Watching the Dark

by Peter Robinson

  Joanna wandered a few yards down the street to look in a shop window while Banks kept his eye on the door of the restaurant. It was about ten minutes before Merike came out. At first Banks thought she was alone, then he saw the woman behind her. Larisa Petrenko. She was a slighter figure than he had imagined – for some reason he had thought her a tall, leggy, exotic beauty. The closer they came, the more he could see that she was definitely a beauty, though in a very natural way. She now she wore her hair tied back in a ponytail. Her jeans were not the kind you had to put on with a shoehorn, but they certainly showed off the curves of her hips, rear end and legs. She had put on some weight since the photograph with Quinn had been taken, but not much. She was still slim and petite, and very young-looking. And she was nervous. Banks gave Merike a quizzical glance.

  ‘This is Larisa,’ Merike said. ‘She is willing to talk to you. Her husband is not here today. He is at his studio working. She does not believe she can tell you very much, but she will help if she can.’

  Banks smiled at Larisa and offered his hand. She shook it. Her grip was firm, her skin soft. ‘I cannot be gone for long,’ she said, in clear but accented English. ‘Kaida is by herself, and we should be busy soon.’

  ‘Can we walk?’

  Larisa led them down some quiet streets of wooden houses, and they soon came out at the sea. There was a large white wedding-cake style building on the water in front of them with a covered walkway all around it, like the covered porches in the Southern USA. To the right was something resembling a white bandstand sticking out from the shore. They walked along the waterfront path. Larisa had already told them on the way about her simple life in Haapsalu with her husband and her cafe, about how she had gone to university to study modern languages, and wanted to teach, but changed her mind. Now she made pottery and ceramics and ran a successful restaurant in a tourist spa.

  ‘I take it that’s a long way from your old life?’ Banks said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ Banks had already showed her the photographs, which had embarrassed her.

  Banks saw a polar bear in the water near the shore, then he realised it was just a statue of a polar bear. Haapsalu’s version of The Little Mermaid, he guessed. They came to a stone bench that was inscribed ‘P.I. Tsaikovski 1840-1893’ under a circular etching of the man himself. ‘Let’s sit here,’ said Larisa. ‘I like to sit here when I walk by the sea.’

  ‘Do you like Tchaikovsky’s music?’ Banks asked.

  ‘Not particularly. But I like the idea that he was here. I like to think of him enjoying the same view and hearing great music in his mind.’

  Banks liked that idea, too, and he also liked Tchaikovsky’s string quartets and symphonies very much. The four of them sat in a row, Banks half-turned towards Larisa. ‘Do you remember that night when the photographs were taken?’

  Larisa gazed out to sea, screwing her eyes up against the glare from the water. ‘Pieces of it,’ she said. ‘I met him in the hotel bar. I was pretending to get change for the telephone, and I caught his eye, as was planned.’

  ‘So you didn’t approach him directly?’ Joanna asked, from beside Banks.

  ‘I smiled at him. He came up to the bar and asked if he could help. He gave me some change. A few minutes later I came back in to thank him, and he offered to buy me a drink. After that, it was easy.’

  ‘But at no time did you proposition him?’ Joanna asked.

  ‘What kind of girl do you think I am? Of course I did not proposition him. We talked. He was nice. He was lonely. He had nobody to meet, nobody to talk to.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’ Banks asked.

  Larisa frowned. ‘I do not remember. Wait. We talked about fishing at some time. He did. I remember how intense and alive he became when he talked about fishing. The rest is gone. Small talk. How he liked Tallinn. The sights. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Did he talk about his job?’

  ‘I do not know what his job was. Perhaps he did.’

  ‘He was a police detective.’

  ‘I would have remembered,’ Larisa said. ‘And I would have left. In those days I avoided the police.’

  Banks let that one go by. ‘So you talked,’ he said. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Dinner. I said I was hungry, and he took me to dinner. And we drank some wine. And we talked some more.’

  ‘When did the subject of going to his room come up?’

