Walking into the Ocean by David Whellams Page B

look,” Peter said. “And the vehicle too.”
    â€œOkay, but he’s in Lyon at the moment, taking a course. Or maybe giving one.”
    â€œAnything from the French or Interpol?”
    â€œNo. We covered all the ferry ports on both sides of the Channel. No one fitting Lasker’s description crossed at Plymouth, Poole or Newhaven, or any of the other southern embarkation ports. Passport Services and the Border Agency had no incidents reported. How hard do you want me to push it?”
    The subtext of Bartleben’s update was that Scotland Yard was willing to assert its natural role in pursuing international inquiries about the fugitive, but that an expanded international manhunt could get expensive and could take on some diplomatic sensitivity. While the Lasker drama was fresh there would be no problem gaining full, active cooperation.
    â€œVery hard,” Peter replied. “I’d say it’s more than even chances he planned his escape to the last detail. That’s not to say he didn’t drown in the process. And it’s possible he’s in the neighbourhood still. One officer here suggested he might be hiding in a cave up the coast.”
    Bartleben sighed at the end of the line. Peter was falling asleep. “Okay, Peter. Call me the day after next, or earlier if you need to. One final question.”
    Peter knew what was coming. Bartleben knew that he knew.
    â€œAre you getting along with the locals, Peter?”
    â€œMaris was unhelpful but I’m cultivating other sources. It will become intolerable if and when we start stepping on each other’s toes, when we’re both tramping up and down the coast of England. I might want to look into those caves, if they exist.”
    Bartleben was satisfied for the moment. His last thought before hanging up was that Peter Cammon was the oddest detective he had ever worked with, and that he had complete faith in him.
    Peter hit the off button on his phone and lay back in the soft pillows. He immediately fell asleep, having forgotten to phone his wife.

CHAPTER 5
    Peter had left an hour ago. Joan hadn’t seen Verden arrive, but that was normal; she and Peter were too old to worry about his schedule, about short-term goodbyes. If waiting at the end of the lane was one of his idiosyncrasies, and there were many of them, it didn’t bother her a whit.
    She positioned herself at the window of the kitchen of the cottage so that she could see to the far end of the property. They owned about an acre, not all of it groomed, and the ninety yards or so out to the property’s limit — she could barely make out the fence posts — had been left to grow wild. The grass grew to four feet at the untended property line and moss now coated the hillocks of stone and concrete the landscapers had discarded. The previous owner had once tried to raise flowers in this section, and red and orange gladioli continued to poke up here and there, even after three decades. But it wasn’t glads she was looking for, rather the new quartet of pheasants that had invaded last week. Two pairs were now installed in the high grass. One at a time they would pop up unexpectedly, look around and then drop out of sight again. It was like a video game.
    She expected Peter to call sometime that day. That was one of their agreed-upon courtesies, but it was only a matter of his checking in, and he might call anytime before midnight, and so she did not worry. She took the phone out of its cradle near the microwave and went outside to the front of the house. She could still see to the end of the yard.
    The long shed, the biggest by far of their four outbuildings, framed the right-hand side of her view. The pheasants were hiding somewhere in the grass just beyond, probably basking in the increasingly warm day. Eventually the regular activity in the yard would flush out the birds for good; they would turn neurotic and fly away. For now, she had work to do