He had pronounced Anna’s suicide in order to attract André Lasker’s attention.
To his surprise, there were no messages for him at the desk at the Sunset Arms, nor was his phone blinking when he got to his room. He washed up but decided not to change his clothes. He was looking forward to dining with Jerry and Sarah and felt quite good, not at all feverish anymore. It would be nice to get back to the cottage — there was no doubt that he was washed up in Whittlesun — and he should probably call Tommy Verden to pick him up tonight, and then he could treat the evening as a farewell dinner. He rang Tommy on the mobile and requested a pickup at Sam’s garage at noon the next day. He planned to fit in an appointment with Sam’s nephew Martin before abandoning the town. He checked the pockets of his jacket for notes and messages that he might have forgotten, and came up with the purple chits of the calls from Salvez and Wendie Merwyn.
There was a knock on the door. At its worst, it would be Maris, at its best Sarah. He opened the door to confront a young man who looked distantly familiar. He had blond hair, not far off the colour of Wendie Merwyn’s, and wore a maroon sports coat worthy of a game show host. He also sported an expensive Burberry raincoat. He smiled with even teeth and came across as overly sincere, but unthreatening.
“Excuse me, Inspector Cammon? Wendie Merwyn asked me to leave you this message?” His voice turned up with uncertainty. He held out a sealed envelope.
“And you are?”
“I’m Parnell Moss, reporter with TV-20. I’m known as Parny Moss.”
Peter’s immediate reaction was that the young fellow was likeable but wanted too much to be liked; well mannered, but on the superficial side. Peter recognized him now, though not the name. He was the weatherman on the television sitting beside Wendie Merwyn at the anchor desk. He was even more handsome in person than on the box. Peter reassessed him: he had the right kind of persuasive authority beneath the veneer, and would do well as a news reader.
“Why didn’t she give it to me herself?”
“She’s on air, like, now. She had to run from the press conference. I’m only about fifteen minutes behind her myself.”
“But you’re the weatherman?”
“Among other things. That’s why I have to get back. Wendie’s doing the news now, and I tag on at the end. I’m also a reporter and a news reader. We do a bit of everything at 20. We’re a small staff.”
Peter ripped open the envelope and read the note, which was what he expected: Can we meet to follow up? Join forces? What is Kidd’s Reach? Wendie M. The third question mark was written with an elaborate curlicue. Parnell Moss stood waiting.
“I don’t wish to be presumptuous, Mr. Moss, but were you hoping to interview me yourself?”
“Wendie says she needs to pose her questions to you.” With that self-effacing reply — or was it self-effacing? — the fellow lost momentum and looked down at the carpet. Peter decided not to embarrass him further.
“So, does everyone ask you if your parents named you after Parnell, the Irish revolutionary?”
“No. My real name is ‘Partnell.’ A family thing. I thought it better sounding to adopt ‘Parnell.’ More dignified that way. Then I came down to this job, and the station manager suggested ‘Parny’ had a friendly feel.”
Even with this slightly evasive answer, Peter still thought he detected an Irish lilt in the boy’s chatter. He was mildly curious to hear his on-air voice, and speculated that the accent would emerge as BBC neutral; or, showing the talent for mimicry that ambitious TV personalities seemed to have, he might already have picked up the regional inflections. For that matter, Peter wanted to hear Wendie Merwyn’s broadcast voice again; he needed a better fix on her.
“Tell Miss Merwyn that she can call me here, leave a message.”
Parnell Moss thanked Peter and strode away down the corridor.
It was about time to meet Jerry and Sarah. He turned on the television, but for some reason could not find Wendie Merwyn’s newscast; she had probably just finished. He took the elevator to the lobby, desperate for a drink. His daughter and Plaskow had already found a table at the back of the shadowed restaurant.
“Fancy meeting you,” Jerry said, lightly.
