Tamm said nothing. Whether he understood her or not, she couldn’t tell. She thought ‘in a pickle’ might be too obscure an expression for a foreigner. ‘You’re in a lot of trouble,’ she said.
Tamm still said nothing. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer yet, but they could get a duty solicitor for him quickly enough if he did. He had already been cautioned, and he had indicated that he understood, but he still wasn’t saying anything. Clearly he had another plan. Silence. He wasn’t the kind to blurt out a confession.
It had been a long day, Annie felt. She and Winsome had done about as much as they could do. She thought they could probably get a conviction on the murders of Bill Quinn and Mihkel Lepikson, especially with the testimony of Gareth Underwood, aka Curly, Krystyna and Roderick Flinders, but they still had nothing to link Tamm to Joosep Rebane. Doug Wilson seemed bored with the lengthening silence already. So much for learning from experience. For that you needed experience of something other than silence.
As for Rachel Hewitt, Annie knew that was not their case, but she also knew that it had become a personal mission for Banks, and she knew what he was like when he got his teeth into something. She wished she were with him in Tallinn, not in a romantic way, but helping on the case. She had seen the trail of damage that Rachel’s abduction had left behind – Maureen and Luke Hewitt; Pauline Boyars, the bride that never was. She wondered how Banks was getting on with the Professional Standards woman. Were they still speaking? Was she getting under his feet all the time? Could they possibly be sleeping together? The woman might be married, but she was an icy blonde, after all, and Annie never trusted icy blondes. Not even to be icy.
The case was over bar the formalities now. They had Robert Tamm and Roderick Flinders in custody, and the next few days would be a matter of working with the forensics experts and the CPS to build up a solid case. Flinders was a weak link. He had already talked plenty, and he would probably talk a lot more tomorrow if he thought there was a chance of saving his own skin. A night stewing in the cells would do him good. There were still a few migrant workers from Garskill Farm on the loose, but they would find their ways home, or into the hands of the police, wherever they ended up. Krystyna’s friend Ewa had turned up in Liverpool, and Annie had arranged for her to pay a visit to Eastvale sometime over the next few days. Krystyna herself was safe now. Warren Corrigan was dead, and Curly was going straight. He was happy with his deal. He would talk, too, and he knew a lot. Result, then, Annie told herself, as she gestured for Doug Wilson to leave the room with her. Tamm was a dead loss. They’d get no confession from him. She told the officers on duty outside the interview room to take him back to the cells, and she and DC Wilson headed back to the squad room.
Haig and Lombard, the DCs on loan, were long gone, but Winsome and Geraldine Masters were still there, along with Krystyna.
‘Come on,’ said Annie, dropping her file on the desk. ‘It’s celebration time. Let’s all go and get pissed.’ When Krystyna looked puzzled, she said, ‘You, too,’ and mimed drinking. Krystyna nodded and smiled, and they picked up their coats and filed out to the Queen’s Arms.
Chapter 13
‘Viktor Rebane and Toomas Rätsepp grew up together in the fifties in Narva, near the Russian border,’ said Erik on the way out to Viimsi on Tuesday morning. Ursula Mardna had arranged a meeting between Banks, Joanna and Viktor Rebane, from which Viktor would walk away as free as he arrived. Joosep, as expected, had disappeared from the radar. Banks was now certain that Ursula knew nothing of the lead that Bill Quinn and Aivar Kukk had passed on to Toomas Rätsepp six years ago, or she wouldn’t be helping him so much to uncover the truth. She wasn’t in thick with Viktor Rebane; that, as Erik was explaining, was Toomas Rätsepp. Ursula was so angry about what had been done that she swore Rätsepp would go down, despite his friendship with Viktor Rebane, and Banks believed her.
Erik carried on with his potted history. ‘It was a very strange time there. Much bomb damage, many Russian immigrants. They came to Tallinn together with their families as young men, and remained friends. When he was old enough, Viktor worked for state industry, and after independence he bought into utilities. Toomas first joined the militia, then he became policeman. At the time Rachel disappeared, Viktor also had a major interest in the nightclub around the corner from St Patrick’s. It is said that he never went there, himself, that he was not interested in such pursuits, only in the profits. He had many cars, and his son liked to use the silver Mercedes most of all. Viktor spoiled and indulged him then.’
