‘And what about Mihkel Lepikson?’
‘Mihkel was the journalist on the original story, and he became friendly with Quinn. He’s an investigative reporter and contributes to a column on crime in Eesti Telegraaf called “Pimeduse varjus”. Watching the dark, or something along those lines. Joosep Rebane would have known this. He would also have kept an eye on him. Mihkel didn’t know anything, not at the time. Quinn didn’t confide in him about the photos and the blackmail. He didn’t tell anyone. Joosep Rebane nipped the investigation in the bud when it had only got as far as Rätsepp and Bill Quinn. But when Rebane found out Lepikson was also in England, he got nervous and commanded a double act. No point only killing Bill Quinn, if Mihkel Lepikson was going to blast the true story on the front page of Eesti Telegraaf.’
‘And the bonded labour scheme?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me if Joosep Rebane doesn’t have his finger in that little pie, too. I’ll bet you he knows Corrigan and Flinders, at any rate. Drugs, people. It’s all the same to some, as long as the profits are good. What do you think?’
‘There’s a lot of holes,’ said Joanna. ‘Like how Joosep Rebane knew Mihkel Lepikson was in Yorkshire, and in contact with Bill Quinn. But it’s not bad, as theories go. From my point of view, Bill Quinn obstructed the full investigation of a disappearance, perhaps a murder, for six years. I’d hardly say he comes out of it smelling of roses, no matter what his reasons. God knows what else he did, too.’
‘True,’ said Banks. ‘But you can’t crucify a man who’s already dead.’
‘As I said before,’ said Joanna. ‘I’m not out to crucify anyone. It’ll be an internal report, I hope, but there will be a report.’ She paused and swirled some wine in her glass. ‘There’s still one big question we haven’t answered yet,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said Banks.
‘What happened to Rachel Hewitt?’
‘I wish I knew. I wish I could think of a way to find out. I’m pretty sure she’s dead, but . . .?’
‘Erik might be able to help.’
‘How? We still need a starting point.’
‘The nightclub,’ Joanna said. ‘You seem to know a bit about it.’
‘I’ve been there,’ said Banks.
‘You’ve what?’
‘I went there after dinner the second night we were here. I was wandering around, trying to follow what I imagined might have been Rachel’s footsteps on the night she disappeared, and I just stumbled across it. Rachel might have done the same, too.’
‘You didn’t tell me you’d actually been inside.’
‘You’re starting to sound like my ex-wife. Do I have to tell you every time I go to a sex club?’
Joanna flushed, then saw Banks was teasing her, and smiled. ‘What did you find out?’
‘Nothing. That’s why I didn’t tell you. There was nothing to tell. I talked to the manager, Larry something-or-other, and a buxom waitress from Wigan. That’s it. Oh, and I had kinky sex with a ladyboy from Bangkok, but that was nothing to write home about. The place has changed ownership God knows how many times in the last six years. There’s no connection left to the old days, or none that I could find.’
‘But there is a connection to Larisa and probably to Joosep Rebane.’
‘And possibly to Rachel,’ Banks said. ‘I’m sure Erik will be only too happy to do a bit more digging, maybe even find out what happened to Aivar Kukk, if we ask him nicely.’
It took close to two hours, but Blackstone and Annie managed to rustle up a lawyer from the CPS and a duty solicitor, who thrashed out a deal for Curly between them. There was no way he was getting a new identity, but they found they could keep him out of jail if he told everything he knew, and if he was guilty of no major indictable offence. Curly thought about this for a while, no doubt going over in his mind exactly what he was guilty of, and agreed. When it came to it, he had probably done no more than intimidate a few people and administer a minor beating or two. When everything was signed, the lawyers took a back seat, and Blackstone and Annie pulled their chairs close to the bed. Annie had phoned Stefan and asked him to tell Krystyna she would be late, and she was worried because he had got no answer. She tried to tell herself that Krystyna had just gone to the shop for some food or cigarettes, but it gnawed away at her even as she listened to Curly’s story.
‘So give,’ said Blackstone.
‘I saw him,’ he said.
‘Saw who?’ asked Annie.
