Walking into the Ocean (24 page)

“Your turn,” Peter said. “This boy is something special, believe me.”

Sarah grinned broadly and picked up the pack. She shook it and Peter heard the rattling seashells. “Half an hour,” she said.

Peter drove this time. His splinted finger clacked on the steering wheel, making it difficult to make turns; his elbow still ached from his near-fall at the Abbey four days ago, and the abrasion on his cheek had grown angry. But, for all this, he was happier than he had been in a long while, with Sarah in the car, and with the echo of the Callahans' hospitality. His momentum had been re-established, his day's schedule laid out in sharp relief. He knew that he had to see Gwen: a hundred policemen might have theories about the Rover's habits, but she was the hedgehog working on a grand theory. There was also more to be gleaned from her about the Cloaked Man. He was in a mood to get organized. He would check in with Sam's Auto and extend the car for another two days. He'd call the hospital about Ron Hamm's condition, while doing everything possible to dodge the press before the media event the next afternoon.

Sarah lounged in the passenger seat, still in the glow of her conversation with Percy Callahan.

“What an exquisite child,” she said. To Peter, it seemed she had Joan's speech rhythms. “I'm taking him on our wildfowl count out at Land's End this weekend. His dad's driving him down.”

“That's kind of you,” Peter said.

“He's so keen to learn. Knows what he wants, that boy.”

Peter had been captivated too. He had known what he wanted to do since he turned fourteen. He had stood in the lobby of the old Headquarters on the Embankment and waited for the case officer, Mr. Cape, to come down the staircase, and he had known. Oh yes, he had known. Fifty-three years ago.

“Where can I drop you, Sarah?”

“The Ports pier.”

“What? The harbour?”

“Actually, just about where you parked your car yesterday. Jerry Plaskow's taking me down the coast. Fossil hound country, he calls it.”

“What does Jerry know about fossils?” Peter said, causing Sarah to raise that eyebrow again. Peter changed direction towards the seashore. They drove in silence for a minute. “Grass doesn't grow under you,” he said.

Sarah laughed. “Well, he is dead handsome.”

In less than twenty-four hours, Sarah had made a new friend in Percy Callahan and hooked up with Jerry Plaskow. She astonished Peter.

He let her off at the shed by the jetty where the Ports boat was moored. There was no sign of Jerry's mysterious
SAS
man. Jerry was probably inside. Peter could tell that Sarah was watching his reaction to returning to the sea but it didn't bother him; there was no flash of panic.

As Sarah retrieved her bag from the back seat, Peter wound down the window. “Can we meet for dinner tonight? Say, about six at the hotel.”

“I'll be there.” She leaned in and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Dad, stay safe. I'll call Mum and tell her you're okay. You are okay, aren't you?”

“Yes. Tell Jerry thanks. I'll call him later.”

Peter drove a few hundred yards through the harbour alleys and parked behind a warehouse made of corrugated steel, out of sight of the water. He opened his mobile and retrieved Gwen's number from the index. Mrs. Ransell answered.

“She's in her room,” the old woman said. She sounded sober enough. “I'll get her.”

There was a long pause. His back ached but none of his injuries from the day before was serious, he judged. There was that odd survivor's feeling that he had been given a second chance, and it energized him.

“Hello, Peter,” Gwen said, in her smooth, calm voice.

“Hello, Gwen. Are you well?” He felt protective, a transference from Sarah.

“I am. But are you, after your fall into the sea?”

How does she know about that?
Surely the press hadn't yet named him as one of the adventurers on the cliffs.

“Just curious, Gwen, but did the news reports mention my name specifically?”

“No,” she at once replied. “But it was you, wasn't it?”

“Yes.”

“The
TV
people know it was you. You couldn't conceal it anyway, though I'm sure you'd like to stay in the background, Peter.”

“I want to see you about something. You mentioned the Cloaked Man, the Electric Man and the Black Man.”

“And you want to talk about the Cloaked Man,” Gwen said immediately.

“How did you know that?”

Guinevere gave no answer, but after another long pause said, “I'll be here this afternoon.”

