Walking into the Ocean Read Free Page B

going on in Whittlesun. Workmen toiled on the decaying, oxidized roof of a 17th-century church, replacing green cladding with brown copper; the repairs looked long overdue. Otherwise, there did not appear to be any publicly funded renovation along the main avenues, aside from the street lamps.
    The concierge had overstated the steepness of the climb, and Peter had a pleasant hike. He found the station by the sound of police motorcycles entering and leaving the car park. The building, about four streets uphill from the commercial area, had once housed an insurance company or a bank; grandiose pillars framed the main entrance. He guessed that the police had taken it over when they outgrew their old digs. The Whittlesun Force was autonomous, serving all of Dorset but remaining officially under the control of Southwest Regional Police. Bartleben had informed him that there were eighteen constables, five detectives and twenty or more other ranks. “Not so many,” Sir Stephen had opined, “if you have to patrol for a serial killer.”
    Peter hadn’t called ahead. Inspector Maris had been told by Bartleben to expect Chief Inspector Cammon sometime that morning. Peter counted six motorcycles and four police vehicles with decals on the doors, and two that he knew were unmarked police cars. A seventh bike was leaving by the far exit. Was anybody policing Whittlesun? They all seemed to be here, Peter thought. He entered the reception area at the front, which immediately disillusioned anyone expecting the pillars to have a stylish follow-through. The former grand entrance had been partitioned for security reasons, and now a female officer in a Plexiglas booth confronted each visitor. She was cheerful enough and, through the scratched and smeared plastic panels, sized him up, probably as an elderly victim of a break-in or an auto theft. His identity card did the usual trick; she recoiled in impressed disbelief from his Scotland Yard credentials. She stabbed a button on her phone console, then another for good measure.
    â€œJust a minute, Chief Inspector,” she said through the round grill in the booth.
    It took a full five minutes before an officer in shirtsleeves clicked the door lock and came out to greet him. The man was overweight and whey-faced, but he smiled broadly and openly. His whole manner indicated awe at being in the presence of a Yard senior detective.
    This couldn’t be the heavily burdened Inspector Maris. This rumpled young man was cheerful and welcoming, and lacked the executive gene. Bartleben had warned Peter not to expect enthusiasm. Maris had made it clear that Peter was coming down to help with the work-up on André Lasker; he would not officially supervise the dossier, nor determine the offences to be charged, should Lasker be nabbed.
    â€œHello!” the young detective said, and offered his hand. “Sorry. Sorry to keep you waiting. Come in. Down from London, then?”
    He stood aside and Peter had to squeeze past him around the Plexiglas box and through the doorway. It would have been easier for the officer to go first.
    â€œPeter Cammon.”
    â€œRonald Hamm. We’re just finishing up our staff meeting. I’d invite you in, but we’re about done. If you wait out here, I’ll be back in a flash.”
    Detective Hamm rushed into a room and the door closed behind him. Peter remained standing in the main room. It was open concept: few walls, with cloth-panelled partitions that seemed to him to create the worst of both worlds, eliminating real privacy but preventing spontaneous gatherings. The retention of the heavy interior pillars from the previous business gave the place an odd feel, as if some general and his staff had temporarily taken over the premises of a chateau in wartime. Glass-walled offices had been constructed in the four corners of the big space. Peter suspected that the bureaucratic dictates of police administration had compromised the