Breaker

*21*

Galbraith stood up and walked across to one of the windows which overlooked the road. The crowd of earlier had dispersed, although a couple of elderly women still chatted on the pavement, glancing occasionally toward Langton Cottage. He watched them for several minutes in silence, envying the normality of their lives. How often did they have to listen to the dirty little secrets of murder suspects? Sometimes, when he heard the confessions of men like Sumner, he thought of himself in the role of a priest offering a kind of benediction merely by listening, but he had neither the authority nor the desire to forgive sins and invariably felt diminished by being the recipient of their furtive confidences.

He turned to face the man. "So a more accurate description of your marriage would be to say it was a form of sexual slavery? Kate was so desperate to make sure her daughter grew up in the sort of security she herself never enjoyed that you were able to blackmail her?"

"I said she would have done it, not that she did or that I ever asked her to." Triumph crept stealthily into Sumner's eyes as if he had won an important point. "There's no median way with you, is there? Half an hour ago you were treating me like a cretin because you thought Kate had suckered me into marrying her. Now you're accusing me of sexual slavery because I got so tired of her lies about Hannah that I pointed out-very mildly, as a matter of fact-that I knew the truth. Why would I buy her this house if she had no say in the relationship? You said yourself I was better off in Chichester."

"I don't know. Tell me."

"Because I loved her."

Impatiently, Galbraith shook his head. "You describe your marriage as a war zone, then expect me to swallow garbage like that. What was the real reason?"

"That was the real reason. I loved my wife, and I'd have given her whatever she wanted."

"At the same time as blackmailing her into giving you blow jobs whenever you fancied it?" The atmosphere in the room was stifling, and he felt himself grow cruel in response to the cruelty of Kate and William's marriage. He couldn't rid himself of memories of the tiny pregnant woman on the pathologist's slab and Dr. Warner's casual raising of her hand in order to shake it to and fro in convincing demonstration that the fingers were broken. The noise of grating bone had lodged in Galbraith's head like a maggot, and his dreams were of charnel houses. "You see, I can't make up my mind whether you loved or hated her. Or maybe it was a bit of both? A love/hate relationship that turned sour?"

Sumner shook his head. He looked defeated suddenly, as if whatever game he was playing was no longer worth the candle. Galbraith wished he understood what William was trying to achieve through his answers, and studied the man in perplexity. William was either extremely frank or extremely skillful at clouding an issue. On the whole he gave the impression of honesty, and it occurred to Galbraith that, in a ham-fisted way, he was trying to demonstrate that his wife was the sort of woman who could easily have driven a man to rape her. He remembered what James Purdy had said about Kate. "No one has ever done to me what Kate did that night ... It's the sort of thing most men dream of ... I can only describe Kate as a fever in the blood..."

"Did she love you, William?"

"I don't know. I never asked her."

"Because you were afraid she'd say no?"

"The opposite. I knew she'd say yes."

"And you didn't want her to lie to you?"

The man nodded.

"I don't like being lied to," murmured Galbraith, his eyes fixing on Sumner's. "It means the other person assumes you're so stupid you'll believe anything they say. Did she lie to you about having an affair?"

"She wasn't having an affair."

"She certainly visited Steven Harding on board his boat," Galbraith pointed out. "Her fingerprints are all over it. Did you find out about that? Maybe you suspected that the baby she was carrying wasn't yours? Maybe you were afraid she was going to foist another bastard on to you?"

Sumner stared at his hands.

"Did you rape her?" Galbraith went on remorselessly. "Was that part of the quid pro quo for acknowledging Hannah as your daughter? The right to take Kate whenever you wanted her?"

"Why would I want to rape her when I didn't need to?" he asked.

"I'm only interested in a yes or a no, William."

His eyes flashed angrily. "Then no, dammit. I never raped my wife."

"Maybe you dosed her with Rohypnol to make her more compliant?"

"No."

"Then tell me why Hannah's so sexually aware?" Galbraith said next. "Did you and Kate perform in front of her?"

More anger. "That's revolting."

"Yes or no, William."

"No." The word came out in a strangled sob.

