Breaker

by Minette Walters

"No can do. It's the police. They want to talk to you. Come on, open up, and give us a hand."

  The music ceased abruptly, and Harding hoisted himself through the open companionway into the cockpit. "What's up?" he asked, surveying the two detectives with an ingenuous smile. "I guess this has something to do with that woman yesterday? Were the boys lying about the binoculars?"

  "We've a few follow-up questions," said Detective Superintendent Carpenter with an equally ingenuous smile. "Can we come on board?"

  "Sure." He hopped onto the deck and reached down to assist Carpenter before turning to help his companion.

  "My shift ends at ten," the lad called to the police officers. "I'll be back in forty minutes to take you off. If you want to leave earlier call on your mobile. Steve knows the number. Otherwise get him to bring you back."

  They watched him turn away in a wide circle, carving a gleaming wake out of the water as he headed upriver toward the town.

  "You'd better come below," said Harding. "It's cold out here." He was dressed-much to Galbraith's relief-in the same sleeveless T-shirt and shorts he'd been wearing the day before, and he shivered as a wind blew across the salt flats at the entrance to the river. Barefoot himself, he looked critically at the policemen's shoes. "You'll have to take those off," he told them. "It's taken me two years to get the planking looking like this, and I don't want it marked."

  Obligingly, the two men unlaced their boots before padding across to the companionway in search of welcome warmth. The atmosphere inside the saloon was still redolent of the previous night's heavy drinking session, and even without the evidence of the empty whisky bottle which stood on the table, neither officer had any difficulty guessing why Harding had described himself as "sick." The muted light of the single gas-operated lamp served only to accentuate the hollows in his cheeks and the dark stubble around his unshaven jaw, and the brief glimpse they had of the tumbled sheets in the forward cabin before he closed the door left neither of them in any doubt that he'd spent most of the day sleeping off a ferocious hangover.

  "What kind of follow-up questions?" he asked, sliding onto a bench seat at the side of the table and gesturing them to take the other.

  "Routine ones, Mr. Harding," said the superintendent.

  "About what?"

  "Yesterday's events."

  He pressed the heels of his palms against his lids and rotated them fiercely as if to drive out demons. "I don't know any more than I told the other guy," he said, eyes watering as he lowered his hands. "And most of that was what the boys told me. They reckoned she drowned and got left on the beach. Were they right?"

  "It certainly looks that way."

  He hunched forward over the table. "I'm thinking about making a complaint against that copper. He was bloody rude, made out me and the kids had something to do with the body being there. I didn't mind for myself so much, but I was pretty pissed off for the boys. They were scared of him. I mean, let's face it, it can't be much fun finding a corpse-and then to have some idiot in hobnailed boots making the whole situation worse..." He broke off with a shake of his head. "Matter of fact I think he was jealous. I was chatting up this bird when he came back, and he looked bloody furious about it. I reckon he fancies her himself, but he's such a dozy pillock he hasn't done anything about it."

  As neither Galbraith nor Carpenter rose in Ingram's defense, a silence fell during which the two policemen cast interested glances about the saloon. In other circumstances the light may well have been romantic, but to a couple of law officers intent on spotting anything that might connect its owner to a brutal rape and murder it was worse than useless. Too much of the interior was obscured by shadow, and if there was evidence that Kate and Hannah Sumner had been on board the previous Saturday then it wasn't obvious.

  "What do you want to know?" asked Harding then. He was watching John Galbraith as he spoke, and there was something in his eye-triumph? amusement?-that made Galbraith think the silence had been deliberate. He had given them an opportunity to look, and they had only themselves to blame if they were disappointed.

  "We understand you berthed in Salterns Marina on Saturday night and stayed there most of Sunday?" said Carpenter.

  "Yes."

  "What time did you tie up, Mr. Harding?"

  "I've no idea." He frowned. "Pretty late. What's that got to do with anything?"

  "Do you keep a log?"

  He glanced toward his chart table. "When I remember."

  "May I look at it?"

  "Why not?" He leaned over and retrieved a battered exercise book from the clutter of paper on the lid of the chart table. "It's hardly great literature." He handed it across.

  Carpenter read the last six entries.

  09 August 97.

  10.09

  Slipped mooring.

  "

  11:32

  Rounded Hurst Castle.

  10 August 97.

  02:17

  Berthed, Salterns Marina.

  "

  18:50

  Slipped mooring.

  "

  19:28

  Exited Poole Harbor.

  11 August 97.

  00.12

  Berthed, Lymington.

