Walking Into the Ocean

by David Whellams

  Peter took down several more binders and riffled the pages like a flip book. No foreign transactions were listed. He guessed that Lasker sold forty vehicles a year domestically, scarcely more. A quick scan of the sale prices showed modest profits on each transaction. The money would have been in the export traffic.

  A stack of unfiled papers sat on the credenza against the back wall. He shuffled through them but found only more of the same. He opened the deep drawer at the left side of the crippled desk; it revealed personal items, hand cream and cigarettes. The middle drawer of the bank of three on the right gave him what he wanted. Three pale blue sheets bore the logo of the European Community; they were stapled to other forms displaying the title of the British DVLA, and were stamped For Export. Peter removed them, reviewed all three, closed the drawer and folded the pages twice so that they fit into the inner breast pocket of his jacket. He slipped away without looking for Zoren. It wasn’t clear to him why the mechanic was at the garage at all. Probably he just couldn’t think of anything else to do that would justify his evasion of Sally’s funeral. He was unstable, and Peter pretty much dismissed the possibility that Zoren had been André’s partner in crime.

  Peter returned to Sam’s and explained his adventure in full to the mechanic and Mayta. They pored over the three blue invoices, both of them nodding with apparent understanding. Once they were done, Sam punched the buttons of his mobile, which was answered at once. “Okay, Martin,” Sam said into the line. “We have a name, we think.” He handed the phone over to Peter. “My nephew at the DVLA.”

  Peter took the phone. Mayta held up a snapshot, one of those school portraits, of a young man with black hair. “Martin,” she mouthed.

  “This is Martin at the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency,” a young, baritone voice said. It matched, in Peter’s mind, the school portrait. “Sam tells me you have a name.”

  The tone was eager. Sam nodded encouragingly to Peter. Evidently the young man was ecstatic that anyone would want to talk intelligently about the manipulation of auto exports under European Community regulations.

  “I have two names,” Peter said. Sam held up one of the invoices, Mayta the other two. “There are three different cars covered by the forms. Each transaction is authorized by a blue EC form and a white U.K. carbon containing exactly the same data. Two were the property of Artistic Auto Reclaim and the third was exported by Western Auto Flow Sales.”

  “Give me the date stamp on the forms, and the model and vehicle identification number for each unit,” the boy said.

  Peter cited the data. Two of the exports were Mercedes and the third was a Saab. All had shipped within the previous six months.

  “All right,” the boy said, with undiminished enthusiasm. “I’ll run these right away. If you come by the office in about an hour, I’ll have a lot more facts about all three.”

  “Can you run a search for all the exports made by those two companies?”

  “In a flash,” the boy said. “In the past, the problem has been incompatibility of computer records. Now that Brussels has centralized computer registrations, it’s a lot simpler to track the history of most vehicles.”

  “Does Britain have different rules for exporting vehicles?” Peter asked.

  “Not so as to impair the export trade. No one wants to block used car sales within the EU. Half the taxi fleets east of Paris depend on the trade. No one much worries as long as the fees are collected.”

  “Is this the kind of business a garage owner could engage in profitably?”

  “Certainly, but this is where a strategic decision has to be made. He can sell a vehicle as a scrap item, for parts, and do virtually nothing to prepare it. Easy to do under both British and European rules.”

  “I don’t want to jump the gun,” Peter said, “but could that be what my guy was doing?”

  “Maybe, but probably not. There’s a lot more money in cars that can be resold as quality items. Not luxury cars, that’s a whole different set of fiddles, but good used cars. For that you need full registration, verifiable engine numbers and cylinder capacity, chassis number and a British Changes to Current Vehicle Form. You don’t want some customs official in Rotterdam reading Scrap on a ship’s manifest while he’s looking at a refurbished Mercedes 280SL.

  “What if someone tries to use false corporate names throughout the export process?”

  “Can be done, and it happens all the time, but at some point there’s got to be an individual name stated as the contact person for the company, and that’s where he may get tripped up. If your corporate name is phoney, and your signatory is invented, and the listed phone number doesn’t check out, you run a big risk. Best to give a real name. Look, if you do this regularly . . .”

  Peter’s mobile phone chimed in his pocket and he jumped. He hated to cut off Martin’s lecture, but the readout showed that it was Stan Bracher, and that meant something urgent. He did the usual juggle, telling Martin to hold, then asked Stan to hold while he dealt with the young man.

  “Martin, I have a call I need to take. Can I meet you at the DVLA in, say, an hour and a half?” He could delay his rendezvous with Gwen by a half hour, and fit in lunch somewhere along the way.

  “Sure,” Martin said cheerfully, and Peter handed Sam back his phone.

  “Stan,” Peter said, “where are you?”

  “At the lab.”

  “Find out anything new?”

  “Still examining the car. But I also went through the papers collected from the home. Found a third Ryanair ticket stub for London–Bucharest. Also, interestingly, a reverse ticket to London that was cancelled.”

  Peter was suddenly in the mood to make a guess. “I bet it was for the mother to come to Britain.”