‘The bloke who killed Bill Quinn and that foreign reporter.’
‘You know about Mihkel Lepikson?’
‘Course. Woz knew he was up at Garskill Farm. Flinders had a bloke on the inside keeping an eye out for things like that. They’ve tried it before. The reporter was just too good to be true. Always asking questions. Making friends with the others. Always off to the telephone box. That’s what they said. Flinders came down for a chat with Woz, who gets on the blower to Rebane. Flinders is another cunt, by the way. I can tell you things about him would make your hair curl.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Annie. ‘Slow down. Are you telling me that Warren Corrigan gave the order for the deaths of Bill Quinn and Mihkel Lepikson?’
‘Not him, no. Not directly. He was what you might call a station on the way, but it went through him, if you see what I mean. He supplied the crossbow, I can tell you that. Had me go and get it, actually. But he was doing it on orders.’
‘Whose orders?’
‘Bloke called Joosep Rebane, or something like that. Not sure how you pronounce it or spell it. Russian or something.’
Annie made a note of the name, though she was also far from sure about the spelling. ‘And who’s this Joosep Rebane when he’s at home?’
‘The boss. Kingpin. He says jump, Woz asks how high. Like I said, he’s Russian Mafia or something, but he’s behind all these migrant labour schemes, the phony agencies, bonding them with debt, all that stuff. It’s also a front for drugs. That was going to be the next big thing. Woz was gearing up for it. Flinders and Woz both worked for Rebane, when it came right down to it. They didn’t see him very often – he liked to keep a low profile and was paranoid about secrecy and security – but I can tell you, they were shit scared of him. He had a reputation as a bit of a wild man, which I think he liked to cultivate. You know, like in those Mafia movies. Horse’s head under the bedclothes. Kind of bloke who’ll be asking about your dear old mother one moment, and laying into you with an axe the next. I must say, he gave me the willies.’
‘Did you meet him?’ Annie asked.
‘Only twice. At the pub. Back way, of course. Car waiting, dark windows.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Youngish bloke, about thirty, maybe a bit over. Tall, good-looking. I suppose the girls would find him attractive, if you know what I mean. Wears nice expensive suits, Armani, Hugo Boss, that sort of thing, hair always cut perfectly. Dark brown. Brown eyes. More like black. Charming on the surface, but there was something in his eyes that told you you wouldn’t want to upset him.’
Annie took out the sketch of the man Krystyna had described, hoping to God that nothing had happened to her. ‘Recognise him?’ she asked.
‘He’s the one Woz gave the crossbow to. He’s done a couple of jobs for him before.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Robert Tamm.’
‘Nationality?’
‘I don’t know. He had one of those sort of Russian accents, too, but it might have been Bulgarian or Slovakian for all I know. I can’t tell one of those buggers from another.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘Aye. Glasgow. He came down on the train and picked up a rental car. But he’s not Scottish. No way. I could spot a Jock accent a mile off.’
‘Arnold Briggs,’ said Annie. ‘OK, let’s get back to Mr Big. You say you met this Joosep Rebane on two occasions. When was the most recent?’
‘About six months ago.’
‘Do you know
what the meeting was about?’
‘No. Woz sent me out to the main bar.’
‘But he was hardly a frequent visitor.’
‘No. I should imagine this was one of the far-flung outposts of his empire. He communicated by phone and through the agents mostly. Untraceable mobiles, of course.’
‘So what were these recent developments you want to tell us about, whatever resulted in death warrants for Bill Quinn and Mihkel Lepikson? I assume this Robert Tamm worked for Joosep Rebane?’
‘That’s right, far as I could tell. Enforcer. Hit man. What have you. Did his dirty work.’
‘So you acquired the crossbow that Warren Corrigan gave Robert Tamm, on the orders of this Joosep Rebane, to kill Quinn? And the same man tortured and drowned Lepikson?’
Curly swallowed. ‘Yes. But it sounds bad if you put it like that. I didn’t know what he was going to use the crossbow for, did I?’
‘A spot of grouse hunting, perhaps?’ said Blackstone.