‘And he’s powerful enough to get away scot-free.’
‘He knows a lot of secrets. But it is not only that. You must understand, Viktor Rebane is really not a bad man. Everyone knows that his son is psycho crazy and feel sorry for Viktor. He has done a lot of good for this country since independence. Much charity work. Many jobs. Remember that. He is a respected citizen. We are close now.’
They had driven from the Metropol and were skirting Kadriorg Park, turning on to the coastal road to Viimsi. Everything had happened so quickly after Ursula Mardna had made the phone call that Banks’s head was still spinning. He was sitting in the front of the VW beside Merike, with Erik and Joanna in the back. Joanna had been very terse and offhand with Banks since they had dinner at Mekk on Sunday evening, and he guessed she was wishing she hadn’t opened up and told him her personal problems in a moment of weakness. That often happened. You tell someone something that shames you, reveals you, makes you vulnerable, then you close up and wish you’d kept quiet in the first place. It feels almost as if they’ve got something on you, got a hold over you, the way Joosep Rebane and Warren Corrigan had over Bill Quinn. He wanted to tell her he didn’t feel that way, but it wouldn’t go down well. Instead, he kept quiet on the subject. If she was still annoyed about trying to solve the Rachel Hewitt case, she was hiding it well, now, and had been as excited as Banks at the latest revelations, and the forthcoming meeting with Viktor Rebane. He felt that she could scent the end, as he could, and the aroma intoxicated her. She might make a homicide detective yet.
Viktor Rebane had agreed to meet the foreign police detectives, who had no power or jurisdiction over him, as a courtesy in a public place of his choice, and they were heading for the restaurant. Apparently he lived in Viimsi, where he had a large modern house in its own grounds, with tennis court and swimming pool.
‘So why has he agreed to see us?’ Banks asked Erik.
‘He is an old man. Sick with cancer. He is tired, and he wants to make amends before he dies. I think he has much on his conscience. He also has assurances from the very top that nothing will come back on him.’
‘Even murder?’
‘We will see,’ said Erik. ‘As a journalist, I would give a lot to be at your meeting, but he specified only you and Joanna. We will wait in the car in the parking lot. Perhaps you can help me with a story later, let me interview you? An undisclosed police source?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Banks. ‘If there is a story.’
Merike pulled into a car park off the road, by the shore. ‘It’s up there.’ She pointed ahead to a path by the beach. ‘It’s called Paat. That means boat. It looks like an upturned boat. Good luck.’
Banks and Joanna walked towards the path. It was another fine day, blue sky striped with milky white cloud, and the sea lapping at the breakwaters. The beach was mostly pebble, with a few sods of grass here and there. Over the other side, to the left, they could see the Tallinn shoreline, and straight ahead was a large island.
The path led them into the restaurant’s outside area, where a few sheltered picnic-style benches were set out against the low sea wall. The restaurant itself was nearby, and it did resemble an upturned boat. Banks, however, found his eyes more drawn to the outside area, where an old man in a windcheater sat alone at one of the picnic tables, a mug of tea or coffee steaming in front of him, while two neckless bruisers stood, hands clasped in front of their privates, scanning the grounds. Probably ex-KGB agents, Banks
guessed.
When Banks and Joanna approached the table, the bruisers stepped forward and patted them down. They were gentle and discreet enough with Joanna, Banks noticed, but she clearly didn’t like it, and he didn’t blame her. They were a little rougher with him, but not enough to hurt. When they were satisfied neither had a weapon or a wire, they stood aside, and Banks and Joanna sat opposite Viktor Rebane.
He was a hunched figure, and his chin was tucked into his throat in such a way that he looked permanently on the verge of a particularly noxious burp. His bald head was liver-spotted, as were his lizard-like hands. Frown lines had eaten deep into his brow. He must have been about the same age as Rätsepp, Banks guessed, if they grew up together, but he seemed a good ten years older. The ravages of cancer, no doubt. Or its treatment.
‘First, let me not forget my hospitality,’ Viktor Rebane said. ‘May I offer you both a drink?’
