‘And to that end, he enlisted Mihkel’s help?’
‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘I think so. I know it’s only conjecture at this point, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. The killer knew that Mihkel and Quinn were in touch, knew that Quinn was free now that he was no longer troubled by anyone showing the pictures to his wife. That Mihkel was in England at the time was irrelevant to the killer, really. He could have been anywhere. It simply made things more convenient for the killer, or whoever sent him. Two birds with one stone, so to speak.’
‘How did the killer know Mihkel was at this farm?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘But it would be my guess that Mihkel slipped up somehow, despite taking such care. I would imagine that all these migrant gangs have spies planted to keep an eye out for infiltrators like Mihkel. They’ve been stung too often before, as you yourself mentioned earlier. Then someone was sent to tidy up.’
‘But surely if Bill had discovered anything about Rachel Hewitt, the Tallinn police would know? There was no way he could simply go about and make the investigation by himself.’
‘That is a problem, I agree. Unless it was something he uncovered on his own, either here or back in England.’
‘But if it happened here, he would have told someone, surely? The Investigator. The Prosecutor?’
‘Yes, he probably would, wouldn’t he?’
Erik stared at Banks in disbelief. ‘Are you saying the police here were corrupt? The Office of the Prosecutor?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. But again, it’s mere speculation. So much police work is. I’d like you to do me a couple of favours. First, I’d like you to see if you can find out who this girl is. She’s probably local, or was in 2006, and may well have been connected with the sex trade or perhaps worked in one of the nightclubs. She might also have been trafficked from somewhere, forced into prostitution. You must have extensive files at your newspaper. You’ve got the resources, and I don’t. Can you do it? Will you help us?’
Erik examined the photos and nodded slowly. ‘I can try,’ he said. ‘If it helps to uncover who killed Mihkel. You mentioned two favours.’
‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘There’s a retired cop called Toomas Rätsepp and a Prosecutor called Ursula Mardna. I’d like you to find out all you can about them, too.’
After dinner at a Thai restaurant not far from the hotel, at which they discussed their conversations with Toomas Rätsepp and Erik Aarma, Joanna begged off early for the night, pleading the jetlag and the change of scene were catching up with her. Two hours wasn’t much of a time difference, Banks thought, but travel itself certainly was tiring. He didn’t know why, as all you had to do was sit there and be delivered to your destination, but it was.
It was only half past nine. Banks felt restless, and he knew it would be no use heading up to his room so early. Besides, having got at least some sense from Toomas Rätsepp of the places the hen party had visited, he wanted to wander the Old Town after dark and get a better feel for the streets, where the cars were, the nightclubs, the bars. It was just around sunset, so he decided now was as good a time as any to set off. Of course, it would have stayed light much later in July, but Banks guessed that the girls would also have been up a lot later than nine fifteen, and that it would have been quite dark when they left St Patrick’s. Some clubs didn’t even open until midnight or after, like the ones in cities at home that opened when the pubs closed. He imagined that Tallinn was the sort of place where you could get a drink at any time of the day or night.
It was Thursday, close to the weekend, and the Old Town was much livelier than it had been the previous evening. Walking past the front of Old Hansa, Banks saw a line of young men shuffling along wearing chain-gang uniforms. A stag party, no doubt. One of them raised a bottle of Saku, smiled and said, ‘All right, mate?’ Banks recognised the northern accent.
Once again he found himself by the large bookshop on the corner of Harju and Niguliste, opposite the church at the top of its grassy slope. He walked along the front of the bookshop, recognising a few of the English titles he saw displayed in the window, past Fish & Wine, where he turned left, past the corner where he and Joanna Passero had been sitting last night, and continued on, down Vana-Posti.
It was one of the narrower streets in the Old Town, but there were a few cafes and bars, including St Patrick’s, and further down, on his right, an elegant four-storey hotel with dormer windows on top and a white facade stood on a corner. It formed a little triangle with benches and fountains, and on another side stood the concave front of a building with SOPRUS written across the top in large letters. It looked like an old cinema, with its steps and massive pillars along the front. There were a couple of large movie posters on the wall, one for Submarine and another for a series of classics by master directors. To the left of the second poster was a sign for ‘Hollywood’, where the girls had been dancing and met the German boys in July 2006. Banks was tempted to go in, just to check out the place, but he realised there would be no point. It would simply be a hot, noisy, jam-packed club, which would stifle his breath and hurt his ears. There were some things worth suffering for the job, but not that.
Instead, he started to walk back up Vana-Posti to St Patrick’s, went inside, stood at the bar and ordered a beer. The place probably hadn’t changed much since 2006, he reckoned. Their food was supposed to be pretty good and it wasn’t one of the major stag-party haunts. There were no guys in chain-gang uniforms in evidence, at any rate. It was busy, though, and most of the tables and all the chairs around him were taken. There was quite a mix of age groups and accents, from what Banks could make out, and he reckoned it was the kind of place you might kick off an evening, or somewhere you might end up to mellow out for a while. It didn’t seem like the sort of establishment that would tolerate rowdy behaviour.
There was music playing, but Banks had no idea what it was. It wasn’t obtrusive, at any rate. He finished his beer and left, turning right, the way the girls had turned. He turned right again at Fish & Wine, the way he had come, and followed the street straight across Niguliste. In no time he was at the Raekoja Plats, the main square. It had taken him no more than five minutes from St Patrick’s, but the girls and their German friends had probably taken a bit longer. There were plenty of lively bars and restaurants opposite the town hall on the large cobbled square, all with tables outside under awnings, nicely lit by candlelight and dim table lamps: Molly Malone’s, Kaerajaan, Fellini, Karl Friedrich. The girls would probably have stayed outside drinking wherever they went in the square, and at some point, they realised they had lost Rachel.
Banks walked back to St Patrick’s, but this time he didn’t go inside. He continued past the pub, in the other direction. Rätsepp had mentioned that a bartender thought he saw Rachel go the wrong way when she left St Patrick’s. Maybe he was right. Banks wanted to know what was around there other than Club Hollywood and the My City Hotel. Then he saw, just to his left shortly after passing the pub, one of those long, narrow lanes curving into the distance, mixed facades of four-storey buildings on each side, narrow strips of pavement, and a cobbled road perhaps wide enough for a car.