Walking Into the Ocean

by David Whellams

  When Maris arrived — Bartleben had known he would be early — and was shown to the table, Bartleben stood and shook his hand with disingenuous bonhomie. Maris nonetheless looked startled; he was thrown off by Bartleben’s booking of a separate room, for he was not aware that one could do that at the Carfax, even though he and Mrs. Maris had dined there several times. He had put on a good suit and a rep tie to give himself an executive look, but leaving the station he cringed when Detective Hamm, trying to cosy up to him, commented, too loudly: “Going about in mufti today, sir?” Maris was coming to despise Hamm.

  “I thought a bit of privacy was a good idea,” said Bartleben. “We may be discussing some security matters. I took the liberty of ordering a bottle.”

  Maris said, ineffectually, “Thank you for driving all this way.”

  Bartleben waved him off. The London man pretended to scrutinize the menu. Maris decided on the haddock and felt better when Sir Stephen ordered it first.

  The pleasantries did not last long, as Maris was eager to get to his strongest point, his denunciation of Cammon. “I feel compelled to formally register my complaint regarding Chief Inspector Cammon. Drawing a civilian, his own wife, into the investigation is unprecedented and unwise, I would suggest.”

  Bartleben somehow managed to look sympathetic even though his expression did not change. “Yes, Peter Cammon is sometimes capable of unusual behaviour. I’ve known him for forty years. He hasn’t done that before, and I’m not defending his conduct. But I do know that if he does something dramatic in a case, he’s not trying to be melodramatic. He will have his reasons.”

  “In this case, what were his reasons?” Maris persisted. “If he needed expertise, he need only have asked. I had already established formal liaison between him and my force.”

  “I take some responsibility for what he did. Please mark that I’m not condoning it. But Peter asked me twice over the phone to send down our serology expert, Lieutenant Bracher. He was unavailable. Peter wanted a fresh perspective.”

  Maris walked into Bartleben’s trap. To compare a serologist with Cammon’s wife was absurd, so ridiculous that Maris approached his retort obliquely. “Regional Forensics has done a pretty thorough work-up. They were also effectively on call.”

  “Their report identified the bloodstains in the bath and the upper landing of the home as Mrs. Lasker’s. It did not identify them as menstrual blood.”

  “Menstrual blood? What is the significance of that?”

  Sir Stephen had no choice but to lie. Anna’s suicide would not be on the table. “I don’t know. But Cammon must know. And keep in mind that he was pursuing a hunch and he felt the need to move fast. Ergo, calling in his wife.”

  However much he needed to manipulate Maris, Deputy Commissioner Bartleben ultimately didn’t want to fully alienate him. He adopted an upbeat tone.

  “I would like Chief Inspector Cammon to have a chance to complete his work.”

  Maris set down his glass. His look offered no concession. He had arrived in high dudgeon and remained that way, but he was intimidated enough by Bartleben to back off a bit. “Is there anything he can do that my people cannot? I mean, given his lack of progress to date?”

  “I don’t agree. There has been progress, but Cammon is like that. He plays it close to the vest.”

  “That doesn’t help me. What good is it to know that the blood was menstrual blood? I’m the one who stands up in front of the media and has to explain where we are in the case. And he needed his wife to tell him that?”

  Bartleben had mastered the ploy of talking as if the world had moved beyond the other man’s grievances, thus making him feel petty, and in this situation, parochial. “I’m asking your indulgence for a bit. I would like Bracher to come down, photograph the house and then spend a few days with Regional Forensics. We understand that the full autopsy on Anna Lasker is a work in progress. Cammon thinks the blood patterns are significant. I would also like to arrange space for Cammon to review all the material taken from the Lasker house. I understand that Mr. Willet and Detective Hamm are more and more in demand for this other case. By the way, Peter speaks highly of both of them.”

  Bartleben could tell that Maris was willing to move into a negotiation mode. That was fine with him.

  “I need some good news,” Maris said. “Some progress that I can offer the media. Cammon won’t even hazard an opinion on whether Lasker is alive or dead.”