‘Why not?’ said Banks. ‘I’ll have beer, please. A. Le Coq if they have it.’
‘Excellent choice. And the lady?’
‘Just a cappuccino, please,’ said Joanna, clearly still smarting from her patting down.
Rebane snapped his fingers and the closest no-neck went off to the bar. As if sensing Joanna’s mood, Rebane said, his yellowish eyes twinkling, ‘I do apologise about the body search, my dear, but man in my position cannot be too careful. Beautiful woman is often most dangerous weapon.’
‘Is that an old Estonian proverb?’ said Joanna.
Rebane smiled. ‘No. Is old Viktor Rebane proverb. The reason I agree to see you now, so soon,’ Rebane continued, ‘is I have appointment at hospital this afternoon. I am very tired and sick after chemotherapy, for many days. I am sure you understand.’
‘Of course,’ said Banks. ‘And we’re very grateful you took the trouble to talk to us. Perhaps you can help us answer a number of questions?’
‘Perhaps. First thing I tell you is I do not know where my son is, so please do not ask. Joosep and I have not spoken for many years now. He is always difficult child. Wild, unpredictable. Especially after his mother die. He is only ten at the time. He keep very bad company. Perhaps I spoil him. It is fashionable to blame parents, is it not? Do you have a son, Hr Banks?’
‘I do,’ said Banks. ‘He’s a musician.’
‘Is good. In Estonia we love music. My son is drug-dealer, people-trafficker and gangster. But he is still my son. Do you understand that?’
‘I think so,’ said Banks.
‘How far you go to protect your son?’
Banks thought for a moment. ‘Probably a long way,’ he answered. ‘But I might draw the line if he raped and killed women.’
An expression of pain passed across Rebane’s face, and immediately Banks felt guilty for being so brutally cruel; it had been unnecessary. No-neck came back with the drinks.
‘Joosep tell me the girl die of a drug overdose,’ Rebane whispered.
‘What girl?’
‘The one you are interested in. I am a father. I have daughter, too, with my third wife. She is twenty-one. I am proud of her, and I love her. That is perhaps the real reason I am talking to you. I feel something for the parents of this girl.’
‘It’s taken you a bloody long time.’
Rebane gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘It is easier to forget when nothing reminds you. There are always many other things to think about. I regret most of all the things I did not do, not the things I did. But now . . .’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Too much has happened. Old wounds have reopened. I am a businessman, Hr Banks. I am not interested in your moral judgements. I have perhaps done many wrong things for my business interests. I have made many enemies. Do you understand?’
‘I think so.’
‘Six years ago Joosep is my beloved son. Now, he is a stranger to me.’
‘Will you tell me what happened six years ago?’
Viktor remained silent for a few moments. Seagulls squealed over a shoal of fish close to shore. ‘Joosep come to see me. He is very upset. Most agitated. When I ask him what is wrong, he tell me a girl die of a drug overdose at his party. An English girl. He tell me he is sitting in nightclub. You know which club?’
‘I know.’
‘He is sitting in nightclub with friends. My nightclub. They are ready to leave, and this beautiful girl comes in. A vision. She has lost her friends. Joosep, he tells me he ask her if she want to go to party, and after he will drive her to her hotel. She says yes, and they go in his car. But at party, girl drinks more and takes drugs, and in morning they find her dead. She has . . . how do you say . . .’ He pointed to his throat, what little there was of it to see, ‘Choke.’
‘Asphyxiated,’ said Banks. ‘Choked will do. Choked on her own vomit?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what happened?’
‘He is in trouble, and he wants me to help him. Then, on Wednesday morning, Toomas, my old friend, telephones to tell me that Joosep’s name, my name, and the nightclub also, have come up in the investigation, and I ask my friend Toomas to stop it, if he can, to make sure it goes no further. It is not too late. Toomas will do that for me. He will help Joosep. And for money, of course. He know I will be very grateful.’
‘Of course,’ said Banks. ‘It’s comforting to know that corruption’s no different here than anywhere else.’
‘Perhaps. I am not so certain. Or you are being ironic, yes? You English.’