Sarah sat to Jerry’s right and jumped up from her seat to give her father a tight hug. She looked him up and down, assessing his health, and maybe his state of mind, he thought. In the recesses of the restaurant there was barely enough light to read faces, but the shadows allowed them to indulge in conspiratorial talk. Sarah was openly glad to be with her father, and Jerry knew it, and the two veterans of the crime wars were happy to be drinking at the end of this very long day. Plaskow commanded a rum and Coke from the waitress. Peter ordered beer, as usual, while Sarah already had a bottle of claret in front of her. They took a moment, sipped their drinks. Peter looked at Sarah, and her response showed that she didn’t mind shop talk. She was completely relaxed and promised to interject when she felt like it. Jerry struck the right upbeat note immediately by mentioning what, on another night, might have been verboten.
“Mr. Smith thanks you,” he said. Peter explained who his rescuer was, although Plaskow added few background details about the SAS commando.
“I’m afraid I lost both your walkie-talkies in the drink.”
“That’s okay. He went back for them.”
“You mean he dove for them? Were they that valuable?”
“Well, Peter, Smith was diving for the bicycle anyway. Thought he might as well retrieve the radios as well.”
“He found it?”
“Sure. Maris sent his people out to search the cave. We helped. But they found nothing beyond that wool hat belonging to the poor girl.” Jerry made the sign of the cross. “So, Peter, what was that all about this afternoon?”
“I’m guessing that Lasker is alive. I wanted to goose him a little, make him feel guilty.”
“Maris was pretty steamed.”
Peter murmured his understanding, but there was no guilt in his voice. “I’m leaving tomorrow, ahead of the firestorm.” He looked at Sarah. “Lasker’s out there.”
“I’ll bet Maris’s already been on the blower to Sir Stephen,” Jerry said.
“We’ll run it from London for a while,” Peter said resignedly, but without going into detail.
He explained what Jerry would already know but Sarah would not. “Maris will shift the burden of non-success to the Yard anyway. It was already starting to happen. It’s in the Yard’s interest to find Lasker any way we can, either through Interpol or Passport Services.”
“Or,” Sarah said “at some point you come back and arrest him in Whittlesun.”
“You figure he’s alive, and in touch with events?” Jerry said.
Peter hesitated, and then looked at Sarah. “I was thinking about your grandmother today.” He glanced over at Jerry to show that he was welcome in the conversation. “She used to say to me that people don’t understand the balance between the epic and the ordinary, and they get worse at it as they age. You were talking the other night about the day you decided to become a marine biologist. Well, for me, it was that piece of philosophy from my mother.”
“That, and Sherlock Holmes,” Sarah said.
“Agreed. I’ve worked for years to figure out how crime works, the psyche behind it and how a policeman should react. Violent crime seems like a grand scheme at the beginning, full of calculating intent and detailed planning. But later, the criminal almost always disappoints you, his motives exposed as callous, his emotions overruling logic, his visionary clarity suddenly murky and not very impressive. It’s a lot like life itself. But here’s the thing.”
Peter paused to give Jerry a chance to complete the analysis. The sailor glanced at Sarah before responding. It was clear to her that he was about to reveal a truth about her father.
“The thing is,” Jerry said, “you have to go through the epic stuff before you can understand the bad guys’ mistakes.”
Peter nodded. “Yes. An ordinar
y way to put it is that you have to understand his intentions before you understand his pettiness. But it’s more than that. André Lasker had a romantic fantasy of what he would find, probably somewhere on the far side of the world. The same with the predator. This Rover fellow thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. Seldom have I seen anyone more in love with the game. He toys with us, with his sacrificial posing of the victims, his bloodless kills, but it’s all about the game with him. With André, I had to understand what happened at the house before I could understand the husband. And Anna herself made the epic, if gruesome, gesture by desecrating their home and jumping from the cliff. She assaulted his romantic image of himself.”
“What do you think is left of the husband’s romantic plans for his new life?” Sarah asked.
