Walking into the Ocean (36 page)

“Peter?” she said.

“Who? What is it?”

“It's Father Vogans in Weymouth.”

She entered and turned on the overhead. In other circumstances she would have been more heedful, giving his eyes time to adjust. He saw the dread in her face.

“Hello. Peter Cammon.”

“Inspector, this is Nicolai Vogans. I'm here in Whittlesun.”

There could be only one reason for the priest to be in Whittlesun rather than Weymouth.

“I'm here with Father Clarke. It's Father Salvez. He's dead. He took his own life.”

The sadness came in as a slow wave. Ruefully, and incongruously, Peter let it close over him with the identical rhythm of the descending black angel in his dream.

And Peter knew, right then, how the priest had done himself in.

Vogans continued. “This is certainly a tragic circumstance for you and for me, Inspector, but he leaped from the cliffs onto Upper Whittlesun Beach.”

“Near the Abbey,” Peter said.

“Yes, just below. They found his body at sunrise. A woman walking her dog along the shore.”

Lying motionless in bed, Peter re-tasted the anxiety underlying his desert nightmare. Later, he was never able to account for his next question.

“What was Father Salvez wearing?”

Vogans hesitated on the line. “Why, since you ask, an old leather coat, work trousers, gardening boots. Peter, I went to the mortuary an hour ago. He was skin and bones. Skeletal.”

Peter barely remembered what they exchanged next. He pinned down the funeral home location. The ceremony was scheduled the day after next at 10:00 a.m., at St. Elegias, with Clarke doing the eulogy. He promised to be there.

It was a small coincidence that the moment Peter hung up, Tommy Verden reached him from the car in London. After Peter delivered the news, Tommy asked for Vogans's mobile number. “Salvez was a rich character,” was all he would say, other than to arrange to pick up Peter and Joan at the cottage early the day of the funeral.

That evening, Peter and Joan sat at the dining room table with the lights off and drank brandy. He recounted the story of the palliative efforts of the three aging men to comfort Father Salvez. She had heard much of the story before from him, and the embellished version from Tommy, but she nonetheless listened intently.

“I wonder what will become of the Abbey restoration?” Joan said.

Peter endured a dreary day getting ready for both the funeral and his trek across the Whittlesun Cliffs. He would wear his best black suit to the funeral; no matter that it was identical to all his other suits. In the afternoon, with little better to do, he set up the streaming video feed that Wendie Merwyn had promoted. It proved surprisingly simple, requiring only the downloading of a flash player and the straightforward bookmarking of the site. He hoped to trace archived material in addition to the live feed, but it turned out that old material was selectively available, and not of much use. There was some break-up of the sound feed, but Peter expected that the channel would fix itself eventually. He planned to make regular use of the site.

He searched for any and all reports and public announcements of the death of Salvez. As well, he was generally curious about the level of sophistication of
TV
-20's operation, watchful for any indicators that it was increasing its market share and therefore its overall impact in the Whittlesun community. He wasn't sure why he did this; perhaps he worried that
TV
-20 would somehow undermine the search for the Rover by moving to more sensational coverage. He also looked for the storm forecast for the Jurassic Coast for the rest of the week; again, for reasons uncertain to him, he used the
TV
-20 reports rather than one of the weather channels. Yesterday's news and weather modules were still up on the
TV
-20 site. There they were on the noon news, the Blond Bookends, Wendie Merwyn and Parnell “Parny” Moss, like Teutonic twins, positioned against a robin's egg blue backdrop. Moss played the huckster role, at one point sliding from the news-desk stool to prance in front of a digital weather map. The shifting meteorology of the English Channel zone was spun out like a Victorian melodrama. High winds were predicted for the length of the coast.

Impatient to get to Whittlesun but unwilling to drive down the night before the funeral, Peter killed the balance of the day by ensconcing himself in the shed with the maps and charts that Jerry had supplied. After three hours of close examination, some of it with a Holmesian magnifying glass, Peter had developed a few notions of where to look for André Lasker. At sundown, Joan knocked and came into his side of the shed. Normally she would have called from outside, but as one of the funeral party, and given her contribution to the investigation of the Lasker killing ground, it was assumed, by both of them, that she was entitled to pose questions about the expedition.

“But wouldn't it be pretty cold holing up in any of the caves?” she said, scanning the topographical and marine charts of the coast, and noting the neat red circles. “Wouldn't he hide out anonymously in some bed and breakfast, and just pay cash?”

“He has his reasons,” Peter replied, unintentionally sounding like a judge delivering a ruling.

After supper, Peter tuned in again to the
TV
-20 feed to watch the current newscast. There they were, Wendie and Parny at the desk, except that this time Moss was presenting the top news item while she played sidekick.

“Our top item tonight,” he began. “Sources in the Task Force that is investigating several assaults, disappearances and killings in Devon have told
TV
-20 that the serial attacker, who has been roaming the cliffs along the Jurassic Coast unimpeded, has planned his assaults at regular intervals. This is known within the Task Force as the ‘Six-Kilometre' theory and, as the label implies, the attacker has been moving in six-kilometre intervals along the coastal terrain.”

