Just as Plaskow started up the Land Rover, Detective Hamm rushed around the corner of the station. He was carrying Peter’s satchel.
“Chief Inspector! Glad I caught you. You forgot your bag.”
“Thank you, Detective.” The sight of Ron Hamm somehow sparked a recollection of what Jerry Plaskow had said about André Lasker being methodical. “Mr. Hamm, what are you doing now?”
“Thought I’d have lunch.”
“You were the first investigator at Lower Whittlesun Beach, weren’t you?”
“Second. Constable Willet took the call and arrived first, and he called me.”
“Could you run me there? I’m due to meet up with Willet and Stan Bracher at the Lasker house at two. You can join us, if that’s convenient.” Peter missed Sam’s Subaru, which the Armenian had kindly retrieved from the Delphine two days ago, when Peter had been ostracized from Whittlesun.
Hamm brightened. Peter was sure that Maris had instructed him to keep an eye on the Yard men. “Excellent! I’ll fetch the car.”
Peter got in the familiar Vauxhall and they set off. Hamm shared the sandwiches his wife had made; there were four of them. They picked up bottles of lemonade at a take-away, and just before entering the preserve of the beach, Hamm stopped again and they bought coffee, a brace against the cold wind along the exposed shore.
Peter held the coffees, one in each hand, as Hamm worked the sprung Vauxhall along a rutted path to the strand. It was somehow a different route than Peter and Tommy had followed on their first visit. The path ended at a sand dune, and they had to walk up the rise to gain the shore. Peter stopped at the top of the dune as the grey panorama came into view. Hamm paused a few feet away and slurped his coffee.
“Back to where it all started, sir?”
“Or where it ended,” Peter mused, staring out to sea. He hoped to interpret Lasker’s escape route with fresh eyes. Instead, he once again cringed at the shabby view before him. The sea faded into the horizon and promised a cold grave to the reckless swimmer. He reasoned that only a man with the arrogance to attempt to walk on water could have made the escape. Yet at that instant he was convinced that André had made it out alive.
As before, the beach was almost deserted. A teenage girl and boy huddled together way down the shoreline; even from that distance he could tell they were there because they had nowhere else to go. The breeze was picking up, riffling through the long grass at the top of the pebbly shore. The waves were steady but the tide was moving out. Both men shivered in the relentless wind.
“Show me exactly where Lasker’s clothes were found,” Peter said.
Hamm pointed to a wiry bush down the shore. “We put a spike in the sand over there. In case someone moved it, we set a reference point. You see that stubborn gorse bush closer to the waterline? We took a measurement from there, thirty yards at a thirty-five degree angle. It sounds silly, but gorse bushes don’t move.”
Someone had absconded with the spike, and so they had to estimate the location. They were able to confirm that the clothes had been piled just above the high-water line. Lasker must have been familiar with the tides, or perhaps he simply observed the discoloration of the land where the inflow reached its limit. Peter crouched down on the pebbled strand and stared out at the horizon at an acute angle.
“You say that two boys found the items and reported it?”
“Yes. They thought it strange that a complete suit of clothes had been left in a mound, neatly stacked like their ma’s laundry. They were sniggering when they came in, because the man’s trollies were folded like a crepe on top, they said.”
“Logical that one would take them off last. Did you meet either of the kids?”
“Yes. Constable Willet knows one of them casually. Son of a cousin of his wife’s, he says. Decent kids, really.”
“You trust them to tell the truth?”
“As far as it goes, sir.”
The first time Cammon had visited the beach, before knowing any details of the sins of André Lasker, he had felt right off that something was odd about the case. The motives of any man who chose this form of escape from his old life needed careful parsing. Now he had the same uneasy feeling, something to do with the incompleteness of the picture. In his mind, Peter addressed André Lasker. You planned every bit of it, didn’t you? But not her suicide. Didn’t see the menstrual blood, did you? So unneat. Peter now understood that Lasker had operated within a classical mode: leaving his clothes neatly stacked behind him had been important to the image of a tidy, organized departure. The Inspector gazed out to sea once again, turned to the sandy ridge that formed the horizon behind him, and rotated back to the receding waves.