  ‘Towards the end of dinner. We were perhaps both a little drunk. He said it would be nice to continue the conversation up in his room. I agreed.’

  ‘You did this all of your own free will?’ Joanna asked. ‘Not for money?’

  ‘Yes, of course for money,’ said Larisa. ‘But not from him. I am not a prostitute. Not even then.’

  ‘So someone paid you?’ Banks said.

  ‘Two thousand kroon. It was a lot of money.’

  ‘Do you know who paid you?’

  ‘Of course I do. It was the same man who gave me the powder to put in his wine.’

  There had been no point heading down to Leeds on Friday evening, as it was West Yorkshire’s crime scene, and they would only be in the way, so Annie had given in to her softer nature and taken Krystyna home to her little cottage in Harkside. They had spent the evening in companionable silence watching American cop shows on Channel Five while sharing an Indian takeaway and a bottle of chilled Sauvignon Blanc. Annie’s clothes hung on Krystyna, but she seemed to appreciate just having something clean to wear. She had spent over an hour in the bath and used most of the scented salts that Banks had bought Annie for Christmas. She never touched the stuff herself. He was crap at presents, Banks, but at least he tried.

  Annie had got Stefan Nowak on the phone that morning and had him explain to Krystyna where she was going and that she was coming back soon, where the food was, and so on. She could tell by the coolness and distance in his voice that he didn’t approve of her taking Krystyna home with her, but Annie didn’t care. Stefan said he expected to be in the lab all morning, barring another murder scene, so Annie left his number for Krystyna in case there were any problems. She promised to be back by late afternoon. When she thought about it, she realised that she actually expected Krystyna would still be there, and that she would be disappointed and sad if she weren’t. Then she shook that feeling off and got into Winsome’s car, come to pick her up for another drive to Leeds.

  The way Annie managed to piece it all together later, this was what happened: Late on Friday afternoon, Corrigan was in his ‘office’ in the Black Bull with Curly, finishing up for the day, and counting the take brought in by several of their debt collectors that afternoon. It had been a lucrative day, and Corrigan was in a festive mood, ready to take his wife to Anthony’s in central Leeds. Curly was about ready to head off to his local in Wortley with his mates for a Friday night darts match. They were both enjoying an end-of-the-week drink, as was their habit, a pint of bitter for Curly, and a double Glenmorangie for Corrigan.

  A man walked into the Black Bull at about 5.45 p.m. Of medium height and build, with a short dark beard, he was wearing a navy blue overcoat and a woolly hat. None of the staff had ever seen him before. He bought a half pint of Guinness and a packet of pork scratchings and sat down at a table by the far side of the public bar. He didn’t remove his overcoat, though it was warm in the pub. Nobody paid much attention to him. The Black Bull wasn’t very busy at that time. Apart from one or two punters dropping by for a stiff one on their way home from work, it was too early for the two-for-the-price-of-one dinner crowd and the karaoke night regulars.

  Somebody noticed the man get up and go to the toilet shortly after he had arrived. He was gone for about five minutes. The theory was that he had spent that time checking out the lie of the land. At 6.05 p.m., he went back to the bar and bought another half pint of Guinness and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, with a new ten-pound note, fresh from the cashpoint. Getting up his nerve, so the theory went. The ba
rmaid who served him noticed that he had a foreign accent, but that wasn’t so rare around those parts. His hands were also shaking slightly, and he spilled a little beer when he picked up his glass.

  It was about 6.15 p.m. when he went to the toilet a second time, or so the woman at the next table, who was the only one who noticed, assumed.

  According to a barmaid who was walking past the office on her way from the staff room to the main bar, the man negotiated the maze of corridors and bars in the back of the pub and approached Corrigan’s office. Both Corrigan and Curly were sitting on the banquette sipping their drinks. Hence, there was no one to prevent the man from walking straight into the office.

  Curly got immediately to his feet and moved forward to stop the man coming any closer. ‘Hey, you!’ he said. ‘Private office. Nobody’s allowed back here.’ Startled by his loud voice, the barmaid paused to see what was happening and glanced into the room.

