Breaker

*9*

Ahead across the water, the lights of Swanage gleamed like brilliant jewels in the night. Behind, the dying sun dipped beneath the horizon. Danny Spender was yawning profusely, worn out by his long day and three hours' exposure to fresh sea air. He leaned against Ingram's comforting bulk while his older brother stood proudly at the wheel, steering Miss Creant home. "He was a dirty person," he confided suddenly.

"Who was?"

"That man yesterday."

Ingram glanced down at him. "What did he do?" he asked, careful to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

"He was rubbing his willy with his telephone," said Danny, "all the time the lady was being rescued."

Ingram looked at Paul to see if he was listening but the other boy was too enthralled by the wheel to pay them any attention. "Did Miss Jenner see him do it?"

Danny's eyelids drooped. "No. He stopped when she came around the corner. Paul reckons he was polishing it-you know, like bowlers do with cricket balls to make them turn in the air-but he wasn't, he was being dirty."

"Why does Paul like him so much?"

The child gave another huge yawn. "Because he wasn't cross with him for spying on a nudie. Dad would be. He was furious when Paul got hold of some porno mags. I said they were boring, but Paul said they were natural."

Detective Superintendent Carpenter's telephone rang. "Excuse me," he said, retrieving it from his jacket pocket and flipping open the mouthpiece. "Yes, Campbell," he said. "Right ... go on..." He stared at a point above Steven Harding's head as he spoke, his inevitable frown lengthened and deepened by the shadows thrown by the gaslight as he listened to his DS's report on his interview with Tony Bridges. He clamped the receiver tight against his ear as the name "Bibi" was mentioned, and lowered his eyes curiously to the young man opposite. Galbraith watched Steven Harding while the one-sided conversation proceeded. The man was listening acutely, straining to pick up what was being said at the other end, all too aware that the topic under discussion was probably himself. Most of the time he stared at the table, but once or twice he raised his eyes to look at Galbraith, and Galbraith felt a curious empathy with him as if he and Harding, by dint of their mutual ignorance of the conversation, were ranged against Carpenter. He had no sense that Harding was guilty, no intuition that he was sitting with a rapist; yet his training told him that that meant nothing. Sociopaths could be as charming and as unthreatening as the rest of humanity, and it was always a potential victim who thought otherwise.

Galbraith resumed his inspection of the interior, picking out shapes in the shadows beyond the gaslight. His eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and he was able to make out a great deal more now than he had ten minutes ago. With the exception of the clutter on the chart table, everything else was neatly stowed away in lockers or on shelves, and there was nothing to indicate the presence of a woman. It was a masculine environment of wooden planking, black leather seats, and brass fittings, and no color intruded anywhere to adorn its austere simplicity. Monastic, he thought, with approval. His own house, a noisy toy-filled establishment created by a wife who was a power in the National Childbirth Trust, was too cluttered and ... God forbid, child-centered! ... for an endlessly weary policeman.

The galley, which was to starboard of the companionway, particularly interested him. It was built into an alcove beside the laddered steps and contained a small sink and Calor-gas hob set into a teak worktop with lockers below and shelves above. His attention had been caught by some articles pushed back into the shadows in the corner, and with the passage of time, he had been able to identify them as a half-eaten lump of cheese in a plastic wrapper with a Tesco's sticker and a bag of apples. He felt the shift of Harding's gaze as it followed his, and he wondered if the man had any idea that a forensic pathologist could detail what a victim had eaten before she died.

Carpenter disconnected and placed the telephone on the logbook. "You said you had a feeling the body was Kate Sumner's," he reminded Harding.

"That's right."

"Could you elaborate? Explain when and why you got this feeling?"

"I didn't mean I had a feeling it was going to be her, only that it was bound to be somebody I knew otherwise you wouldn't have come out to my boat." He shrugged. "Put it this way, if you do this kind of follow-up every time somebody makes an emergency call, then it's not bloody surprising the country's awash with unconvicted criminals."

Carpenter chuckled, although the frown didn't leave his face, and remained fixed on the young man opposite. "Never believe what you read in newspapers, Steve. Trust me, we always catch the criminals who matter." He examined the actor closely for several seconds. "Tell me about Kate Sumner," he invited. "How well did you know her?"

"Hardly at all," said Harding with airy unconcern. "I've met her maybe half a dozen times since she and her husband moved to Lymington. The first time was when she was having trouble pushing her little girl's buggy over the cobbles near the old Customs House. I gave her a hand with it, and we had a brief chat before she went on up the High Street to do her shopping. After that she always stopped to ask me how I was whenever she saw me."

"Did you like her?"

Harding's gaze strayed toward the telephone while he considered his answer. "She was all right. Nothing special."