“I wager that he understands that he blew it,” Peter said. “I’m counting on him coming home out of remorse. He won’t turn himself in. He hasn’t given up on his plan totally. Maybe he’ll make a grand gesture. Maybe just a visit to Anna’s grave. Then he can leave again.”
Jerry appeared startled, and Peter knew what he was thinking. Jerry understood that Peter was manipulating the release of Anna Lasker’s body for burial by her family. The Regional Lab was holding it, even though most, if not all, the pathology work was complete. Jerry guessed that Anna’s mother in Iasi and her cousins in Britain were already complaining that it was unseemly, even irreligious, to refuse to release the body and give them access to the rotting house. Peter would effect the release of both only when he judged that the husband was desperate to come back to Whittlesun, prepared to search out her grave and confront the painful consequences of her self-destruction.
Peter’s splinted finger made him clumsy. He took out his handkerchief to wipe his brow and André Lasker’s gold band came with it. Sarah recognized the ring but said nothing; Jerry faked disinterest. Peter supposed he should have logged it into evidence at the lab earlier, but he had forgotten. He left it on the table for the moment.
“What does ‘Kidd’s Reach’ mean, Jerry?”
“It’s a spot along the cliffs.”
“In Dorset?”
“Not quite. Still in Devon.”
“It sounds like a bantam-weight prize fighter.”
“Nope. Named after Captain Kidd, the pirate. There’s a story that he hid treasure along the coast. It’s unlikely of course. The story probably reflects the fact there used to be a lot of smuggling and violations of the excise laws, shall we say, all along the Channel.”
“Now it’s refugees and drugs,” Peter suggested.
“And perceived terrorists. Tell me about it.” He sighed.
“Is there any possibility that Kidd’s Reach is precisely six kilometres from the spot where Molly Jonas turned up?”
“Possibly. I’ll check.”
They gave up the shop talk to order, and Sarah entertained them with stories of her adventures around the coasts of England and Wales. The next hour passed quickly.
The waitress cleared the table and when she had retreated, Jerry looked at the ring. “That your wedding ring?”
“No. It’s André Lasker’s.”
“You are a strange man, Peter.”
The restaurant had turned quiet, with only one other table still occupied. A young man, whom Peter remembered as a desk clerk, came over and handed Peter a business card. It was Wendie Merwyn’s. Peter read the scribble on the back: “Chief Inspector, I am in the bar?” Peter noted how much she liked question marks.
“You might want to leave the back way, Jerry.”
“Ah, the press?”
Peter nodded. Sarah looked distressed for her father. “Jerry, can you see Sarah home?”
“Of course.”
“Is this trouble?” she asked. Peter couldn’t tell if her sudden fear was based on shrewd instinct, or a more general anxiety for him.
“It’s not a problem, dear. Just local media. I’ll be at the cottage tomorrow afternoon. Are you planning on a visit soon?”
She sat forward and reached across the table for his hand. “I’ll call Mum tonight, let her know you’re okay. Maybe I can get there later in the week.”
Peter restrained his fatherly impulse to warn her about the many dangers along the cliffs and beaches. But Sarah knew the tides better than he ever would, and he was the one who had fallen from the cliff face into the churning sea.
As for the Rover, he was preoccupied with younger women.
Wendie Merwyn was sitting in a corner of the bar drinking Perrier and thumbing through a notebook when Peter approached her table. She offered him her reporter’s smile; she looked fresh and unmarred by studio makeup.
“Chief Inspector Cammon?”
Peter had a funny feeling that he was about to relive the previous conversation with Jerry Plaskow.
“I’m Wendie Merwyn. We’ve sort of met.”
Peter sat down. He was relaxed. “You asked me the right question at the right time.”
“I was so startled I forgot to ask the logical follow-ups. Bad journalism.”
“That’s okay. I wouldn’t have responded anyway. How did your broadcast go tonight?”
