Walking into the Ocean Read Online Free PDF

thankful that he didn’t lead them up any of the streets that climbed farther inland; he knew CPR but had no desire to apply it. The Laskers’ street curved around the hill away from the main commercial area, but still within the boundaries of the town centre. Willet stopped before a narrow house, much like every other in the row except for the glaring police tape and
Keep Out
notice stuck to the door. That would have to go, Peter decided. While Willet sorted through his ring of keys, Peter took a moment to check the front view. If you craned your neck from the top floor, he estimated, you might find the sea. The former council houses along the row were identical, only the colour of the heavy front doors varying. Ever since various cities in the British Isles began flogging posters of the “doors of pick-your-city,” homeowners had been painting their entrances bright crayon colours. On this strip there were doors done in shiny orange, blue, red and pink. The Lasker door was Lincoln green.
    â€œTypical two up, two down,” Willet volunteered.
    The house appeared to be well maintained, and Peter knew from the file that the Laskers had owned it mortgage-free. Willet jiggled the supplementary lock, which resembled the lock boxes used by estate agents. You had to open the box in order to get the key that let you into the house. The police notice read:
No Entry, by Order of the Police. Leave no mail or flyers.
The phone number of the Whittlesun station completed the notice.
    Bartleben would have insisted on the call with Maris that his people preserve the killing ground as found, without any further disturbance except for the taking of blood samples and the impounding of documents found in the rooms. The Yard hated nothing more than arriving, as consulting experts, at a crime scene that had been trampled by eager policemen. Peter had seen Yard detectives pulled out of crime sites before they even started. He was sure that the demand had offended Maris, since Bartleben was, in effect, challenging his competence, and further implying that Maris shouldn’t have waited three days before calling in London, by which time some of the forensic evidence would have mouldered.
    They stepped inside. A storm might have come up from the sea and blown through the house. The complete disarray and the immediacy of the frozen drama in the home sent a sickening thrill through Peter Cammon, even though he had probed hundreds of crime scenes. A light had been left on in the vestibule and he could see blood on the right side of the corridor. He flipped the nearby switch and another ceiling light went on at the end of the hallway. A third overhead had been smashed. He moved gingerly into the space. Passion, fear and spite were stamped in blood along the hall and the entry to the back kitchen. Red smears, at hip level, ran along the corridor like some demented wainscoting.
    A plastic runner had been laid on the bloodied carpet. Peter asked Willet to turn on every light on the ground floor. He took a pair of pigskin gloves from his pocket and put them on; he had meant to leave them behind in his hotel room with his hat and umbrella. They would serve his purposes now.
    â€œConstable, could you search in the kitchen for a lightbulb and install it here?”
    â€œRight you are, Guv,” Willet replied. The use of “Guv” was only marginally tolerable within police protocol but Peter didn’t care about ceremony. Willet disappeared. Peter stood stock still in the corridor, trying to gain an initial impression of the Laskers. The outside of their house was well kept, up to the standard of the street, and the entranceway was recently painted too. Even before examining the living room, he understood that the Laskers were solid middle class.
    Willet returned with the bulb; he was tall enough to screw it into the socket without using a stepladder. Now Peter had a full view of the through-line from the front door to the