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.
“Not necessarily. It’s just that we can see a series of cliffs and bays, one after another, like fingers on a hand. Ron calls them fjords and that seems pretty accurate. But we’re only at the first one and our time is running out. If this one’s too far away from the mark, we’ll go around to the next instead of descending here.”
“You see the blue bulb on the side of your walkie-talkie?”
Peter held the device away from his ear, then returned to the line. “Yes, Jerry.”
“Is the light on?”
“No.”
“Then depress the button above the bulb.”
Peter again examined the side of the walkie-talkie and pressed the round pad. The bulb flashed blue. “Got it.”
“Okay, Peter, wait while we lock you in.” Peter could hear the hollow voice of Lieutenant Hogart in the background. The reception was so good that he could detect the boat’s engines. Plaskow came back on the line.
“The walkie-talkie contains a locator, like a SatNav. We have your latitude and longitude and Mr. Hogart is comparing it to the map . . . Good news. You’re right in the mid-point of the Six-K Zone.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. You walked farther than you thought.”
“We’ll keep looking here,” Peter said. “If we find a path down to the sea, we’ll test it out. We’ll probably be back at the beach an hour or so later than we planned.”
“Keep an eye on the weather.”
Encouraged, Peter and Hamm were determined to find every pathway the Rover could have used. It occurred to Peter that the predator might have employed an entirely different system, identifying trails, coves or other hiding places in advance from old maps, or perhaps by asking local farmers about secret landing sites used by smugglers. On the other hand, the locals distrusted idle inquiries from outsiders, which meant anyone who hadn’t lived there for three generations. Peter sensed a cockiness in the Rover that had him making it up on the fly.
In practical terms, the only approach was to back away from the rim of the fjord. It was dangerous there anyway, and they could discern no promising trails from above, even with the binoculars. They moved inland several hundred yards — Peter reminded himself to think in metres, given the Six-K convention they were following — to a point where the barren rock began to give way to forest and views of the pastures to the north. None of the ground was level here; gullies and piles of glacial rock forced them to take frequent detours. They were able to rule out most of the footpaths by walking a short way downhill until they dead-ended. Peter guessed that they had arrived at the base of the U but had strayed too far from the sea. They were about to confront the far side of the first bay, having inscribed a great half-circle. He was about to suggest they make a sharp right turn to get them reoriented to the rim of the inlet when Hamm found it.
There was one category of secret place that Peter hadn’t thought of: the cliff-edge equivalent of a lover’s lane. Out of Peter’s view a hundred yards ahead, Hamm called out, his voice echoing: “Stonehenge!”
Peter followed the voice. Hamm was waiting twelve feet below him on a sloping path. Peter himself was standing, in effect, on a stone roof that concealed the lower trail, which was worn smooth by foot traffic and was lined with cigarette butts and crisps wrappers.
“Stonehenge?” Peter called down. There were no standing stones here.
“My wife and I went to Stonehenge this sum
mer,” Hamm called up. “We were disappointed that we couldn’t walk in amongst the stones themselves; they were roped off.” For some reason, Hamm was eating the last of the cheese as he stared down the trail. “In any event, the way you get to the display is to park at the visitors’ centre, then walk along the access path under the road and come up the other side.”
Obviously, Hamm could see farther than Peter could. He scrambled down the embankment and met Hamm on the path. He could now tell that it ran straight ahead, under the rock roof, on a downward slant for a hundred yards, after which it curved off to the left. They followed the track for several minutes until it abruptly split at an opening in the rocks. Both men were surprised at how far they had descended. The sea was a mere thirty yards below them. They were also faced with a choice. The left access seemed the easier; it was well used and there was more garbage lining the edges. Chalked graffiti of the adolescent kind marked the passage of teenage lovers.
“Let’s start with the easy one,” Hamm called out, animated by their discovery.
