‘What makes you think you can solve this after so long, when everyone else has failed?’
‘Because I’m better than them,’ Banks said, smiling. ‘Watch and learn. Seriously, though. A lot’s happened since then. Are you with me?’
Joanna rolled her eyes and laughed. Then she raised her glass and they clinked. ‘I’m with you. Seriously, though,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘I really don’t want us to be working at cross purposes here. I know what you think of me and my job, but we’re both concerned with catching Quinn’s killer, too, right? Are we OK on all this?’
‘We’re OK.’
Chapter 8
Thursday turned out to be another warm day, and by lunchtime Banks and Joanna were ready for a cold drink and some food. They had spent the morning getting the feel of the city in which Rachel Hewitt had disappeared and discussing their strategy for the forthcoming interview. They had been all the way up to Toompea and seen the onion domes of the Russian Orthodox Nevsky Cathedral, walked around the Dome Church, admired the views of the city in various directions from the different viewing points, and wandered the quiet cobbled streets. There were very few shops and cafes up there, and it seemed remote, even from the rest of the Old Town, quiet and peaceful. Not the sort of area for a hen party.
They found Clazz, back down in the Old Town, opposite a large restaurant Banks had seen mentioned in his guidebook called Old Hansa, a cream-fronted building with lots of wooden benches on its covered patio, which seemed to contain almost as much shrubbery as it did customers. The waitresses were dressed in medieval-themed costumes, and Banks could imagine evening sing-alongs with everyone waving tankards of foaming ale in the air.
But Clazz was much less ostentatious. A man sitting at one of the outside tables waved them over and introduced himself.
‘How did you know it was us?’ Banks asked, when they had sat down.
‘Two foreigners looking lost? It does not take much detective skill to work that out, Hr Banks.’
‘Please, call me Alan. This is Inspector Joanna Passero.’
Joanna smiled and shook Rätsepp’s hand. ‘Joanna,’ she said.
Banks noticed that he held on to it for a few seconds longer than necessary. Joanna clearly noticed it, too, but she said nothing.
‘And I am Toomas. Do you enjoy our lovely weather?’ Rätsepp went on. ‘We often have good weather at this time of year. You are very lucky you come now.’ His English wasn’t quite as good as Merike’s, but then he wasn’t a translator. It was far better than Banks’s non-existent Estonian.
‘It makes a pleasant change,’ said Banks.
Rätsepp was in his late fifties, overweight, with a head of thinning grey hair, wary, hooded eyes and bushy grey eyebrows, rather like a pair of horns above his eyes. Banks decided he must cultivate them that way deliberately, thinking they were sexy or something, because he couldn’t fail to see them every time he looked in a mirror. He reminded Banks of the actor who had called Michael Caine ‘Eenglish’ with a sneer in his voice in Funeral in Berlin. Oscar Homolka. He was wearing a white shirt, open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up, showing hairy forearms and throat. A grey sports jacket hung over the back of his chair. There were sweat stains under his arms, and the buttons were tight around his middle.
The waiter wandered over and handed out menus.
‘I would recommend the steak,’ Rätsepp said, ‘but of course, it is entirely up to you. Perhaps you are vegetarian, yes?’
They ordered steak and A. Le Coq beer for Banks and Rätsepp, and a Diet Coke for Joanna. She had told Banks she felt a little the worse for wear this morning, so he guessed she was laying off the wine for a while.
‘I understand you retired recently,’ Banks said as they waited for their drinks. ‘How is that working out?’
‘Excellent, excellent,’ said Rätsepp. ‘It is something I wish I have done many years ago.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
He rubbed the thumb and fingers of one hand together. ‘I must work to earn money.’
Their drinks arrived, and Rätsepp proposed an Estonian toast. ‘Teie terviseks!’
They sipped their drinks and chatted about police work and for a while, then when their lunch arrived, Rätsepp indicated he was ready to talk.
‘It is terrible shame about Hr Quinn,’ he said after his first mouthful of very rare steak. A drop of blood hung at the side of his fleshy mouth like a teardrop. Fortunately, he used his serviette a lot while he ate. ‘He was good man. Very good man. What happen?’
‘That’s what we’re hoping to find out.’ Banks didn’t want to get on to the subject of Quinn’s transgressions so early in the conversation, though he hoped that at some point Rätsepp might be able to help him with the photographs, if he felt he could trust him enough to show him them. If, on the other hand, he got the impression that Rätsepp was in any way involved with what had happened to Quinn or Mihkel Lepikson, he certainly didn’t want to give too much away. But he would reserve judgement for the moment. He was half-surprised, and very pleased, that Joanna didn’t jump in with some comment about Quinn’s murder. She must be learning; she must have listened to him after their set-to the previous evening. ‘I’m afraid we’re all still a bit at sea about it all.’