  Bartleben savoured the Chardonnay, though he was indifferent to the poached haddock, which certainly wasn’t fresh. From the moment Verden had dropped him at the hotel, and he’d stepped onto the cobblestone street and smelled the sea salt, he had felt fully confident in his strategy with the local man. He hesitated for only a few seconds.

  “I will say that Cammon believes that Lasker is likely alive,” he disclosed. “Sixty-forty.”

  “He told me fifty-fifty, for all the use that estimate is.”

  “Consider this. I fully agree that we must throw something to the media. But not until we’re sure that what we announce will constitute ‘progress’ in the eyes of the press.”

  “I don’t understand where that leaves us.”

  Bartleben held him with a look. “It means, give it one more week. If we haven’t collectively solved Lasker, I pull Cammon in. Meanwhile, I promise a big push with our international friends at Interpol and the EU. We remain the supporting partner.”

  Maris looked unconvinced. Bartleben saw that he was still thinking in terms of getting the upper hand, telling the man from London how it was going to be in his domain, and so he moved to lock in the larger deal.

  “That brings me to another matter,” he intoned. “It is, in part, why I wanted this meeting. I sense that we’re entering a new phase in Lasker but also this Rover business, and I want to offer you our resources as needed. I was talking to J.J. McElroy the other day . . .”

  “You know McElroy?” Maris said.

  “Oh, yes. We’ve worked together over the years — last year on that Moroccan immigrant smuggling case. I believe he would welcome our help.”

  “Well, so would I — in appropriate ways.” Maris felt there was nothing else he could say.

  “I know Peter mentioned to you that he wants to search the coast, some caves or other.”

  “The Task Force is now mobilizing to do exactly that. Including my people. I think we can handle it locally for now.”

  “Yes, but you two discussed the search in the context of avoiding overlap between the two cases, Lasker and this Rover problem. My broader concern is stepping on the toes of various national operations.”

  The corner of Maris’s left eye twitched. “Which would be?”

  “Terrorism and immigration.” These were trigger words for the media, both men understood. Maris envisioned TV-20, the Whittlesun affiliate of a national network, running endless features on the spectre of an invasion of Muslim suicide bombers.

  “Will the terrorism people want to get involved?” Maris said.

  “They won’t, as long as we’re careful. With all the focus on infiltration threats, our colleagues on the terrorism desk, and a big desk it is these days, can pre-empt any other investigation whenever they want. As you know, we’ve worked with that side of the Home Office on the Underground bombings and everything else with a tinge of terrorism. You know their outrageous demands too. If we’re all rummaging around the cliffs at the same time, there will be friction.”

  “What do you suggest?” Bartleben noted that the Inspector finally seemed to see the advantages of an alliance with the Yard.

  “Can we keep it low key?” Bartleben replied. “Let me assign Bracher and Cammon to the Task Force as Scotland Yard’s formal liaison. Jack McElroy and yourself can manage the Rover process, while you also retain the lead on Lasker. You thus continue to make the key decisions on the management of Lasker in terms of media.”

  Bartleben was telling him that he could shift the blame to the Yard whenever he wanted. It was an ac
ceptable risk, Bartleben could see.

  “Why Bracher? Isn’t he a technical expert?”

  “Yes, but he’s a good man. A veteran investigator with the Ontario Provincial Police. Handled a serial killing problem over there, I recall. He’s a character, a very flamboyant Canadian, if that isn’t an oxymoron. He’ll balance off Cammon.”

  He polished off the Chardonnay. He decided not to suggest liqueurs. He wanted to end the lunch, but Maris still seemed obsessed with Cammon’s actions, and so Sir Stephen went to another tangent. Sometimes the simplest thing was to keep talking.

  “Meanwhile,” Bartleben continued, “Stan and Peter will finish up with this phase of Lasker. You can be sure they’ll be meticulous in laying an evidentiary base for eventual prosecution when he shows his face.”

  “If he didn’t drown.” Maris wondered how it was that he had only drunk one glass of the wine but the bottle now stood empty.

  “One way or another, he’ll surface,” said Bartleben. “Oh, yes. There’s something else I can try.” Maris leaned forward. They were allies now. “I can have my minister have a word with the Minister for Sport. We all love sailing and we all want Dorset to keep the Games.”

