Free Walkers by Graham Masterton Page A

washed away. I
personally believe that she was dragged, footsteps or not, because the water
that far up the slope of the beach would have been far too shallow for her body
to float in.’
    Henry sipped a little coffee, then
stood up and went over to the drinks cabinet, and took out the bottle of vodka
again. He poured a large dose into his mug, without offering any to Salvador.
Salvador said nothing. He was used to drunks, both civilian and police. Who was
he to criticise those people who couldn’t manage to get through the day without
being half blinded?
    Henry said, ‘What does that leave
you with? A naked girl, her stomach eaten by eels, lying in a place where
somebody must have dragged her?’
    ‘That’s right,’ said Salvador. ‘And
a million questions, such as who dragged her, if anybody? Her murderer, if she
was murdered, or a would-be rescuer, who then decided she was beyond saving,
and left her where she was? Also, was she killed or knocked unconscious or
drugged perhaps before she went into the water – Mr Belli will be able to tell
us this. What’s more, did the eels attack her before or after she was dead?
Were the eels themselves responsible for her death, or were they simply
predators on a body that had already expired? Then, we still don’t know who she
is, or where she came from, or why nobody has reported her missing.’
    Henry was silent for a very long
time. He finished his coffee in three large gulps although it was still
scalding hot.’ Best cure for a hangover I know,’ he said, at length.
    Salvador said, ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t
trouble you with this matter. Perhaps it would be better if I went.’
    ‘I don’t have any answers, of any
kind,’ said Henry. ‘My questions are the same as yours.’ He paused for a
moment, and then he said, ‘What are you going to do if you can’t find out any
more?’
    ‘All cases of homicide have some
kind of handle on them, somewhere,’ said Salvador. ‘It is simply a question of
groping for it, and recognising it when you have found it.’
    Henry nodded. Then he looked away,
and stared out of the window at the beach and the ceaselessly grumbling ocean.
    ‘I must go,’ said Salvador. ‘But it
has been interesting to talk to you. I was fairly sure that, as an educated
man, you would apply your mind to what had happened. I would very much
appreciate it if you would continue to think this tragedy through, and call me
if you happen to think of anything. Every problem is more susceptible to
solution by two minds, rather than one.’
    ‘I’m afraid I’m a philosopher not a
detective,’ said Henry.
    ‘This tragedy may have something to
do with philosophy,’ Salvador replied. ‘To a greater or lesser extent, most
man-made tragedies do. At least the ones which I have to deal with.’
    ‘What kind of detective talks like
that?’ Henry asked him, with a sharp look in his eyes.
    Salvador buttoned up his coat, and
smiled. ‘The kind of detective who is tired enough to search not just for
causes but for reasons.’
    ‘Well,’ said Henry, ‘I’m not sure
that there are any reasons. You know
what Kierkegaard said, that there are only two ways: one is to suffer, and the
other is to become a professor of the fact that somebody else has suffered.
Believe me, be a professor.’
    Salvador Ortega left. Henry stood by
the window, holding the slats of the Venetian blind apart, and watched him
drive away in his bright green Datsun sports car. He wasn’t sure why, but the
Mexican detective had disturbed him deeply. Perhaps it was because he had been
unable to do what Henry expected the police to do – and that was to come up
with a rational explanation for a very irrational event. He expected his police
to be factual to the point of pig-headedness. He wanted them to insist that
everything was normal. Violent, yes. Frightening, yes. But normal.
    Whatever Salvador had said about
every homicide having a handle, it was obvious to Henry that he didn’t have
very