Curly looked towards the solicitors again, who both seemed fascinated by the discussion. ‘See what I mean about me wanting some guarantees here?’
‘You’ve got all the guarantees you’re getting,’ said Annie. ‘Go on.’
Curly sighed. ‘See, Joosep Rebane always let on that he had a cop in his pocket, had something on him. Bill Quinn. But when Bill Quinn’s wife died, Rebane started to get worried. Woz got more phone calls from him. Rebane asked him to keep an eye on Quinn, then . . . well, you know what happened.’
‘Did you know why he was worried?’ Annie asked.
‘Not at the time, no. We didn’t know what Rebane had on DI Quinn.’
‘And now?’
‘Well, I’ve only really been able to work it out while I’ve been in here, but remember I mentioned that things started to go pear-shaped around the time Bill Quinn’s wife died?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it must have meant that Rebane didn’t have anything on him any more. Stands to reason. So I reckon it was probably a woman. That was the only thing that made sense, really. Why Rebane would get worried and all. If Quinn didn’t have a wife, then he didn’t have to worry about Rebane telling her he’d been playing away from home, did he? And he obviously had videos or photos or some sort of proof. Again, it stands to reason.’
‘You’re not as thick as you look, are you, Curly?’ said Annie.
‘Gareth. And no, I’m not.’
‘Are you telling me that Bill Quinn was bent?’ said Blackstone. ‘Alan mentioned the possibility, but I . . .’ He shook his head.
‘I’m telling you that I think Quinn was being blackmailed by this Joosep Rebane to go easy on Woz,’ said Curly. ‘I’m not saying Quinn liked it, but he had no choice. He was in a position to warn Woz about raids, and anything else that might act against his interests. But something put the heebie-jeebies up them all around the time Quinn’s wife died. Not immediately, like, but over a couple of weeks. If you think about it, and if Quinn was being blackmailed, then he couldn’t just suddenly go to his boss and say, guess what, guv, I’ve been passing information on to Woz Corrigan and doing my best to keep him out of jail this past while. Could he? Anyway, when they found out that this reporter had infiltrated the migrant group, and that Quinn knew him, it was double trouble. They figured Quinn had put the reporter on to the operation in the first place, to give him a good story like, but that the real story was going to be what Joosep had been up to. Apparently Quinn and the reporter had been buddies for years. Quinn was looking for a back door to spill the beans without getting any comeback, and the reporter was it. The way Woz explained it to me was that if Quinn could find a way to use the reporter to get his story out, then Rebane and Woz and Rod Flinders wouldn’t be safe any more. So they both had to go.’
Annie rubbed her forehead and stood up. ‘What a tangled web we weave,’ she said. Her thoughts returned immediately to Krystyna. She wanted to get back to Harkside as soon as she could, but there was one more stop to make on the way, something Banks had asked her to do.
As Winsome drove, Annie phoned home again but still got no answer. She phoned Stefan and managed to get through to him at the lab, but he had heard nothing from Krystyna. Annie cursed and ended the call.
‘What is it?’ Winsome asked.
‘Krystyna. She’s gone.’
‘I shouldn’t worry too much. She’s probably just gone for a walk or a drink.’
‘She’s been gone for hours. She’s got no money.’
‘We’ll be home soon. Sure you want to make the stop?’
‘We’re almost there now. Might as well.’
Pauline Boyars was already well into a bottle of vodka, and the place was still a tip.
‘It’s just a little thing,’ Annie said, without even bothering to sit down, ‘but we were wondering if you remember a nightclub in Tallinn that didn’t have a name? All it had was a sign with a man in top hat and tails helping a woman into a coach.’
‘I don’t think we ever went to such a place,’ said Pauline, ‘but it does sound awfully familiar. Just give me a minute will you?’
She brought a tin down from one of the bookshelves and scattered its contents on the table. It was full of all kinds of rubbish, a keychain with a plastic Eiffel Tower on one end, an old cigarette lighter, a ticket for an exhibition at the Prada, a postcard from Rhodes. And there, amid the detritus of Pauline’s travels and memories, was a small laminated card which bore an image of a man in top hat and tails helping – or pushing? – a woman into a carriage.
