Walking into the Ocean (42 page)

“Before.”

Maris was growing exasperated with his grudging responses, Peter could tell. He was trying to be forthcoming (he really was, he told himself); it was just that so much had to be concealed from Maris.

“When was it, then?”

“What?” Peter had been distracted while Maris was talking. He heard a change of tone from the interior, a raising of voices. He tried to work through the Rover's risky move in killing Hamm.

“When did Hamm interview Zoren?”

Peter didn't respond.

The medics removed Hamm's body bag through the garage to the ambulance waiting on the street. Perlmutter came into the office a moment later. He looked worn through.

“News. We've found another body.”

Peter had a good idea who it was, but he didn't dare say it in Maris's presence. The Inspector turned pale. “My God, who?”

“A mechanic. Big man. Willet says it's Albrecht Zoren. Works here.”

Maris looked over at Peter, as if the coincidence were amazing. Peter knew that no coincidence had occurred at all. He wasn't surprised at the news. Perlmutter was watching Peter and couldn't help himself.

“You met him, Mr. Cammon?” Perlmutter said.

“Once.”

Maris leaned forward. “Did Zoren kill Hamm?”

“No sir,” Perlmutter interjected. “The mechanic's been dead twenty-four hours, though it's hard to pin down.”

But Peter was surprised at how calm Maris had become, despite his impatience. He watched the Whittlesun chief preside over the chaos — paramedics, detectives and uniformed officers streaming in and out of the garage, several stopping to seek instructions — with an even, authoritative demeanour. Nonetheless, Peter did not benefit from this new-found forbearance.

“So, Cammon, did Hamm kill the mechanic?”

“No.” Peter thought it unfortunate that the inspector at that moment came across like Lestrade in a Sherlock mystery. Of course, perhaps Peter himself seemed to Maris to be posturing as an English Poirot.

“No,” Maris agreed. “Why would Hamm return to the scene of his crime the next day? Perlmutter, are you sure about time of death?”

Perlmutter leaned against the back wall of the small office. “I did my time with the Drug Squad, Inspector. It looks like cocaine overdose to me. Now, cocaine intoxication, as they call it, is difficult to assess, but there is inflammation around the mechanic's nostrils and evidence of a heart attack. It's still hard to be sure, but cocaine in large doses often causes the shivers and shakes, and sends the addict into spasms, which elevates the pulse rate to extremes. The drug high starts to fight against the hallucinogenic high and heart attack may occur. We found Zoren half wrapped in a canvas tarp sitting next to the heat vent for the garage.”

Maris's gaze swivelled towards Peter. The young policewoman stopped writing on her pad.

“When did you meet Zoren?”

“Just after the bookkeeper, Sally, died. He was depressed, blamed himself.”

“Hamm came here to see Zoren after that?”

“Yes.”

“Let's be clear. Why?”

This was the crux of it. If Peter was going to head down the road of the full truth, there was one right answer. If he was going to lie, he might as well lie big.

“Because someone advised him to.”

Maris leaned in closer. “Would that be André Lasker?”

“No,” Peter responded truthfully. “It was the Rover.”

Peter endured three more hours at the Whittlesun station before Maris saw fit to release him. As Peter explicated his theory that Hamm had been shocked into vengeful action by the sight of the dead women, Anna Lasker included, it occurred to him that he might be wrong, that Hamm had been after André Lasker himself, and that the threads connected to Lasker through Symington and Zoren were logical, and presented a completely self-contained scenario. Yet if Peter had presented this storyline to Maris, he would have been in the interview room in the old insurance company edifice forever, looking foolish, running either/or theories all night.

Ultimately, Peter discounted his own alternate story and stuck to the Rover angle. In fact, relieved of the need for equivocation, he became a forceful advocate for a massive hunt for the Rover along the coastline. He needed Maris, in both his capacities — as Whittlesun chief and interim chair of the Task Force — to mobilize the dragnet. The idea that the Rover was moving east wasn't new, and Maris was susceptible to it in any event. Hamm's murder had happened within the County of Dorset. The threat had changed. The whys and the where-nexts could be reasoned out later; there was a chance of catching the killer tonight.

