‘My pleasure,’ said Erik. ‘Especially if it helps to catch whoever killed Mihkel.’
‘It could help,’ said Banks. Their food arrived, and there was a short break in conversation while everyone got settled with serviettes, side dishes and knives and forks. Irena smiled at Banks and refilled their wine glasses.
‘I think she fancies you,’ joked Joanna.
‘Get away with you,’ said Banks. ‘My charm only works on the over sixties.’
‘I don’t know. She may have visions of an English husband, an English passport, an English country house.’ She turned to Erik. ‘Irena? Is that a Russian name?’
‘Probably,’ Erik said. ‘Could be Polish, too. Or Slovakian. Many names are common to more than one country.’
‘There you are,’ she said to Banks. ‘An exotic Eastern European bride.’
Banks twirled up a forkful of spaghetti and smiled at her. ‘Rather like an exotic Italian husband.’
Joanna seemed to freeze for a moment, then she blushed. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Not at all like that.’
‘Anything on Toomas Rätsepp and Ursula Mardna?’ Banks asked.
‘The prosecutor’s clean as a whistle. High-flyer. Tipped for even bigger things. The Rachel case set her back a bit, but she’s more than made up for it since then. Feared and respected.’
‘She seems so young.’
‘It is a young woman’s job.’
There were plenty of young women around the CPS offices, too, Banks realised, but he had never really thought about it that way. ‘What about Rätsepp?’
‘Nothing definite. No dirt that sticks, so to speak. There are those who think he mixes too closely with the wrong elements. Not real gangsters and criminals, you understand, but businessmen, rich and powerful people who might need occasional favours, who sometimes move very close to the edge.’
‘“Businessman” is a word that covers a multitude of sins, I’ve always thought,’ said Banks.
‘He has a very nice apartment in Kadriorg, which is most unusual for a retired police officer. It is an expensive area.’
‘Wouldn’t he be more careful if he had something to hide?’
‘Of course. That is why there is no dirt that sticks. He would not dare to be so open, as you say, if he could not explain the money.’
‘How does he explain it?’
‘Inheritance. It is true that his father was quite wealthy. He began with one small shop and ended up running a chain of electronics stores. He died around the time Rätsepp retired. Rätsepp didn’t get everything, of course – he had brothers and sisters – but he ended up with a decent share.’
‘And that explains the flat, the money?’
‘To the satisfaction of most people,’ said Erik. ‘You must draw your own conclusions.’
‘Was Rätsepp involved with anyone who might be responsible for what happened to Rachel Hewitt, for Bill Quinn and Mihkel?’
‘“In the right circumstances don’t you think, everyone is capable of anything.”’
‘Chinatown,’ said Banks. ‘Or close enough. Is there any way of finding out more?’
‘Not without ruffling too many feathers. The wrong feathers to ruffle. We have a free press, but with freedom comes responsibility.’
‘That’s a lesson we’re still learning back home,’ said Banks.
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Thanks for all you’ve done.’
‘You are welcome. As I said, it is for my friend Mihkel. And now to other things. Vasily Petrenko. Is he still with the Liverpool Philharmonic?’
Joanna pulled a face, and Helen started questioning her about her job, investigating bad cops. ‘Yes,’ Banks said to Erik. Yes, he is.’ And as he went on to talk about the young conductor’s successful career, he noticed a familiar figure sitting outside across the small square. It was the man who had been following him the previous night.
Banks returned to his conversation, and when he looked again a few minutes later, the man was gone. But Banks knew he was around somewhere, watching, watching the dark.
It was getting on towards the end of Friday afternoon, and the working week for most people would soon be over. It wouldn’t be much of a weekend for Annie – she would still have plenty of tasks to keep her busy – but things slowed down when the people you relied on weren’t around. It was hard to get any lab work done, for a start, let alone a rush job. Thankfully, they had Stefan Nowak and Vic Manson and the team next door, but they weren’t equipped to do everything, and they liked to keep as normal hours as possible if they could.
The question of what to do with Krystyna remained paramount in Annie’s mind. They had got Rick Menzies, their sketch artist from the art college, and between them, Rick, Krystyna and Stefan had come up with a good description, which Annie thought translated into a more than usually clear sketch, from the five o’clock shadow to the cropped hair and crescent scar by the hairline, the bulbous nose and ears slightly sticking out, to what Annie could only describe as a cruel mouth.
Annie glanced briefly at the notes and message she had received throughout the afternoon. The most interesting item was that Vic Manson had managed to get a couple of fingerprints from the inside of the glove compartment of the Ford Focus they thought the killer had hired under the name of Arnold Briggs. Of course, there could be no guarantees they were his at this point. Like the DNA, the fingerprint was not on any of their databases.
AC Gervaise poked her head around the door. ‘Got a minute, Annie?’
‘Of course,’ said Annie, following her out into the corridor. She was surprised when Gervaise led her towards the staircase down to the ground floor and the exit, rather than up to her office. She was even more surprised when they crossed to the corner of Market Street, heading straight for the Queen’s Arms.
‘I guessed you might feel like a break,’ said Gervaise. ‘It’s been a long week.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And you can stop that. I enjoy it about as much as you do.’
