‘It was a hen party.’
‘If it’s anything like it is now, she wouldn’t have got past the front door. Just a minute. I think I remember the case you’re talking about. Her parents have been in the news. Rachel something-or-other, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Rachel Hewitt. She was never found.’
‘Tragic. I didn’t know she was near here when she vanished. But I can’t help you, mate. Like I said, I wasn’t here then, and the present owners have only been around a couple of years.’
‘It was a long shot, anyway,’ said Banks.
‘I appreciate a man who goes for a long shot. Nothing like it when one pays off. Sorry.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Banks. He finished his drink, left the glass on the bar and made for the front doors. He passed the waitress on the way, and she touched his arm. ‘You did quite well with him. You two seemed to hit it off.’
‘Two strangers united by a common language,’ he said. ‘Tell me, is anyone here from Estonia?’
Her accent slipped. ‘I wouldn’t know, sweetie. I’m from Wigan, meself.’
Smiling to himself, Banks walked outside, careful to scan both directions of the street. His shadow could easily be hiding in a doorway, like Orson Welles in The Third Man, but there was no obvious sign of him. Come to think of it, the whole place had a look of The Third Man about it. Banks put his hands in his pockets and strolled watchfully down the curving narrow street until it ended at a square full of packed and well-lit cafes. There, he decided to sit and have a final glass of wine before heading off to bed, and to see if his shadow turned up. The Rioja he had paid ten euros for at the club had not been very good, and it had left a nasty taste at the back of his throat.
The person whom Banks thought had been following him was still there, though it was sometimes hard to make him out through the crowds passing back and forth. He was of medium height, about the same as Banks himself, in his late thirties or early forties, already showing signs of thinning on top, casually dressed in jeans and a dark shirt underneath some sort of zip-up jacket. He sat down at the cafe across the square. Good. They could sit and stare at one another.
Banks ordered a glass of Shiraz, sipped and watched the people go by. A group of girls in red micro dresses, carrying heart-shaped red balloons on strings, snaked by in a conga line, giggling and chanting, hips bumping this way, then that, some almost tripping in their impossibly high heels on the cobblestones. When they had passed by, he glanced across the square again, only to find that his shadow had disappeared. He jotted a few notes in his notebook, finished his drink and decided to call it a day. It was two hours earlier in Eastvale, so he could probably still call Annie and get up to date when he got back to the hotel. On his way back, he noticed the man once again, about a hundred yards behind him walking down Viru. It didn’t matter, Banks decided. He was going to his room for the night. The streets would be well lit and full of people all the way. He would make sure the door to his room was secure. Tomorrow, he would keep his eyes open and his wits about him.
Chapter 9
Tony Leach lived in an old terrace house off the Skipton Road on the outskirts of Ilkley, where the streets eventually ran into fields, woods and open country. The bay window in the high-ceilinged living room had a fine view of the Cow & Calf, though the rocky outcrops were partly shrouded by mist and low-lying cloud that morning.
Annie and Winsome had driven down from Eastvale, avoiding the A1 this time, to find out what Rachel Hewitt’s ex-boyfriend had to add to the picture they were building up. Annie had had a long chat with Banks the previous evening, and he had told her of his talks with Toomas Rätsepp and Erik Aarma, and of being followed in Tallinn. It had been a lot to digest, but Annie was glad to be up to date and pleased that things were moving along. She told him to be careful, and meant it. She had shared the information with Winsome on their way to Ilkley. The only other welcome piece of news that morning had been the analysis of DNA from the trace amounts of blood on the tree the CSIs thought the killer used for balance when he shot Bill Quinn. There was no match on any of the databases, but at least if they found him they would be able take a sample and compare them. It probably wouldn’t convict him in itself, but it might help. The way this case was shooting off in all directions, Annie thought, it was as well to remember that this was the man they were after: the killer of Bill Quinn and Mihkel Lepikson.
Tony worked at a car dealership in the town centre, but that day, his boss had told them on the phone, he was at home with his wife, who was in the final stages of her second pregnancy. The fruits of the first, little Freddie, toddled around in a playpen filled with safe soft toys in the corner of the living room. They looked as if you could eat them, hit yourself on the head with them and jump up and down on them, and neither you nor they would be harmed in any way. Luckily, he was a quiet toddler.
Melanie Leach was lying down on the sofa listening to Woman’s Hour. When she asked for a cup of tea, Annie suggested that she and Winsome accompany Tony to the kitchen to chat while he made some. Annie hoped they might get a cup of tea out of it themselves, too, but most of all she didn’t want to talk to Tony about his ex-girlfriend while his pregnant wife was in the same room.
Tony was reluctant to leave Melanie alone, at first, but Annie reassured him that he wouldn’t be far away, and that he had two able-bodied police officers in the house. Why that should comfort him, she had no idea — though they were able enough in many ways, neither Annie or Winsome had any experience in delivering babies or attending to pregnant women — but it did. The only thing Annie knew was to shout for plenty of boiling water. She supposed, if anything happened, they could manage to call for an ambulance without panicking too much, and maybe even persuade it to arrive a bit quicker than it normally would, but she wasn’t even sure about that.
‘She’ll be fine,’ Tony said nervously, filling the kettle. ‘She’s just a bit jittery because it was a difficult birth last time, with our Freddie.’
‘I’m sure,’ Annie agreed. She studied the view from the window, a small back garden full of bright plastic toys, including a blue and yellow tricycle, orange skittles and a purple ball. There was also a swing, which reminded Annie of the swing her parents had put up for her in the artists’ commune where she grew up. She had loved that swing. She had very strong memories of her mother pushing her up higher and higher in it when she was very little. At the end of the garden was a brick wall and a privet hedge. ‘It’s just a quick word we wanted, really,’ Annie went on. ‘I can see you’ve got a lot on your plate.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. She’ll be all right. Doctor says there’s nothing to worry about.’
Tony was a handsome lad in his mid-twenties, fair hair combed back, a lock slipping over his right eye, tall, footballer fit, a nice smile. He pulled two teabags from a Will & Kate Wedding tin and dropped them into a large teapot, warming it first with hot water from the tap. The teapot was easily big enough for four cups, Annie thought. She might be in luck. The kettle soon came to a boil and Tony filled the teapot.
‘Why did you and Rachel split up?’ Annie asked. She had taken a chair at the kitchen table, and Tony was leaning against the draining board by the window.
‘Why does anybody split up?’ he said. ‘We stopped getting along. Fell out of love.’
‘But you were in love once?’ Winsome said.
Tony paused before answering. ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘We’d been going out for two years, after all.’
‘Was there someone else? Another boy?’