“I'll call first,” he said, feebly, and rang off.

He closed his eyes and sat in silence in the car. He was swamped by a feeling that he had missed an opportunity to forge an alliance with Gwen that could propel him to the capture of André Lasker.

He could have extended the Subaru rental by phone, but he had several reasons for visiting the Armenian in person. He drove up the hill to Sam's Auto and was astonished to find only three cars for hire in front of the shed. He could make no sense of it.
Where is his stable of cars, all out for hire?
There had been more than a dozen Mercedes, Subarus and
BMW
s lined up in the lot before. He decided then and there not to quibble: his visit was all about the intricacies of the auto-hire business, anyway.

There was no Sam, and no Mayta either. He placed the Subaru in a marked parking slot and walked over to the shed. The first sight on entering was Mayta's estimable behind. She stood on a tippy chair with a tack hammer in her right hand, the kind used by rock hunters, while Sam stood back from the chair, and the desk itself, and evaluated her installation of the Armenian flag on the office wall. Sam wasn't at all surprised to see Peter waiting in the doorway dangling the Subaru's keys. He seemed to be enjoying Mayta's struggle.

“What do you think, Inspector?”

What could he say? The Armenian flag came in red, blue and orange horizontal stripes. “Very patriotic, Sam.”

“You are in a good mood today, Inspector?” Mayta got down from the chair and the three of them studied her handiwork. Satisfied, Sam guided Peter outside, where he ignored Peter's car.

“Was that you on the news, Inspector?”

“I sure hope not.”

“Sure. They found the poor girl, Molly, in the sea. Two detectives, one with the funny name, a local copper.”

“Mr. Hamm?”

“Yes, that one. Picture on the telly, taken from his driver's licence.”

“More likely they got it from his police identification records.”

“Same photographer. Anyway, they said a Scotland Yard detective was the second police officer involved. Those were the words. I have a photographic memory for words.”

Mayta sidled out towards the Subaru. “Photographic memory. Then why do you keep losing your keys?”

Sam tried to smack her on the bum but she was too quick for him. She tossed him a vamp's look and went over to the sedan, where she slid a yellow invoice under the windscreen wipers. Peter nodded to her in acknowledgment, but she had already retreated to the office.

“Can I extend for another day, Sam?”

“That's what Mayta just did. But keep the car even longer, if you like. And, Inspector? No charge for the second day. I have been on those cliffs with my boys, doing the picnic, you know? I cannot imagine falling into the ocean. What you did was very good,
heros
.”

Peter didn't bother to tell him that filling out his expense claim to show a free day's rental was more of a hassle than paying the extra. Mayta emerged from the shed and came over. By the time she reached him she had sized up his health again. She tucked a steel vacuum flask under his arm. “Take this with you, Inspector. You look like you may need it.
Heros
.”

Sam waved her away and she returned to the office, but at her own pace. Sam wiped a blotch of dust from the roof of the Subaru. “You visited the garage, Lasker's?”

Peter nodded. “But I still need to interview the remaining staff.”

Sam nodded back. “Albrecht Zoren is the boss for now, like I told you. Did you see him?”

“Not yet.”

“He won't be friendly.”

“Why not?”

“He's a Silesian, what can I say? No, seriously. They're working under some kind of receivership order until Lasker is ruled dead. It is a formal procedure, long time, and maybe the authorities will pry out the money story. Zoren will be nervous, no doubt.”

“Is Zoren worried about the state of the books?”

“Maybe,” Sam said. “Maybe he's just Zoren.”

“I want to find any sales and leases André Lasker might have kept off the books. If he put away large amounts of cash somewhere, we may be able to trace it. You understand about money laundering?” It occurred to Peter that he had forgotten to ask Ron Hamm to collect the ledgers from the garage.

“Oh, yes,” Sam said. “But if Zoren was in on the scam, there will be no accounts. You'll never find them, because they don't exist.”

“That's right,” Mayta chimed in. She had suddenly materialized next to them.

“Any suggestions?” Peter said.

Sam shrugged and looked at Mayta. She nodded her go-ahead.

