Walking Into the Ocean

by David Whellams

  Except that he wasn’t. Today his shirt collar was frayed and his suit coat shifted off one shoulder when he stood. The group of detectives sensed the change. Their first, forgiving reaction was that McElroy was under the weather, but Peter felt that something else was going on.

  “Gentlemen,” — the four women went unacknowledged — “this is not this morning’s briefing. We are here to talk strategy, and here is the first strategic decision you need to make. Any member of this Task Force who talks to the media will be sacked. The watchword for all of us must be containment. I am not just referring to our media strategy, though talking to reporters would serve no useful purpose. I mean, this tragedy must be contained. There is no need for the public to panic and we will avoid doing anything to feed paranoia. The tourist season is over; we’re into October. The predator is working the cliffs of Devon, and possibly moving into Dorset, but he has shown no signs of working the tourist beaches in the area. The victims are local girls, the children of farmers. He hasn’t taken anyone from the beach huts, or hikers from the paths higher up. We can contain this, with solid police work.”

  Peter watched Maris frown. McElroy was veering off script. He should have done introductions, or passed the podium on to Maris himself to do them. Peter dreaded what might be coming next. But then McElroy appeared to settle down; at least, his voice became calmer.

  “I want to point out several people who are new to our group. Let me welcome Jerry Plaskow from Ports Security. If you have ever dipped your toe in the English Channel, you undoubtedly know Jerry.” Plaskow nodded.

  “I also welcome two members from New Scotland Yard to our team, Detective Stan Bracher, late of Canada, and Chief Inspector Peter Cammon. They will provide liaison with the Yard and — we in the regions are always hopeful — access to ‘central’ resources.”

  There was chuckling around the table and Stan, who seemed oblivious to McElroy’s earlier distress, joined the banter. “Mr. Chairman!” he called out. “For the record, my ‘Detective’ is a Canadian designation, so that I am not officially a Yard employee.”

  “Duly noted. In the event, we welcome the Detective, despite being lost in the mid-Atlantic.”

  But then McElroy’s face darkened and he seemed to lose energy. Bitterness entered his voice. “Dorset men are full partners in our Task Force effort. Out on the pitch . . . out on the field . . . in the field . . . our regional forces will triumph, without the need of meddling from London.” He faltered, and turned his uncertainty into an acceptable pause by pretending to refer to some papers. “Our evaluators, and by that I mean experts attached to my force, and people at the Regional Lab, believe that he will move up or down the coast in a linear pattern. Admittedly, that brings him anywhere from Land’s End to where we are now.” His voice faded, as if he had just delivered a non sequitur.

  Jerry Plaskow, two down from Peter, put up his hand. “Jack, can you tell us why your profilers say he’ll keep moving that way?”

  “I’ll let Martin Finter answer that.” McElroy finally sank into his chair. He wiped sweat from his forehead. Attention turned to the young man sitting next to the head table. Peter recognized the executive assistant type. Finter stood up; he spoke without notes.

  “Thank you, Chief Inspector McElroy. Our behaviouralists have assessed his psychological makeup as well as his geographic pattern.” The tone was slightly patronizing, as though this group might not understand how rapists established their territory.

  Finter went on. “The first two crimes occurred exactly six kilometres apart, bodies found in a rocky cave or grotto, both in Devon County. The third girl was discovered lying on a rock on the clifftop even farther east. The fourth girl, Molly Jonas, vanished close to six kilometres eastward, towards Dorset, but still inside the Devon line. We’ve searched every cavern and inlet in the area but we haven’t discovered her body.”

  Not a person in the room believed that Molly Jonas was still alive.

  Finter proceeded. “This is a pattern, make no mistake. His method is meticulous. He lays out the body neatly, like the corpse at a funeral. Cleans off the faces, puts a handkerchief over their eyes. In the first two murders, he threw the girls’ shoes into the sea. The first body was left on a sandy, silted area inside a cave, yet there were no footprints.”

  Peter hoped that Stan wouldn’t be the one to challenge the theory that the Rover was moving up or down the coast in regularly spaced intervals. He wanted someone less amiable to confront Finter, to bring him down a notch.