"What about William Sumner?" asked Galbraith. "Do you like him?"

"I don't know him well enough to say. He seems okay."

"According to him, he sees you quite often. He's even invited you back to his house."

The young man shrugged. "So? Loads of people invite me to their houses. It doesn't mean I'm close mates with them. Lymington's a sociable place."

"He told me you showed him some photographs of yourself in a gay magazine. I'd have thought you'd need to be pretty friendly with a man to do that."

Harding grinned. "I don't see why. They're good photos. Admittedly he didn't think much of them, but that's his problem. He's pretty straight is old Will Sumner. Wouldn't show his tackle for anything, not even if he was starving, and certainly not in a gay mag."

"I thought you said you didn't know him well."

"I don't need to. You only have to look at him. He probably looked middle-aged when he was eighteen."

Galbraith agreed with him, which made Kate's choice of a husband even odder, he thought. "Still, it's an unusual thing to do, Steve, go around showing nude photos of yourself to other guys. Do you make a habit of it? Have you shown them around the yacht club, for example?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Harding didn't answer.

"Maybe you just show them to husbands, eh?" Galbraith lifted an inquiring eyebrow. "It's a great way to convince a man you've no designs on his wife. I mean if he thinks you're gay, he'll think you're safe, won't he? Is that why you did it?"

"I can't remember now. I expect I was drunk, and he was getting on my nerves."

"Were you sleeping with his wife, Steve?"

"Don't be stupid," said Harding crossly. "I've already told you I hardly knew her."

"Then the information we've been given that she wouldn't leave you alone and it was driving you mad is completely wrong?" said Carpenter.

Harding's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't answer.

"Did she ever come on board this boat?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

For the first time there was genuine nervousness in the man's manner. He hunched his shoulders over the table again and ran his tongue across dry lips. "Look, I don't really get what all this is about. Okay, somebody drowned and I knew her-not very well, but I did know her. Okay-too-I can accept it looks like a bizarre coincidence that I was there when she was found-but, listen, I'm always meeting up with people I know. That's what sailing's about-bumping into guys that you had a drink with maybe two years before."

"But that's the root of the problem," said Galbraith reasonably. "According to our information, Kate Sumner didn't sail. You've said yourself she was never on board Crazy Daze."

"That doesn't mean she didn't accept a spur-of-the-moment invitation. There was a French Beneteau called Mirage anchored in Chapman's Pool yesterday. I saw her through the boys' binoculars. She was moored up in Berthon at the end of last week-I know that because they have this cute kid on board who wanted to know the code for the lavatories. Well-Jesus!-those French guys are just as likely to have met Kate as I was. Berthon's in Lymington, isn't it? Kate lives in Lymington. Maybe they took her for a spin?"

"It's a possibility," agreed Carpenter. He watched Galbraith make a note. "Did you catch the 'cute kid's' name, by any chance?"

Harding shook his head.

"Do you know of any other friends who might have taken Kate out on Saturday?"

"No. Like I said, I hardly knew her. But she must have had some. Everyone around here knows people who sail."

Galbraith jerked his head toward the galley. "Did you go shopping on Saturday morning before you left for Poole?" he asked.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Truculence was back in his voice again.

"It's a simple question. Did you buy the cheese and apples that are in your galley on Saturday morning?"

"Yes."

"Did you meet Kate Sumner while you were in town?"

Harding hesitated before he replied. "Yes," he admitted then. "She was outside Tesco's with her little girl."

"What time was that?"

"Nine thirty, maybe." He seized the whisky bottle again and laid it on its side, placing his forefinger against the neck and turning it slowly. "I didn't hang around because I wanted to get off, and she was looking for some sandals for her child. We said hi and went our separate ways and that was it."

"Did you invite her to go sailing with you?" asked Carpenter.

"No." He lost interest in the bottle and abandoned it with its open neck pointing directly at the superintendent's chest like the barrel of a rifle. "Look, I don't know what you think I've done," he said, ratcheting up his irritation, "but I'm damn sure you're not allowed to ask me questions like this. Shouldn't there be a tape recorder?"

"Not when people are merely helping us with our inquiries, sir," said Carpenter mildly. "As a general rule, the taping of interviews follows the cautioning of a suspect for an indictable offense. Such interviews can only be conducted in a police station, where the proper equipment allows an officer to insert a new blank tape into the recorder in front of the suspect." He smiled without hostility. "However, if you prefer, you can accompany us to Winfrith, where we will question you as a voluntary witness under taped conditions."