‘At sea?’
‘Sorry. Confused.’
‘Ah. I do not really see how an old case will help you, or what it has to do with Hr Quinn’s death,’ Rätsepp said. ‘It was long time ago, and Hr Quinn had only minor role.’
‘I understand he was over here for about a week?’
‘That is correct.’
‘How soon after Rachel Hewitt’s disappearance?’
‘Perhaps two days.’
‘That’s very quick, isn’t it?’
‘There is no real measure for such things.’ Rätsepp paused and ate more steak. ‘I think the girl’s parents demand he come,’ he went on. ‘They call local police in England and ask them to do something. I think the parents are, how do you say, very pushy? It is quite understandable, of course. We do our best, but what can I say? This is beautiful nineteen-year-old girl, young woman, and she is missing forty-eight hours. I know it is very confusing and upsetting for her parents, to be so far away, in foreign country. They do not understand our country. They want someone to communicate what is happening before they come here themselves. Difficult time for everyone.’
‘What did DI Quinn actually do in the investigations?’
‘Nothing very much. What can he do? He is not involved here. He is not Estonian. He attends meetings, of course, so he can go back and tell his bosses what we are doing. But that is all.’
‘He didn’t do any searching, any questioning, any investigating?’
‘No. Observing only.’
Banks wasn’t sure he believed Rätsepp, but he moved on, nonetheless. What reason could he have to lie? ‘Were there any leads at all?’
‘Sadly, no. We check the hospitals, airport, railway station, buses, ferries. We check other hotels. We speak with staff at Meriton to ask if she go back there and go out again. We visit many bars and clubs popular with young tourists. Ask everywhere. Nothing. It is like the girl disappear into air.’
‘What about since then? Any nibbles? Any traces?’
‘For two months we investigate. More. Sometimes now we send out her description again. Nothing. I am sure you also get many mistaken sights, which is all that we have had. From St Petersburg to Prague, and in the south, Odessa and Tirana. Her parents encourage many of these mistakes. We have also work with an artist on what Rachel look like now. It is not so very big change in six years, perhaps, but it helps.’
‘What about CCTV?’
‘What is that?’
‘Closed-circuit television. Cameras. In the streets, in bars. We have them all over England.’
‘Ah. Yes. We have here, too. But then not so many, of course. We examine all we can find, but nothing show us where Rachel is gone.’ He paused. ‘As I am sure you
know, many camera images are not so good.’
‘True enough,’ said Banks. ‘Most CCTV’s crap, no arguing with that.’ He gazed around at the other diners. Many were obviously tourists, given away by their cameras or bulging dayglo bags. He heard some people speaking German, and some Italian. There were also quite a few of young professionals, and he took most of them for locals, who perhaps worked in the Old Town or had come in from the suburbs to have lunch with friends during the spell of fine weather. ‘This is very good steak,’ he said.
‘I am glad you approve. And the charming lady?’
Joanna, the ‘charming lady’, smiled sweetly at him and said, in her best Morningside accent. ‘Absolutely delicious, Toomas. One of the tastiest I have ever eaten.’
Rätsepp beamed at her. ‘In what capacity exactly are you here?’ he asked, his forehead wrinkling into a slight and, so Banks thought, definitely choreographed frown.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Joanna. ‘I don’t understand the question.’
‘I apologise for my bad English. You work for Professional Standards, am I not right?’ he went on. ‘But Inspector Quinn’s murder is matter for Homicide, no?’
‘I can see there are no flies on you, Toomas,’ Joanna said, waving her fork at him and smiling to take the sting out of her tone.
He checked his arms. ‘Flies? I do not understand.’
‘She means you’re very quick to grasp a situation,’ Banks said. ‘It’s just a saying.’
‘Ah, another of your charming English idioms. I see. It is one I do not know. I will remember. She is here to keep an eye on you, Alan, you lucky man? Have you been naughty boy?’
‘It’s nothing like that,’ said Banks. ‘Inspector Passero is training for her transfer to Homicide and Major Crimes. Her boss thought working on this case with me would help.’
‘So you are her teacher?’
‘Something like that.’
‘You must be very good to be trusted with such lovely pupil.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I hear things about you.’
‘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.’
Watching the Dark Page 22