Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery)

by Robinson, Peter

  ‘It’s always like that when you’re getting close,’ said Banks. ‘The storm before the calm.’

  ‘Don’t you mean—’

  ‘No. It always gets more and more confusing until it settles down, when you know. The storm before the calm.’

  ‘A good story can be like that, too,’ Erik said. ‘Mihkel knew that. He always talked of so many balls in the air. Like a juggler. Give me the names. I will try tomorrow. I feel like I am working for the British police.’

  Banks laughed. ‘We’d snap you up like a shot. First of all,’ he said, ‘I’m curious about a bloke called Robert Tamm. He lives near Glasgow, but my source thinks he’s Eastern European, perhaps Estonian.’

  ‘It could be an Estonian name,’ said Erik.

  Joanna looked puzzled, and Banks realised that he hadn’t had a chance to talk to her since Annie’s phone call. She had been in her room sleeping, he assumed, when Banks took the call, and he hadn’t seen her so far that morning. This time, it was simply circumstances; he wasn’t deliberately keeping her out of the loop. He explained to her briefly what he had learned, including that Joosep Rebane claimed to have a DI Bill Quinn in his pocket.

  ‘So we’re pretty sure this Robert Tamm is the killer?’ she said, when he’d finished and she had scribbled some notes.

  ‘So it would appear.’

  ‘That’s the case over, then, isn’t it? I mean, I know we have to get the Glasgow police to go—’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Banks. ‘Wait a minute. Are you going to abandon Rachel Hewitt, just like that? Like everyone else?’

  ‘That’s not fair. She’s not our case.’

  ‘Dismissing her isn’t fair, either. She deserves more than that. She became our case. You said you were with me on that.’

  ‘Yes, but only if it helped lead us to Quinn’s killer. It has done, so we’re finished now.’

  ‘You can do what you want, but I’m not leaving Tallinn until I find out what happened to Rachel.’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic.’

  ‘I’m not being melodramatic. We owe her. You know what your problem is? You lack—’

  ‘If you will excuse me for interrupting, children,’ Erik said, holding up his hand. ‘Perhaps you two can save the argument for later? I do have to go home soon. My mother-in-law is coming for dinner.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Banks, giving Joanna a dirty look, which she returned with bells on. ‘Robert Tamm, yes. Perhaps you can find out if he has any Estonian underworld connections. Also, there’s a nightclub on an alley off Vana-Posti. It doesn’t have a name, but there’s a sign of—’

  ‘A gentleman helping the lady into a coach?’

  ‘That’s right. You know it?’

  ‘I’ve passed by. I just assumed it was some sort of exclusive sex club.’

  ‘It is now. Well, not that exclusive. They let me in. And there’s a waitress from Wigan.’

  ‘Then what do you need to know?’

  ‘Its history,’ said Banks. ‘Specifically what sort of place it was and who owned it, or ran it, six years ago, when Rachel disappeared.’

  Erik made a note. ‘OK. Now you mentioned another name.’

  ‘Joosep Rebane,’ said Banks. ‘We think he’s the one who hired Tamm to kill Mihkel and Bill Quinn. He said he had Quinn in his pocket but started to get nervous as soon as Quinn’s wife died.’ Banks paused and waited for Erik to catch up, but he put down his pen. ‘Well, aren’t you going to write it down?’ Banks went on. ‘Joosep Rebane. I think I’ve got it right.’

  ‘Oh, you have got it right, my friend,’ said Erik. ‘I don’t even need to go to my files for that one. Where do you want me to begin?’

