Walking into the Ocean by David Whellams Page B

portals he had just seen at St. Walthram’s had made this one too.
    Ellen Ransell answered the door before they could knock. A smell of lime and sour alcohol wafted from her, and from the house itself. She appeared careworn and partly drunk. Her white hair, streaked with sickly yellow, as if stained with nicotine, was uncombed, and the deep lines in her face were vertical and sad, reminding Peter of the eroded fissures in the coastal rocks. On her face, the defensiveness of the recluse fought with the rare stimulus of having visitors who might draw her out of her boredom. She opened the door wide. The hinges creaked crazily, just like in a fairy tale.
    â€œWelcome, Officers. You can come into the parlour.” The voice was confident, only slightly defensive. She likely wasn’t a witch, Peter mused, but a crystal ball would fit the scene.
    Hamm and Cammon entered and found themselves in the one main room, which served as the kitchen and parlour. The two bedrooms off the back of the cottage had solid oak doors like the one at the entrance; that is, they were outside doors used as inside ones. Both were closed. The ceilings in the main room were low, and Hamm had to tilt his head slightly; after ninety minutes in a similar contorted position in the car, his neck would soon be creaking like the door hinges, Peter thought. The woman held a glass of clear liquid in her left hand; she did not offer them a drink. Peter noted the tall bottle of Koskenkorva vodka on the kitchen counter; the more popular Finnish vodka, he knew, was Finlandia. He didn’t care to estimate her daily intake, before she passed out.
    â€œI don’t remember your name.”
    â€œIt’s Hamm, and this is Chief Inspector Cammon from Scotland Yard.”
    She looked at Peter. “I phoned it in, you see. My daughter saw the Rover. Maybe she did. She has special abilities. Comes from an expensive education combined with good genes. Her father was Finnish, you know. A strong people, they are.”
    Peter understood witnesses like these: lonely, pent-up people who, when finally given an audience, cram so much into one outburst that it’s hard to pare down to the truth.
    â€œMrs. Ransell,” Peter began gently. They were still standing near the door. “I imagine that you and your daughter know this region well. It would be valuable to talk to her about what she may have seen out on the heights.”
    He struggled for an opening to mention André Lasker’s name. Mrs. Ransell shrugged, turning the burden towards the detectives, as if Peter, not she, had fixed on the daughter’s roaming habits. “She wanders, you know. Leaves at first light, comes back after sunset. But she always stays safe.” Peter and Hamm exchanged looks; the woman was apprehensive about something. “She knows the terrain, the cliffs, the caves, the dunes. Now this Rover fiend, making it unsafe for every woman in Britain.”
    â€œCould we have a word with her, Mrs. Ransell?” Peter persisted. The old woman would eventually let them speak with the daughter, Peter understood, but something was bothering her.
    â€œShe’s strong and tough, stronger than me, Inspector, but she’s unwell.” She leaned close and whispered, through rancid breaths. “Astatic seizures.”
    Hamm looked over at Peter.
    â€œEpilepsy,” Peter said. He turned to Mrs. Ransell. “We’ll be very careful. She can tell us in her own fashion. We won’t take long.” Peter spoke in earnest; the interrogation wouldn’t be a long one. In his experience, there were some witnesses who would simply refuse to open up at the first conversation and had to be seen several times, and coaxed through a succession of short interviews. Unfortunately, this was likely to be one of them.
    â€œHer name is Guinevere. G-w-e-n-e-v-e-e-r. She has reached the age of twenty-five,” she declared.
    The old lady went to one of the bedrooms