“Lasker did a small business on the side selling used cars, right?” Sam began.

“Yes.”

“In cash, no names. If he was desiring to keep his trade very quiet, he would probably sell them out of the country. Some places in Europe.”

“Isn't there a lot of paperwork under the
EU
rules?” Peter said. “They have rules for everything.”

Mayta spoke. “The point, Chief Inspector, is that it is easier to sell abroad, or at least within the European Community members, because there is a demand for so many categories of autos.”

“Doesn't that just mean more rules, more signatures, and bureaucratic delays?”

“No,” she continued. “It just means that countries will find ways to encourage the export trade, while taking their cut through fees and taxes. The British government doesn't care very much about the car, as long as it meets what the
EU
now requires. The more complicated the rules, the better for the seller, because it creates opportunities to cover up embarrassing details.”

“The more complicated the rules, the less the British bureaucrats want to be bothered,” Sam added. “They . . . ?”

“‘Defer?'” Peter said.

“Yes, they defer to the European Community rules. It becomes a European problem. Isn't that a very British thing?”

“How does it help us?”

“Because the exporter will have to give a name,” Mayta said.

“A fake name?”

“He has to give a
corporate
name, his company's name, if he wants his company to sell the car. The company is going to need an address and phone number. He could sell as one person and give a phoney name, but he may be selling the cars as non-drivable, so he doesn't have to bring them up to U.K. driving standards first. Only companies are going to do that in volume.”

“Does ‘non-drivable' mean they're scrap? Where's the money in that?”

“You'd be surprised,” Mayta said. She brushed back her raven hair from her face. “We would never do this, but a lot of people are marketing these old cars under a bunch of different categories, and they show up in funny places in distant countries of the Union. And, guess what, they are being driven!”

“Oh, I wish Armenia would join the
EU
!” Sam said.

“I think I'll visit the garage, meet Mr. Zoren.”

“Good idea,” Sam said, “but may I suggest a strategy with Zoren. Ask to see the books. See if a new company name appears on any of the export documents. Then we will go and visit a friend of mine at Driver and Vehicle Licensing.”

Peter had left the Subaru keys in the office and Mayta produced a set from somewhere — Peter could not imagine where she had pockets — and tossed them to Peter. “You want Sam to drive you?”

“I'm okay,” Peter said. Mayta leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. She glared at Sam and retreated. The two men watched her disappear inside. “I'm just curious, Sam, but is there an Armenian church in Whittlesun?”

“No, we're too small a community. You have to go to St. Sarkis in London. But we Armenians are everywhere.”

Peter promised to call Sam within a couple of hours.

The yard in front of Lasker's Garage was populated with five-year-old sedans of various makes. Peter idly wondered if ocean salt threatened their paint jobs if they were left too long in the open; these had stood a while in the lot, he estimated. He recalled that the work areas could be accessed through the corridor at the back of the office, but when he approached the shed, he found it dark and silent. The door was locked and the venetian blind in the window had been pulled down. He went back to the street and checked the access ramp: the corrugated door had been lowered and bolted. Back at the office, he found a scribbled note taped to the corner of the door window: “Closed for funeral.” He tried to peer through the window and he jiggled the doorknob again. There was nothing overtly suspicious about the place, but every policeman's instinct told him that uninvited visitors should be careful. He tried a firm but not insistent knock.

He knocked twice more and still heard nothing from inside. But he had a feeling that someone was waiting for him to depart, standing stock still in the dark interior of the office, or more likely farther back in the work bays. Peter looked in through the slats in the blind but failed to discern any vehicles. He was unwilling to break in without a warrant, since the evidence he was seeking was documentary and the process had to be kosher if the paperwork was to do any good later in court. He waited a full minute and rapped a fourth time, a little more aggressively.

A piece of iron, probably a wrench, hit the floor. The door swung open, almost as if by itself, and Peter peered into the gloom. He could see a man's booted feet nearer the back of the room but couldn't make out the man's face; the tip of a wheel brace poked out from the shadows on the floor. He detected no oil or acetylene that would indicate a repair job in process.