The track enlarged into an overlook at the centre of the U. Sheer walls of stone flanked their position, while the sea roiled below them, dangerously close. The lover’s leap offered the perfect dumping spot for a body. Back from the edge was a caveman’s dwelling with a flat stone floor; bonfires had been built in the recesses of the chamber, and stones were lined up across the rim to provide a safety barrier. A fall from the edge would likely break an ankle or an arm but wouldn’t be fatal, Peter judged, for there was another wide ledge three feet down. The site was promising: an intrepid killer would have all the privacy he needed.
Except that there was no bicycle, no clothing and no body.
Peter hadn’t expected such convenient discoveries, but somehow he knew that the spot wasn’t right.
“Let’s try the other fork,” he said to Hamm, who looked doubtful but gave a thumbs-up.
Even if this tentative foray onto the cliffs proved unsuccessful, Peter was gaining a better understanding of the killer. He had greater hopes for the more precarious route, for obviously the Rover was a risk taker. He wouldn’t want to make the sacrificial altar too easy to find. Peter also suspected that the killer was flirting with greater danger with each successive crime.
The other path was daunting in every respect. Even the rock differed from the first hideaway, becoming blacker and more shale-like as they descended. Somehow the sea spray reached this high, and it rendered the narrow path slick and treacherous. Peter had forgotten to ask Plaskow for a tide schedule, but he guessed that it was three-quarters in by now. What had been the sea’s level when the Rover had carried Molly Jonas’s body down here? The steps were like rotten, black teeth, and the pair took a full ten minutes to descend the twelve yards to the cavern. It offered less space to move around than the other one had, and they were nudged to the precipice at every step. Peter led the way as best he could, and they were careful not to bump against each other. The salt spray greased the pockmarked platform of black rock forming the base of the small cave. Peter had trouble imagining the Rover carrying out his depredations in this tight space, but he did note that the single slab of sea-blasted limestone resembled an altar, the scene of an oblation to evil gods, that a Druid or an Inca priest might have found alluring.
Ron Hamm pressed himself against the back of the cave so that he could look out to the Channel without succumbing to vertigo. Peter, too, kept to the rear wall. In the few minutes they had stood there, the sea appeared to have risen. That was an illusion, but the fans of spray came up beyond the stone floor like kinetic water sculpture; it could only get worse as the tide rose over the next hour.
Hamm was the one who thought to check in with Plaskow on the walkie-talkie. He connected with the boat as quickly as before but either the noise at his end drowned out Plaskow’s voice, or the walls of the fjord created too much interference to make out anything.
Peter moved around by the cavern wall. There was no obvious sign that the Rover had worked his evil here. “The man doesn’t leave clues, he leaves bodies,” Hamm had said during the march along the cliffs, with some accuracy. Peter focused on the shallow space. Where is Molly? Teenage explorers had visited this unromantic outpost; there were cigarettes and condoms, although only at the very back of the cave. The men were rapidly becoming soaked and there wasn’t much more to see, but Peter remained patient. Even with the sharp spray in his face and the reverberating din from below, his instincts were heightened.
They put on their yellow rain slickers and broad-brimmed hats, becoming ridiculous parodies of fishermen. Peter had once been forced to dress like this on a boat tour of Niagara Falls. But that had been fresh water; now he was grateful for the protection from the salt, though the coats made any movement awkward.
Sarah would find plenty of professional stimuli in this sodden cave, he thought. Clusters of limpets hung from the dark ceiling of the cavern. What he knew — from the bowl of shells in the front hallway of the cottage — to be helmet and trumpet shells clung to the outer rock ledge that bolstered the stone floor. Spray from the repeating waves bathed the floor every thirty seconds. Stubborn moss coated the ceiling stones.
Hamm tried the walkie-talkie again, with the same result. Peter noted that the blue light was pulsing on the side of the device. He didn’t know whether this happened regularly or only when someone at the other end was trying to locate them.
