The investigation itself had gone on for about two months, but the case was still officially open, as Rachel Hewitt was still a missing person, not a murder victim, though most people outside the family believed that she was dead. Banks could glean very little from Bill Quinn’s reports, and it seemed to him very much as if the whole thing had been a matter of national niceties and ticking the boxes. Still, Quinn had been there for a week shortly after Rachel disappeared, and he had worked closely with the Investigator from the Criminal Police Department, whose name was Toomas Rätsepp, and with the Prosecutor, Ursula Mardna.
Annie and Winsome would be questioning Rachel Hewitt’s parents and friends from the hen party while he was away. Banks also asked Annie to slip in a few questions about the night of the disappearance to Rachel’s friends, to fill in some of the gaps and details, if possible. From what he had read so far, it all sounded very vague and haphazard.
The haunting ‘Spiegel Im Spiegel’ was playing when Banks put the book aside and took another contemplative sip of tea. He felt the stirrings of excitement in his chest, not only at the prospect of a trip abroad, but at the possibility of making some sense out of this irritating, puzzling and complicated case that had been gnawing at his brain for six days now.
Maybe, with a bit of luck, a bit of help, and the right questions, he might just find out what the hell was going on. There was one idea he couldn’t get out of his mind now, and that was that Bill Quinn may well have been killed because he found out what happened to Rachel Hewitt. And finding out who killed him might depend on finding out what happened to her.
Chapter 7
Banks and Joanna were barely talking when they got to the hotel. Banks had spent the long flight from Manchester to Helsinki listening to Arvo Pärt’s piano music and reading the only Estonian novel he had been able to find in Waterstones: Purge, by Sofi Oksanen. It was heavy-going at times, but absorbing nonetheless. Sometimes the engine noise drowned out Ralph van Raat’s delicate piano playing, but the noise-cancelling headphones Banks had bought at Manchester helped. Joanna had sat beside him with her laptop on the tray in front of her, to all intents and purposes working on a report. During the stopover at Helsinki, she went off to do some duty-free shopping, and Banks sat by the gate drinking a latte and reading his book, occasionally glancing out at the planes through the large plate glass window.
At the Metropol, there was a message waiting for them at reception. It read simply: ‘Lunch at Clazz tomorrow 1230. Tourists pay.’ The name was Toomas Rätsepp.
‘Cheeky bastard,’ said Banks. ‘Fancy a bite to eat now? Discuss strategy?’
Joanna shrugged. ‘Fine with me. Let’s just dump our stuff and get freshened up first.’
Half an hour later, map in hand, Banks led the way across a broad, busy avenue, where traffic swarmed and trams rattled by. They brought back childhood memories. There had been no trams in Peterborough, of course, and he was too young to remember the ones in London, but he was sure he had visited one or two cities with his parents and ridden on them. Leeds or Manchester, perhaps, where they had relatives.
The weather was absolutely gorgeous, bright sun low in a clear blue sky, with a faint half moon in the south. Banks hardly even needed his jacket, which he carried slung over his shoulder because he did need its pockets for his carefully stowed wallet, book, iPod, mobile, pen, notebook and various other bits and pieces. It was all right for women, he thought, glancing at Joanna; they had handbags. Bottomless pits, most of them. Some Frenchmen carried little leather bags with straps, too, but that trend had never caught on in Yorkshire. Banks just used his pockets.
Though it was still light, the evening shadows were lengthening in the cobbled streets of the Old Town, which were lined with three- or four-storey buildings with pastel facades of lemon, white, orange, pink or pale green, many of them cafes with tables outside. Some had ornate gables and dormers. Even narrower alleys led off to the left and right, some with signs above doorways indicating cafes or bars, others bare, perhaps with hidden cellar clubs, the kind you had to get text messages to know about. Most of the streets were free of traffic, though the occasional delivery van or utilities vehicle edged its way along, bouncing on the cobbles.
They reached a broad crossroads, almost a square in itself. There seemed to be a few cars and taxis around this area, though they all came to a halt and turned back about where Banks and Joanna were standing, by a large bookshop. Banks guessed that traffic wasn’t allowed beyond that point and, indeed, most of the streets were not wide enough for cars anyway.
On their left was the bookshop, and beyond that Banks could see the sign for Fish & Wine, which was recommended in his guidebook. Over the road was a grassy area sloping up to an ancient church. According to his guidebook, the church was called Niguliste and was famous for the medieval painting, Danse Macabre. By the sloping lawn in front of Niguliste, young people lounged around, smoking and talking, enjoying the early taste of summer, young girls in short shorts and skimpy tops, tanned tapered legs, henna or bottle-blonde hair.
The church stood in all its majesty, drawing the soft evening light to itself, the top of the white square tower pale orange in the glow.
Joanna stopped for a moment. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.
‘You religious?’ Banks asked.
She gave him a funny look. ‘No.’
‘Me, neither.’
All the outside seating at Fish & Wine was full, according to the waitress, but they managed to get a table at the end of a bench inside that was right next to the open doors of the side patio. It was a good spot, and they could see the edge of Niguliste and all the people walking by.
They made themselves comfortable and read the English language menu. Like most places in Tallinn, the restaurant had free Wi-Fi, and Joanna checked her email and text messages before slipping the phone back into her handbag without comment. Banks was curious as to what she was expecting, the way she seemed obsessed with constantly checking her phone. Was it something to do with the job? Coded messages from Professional Standards headquarters? Reports on his behaviour? If she wanted to tell him, he assumed that she would do so in her own time. They both ordered the turbot, along with a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Banks poured the wine. Joanna was wearing an off-the-shoulder frock with a gathered waist. During the flight, she had worn her hair tied back, but now she wore it piled up on top in elegant blonde tresses, the way it had been when he first saw her, showing off her long graceful neck to best advantage. She also wore some dangling silver earrings and a locket around her neck. She smelled of the hotel’s body lotion and shampoo. She must have checked the Tallinn weather forecast before setting off that morning to know what to pack, Banks thought. It had been raining in Manchester.
‘Travelled much?’ Banks asked, to break the tension that seemed to stretch between them like a taut elastic band.
‘I’ve never really been anywhere before. Well, I tell a lie. I did go to Barcelona once, and I’ve been to Italy, of course. But that was family, so it doesn’t really count.’
‘Your husband?’
Joanna nodded and twisted her wedding ring.
Sensing that she didn’t want to linger on the topic, Banks moved quickly on. ‘I’d suggest you do a bit of sightseeing, enjoy yourself. Did you bring your camera?’
‘No.’
‘You should have. You can probably buy a cheap one in any tourist shop.’
‘I’ll be too busy working. What are you trying to tell me?’