In the large open-plan squad room she shared with the rest of the team, there were flowers on her desk from Banks, along with a box of chocolates from Winsome. The rest of the squad had had a whip round and bought her a fancy teapot, a little gizmo that made it easy to use loose leaves instead of tea bags, and a nice selection of exotic teas, from green to lapsang souchong. It was a nice gesture, and by half past eleven, as she sipped her late elevenses of Darjeeling, sampled a chocolate and looked at the flowers — roses, of course, what else would a man think to buy? — she thought things might not work out too badly after all.
Her main job on her first day was catching up on the Bill Quinn case. Banks had told her a fair bit on Friday night, and at the morning meeting she had learned about the other murder, at Garskill Farm, and its connection with Bill Quinn’s murder. Now she had to fill in the gaps, read the witness statements, study the forensic and post-mortem reports.
Over in the corner at the spare desk sat two detectives she didn’t know. They were on loan from County HQ, Winsome had said. Haig and Lombard. From what Annie could see, they were watching porn on their computers, and the most unattractive of the two, wispy-haired, shiny suit, skinny as a rake, with bad skin and a Uriah Heep look about him, kept giving her the eye. She couldn’t remember from the briefing whether he was Haig or Lombard. All she knew was that they were supposed to be checking Internet sites for the girl in the photo with Quinn. They seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Annie returned to the growing pile of statements, reports and photographs. As she flipped through them, something caught her attention, a blow-up from one of the photos found in Quinn’s room, and she went back to it. If anyone had mentioned it at the meeting, she had been drifting at the time. She put the end of her pencil to her lower lip and frowned as she thought through the implications.
Closing the folder, she stood up and walked over to Haig and Lombard. The one who had been ogling her averted his gaze like a guilty schoolboy caught smoking or masturbating in the toilets. They appeared furtive, pretending to concentrate on their respective screens. As they both showed images of big-breasted women in lingerie with knowing expressions on their faces, that didn’t help the two detectives to appear any more innocent.
‘Enjoying yourselves?’ Annie asked, arms folded.
‘We’re working,’ said the wispy-haired one.
‘Who are you?’
‘DC Lombard, ma’am.’ Generally, Annie didn’t like being called ma’am, but these two young pups needed a lesson. She would put up with it.
‘Getting anywhere?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Where are you looking?’
‘Lyon,’ said Haig. ‘It’s the only place we know DI Quinn has visited in France.’
‘What makes you think the photos were taken in France?’
‘Huh?’
‘Huh, ma’am.’
‘Right. Huh, ma’am?’
‘I asked why France? I suggested to DCI Banks that it had probably happened in a foreign country, but it didn’t have to be France.’
‘It’s the beer mat, ma’am,’ explained Lombard, as if he were talking to a particularly backward child. ‘You must have seen it. It says “A. Le Coq”.’ He pronounced the last word with the requisite manly gusto and bravado, a smirk on his face. ‘That sounds French to me.’
Annie could see it took them all they had to stop bursting out sniggering. She held her ground. ‘Did you look it up?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The beer, the brewery. A. Le Coq. To find out where it is.’
‘No need to, was there?’ said Lombard. ‘I mean, it’s French, isn’t it? Stands to reason. Or maybe Belgian.’
‘But DI Quinn never went to Belgium, did he?’ Haig said.
‘I thought so,’ sighed Annie. ‘You pair of bloody idiots. You can stop that right now. You’re miles off.’
‘What are you talking about? Ma’am.’
Annie leaned over the nearest computer and typed the words ‘A. Le Coq’ into the Google search engine, then she brought up the first site on the list, moved back so the two DCs could both see the screen. ‘That’s what I mean,’ she said. ‘See how simple it is? Ever heard of Google? And you couldn’t be bloody bothered to check. That’s sloppy police work.’
Annie walked away, leaving the two open-mouthed. Time to talk to Banks. She picked up the phone.
Banks found a parking spot on North Parkway and walked to the Black Bull. The road, not far from the big Ring Road roundabout, had a central grass strip dotted with trees, and two lanes of traffic on either side. The houses, set back behind pleasant gardens and walls or high privet hedges, were brick or prefab semis, with a smattering of bungalows and the occasional detached corner house. There weren’t many small shops, but he passed a mini Sainsbury’s and a Job Centre Plus, and saw a small church with a square tower across the street. The area had a pleasant open feel to it, with plenty of green in evidence. There was a council estate behind the opposite side, and two tower blocks poked their ugly upper stories into the quickly clouding sky like fingers raised in an insult.
Banks was feeling pleased with himself for getting rid of Joanna Passero for the day. Naturally, she had wanted to accompany him to Leeds, but Dr Glendenning was performing the post-mortem on the Garskill Farm victim, and seeing as she liked post-mortems so much, Banks had suggested she should go along with Winsome. The rest of the time she could do what she wanted; there was plenty to keep her occupied. She didn’t like it, but in the end she reluctantly agreed. With her along, Banks knew he would have an even tougher time with Warren Corrigan, and he probably wouldn’t get anything out of Nick Gwillam at all, even though he wasn’t actually a copper himself, not with Miss Professional Standards sitting next to him. Still, it remained to be seen whether he got anything useful on his own.
Before Banks got to the Black Bull, his mobile rang. At first he thought he would just ignore it, but when he checked, he saw the call was from Annie, and he felt he owed her all the encouragement he could give her. He stopped and leaned against a bus shelter. ‘Annie?’
‘I’ve just been having a word with those two young lads from County HQ,’ Annie said. ‘Where on earth do they find them these days?’
‘Needs must,’ Banks said. ‘Why? Surely they can’t be doing any harm on a soft-porn search?’
‘No harm, no, but they’re wasting time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The beer mat.’
‘What beer mat?’
‘“A. Le Coq”. A blow-up from one of Quinn’s photos. It came in after you left. I don’t think they bothered to check on the brewery’s location. They’re checking escort agencies in the Lyon area.’
‘I don’t follow. Look, Annie, I’ve got rather a lot on my plate and—’
‘A. Le Coq is not a French brewery.’
‘It’s not? Sounds like it to me. Belgian, then?’
‘Not Belgian, either.’
‘OK, you’ve got my attention. I have no idea where it is. Never heard of it. Enlighten me.’ A woman, not much more than a girl really, passed by with a two-tier pram in which her twins lay sleeping. She puffed on her cigarette and smiled shyly at Banks, who smiled back.
‘If either of them had taken the trouble to find out,’ Annie went on, ‘they’d have discovered that A. Le Coq is an old established Estonian brewery.’
Banks paused to digest this, work out how it changed things. ‘But...’
‘As I mentioned the other night, I’ve been to Tallinn,’ Annie went on. ‘I’ve even tasted the stuff. It’s not bad, actually. You do know what this means, don’t you?’
‘That the photos were most likely taken when Bill Quinn was in Tallinn six years ago on the Rachel Hewitt case.’