  “Right,” Stan replied. “Then she chickened out.”

  “How’s the car?”

  “A bloodbath to rival the lavatory scene. She was bleeding profusely. And the wind up on the cliffs that night. That’s why I went up there this morning.”

  This was the second time Stan had tried to make sure that Peter knew about his visit to the cliffs. Was Stan making a point? But the silence that followed had little to do with Anna’s trials and travels. Peter at once understood that Stan was calling about something else.

  “Peter, that’s not what I’m calling about. They’ve moved up the press conference to three o’clock.”

  “Today?”

  “Yup. Hamm’s feeling better, apparently. I talked to him briefly. He called me. Maris wants to keep the momentum going, whatever that means, and intends to catch the evening news cycle.”

  This could only mean that Maris didn’t mind if Peter missed the news event entirely. Hamm had been instructed not to call Peter, and that was why he had called Bracher.

  Peter sighed. “Will you be there, Stan?”

  “Reluctantly. If I can get the blood off my pants. I’m a member of the Task Force, but you’re the co-hero on this one. Good luck with that, buddy.”

  Peter stood in Sam’s lot, the sun now spotlighting the three of them as it crossed between the tall buildings on either side. He held his mobile in one hand and Mayta’s flask in the other. Stan and Peter had Maris pegged. He understood that Jack McElroy was losing it, and might soon step down as chair of the Task Force, leaving an opening for himself.

  “Will Jack McElroy be there?” Peter said.

  “Word is, he’s not. There’s a rumour of a nervous breakdown. I like Jack a lot, Peter, and I wish him well. Pressure’s getting to him, I guess. Why don’t you come out to Regional and pick me up. We’ve got time. I can show you the car.”

  “I don’t think so, Stan,” Peter said. “I’m going to try to get some rest before the media scrum.”

  “Looks like Pathology is doing the preliminary work-up on Molly Jonas. I may sit in, but I won’t miss the press event. Just thought you should know.”

  “Right.”

  “Peter, something a bit funny happened. When I told Ron Hamm about the autopsy on t
he girl, he became agitated.”

  “In what way?”

  “Keen to sit in, to observe the autopsy. I had the impression he’s never done one.”

  Peter thought about Hamm’s enthusiasm for all elements of the Lasker case, but this was different. Hamm had no need to attend the examination of Molly. Stan misinterpreted Peter’s silence.

  “You know, Peter, you could skip the press briefing if you’re not up to it.”

  Peter flared. “I don’t need a second wife, Stan.”

  “Good,” the Canadian called out cheerfully. “I hate carrying the ball for the Yard. Can you pick me up at the lab at 2:30? We’ll drive together.”

  Peter had Sam call Martin back and reschedule for 9:00 a.m. the next morning. Peter called Gwen again; the mother answered and passed the receiver on to the girl, and he apologized, suggesting he come by after the press conference. He interpreted her pause as indifference — she was not one to complain about a necessary rescheduling — but she finally said, “You know, Peter, you have to finish this.”

  “What? You mean Lasker?”

  “I mean, anything.” Her voice had turned hard. “You don’t finish anything. You haven’t completed the witness interviews. Do you know how André vanished? You don’t understand Anna.”

  Peter was angry, and he didn’t expect to be. “How do you know that? How do you know that I haven’t finished interviewing the witnesses?”

  “Peter, do you feel you’re where you should be?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “You have to understand that time flows. A tragedy unfolds. It will try to get ahead of you, if you don’t work to keep up. You have to master time, ride it like a wave.”

  They both held to a silence. He waited for her to say “Finish it. Finish it!” but instead she whispered, “Whenever you get free, Peter, call.”

  She hung up. Sam had moved away and was polishing the Subaru with a rag. Mayta stood in the office doorway with her face raised to the sun. Peter felt ill with a familiar fever, and wondered if he now held the elixir in the burnished steel container.

  “I need to rest, Sam.” He checked his watch: half past noon; time enough for a nap before picking Stan up. “I’ll head back to the hotel.”

  Sam offered a shrug. “Take a nap here, Inspector.”

  “In the office?” Peter said.

  “No, no. For a detective, you have to be more observant. We have an apartment behind the office. Very practical.”

  He pondered how many customers took a nap behind Sam’s garage, and with what understandings. It would be smart to avoid the Sunset Arms before the press conference. Sam led him into the office, where Mayta took over, ushering him through what was effectively a dark tunnel, into a back room and yet another passageway. He found himself in a cosy bedroom with a cot made up with a puffy duvet; there was no window. A beaded curtain across the doorway completed the seraglio atmosphere. On a side table stood several liquor bottles, and Mayta poured a shot from one of them.

  “More tea?” Peter said.

  “No, just straight-up brandy.”

  He was asleep two minutes after she tucked him in.