  Before Curly could get any further, the man pulled a gun from the pocket of his overcoat and shot him. Curly fell to the floor, clutching his side. The man then turned his attention to Corrigan, who was now cowering on the banquette, pleading for his life, trying to shield his body with his briefcase. The waitress was terrified, but she said she was rooted to spot; it was like watching a road accident in slow motion. Corrigan picked up a handful of money and held it out, telling the man to take what he wanted and leave. The man fired again, and Corrigan jerked up off the banquette, holding his arm out, trying to make a dash for the door. The man shot him again, this time in the stomach. Corrigan fell to the floor and groaned, trying to hold in his oozing insides. The man stood for a few moments and surveyed the scene, perhaps enjoying the sight of Corrigan suffering before he died, then he raised the gun again and emptied it into the prostrate body. Corrigan jerked with each shot, but not another sigh or groan escaped his lips, only a final bubble of blood that slid down his chin and hung there.

  By this time, the waitress had snapped out of her trance and made a run for the back exit, which proved no problem. Nobody tried to stop her. The shooter wasn’t interested. It would appear that once he had completed the deed he set out to do, he sat down on the bench where Corrigan had been sitting and simply waited for the police to come.

  It didn’t take long. The manager had heard the shots and phoned 999. The customers had all dashed outside before anyone could stop them, and most of them had gone home by the time the police arrived, about ten minutes later.

  When Annie and Winsome met Ken Blackstone there the following morning, the pub was still taped off as a crime scene, and the CSIs were still busy, but there was no sign of Corrigan. His body had been removed from the back-bar office, though his blood had spread in great stains across the floor like a map of the world, and the CSIs would have the time of their lives deciphering the spray patterns that had spurted over the nicotine-stained walls. Curly was in Leeds General Infirmary.

  ‘It’s Killingbeck’s patch, of course,’ explained Blackstone, ‘but they know we have an interest, and of course, we know you have an interest. Besides, I’d say this counts as Homicide and Major Crimes, if anything does. Nice to see you again Annie, Winsome.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Annie. ‘We must stop meeting like this. People will talk.’

  ‘Not Warren Corrigan, it seems.’

  ‘The other bloke?’

  ‘Curly? Aka Gareth Underwood. Last I heard, they had some hope for him.’

  They stood and surveyed the scene of carnage for a while, before the CSIs shooed them away, after which they took a table in the main bar.

  ‘Drink?’ Blackstone offered. ‘Manager says to help ourselves.’

  ‘It’s a bit early for me,’ said Annie.

  Winsome agreed.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Blackstone. ‘The sun must be over the yardarm somewhere. I’ll have a small brandy, Nick. Get one for yourself as well, then come and join us.’

  The man did as Blackstone said. When he came back, he sat down opposite Annie.

  ‘This is Nick Gwillam,’ said Blackstone. ‘Trading Standards, Illegal Money Lending Unit.’

  ‘Where’s your boss?’ asked Gwillam.

  ‘Tallinn,’ said Annie.

  ‘Lucky for some.’

  ‘So what’s the story?’ Annie asked Blackstone.

  ‘Not long ago, a young girl called Florica Belascu topped herself here in Leeds. She’d borrowed money from Corrigan, or one of his minions, and it had come time to collect. Naturally, she couldn’t pay, and she had a small drug habit to support. Corrigan suggested she try going on the game, make a bit of money from kerb-crawlers. He wasn’t into that line of business himself, he said, but he thought he could fix her up with someone who’d take good care of her. She refused. Seemed she hadn’t sunk so low that she’d sell herself on the street. A couple of days later, the minion and one of his underlings came back and raped her, gave her a bit of a slapping around and left. Reliable witnesses bear that out. Next morning, she was found hanging from an old wall fixture in the bathroom. CSIs had little doubt she did it herself, despite the rape and beating. Either way, the finger points at Corrigan.’

  ‘Who was the minion? Curly?’

  ‘No. Curly’s mostly for show. Like a guard dog. It was a scumbag called Ryan Currer. We’ve already got him banged up for an assault on another estate.’

