Watching the Dark

by Peter Robinson

  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 Gree
ne.’

  ‘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.’

  That made sense. A hobby in common. And Rachel Hewitt. But what did it all mean? For one thing, it meant that the Rachel Hewitt case was coming up with such alarming regularity that it was now number one priority. But they still had to find a link to Corrigan, Flinders and the migrant labour racket. There were too many pieces missing.

  Banks reached for the envelope in his briefcase and tipped out the photographs of Quinn with the girl. ‘Could these be the photos Mihkel was referring to? Bill Quinn had them in his possession. Do you recognise the girl?’ he asked.

  Merike studied the photos. ‘I don’t know if these are what he meant,’ she said, ‘but I don’t know her.’

  ‘They would probably have been taken about six years ago,’ Banks added.

  ‘No. I would remember her.’

  He pushed the blow-up of the beer mat towards her. ‘I assume that’s familiar to you?’

  ‘Yes. Though I prefer Saku, myself. Can I see that one again?’ She pointed at the photograph of Quinn and the girl having a drink in the bar. After studying it for a moment, she said, ‘I think that’s the bar in the Hotel Metropol.’

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been there many times for my work, and with Mihkel and Erik.’

  ‘Pardon my being a little indelicate here,’ Banks said, ‘but is it the kind of hotel where . . . certain women might be found?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You think I would go to a hotel like that.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Banks blustered on. He could tell that Annie and Joanna were enjoying his discomfort tremendously, and he was desperately thinking of a way to get out of this without putting his foot any further down his throat. ‘No. I mean, we think, you know, that . . .’

  ‘This girl?’ said Merike. ‘The one in the photograph?’

  ‘Well, yes. Possibly.’ He hadn’t shown her the bedroom shot, so she wasn’t to know the context of the business.

  ‘But she does not look like that sort of girl. Is that how you say it? That sort of girl?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes. You don’t think so?’

  Merike examined the photo more closely. ‘No. Just because she is young and beautiful?’

  ‘And with a much older man.’

  ‘Many women prefer older men. I’m not saying it isn’t possible. Perhaps you know something I don’t. But the Metropol is definitely not that kind of hotel. It doesn’t mean you can’t have a drink with an attractive woman there, though.’

  ‘Thank you, Merike,’ Banks said. ‘That’s a great help.’

  The question was: where next? There was one thing Banks was certain of, and that was that if he wanted answers, before very long he would have to pay a visit to Tallinn himself, whether Madame Gervaise liked the idea or not.

  It was after seven o’clock when Banks walked through his front door that evening. He picked up the post, gave it a casual glance and tossed it on the computer desk behind the door, along with his briefcase. It had been his habit lately on arriving home from work to put on some music, make a cup of tea, and relax in the conservatory with a book before microwaving the remains of yesterday’s takeaway, or throwing together a sandwich from whatever he happened to have in his fridge. Today was no exception. He put the kettle on, dug out his old CD of Arvo Pärt’s Fratres, put it in the CD player and, when the tea was ready, took it and the book he had bought earlier to the conservatory. He wasn’t even hungry. The smoked haddock he had enjoyed at the Blue Lion was enough to last him a while, and if he did get hungry later on, he had some Seriously Strong cheddar in the fridge. He could grill himself a sandwich. If that wasn’t enough, there was always the leftover Indian takeaway from Saturday.

  Banks sipped the green tea and let Pärt’s slow repeating piano chords and flurry of strings drift over him; the strings reminded him of Philip Glass. He was due to fly out of Manchester the following morning at 10.25 for Tallinn, changing in Helsinki. Area Commander Gervaise hadn’t liked the idea of the trip at all, as he had expected, but after complaining for ten minutes about budget cuts and constraints, she saw that it was the only logical next step in the investigation and approved his travel application, with limited expenses.

  The only drawback was that Joanna Passero was to accompany him. Gervaise was quite firm on this. Annie Cabbot had been livid. Having been cooped up in hospital or in St Peter’s for so long, she complained, a nice trip abroad would have done her the world of good. Gervaise argued that someone had to handle the investigation back in Yorkshire, and the budget wouldn’t run to three detectives going abroad. Besides, hadn’t she just got back from Cornwall? As it appeared that Tallinn was where Bill Quinn had committed his unforgivable sin of adultery and got his photo taken in the act, then Inspector Passero had to be there.

  Despite the company, Banks felt excited about the journey. Estonia was a country he had never visited before, and he loved new places, especially cities he could explore on foot. He had picked up the Eyewitness Top 10 Tallinn guide from Waterstones before coming home, and he glanced through it as he listened to the music. ‘Fratres’ gave way to the solemn, tolling bell and eerie strings of ‘Cantus In Memoriam Benjamin Britten’, slowly building in volume.

  The visit would be mostly taken up with work, Banks knew, talking to the police who had investigated the Rachel Hewitt case, and to Erik Aarma, Mihkel Lepikson’s friend and editor, but there would always be a free hour or two now and then to take a walk. They had booked in at the Metropol, and he soon discovered from his guidebook that the Meriton, where Rachel Hewitt and the hen party had stayed, wasn’t very far away.

  Banks had the names of the Investigator and the Prosecutor on
the case. The Investigator had now retired, but he had said that he was sorry to hear about Bill Quinn’s death, and he would be happy to talk to Banks at a place to be agreed upon later. Someone would contact him at the hotel.

  Merike Noormets had also told Banks that she was returning to Tallinn the following day and would be happy to help out as a translator, or to drive them around if they needed her. She said most Estonians spoke English, but difficulties may occur with some words or concepts. Banks had her telephone number in his mobile, and he thought he would get in touch. She would be grieving over Mihkel for some time, and perhaps something interesting to do would help take her mind off her loss.

  After his talk with Merike, Banks had gone back to his office and looked over the Rachel Hewitt files. As Annie had already told him, there wasn’t much in them because it had been essentially an Estonian case, starting as a local investigation by the Tallinn Central Prefecture, then quickly becoming a case for the National Criminal Police Department when the seriousness of the matter, and the involvement of a foreign national, became apparent.

  The investigation itself had gone on for about two months, but the case was still officially open, as Rachel Hewitt was still a missing person, not a murder victim, though most people outside the family believed that she was dead. Banks could glean very little from Bill Quinn’s reports, and it seemed to him very much as if the whole thing had been a matter of national niceties and ticking the boxes. Still, Quinn had been there for a week shortly after Rachel disappeared, and he had worked closely with the Investigator from the Criminal Police Department, whose name was Toomas Rätsepp, and with the Prosecutor, Ursula Mardna.

  Annie and Winsome would be questioning Rachel Hewitt’s parents and friends from the hen party while he was away. Banks also asked Annie to slip in a few questions about the night of the disappearance to Rachel’s friends, to fill in some of the gaps and details, if possible. From what he had read so far, it all sounded very vague and haphazard.