‘I don’t think we ever went there,’ said Pauline. ‘Though I can’t be sure. I think someone was handing these out in one of the other clubs.’
Annie thanked her and they left, grateful as before to get out of the cloying atmosphere.
‘What was all that about?’ Winsome asked.
‘Something Alan asked about. Apparently this club has come up in connection with Rachel’s disappearance, and he wanted to know if any of the others knew about it.’
‘Well, he’s got his answer, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ said Annie. ‘I’ll phone him when I get home.’
When they arrived at Annie’s cottage, Winsome got out of the car and went up to the door with her, and they both went inside. Everything looked normal, but there was no sign of Krystyna. Annie checked upstairs and Winsome checked the kitchen.
‘You’d better see this,’ she said, when Annie came down.
Annie went into the kitchen and saw the cocoa tin where she kept her petty cash. It was open, and there was nothing but a brief note in Polish inside.
‘How much was in there?’ Winsome asked.
‘About thirty quid.’
‘She won’t get far on that.’
There was also a note in Polish stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a buttercup. Winsome put the kettle on and Annie returned to living room, flopped on the sofa and started to cry.
Chapter 11
On Sunday morning around eleven, Banks took the lift down to the Metropol lobby and went out to meet Erik and Joanna for coffee in Viru Keskus. Last night he had spoken for a long time with Annie on the phone. She had been worried and upset by the disappearance of a young Polish girl who had been staying at Garskill Farm with the migrant workers. She had run away on the day Mihkel Lepikson had been killed, and Annie was worried that someone might think she knew too much and try to harm her. He had reassured her as best he could, but he could tell it hadn’t done much good. Annie had also told him about Curly’s lengthy, and quite perceptive, deposition, and that Rachel’s friend, Pauline, remembered the club with no name, that she even had a card bearing its sign. Rachel, too, might have been given such a card, Banks thought, and if the place looked familiar to her, that might well have tempted her to go inside. Perhaps she had thought it was where her friends had gone after St Patrick’s. Bit by bit, he felt, he was getting closer to the truth of what happened.
Annie had also come up with some more names Banks
could try on Erik, including the name of the killer Robert Tamm. Surely it could only be a matter of time now? Perhaps most importantly, Joosep Rebane’s name had come up in her inquiries into Corrigan’s business, as well as in Banks’s inquiries about the nightclub. Larisa had named him as Juliya’s boyfriend. Now they had a direct link between Rebane, Corrigan, Flinders and the whole migrant racket. But he still had to find out if, or where, Rachel fitted in.
He made his way inside and up the escalators. The shops were open, and the shopping centre was busy, even though it was Sunday. After a few wrong turns, he finally found the cafe in the large bookshop, where Erik had arranged for them all to meet. Estonians must be great readers, Banks thought, with so many huge bookshops in the capital.
Erik was sitting at a table alone drinking Coke from a bottle and reading a newspaper. Banks went and bought himself a coffee and joined him. People bustled all around them, carrying bags, looking for tables, heading to the shops.
‘Where’s your charming colleague?’ Erik asked.
Banks checked his watch. ‘Shopping,’ he said. ‘She’ll be here soon. I want to thank you once again for that information you got for us the other day.’
‘It helped?’
‘A lot.’
‘I spoke briefly with Merike last night, and she said you seemed happy with your talk with Larisa.’
‘Interesting woman,’ Banks said. ‘And she was able to give us— Ah, the wanderer returns.’
Joanna bent down and set her bags and packages on the ground around the third chair, like presents under the Christmas tree. Banks noticed designer names he didn’t recognise: Marc Aurel, Ivo Nikkolo. There would be no carry-on only going back for Joanna, Banks could see. She might have to buy a new suitcase. Ever the gentleman, Erik offered to go and get her something to drink, but she insisted on going herself. They waited politely until she returned with a bottle of fruit juice.
‘We’ve got a few more names for you to check out, if you will,’ said Banks.
‘It’s getting to be like a hall of mirrors,’ said Joanna. ‘Every time we get one name, it leads to another, and so on.’
Watching the Dark Page 33