  Jerry Plaskow, who knew the sea cliffs like a pirate, raised his hand again.

  “A follow-up. I was here this morning and you mentioned the need to keep a watch on the whole south coast. That’s a real manpower challenge. Aside from the views of my colleagues within Ports Security on the feasibility of doing that, are there reasons to believe that he won’t follow the same pattern? Or that he’ll even kill again?”

  Peter saw McElroy give Finter the go-ahead, even as he grasped that Jerry might be baiting the slick young man.

  “The killer won’t be satisfied until he’s stopped. Now, he might stop killing for the time being because of winter setting in, but our profilers are sure that he’ll simply start up again in the spring.”

  This wasn’t a popular answer. Peter, like every police professional in the room, wanted to stop the Rover fast. Nor did it fully address the killer’s modus operandi and geographic patterns.

  Plaskow spoke again, not bothering to put up his hand this time. “I checked the charts for the days the first three victims disappeared. On two nights there were four-foot seas in the Channel and cold, driving spray along the shore. He may not be deterred by winter.”

  Yes, thought Peter, who had read the Task Force summaries, but there was also fog on all three days, he seemed to recall.

  Stan Bracher put up his hand. “Forgive me, but I will ask the obvious next question if no one else is going to.” Peter looked over at McElroy, who was looking anxious. “If we measure six more kilometres down the coast towards us, does that put the Rover in Dorset County?”

  Finter looked around the room, obviously reluctant to answer definitively. “No, but it puts him awfully close.”

  Large meetings have a lifespan, after which the talk becomes repetitive and the increase in useful knowledge marginal. McElroy continued to look pale. As Finter went on to lay out a communications strategy (in effect, a non-communication plan), Peter scribbled a note, folded it in half and passed it down to Maris via Stan and Jerry. Maris read it; turning to Peter, he nodded assent. When Finter was done, Maris quickly stood up.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have reached our productive limit for the day. On behalf of Chief Inspector McElroy, I can promise we will convene another meeting of this group in two weeks, earlier as events require. Let me thank you on behalf of Dorset Region and Whittlesun Police Services. We will do our part in this investigation.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Exiting the police station proved difficult as old colleagues importuned Peter to say hello and ask his guess at the identity of the Rover, as if forty-plus years with the Yard had earned him divination powers. Hoping to avoid Maris and Jack McElroy, he worked his way through the Plexiglas gauntlet and out to the pillared entrance. He hoped to buttonhole Jerry Plaskow before joining Bracher at the house, but just as he hailed Jerry out on the driveway, Stan vectored in from the side.

  “Are we on for two?” the Canadian asked, all in a rush. “I haven’t encountered your Constable Willet.”

  “You don’t need him,” Peter said. “There’s a house key under the flower pot around back.”

  Peter edged him towards Jerry, who was waiting for them by his Land Rover. Jerry did everything in style, and his spiffy vehicle complemented his flawless uniform; he might have been posing for an advert.

  Stan continued. “Well, I’d like to get out to Regional by the end of the day. Let’s see, two hours at the scene, get your Constable to drive me out after . . .”
/>   Bracher’s addled state confused Peter. He had explained to Stan that the Lasker home was painted in blood, up and down, and he must have understood that photographing the blood patterns would take the full afternoon, perhaps longer. He knew that Stan would get so into it that he would end up travelling inside Anna’s bloodstream.

  “On second thought, Stan, Willet would be helpful. Do me a favour? Could you go back in and track him down? You can’t miss him; biggest fellow in the room. I’ll join you at two.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s good,” Stan said, like a New York gangster. “Do you think he likes samosas?”

  “What?”

  “I’m in the mood for samosas and ginger beer. Late lunch on the fly.”

  “That’s the way to Willet’s heart.”

  Stan trundled off with his bags of photography equipment. Peter turned his attention to Jerry, who was waiting patiently.

  “What the devil was that about?” Jerry said, not meaning Bracher. His smooth voice complemented his leading man looks.

  “Has Jack McElroy been showing signs of . . . instability?” Peter said.