"No way. I'm not leaving the boat." He stretched his arms along the back of the settee and gripped the teak edging as if to emphasize the point. The movemenl caused his right hand to brush against a piece of fabric that was tucked onto the narrow shelf behind the edging strip, and he glanced at it idly for a moment before crushing it in his hand.

There was a short silence.

"Do you have a girlfriend in Lymington?" asked Carpenter.

"Maybe."

"May I ask what her name is?"

"No."

"Your agent suggested a name. He said she was called Bibi or Didi."

"That's his problem."

Galbraith was more interested in what was crushed inside Harding's fist because he had seen what it was. "Do you have any children?"

"No."

"Does your girlfriend have children?"

No answer.

"You're holding a bib in your fist," the DI pointed out, "so presumably someone who's been on this boat has children."

Harding uncurled his fingers and let the object drop onto the settee. "It's been there for ages. I'm not much of a cleaner."

Carpenter slammed his palm onto the table, making the phone and the whisky bottle jump. "You're annoying me, Mr. Harding," he said severely. "This isn't a piece of theater put on for your benefit, it's a serious investigation into a young woman's drowning. Now you've admitted knowing Kate Sumner and you've admitted seeing her on the morning before she drowned, but if you've no knowledge of how she came to be lying on a shore in Dorset at a time when she and her daughter were assumed to be in Lymington, then I advise you to answer our questions as straightforwardly and honestly as you can. Let me rephrase the question." His eyes narrowed. "Have you recently entertained a girlfriend on board this boat who has a child or children?"

"Maybe," said Harding again.

"There's no maybe about it. Either you have or you haven't."

He abandoned his "crucifixion" pose to slump forward again. "I've several girlfriends with children," he said sulkily, "and I've entertained them all off and on. I'm trying to remember who was the most recent."

"I'd like the names of every one of them," said Carpenter grimly.

"Well you're not going to get them," said Harding with sudden decision, "and I'm not answering any more questions. Not without a solicitor and not without the conversation being recorded. I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to have done, but I'm buggered if you're going to stitch me up for it."

"We're trying to establish how Kate Sumner came to drown in Egmont Bight."

"No comment."

Carpenter righted the whisky bottle and placed a finger on top of it. "Why did you get drunk last night, Mr. Harding?"

The man stared at the superintendent but didn't say anything.

"You're a compulsive liar, lad. You said yesterday that you grew up on a farm in Cornwall, when the truth is you grew up over a chip shop in Lymington. You told your agent your girlfriend's name was Bibi, when in fact Bibi's been your mate's steady girlfriend for the last four months. You told William Sumner you were a poof, while everyone else around here seems to think you're Casanova. What's your problem, eh? Is your life so boring that you have to play-act some interest into it?"

A faint flush reddened Harding's neck. "Jesus, you're a piece of shit!" he hissed furiously.

Carpenter steepled his hands over the telephone and stared him down. "Have you any objections to us taking a look around your boat, Mr. Harding?"

"Not if you've got a search warrant."

"We haven't."

Harding's eyes gleamed triumphantly. "Don't even think about it then."

The superintendent studied him for a moment. "Kate Sumner was brutally raped before being thrown into the sea to drown," he said slowly, "and all the evidence suggests that the rape took place on board a boat. Now let me explain the rules about searching premises, Mr. Harding. In the absence of the owner's consent, the police have various courses open to them, one of which-assuming they have reasonable cause to suspect that the owner has been guilty of an arrestable offense-is to arrest him and then search any premises he controls in order to prevent the disposal of evidence. Do you understand the implications of what I've just said, bearing in mind that rape and murder are serious arrestable offenses?"

Harding's face had gone very white.

"Answer me, please," snapped Carpenter. "Do you understand the implications of what I've just said?"

"You'll arrest me if I refuse."

Carpenter nodded.

Shock was giving way to anger. "I can't believe you're allowed to behave like this. You can't go around accusing people of rape just so you can search their boats without a warrant. That's abuse of police powers."

"You're forgetting reasonable cause." He enumerated points on his fingers. "One, you've admitted meeting Kate Sumner at nine thirty on Saturday morning shortly before you sailed; two, you've failed to give an adequate explanation of why it took you fourteen hours to sail between Lymington and Poole; three, you've offered conflicting stories about how you came to be on the coastal path above where Kate Sumner's body was found yesterday; four, your boat was berthed at a time and in the vicinity of where her daughter was discovered wandering alone and traumatized; five, you seem unwilling or unable to give satisfactory answers to straightforward questions..." He broke off. "Do you want me to go on?"

Whatever composure Harding had was gone. He looked what he was, badly frightened. "It's all just coincidence," he protested.

"Including little Hannah being found near Salterns Marina yesterday? Was that a coincidence?"

