Watching the Dark

by Peter Robinson

  ‘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.

  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 perha
ps 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 do
wn 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.