Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery) (35 page)

Banks walked back to St Patrick’s, but this time he didn’t go inside. He continued past the pub, in the other direction. Rätsepp had mentioned that a bartender thought he saw Rachel go the wrong way when she left St Patrick’s. Maybe he was right. Banks wanted to know what was around there other than Club Hollywood and the My City Hotel. Then he saw, just to his left shortly after passing the pub, one of those long, narrow lanes curving into the distance, mixed facades of four-storey buildings on each side, narrow strips of pavement, and a cobbled road perhaps wide enough for a car.

Banks turned left and started walking along the street. In places some of the plaster had fallen away from the fronts of the buildings, revealing the stone and brickwork underneath, like the skeleton without flesh, bared teeth and jawbone where the cheek has been ripped away. There were flags hanging above some of the doorways, and Banks guessed most were residences, or perhaps business offices with flats above.

Then he noticed a small illuminated sign above one of the doorways about thirty feet along. It had nothing written on it, only a stylised cartoon of a man in a top hat and tails, who seemed to be helping a voluptuous woman into a carriage. Banks paused and looked at the door. There were no prices or opening times posted – he supposed it was a place you just had to know about – and all he could make out was a vague sort of reception desk and perhaps cloakroom area lit by a reddish glow behind the heavy glass doors. It was elegant, with polished brass and dark wood, certainly not like some of the seedier sex clubs he had seen in Soho, if that was what it was. And it was open.

Would anything have been likely to draw Rachel down here, Banks wondered, assuming she actually had turned the wrong way, unless she perhaps recognised the street, thought it was a short cut to the hotel or the main road and the possibility of a taxi? Vana-Posti would lead eventually to Pärnu, a broad boulevard with a constant flow of traffic and trams running along the southern edge of the Old Town. But that was not in the same direction as the Meriton Hotel. Still, if Rachel might have known she could get a taxi on or near Pärnu. It was a very busy road, beyond the confusing and possibly by now claustrophobic and frightening maze of the Old Town, and she could soon get herself reoriented there. Might something have drawn her down this street, caught her attention? The illuminated sign? Something else? Someone? Had the toilets at St Patrick’s been too busy, and did she still need to go? Perhaps she was looking for a quiet, sheltered doorway to pee in. Or perhaps she had spotted a taxi with its light on down the road and dashed to try and catch it. Then what?

Banks sensed, rather than saw, a shadow entering the street behind him. He had been wary of being followed most of the time he had been in Tallinn, but it had been impossible to tell in the busy streets and bright sunshine. If someone wanted to find out where he had been and who he had been talking to, it wouldn’t have been too difficult. This was the first time he had been in the Old Town after dark by himself. It could just be someone taking a short cut, of course, or someone who lived on the street, but it was still enough to make Banks nervous. More likely than not, Rätsepp had sent a man to follow him and he was in no danger, but he didn’t need to make the man’s job too easy.

He tried the doors of the mysterious club and found himself in the small reception and coat check area. The woman standing behind the front desk wore a black bustière that left little to the imagination. Her breasts looked augmented to Banks’s unskilled eye. She had a beauty spot painted to the right of her mouth, bright red lipstick and tumbling black waves of hair. Beside her stood two bruisers. Well-dressed, in Armani suits, relaxed, at ease, both giving Banks pleasant nods of welcome, but bruisers nonetheless, with no necks and cauliflower ears.

‘Do you speak English?’ Banks asked the woman.

‘Of course, sir. What is it you require?’

‘Can I go in?’

‘Are you a member, sir?’

‘No. I didn’t realise that . . .’

‘If you would just like a drink in the bar, then a one-time membership is available for twenty euros.’

‘That’s just to go in?’

‘Yes, sir. Into the lounge.’

‘There’s more?’

She gave an enigmatic smile. ‘There are many rooms, sir.’

‘Is there any entertainment?’

‘Here, we make our own entertainment, sir.’

