with dormer windows on top and a white facade stood on a corner. It formed a little triangle with benches and fountains, and on another side stood the concave front of a building with SOPRUS written across the top in large letters. It looked like an old cinema, with its steps and massive pillars along the front. There were a couple of large movie posters on the wall, one for
Submarine
and another for a series of classics by master directors. To the left of the second poster was a sign for ‘Hollywood’, where the girls had been dancing and met the German boys in July 2006. Banks was tempted to go in, just to check out the place, but he realised there would be no point. It would simply be a hot, noisy, jam-packed club, which would stifle his breath and hurt his ears. There were some things worth suffering for the job, but not that.

Instead, he started to walk back up Vana-Posti to St Patrick’s, went inside, stood at the bar and ordered a beer. The place probably hadn’t changed much since 2006, he reckoned. Their food was supposed to be pretty good and it wasn’t one of the major stag-party haunts. There were no guys in chain-gang uniforms in evidence, at any rate. It was busy, though, and most of the tables and all the chairs around him were taken. There was quite a mix of age groups and accents, from what Banks could make out, and he reckoned it was the kind of place you might kick off an evening, or somewhere you might end up to mellow out for a while. It didn’t seem like the sort of establishment that would tolerate rowdy behaviour.

There was music playing, but Banks had no idea what it was. It wasn’t obtrusive, at any rate. He finished his beer and left, turning right, the way the girls had turned. He turned right again at Fish & Wine, the way he had come, and followed the street straight across Niguliste. In no time he was at the Raekoja Plats, the main square. It had taken him no more than five minutes from St Patrick’s, but the girls and their German friends had probably taken a bit longer. There were plenty of lively bars and restaurants opposite the town hall on the large cobbled square, all with tables outside under awnings, nicely lit by candlelight and dim table lamps: Molly Malone’s, Kaerajaan, Fellini, Karl Friedrich. The girls would probably have stayed outside drinking wherever they went in the square, and at some point, they realised they had lost Rachel.