  Bartleben knew without looking at his watch that Verden was waiting at the front entrance to the hotel. He certainly didn’t hear the Mercedes; the engine on the Executive series hummed so discreetly.

  The deal — all the understandings — went off the rails immediately.

  Inspector Verden transported Cammon back to the coast on Tuesday morning, the day after Bartleben’s lunch with Maris. They drove generally southeast, with the sun beaming through the windscreen most of the way. They shared the front seat, but neither found much to say. A few miles from Whittlesun, cerulean clouds in a solid, defensive bank took over the sky, threatening a storm.

  The very moment Tommy turned off the A35, Peter’s phone chimed.

  “Peter! It’s Stan. How’s it going?”

  “Stan,” Peter responded, startled. “Where are you?”

  “Whittlesun. Just following orders, Peter.”

  “That was fast. I thought you were in Lyon.”

  “I was. You tried to reach me, I know. Sorry I didn’t get back to you. I was planning on getting to London tomorrow anyhow. I thought that would be soon enough. Then Bartleben called two days ago, said you needed help at the Regional Lab — I know those boys well — and said to hurry it up. Okay, I had a flight booked to London from Lyon, but then he called yesterday . . .”

  “Stan, slow down . . .”

  “The good part’s coming,” Stan bellowed into the phone. “He, Stephen, said I had to attend the briefing today. Guy called Maris called my number and confirmed.”

  “Confirmed what?” Peter said.

  “Some kind of inter-agency briefing at noon.”

  “Today?” Peter struggled to sort it out. Bartleben had confirmed his and Stan’s appointment to the Task Force. Now Maris was already playing games. He’d notified Stan of the briefing session and ignored Peter.

  “Where are you staying, Peter?”

  “Sunset Arms,” Peter replied. He had decided, for reasons he couldn’t explain, to change lodgings.

  “Me too.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In a cab on my way to the Whittlesun police station.”

  “I may be late,” Peter said.

  Stan always had to have the final word. “Save you a seat. See you.” Click.

  Tommy Verden looked over at his friend. “You want me to wait?”

  Peter hesitated. Tommy was the one he trusted, more than Stan. At some point, he would summon Tommy back to Whittlesun, but not yet.

  “No,” Peter finally said. “But I don’t like the games they’re playing.”

  Tommy eased the car into the central zone of Whittlesun.

  “Just call, Peter.”

  “Soon.”

  Shiny official vehicles clogged the front and side car parks of the Whittlesun station. Peter went inside as a distant church bell chimed noon. He was let through security by the same woman guard behind her Plexiglas window. Entering the open area, he met clusters of lower- to mid-level police officers, most of them in uniform, coming out of the big conference room. He seemed to have missed the entire briefing, although Stan had clearly said noon.

  Detective Hamm tapped Peter on the shoulder from behind. As Peter faced him, he smiled broadly. Peter saw that once again his shirt was rumpled, and he was generally unkempt and sweating.

  “Chief Inspector, I’m glad you made it back. I’d like a chance to follow up with you on a couple of things. The pub at 1600 hours?” Peter wondered what Maris might have said about Hamm’s continuing working relationship with him.

  “I’d like that, but could we make it five? Better yet, 5:30?”

  “Done!” Hamm seemed anxious to return to the conference room.

  “I’ve moved to the Sunset Arms, but the Crown is still convenient. Did I miss the meeting?”

  “No, sir. Our fellows just got an overview briefing on the Task Force’s work. The Task Force itself, of which you are a member, I’m glad to hear, is meeting now. Most of them are already in the room.”

  Detectives were crowding into the conference room and Peter assumed they were from both the Dorset and Devon Forces, although only official members were allowed in this time. He hung back at the doorway and noted that a head table had been set up at the far end; he wondered if he was expected to sit up front. He spied McElroy conferring with Maris in a corner; the Devon chief inspector, his back turned, failed to see him. It seemed to Peter that his old colleague looked sickly. Peter threaded his way through the groupings of detectives. On the wall behind the wide table someone had tacked a map of the coastline, a satellite photograph blown up to panoramic proportions. Peter recognized the Whittlesun Cliffs and the two beaches. St. Walthram’s Abbey was a rectangular speck on the map. The car park up on the hill was visible as a grey smudge.

