Walking into the Ocean (16 page)

Stephen Bartleben looked forward to his jaunt down to Whittlesun, in part for the bureaucratic fun of it. Maris was predictable, and Sir Stephen had no doubt who would win the internecine argument between police agencies. He knew exactly how he would play it with the inspector, the forces he would bring to bear. He was too long in the tooth to feel guilty about this.

But his own view of the situation had evolved since talking to Cammon, and now he wanted something more from the arrangement: a piece of the Rover investigation. The decision flowered from instinct: the serial killings were already preoccupying two counties and could soon become the Yard's problem. He had requested a press scan from Media. There were degrees of media frenzy, and so far press sensationalism had yet to foment general panic, but his people had judged public awareness as “growing rapidly.” As such things went, localized concern was approaching a threshold where it would only take one more incident to make the Rover a national story, with the attendant distortions and recriminations for the Yard. That event, in Bartleben's experienced view, was likely to be the taking of another young victim, at which time the serial killer would enter Sutcliffe territory. He remembered the Sutcliffe serial killings all too well, when “Yorkshire Ripper” appeared in every newspaper headline, and not just in the rags. Bartleben hoped that this madman wasn't about to attack again soon but he wanted the Yard to be well placed if and when the Ripper struck a fifth time.

The problem with asserting a major role on the Task Force would be Maris; hence the lunch on his home ground. J.J. McElroy would grasp the larger picture and, if not welcome a liaison person from the Yard, at least concede the advantages. Maris, on the other hand, was preoccupied with Peter's abrasive and unorthodox methods and would do everything he could to deny Peter's appointment. He had his orders from the local council to do whatever was necessary to advance Dorset's bid for the Olympic sailing events by preserving the image of the Jurassic Coast as a bucolic, crime-free zone.

But Stephen himself saw the larger image problem, even though he had never been in Dorset. For much of the public these days, mention of coastal ports of entry called up concerns about immigration and terrorism. The Rover's predations along the coast could easily grow to echo both issues.

As the sleek Mercedes crossed into the county of Dorset, Sir Stephen Bartleben gazed out the window at the rolling countryside. He leaned forward and said to Tommy Verden, who was driving, “This is pretty country.”

Tommy, who understood that the statement meant “how much longer,” replied, “Even prettier along the coast. Should be there soon.”

Since Tommy Verden knew the way and was available, it made sense for him to drive Bartleben down to the coast. Both men were intimates of Peter Cammon, but Verden was not about to presume to discuss his old friend with the
DC
. But the two men fell into intense conversation about both Lasker and the Rover, and as the E-class Mercedes pulled up to their destination, Tommy concluded that he had contributed to his boss's appreciation of what Peter was dealing with in Whittlesun.

Sir Stephen's secretary had reserved a private room in the restaurant at the best hotel in Whittlesun, the Carfax; it was two cuts above the hotel where Cammon had been staying. Bartleben made sure to arrive before Maris. He ordered a bottle of Chardonnay, and, glancing at the menu, he speculated on whether the haddock was locally caught.

When Maris arrived — Bartleben had known he would be early — and was shown to the table, Bartleben stood and shook his hand with disingenuous bonhomie. Maris nonetheless looked startled; he was thrown off by Bartleben's booking of a separate room, for he was not aware that one could do that at the Carfax, even though he and Mrs. Maris had dined there several times. He had put on a good suit and a rep tie to give himself an executive look, but leaving the station he cringed when Detective Hamm, trying to cosy up to him, commented, too loudly: “Going about in mufti today, sir?” Maris was coming to despise Hamm.

“I thought a bit of privacy was a good idea,” said Bartleben. “We may be discussing some security matters. I took the liberty of ordering a bottle.”

Maris said, ineffectually, “Thank you for driving all this way.”

Bartleben waved him off. The London man pretended to scrutinize the menu. Maris decided on the haddock and felt better when Sir Stephen ordered it first.

The pleasantries did not last long, as Maris was eager to get to his strongest point, his denunciation of Cammon. “I feel compelled to formally register my complaint regarding Chief Inspector Cammon. Drawing a civilian, his own wife, into the investigation is unprecedented and unwise, I would suggest.”