  “I haven’t seen him in six months, not since this Rover thing developed. In fact, this is my first contact with the Task Force at all. He’s changed and I don’t understand it. How have you been, Peter, and what was that all about in there? Passing notes in school?”

  “Bartleben appointed me and Stan as liaison with the Task Force. Maris doesn’t like me, for any of a dozen imagined slights. He was about to call on me to brief the group on Lasker, but the way Jack McElroy was acting, I suggested to Maris that we hold off. Frankly, I thought it might push Jack over the edge.”

  “So to speak,” Jerry said. “Lasker interests me, Peter. You think he might be hiding in a cave somewhere?”

  “Possibly. I don’t know. It’s a bit complicated.”

  Jerry smiled and jiggled his key ring. “Same old CI Cammon. Works alone, solves it alone.”

  Peter liked Jerry Plaskow, but he almost took offence. He believed he collaborated generously with his colleagues most of the time. Was that his reputation? Plaskow noticed his reaction and, to compensate, became even more cheery and changed the subject back to the Rover.

  “Listen, Peter, we should discuss a plan for searching the cliffs. Personally, I don’t see this Rover’s pattern. He has to be an opportunist, kidnapping young girls wherever he can pull it off, but even if there are hundreds of hiding places up there, it’s hard to imagine him discovering a rock cave precisely every six kilometres. I trust your judgment more than ninety per cent of these coppers.” Plaskow was not beholden to the Police Service and could choose how he spent his time as a Task Force member. He smiled, almost as if he wanted to find a way to tweak McElroy’s nose. There was a history there — Peter didn’t know it, but Jerry had a reputation for independence that rivalled Peter’s own.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Peter replied. He looked around to see if Maris or McElroy were in earshot. Peter hoped that Stan wouldn’t return too soon. Two bantering gadflies would be hard to take.

  “Did you know that the Jurassic Coast is designated a World Heritage Site?” Jerry continued.

  “Yes. It’s in the brochures.”

  Jerry smiled. He looked up at the sky, judging the grey clouds. “Yeah, that’s all we need. Tourists gambolling down the path, holding onto the handrails and tripping over dead girls and phantoms who’ve just murdered their wives.”

  Peter arched an eyebrow. Jerry had a sly look. “Could it be that we’re thinking the same thing, Jerry?” Peter said. He paused for only a second. “Molly Jonas?”

  “Exactly,” Plaskow said. They both instinctively walked away from the traffic at the entrance towards the far end of the parking area, where there was more privacy.

  “So,” Peter said, “have you been over the area where the Jonas girl disappeared?”

  “The sixth kilometre?”

  “Yes, if you like.”

  “I wasn’t part of the land search for the girl and we weren’t asked to scan the coast from the sea angle. But I know the area well. You buying into the ‘Six-K’ theory?”

  “Not necessarily,” Peter answered.

  “Let’s play this straight, Peter. You think you know where to look for Molly?”

  “I have an idea or two. Listen, Jerry, I’m not prepared to invoke a massive search for Lasker, yet. I need to have a valid trigger before we go to that expense. But a quick reconnoitre would help to gain some familiarity with the cliffs. Could you take me and Stan Bracher there? How far is it?”

  “The young fellow, Finter, was right about the location. Six kilometres puts it just across McElroy’s side of the county border. As for Molly, the unfortunate girl comes from a sheep farm in the zone. It’s reachable in an hour from Whittlesun by boat, but I don’t know of any convenient coves or sandbars along that stretch.”

  “I’d like to try. Get a feel for the territory anyway.” If Jerry was surprised that Peter was injecting himself into the Rover investigation in this way, he didn’t show it. The friction with McElroy and Maris — Jerry evidently disliked Maris — made them conspirators. But they understood each other. Peter didn’t believe in the Six-K pattern for the future, but who knew what games the killer would play. As Jerry had asserted, the predator had to remain an opportunist, and conforming to a rigid sequence of attacks was like a poker player’s tell. The Rover, he was sure, was about to change tactics. But for now, there was every reason to conclude that Molly would be the fourth in a measured row. It would be instructive to find that she was the latest in the pattern, or maybe the last.

