It seemed like years since then, but it was only a month and a half. Annie was back at full throttle, as if she had never been away, especially as she had solved Banks’s case while he had been off tilting at windmills. She also told Banks with great glee that she had got a letter in very basic English from Krystyna, who was now living in Krakow and working in a traditional Polish restaurant, studying English in her spare time.
Joanna Passero was still at County HQ, about to leave Professional Standards for Criminal Intelligence. Banks thought often about their trip to Tallinn, the city, the people they had met, the discovery by the lake in Võrumaa. They never had got to see the Danse Macabre. Another time, perhaps.
As Banks had expected, Joanna’s report on Bill Quinn leaked to the press, and there had been a minor furore about policemen and prostitutes. But the brouhaha hadn’t lasted long; celebrity phone-hacking had once again taken over most of the media’s attention.
Erik Aarma’s story, which appeared in late May over two weekly issues of the Eesti Telegraaf, did a great deal to restore Bill Quinn’s reputation. Erik opened with the murders of Quinn and Mihkel Lepikson, then worked his way through the migrant labour scam, Corrigan’s shooting, and all the way back to the disappearance of Rachel Hewitt, making connections with Joosep and Viktor Rebane wherever he could legally do so. Soon the article appeared in translation, sometimes in digest form, in newspapers all over Europe. After all, Rachel’s disappearance had been a major story six years ago, and had been kept very much in the public eye since then by her parents’ efforts. Though many of the players had to remain anonymous, there could be few readers — in Tallinn, at any rate — who could remain in any doubt to whom Erik was referring when he wrote of a rich and wild young man and his wealthy businessman father.
Viktor Rebane died of lung cancer in Tallinn in the first week of June, just after the article appeared. His son did not appear at his funeral. The following week, a body was pulled out of the Neva river outside St Petersburg with two bullets in the head, and there was little doubt in anyone’s mind that it belonged to Joosep Rebane, a conclusion soon borne out by DNA analysis. His criminal masters had clearly taken the moral high ground when they learned that he had been responsible for the death of an innocent young woman. They had no doubt already known he was something of a liability, Banks thought, and his days had probably been numbered anyway.
Ursula Mardna came out of the whole affair triumphant, her earlier lack of vigilance forgotten, and Toomas Rätsepp was prosecuted for a number of serious offences under Estonian corruption and bribery laws.
Banks returned to his desk and picked up the three sheets of paper he had received in the post that morning, along with a brief covering note from Erik explaining that he had received the letter in response to his article, and Merike had translated it from the Russian. The quiet music, with its drifting harmonies, long notes and high strings, seemed both peaceful and tense at once. Banks sat down, sipped some lukewarm tea and read:
Dear Mr Aarma,
It was with great interest and curiosity that I read your article in a national newspaper recently, and I feel it is my duty to clarify one or two important points for you. Why now, you may ask, after so long? I have no excuses except cowardice and self-interest for not coming forward until now. You say in your article that though certain facts are clear, perhaps nobody will ever know exactly what happened at the lake house in Võrumaa on that July night six years ago. But that is not true. For, you see, I was there.
I worked at a nightclub in the Old Town of Tallinn. It had no name, and we called it simply The Club. I was sharing a flat with another young woman who worked there, a rather naïve Russian-speaking Estonian girl called Larisa, who was not at work on the night I am about to describe.
There was a crowd, or a clique, at The Club, centred around Joosep Rebane, son of Viktor, one of The Club’s owners. You refer to both these men in your article, or at least it seems to me from your descriptions that they could be nobody else. Joosep had that ‘aura of glamour’ you mention, of the movie star or rich playboy, about him. He did not work. He did not have to. He had money. He was intelligent, but not well read or educated. He had charisma, but it was laced with cruelty. He liked to humiliate people, exercise his power over them, and yet people gravitated towards him, especially women. Why? I can’t explain. I couldn’t then, and I can’t now. The excitement? The edge of danger he always seemed to generate?
On weekends, we would often congregate at The Club and then go somewhere else later. The core group was five or six strong, and sometimes others joined up with us later, came from outside the city, even from as far as St Petersburg and Riga. Sometimes Joosep would drive us all down to his lake house in Võrumaa. There we were so isolated we could do anything, and we did.
One night in July six years ago — I do not remember the exact day of the week, or the date, but your article says it happened between Saturday, 22 July and Sunday, 23 July, so I must trust you — a young girl walked into The Club just as we were about to leave. The girl was drunk. She looked lost. Joosep immediately sensed she was vulnerable, and he went to her to ask if he could help. She was just his type, a blonde vision in a short yellow dress, full lips, pale skin. I could not hear all their conversation, but soon he had persuaded her to have a drink, into which I thought later he must have put some Rohypnol, something he had done before, even when the girls were willing.
When we all went outside — there were I think five of us by then — Joosep tried to get the girl into the car. She did not want to come with us at first, but Joosep is very persuasive. The drug had not started working by then. Joosep said we would go to a party at his flat nearby for a while, and then he would drop her off at her hotel. She seemed to like this idea, or at least appeared half-willing, and Joosep bundled her into the back of the car. Then we were off. No party. No hotel. But the lake house. Võrumaa.
I do not remember much about the journey. I think the English girl whimpered a little as she realised we were leaving the city, then she fell silent. I know that Joosep had to practically carry her out of the car when we arrived, and he immediately put her in one of the outbuildings. I have no recollection of him coming back to the main building. It was after four o’clock in the morning by then and starting to get light. We were all somewhat the worse for wear. Time did not matter. We would often sleep for a few hours, then start a party at ten o’clock the following morning, or three in the afternoon, if we felt like it. Sometimes people would turn up unexpectedly, and we would have a party to welcome them. There was always lots of booze and drugs. And sex. That night I believe we smoked one joint, then everybody passed out quite quickly. There was always tomorrow.
It must have been a couple of hours later when I awoke, having heard a sound. Everyone else in the main building seemed to be still crashed out. I went to the window, which was open to the warm night air, and I heard another sound, like a muffled scream, then a gurgling sound and a fist thumping against thick wood, then silence.
Something about the sounds made my skin crawl. I ducked down, so that I could not be seen from outside. Time passed. I do not know how long. The morning light grew stronger. Then Joosep walked out of the outbuilding with a bundle in his arms. I saw the yellow dress, the little handbag hanging from her hand, one white shoe dangling.