A light flashed on, one of those floor-level lamps favoured by mechanics, and it lit up the man's face from below. The effect, as intended, was to startle Peter and drive him back to the exit; the face was very Boris Karloff, he immediately thought, the light emphasizing the deep grooves of the cheeks and the prominent Slavic nose.

“Who the hell are you?” Albrecht Zoren said.

“Chief Inspector Peter Cammon. I was here the other day.”

“I haven't seen Lasker at all,” he volunteered.

“I'm coming in,” Peter ventured.

“No you're not!” Zoren said, picking up the brace and slamming it down on the corner of the office desk. The blow took off a sizeable chunk of the veneer and the plywood core. Peter recoiled, stepping back into the daylight, but only for a moment. He quickly judged that the man had expended his immediate anger; there was a cooling of the atmosphere in the office. Zoren wasn't the owner of the facility; he had limited authority to keep a policeman out. It also seemed to Peter that he hadn't been toiling on a repair, and he could see enough of the area behind the desk to grasp that Zoren hadn't been fussing over the account books or customer records either. Peter sized up the mechanic's potential for violence. He ought to know that police visits would continue until Lasker was found. Peter kept his hands in his pockets and edged forward. He decided to counter Zoren's aggressive posture with a bit of verbal melodrama.

“I'm not armed, Mr. Zoren.”
Why would I be?
Zoren placed the wheel brace on the desk and backed further into the office. Peter moved inside. He found the light switch and turned it on. Albrecht Zoren had positioned himself against the side wall, his fists raised like a defending boxer. But then his shoulders sagged and he looked down at the linoleum floor. His coveralls were stained with oil, and grease streaked his cheeks; redness and grimy sweat rimmed his eyes.

“Sally died,” he said.

Peter recalled his one visit with the bookkeeper. He estimated that she was only about sixty. “I'm sorry. What was the cause?”

“Heart attack. She was a smoker. I never smoked beyond the first year of my apprenticeship. Can't do smoking working under the chassis of the autos.”

“You didn't go to the funeral?”

“I could not stand it,” Zoren whined. “She taught me English.”

Zoren didn't appear to be management material, yet Sam had been sure that he was guiding Lasker's through this period of limbo. Undoubtedly, Zoren felt betrayed by circumstances, his anchors of Lasker, and now Sally, yanked away in the cruellest fashion.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated. “I'll bet the rest of the staff appreciates your efforts.”

“My efforts to keep the place going?” Zoren said, his voice turning harder. “I can get a job anywhere tomorrow. But Lasker left behind a very good business. He promised me a share. Now there is no one, nobody in charge, no owner. Not even a bookkeeper.”

Zoren was right. It would take months to sort out the ownership. The matter would shift from the criminal authorities to the bankruptcy courts, and after interminable debate, the easiest thing for everyone would be to wind up the company. There was little solace that Peter could offer. Instead, he changed tack.

“What do you think André Lasker was trying to do?”

The twisty phrasing of the question was deliberate; let the mechanic interpret it his own way. But Zoren wasn't interested. He eyed the wheel brace, picked it up from the desk and disappeared into the work bays without a word. Peter followed as far as the doorway. He observed that there were only three cars under repair, a Mercedes, a Vauxhall and a Morris. Zoren was standing over the bonnet of the Mercedes but merely stared down at the car, as if it were some alien beast. Peter recalled that there had been seven or eight vehicles when he first visited the shop. The unfortunate, and sudden, death of the bookkeeper shouldn't have forced Zoren, or whoever was handling the place, to reject business. It struck him that Lasker's Garage was in serious decline.

The sense of danger remained, but Peter was in a mood, the source of which he couldn't identify, to barge ahead. Perhaps, he thought, the incident along the cliffs has changed me, a reminder of mortality and all that. He dismissed the thought. More likely, he reasoned, I'm tired of parrying with the Whittlesunites. Everyone was vague about André Lasker. The man had disappeared like smoke, but few locals seemed to care, or have any curiosity about how he pulled it off. Intimate that he had absconded with a million pounds and the vicar's wife, and they would perk up, but for now they remained indifferent.