Already feeling as if he had fallen down the rabbit hole, Banks forked over twenty euros, for which he got a stamped pass, and the woman directed him to a pair of swing doors. ‘Just through there, sir.’

It was a dimly lit lounge bar with leather chairs around low round tables, definitely not built for bottles and litre glasses. Each table bore a shaded lamp with a low wattage bulb. There was no music and no windows. Waitresses in tastefully scanty clothing with a vaguely S & M theme drifted between the tables, carrying silver trays. Banks had no sooner sat down when one appeared at his side. ‘What is your pleasure, sir?’

English, it seemed, was the language of choice here, and her accent was impeccable. ‘Perhaps a glass of red wine,’ Banks said.

‘We have a very good Merlot, sir, a Rioja or Chianti Classico by the glass. We also have an extensive wine list.’

‘I’ll have a glass of Rioja, please,’ said Banks.

‘Very well.’

What the hell am I doing here? Banks wondered as he waited for his drink. The conversations around him were hushed, most of the customers in business suits, men from their thirties to sixties. There were no women other than the waitresses. Occasionally, the door at the far end would open and someone would leave or enter.

‘What happens in there?’ Banks asked the waitress when she brought his drink. Her breasts were not augmented, he decided, as she bent to place the wine on a white coaster. She said nothing. ‘Can I talk to the manager?’ he asked.

‘Police?’

‘How did you know?’

‘They’re the same the whole world over, sweetie.’ She held her tray in one hand and pointed to a man standing by the cash register beside the bar. ‘He’s over there. Good luck.’

Banks picked up his wine and walked over. He had no idea whether the manager spoke English but was now used to the idea that everyone in Tallinn did. It was a skill, he thought, that the manager of a club like this ought to have. And he did. In fact, he spoke as if he had just got off a plane from London.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

Though he knew it was no use here, Banks flashed his warrant card. Humour twinkled in the manager’s eyes. ‘You can buy those in the shops over here, you know, mate.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Banks, ‘but I figured that seeing as I’m not here to cause you any trouble, merely just to ask a couple of questions for curiosity’s sake, it wouldn’t do any harm.’

‘There’s certainly no harm trying,’ said the manager. ‘I’m Larry, by the way. Larry Helmsley.’

Banks shook hands. ‘Pleased to meet you. How did you end up in a place like this?’

‘I started working the clubs over in London years back, but I wanted to travel, see new places. Mostly, I see the inside of a dark club and sleep all day.’

‘What kind of club is this?’

‘Private. Gentlemen’s. Members only.’

‘OK. I get it. What I’m interested in happened six years ago.’

‘Then I’m not your man. I was in Brussels then. Or was it Barcelona?’

‘Was this place here?’

‘I assume so. It’s been through a lot of changes over the years.’

‘Who owns it?’

‘A consortium of interested parties.’

‘And that’s who you work for?’

‘I’m more of a freelance, but they’re my employers at the moment.’

‘How long have they owned the place?’

‘About two years. What is it exactly that you’re after, mate? What is it that happened six years ago?’

‘An English girl disappeared near here. She was leaving a pub around the corner—’

‘St Patrick’s?’

‘Yes. And she may have taken the wrong direction from her friends and got lost. Maybe she came in here.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Looking for a phone, maybe. She’d forgotten her mobile. To use the toilet. Or trying to find her friends.’

‘Was she drunk?’

‘It was a hen party.’

‘If it’s anything like it is now, she wouldn’t have got past the front door. Just a minute. I think I remember the case you’re talking about. Her parents have been in the news. Rachel something-or-other, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Rachel Hewitt. She was never found.’

‘Tragic. I didn’t know she was near here when she vanished. But I can’t help you, mate. Like I said, I wasn’t here then, and the present owners have only been around a couple of years.’

‘It was a long shot, anyway,’ said Banks.

‘I appreciate a man who goes for a long shot. Nothing like it when one pays off. Sorry.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Banks. He finished his drink, left the glass on the bar and made for the front doors. He passed the waitress on the way, and she touched his arm. ‘You did quite well with him. You two seemed to hit it off.’