"You're lying, William. Half an hour ago, you described how you had to sit with her in a hotel bedroom because she wouldn't stop crying. I think that happened at home as well. I think sex with Kate involved Hannah as an audience because you got so fed up with Hannah being given as the excuse for the endless brush-offs that you insisted on doing it in front of her. Am I right?"

He buried his face in his hands and rocked himself to and fro. "You don't know what it's like ... she wouldn't leave us alone ... she never sleeps ... pester, pester all the time ... Kate used her as a shield..."

"Is that a yes?"

The answer was a whisper of sound. "Yes."

"WPC Griffiths said you went into Hannah's room last night. Do you want to tell me why?"

Another whisper. "You won't believe me if I do."

"I might."

Sumner raised a tear-stained face. "I wanted to look at her," he said in despair. "She's all I've got left to remind me of Kate."

Carpenter lit a cigarette as Ingram's careful spadework disclosed the first strap of a rucksack. "Good work, lad," he said approvingly. He dispatched one of the DCs to his car to collect some disposable gloves and plastic sheeting, then watched as Ingram continued to remove the shale from around the crumpled canvas.

It took Ingram another ten minutes to release the object completely and transfer it to the plastic sheet. It was a heavy-duty green camper's rucksack, with a waist strap for extra support and loops underneath for taking a tent. It was old and worn, and the integral backframe had been cut out for some reason, leaving frayed canvas edges between the stitched grooves that had contained it. The frays were old ones, however, and whatever had persuaded the owner to remove the frame was clearly ancient history. It sat on the sheeting, collapsed in on itself under the weight of its straps, and whatever it contained took up less than a third of its bulk.

Carpenter instructed one detective constable to seal each item in a forensic bag as he took it out and the other to note what it was, then he squatted beside the rucksack and carefully undid the buckles with gloved fingertips, flipping back the flap. "Item," he dictated. "One pair of twenty times sixty binoculars, name worn away, possibly Optikon ... one bottle of mineral water, Volvic ... three empty crisp packets, Smith's ... one baseball cap, New York Yankees ... one blue-and-white checked shirt-men's-made by River Island ... one pair of cream cotton trousers-men's-also made by River Island ... one pair of brown safari-style boots, size seven."

He felt inside the pockets and took out some rancid orange peel, more empty crisp packets, an opened packet of Camel cigarettes with a lighter tucked in among them, and a small quantity of what appeared to be cannabis, wrapped in cling film. He squinted up at the three policemen.

"Well? What do you make of this little lot? What's so incriminating about it all that Nick mustn't know he had it?"

"The C," said one. "He didn't want to be caught in possession."

"Maybe."

"God knows," said the other.

The superintendent stood up. "What about you, Nick? What do you think?"

"I'd say the shoes are the most interesting item, sir."

Carpenter nodded. "Too small for Harding, who's a good six foot, and too big for Kate Sumner. So what's he doing carrying a pair of size-seven shoes around with him?"

No one volunteered an answer.

DI Galbraith was on his way out of Lymington when Carpenter phoned through instructions to locate Tony Bridges and put the "little bastard" through the wringer. "He's been holding out on us, John," he declared, detailing the contents of Harding's rucksack, what was on the Frenchman's video, and repeating verbatim the messages that Ingram had taken from the voice mail. "Bridges must know more than he's been telling us, so arrest him on conspiracy if necessary. Find out why and when Harding was planning to leave for France, and get a fix on the wanker's sexual orientation if you can. It's all bloody odd, frankly."

"What happens if I can't find Bridges?"

"He was in his house two or three hours ago, because the last message came from his number. He's a teacher, don't forget, so he won't have gone to work, not unless he has a holiday job. Campbell's advice is: Check the pubs."

"Will do."

"How did you get on with Sumner?"

Galbraith thought about it. "He's cracking up," he said. "I felt sorry for him."

"Less of a dead cert then?"

"Or more," said Galbraith dryly. "It depends on your viewpoint. She was obviously having an affair, which he knew about. I think he wanted to kill her ... which is probably why he's cracking up."

Fortunately for Galbraith, Tony Bridges was not only at home but stoned out of his head into the bargain. So much so that he was completely naked when he came to the front door. Galbraith had momentary qualms about putting anyone in his condition through Carpenter's "wringer," but they were only momentary. In the end the only thing that matters to a policeman is that witnesses tell the truth.

