Mark Mills - Amagansett

‘Hold the stern steady. When I give the word, shove off and climb in.’ The Basque clambered into the boat and began to row gently, glancing over his shoulder at the ocean.

A wall of white water slapped into Hollis, almost wrenching him free of the boat.

‘Now,’ said the Basque, pulling hard on the oars.

Hollis pushed off, hooking both elbows over the side. And that’s where he stayed. Each time he tried to swing his leg up over the side a wave would drive it back under. His strength fading, it was all he could do to hold on in the face of the relentless onslaught.

When they were clear of the breakers, he found he was too exhausted to haul himself aboard. The Basque abandoned the oars, seized the back of his pants and plucked him out of the water. He lay limp and drained in the bottom of the boat, his heart racing, as much from fear as exertion.

‘Not bad,’ said the Basque. ‘For your first time.’

‘You mean my last time.’

The Basque smiled, rowing them out to sea.

It was unexpectedly quiet, just the slap of the oars, the dull thump of the breaking waves receding with each stroke. It struck Hollis that he’d never seen the land from the ocean before. He’d taken a ferry once from Sag Harbor over to Shelter Island with Lydia—a Sunday jaunt when they were still poking at the carcass of their relationship—but that had been more familiar, more welcoming, with its bays and inlets and islands and little sailboats. Here on the ocean side you were left with an altogether different feeling. It was as if God in a fit of pique had used a ruler to divide two of His elements—a clean, stark battle line stretching from one horizon to the other, the conflict to roll on for all eternity. It wasn’t something that could be fully appreciated when viewed from the land.

‘First time off the back side?’

Hollis turned. ‘The back side?’

‘That’s what we call it out here,’ said the Basque, releasing the oars.

‘What are we doing here?’

The Basque pulled a tin pail from beneath his feet and tied a length of rope to the handle.

‘Fishing,’ he said.

He tossed the pail over the side. It slowly filled with water and sank from view. The Basque reeled it in and handed it to Hollis.

‘What do you see?’

‘Water?’

‘Look again.’

Hollis peered into the pail. ‘Sand,’ he said quietly. Sprinklings of silver in suspension.

He looked up at the Basque. ‘What are you saying?’

‘You tell me. They won’t release the autopsy yet.’

Dr Cornelius Hobbs was out on a call, and wasn’t due back at the County Morgue till two o’clock.

He appeared at one-thirty, which was why he found Hollis in his office, going over the autopsy report on Lillian Wallace.

‘Well, well, well,’ he said, with as much indignation as he could summon up.

‘Sit down,’ said Hollis.

‘You’re in my chair.’

‘Sit down,’ repeated Hollis firmly, indicating the seat across the desk from him. Hobbs hesitated, to press home his point, then did as he was told.

‘There better be a damn good reason for this.’

‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ said Hollis. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s common in cases of drowning to find foreign material in the airways and lungs, material that’s in the water.’

He knew this to be the case. Before driving out to Hauppauge he had phoned Paul Kenilworth, an old friend from police pathology back in New York.

‘That depends,’ said Hobbs guardedly. ‘What kind of material are you talking about?’

‘Sand, for example. Sand thrown up by heavy surf.’

Hobbs smiled, the smile of an adult indulging a child. ‘Oh dear, Deputy Hollis, I can see where you’re going with this.’ He leaned forward. ‘As it happens, I did find traces of sand in her airways. I might not have recorded them, though.’

‘I can tell you, you didn’t.’

‘Believe me, they were there.’

The news was a blow, and if Hollis hadn’t discussed the matter at some length with Paul, it might well have ended right there, as Hobbs evidently thought it was about to, judging from his self-satisfied grin.

‘Where exactly was this sand?’

‘Her pharynx and trachea.’

‘The larger airways, then.’

‘Yes,’ said Hobbs, a distinct note of annoyance creeping into his voice.

‘It’s possible, isn’t it, for debris to enter the larger airways after death has occurred, while the body’s underwater?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘In fact, the sand you found in Lillian Wallace’s airways proves nothing about the exact circumstances of her death, only that she was submerged in the ocean.’

This was the moment Hobbs lost his temper. ‘Are you questioning my expertise? Read the report, man. She drowned. Everything points to it. Everything.’

‘I can see that.’

‘She drowned in the ocean.’

‘Now that we don’t know for sure.’

Hobbs grabbed the autopsy report, turned to a page near the back and slapped it down in front of Hollis.

‘The results of the salinity test on the water in her lungs.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘So what more do you want?’

‘Just one thing: evidence of sand in the terminal bronchioles and alveoli. It would have been drawn deep into her lungs when she drowned.’

It was pleasing to see Hobbs stopped in his tracks, silenced.

‘You didn’t check, did you?’

‘The facts speak for themselves,’ stammered Hobbs, jabbing his finger at the report.

‘Did you check? Yes or no?’

Hobbs couldn’t bring himself to actually utter the word.

‘It would have been there.’

‘Speculation.’

‘Deduction. Based on sound scientific evidence and twentytwo years’ experience. There is no other explanation for her death.’

‘Try this on for size. She drowned in salt water and her body was placed in the ocean afterwards.’

Hobbs weighed his words. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘But it fits, right?’

‘That’s not the point. Where on earth is she going to drown in salt water, if not the ocean?’

From Hobbs’ expression, it was clear that the answer occurred to him as soon as the words had left his lips.

Both cars were gone within a minute or so of Hollis pulling up, his decision to turn on the flashing blue light no doubt precipitating their departure. He stepped from the patrol car as the taillights disappeared into the night. He could picture the occupants of the vehicles, panic giving way to relief, still adjusting their clothing.

He was alone in the silence, just the lazy pulse of the waves breaking against the shore. He glanced up at the night sky—an even dusting of cloud, enough to mute the glow of the moon; no need for a flashlight, though.

The most direct approach to the house from the beach landing was along the base of the bluff, but he opted for the long route round, down on to the beach, along the shore then back across the dunes. He needed time to marshal his thoughts.

As he walked he tried to persuade himself that the investigation would remain intact even if this trail turned cold on him. But he knew he was only preparing himself for the worst. He soon found himself at the spot where he had discovered Lillian Wallace’s bathrobe and towel neatly folded on the frontal dune some two weeks before. If she hadn’t placed them there, then someone else had—someone with a detailed knowledge of her routines and habits, someone close to her, someone who wanted her dead.

He was getting ahead of himself now. Even if she had drowned in the family swimming pool, it wasn’t necessarily evidence of foul play. This was the line he had fed Hobbs, anyway. In fact, he’d openly dismissed the idea of murder to Hobbs, suggesting that the body had been moved for more innocent reasons. There were, after all, no indications of physical violence on Lillian Wallace’s corpse. Hobbs’ silence had been bought with the inducement that if anything came of Hollis’ investigation he would credit the Medical Examiner with first drawing his attention to the anomaly in the autopsy.