The camera cut away to aerial shots of the cliffs. The obvious fact that this was promotional tourism footage showed how cheap the
TV
-20 operation was. What did impress Peter was the stage presence of Moss, who had lowered his voice to an authoritative baritone and seemed more mature. When the camera returned to the desk, Peter could tell that Wendie, despite her posed persona, was not happy. Did she resent Parny's toothy aura as a threat to her senior position at the station? Peter appreciated her shrewdness nonetheless, and perhaps she was attempting to separate herself from the Six-K theory.

“If the Task Force calculation is correct,” Parny intoned, “the Six-K Killer will soon cross into Dorset. We will obtain a statement from Dorset Police on the impending threat to our community.”

In spite of the alliterative new label, Peter doubted that it would lodge in the public mind. “The Rover” was just too easy to say.

The next morning, Tommy arrived early enough for them to take a few minutes for coffee on the veranda. He'd had the Mercedes washed before leaving London, and it sat gleaming beside the driveway fence. The bright autumn sun belied the sad circumstances. The three of them had been friends forever, Peter reflected. They had endured nearly five decades of crime and public crises: the Yorkshire Ripper, the
IRA
, the Brixton riots, Vietnam and the protests, the Underground bombings by terrorist fanatics. Peter flexed his bandaged arm — it had become a habit — and for the first time wondered how the scar would look. He and Tommy, stripped naked, would have presented a kaleidoscope of scars, a muddled tablet of a half century of crime. For Peter, his latest wound told him that he was still in the game.

“It's a sad day,” Tommy stated.

Joan, who had watched Peter from the sidelines, and waited for him, for so many years, nodded. Her assistance that day in the bloodied passageways of the Lasker home had somehow changed things. She felt that she was an insider now, at least where the alien town of Whittlesun was concerned. The idea made her more protective of Peter and Tommy than ever.

“Tommy, you took to Father Salvez, I gather.”

He was old-school gracious. He looked at her, but Peter too. “In the interests of professional disclosure,” he began, “I called Father Vogans to express my condolences. A half hour on, I got a ring from Father Clarke. Asked me if I wanted to say a few words. Thought I might.”

Tommy parked a street over from St. Elegias, since the parking strip was pretty much full, and the three walked to the crowded front entrance of the church. It had been overcast when Peter and Tommy first visited; now the midmorning sun was out, though it failed to redeem the ponderous building with its chiselled, bulbous stones. The coastal damp and Victorian chimneys of the town had stained the grout to a purply colour. No wonder Salvez preferred the Abbey ruins. At least the ironwork was formed in an authentic Gothic style. The encroaching ranks of flats made the contrasting church seem lonely. Peter wondered how large the congregation was these days.

Friends of the deceased clustered at the edge of the steps, as if reluctant to enter. They were a mixed group. Peter assessed two knots of mourners: priests from other churches and a fresher-faced contingent of men and women in their twenties. Peter assumed — hoped — that they were preservationists associated with Salvez's Abbey campaign. He noticed several nurses, likely from the neighbourhood hospital, but there was no sign of the crotchety woman from the admin office of St. Elegias. He scanned the crowd closely from the church steps, on the lookout for Vogans, whom he spied in a ring of clerics; the priest acknowledged Peter with a we-need-to-talk-later glance. Peter was surprised to see Mrs. Ransell in the crowd, standing alone, though apparently quite content, over by the corner of the church. He pointed her out to Joan.

Reverend Clarke, a burly man with a goiterous neck, presided over the two-hour High Mass. The ceremony stayed in a minor key while he held the pulpit. Clarke delivered a tepid homily laced with platitudes about service and devotion to Christ. His baritone was steady, but Peter knew that Salvez would have preferred that the singing of the choir be in Latin, however middling the choir itself. There was something perfunctory about the effort. Only when the time came for giving witness was Father Salvez truly allowed into the church, made flesh and blood by a half century of friends. The throng was brought to tears by a young woman who had worked with the priest up at the Abbey cataloguing the remaining stones and writing an updated history of the grounds, which, “out of necessity” as she put it, she would dedicate to him. Her encomium became the Eucharistic prayer Clarke should have given, as she spoke of Salvez's mystical blending with the sea and the cliffs.

The tributes flowed, anecdotes of Salvez's time at the seminary, his good works in the community and his love of games and puns. Tommy Verden stepped to the rostrum and recounted their visit to the sick man's flat. Tommy possessed hitherto buried talent as a comedian.

“I'm a policeman. Coppers and priests may seem to have little in common. Okay, we both appreciate a tidy confession. But a priest ministers to many troubled souls and I know that Father John Salvez comforted thousands in his lifetime. I only wish I could make that claim. But here's the thing. I appreciate toughness in a man, what the Americans call a ‘stand-up guy,' and although I met Father Salvez exactly one time, I understood immediately that he was one of the tough guys. A tough guy who had a soft side, who loved puzzles and an old church on a hill. What more can you ask of a man?”