The search of the small space was proving fruitless. The sea was mesmerizing and Peter wanted to move away from its siren stare. But he intended to search every nook of the cave, if only so that no one else would have to later. He took a quick minute to adjust to his surroundings, for he felt the inherent instability in this etched-out dome (like the inside of someone’s cranium), no matter that the rock formations had stood for thousands of years. The arches just above his head and the pilasters at the sides of the chamber seemed to be constructed of rounded, molten stone, although Peter knew that this was merely the honing of sea and wind. He realized what a tame person he was at heart. Sarah wouldn’t hesitate to explore the grotto from front to back. Of course, the Rover was the boldest, the one who sought out these hiding places with deadly purpose. Peter stood still a minute longer and, like the practised investigator he was, mentally stepped back and attempted to make sense of this chaotic room. But for once, his reasoning didn’t plod in short steps; rather, it jumped to a precise conclusion.
The Rover had been here. And he had underestimated the risk.
The killer had exhausted himself carrying Molly Jonas’s body down the crooked stairs, all the while thinking how clever he was. He laid out the body, arms by her sides, inevitably to be found by the police when local teenagers revealed their Cabinet of Dr. Caligari lovers lane (except that no one had told). In those moments, exhilarated, the Rover congratulated himself, right up to the second when he tried and failed to climb out of the trap. The sea rose, or it started to rain — or did he injure himself? — and the water rendered the steps impassable. He panicked. He had already thrown the bicycle down the steps and over the edge. Now he decided to jettison the body as well, in case he couldn’t get out. He was forced to wait for the drying sunrise, even though it might also bring those snotty kids and their marijuana joints.
Or maybe the prospect of a night with his victim was too ghoulish even for him.
Peter got down on his hands and knees — salt spray had already soaked his trousers and crept under the collar of his wool sweater — and began crawling around the back perimeter of the chamber. Amid the rubbish he noted strands of seaweed, filigreed coral, blue heather and bright, pink anemone washed up from the sea floor. Except that anemone are not made of pink wool. The sad, saturated lump had lodged itself in a crevice at the far border of the cave. It was a pink toque, definitely a girl’s item. Had the Rover forgotten it there? It would be a simple matter to verify Molly’s standard wardrobe on these solitary bike rides of hers. What Peter would never know, he understood, was: had the toque
been his calling card, or had he left it inadvertently? Either way, the Rover had shown a weakness. The flamboyant predator had made a pitiful statement in leaving the sodden piece of wool behind. Do serial killers get bored with their own patterns?
He turned to Hamm, who huddled against the back wall. Peter held up the cap and Hamm slowly comprehended what it was, whose it was. The realization seemed to freeze him in place with horror.
Peter stuffed the toque in his slicker pocket and moved towards the brim of the rock platform. He felt a compulsion to look over the edge. Sarah would do it in a second. Hamm tried to restrain him but he pulled his yellow coat sleeve from the younger man’s grip. Hamm took the coil of rope from his pack but Peter shook his head. He approached the rim on his knees, like a timid, small boy would. The wind had picked up, causing an increase in the spray, but he sensed that the tide was reaching its zenith. He wasn’t so naive as to expect to see a body when he peeked over the edge of the platform. A hollowed ledge just over the brink stretched out another yard or so before the rock finally ended and the open sky began. It was a mini-ecosystem of its own. With the sun reaching its zenith, the self-contained aquarium on the lower shelf glowed with prismatic light. Oxides in the rock lit up red and indigo. Mitre shells poked straight up from sandy spots, and a meadow of living moss coated the floor of the etched trough. It bewitched him. He yearned to see a ring, a bracelet or Molly’s necklace gleaming in this garden. It would have been perfect.
One movement, one shift to the left was all it took. The boulder that had looked so firm on top of its ageless pillar gave under the weight of his arm, and he was over. He tumbled fifty feet in the air, his arms open, pleading to Hamm, and he was instantly out of his partner’s sight, beyond redemption.
Unseen by Peter, Hamm seemed to react faster than gravity. It was almost as if this was his moment to find the heroic, the unequivocal within himself. People do impossible things in a crisis. He took the end of the rope coil, already in his hands, and threaded it through his rucksack, tying it with a startlingly correct sheetbend knot that he had learned in the Boy Scouts. He jammed the walkie-talkie deep in the pack to give it weight, pulled the drawstring tight and tossed the whole thing into the void.
Walking Into the Ocean Page 21