Walking into the Ocean (20 page)

“We're landing
there
,” Jerry Plaskow announced from the railing of the Ports Security craft.

Peter and Ron Hamm followed the line of his outstretched arm towards a distant bay. It was a fine landing spot, if they could reach it. They had been on the water for about an hour since leaving the Ports jetty in Whittlesun. Jerry had advised them before departing that he would try to drop them in the centre of the “Zone,” the so-called Six-K spot on his marine charts, but it had become evident at once that none of the coves marked on the maps for that stretch was accessible, and they had been forced to sail well beyond Jerry's target. Peter was not a sailor but the sea appeared rough to him, diminishing his hopes of landing anywhere close. Even at mid-tide, waves crashed against the bluffs, intimidating anyone who would dare infiltrate the rocks from below.

At least, in Peter's view, they had the right boat for the job. At fifty feet long, the tri-hull steel craft spoke of speed and stability. Its two 420-horsepower turbo diesel engines were enough for every kind of sea. Ports Security not only provided general monitoring of coastal zones and safety enforcement in the harbours, it also supported scoops of illegal immigrants and seizure operations by the Border Agency. Since 9/11, its list of duties had doubled. Peter could well imagine a further doubling as the Olympic sailing schedule advanced. For Peter and Ron, the Ports Security boat guaranteed that none of the many agencies mandated with shoreline security would question their snooping along the inlets and caves of the Jurassic Coast.

The crew were an odd collection. While Jerry claimed the post of captain, the real sailing was done by Lieutenant Hogart, introduced as a Royal Navy secondment and an expert in inshore navigation. He sported a George V spade beard and wore military flashes on his pea jacket. Hogart stayed inside at the controls while the others gazed at the shoreline.

The landing place chosen by Plaskow and Hogart lay behind a crumbling breakwater of stone and cracked cement, and Peter could see that they would have to go around the far end in order to achieve the calm water of the bay.

Jerry called above the idling engines, “There's an engineering marvel bequeathed to us by the Victorians. A hundred and fifty years old, probably. The Victorians loved their engineering projects, and you know what? They dealt with coastal erosion in perhaps the best way possible. Look how the rock face up from the beach is still intact, almost fully protected. Now every town along the Coast wants their own sea barrier.”

Jerry turned towards the wheelhouse, looking for someone. A tall, lean figure emerged from the entrance. Peter had not seen him before, and Jerry did not introduce him now. He wore a ribbed sweater that displayed a shoulder patch that Peter did not recognize, but he was sure this man was
SAS
. He and Jerry consulted while Hogart, exercising his own judgment, eased the boat farther along the breakwater to the opening.

Jerry turned to the detectives and spoke again. “The first victim was found in a niche in the rocks pretty near the rim. The second girl was laid out in a rock cave halfway along a defile that continued to the shore. The third girl was found much closer to sea level. Our man, we're agreed, most likely would have come down from the top with Molly Jonas. But we don't know how far. You're going to have to use your judgment to identify the killing grounds.”

Peter agreed with Jerry's analysis, as far as it went. The Rover had been very picky, and had roamed far and wide to find just the right chapel-like setting where he could pose a body. That didn't mean that he hadn't searched them out
before
abducting the girls. It was Hamm who amplified Peter's thoughts.

“The killer has been consistent. In the first three, he worked hard to put the bodies on show, in ritualistic settings. He would have tried it with the Jonas girl as well. Even if he fouled it up, we should look for a distinct, unique spot.”

“Okay then, what we're looking for initially is any substantial path up from the shore,” Plaskow stated.

They nodded. They had a rough plan to follow.

Hogart piloted them around the artificial point and into the tranquil bay. Without hesitation, two sailors lowered a Zodiac dinghy with a small motor attached. Peter regarded the benign shore, green and gently sloped, and protected from the tide. A farmhouse, really a crofter's cottage, sat at the top of the rise; there was no smoke or other sign of life, but the day was exceptionally warm and the farmer was probably trying to save fuel. Even from this distance, Peter could feel the loneliness of this spot, which hadn't been altered in a century. He was reminded of the
UNESCO
designation protecting this area; it was one more effort to stave off change. He had briefly seen sections of a walkway on the heights west of Whittlesun Harbour as they passed, but not since. This locale seemed too rugged and distant for strolling tourists or anyone other than extreme hikers. He wondered what he had gotten them into. He looked at Hamm, who appeared to be having the same thoughts.