So, André, what did you leave behind that signalled closure with your old life? A wedding ring, of course.
“I’d like to meet with the boys, if that’s feasible.”
“Of course,” Hamm said. “We can do it this afternoon.”
“Good,” Peter said. “After we visit our colleagues at the house.”
His schedule was filling up — Stan, who had a compulsion to stuff every minute of his day with busywork, would say that his dance card was full — and at such moments Peter liked to take a step back and reassess his priorities. In this instance, an idea, a tweak of his agenda, occurred to him.
“Detective, I’ve arranged with Jerry Plaskow to visit the area along the shore where Molly Jonas disappeared. Would you care to join me tomorrow morning?”
He felt Hamm’s immediate excitement and suppressed a smile. “Absolutely.” Reality arrived just as quickly. “Oh, wait a minute, Maris won’t like it. No, he wants to take charge of any moves we make regarding the Rover.”
“So, we ask him,” Peter said, as ingenuously as possible.
“You mean, make it seem like your idea? That’s what I’m talking about, Chief Inspector. He won’t like it especially if it comes from you.”
“No, Detective, you make it seem like your idea.”
“I’ll try, but . . .”
The chime of his mobile interrupted his demurral. Ten seconds later Peter’s own mobile rang, and he knew there was new trouble.
Peter could tell that Constable Willet was calling Hamm. Stan Bracher was at the end of his own line. The two policemen — were they getting along, Peter wondered idly. They were probably standing inches apart in the Laskers’ main hallway. Hamm looked up at Peter as they listened to parallel messages.
Peter moved a few yards inland to get away from the wind. “The Rover has struck again,” Stan said. Peter could barely hear him. “Someplace up the coast, in McElroy’s jurisdiction. Never heard of the place. But this time he left his victim alive. Maris just called Willet at the house and demanded that all his people repatriate to the Whittlesun station.”
Only the salient points had to be absorbed for now. Peter told Stan to stay at the house and complete his inspections of the blood-stains; let Willet go, and arrange to lock up the place yourself, Peter instructed. Stan seemed grateful. Peter turned off his phone just as Hamm completed his call.
In the car, Peter and Ron compared notes. The Rover had attacked near the Devon border, apparently more than six kilometres from where they thought Molly Jonas had been taken. Other than that, little had been confirmed. Peter’s instincts moved towards the perverse: could he argue with Maris that the latest assault should free up Hamm to join him tomorrow on the expedition along the cliffs? Then again, if the Six-K theory had been debunked, Maris could maintain that the effort would be useless.
“Tell me, Ron,” Peter said, “any personal theories about this Rover, the kind of predator who could pull off these attacks?”
It at once became clear that Hamm considered these assaults an affront to his hometown.
“Well, Peter, I’m guessing that this fiend is likely an interloper.” Peter had learned over the years that ordinary citizens — Hamm was a practised investigator but his outrage as a local trumped his uniform — often resorted to florid language to explai
n crimes close to home. His response was born of indignation. “If he’s someone from the area, then he must be young.”
“Why do you suppose that?”
“He has to be mighty strong to wrestle those three girls, the ones we’re sure of, off their feet and into the rock field. Those were village girls, bred strong. And to carry a dead or unconscious body along those paths to the cliffs, that takes strength.”
“Good point.”
“But a native to the area would certainly be noticed if he acted out of the main. Small, traditional places notice change.”
This was all conjecture, but Peter encouraged it, as long as it kept Hamm thinking of the cliffs.
They weren’t the first to show up in Maris’s glass office. Three other detectives, unknown to Peter but assuredly part of the Whittlesun Force, had gathered in the confined space. Maris was shaking his head when Peter and Ron Hamm entered.