"I told the stupid sod you'd check up on him," Bridges said garrulously, leading the way down the corridor into the chaotic sitting room. "I mean you don't play silly buggers with the filth, not unless you're a complete moron. His problem is he won't take advice-never listens to a word I say. He reckons I sold out and says my opinions don't count for shit anymore."

"Sold out to what?" asked Galbraith, picking his way toward a vacant chair and remembering that Harding was said to favor nudity on board Crazy Daze. He wondered gloomily if nakedness had suddenly become an essential part of youth culture, and hoped not. He didn't much fancy the idea of police cells full of smackheads with hairless chests and acne on their bottoms.

"The establishment," said Bridges, sinking cross-legged onto the floor and retrieving a half-smoked spliff from an ashtray in front of him. "Regular employment. A salary." He proffered the joint. "Want some?"

Galbraith shook his head. "What sort of employment?" He had read all the reports on Harding and his friends, knew everything there was to know about Bridges, but it didn't suit him at the moment to reveal it.

"Teaching," the young man declared with a shrug. He was too stoned-or appeared to be too stoned, as Galbraith was cynical enough to remind himself-to remember that he had already given the police this information before. "Okay, the pay's not brilliant, but, hell, the holidays are good. And it's got to be better than flaunting your arse in front of some two-bit photographer. The trouble with Steve is he doesn't like kids much. He's had to work with some right little bastards and it's put him off." He lapsed into contented silence with his joint.

Galbraith assumed a surprised expression. "You're a teacher?"

"That's right." Bridges squinted through the smoke. "And don't go getting hot under the collar. I'm a recreational cannabis user, and I've no more desire to share my habit with children than my headmaster has to share his whisky."

The excuse was so simplistic and so well tutored by the cannabis lobby that it brought a smile to the DI's face. There were better arguments for legalization, he always thought, but your average user was either too thick or too high to produce them. "Okay, okay," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "This isn't my patch, so I don't need the lecture."

"Sure you do. You lot are all the same."

"I'm more interested in Steve's pornography. I gather you don't approve of it?"

A closed expression tightened the young man's features. "It's cheap filth. I'm a teacher. I don't like that kind of crap."

"What kind of crap is it? Describe it to me."

"What's to describe? He's got a todger the size of the Eiffel Tower, and he likes to display it." He shrugged. "But that's his problem, not mine."

"Are you sure about that?"

Bridges squinted painfully through the smoke from his spliff. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"We've been told you live in his shadow."

"Who by?"

"Steve's parents."

"You don't want to believe anything they say," he said dismissively. "They stood in judgment on me ten years ago, and have never changed their opinion since. They think I'm a bad influence."

Galbraith chuckled. "And are you?"

"Let's put it this way, my parents think Steve's a bad influence. We got into a bit of trouble when we were younger, but it's water under the bridge now."

"So what do you teach?" Galbraith asked, looking around the room and wondering how anyone could live in such squalor. More interestingly, how could anyone so rank boast a girlfriend? Was Bibi as squalid?

Campbell's description of the setup after his interview with Bridges on Monday had been pithy. "It's a pit," he said. "The bloke's spaced out, the house stinks, he's shacked up with a tramp who looks as if she's slept with half the men in Lymington, and he's a teacher, for Christ's sake."

"Chemistry." He sneered at Galbraith's expression, misinterpreting it. "And, yes, I do know how to synthesize lysergic acid diethylamide. I also know how to blow up Buckingham Palace. It's a useful subject, chemistry. The trouble is"-he broke off to draw pensively on his spliff- "the people who teach it are so bloody boring they turn the kids off long before they ever get to the interesting bits."

"But not you?"

"No. I'm good."

Galbraith could believe it. Rebels, however flawed, were always charismatic to youth. "Your friend is in the Poole hospital," he told the young man. "He was attacked by a dog on the Isle of Purbeck this morning and had to be shipped out by helicopter to have his arm stitched." He looked at Bridges inquiringly. "Any idea what he was doing there? In view of the fact he was bailed to this address and presumably you have some knowledge of what he gets up to."