  ‘Who found the body? How did you find out about all this? Surely the girl didn’t tell you?’

  ‘Florica was too scared to talk, but her girlfriend wasn’t. She had no debts, and she hated what Corrigan was doing. Florica was a lezzie, but she wasn’t out of the closet. They lived together, but kept it low key. Tatyana, the girlfriend, was the smarter of the two. She’d managed to keep herself hidden during their visits. They didn’t know about her. She’d tried to help Florica with the money, but she didn’t earn enough herself, even though her employment was legitimate. She’d witnessed a lot of what had happened, though not the rapes and beating. She’d been at work then, cleaning offices in the city centre. We checked. She found Florica afterwards, which is how we know she was still alive when she went to bed that night. Florica didn’t want the police involved, and she refused to go to hospital. Tatyana patched her up. In the morning, Tatyana found her hanging in the bathroom.’

  ‘She talked to me, Tatyana did,’ said Gwillam. ‘Me and Bill.’

  ‘Is this connected with Bill Quinn’s death?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Can’t be a hundred per cent certain, but I don’t think so. This is a family matter. A matter of honour, of vengeance. The man who walked in here last night and did us all a favour is called Vasile Belascu. He’s the girl’s father. He said he shot Corrigan in revenge for his daughter’s death. They believe in vendettas where he comes from, apparently.’

  ‘How did he know what happened and where to find him?’

  Gwillam winked. ‘A little bird told him.’

  ‘You’re sailing a bit close to wind, aren’t you?’ Annie said. ‘You, too, Ken.’

  ‘We contacted the girl’s father in Romania,’ Blackstone said. ‘We told him his daughter had committed suicide, and we wanted him to come and identify the body. We had no idea what he would do.’

  ‘So who told him about Corrigan?’

  ‘Same person told us, I should think,’ said Gwillam. ‘We didn’t tell her not to tell anyone else. But we might never know. She’s gone back to Odessa now, it seems.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Annie. ‘This just gets better and better. I think I will have that drink, after all.’

  ‘You’d better tell me who it was,’ said Banks. ‘Who told you to seduce Bill Quinn and drug his wine?’

  ‘It does not matter,’ said Larisa. ‘The man who instructed me was not the man who wanted it done.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I heard him on the telephone.’

  ‘Who was it, anyway?’

  ‘The club manager at the time. I do not remember his name. Marko or something.’

&n
bsp; ‘Where was this?’

  ‘I was working in a nightclub. Not doing anything wrong, you know, just a waitress, coat check girl, sometimes hanging out and talking with the customers. Downstairs was a big noisy bar and a dance floor with spinning balls of light and strobe shows, but upstairs was just a quiet bar where people could relax and have a drink.’

  ‘Where was this club? What was it called?’

  ‘Here in Tallinn. On a small street off Vana-Posti. It had no—’

  ‘With just a sign outside showing a man in a top hat and tails helping a lady into a coach?’

  ‘That is right.’ She seemed surprised. ‘You have seen it? It is still there?’

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ said Banks. It was the place just around the corner from St Patrick’s, where Rachel Hewitt had possibly been spotted going the wrong way by the Australian barman. ‘It may have changed quite a bit since your day. It’s a sort of exclusive sex club now, or at least that was the impression I got. What sort of club was it back then?’

  ‘Just a nightclub, for dancing, parties. Mostly young people. It was very good class. More expensive, perhaps, than Hollywood and Venus, more popular with Estonians than with tourists. As I said, it has no name. We just called it The Club.’

  ‘How does Bill Quinn come into this?’

  ‘It was just fun, really. A joke. I was given his picture and the name of the hotel where he was staying, told to seduce him, to pretend we were making love. We never did. It just looks like it. But we never did have sex. He was asleep by then. It was all really very funny. Someone took photographs. I got two thousand kroons. That was that.’

  ‘You didn’t know who ordered it?’ Joanna Passero asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You didn’t know why you were doing it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Weren’t you just a little bit curious?’