There was another reason for urgent mobilization, Peter felt: the Rover had something special planned for the first winter storm of the year.

Tommy's Glock 17 and Peter's sturdy Smith & Wesson, its bullets unchambered, lay on the mattress. Two separate boxes of ammunition accompanied the guns. Tommy hadn't bothered with shotguns. He had brought three knives, of different types; one was for Peter, a feather-light
SOG
folding blade, painted flat black. Two walkie-talkies, smaller than the pair Peter had used that fateful day on the cliffs, would provide the best means of communicating during their expedition. Waterproof torches were likely to prove the most useful items in the entire arsenal; it was all too easy to stumble into a crevasse or sprain an ankle on the rudimentary trails.

“Skipped the high-voltage Taser,” Verden said, looking sanguinely at the equipment. “Would have liked to, but it's soaking out there. Start sparking like Guy Fawkes Day.”

Peter had no affection for the Taser. For one thing, its maximum range was a hundred feet; if they managed to get that close to the Rover, guns would already figure in the mix, they could be sure.

He unfolded a map and placed it on top of the weapons on the bed. Blotchy red circles marked regular distances on the wide zone between Abbotsbury and Exmouth.

“Here's what I persuaded Maris to do. He wasn't reluctant to call out the constabulary for Devon and for Dorset and, to his credit, he isn't deterred by the storm. He promised to enlist other forces tomorrow, if this thing goes on that long.”

“I'm having a devil of a time reading this coastal weather,” Tommy declared.

“Join the club. The rain, maybe some snow, will play hell with lines of sight. You and I will have to stay close. The teams will be confined to the main access routes, significant roads, landmarks. Searches will proceed in twos. Manpower for tonight, despite Maris's promises, will be limited. It leaves about six kilometres per team.”

“With all respect to our colleagues,” Tommy said, “the temptation to move from one warm hearth to the next may be irresistible. And Peter, you know I have to ask this: what are we looking for, exactly?”

“A man.”

“Okay.”

“A man who shouldn't be there. He doesn't belong on the cliffs. But I think he has a specific target in mind.”

Unsubstantiated or not, his fear was that Guinevere Ransell was to be the Rover's next victim. Worse, the Ransells had toyed with him, were playing too many cute games.

Tommy proceeded with the greatest efficiency. He folded up the map, and began to assemble a cache of gear by the bed, along with a rain jacket. A knock on the hotel room door caused Verden to toss the comforter over the arsenal on the bed. Peter cast an expectant look at him.

“Should be all right,” Verden whispered, while keeping one hand under the comforter. “I called Jerry Plaskow.”

“What?”

“He has the equipment I wanted.”

Peter opened the door and simply gaped at what he saw. Mr. Smith stood there, carrying an ordinary shopping sack in one beefy hand. It was the most natural thing in the world, it appeared. Of all the questions that might have crossed Peter's mind, his thought was:
How come Mr. Smith is bone dry? It's raining out there.

“Plaskow asked me to make a delivery,” the
SAS
man said.

Peter stood back to let him in. He would have been happy to shake his rescuer's hand, but somehow it didn't seem the right thing to do. Mr. Smith entered and nodded to Tommy.

“Tommy Verden, Scotland Yard.”

“Falklands too?” Mr. Smith said, finally smiling (or his mouth smiled; his eyes didn't).

“Something like that,” Tommy said.

“Brought you what you wanted.” Smith moved to the bed, and Verden swept away the cover, revealing the weapons. Smith scanned the equipment and nodded. “Good,” he said. “Leave the Taser and the stun guns at home, that's wise. But these should help your odds.”

He spilled the contents of the bag onto the bed. The goggles tumbled out like two small squid made of rubber.

“Got night-vision goggles here. ATN Thermal Imaging System, intensifier multiple up in the forty thousand range.” Like Tommy, Smith often dropped the subjects out of his sentences. “Spot movement at a hundred yards, read a map in total darkness.”

“I like it,” Tommy said, trying on a pair. “Glad they're bino. Don't like the single lens version much.”

“I agree. Only workable if you're in a fixed position. These're better for walking around. You can strap them to your head, if so inclined. I don't recommend it. Tendency to bump right into terrorists. Mr. Cammon.”