"Sorry, mate, that's where you're wrong. Steve's a closed book to me."

"You said you warned him I'd come checking."

"Not you personally. I don't know you from Adam. I told him the filth would come. That's different."

"Still, if you had to warn him, Tony, then you must have known he was about to leg it. So where was he planning to go and what did he plan to do?"

"I told you. The guy's a closed book to me."

"I thought you were at school together."

"We've grown apart."

"Doesn't he doss here when he's not on his boat?"

"Not often."

"What about his relationship with Kate?"

Bridges shook his head. "Everything I know about her is in my statement," he said virtuously. "If I knew anything else, I'd tell you."

Galbraith looked at his watch. "We've got a bit of a problem here, son," he said affably. "I'm on a tight schedule, so I can only give you another thirty seconds."

"To do what, mate?"

"Tell the truth." He unclipped his handcuffs from his belt.

"Pull the other one," scoffed Bridges. "You're not going to arrest me."

"Too right I am. And I'm a hard bastard, Tony. When I arrest a lying little toe-rag like you, I take him out just as he is, never mind he's got a bum like a pizza and his prick's shrunk in the fucking wash."

Bridges gave a throaty chuckle. "The press would crucify you. You can't drag a naked guy through the streets for illegal possession. It's hardly even a crime anymore."

"Try me."

"Go on then."

Galbraith snapped one bracelet onto his own wrist, then leaned forward and snapped the other onto Tony's. "Anthony Bridges, I am arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy in the rape and murder last Saturday night of Mrs. Kate Sumner of Langton Cottage and the grievous bodily assault this morning of Miss Margaret Jenner of Broxton House." He stood up and started walking toward the door, dragging Bridges behind him. "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense-"

"Shit!" said the young man stumbling to his feet. "This is a joke, right?"

"No joke." The DI twitched the spliff out of the young man's fingers and flicked it, still alight, into the corridor. "The reason Steven Harding was attacked by a dog this morning is because he attempted to assault another woman in the same place that Kate Sumner died. Now you can either tell me what you know, or you can accompany me to Winfrith, where you will be formally charged and interviewed on tape." He looked the man up and down, and laughed. "Frankly, I couldn't give a toss either way. It'll save me time if you talk to me now, but"-he shook his head regretfully-"I'd hate your neighbors to miss the fun. It must be hell living next door to you."

"That spliff's going to set my house on fire!"

Galbraith watched the joint smolder gently on the wooden floorboards. "It's too green. You're not curing it properly."

"You'd know, of course."

"Trust me." He yanked Bridges down the corridor. "Where were we? Oh, yes. It may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court." He pulled open the door and ushered the man outside. "Anything you do say may be given in evidence." He prodded Bridges onto the pavement in front of a startled old lady with fluffy white hair and eyes as big as golf balls behind pebble spectacles. "Morning, ma'am," he said politely.

Her mouth gaped.

"I've parked behind Tesco's," he told Bridges, "so it'll probably be quicker if we go up the High Street."

"You can't take me up the High Street like this. Tell him, Mrs. Crane."

The elderly woman leaned forward, putting a hand behind her ear. "Tell him what, dear?"

"Oh, Jesus! Never mind! Forget it!"

"I'm not sure I can," she murmured in a confidential tone. "Did you know you were naked?"

"Of course I know!" he shouted into her deaf ear. "The police are denying me my rights, and you're a witness to it."

"That's nice. I've always wanted to be a witness to something." Her eyes brimmed with sudden amusement. "I'll tell my husband about it. He'll be pleased as punch. He's been saying for years that the only thing that happens when you burn the candle at both ends is the wick gets smaller." She gave a joyful laugh as she moved on. "And, you know, I always thought it was a joke."

Galbraith grinned after her. "What do you want me to do with your front door?" he asked, grabbing the handle. "Slam it shut?"

"Jesus no!" Bridges lurched backward to stop the door from closing. "I haven't got a key, for Christ's sake."

"Losing your nerve already?"

"I could sue you for this."

"No chance. This was your choice, remember. I explained that if I had to arrest you, I would take you out as you were, and your response was: Go on then."

