Walking into the Ocean by David Whellams Page A

her fall.” Hamm arched an eyebrow at this phrasing. “Could we meet here again tomorrow afterwards?”
    â€œMaris wants me to go to Heffingdon in the morning. Another town official to brief. But I’ll call you once I’m through. Let’s try for the same time. Here’s my mobile.”
    They exchanged business cards. Hamm looked ready to have Peter’s card, embossed with the Yard’s crest, framed immediately. He smiled broadly.
    They stopped outside the bar. Peter was about to step into the sharp wind when Hamm called to him. “The cleaver?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œIf you were wondering, I was the one who put it back in the kitchen. Couldn’t stand the sight of it buried in the sideboard. Just thought I’d clear that up.”
    Peter, exhausted, retreated to his hotel room, placed the
Please Do Not Disturb
sign on the outer knob, and locked the door. He hung up his suit and lay down on the bed in his underwear. He no longer had any wish to interact with Bartleben; he only wanted to sleep.
    Bartleben answered on the first ring. He seemed to have retained his jolly mood.
    â€œPeter! Yes, I’m still at the office.”
    Peter massaged his stiff neck. “Thought I’d give you a progress report.”
    â€œBefore we get to the Lasker business,” Sir Stephen said, “what about the attacks in Devon?”
    â€œI understood we were to dodge that whole mess,” Peter rejoined.
    â€œWell, it got play in the tabloids this morning. Communications has fielded eight calls, not counting those from little old ladies, who always seem to find
my
number. Just thought I’d check, Peter.”
    â€œWe’ve nothing to tell them. Who’s the Comm person on this? Markman?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œTell her to tell everyone we’re staying out of it. Avoid calling him ‘the Rover.’ So far, it remains a local matter. That’s the line I’d choose.”
    â€œPeter, I can figure that much out. The question is, where’s it heading? What options should the Yard be keeping open?”
    The call had been a bad idea, Peter saw. They both had reason to be embarrassed. Peter had already indulged himself, snooping into the Task Force dossier, and evidently Bartleben wouldn’t be able to stay out of it either. All he meant to suggest was that the Yard continue to play reluctant bridegroom with the Task Force for now, knowing that McElroy would eventually be calling for help. Bartleben should let it go for tonight. The Comm people would fudge everything anyway, keeping all options open. And it would be nice if Bartleben acknowledged his primary —
and only
— assignment in Whittlesun.
    â€œI don’t know where it’s headed,” Peter finally said, “but McElroy doesn’t want our help, so let’s wait.”
    Sir Stephen was determined to stretch this out. “I’m a bit surprised at that. Three victims. The pressure must be building. Why do you think that is? Regional defensiveness?”
    Peter wouldn’t engage further, other than to snipe: “By the way, there are
four
girls.”
    â€œIs there a threshold for declaring someone a serial killer?”
    â€œIf there is,” Peter said dismissively, “the press sets it.”
    â€œOkay,” Bartleben said, “now what about Mrs. Lasker? Was she killed in the house or pushed from the cliff?”
    â€œI’m leaning towards his knocking her unconscious and dumping her off the cliff, gruesome as that sounds. There’s a lot of blood but no sign of a major arterial spill. I don’t think she died in the house. I’ve got a few more days.”
    â€œKeep on with it, then.” This bland vote of confidence was code; it meant that Sir Stephen was unable to judge the degree of progress Peter was or was not making, but he wasn’t yet concerned.
    â€œRegarding the house, I’d like Stan Bracher to take a