“Yes?”

“They cost three thousand pounds a unit, so try not to drop them in the drink.”

They invited Mr. Smith to stay. Peter laid out the plan for searching the coast. The
SAS
man appreciated the need to move fast, but he advised that rapid movement across the cliffs in the dark was asking for accidents. A question hung in the air, and Smith answered it. “I'd love to join you lads, but we aren't authorized for a civilian mission like this. Good luck.”

They agreed to take Sam's old Land Rover after Peter suggested that the starting point for their explorations should be the rugged terrain around the Ransell cottage. Peter understood very well that it was long overdue that he lay out his thinking for his partner, and he did so now, but, as was often the case with the veteran chief inspector, he took a roundabout path to the core of his plan.

“Tommy, it was my underestimating of the Rover that got Ron Hamm killed. I zigged and he zagged. If I had seen where he was heading . . .”

“Meaning?”

“Hamm became fixated with Anna Lasker, once he finally got around to viewing her remains.”

“Yeah, I remember your being surprised he hadn't seen the body before.”

“He'd been involved from the first day. He and Willet handled the call. So, I thought, why wouldn't he have seen the body? Well, these things happen. Maybe he was waiting for the final autopsy, which, you recall, was slow. But I should have seen the problem.”

Tommy peered into the pelting rain. He told Peter to slow down as they reached the higher elevation beyond the Abbey. Peter continued. “One way or another, her body was kept on ice longer than usual. One day he drove out to the lab and viewed the corpse. The organs would have been out, the flesh turning blue.”

“Now, there's a question,” Tommy said. “Can you just drop by the Regional Lab and expect to be welcomed into the mortuary to examine a body?”

“Well, he was the investigator of record on Lasker, at least until the Symington fiasco.” But Peter wasn't so sure. He debated, based on no evidence whatsoever, whether Stan Bracher might have been Ron Hamm's interlocutor with the staff at the lab.

He continued. “At first, Hamm wasn't thinking about the Rover at all. Our mishap on the cliff upset him, but he hadn't seen Molly Jonas, like I had. The abuse of Anna set him on a beeline to find the husband. His success with the stolen passports and his exposure of Symington's key role in the whole scheme encouraged him to believe that he was close to André, very much alive. And then he found a reason to believe that Albrecht Zoren was the Rover.”

“Which was?”

“The Rover suggested it. He called Ron Hamm.”

Peter had to slow down as they entered the grassy hills around the Ransell cottage.

“If he wasn't yet onto the Rover, why would the killer bother to make the call?” Tommy said.

“The obvious answer is that the Rover wants us to believe that Zoren was him. Hamm called me up at the Abbey to say he was going after Zoren because the mechanic
knew who the Rover was
. This was false. For whatever reason, Hamm misled me. Until the killer made the call, Hamm wasn't sure at that point. Zoren, of course, had no idea of the Rover's identity. The killer telephoned Hamm, anonymously of course, to plant the idea. By that time Zoren was dead.”

“I still don't see why Hamm wouldn't have told you his theory that Zoren was our man.”

“Because, even with the call, he wasn't sure. He was prepared to beat the truth out of Zoren.”

“Peter,” Tommy began, “isn't it possible that André Lasker did all this? That the Rover wasn't involved? Lasker called Hamm to lure him to his old garage. Zoren knew where Lasker was hiding, and Hamm was getting close. He created the opportunity to kill both of them.”

“Zoren committed suicide, or maybe just
OD
'd. He didn't know where Lasker was. That's a tragic irony. Lasker hadn't been in touch since fleeing Malta — in fact, since leaving England. When I saw Zoren last week, he was bitter that his old boss had abandoned him and the business. He'd been promised a piece of the company. Oh, Zoren may have helped with some of the phoney paperwork on the cars, but I don't think it was too much more than that. Hamm was in a state of agitation when he called me that went beyond mere vengeance. He thought he had a chance to nab the Rover, but in the back of his mind was finding Lasker as well. I confess, he's not the only one to have trouble keeping them separate.”

“There's one additional question.”

“Yes, there is,” Peter said.