“I can’t reach Jack McElroy, so let’s proceed. If he wants our help over in Devon, he’ll contact me. Here’s what we know. Daniella Garvena is a girl of nineteen. Unlike the other victims so far, she’s an urban girl. She was unfamiliar with the coastal walkways in the area of East Devon, where her family moved a year ago. Her mother says she feared a tumble from the cliffs if she got too close, and in fact she was assaulted on a well-travelled road in sight of the family house, which lies on the edge of the village of Combfield.”
One of the detectives, obviously a veteran, asked: “The road wasn’t the main coastal road known as the Jurassic Trail, I’m assuming?”
“No,” Maris said, “but it was a popular road, nonetheless. Took a risk, our chap.”
“Excuse me, Inspector,” Hamm said, “but the girl was afraid of the cliffs. Does that mean she was on the outs with the local teenagers, the lover’s lane group?”
“Yes, you might say that,” Maris said. “She refused to go with kids on their picnics along the heights. She had only lived there a year and a bit but she’s popular, apparently doesn’t have a loner’s attitude. Okay? Anyway, she took a wrong turn last night. No moon. He attacked her from behind, silently. The girl is conscious but in shock. He knocked her down with some kind of club, or a bar, maybe a tyre iron. Then, when he had her down, he slashed her back with a knife, and left her.”
“Sexual assault?” someone said.
“Not rape. But he did undo her brassiere and he stole her knickers.”
“What was she doing there?” the third detective asked.
“She liked to go out and look at the stars, she told the interviewing officer. The family is Italian, first generation, so there’s real shame in having her knickers taken. We can all agree she’s lucky to be alive.”
There was an uncomfortable, unexpressed feeling among the detectives in the office that this assault was distinctly unlike the others. Peter was content to listen; he tried not to lean too hard against the glass wall. Comment on the Six-K theory was premature, almost unseemly, but the Task Force’s strategy would have to be revisited. The detectives would regroup after Maris contacted J.J. McElroy.
Peter fled the room in order to dodge Maris, and to avoid any hallway chats with Hamm that could set off the inspector. He wanted Hamm with him tomorrow, but it was the wrong time to approach Maris with the proposition, while the Inspector was fixed on the Garvena attack. The Rover had screwed up, and not for the first time. The assault on Daniella Garvena bore a whiff of panic — no kill, no follow-through, no ritualistic disposal. But Molly Jonas had been his first misstep, Peter was sure. Daniella had been lucky. Molly’s body probably lay full fathom five beneath the Channel.
Peter took out a business card and scribbled The Crown at 5:30 on the back. Please ask Maris about tomorrow. He placed the card in the centre of Hamm’s cluttered desk and left the station. Around the corner, he paused to call Stan who, Peter had no doubt, was still at the Lasker house. He answered on the third ring.
“Hello, Peter.” He has to be concentrating on something, Peter thought.
“Stan, how’s it going?”
“This is fascinating, Peter. Like the work of a demented artist. Like she made sure to mark every wall.”
Peter didn’t want to get into an analysis of the blood pattern, and neither did Bracher, he could tell. Let the man finish his job. Stan was like himself in this regard, often unwilling to discuss the bottom line until sure of his evidence.
“Listen, Stan, I have a suggestion. You need time to finish up.”
“And go to the lab,” Bracher interjected.
“That too. How about you skip our journey along the shore tomorrow? I’ll take Detective Hamm with me instead.”
“Oh, sure,” Stan said. “I’d almost forgotten anyway. Are we still on for the Crown at 5:30?” Stan never forgot assignations in pubs.
“Yes, sure. It’s along the way from the police offices, off Daubney Street.”
They hung up at the same moment and Peter immediately called Sam’s Auto.
“Inspector!” the Armenian shouted into the line. “Where are you?”
“Back in Whittlesun. Can I get the Subaru again?”
“Of course. Where do you want me to drop it off?”
“I’m staying at the Sunset Arms this time. But I can come by your shop.”
“I insist, no. I will drop it off now at the hotel. I know it.”
“There’s no rush, Sam. I won’t be there for a while.”