"I guess so..." He stopped abruptly, his expression alarmed. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, the pitch of his voice rising. "Oh, shit! I need to think."

"Well, think on this," said Carpenter evenly. "If, when we search the interior of this boat, we discover a single fingerprint belonging to Kate Sumner-"

"Look, okay," he interrupted, breathing deeply through his nose and making damping gestures with his hands as if it was the detectives who needed calming and not himself. "She and her kid have been on board, but it wasn't on Saturday."

"When was it?"

"I can't remember."

"That's not good enough, Steve. Recently? A long time ago? Under what circumstances? Did you bring them out in your dinghy? Was Kate one of your conquests? Did you make love to her?"

"No, dammit!" he said angrily. "I hated the stupid bitch. She was always throwing herself at me, wanting me to fuck her and wanting me to be nice to that weird kid of hers. They used to hang around down by the fueling pontoon in case I came in for diesel. It used to bug me, it really did."

"So, let me get this straight," murmured Carpenter sarcastically. "To stop her pestering you, you invited her on board?"

"I thought if I was polite ... Ah, what the hell! Go ahead, search the damn boat. You won't find anything."

Carpenter nodded to Galbraith. "I suggest you start in the cabin. Do you have another lamp, Steve?"

Harding shook his head.

Galbraith unhooked a flashlight from the aft bulkhead and flicked the switch to see if it was working. "This'll do." He propped open the cabin door and swung the beam around the interior, settling almost immediately on a small pile of clothes on the port shelf. He used the end of his pen to push a flimsy blouse, a bra, and a pair of panties to one side to reveal some tiny child's shoes nestling together on the shelf. He turned the beam of the flashlight full on them and stood back so they were visible to Carpenter and Harding.

"Who do the shoes belong to, Mr. Harding?"

No answer.

"Who do the women's clothes belong to?"

No answer.

"If you have an explanation for why these articles are on board your boat, Steve, then I advise you to give it to us now."

"They're my girlfriend's," he said in a strangled voice. "She has a son. The shoes belong to him."

"Who is she, Steve?"

"I can't tell you. She's married, and she's got nothing to do with this."

Galbraith emerged from the cabin with one of the shoes hooked on the end of his biro. "There's a name written on the strap, guv, H. Sumner. And there's staining on the floor in here." He pointed the flashlight beam toward some dark marks beside the bunk bed. "It looks fairly recent."

"I need to know what caused the stains, Steve."

In one lithe movement, the young man erupted out of his seat and grabbed the whisky bottle in both hands, swinging it violently to his left and forcing Galbraith to retreat into the cabin. "Enough, okay!" he growled, moving toward the chart table. "You're way off beam on this one. Now back off before I do something I'll regret. You've got to give me some space, for Christ's sake. I need to think."

He was unprepared for the ease with which Galbraith plucked the bottle from his grasp and spun him around to face the teak-clad wall while securing his wrists behind his back with handcuffs.

"You'll have plenty of time for thinking when we get you into a police cell," said the DI unemotionally as he pushed the young man facedown onto the settee. "I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

Had William Sumner not had a key to his front door, Sandy Griffiths would have questioned whether he had ever lived in Langton Cottage, because his knowledge of the house was minimal. Indeed, the police constable who had stayed behind to act as her shadow was better informed than he was, having watched the scene-of-crime officers meticulously examine every room. Sumner looked at her blankly each time she asked him a question. Which cupboard was the tea in? He didn't know. Where did Kate keep Hannah's nappies? He didn't know. Which towel or flannel was hers? He didn't know. Could he at least show her to Hannah's room so that she could put the child to bed? He looked toward the stairs. "It's up there," he said, "you can't miss it."

He seemed fascinated by the invasion of his home by the search team. "What were they looking for?" he asked.

"Anything that will connect with Kate's disappearance," said Griffiths.

"Does that mean they think I did it?"

Griffiths eased Hannah on her hip and turned the child's head into her shoulder in a somewhat futile attempt to block her ears. "It's standard procedure, William, but I don't think it's something we should talk about in front of your daughter. I suggest you take it up with DI Galbraith tomorrow."

But he was either too insensitive or too careless of his daughter's welfare to take the hint. He stared at a photograph of his wife on the mantelpiece. "I couldn't have done it," he said. "I was in Liverpool."

At the request of Dorsetshire Constabulary, the Liverpool police had already begun preliminary inquiries at the Regal Hotel. It was early days, of course, but the account William Sumner had settled that morning made interesting reading. Despite being a heavy user of the telephone, coffee lounge, restaurant, and bar in the first two days, there was a period of twenty-four hours between lunchtime on Saturday and a noon drink in the bar on Sunday when he had failed to make use of a single hotel service.