‘Yes.’
‘What did you do?’
‘First we searched through the place we were in, then we went back to try to find her.’ Tears welled up in Pauline’s eyes. ‘Me and one of the German boys. But we couldn’t remember where we’d been, could we? We were too pissed. Neither of us knew the city, and we couldn’t find it again. We didn’t remember St Patrick’s until later. Too late.’
‘So what happened there?’ Winsome asked.
‘It’s all very vague, but I remember someone asked us to leave. Quietly, like. It was one of the places where they didn’t like English stag parties, or hens. They had a bit of a reputation for hell-raising by then.’
‘And did you leave?’
‘Yes. We might have given a bit of lip, I don’t really remember, but we left. That’s why we left. And Rachel had been flirting with the barman. Good-looking bloke. Australian. Can’t remember his name. Steve, or something.’
‘They’d been talking?’
‘Flirting. On and off. I mean, he was really busy, so he couldn’t just stand there and chat, but I remember myself thinking, I’ll bet she’s back here again tomorrow.’
‘Did you tell the Estonian police this?’
‘Yes, of course. When I remembered. But it was too late by then. When I asked them about it, they said the barman was gone. They didn’t know where. Back to Australia, I suppose. Anyway, they couldn’t trace him, so that was that. Dead end.’
‘Do you think he had anything to do with it?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Pauline. ‘I mean, he was working, wasn’t he? He couldn’t just disappear. And the police said he didn’t have a car. It was just that he might have known where she’d gone, that’s all. Rachel might have said something to him.’
‘Maybe she arranged to meet him later,’ said Winsome, and she and Annie looked at one another. The three of them sat silently for a moment, thinking over the implications. Winsome seemed to have covered just about everything, Annie thought. She couldn’t think of anything else to ask. Pauline’s company was becoming depressing, and the messy flat oppressive.
‘We should be off now, then,’ Winsome said. ‘Thanks for your time, Pauline. I’m sure you’ve got work or something.’
‘Work? Huh. That went the same way as marriage.’
‘You packed it in?’
‘Sort of. Though I think they made the final decision for me. I’d got my A levels, but I wanted to start work — like Rachel — and I got a job with Debenhams. In management, not shop floor. Anyway, it was a start. Sort of a management trainee. I got transferred here after things started to go off a bit in Bradford, then... I don’t know. Couldn’t keep up my concentration. Still can’t. It was rude of me, I know, but I didn’t even offer you a cup of tea. Sure you won’t stay and have one?’
Annie could see the desperation in her eyes, but she didn’t feel she could stand another fifteen or twenty minutes in this mausoleum of guilt and shame. Luckily, Winsome must have agreed, because she was the one who refused the offer of tea, gently, and led the way out.
Erik Aarma had agreed to meet Banks and Joanna in the hotel lobby at five o’clock, and they spent the time in between talking to Rätsepp and meeting Erik going over their notes and clarifying theories. Both agreed that Rätsepp hadn’t been much use and had told them nothing Annie hadn’t already gleaned from reading over Quinn’s files.
It had taken a long time to set the investigation in motion, Banks thought, but that was more than likely for the reasons Rätsepp had given: the memory of the girls, or lack of it, being paramount. For a start, the police didn’t hear about the disappearance until the following day, and the girls were unable to give an accurate account of where they went, what they did and who they talked to, even on Monday morning. Thus, Rachel had been missing for close to thirty-six hours before anything approaching an investigation stumbled into motion. By then, of course, the rest of that night’s revellers were long gone.
Perhaps if one of the girls had pushed a little harder a little sooner and reported Rachel missing to the police the night she had got lost, rather than the following morning, something more might have been done. But that was a long shot. Rachel was nineteen, hardly a minor, and there was no guarantee that the police would start an immediate all-out search for her. Most likely they wouldn’t, unless they had good reason to think something had happened to her. It was natural enough to think that she may have simply wandered off, or met some young man, and would turn up by morning. It is all very well to apportion blame in retrospect, but at the time, nobody thought for a moment that they were never going to see Rachel again, that she was about to disappear from the face of the earth. You don’t plan for these things; nobody is ever prepared.
Erik Aarma was a big bearded bear of a man with piercing blue eyes and straggly, ill-cut hair, wearing a baggy checked work shirt and jeans. He was carrying a scuffed leather satchel of the kind Banks used to carry back and forth to school every day, in the days before rucksacks became de rigeur. He wished he had kept his now; it looked cool.
Erik lowered his bulk into the semicircular Naugahyde chair and apologised for being late. He gave no reason, and Banks suspected he was a person who was rarely on time. They ordered coffees and quickly got down to business. Joanna had agreed to make notes, so she took out her notebook and pen. Erik’s English was excellent, and it turned out he had worked in London on the Independent for a few years. Banks was wondering if he would ever run into an Estonian who needed a translator. That reminded him to get in touch with Merike soon.
As a rule, Banks didn’t trust journalists; in the past they had screwed up so many of his cases in the name of people’s right to know. But he felt he had no choice as far as Mihkel and Erik were concerned. They were his only allies, and Mihkel was dead. Bill Quinn had clearly trusted Mihkel enough to become friends with him. This from a man who, according to his own daughter, didn’t have many friends outside work, followed solo pursuits, preferred his own company. Now Banks was in a position of wanting to trust Erik a lot more than he had trusted Toomas Rätsepp. He hoped his faith would be justified.
Erik’s handshake was firm, and his anger and sadness over the loss of his friend and colleague clearly genuine. ‘I do not know how I can help,’ he said, glancing from Banks to Joanna and back, ‘but I promise I will do what I can.’
‘Thank you,’ Banks said.
‘Poor Merike. She must be heartbroken.’
‘She was very upset, yes,’ said Banks. ‘Perhaps you’d like to call her?’
‘Yes. Yes, I will.’
‘How long have you worked with Mihkel?’
‘Fifteen years. Ever since he began to work at the paper.’
‘Was that before “Pimeduse varjus”?’
‘Yes. He worked on general duties at first, then he later came to specialise in crime stories. He started the column in 2001. Sometimes others contribute, but it was his idea in the beginning. Can you give me any idea what happened to him? The stories we heard were very vague.’
Banks quickly weighed his options before answering and decided that, given the information he wanted from Erik, it would be best to tell him as much as realistically possible. ‘He was found dead at an abandoned farm called Garskill in remote North Yorkshire last Saturday morning. We think he had been dead since the Wednesday before. The place looked as if it had been home to a group of about twenty bonded or migrant workers, possibly illegal, most likely Eastern European. We found a paperback book on one of the mattresses, and it turned out to be in Polish. When we found Mihkel, everyone else was gone, and we suspect that they left for work on Wednesday morning and were later directed to new quarters. We haven’t been able to discover where they are yet.’