She frowned. “Okay. Will you respond now? On or off the record?”
“In my experience,” Peter said, “there is no such thing as off the record.”
She closed her notebook. “I interviewed Detective Hamm, albeit briefly. He called your actions heroic.”
“Hardly. When you think about it, that search along the cliffs was probably foolhardy.”
“It brought some comfort to the family of Molly Jonas.”
“Did it? I hope so.”
“But you’re not the investigator of record on the Rover case,” she said. Peter could tell that she was a smoker, but he didn’t suggest they go outside.
“That would be Chief Inspector McElroy, Chairman of the Task Force.”
“At the Whittlesun end of things, I meant.”
“That would be Inspector Maris.”
“It does raise the question of what brings you to Whittlesun, why you were on the cliffs.”
“Let me help you out on that,” Peter said, tiring of what was threatening to become a tennis match. “I am an official liaison with the Task Force for New Scotland Yard. One of two. Detective Bracher is the other.”
“Why were you the one up on the cliffs with a local detective who himself was out of his jurisdiction?”
“I was not outside my jurisdiction, since the Yard has a national mandate, although we try not to go where we are not wanted. As for Mr. Hamm, he was under the direction of Inspector Maris, who is a full member of the Task Force. In fact, he’s acting chair.”
“It sounds to me that he was operating under your supervision.”
“No.”
“No?”
It struck Peter that the women in this case were the only ones asking penetrating questions. Gwen. Sarah. Joan. Include Mayta in there.
“Can we go off the record?” Peter said.
“No. This is getting good,” she said, impishly.
“For thirty seconds?”
“Okay.”
“I was assisting him. We both had the same hunch. It seemed like a long shot at the time.”
“You went off the record merely for that?”
“I’m hoping that you won’t publicize my part in it. The Yard is not asserting lead responsibility in the Rover matter. I have no desire to embarrass, and certainly not pre-empt, either Inspector Maris or Chief Inspector McElroy.”
“Not yet,” she riposted. “But if the public doesn’t see some progress soon, they’ll rise up and likely demand that you move in.”
“With some urging from the press?”
“Maybe so.”
“Until then . . .” he said.
“Are we negotiating here, Inspector?”
Peter sat back out of the light. He signalled the bartender for an ice water, which was brought over immediately. “What do you know about ‘Kidd’s Reach’?�
�� he said. “You mentioned it in your note.”
“I had a brief discussion with Mr. Finter, Chief Inspector McElroy’s aide-de-camp. He let slip that the four attacks occurred six kilometres apart.” She paused to grin at him. “Add six more kilometres on my handy map, and that gets you to Kidd’s Reach. Are you surveilling Kidd’s Reach, Inspector?”
“Lord knows,” Peter replied, “I can’t do everything.”
So surprised was the woman that an ancient Yard detective with a tight little grey moustache would tell a joke that she spurted her drink onto the table and burst out laughing. But she quickly became serious again.
“You’re a complicated man, Inspector. I came here to talk about André and Anna Lasker, and we haven’t done that yet.”
“The Lasker investigation is my primary assignment. You see why I don’t want to be strongly associated with the Rover business. It might be confusing.”
“It might be embarrassing to Inspector Maris if you cracked both cases, you mean.”
“Not likely. I was just helping out Mr. Hamm up on the cliffs. He’s also on the Lasker case.”
“But Anna Lasker committed suicide, you’re sure.”
“Yes. And I’d better be.”
“Is the husband alive?”
“Now we truly have to go off the record.”
“It’s a deal.”
Peter held back, but only for a few seconds. “Yes, I think he’s alive. I have no idea where he is, but I am hopeful he’ll surface.”
“So to speak.”
“So to speak.”
She stared right at him. “And I can’t publish that?”
He held her gaze. “No, but you can call me for updates, from time to time. We’ll see what develops.”
“Can you give me a number where I can reach you?’
“Why?”
Walking Into the Ocean Page 27