‘Maybe just a little bit. So Toomas Rätsepp shut down the investigation?’
‘He close off that direction. Yes. Is easy because not many people know. Barman from St Patrick pub, of course. But he is easy. Threat of beating and ticket back to Australia. And junior investigator who report his findings to Toomas. Also easy if he want to stay in job, have promotion. Beating, too. English policeman is problem.’
‘Bill Quinn,’ said Banks.
‘Yes. We cannot warn him to stop or threaten him. Is madness to assassinate foreign cop on Estonian soil. We need different solution.’
‘And you thought of one.’
‘I have trusted colleague pick out pretty girl from club and give her money. You know the rest. Accidental meeting arranged in the hotel bar. Drinks. A sleeping powder. Dinner. Photographs. Easy.’
Joanna charged in now, as Banks had expected she would. This was the part of the story that interested her the most. ‘So you’re saying that you arranged with the girl to have Bill Quinn seduced, drugged and photographed in a compromising position, then you blackmailed him?’
Rebane nodded, which made him look even more as if he were about to burp. ‘It is only way to save my son. I help him out of many difficulties. Back then I always had hope he would change, that he would stop being wild and foolish. But he has gone other direction. I can help him no more. He is lost to me. But you will never find him. Despite everything, he is still my son, and I will not have him locked in prison or mental hospital.’
‘And when Bill Quinn’s wife died, your blackmail didn’t work any more.’
‘No,’ said Rebane. ‘By then Joosep know what I have done, and he has taken photos some years before. He now has business, criminal business, in United Kingdom, and he think it useful to have policeman . . . how you say?’
‘In his pocket?’ Banks suggested.
Rebane didn’t quite seem to understand but grunted his agreement anyway.
Banks said, ‘But Bill Quinn was going to tell all after his wife died, wasn’t he, so you had to find another way of dealing with him. You sent Robert Tamm.’
Rebane seemed puzzled. ‘Robert Tamm? He does not work for me. He work . . .’
‘For Joosep?’
‘I do not kill Detective Quinn, or order kill. I have nothing to do with murder.’
‘Of course not. But your son does, doesn’t he? He has already used the blackmail against Quinn over the years to smooth his illegal operations in the UK, and suddenly they’re threatened. He finds out that Bill Quinn and an Estonian journalist called Mihkel
Lepikson are planning to tell the whole sorry story. So Joosep has them both killed. You might not do it yourself, but you’re quite happy to leave him free to murder and maim and rape and ruin as many lives as he wants, aren’t you?’ said Banks.
Rebane banged his skinny fist on the table. ‘He is my son! What would you have me do? I tell you I am not interested in your cheap morality. Take what you are given and be grateful. Like scraps for the dogs. Georg!’ One of the no-necks came over. ‘Georg. Help me. We will leave now. I am tired.’ Viktor Rebane struggled to his feet with Georg’s help.
Banks and Joanna remained seated. ‘I have one more question,’ said Banks.
Rebane stared down at him, still shaking with fury. ‘You have great deal of nerve, my friend,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Where is Rachel Hewitt?’
During the three hours it took to drive to Võrumaa, Banks sat in the back with Joanna and dozed or gazed out on the scenery, going over the whole case in his mind, especially the end of the meeting at Paat where Viktor Rebane had glared at him for so long he was certain the old man was not going to tell him anything. But Rebane finally whispered a location, then hobbled off with Georg’s help.
Erik and Merike sat up front navigating and chatting quietly in Estonian. The radio played quiet jazz.
Perhaps, Banks thought, he had been too hard on Viktor Rebane, but he didn’t like gangsters who pretended to be respectable. Maybe Viktor was a respectable businessman who had done a lot for his country, but Banks was willing to believe he had done more than a few things that needed sweeping under the carpet, too, and that Toomas Rätsepp had helped him more than once. You don’t keep company like the no-necks Viktor was with for no reason. But he was untouchable, and that didn’t really matter too much; he was clearly dying. Joosep Rebane was out of sight, perhaps hiding in St Petersburg with his Russian gangster friends, Banks guessed. There would be plenty of police forces watching out for him across Europe, but it was more of a waiting game than a chase or a hunt.
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