Bartleben somehow managed to look sympathetic even though his expression did not change. “Yes, Peter Cammon is sometimes capable of unusual behaviour. I've known him for forty years. He hasn't done that before, and I'm not defending his conduct. But I do know that if he does something dramatic in a case, he's not trying to be melodramatic. He will have his reasons.”

“In this case, what were his reasons?” Maris persisted. “If he needed expertise, he need only have asked. I had already established formal liaison between him and my force.”

“I take some responsibility for what he did. Please mark that I'm not condoning it. But Peter asked me twice over the phone to send down our serology expert, Lieutenant Bracher. He was unavailable. Peter wanted a fresh perspective.”

Maris walked into Bartleben's trap. To compare a serologist with Cammon's wife was absurd, so ridiculous that Maris approached his retort obliquely. “Regional Forensics has done a pretty thorough work-up. They were also effectively on call.”

“Their report identified the bloodstains in the bath and the upper landing of the home as Mrs. Lasker's. It did not identify them as menstrual blood.”

“Menstrual blood? What is the significance of that?”

Sir Stephen had no choice but to lie. Anna's suicide would not be on the table. “I don't know. But Cammon must know. And keep in mind that he was pursuing a hunch and he felt the need to move fast. Ergo, calling in his wife.”

However much he needed to manipulate Maris, Deputy Commissioner Bartleben ultimately didn't want to fully alienate him. He adopted an upbeat tone.

“I would like Chief Inspector Cammon to have a chance to complete his work.”

Maris set down his glass. His look offered no concession. He had arrived in high dudgeon and remained that way, but he was intimidated enough by Bartleben to back off a bit. “Is there anything he can do that my people cannot? I mean, given his lack of progress to date?”

“I don't agree. There has been progress, but Cammon is like that. He plays it close to the vest.”

“That doesn't help me. What good is it to know that the blood was menstrual blood? I'm the one who stands up in front of the media and has to explain where we are in the case. And he needed his wife to tell him that?”

Bartleben had mastered the ploy of talking as if the world had moved beyond the other man's grievances, thus making him feel petty, and in this situation, parochial. “I'm asking your indulgence for a bit. I would like Bracher to come down, photograph the house and then spend a few days with Regional Forensics. We understand that the full autopsy on Anna Lasker is a work in progress. Cammon thinks the blood patterns are significant. I would also like to arrange space for Cammon to review all the material taken from the Lasker house. I understand that Mr. Willet and Detective Hamm are more and more in demand for this other case. By the way, Peter speaks highly of both of them.”

Bartleben could tell that Maris was willing to move into a negotiation mode. That was fine with him.

“I need some good news,” Maris said. “Some progress that I can offer the media. Cammon won't even hazard an opinion on whether Lasker is alive or dead.”

Bartleben savoured the Chardonnay, though he was indifferent to the poached haddock, which certainly wasn't fresh. From the moment Verden had dropped him at the hotel, and he'd stepped onto the cobblestone street and smelled the sea salt, he had felt fully confident in his strategy with the local man. He hesitated for only a few seconds.

“I will say that Cammon believes that Lasker is likely alive,” he disclosed. “Sixty-forty.”

“He told me fifty-fifty, for all the use that estimate is.”

“Consider this. I fully agree that we must throw something to the media. But not until we're sure that what we announce will constitute ‘progress' in the eyes of the press.”

“I don't understand where that leaves us.”

Bartleben held him with a look. “It means, give it one more week. If we haven't collectively solved Lasker, I pull Cammon in. Meanwhile, I promise a big push with our international friends at Interpol and the
EU
. We remain the supporting partner.”

Maris looked unconvinced. Bartleben saw that he was still thinking in terms of getting the upper hand, telling the man from London how it was going to be in his domain, and so he moved to lock in the larger deal.

“That brings me to another matter,” he intoned. “It is, in part, why I wanted this meeting. I sense that we're entering a new phase in Lasker but also this Rover business, and I want to offer you our resources as needed. I was talking to J.J. McElroy the other day . . .”