Bridges looked wildly up the road as a man rounded the corner, and Galbraith was rewarded with a scrambling stampede for the safety of the corridor. He shut the door and stood with his back to it, halting further flight by a jerk on the handcuffs. "Right. Shall we start again? Why did Steve go back to Chapman's Pool this morning?"

"I don't know. I didn't even know he was there." His eyes widened as Galbraith reached for the door handle again. "Listen, dickhead, that guy coming up the street's a journalist, and he's been pestering me all morning about Steve. If I'd known where the bastard was I'd have sent the bloke after him, but I can't even get him to answer his mobile." He jerked his head toward the sitting room. "At least let's get out of earshot," he muttered. "He's probably listening at the door, and you don't want the press on your back any more than I do."

Galbraith released the handcuffs on his own wrist and followed Bridges into the sitting room again, treading on the spliff as he went. "Tell me about the relationship between Steve and Kate," he said, resuming his seat. "And make it convincing, Tony," he added, taking his notebook from his pocket with a sigh, "because A: I'm knackered; B: you're getting up my nose; and C: it's completely immaterial to me if your name is plastered across the newspapers tomorrow morning as a probable suspect on a rape and murder charge."

"I never did understand the attraction. I only met her once, and as far as I'm concerned, she's the most boring woman I've ever come across. It was in a pub one Friday lunchtime, and all she could do was sit and look at Steve as if he were Leonardo DiCaprio. Mind you, when she started talking, it was even worse. God, she was stupid! Having a conversation with her was like listening to paint dry. I think she must have lived on a diet of soap operas, because whatever I said reminded her of something that had happened in Neighbours or EastEnders, and it got on my tits after a while. I asked Steve later what the hell he thought he was doing, and he laughed and said he wasn't interested in her for her conversation. He reckoned she had a dream of an arse, and that was all that mattered. To be honest, I don't think he ever intended it to get as serious as it did. She met him in the street one day after the incident with Hannah's buggy and invited him back to her house. He said it was all pretty mind-blowing. One minute he was struggling to find something to talk about over a coffee in the kitchen, and the next she was climbing all over him. He said the only bad part was that the kid sat in a highchair watching them do it because Kate said Hannah would scream her head off if she tried to take her out.

"As far as Steve was concerned, that was it. That's what he told me anyway. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, and bye-bye. So I was a bit surprised when he asked if he could bring her here on a couple of occasions in the autumn term. It was during the day, while her husband was at work, so I never saw her. Other times, they did it on his boat or in her house, but mostly they did it in his Volvo. He'd drive her out into the New Forest and they'd dose the kid with paracetamol so she'd sleep on the front seat while they set to in the back. All in all it went on for about two months, until he started to get bored. The trouble was Kate had nothing going for her except her arse. She didn't drink, she didn't smoke, she didn't sail, she had no sense of humor and all she wanted was for Steve to get a part in EastEnders. It was pathetic really. I think it was the ultimate dream for her, to get hitched to a soap star and swan around being photographed on his arm.

"In all honesty, I don't think it ever occurred to her that he was only balling her because she was available and didn't cost him a penny. He said she was completely gobsmacked when he told her he'd had enough and didn't want to see her again. That's when she turned nasty. I guess she'd been conning idiots like her husband for so long it really pissed her off to find she'd been taken for a ride by a younger guy. She rubbed crap all over the sheets in his cabin, then she started setting off his car alarm and smearing shit all over his car. Steve got incredibly uptight about it. Everything he touched had crap on it. What really bugged him was his dinghy. He came down one Friday and found the bottom ankle-deep in water and slushy turds. He said she must have been saving them up for weeks. Anyway, that's when he started talking about going to the police.

"I told him it was a crazy idea. If you get the filth involved, I said, you'll never hear the end of it. And it won't be just Kate who's after you, it'll be William, too. You can't go around sleeping with other guys' wives and expect them to turn a blind eye. I told him to cool down and move his car to another parking place. So he said, what about his dinghy? And I said I'd lend him one that she wouldn't recognize. And that was it. Simple. Problem sorted. As far as I know he didn't have any more aggro from her."