The detectives, assisted by the crew, eased down into the Zodiac. Jerry joined them in the front. Peter hadn't seen them load the pile of equipment, but two yellow rain slickers, sou'wester hats, rubber-coated torches and coils of nylon rope were now stacked around the motor in the back. Three walkie-talkies poked out of a gym bag at Plaskow's feet. The dinghy roared across the bay and the
SAS
man (if that's what he was) at the throttle homed in on the sandy landing spot ahead. With a last acceleration, the rubber boat raised its bow and they were home and dry, literally. They eased over the rounded gunwale and the helmsman began to unload the gear. The three passengers walked up the beach like arriving explorers. Hamm saw the path first and pointed.

“There, leading uphill to the east. That must be the route everyone uses.”

Peter, Hamm and Jerry Plaskow gathered by the small pyramid of equipment.

“Here's what I suggest,” Jerry said, and gestured to the filament of a trail, evidently the only way up from the beach, aside from the route that led to the cottage. “The path you're looking for isn't on any of our maps, so look sharp and think logically. Molly Jonas was riding her bicycle that night, so she could have ridden to this area even though it's a long way from home. She liked to admire the views, her mother said, so she probably knew the cliffs in detail. They never found her bike. Watch your descent. You'll come across tracks that end suddenly at a sheer face. These are fisherman's stoops: a man stands on the crag with a rod and three hundred feet of line, and fishes for sea bream. The only other place I've seen this is Portugal, down in the Algarve. Why they do it, I can't imagine. We lose one or two each season. I'm allowing you four hours. We've loaded a rucksack for each of you: a food packet, water bottle, gloves, climber's rope and a walkie-talkie. Stay hydrated. Call us on the walkie-talkies an hour before your arrival back here at the beach. Report to me on your weather. It may be different on the clifftop than it is down here. Any storm that moves in shouldn't block your signal, but big rocks will. Now, let's get you dressed.”

He held up a bright yellow rain slicker, surprisingly light given its rubber coating and dense weave. Peter took off his old jacket and handed it to the
SAS
officer; he wore an Irish wool sweater underneath. Plaskow examined his gumboots and pronounced them acceptable. Underneath his coat, Hamm sported a red wool pullover, as well as canvas trousers and work boots; they weren't climbing boots but Hamm was secretly proud that they contained a steel shank: protection against nails and, hopefully, sharp rocks. Jerry frowned at them but let it go. He handed a slicker to the younger detective. Hamm and Peter resembled
SAS
commandos who had bungled the dress code.

With a wave to Plaskow, the two policemen began to trudge up the windy trail, heading due east. Near the crest of the first hill, Peter looked over his shoulder and noted that the dinghy had already moved out into the bay.

Peter had his own ideas of where to look. If Molly had cycled to the cliffs, she would have started on familiar paths, the established ones, and then jettisoned the bike in a regular hiding place before exploring on foot. Of course, it was possible that she had a rendezvous with the rapist, and that might have altered her route. All the principal tracks had been searched, the fringes and the lay-bys too, but no bicycle had turned up.

Inland from their current vantage point, the police officers could see that the promontories were treeless, cleared over the centuries for firewood and replanted with grass for sheep. Peter saw no herds or flocks, and the fences that had once kept livestock from the rim were gone entirely. Nor could he see any human beings, or even houses. The point was: the heights extending inland in this subsection of the Zone were passable for a girl on a bike but too exposed for the Rover to risk seizing her there. Peter was certain he had waited until she came closer to the water.