“You know McElroy?” Maris said.

“Oh, yes. We've worked together over the years — last year on that Moroccan immigrant smuggling case. I believe he would welcome our help.”

“Well, so would I — in appropriate ways.” Maris felt there was nothing else he could say.

“I know Peter mentioned to you that he wants to search the coast, some caves or other.”

“The Task Force is now mobilizing to do exactly that. Including my people. I think we can handle it locally for now.”

“Yes, but you two discussed the search in the context of avoiding overlap between the two cases, Lasker and this Rover problem. My broader concern is stepping on the toes of various national operations.”

The corner of Maris's left eye twitched. “Which would be?”

“Terrorism and immigration.” These were trigger words for the media, both men understood. Maris envisioned
TV
-20, the Whittlesun affiliate of a national network, running endless features on the spectre of an invasion of Muslim suicide bombers.

“Will the terrorism people want to get involved?” Maris said.

“They won't, as long as we're careful. With all the focus on infiltration threats, our colleagues on the terrorism desk, and a big desk it is these days, can pre-empt any other investigation whenever they want. As you know, we've worked with that side of the Home Office on the Underground bombings and everything else with a tinge of terrorism. You know their outrageous demands too. If we're all rummaging around the cliffs at the same time, there will be friction.”

“What do you suggest?” Bartleben noted that the Inspector finally seemed to see the advantages of an alliance with the Yard.

“Can we keep it low key?” Bartleben replied. “Let me assign Bracher and Cammon to the Task Force as Scotland Yard's formal liaison. Jack McElroy and yourself can manage the Rover process, while you also retain the lead on Lasker. You thus continue to make the key decisions on the management of Lasker in terms of media.”

Bartleben was telling him that he could shift the blame to the Yard whenever he wanted. It was an acceptable risk, Bartleben could see.

“Why Bracher? Isn't he a technical expert?”

“Yes, but he's a good man. A veteran investigator with the Ontario Provincial Police. Handled a serial killing problem over there, I recall. He's a character, a very flamboyant Canadian, if that isn't an oxymoron. He'll balance off Cammon.”

He polished off the Chardonnay. He decided not to suggest liqueurs. He wanted to end the lunch, but Maris still seemed obsessed with Cammon's actions, and so Sir Stephen went to another tangent. Sometimes the simplest thing was to keep talking.

“Meanwhile,” Bartleben continued, “Stan and Peter will finish up with this phase of Lasker. You can be sure they'll be meticulous in laying an evidentiary base for eventual prosecution when he shows his face.”

“If he didn't drown.” Maris wondered how it was that he had only drunk one glass of the wine but the bottle now stood empty.

“One way or another, he'll surface,” said Bartleben. “Oh, yes. There's something else I can try.” Maris leaned forward. They were allies now. “I can have my minister have a word with the Minister for Sport. We all love sailing and we all want Dorset to keep the Games.”

Bartleben knew without looking at his watch that Verden was waiting at the front entrance to the hotel. He certainly didn't hear the Mercedes; the engine on the Executive series hummed so discreetly.

The deal — all the understandings — went off the rails immediately.

Inspector Verden transported Cammon back to the coast on Tuesday morning, the day after Bartleben's lunch with Maris. They drove generally southeast, with the sun beaming through the windscreen most of the way. They shared the front seat, but neither found much to say. A few miles from Whittlesun, cerulean clouds in a solid, defensive bank took over the sky, threatening a storm.

The very moment Tommy turned off the A35, Peter's phone chimed.

“Peter! It's Stan. How's it going?”

“Stan,” Peter responded, startled. “Where are you?”

“Whittlesun. Just following orders, Peter.”

“That was fast. I thought you were in Lyon.”

“I was. You tried to reach me, I know. Sorry I didn't get back to you. I was planning on getting to London tomorrow anyhow. I thought that would be soon enough. Then Bartleben called two days ago, said you needed help at the Regional Lab — I know those boys well — and said to hurry it up. Okay, I had a flight booked to London from Lyon, but then he called yesterday . . .”