It was a while before Galbraith responded. He had been listening attentively and making notes, and he finished writing before he said anything. "Did you lend him a dinghy?" he asked.

"Sure."

"What did it look like?"

Bridges frowned. "The same as any dinghy. Why do you want to know that?"

"Just interested. What color was it?"

"Black."

"Where did you get it from?"

He started to pluck Rizla papers from their packet and make a patchwork quilt of them on the floor. "A mailorder catalogue, I think. It's the one I had before I bought my new rib."

"Has Steve still got it?"

He hesitated before shaking his head. "I wouldn't know, mate. Wasn't it on Crazy Daze when you searched it?"

Thoughtfully, the DI tapped his pencil against his teeth. He recalled Carpenter's words of Wednesday: "I didn 't like him. He's a cocky little bastard, and a damn sight too knowledgeable about police interviews." "Okay," he said next. "Let's go back to Kate. You say the problem was sorted. What happened then?"

"Nothing. That's it. End of story. Unless you count the fact that she ends up dead on a beach in Dorset the weekend Steve just happens to be there."

"I do. I also count the fact that her daughter was found wandering along a main road approximately two hundred yards from where Steve's boat was moored."

"It was a setup," said Bridges. "You should be giving William the third degree. He had far more reason to murder Kate than Steve did. She was two-timing him, wasn't she?"

Galbraith shrugged. "Except that William didn't hate his wife, Tony. He knew what she was like when he married her, and it made no difference to him. Steve, on the other hand, had got himself into a mess and didn't know how to get out of it."

"That doesn't make him a murderer."

"Perhaps he thought he needed an ultimate solution."

Bridges shook his head. "Steve's not like that."

"And William Sumner is?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never met the bloke."

"According to your statement you and Steve had a drink with him one evening."

"Okay. Correction. I don't know the bloke. I stayed fifteen minutes tops and exchanged maybe half a dozen words with him."

Galbraith steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and studied the young man. "But you seem to know a lot about him," he said. "Kate, too, despite only meeting each of them once."

Bridges returned his attention to his patchwork quilt, sliding the papers into different positions with the balls of his fingers. "Steve talks a lot."

Galbraith seemed to accept this explanation, because he gave a nod. "Why was Steve planning to go to France this week?"

"I didn't know he was."

"He had a reservation at a hotel in Concarneau, which was canceled this morning when he failed to confirm it."

Bridges' expression became suddenly wary. "He's never mentioned it."

"Would you expect him to?"

"Sure."

"You said you and he had grown apart," Galbraith reminded him.

"Figure of speech, mate."

A look of derision darkened the inspector's eyes. "Okay, last question. Where's Steve's lock-up, Tony?"

"What lock-up?" asked the other guilelessly.

"All right. Let me put it another way. Where does he store the equipment off his boat when he's not using it? His dinghy and his outboard, for example."

"All over the place. Here. The flat in London. The back of his car."

Galbraith shook his head. "No oil spills," he said. "We've searched them all." He smiled amiably. "And don't try and tell me an outboard doesn't leak when it's laid on its side, because I won't believe you."

Bridges scratched the side of his jaw but didn't say anything.

"You're not his keeper, son," murmured Galbraith kindly, "and there's no law that says when your friend digs a hole for himself you have to get into it with him."

The man pulled a wry face. "I did warn him, you know. I said he'd do better to volunteer information rather than have it dragged out of him piecemeal. He wouldn't listen, though. He has this crazy idea he can control everything, when the truth is he's never been able to control a damn thing from the first day I met him. Talk about a loose cannon. Sometimes, I wish I'd never met the stupid bugger, because I'm sick to death of telling lies for him." He shrugged. "But, hey! He is my friend."

Galbraith's boyish face creased into a smile. The young man's sincerity was about as credible as a Ku Klux Klan assertion that it wasn't an association of racists, and he was reminded of the expression: with friends like this who needs enemies? He glanced idly about the room. There were too many discrepancies, he thought, particularly in relation to fingerprint evidence, and he felt he was being steered in a direction he didn't want to go. He wondered why Bridges thought that was necessary.

Because he knew Harding was guilty? Or because he knew he wasn't?