Annie grinned and followed her through the door. The place was busy, a popular destination for the post work crowd on a Friday, but a lot of people liked to stand at the bar and relax, so they found a quiet round, copper-topped table by the window looking out on the market square, which was in that in-between twilight period, after work, so few shoppers were around, but before play, so the young revellers hadn’t arrived yet. The chairs and tables were outside, on the wooden stand, but nobody was sitting there at the moment. A brisk wind was blowing, and if Annie wasn’t mistaken she could see a drop or two of rain on the windows.
‘My shout,’ said Gervaise. ‘What’s it to be?’
‘Am I off duty?’
‘As far as I’m concerned you are.’
‘Right, then. I’ll have a pint of Cock-a-Hoop, please.’
‘Excellent.’
Gervaise came back a few minutes later with two pints. Judging by the colour, Annie guessed them both to be Cock-a-Hoop. The name made her think of A. Le Coq, and of Banks and Joanna Passero, no doubt enjoying another nice open-air dinner in Tallinn.
‘Where’s DS Jackman?’ Gervaise asked.
‘She’s talking to some of the other girls who were at the hen weekend, to see if they remember anything Pauline Boyars didn’t.’
‘I’m not sure about this sudden concentration on Rachel Hewitt. I hope you remember we’re looking for the man who killed DI Quinn and this Estonian journalist.’
‘Of course. And we’re getting close. But they’re connected.’
‘Hmm. We’ll see, no doubt. Anyway, how was your first week back at work?’
‘Fine,’ said Annie. ‘Busy, of course, but it’s great to be back.’
‘I did advise you to take it easy.’
‘With all due respect, I’ve been taking it easy for long enough already. It’s time to get back in the saddle.’
Gervaise sipped some beer. ‘You’ve got a point. How did you get on with the Polish girl?’
‘That should do it,’ said Gervaise.
‘I’m not too sure,’ said Annie. ‘I mean, there’s definitely foreign involvement in this. Estonian and Polish for starters. If our man was sent to kill Quinn and Lepikson, there’s every chance he doesn’t live in the UK, and if that’s the case, the odds are that he’s left the country. Who’d hang around after a double hit? He could be anywhere.’
‘Interpol’s got pretty good data these days. They’ll pull something up on him if there’s anything there.’
‘Let’s hope so. They drew a blank on the DNA. Anyway, I’m not expecting a lot until after the weekend, but I’m trying to stay hopeful.’
‘What have you done with Krystyna?’
‘That’s the problem,’ said Annie, leaning forward and resting on her elbows. ‘She’s down in the cells right now. She’s not under arrest or anything – she hasn’t really done anything wrong except yell at an old woman in Polish – but I want to keep her around until we find our man, then see if she can make a positive identification. Besides, she’s got nowhere to go, poor thing. She’s got no fixed abode, and if immigration get their hands on her, they’ll whisk her away from us.’
‘I see your problem. We might be able to stretch to a B & B for a couple of days.’
‘I’m not sure she’d stay. She’s scared. It took me and Stefan a while to put her at ease and convince her she wasn’t going to be locked up. She’s got no clean clothes to wear, either. I mean, you can only get so far in an Elvis suit.’
‘A wha—’ Gervaise said, then stopped herself. ‘Oh, I see. That’s what you call them. Well, no. You’re right about that. You could take her to Oxfam or Sue Ryder and buy her a few things.’ She checked her watch. ‘Though you’d probably have a job at this time.’
‘And then what?’
‘Well, short of taking her home yourself, lending her some of your cast offs, I don’t really know.’
‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. She doesn’t speak any English.’
‘People get by. I had a Spanish roommate once, when I was at police college. She didn’t speak a word of English, and I know no Spanish, but we managed all right. I’m not saying you should do it, if the idea bothers you, though. I suppose we can accommodate her in the cells for a few days at the taxpayers’ expense, though let’s hope it doesn’t get leaked to the local press, or we’ll have swarms of homeless heading up from the cities.’
Annie laughed at the image. ‘Think what the press would say if a female police officer took a young girl home with her. Not that I care.’
Gervaise paused. ‘Do we know for certain she’s illegal?’
‘We know nothing except that she’s Polish, and Poland is a member of the EU. I don’t know if she has the right documents or filled in the right forms. She has no identification now, no passport, no money, nothing. God knows where they are. I’m thinking of ordering a raid on Roderick Flinders’ business offices and home. Krystyna identified him from a photograph as someone who came around with offers to lend money, so that clearly links him with Corrigan’s nasty little business. He’d probably be too canny to keep anything incriminating there, but I might just do it anyway, just to put the jitters up the bastard. And for my own pleasure, of course.’
Gervaise finished her pint and glanced at Annie’s glass, still about a quarter full. ‘Another?’
‘No, I shouldn’t. I’d better—’
‘Oh, come on with you. How often do we get a chance to take a break from the station and have a good old natter?’
‘Well, seeing as you put it like that.’ Annie drained her glass and handed it over. ‘I’ll have the same again, please.’