Local ladies served coffee and tea in the downstairs common room but the day remained mild and most of the crowd regathered on the lawns. They couldn't hope to fit on the entrance stairs and naturally spilled over to the pocket-sized park across the way, where several benches had been placed beside the display case holding the church's schedule. Peter wandered, or pretended to, not quite aware that Vogans was his objective. He wondered if Ron Hamm had attended. Joan walked next to him as he moved down the church steps but then she went off to give Tommy Verden a big kiss on the cheek.

A middle-aged woman, about fifty, came up to Peter and introduced herself as Salvez's niece. Her sad look may have been entrenched, or merely a response to her uncle's suicide.

“I'm his only niece. He mentioned you twice in the days before his death.”

Peter could only guess who had pointed him out to the woman; probably Vogans, surmising that his continuing investigation of Anna Lasker might lead him again to the Abbey ruins, and that he would be interested in what she had to report about John Salvez's last days, however anecdotal. Peter felt tears welling up. Any visit to the Abbey would feel hollow and transgressive now. “What did he say, Mrs. . . . ?”

“Murray. He mentioned your help in the last days, you and Mr. Verden. Father Vogans called me that following morning. Thank goodness. I thought Outpatient Services had lined up the home nursing. We were able to straighten it all out, no thanks to the church. Anyway, thank you, Detective.”

“I assume you're tasked with clearing out the flat?”

“Yes. There's a mountain of paper about the restoration. The Preservation Trust is taking all that.”

She was close to tears herself. Peter tried to hold her attention. “Did he keep any papers, files up at the Abbey itself?”

Her brows furrowed in puzzlement. “I never go up there. What would he keep up there? The Preservation people will take care of it, no doubt. I suppose.”

Father Vogans, breaking off a conversation with Father Clarke, threaded his way over to Peter. They all shook hands, and Mrs. Murray immediately left for the parking area.

“A sad day, Peter,” he said, finding what seemed to be the refrain for the day.

“Tell me, Father, when did you see him last?”

“Ah, always the Sam Spade,” Vogans said, missing the mark by a few degrees. He wheezed loudly. “I feel guilty enough, I do. That time, I stayed into the next afternoon. He as much as kicked me out. Said he was feeling better, but so did Lazarus at one point. I left and never saw him again.”

“Did he call you?”

“No, no.” Vogans shook his head.

“Me neither. You shouldn't feel guilty. It was exceptional, what you did. And I understand that you helped his niece with the home care after that.” It occurred to Peter that someone must have helped Salvez get up to the Abbey that last time. It might have been Vogans.

Peter and the Romanian were tough men of an ancient generation, and neither was inclined to euphemism. Vogans exuded authority, and Peter supposed that he did too, in a way; he felt the crowd stand back from the two of them, nearly slip away. Vogans sensed it too but let the moment pass. “I feel guilty because you always feel bad when a good priest dies.”

“Is suicide still a mortal sin in the Church?” Peter said. At once he understood his mistake, lumping all denominations together.

“Technically, for the Roman Catholics. But I see hundreds of young people, several generations younger than us, Peter, who wouldn't stand for an edict like that. Young people see it among their peers too often.” There had been no mention of suicide during the ceremony. Vogans's eyes swept the sky. “No, Peter, I didn't imagine he would take his own life. If I'd believed that, I'd never have abandoned him for even an hour.”

Peter said he would be in town for two or three days. The priest invited him to visit at St. George's in Weymouth. Peter nodded but made no offer to update Vogans on Lasker. They were both far too aware that Salvez had jumped from the rocks not very far from Anna's fall. Peter prepared to leave, having failed to spy Ron Hamm anywhere among the mourners. He looked around for Joan and was surprised to see her chatting with Mrs. Ransell in front of the big display case. He hastened over. Joan looked up and smiled her polite smile. “Mrs. Ransell tells me she has lived here all her life.”

The old lady might have downed a shot or two already, Peter estimated. “Mrs. Ransell, could I drop by your house later this afternoon?”

“I guessed you'd be along,” she said.

“Why is that?”

“Because Guinevere said you would be around.”

“But how . . . ?”

Peter couldn't justify badgering the Ransells on this point. He had postponed so many meetings with Gwen that she had no reason to count on his promised appointments. Joan must have noticed that he was undone by the Ransells, he was sure. She looked bemused. He wanted to ask about Gwen's epilepsy, had she had more episodes, and was she taking chances out on the cliffs. But his solicitousness was inappropriate to this scene. The old woman also seemed to understand that he shouldn't be asking such questions in advance; better to visit without prejudice, receptive to whatever Gwen decided to tell him about Lasker. Peter also comprehended that Mrs. Ransell was a member of this church, and had every right to be among the grieving crowd.