“I’ll leave the car in the hotel lot, the keys at the desk. Mayta says hello.”
CHAPTER 16
The Crown did a roaring business on a Friday evening, with dart players and weekend drinkers crowding the aisles, but Detective Hamm, as usual, had managed to snag a quiet booth for four. Peter arrived early, only to find that Stan was already there, a stack of nylon camera cases piled on the spare seat of the booth. He had staggered over directly from the Lasker house. Now he was demonstrating the f-stop setting of a camera to a captivated Detective Hamm. A large pitcher of draught ale stood between them.
Peter removed his jacket. Stan poured him a full glass of the ale and said nothing until Peter had drawn a long swallow, but he had been waiting to deliver his line.
“Peter! Where did you stash Joan?”
Peter rolled his eyes; Hamm blushed. “I only call her in when I don’t have your expertise, Stan.”
“Now that was either the smartest or the dumbest strategy I’ve ever seen. Bringing your wife into a case.” He turned to Hamm. “Detective Hamm, you need to understand that this fellow always has a reason for what he does. Always.”
“Method in his madness?” Hamm replied jovially.
Peter had warned Stan not to allude to his suicide theory in front of the young detective. He knew that the camera sitting on the table contained dozens, probably hundreds of shots of the bloodstains that proved the theory, and Stan would start speculating after a couple of drinks. Peter decided to steer the talk in another direction, while reminding himself that Ron Hamm deserved a briefing on Anna’s death within the week.
He turned to Hamm. “Detective, what’s the verdict from Inspector Maris about tomorrow?”
Hamm perked up. “It’s a go. Inspector Maris told me to work hand-in-glove with you.”
Stan raised his glass and the others followed. “Here’s to inter-agency cooperation!”
“No,” Hamm said. “He just wants me to keep an eye on the chief inspector.”
The waitress brought a plate of something unrecognizably deep-fried, but Peter ate it anyway. The conversation quieted for a few minutes as they dipped into the appetizers. Peter fetched another round.
Stan switched directions again, back to the Task Force. “Peter, I suppose we noticed the same flaw in their game plan?”
“The watch-and-warn strategy?”
Hamm nodded; they all understood. There had been a consensus in the morning meeting that the aligned police forces of the two counties should attempt to monitor a large swath of the English Channel. That, self-evidently, req
uired a huge workforce, and the Garvena incident only expanded the active search zone. McElroy and Maris further assumed that the Rover would continue his attacks all the way to Whittlesun, in rough six-kilometre increments. The attack on poor Daniella should have fractured that theory, but there had been no sign of a change of plan in the brief caucus with Inspector Maris.
“Maris says the strategy hasn’t changed,” Hamm said. “But maybe he’s reconsidering it. We need to be consistent about setting threat levels in various sections of the Coast.”
“But he hasn’t dispatched you to Devon to help out?” Peter said.
“Nope.”
Stan spoke. “There must be a hundred miles of rocks and bays, a lot of them near impossible to monitor from the ocean, or even from the land side.”
“I collared Jerry Plaskow afterwards to discuss it,” Peter added. “He doesn’t think it’s feasible either.”
“Jerry should know,” Hamm added. “Lived here all his life.”
It may have been the beer, but Peter was in the mood to do some theorizing of his own. Normally he wouldn’t have speculated like this, and not in a raucous pub over pints with two fellow officers who had never met before, but he was excited about his adventure tomorrow. It would be his first chance to see the rocky shoreline up close, and perhaps he would obtain insight into André Lasker’s thinking.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “let me put it on the table. What about the Six-K theory?”
“To start with,” Ron said, “we’ve already offended the locals by using ‘Six K.’ Everyone down here hates the metric system.”
“Statistically,” Stan proceeded, “if you have two criminal incidents, then the six-kilometre spacing is discrete evidence. But add a third, it’s a pattern that begs verification. Add a fourth and fifth, that’s a definite trend. That assumes — statistically — that Garvena’s an anomaly.”
Walking Into the Ocean Page 19