  Annie had slept badly on Saturday night. She had tried to phone Stefan to see if she could beg him to come over and translate the note for her – or she would even drive out to his place – but all she got was his answering machine. She even got hold of Jan from Traffic, but he explained politely that, whereas he could manage a few phrases in Polish, he certainly couldn’t read and translate the language. Annie realised when she got up that she had been lying awake waiting most of the night, waiting for a knock on the door, for a phone call that she wouldn’t be able to understand. She tried Stefan’s number again. Still no reply. Bastard, she thought. He must have picked up some slut or other and was still at her place for a morning shag. She wished it wasn’t a Sunday, then she might be able to gather a posse, get an official search or something going. On the other hand, Krystyna wasn’t a criminal; she was a victim. Annie didn’t want to frighten her, make her feel she was being hunted and chased. God only knew what she would do then. She might also be a witness, able to help against Flinders and Robert Tamm, when the Glasgow police found him. But mostly she was a victim. She had no papers, no passport, but she was a citizen of the EU. Annie could report her missing, she supposed, but Krystyna was over eighteen, and they wouldn’t exactly pull out all the stops so quickly, unless perhaps she stressed that the girl might be in danger because of something she knew. That was what worried Annie most, that Krystyna didn’t realise the danger she was in, that she might go back to these people. The inactivity was driving her crazy. She needed to do something.

  Krystyna hadn’t known where her colleagues were being taken after leaving Garskill Farm on Wednesday morning, but Annie remembered that she had spoken of another Polish girl, Ewa, who had been her friend at the farm and, Annie assumed, had also worked with her at the yeast factory. It didn’t prove very difficult to locate Varley’s Yeast Products in the phone directory, and given the hours that Flinders’ agency demanded of its workers, it also seemed likely the place would be operating seven days a week.

  Before she left, Annie tried Stefan one more time. Nothing. She left a message for him to call her as soon as possible on her mobile, and took Krystyna’s note with her in case she got a chance to meet up with Stefan before going home again.

  It wasn’t a long drive to the northern edge of Eastvale. The shops soon gave way to housing estates, several leafy enclaves of the wealthy and, finally, after a stretch of wasteland, the old industrial estate where the yeast factory was located. The weather had turned wet, and wind lashed the rain against her car windows. Those few brave souls who had ventured outdoors, most likely on their way to or from church, struggled with umbrellas, many of which had blown inside out.

  Annie arrived at the factory gates shortly after eleven in the morning, and she was pleased to find them open. There was a little gatehouse where visitors were required to report and sign in. Annie wound her window down and flashed her warrant card at the man on duty. He barely glanced up from his newspaper before waving her through. As soon as she had opened her window, she could smell the yeast, and she wondered what it must be like to work there day in, day out. It must permeate everything. How could you even get the smell off your skin or your clothes when you got home? Even if you had a decent bathtub or a shower, which the workers at Garskill Farm didn’t.

  There were several buildings scattered about the compound, and the yard was filled mostly with pallets, some of them loaded down with containers, others waiting, all getting wet. She found a place to park outside what appeared to be the offices, which must be working on a skeleton staff on a Sunday. She noticed a couple of people standing outside one of the other buildings having a smoke and went over to introduce herself. One of them told her she needed to talk to one of the white hats. She wouldn’t find one inside the building they were closest to, he added, as that was where the yeast grew in vats. The white hats would most likely be over in the main building, where the yeast was processed.

  Annie entered through a door at the far end and soon found herself in an open area, where several giant rollers, like the front wheels of bulldozers, turned slowly as the yeast coated them, dried and was shaved off by a fixed razor-sharp blade into large boxes, and then no doubt fed into the other machines. The smell was even stronger inside.

  She found a white hat, which happened to be a tri
lby. He was also wearing a white coat and carrying a clipboard. He seemed to be standing around doing nothing, so she went over and showed her identification.

  ‘Can I have a word somewhere?’ she asked over the noise of the factory.

  He jerked his head in the direction of a row of small offices, and when he closed the door behind him, the volume level dropped considerably. It was a shabby office, furnished only with a cheap desk, chair and gunmetal filing cabinet. There was an ashtray on the desk with several cigarette stubs in it. The room felt uncomfortably small to Annie with the two of them in there. ‘Len’, as he was called, was a red-faced, paunchy man in his fifties who, to Annie’s eye, was fast heading for a coronary, if he hadn’t had one already. He rested one buttock on the desk, which creaked in complaint. Annie remained standing by the door.