  Even more important, to the family and the Task Force process as a whole, retrieval of her corpse would move everyone to the next stage.

  “How about tomorrow morning? Meet me at the slip by 8:00 a.m., we’ll ferry you up the coast and put you ashore at a place I know. Less than a kilometre or two from ground zero.”

  “Done!” Peter said. “We’ll be there. But actually there was another reason I wanted to find you. Are you free for lunch?”

  “Sorry, no. We’ve been assigned to patrol for a boatload of Somalis somewhere in the Channel. Rumoured to be escapees from a refugee camp in Brittany. But I’ve got a few more minutes.”

  “Jerry, it’s the Lasker case. I wanted to ask you about Whittlesun Beach, both the Upper and Lower Beaches.”

  Plaskow nodded in anticipation of the question. “Thought you’d raise that.”

  “The conventional scenario is that André Lasker dumped his wife off the cliffs onto the Upper Beach, which is where she washed up. Then Lasker abandoned his car in the parking area, walked down the hill and committed suicide by walking into the sea.”

  “How do we know that?”

  “For one thing, he left his clothes neatly stacked on the pebbles at Lower Beach.”

  “Methodical bastard, wasn’t he?”

  “So if he wanted to kill himself, why not follow his wife over the cliff?”

  “I’m not being facetious here, Peter, but maybe he was afraid of heights.”

  Peter regretted taking the conversation off on a meaningless tangent — meaningless since Peter knew that Lasker didn’t know about his wife’s demise; he had fled before she decided to throw herself onto the rocks. “I don’t mean to be speculative, Jerry, but Lasker didn’t commit suicide, I’m sure. I think he planned all along to disappear off Lower Whittlesun.”

  Plaskow shrugged and tried to look sympathetic, even though he was reluctant to be Cammon’s sounding board much longer. “So, what’s the question?”

  “I’ve read the weather reports for that night, and for the days before and after. The forecast was for calm conditions all week. But how calm is calm? Would it have been difficult for him to walk straight out into the Channel?”

  “That was ten days back?”

  “On a Tuesday. Sometime after midnight.”

  “As I recall, the Channel was tranquil all that week. Don’t forget, the
sea is completely tidal here. He likely could’ve walked out a long way that time of night. Would have been a piece of cake to reach a hundred metres out before it was even at the top of his noggin. And the water would have been cold, enough to seize up the joints.”

  “Okay.” Peter had never mastered the links between moon phases and tidal flows.

  “The wind would have been the big risk. It can whip up inshore waves without warning, even when the sky is clear. The wind stayed low that night, I recall, but I’ll pin it down for you.”

  “What about the conditions on the Upper Whittlesun Cliffs?”

  “Once again, the wind could have been an issue. The waves are always strong against the cliffs at high tide, no matter what the other conditions. But even when the sea’s backing out, a gust of wind could have carried them both over in a blink. Unpredictable.”

  “Thanks for all that, Jerry.”

  “One more thing occurs to me,” Jerry said. “We should check for fog conditions at both beaches.”

  “I was thinking of that. You record the data?”

  Jerry put his hands behind his back, a Duke of Edinburgh pose. The naval uniform contributed to the effect. “Have since Elizabethan times. A sailing nation needs to know the habits of fog. I’ll check. Are you thinking that Lasker was waiting for the right moment to get rid of the wife? If it suddenly got foggy, and knowing the beaches as I bet he did, he might’ve seized his opportunity.”

  “Maybe. Okay, Jerry, thanks again for all this. I’ll see you tomorrow at eight.”

  “You know where to find me.” Peter didn’t know, but Plaskow handed him a plastic-coated card with a map of the harbour. He smiled. “Listen, Peter, I didn’t mean to insult you before. It’s always fun working with you. Look forward to tomorrow.”

  Peter counted Jerry Plaskow as a friend, even more so now that Jerry had tolerated his jumping from one case file to the other, and back again. In essence, Peter had been thinking out loud and Jerry had listened. All that talk served as justification, and perhaps even evasion, of Peter’s challenge if he found Molly: how to explain his meddling in Task Force business.