  CHAPTER 20

  Mayta shook him awake at 2:10. He could have slept forever, having sunk into intense REM dreams, none of which he remembered. He awoke to the thrum of a motor outside, either a well-tuned car engine or an air conditioner. Mayta said nothing, but as he sat up, struggling to get his bearings, she handed him a wet cloth, with which he wiped his forehead. She tapped a large-faced Swatch wristwatch to show him that he should hurry. Nonetheless, as he stood up, she took the time to straighten his shirt collar and brush his hair; she helped him on with his coat and squared the shoulders so that he was presentable. He followed her through the tunnel and into the parking area of Sam’s Auto. Sam himself heard their approach and slipped out from under a Mercedes parked across from the Subaru. The humming noise came from the German sedan.

  “The SatNav is set,” he reported.

  Mayta handed him the Subaru keys. She had yet to speak, and now she merely helped him into the driver’s seat. She did peer into his eyes, but only nodded her satisfaction. It seemed tacitly agreed that there was no need to say anything. He waved as he exited the lot.

  Stan was waiting at the broad glass doors of the entrance to the Regional Forensics Laboratory when Peter arrived. The place had a deserted look, as morgues and pathology labs often do. The Canadian got in and put on his seat belt. He was dressed in a tie and jacket, rare for Stan, with no bloodstains on the trousers.

  “Let’s boot it,” he said.

  Peter was fully awake now. “Is McElroy still expected to be absent?”

  “Don’t know,” Stan replied. “I’ve had no contact with them since we spoke. Looking forward to being on TV?”

  “No.” Peter wasn’t sure how he would react, physically or mentally, to any queries from the press. The nap had revived him, but his elbow ached; he would have appreciated a quick workout at a gym.

  “I’m satisfied about Anna’s suicide,” Stan said.

  “She was alive when she went over the edge?”

  “The car proves it. You really should see the mess inside. How she made it without passing out, I don’t know.”

  “How did she make it?” Peter said.

  “She was bleeding when she got into the car, and it kept up all the way to the parking pad up on the cliffs. Stains all around the top half of the steering wheel. Smudges on the seat from menstrual blood. Leakage from her arms and skull. The clincher is the near absence of blood elsewhere in the sedan. Anna’s palm prints are on the right front door and hood — sorry, bonnet — but nothing in the back seat, and little on the passenger side. André Lasker did not dump his wife in the trunk, nor was Anna ever seated in the passenger seat.”

  “Boot,” Peter said.

  “Right.”

  “We really should go over this with Bartleben,” Peter said. “What about toxicology?”

  “Traces of sertraline. No other drugs. And no, no fertility drugs.”

  “Sertraline is Zoloft?”

  “Yes, but I think her prescription ran out. There wasn’t much in her system, and no pills in the home.”

  For the next twenty minutes, as Peter steered them towards the Whittlesun station, they built a likely scenario, strong enough so that both of them, speaking from somewhat different perspectives, could attest to it in court. Anna must have confronted her husband that night as he was preparing to leave the house for good. She might have surprised him with how much she knew. She pleaded with him to stay and didn’t believe, at first, that he would abandon her. At some point, he stormed out into the street. There was nothing that didn’t seem final, yet she struggled for solace, for a hint of compassion from him. He fled. She stood in the front hall and reflected on what to do. The neighbours hadn’t reported any screaming or confrontation in the street in front of the house. This proved that when she emerged from the front door, he was gone, and when she saw that he had left the family car behind, it finally sank in that he had cast her off, and every other symbol of their life.

  Her abandonment was complete. Stan believed, although he didn’t claim to be certain, that she then retreated to the living room and pulled the curtains to the floor in her anger and desperation. It was the kind of halfway commitment to destroying her marriage that would still allow her to go back — if only he came back for her. But then she lashed out, smashing the vase that had been a valued wedding gift, and this transitional act shocked her. She went to the kitchen and stove in the panes in the two glass doors in the bank of cupboards. She drew blood, scarring the fleshy pad of her right hand. Stan pointed to a photograph showing a stain on a shard of glass. “She was right-handed,” he said.

  Anna went upstairs to the lavatory, likely intending to kill herself. But she wasn’t yet beyond the call of sanity. Who was she? The mirror reflected the face of a wife who wasn’t beautiful enough to keep her husband. She removed her clothes. She
wasn’t in the least beautiful in her own eyes. The nylons — she never liked pantyhose — hung on the shower rod, wafting in the air that came from the heat duct next to the bath and seductively mocking her. She decided to kill herself in the tub. But then the ultimate cruelty. She began to bleed, and that blood was a final affront. She got out of the bath and stared once again into the mirror above the sink. She butted the medicine cabinet mirror with the top of her head, generating more blood. The rampage continued into the upper corridor; she smeared blood in a wavy pattern along the wall, then trailed her hand downstairs — a bit of the mirror was found in the wall by the stairs — and continued her vengeful pattern, defacing the lower hallway. She somehow got dressed again and went out to the car.

  Her despair increased as she forced the sedan up the hill to the Upper Cliffs. She couldn’t find him. Had André told her that he was going to jump? She reached the concrete pad at the lookout and that’s what she did: she looked out to the blackened Channel and saw . . . nothing. There was no way to tell how long she waited on the rim of the cliff.