  ‘I’ve come about some migrant labourers you employed here recently.’

  The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘They come and go. That’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Are they here now?’

  ‘Not any more. They wouldn’t be in here, anyway. Most of them usually work over in the extracting department.’

  ‘In particular, I’m trying to find a Polish girl. I think her name is Ewa. She’s friends with another Polish girl who worked here until a week last Wednesday.’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ Len said. ‘Like I said, they come and go. I don’t know their names. As long as they do their jobs, I don’t give a fuck what they’re called. You’ll have to try Human Resources, and they don’t work on a Sunday. It’s not my department.’

  ‘Said Werner von Braun.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. Thanks for your help.’ Annie left the office, muttering ‘arsehole’ under her breath. She stood for a moment in the doorway watching the people work. Most seemed absorbed in their tasks, such as they were, and they didn’t return her gaze. Krystyna certainly wasn’t there. Not that Annie had expected her to be.

  Before leaving the factory altogether, she thought she might as well drop by the extraction department and see if she could find out any more there. As there was only one large building left, she assumed that was it, dashed across the yard, avoiding puddles as best she could, and headed inside.

  The factory floor was quiet, no thrum of machines or banging of gears and metal drums. There was one man, sans white hat, walking around the equipment, checking things and jotting notes on his clipboard. Annie coughed loudly enough that he could hear her, and he turned, surprised to see her there.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘Police.’ Annie came forward and showed him her warrant card.

  He put his clipboard down. ‘What can I do for you?’ He was younger than Len, and a lot more trim, as if he played football in a local league on Saturdays maybe.

  ‘I’m looking for someone who works here, or used to work here,’ Annie said. ‘Len over in the other building said I’d have a better chance here.’

  The man, who introduced himself as Dennis, laughed. ‘Len’s very old school. There’s nothing much he doesn’t know about yeast.’

  ‘How can you stand the smell?’ Annie asked.

  Dennis shrugged. ‘You get used to it, like anything else.’

  ‘Hmm. Anyway, I understand you employ a number of migrant labourers around here?’

  ‘That’s right, though I don’t actually do the employing. That would be the personnel officer, or Human Resources as they call it now. I believe we have a contract with Rod’s Staff Ltd, who supply most of the workers.’

  ‘Do you know anything about them?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The conditions they live in, the wages they’re paid, that sort of thing.’

  ‘No. I just make sure they do their jobs, and they’re treated well enough on the shop floor, get their tea breaks and all. There’s quite a turnover. As you can imagine, nobody wants to do this sort of work for very long.’

  Annie took in the row of industrial washing machines and the racks of hanging canvas sheets, about twenty of them in a row, stretching from one side of the room to the other. ‘What kind of work would that be?’

  ‘As you can see, we’re not in operation normally today. We have to do maintenance and equipment checks once in a while. That’s me. As a rule, we make the yeast extract here. Basically, you force the yeast through those canvas sheets and collect what gets through to the far end. It’s concentrated and thick by then, sort of like Marmite.’

  Annie felt her stomach churn. She hated Marmite, more because of its consistency than its taste. ‘What do you do with the used canvas?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s what the big washing machines are for. You flip them in there and wash them. It’s a dirty job because by then they’re covered in slime. It’s sort of the consistency of—’

  ‘I can guess, thanks,’ said Annie. ‘You don’t have to spell it out.’

  ‘They usually wear neck-to-toe leather aprons.’

  ‘I’ll bet they do. Do you remember a young Polish girl, very thin, short dark hair, pretty if she had a chance. She could hardly lift one of those canvases.’

  ‘She sounds familiar, but as I said, they come and go. A lot of them are thin and seem none too healthy.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever wondered why?’

  ‘Not really my business. I assumed it was because of where they come from. Poor national diet.’