“Why did the Rover bother setting this up if Zoren knew nada about his identity?”

Peter kept silent and waited for Tommy to turn off the motor. They were on the back road just short of the Ransell house. He had worked it out while sitting alone outside Lasker's Garage, waiting for Maris, and now he had to tell someone. If he couldn't tell Tommy, who could he trust?

“Because he wanted to send a message to André Lasker that he was smarter. By killing Hamm he proved he was the master. It's a game between the two of them. You see, Tommy, André Lasker is on the hunt for the Rover.”

From the Ransells, Peter encountered something he hadn't expected: open hostility. Leaving the Land Rover as close as possible to the front lane, he and Tommy struggled the last fifty yards through daunting rain squalls. He was alarmed to be greeted at the door by a carrot-topped, freckled policeman, no older than twenty.

From behind Peter, barely sheltered by the overhang, Tommy said, “Who the hell is this?”

The youth wore a sidearm but the flap on his holster was buttoned. Still, he looked ready to resist intruders, and didn't immediately give way to his saturated visitors.

“Constable Grahl. Who might you be?”

Peter fished out his identification and offered the boy only a cursory look at it, but it was enough to make him take a step backward. Tommy flashed his
ID
for good measure. The detectives came inside; the constable continued to eye Tommy's rucksack, which gave off heavy metallic sounds as he hefted it onto the mat. Grahl retreated another step, but maintained his protective stance. Verden found it tiresome and strode to the centre of the room.

Peter, too, was eager to settle in, and stepped around the constable. The cottage would serve as their headquarters, a staging ground for their search of the zone; it was, foremost in Peter's mind, also a defensive perimeter around Gwen.

From the start, it was evident that Ellen Ransell viewed the crisis differently. She stood in the kitchen with her back to the three policemen, and shot a sidelong sneer their way as she fiddled with something in the sink. A fresh bottle of vodka stood on the counter. A half dozen paraffin lamps lit the space; a fierce fire kept the room warm.

The boyish constable whispered to Peter, although the old woman could hear him. “They say they're just fine. The electricity is out, and so is the land line. My mobile is functioning, so you might want to test.”

“Mrs. Ransell,” Peter said, across the constable. She turned, but remained leaning against the sink by the refrigerator. “Is Guinevere here?”

“This isn't Paddington Station, Chief Inspector, despite appearances. I want young Mr. Grahl to leave. We won't be needing your protection either.”

“I understand,” Peter replied. The door to Gwen's room stood open a few inches. The awkwardness continued as Mrs. Ransell, refusing to respond, remained motionless by the fridge. Neither man had been invited to take off his wet coat. Verden looked impatiently for a spot to unfold the map. He succeeded by laying it flat on the Persian carpet. He took off his coat and waved Grahl to his side, and they knelt down to examine the welter of red spots on the chart.

Peter went over to Ellen Ransell and said quietly: “You need to be careful outside.”

“You're presuming to warn me against the evil out there? I've lived here thirty years. I can handle it.”

“We have a supply of weapons.”

“Not all the weapons are in that bag.” Somehow she didn't seem drunk. “Tell me, Inspector, why conduct your search tonight? Why did Maris go along with it? You'll never find him in this weather.” She stared at him. “You want to drive him this way, like beaters flushing a tiger?”

“Something like that.”

“Tell me, Inspector, what are you out there — the Tiger, the Beater, the Hunter, what?”

“I don't play those roles.”

“How nice for you.”

In his own defence, Peter struggled to declare himself. “The constable will leave. I'll send him back to town. Verden and I will stay.”

“Say what you mean to say.”

“All right. It will come down to the four of us against the Rover. That's what I have prepared for, and you as well, I think. He can't be redeemed or cured, or deterred from killing again. There's a chance of stopping him tonight.”

“You know the irony in that statement, don't you?” They were embarked on a tense debate.

“Yes. The Rover plans to stop killing. His habits in the last fortnight show what he's about. He followed a geographical pattern for the first four girls. He quite deliberately held back on Garvena and Van Loss, not because he stopped craving the kill, but simply to throw the police off. He likes the game. The Six-K theory was another tease, and no more than that. Can I ask you something?”