‘Two strangers united by a common language,’ he said. ‘Tell me, is anyone here from Estonia?’

Her accent slipped. ‘I wouldn’t know, sweetie. I’m from Wigan, meself.’

Smiling to himself, Banks walked outside, careful to scan both directions of the street. His shadow could easily be hiding in a doorway, like Orson Welles in
The Third Man
, but there was no obvious sign of him. Come to think of it, the whole place had a look of
The Third Man
about it. Banks put his hands in his pockets and strolled watchfully down the curving narrow street until it ended at a square full of packed and well-lit cafes. There, he decided to sit and have a final glass of wine before heading off to bed, and to see if his shadow turned up. The Rioja he had paid ten euros for at the club had not been very good, and it had left a nasty taste at the back of his throat.

The person whom Banks thought had been following him was still there, though it was sometimes hard to make him out through the crowds passing back and forth. He was of medium height, about the same as Banks himself, in his late thirties or early forties, already showing signs of thinning on top, casually dressed in jeans and a dark shirt underneath some sort of zip-up jacket. He sat down at the cafe across the square. Good. They could sit and stare at one another.

Banks ordered a glass of Shiraz, sipped and watched the people go by. A group of girls in red micro dresses, carrying heart-shaped red balloons on strings, snaked by in a conga line, giggling and chanting, hips bumping this way, then that, some almost tripping in their impossibly high heels on the cobblestones. When they had passed by, he glanced across the square again, only to find that his shadow had disappeared. He jotted a few notes in his notebook, finished his drink and decided to call it a day. It was two hours earlier in Eastvale, so he could probably still call Annie and get up to date when he got back to the hotel. On his way back, he noticed the man once again, about a hundred yards behind him walking down Viru. It didn’t matter, Banks decided. He was going to his room for the night. The streets would be well lit and full of people all the way. He would make sure the door to his room was secure. Tomorrow, he would keep his eyes open and his wits about him.

Chapter 9

Tony Leach lived in an old terrace house off the Skipton Road on the outskirts of Ilkley, where the streets eventually ran into fields, woods and open country. The bay window in the high-ceilinged living room had a fine view of the Cow & Calf, though the rocky outcrops were partly shrouded by mist and low-lying cloud that morning.

Annie and Winsome had driven down from Eastvale, avoiding the A1 this time, to find out what Rachel Hewitt’s ex-boyfriend had to add to the picture they were building up. Annie had had a long chat with Banks the previous evening, and he had told her of his talks with Toomas Rätsepp and Erik Aarma, and of being followed in Tallinn. It had been a lot to digest, but Annie was glad to be up to date and pleased that things were moving along. She told him to be careful, and meant it. She had shared the information with Winsome on their way to Ilkley. The only other welcome piece of news that morning had been the analysis of DNA from the trace amounts of blood on the tree the CSIs thought the killer used for balance when he shot Bill Quinn. There was no match on any of the databases, but at least if they found him they would be able take a sample and compare them. It probably wouldn’t convict him in itself, but it might help. The way this case was shooting off in all directions, Annie thought, it was as well to remember that this was the man they were after: the killer of Bill Quinn and Mihkel Lepikson.

Tony worked at a car dealership in the town centre, but that day, his boss had told them on the phone, he was at home with his wife, who was in the final stages of her second pregnancy. The fruits of the first, little Freddie, toddled around in a playpen filled with safe soft toys in the corner of the living room. They looked as if you could eat them, hit yourself on the head with them and jump up and down on them, and neither you nor they would be harmed in any way. Luckily, he was a quiet toddler.

Melanie Leach was lying down on the sofa listening to
Woman’s Hour
. When she asked for a cup of tea, Annie suggested that she and Winsome accompany Tony to the kitchen to chat while he made some. Annie hoped they might get a cup of tea out of it themselves, too, but most of all she didn’t want to talk to Tony about his ex-girlfriend while his pregnant wife was in the same room.