But not here. The fields and ridges to the north led nowhere. Ahead about a kilometre the terrain changed. The forbidding cliffs began — he could hear the grind of the crashing surf — and the plateaus, which ran back from the brink several hundred yards, supported copses of windswept, stunted trees interspersed with piles of boulders. Anyone might hide there.

They would need two hours or so to reach what seemed to be the most promising area. Peter guessed that they would end up one to two kilometres inside the Zone. Even so, he was doubtful that Molly would have penetrated this far into their search area. He looked at Hamm, who gave him a thumbs-up, and they continued.

The temperature rose. They were tempted to dump the yellow raincoats but decided to strap them to the tops of their packs with pieces of the rope. The walk took the full two hours. They came across narrow pathways here and there, actual goat tracks, and followed a couple, but soon realized that these routes didn't connect to the sea lower down. Hamm conjectured that the Rover could have pushed the body over the cliff at the end of any one of the tracks. “In that case,” he said, “there's nothing we can do up here. This would become a search for a bicycle.”

“Which likely is at the bottom of the sea with her,” Peter said, with a hint of exasperation. In his estimation, the Rover had sought a location closer to the water where he could operate undisturbed and leave the body on display. If so, why hadn't it been found?

They tramped on. Stoicism changed to anticipation as they explored all the possibilities of the rugged plateau. The sightlines were good here, and the scooped bay was laid out before them. Hamm rooted through his rucksack and came up with a pair of compact military-issue binoculars. From a high boulder, he scanned the inland horizon and counted the trails.

“One. Two. Three. Maybe four.”

The problem was that no single path was self-evidently more promising than any other. None showed frequent use. Only by following one or more of them seaward would they figure it out, and that strategy presented its own challenges.

The binoculars proved useful as they negotiated the bay from up top. They found themselves on one side of a U, a vertiginous rock face across from them, a crashing sea below. Peter borrowed the binoculars and scrutinized the cliff sides opposite and to his left. He found only forbidding caves, unreachable by humans. But he was starting to understand the geology of the Zone. Shelves of black rock, with domed indentations disappearing into darkness behind them, had been formed naturally at the lowest levels of the gorge. Some would be engulfed at high tide, but others stayed above the water, though not always clear of the highest waves. Many of the indentations were cut off from the plateau above. Peter searched carefully for caverns at the bottom of a path, however narrow the access route.

They circled around the rim of the U to obtain a clear view of all sides below. The sea was opaque from this height. It funnelled into the bay from several angles and sent up a grim bass note as it assaulted the rocks. At this dizzying distance, the battle fought by stone and water seemed abstract, like a computer-generated effect.

They found a flat rock and paused to get their breath. Ron Hamm brought out crackers and cheese and they snacked like picnickers taking the sun.

“You realize that there may be a dozen fjords like this one?” Hamm said.

“Then the Task Force can send out teams to check the others.”

The prospect was discouraging; they had hoped to make a discovery themselves. Over the past week, Cammon and Detective Hamm had grown to trust each other on professional matters. Each was tuned into the other's rhythms; they found they could talk without too much explicitness, or over-explanation. Peter was starting to rely on the younger man's instincts.

“What's your view, Detective?” he continued.

“I think we're on the right track, in general terms. The Rover's a creature of habit and knows the terrain. He'll try to find the ideal cave or sacrificial stone. If he could find a spot, we can find it, too. The Six-K rule may be his downfall after all.”

Hamm aimed the binoculars up the coastline, vaguely in the direction of Dover and Calais.

“Hard to figure where we are,” Hamm stated.

“Let's see if Plaskow can help us out,” Peter said.

With Plaskow out at sea and Peter and Hamm poised on a platform in the sky, the connection was direct, even though the
PS
boat was out of sight. Jerry answered promptly, his voice coming across clearly enough.

“Peter, where are you?”

The rushing static on Peter's device was no louder than the surf in the cove below. “Jerry, that's why I'm calling you. We figure that we walked two kilometres inside the Zone, maybe less, but it would be helpful to know exactly.”

“You still think he found a killing ground precisely at the Six-K mark?” There was scepticism in his voice. Peter wasn't about to debate the theory over a walkie-talkie.