Walking into the Ocean by David Whellams Page A

up, a hint of coming winter. Peter got into the nondescript Vauxhall and sank into the battered and sprung passenger seat. Hamm was too big for the vehicle and had to hunch over the steering wheel; this pose made him appear even more in a hurry. Peter reached around and dumped his files on the back seat. The sedan lurched ahead and they were off down the cobbled street, headed for the outskirts of Whittlesun.
    â€œWhere are we going?” Peter asked.
    â€œStill in Dorset but not very far from the Devon line. It’s isolated.”
    â€œGood thing. In Dorset, I mean. Devon is out of your jurisdiction, I believe.”
    â€œBut not out of yours,” the detective joked.
    â€œWhat were you doing over there in the first place?”
    Peter wormed in his seat, trying to get comfortable. Hamm shifted his bulk in sympathy and squared his shoulders. “The Task Force is short of manpower, and so Maris volunteered me and a couple of other lads to help out with contacting people along the county line. Create goodwill and all that. The place we’re going is only four miles inside the border. But hell and gone as far as driving there is concerned.”
    Maris was smart to keep it low-profile. Peter understood that Maris was officially on the Rover Task Force but by no means the co-chair — yet. The legwork had been done so far by Devon officers, and they would resent any duplication of effort. McElroy would be sensitive to levels of public paranoia, and it took little to provoke false sightings and letters to the editor demanding a massive manhunt. Peter thought it significant that Jack hadn’t yet invited the Yard to attach anyone to the Task Force, even as liaison. McElroy intended to keep London separate from local, Devon distinct from Dorset, and — the primary concern for Peter — Lasker divided from the Rover. The only remaining question was why Hamm was risking Maris’s ire by dragging Scotland Yard into both.
    Hamm was talking. “The mother’s name is Ellen Ransell. The daughter is called Guinevere. She’s a drinker — the mother, that is. She rang up the Task Force and spoke to one of the investigating detectives. He judged that she was full of crap. Jack McElroy and his detectives wouldn’t normally have hesitated to cross into Dorset and do the interview themselves but, as Maris put it to me, they think this is a low-grade witness. The mother was born in Finland, in Helsinki, I presume.”
    â€œYou’ve never seen either witness?”
    â€œNo. It’s confused. I talked to the mother. She says the daughter saw something, and mentioned Lasker, but the old woman only wanted to talk about the Rover.”
    The journey took an hour and a half, and Detective Hamm had trouble finding the house amid the twisting trails and rolling hills. Once in a while, Peter caught sight of a jutting cliff several hundred yards off, but then they seemed to be descending much closer to sea level. When Hamm finally parked the Vauxhall, still some distance from the house, Peter was completely disoriented. The countryside was particularly bleak here, with long grass obscuring the pathways and the wind strong enough to knock a hiker over. The sea wasn’t visible from the Ransell property, but he could hear the distant breakers and taste the lingering salt spray. Turning a bend in the path, he caught sight of the ocean some five hundred yards down a steep slope; but then the path took them away from the overlook. The cottage had a thatched roof and was stuck in a cleft between two hills. As a result, it was always in shadow, except when the sun was overhead. At this point in the afternoon, the vale was rapidly losing the light.
    Panting, Ronald Hamm led the way down a fieldstone path to the front door. Befitting a cottage for dwarfs or hobbits, the main door was made of oak and was held by black iron hinges; Peter would have sworn the same craftsman who had replaced the