As Annie sat waiting for Gervaise to come back with the drinks, she thought of poor Krystyna shut in the cells. Though an inner voice warned her about getting involved, perhaps, she thought, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take Krystyna home. Just until the dust settled and she could get her life sorted out. They could communicate through sign language. She could sort out some clothes for her. Nothing would fit her well, of course, as she was so thin, but there were ways of making do, a little nip here and a tuck there. Anything was better than the oversized Elvis suit. Best of all, Krystyna would be in a clean and comfortable house, not a cell. Annie would order a pizza. They would watch television. Krystyna could sleep in the spare room. Annie saw Gervaise talking into her mobile at the bar. When she came back her hands were empty, and her face was serious.
‘I’m afraid that second pint will have to wait,’ she said. ‘I’ve just received notice from West Yorkshire. Warren Corrigan’s been shot.’
Chapter 10
Saturday morning was a little cooler than it had been earlier in the week, with a fresh wind off the Baltic bringing in a few ponderous clouds. Merike was wearing a patterned jumper that reminded Banks of Sarah Lund’s sweater from The Killing.
‘Haapsalu is a spa town, right?’ she was saying, as they drove through the outskirts of Tallinn on a major road, all apartment blocks and shopping centres. ‘Like Harrogate and Bath.’
‘I understand,’ said Banks, sitting next to her in the front of the messy yellow VW Bug. He was keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror. It was perhaps too early tell, but he didn’t think they were being followed.
‘It has an old castle, the Episcopal Castle, some beautiful old wooden houses and a nice waterfront. Peter the Great used to go there. And Tchaikovsky. There’s a bench dedicated to Tchaikovsky.’
‘I’d like to see that,’ Banks said. ‘But this isn’t exactly a day at the seaside.’
‘I know,’ said Merike, casting him a sideways glance. ‘I am hoping we are successful, too.’
The plan, such as it was, was for Merike to first talk to Larisa, try to set her at ease, assure her there would be no comebacks or consequences, and then for Banks to question her, with Merike’s help as a translator, if necessary, about her past. If her husband didn’t know, and if he was there, they would get her away from him for a while. Joanna Passero, who had a special interest in this part of the investigation, would be taking notes and asking questions whenever she felt it necessary. Banks could hardly sideline her on this. They had not telephoned in advance. There were many reasons why Larisa Petrenko might want to forget her past, and they didn’t want to scare her away before they got there.
The suburbs of Tallinn gave way to fields and woods. Here and there, a narrow unpaved lane led between rows of hedges to a distant village. The road they were travelling on wasn’t very busy, though it was obviously a main east–west route, with bus service and all, so they made generally good progress. Merike had the radio tuned quietly to some inoffensive pop programme. In deference to her passengers, she refrained from smoking, though Banks assured her she was welcome to do so in her own car, which was pretty thick with the smell of tobacco anyway. Joanna sat in the back gazing out at the scenery. She didn’t seem ill, the way she had on the way to Garskill Farm, but then the road here was much smoother. Banks was thinking about the phone call he had received from Annie late last night. Warren Corrigan had been shot. She said she would call when she had more news. He wondered whether that triggered bad memories, or whether she could disassociate from what had happened to her.
Soon they were entering a town – Haapsalu itself, Merike announced – with a few modern buildings dotted around grassy areas, all very low-rise, then streets of old wooden houses as they drove slowly down the main street. Merike found a place to park and pulled to a halt. She pointed out of the window to a restaurant. ‘There,’ she said. She glanced at her watch. ‘They should be open for lunch. It is very popular because the restaurant is above Alexander Petrenko’s gallery, wher
e he has some paintings for sale.’
‘It seems a good business idea,’ said Banks. ‘Have a stroll around the gallery, see something you like, head upstairs for a nice meal and a couple of drinks to think it over.’
‘He does very well, I think, but he is so rarely there, of course. His studio is elsewhere in town.’
Banks could sense, if not smell, the fresh sea air when he got out of the car. He took a deep breath to rid himself of the tobacco smell that lingered in the upholstery. The first thing Merike did when she got into the street was light a cigarette. ‘You want me to go in alone first, right?’
‘Yes, please. I don’t think we should all go traipsing in there at once and scare the living daylights out of her,’ Banks said. ‘You go have a word with her, tell her what we have in mind. See if she can get someone to cover for her for a while, and we’ll all go for a walk on the seafront. Sound OK?’
‘OK,’ said Merike, stamping out her cigarette. ‘I feel like a cop.’
Banks smiled. ‘There’s no need to take it that far. Just be yourself.’
‘Who else could I be?’ said Merike, then she checked for traffic and wandered across the street. Banks and Joanna hung back by the VW. There were a few tourists walking about, checking antique and gift shops. ‘It’s famous for shawls, Haapsalu,’ said Joanna. ‘Beautiful shawls of knitted lace.’
‘Maybe later,’ said Banks, thinking something like that might make a nice present for Annie, though on second thoughts, she didn’t seem much like a lace shawl kind of girl. Still, there were plenty of gift shops in the Old Town. Some amber jewellery, perhaps, or ceramics.
Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery) Page 30