  He scanned the crowd and nodded to several veteran detectives he had worked with before. He stopped at the sight of Stan Bracher sitting quietly at one side of the room, his legs crossed at the ankles in an insouciant pose, directing a wry smile at Peter. Stan was tall, round-faced and thick across the shoulders, reportedly from a youth spent tossing bales of hay on farms in Saskatchewan. When he stood up he seemed to be all upper body, almost triangular. But for now, he was lounging in his chair, his long legs stretched out; he didn’t care if he tripped several people. He projected affability and informality. He was a nice guy, everyone agreed, but Peter knew that his sociability was also a policeman’s persona crafted to win over witnesses and other strangers; Peter’s own formal politeness served the same function. Stan could be combative, and he loved to defend — and endlessly debate and recast — evidence that fell within his domain of scientific expertise. With his open demeanour and his uninflected speech, he was often mistaken for an American, which Peter supposed was the curse of all Canadians abroad. But inevitably when Stan grinned and corrected inquiries about his nationality, the questioner smiled with relief that he wasn’t American, and became friendlier. He had a sardonic sense of humour too. He had pasted an OPP logo, a black-and-yellow badge, on the side panel of his attaché case and liked to leave it exposed during meetings. Often as not, British officers would puzzle over the acronym, which stood for Ontario Provincial Police. Their usual gambit was: That badge looks familiar. Where have I seen it before? Stan would answer: The Beatles were members of the OPP. You saw it on the Sgt. Pepper album cover. Paul’s wearing it in the picture. He would then pull out a copy of the album jacket and point to the shoulder patch worn by Paul McCartney. Many a meeting veered off topic as aging police officers revisited their Carnaby years.

  Stan had been reserving the chair next to him. Peter came up and they shook hands.

  “Who’s he made the official liaison, you or me?”

  “Peter, you know I hate that bureaucratic stuff. I’m a techie. Why don’t
you be the official rep?”

  “What did Bartleben indicate to you?” Peter said.

  “Nothing. You know him, always jockeying for position, using you and the likes of me as pawns. That’s a mixed metaphor, isn’t it?”

  Now there’s a good reason for not making Stan our spokesperson, Peter mused: he can’t stay on topic. But he liked Stan.

  “I’m in the doghouse with the locals,” Peter noted.

  “And how’s Joan?” Stan said, with what he would call a shit-eating grin on his face. Peter ignored the provocation.

  “You available to see the Lasker house at two?”

  “Absolutely. I hear it’s quite something. I’m looking forward to it.”

  The meeting was about to start. “It’s quite something,” Peter whispered.

  Maris called the briefing to order by tapping a drinking glass with his pen. As the group, twenty men and four women, settled down, Peter caught Jerry Plaskow waving at him. Jerry, Royal Navy, resplendent in his uniform, was an old colleague. He gestured to two empty seats at the head table. Stan took the chair on Jerry’s right, while Peter occupied the last spot at the table, farthest from McElroy.

  Maris kept his introduction short, conscious that this session was an extension of the briefing earlier. There was a good reason for two sessions, however: this one was for Task Force members only, and thus would cover inside information on the Rover. Or, as Bartleben would have summed it up, it would be about optics and politics. As Jack McElroy rose, Peter understood what had happened. Maris had told McElroy that Peter wouldn’t be in the room; Maris had to invite one of the Yard men, per his commitment to Sir Stephen, and thus the phone call to Stan. The only remaining question was why McElroy was so hostile to Peter.

  McElroy had the build of an old football centre-half. He boasted a full head of completely white hair, which he kept flamboyantly long, and he wore impeccably cut suits — unusual, to say the least, among police officers in County Devon. He liked facts, a tad like Mr. Gradgrind in Hard Times, Peter thought, and had a declamatory style when discussing case files. Peter preferred a more free-flowing manner in briefings, but McElroy, he admitted, was the right man for a disparate group like this, most of whom had never confronted a serial killer.