Walking into the Ocean by David Whellams

it.”
    â€œOkay, I won’t talk about it.” Peter tried to look neutral.
    â€œLondon just won its bid for the 2012 Summer Olympics. The organizers want the sailing events to happen on the Jurassic Coast. They don’t need a scandal. Don’t be surprised if J.J. McElroy gets nervous about publicity.”
    Peter understood that the pressure would be on to nab this Rover quickly. He grimaced at the likely fortunes of Scotland Yard in all this. For a while, Jack McElroy would resist calling on the Yard, hoping for quick clearance of the case; but if it dragged on, a way would be found to shift responsibility to London. Peter stopped before downing the dregs of his beer. He should give Jack McElroy more credit as a pro — cynicism had crept in with the booze.
    Hamm fetched another round. He and Peter knew no one could overhear them, but they kept their voices low anyway. Peter hefted the envelope containing the Lasker and Rover material, held it aloft in acknowledgment, and placed it under his coat once more.
    â€œThanks for the briefing, Ron,” he said. “I’ll read the file through tonight. By the way, has there been talk of calling in Scotland Yard’s profilers?”
    â€œIt came up at Maris’s staff meeting,” Hamm said. “McElroy has indicated that the Task Force can handle it, maybe with a bit of help from the Regional Lab. Maris strongly agrees.”
    â€œThey’re within their authority to refuse. You can be sure, however, London’s already made the offer.”
    For some reason the pub began to empty out. It was midweek and perhaps the after-work drinkers were due home for supper; fewer than a dozen patrons remained, and the bar fell into near silence. The quiet seemed to change the air pressure in the bar, leaving Peter and Hamm light-headed. Hamm gave no signal that he was expected at home; Maris must be pushing his staff hard to put in long days, Peter reasoned. The young man persisted in treating Peter with excessive deference. His was the Scotland Yard of Lestrade and Gregson, and better yet the independent preoccupations of Sherlock. There was a certain belatedness in Hamm’s attitude, as if he felt he was living a detective’s career a hundred years too late.
    Peter bought another round, which neither needed.
    Hamm drifted off for a minute; Peter let him doze. He forced his thoughts back to Anna Lasker and pondered the case in its skeleton form. André had fled for good, Peter was certain. Interpol, Europol and the Yard were actively pursuing the international angle, the offshore investigation as it were, and with a bit of luck a customs official or an alert tourist would catch sight of him. If he had drowned himself, then he would wash up on shore somewhere along the Jurassic Coast in his own sweet time. But Peter knew that both these resolutions depended far too much on serendipity. If he was to determine where André had diverted from the plan, he had to move fast. He might still be close by; but within days he would flee England, remorse fading with his memories of his Romanian wife.
    â€œI’m going back into the Lasker house tomorrow,” he said, leaning close. Hamm roused himself. “Their computer is still in the house, I noticed. Has it been examined?”
    Hamm smiled and straightened in his seat. “I was the first in the door,” he declared. “Well, after Constable Willet. We have a very good computer man in the shop and I immediately had him duplicate the hard drive and the discs. It seemed to me that Lasker was pretty adept with computers.”
    â€œSo the hard drive is intact and still in the home?”
    â€œOh, yes.”
    â€œWould you mind getting the necessary passwords from your colleague?”
    Hamm paused again, but gave a firm nod. Peter didn’t know how to read this constant hesitation. He decided to barge ahead.
    â€œI also want to take a look at the cliffs where Anna took