  ‘As opposed to the north of England, where we all eat so well?’

  ‘No need to be sarcastic. I’m only saying.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Annie scratched her head, thinking a visit from Trading Standards might be in order. Or Immigration. ‘Sorry. It’s just a bit frustrating, that’s all.’

  ‘There was a girl hanging around the gates this morning about the time the shift started. She sort of fits your description. She might have worked here at some time.’

  ‘Did anyone talk to her?’

  ‘I don’t think so. We get quite a few Eastern European girls here. Poles, Ukrainians, Lithuanians, Estonians and Latvians.’

  ‘That’ll be Rod’s Staff connections.’

  ‘I suppose so. If it’s illegal immi—’

  ‘No, no,’ said Annie. ‘I know we’re one big happy family now they’re all in the EU. They might not all have the correct or up-to-date permits and visas, but we won’t worry about a little thing like that.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘Murder.’

  Dennis swallowed. ‘I knew something was up,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When they didn’t turn up for their shift yesterday.’

  ‘Who didn’t?’

  ‘The nine people we’ve been employing from Rod’s Staff. The van usually drops them off at eight o’clock. Yesterday it didn’t turn up.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No idea. The boss was furious. They’ve always been reliable before. That’s one reason we use Flinders. But the boss got no warning at all. He couldn’t get in touch with the Rod’s Staff office. Mind you, it is a weekend, and most offices are shut.’

  ‘So none of the casual labour turned up for work yesterday, but this girl you think might have been Polish, and you might have seen working here, was standing at the gate this morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could she have been one of the Rod’s Staff girls?’

  ‘She could have been. Yes.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘A car came, and she got into it.’

  ‘Whose car?’

  ‘Roderick Flinders. I know because I’ve seen him here before.’

  ‘What make of car?’

  ‘A grey Clio.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t watching. I was just crossing the yard, coming here, as a matter of fact, when I saw her walk out of the gatehouse and get in the car.’

  ‘Did she get in of her own free will?’

  ‘I suppose so. I mean, I think I’d have not
iced a struggle. I can’t really say I paid a lot of attention. I had other things on my mind.’

  ‘It’s all right, Dennis,’ said Annie. ‘I’ve finished now. You can put it out of your mind again. For the moment.’ Then she turned away and walked off.

  When she got in her car, out of the rain, Annie thought things over and realised that Flinders would certainly have heard about what happened to Corrigan, and that would have shaken him up a bit. He wouldn’t necessarily know who had shot Corrigan and Curly, that it was an angry parent of a girl their organisation had exploited, or why, so he might well have imagined that it was something to do with the murdered policeman and journalist, and that the whole enterprise was falling apart. Perhaps he thought that he himself was next for the chop. The sensible thing to do would be to abandon ship.

  And no doubt Joosep Rebane back in Estonia, or wherever he lived, would have heard the news by now, too, and his most sensible course of action would be to extricate himself as completely as possible from the whole business. Three murders meant way too much pressure and scrutiny. Best to wash his hands and walk away.

  But where, Annie wondered, did that leave Krystyna? And how had she got to the yeast factory? She probably knew the name of the place, Varley’s, having seen it day after day, and she had enough money for a taxi. She thought she would find Ewa there, but she had found Roderick Flinders instead.

  Annie stopped at the gatehouse on the way out. The man was still reading his paper.

  ‘Got a minute?’ she asked.

  He acted as if it were a great hardship to tear himself away from the Sunday Sport.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There was a young girl here earlier this morning. She was seen coming out of your office and getting in a car, Roderick Flinders’ car.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Want to tell me why?’

  ‘Because Mr Flinders asked me to get in touch with him if I saw any of them. They weren’t supposed to be here, see. He’d placed them all somewhere else, but I suppose not all of them knew. She couldn’t speak English, anyway.’

  ‘You work for Flinders?’

  ‘No. Varley’s. But he treats me well, and I keep an eye on his crews. It’s good for everyone.’