  "You certainly don't waste your words much, do you?" he murmured, flicking back through the pages to look at other entries. "Doesn't wind speed or course ever feature in your log?"

  "Not often."

  "Is there a reason for that?"

  The young man shrugged. "I know the course to everywhere on the south coast, so I don't need to keep reminding myself, and wind speed is wind speed. That's part of the beauty of it. Any journey takes as long as it takes. If you're the sort of impatient type who's only interested in arrivals, then sailing will drive you nuts. On a bad day it can take hours to go a few miles."

  "It says here you tied up in Salterns Marina at two seventeen on Sunday morning," said Carpenter.

  "Then I did."

  "It also says you left Lymington at ten oh-nine on Saturday morning." He did a quick calculation. "Which means it took you fourteen hours to sail approximately thirty miles. That's got to be a record, hasn't it? It works out at about two knots an hour. Is that as fast as this thing can go?"

  "It depends on the wind and the tide. On a good day I can do six knots, but the average is probably four. In fact I probably sailed sixty miles on Saturday because I was tacking most of the way." He yawned. "Like I said, it can take hours on a bad day, and Saturday was a bad day."

  "Why didn't you use your motor?"

  "I didn't want to. I wasn't in a hurry." His expression grew wary with suspicion. "What's this got to do with the woman on the beach?"

  "Probably nothing," said Carpenter easily. "We're just tying up some loose ends for the report." He paused, assessing the young man thoughtfully. "I've done a little sailing myself in the past," he said then, "and I'll be honest with you, I don't believe it took you fourteen hours to sail to Poole. If nothing else, the offshore winds as the land cooled in the late afternoon would have boosted your speed well over two knots. I think you sailed on past the Isle of Purbeck, perhaps with the intention of going to Weymouth, and only turned back to Poole when you realized how late it was getting. Am I right?"

  "No. I hove to off Christchurch for a few hours to do some fishing and have a nap. That's why it took so long."

  Carpenter didn't believe him. "Two minutes ago you gave tacking as the explanation. Now you're claiming a fishing break. Which was it?"

  "Both. Tacking and fishing."

  "Why isn't it in your log?"

  "It wasn't important."

  Carpenter nodded. "Your approach to time seems a little"-he sought a suitable word-"individualistic, Mr. Harding. For example, you told the police officer yesterday that you were planning to walk to Lulworth Cove, but Lulworth's a good twenty-five miles from Salterns Marina, fifty in total if you intended to walk back again. That's an ambitious distance for a twelve-hour hike, isn't it, bearing in mind you told the harbormaster at Sa
lterns Marina you'd be back by late afternoon?"

  Harding's eyes gleamed with sudden amusement. "It doesn't look nearly as far by sea," he said.

  "Did you make it to Lulworth?"

  "Like hell I did!" he said with a laugh. "I was completely whacked by the time I reached Chapman's Pool."

  "Could that be because you travel light?"

  "I don't understand."

  "You were carrying a mobile telephone, Mr. Harding, but nothing else. In other words you set out on a fifty-mile hike on one of the hottest days of the year with no fluids, no money, no sunscreen protection, no additional clothes if you started to burn, no hat. Are you usually so careless about your health?"

  He pulled a wry face. "Look, all right it was stupid. I admit it. That's the reason I turned back after your bloke drove the kids away. If you're interested, the return journey took twice as long as the journey out because I was so damn knackered."

  "About four hours then," suggested DI Galbraith.

  "More like six. I started after they left, which was twelve thirty near enough, and got to the marina around six fifteen. I drank about a gallon of water, had something to eat, then set off for Lymington maybe half an hour later."

  "So the hike out to Chapman's Pool took three hours?" said Galbraith.

  "Something like that."

  "Which means you must have left the marina shortly after seven thirty to be able to make the emergency call at ten forty-three."

  "If you say so."

  "I don't say so at all, Steve. Our information is that you were paying for your berth at eight o'clock, which means you couldn't have left the marina until several minutes later."

  Harding linked his hands behind his head and stared across the table at the inspector. "Okay, I left at eight," he said. "What's the big deal?"

  "The big deal is there's no way you could have hiked sixteen miles along a rough coastal path in two and a half hours"-he paused, holding Harding's gaze-"and that includes the time you must have lost waiting for the ferry."

  There was no hesitation in his reply. "I didn't go along the coastal path, or not to start off with anyway," he said. "I hitched a lift with a couple on the ferry who were heading for the country park near Durlston Head. They dropped me off by the gates leading up to the lighthouse, and I got onto the path there."

  "What time was that?"

  He shifted his gaze to the ceiling. "Ten forty-three minus however long it takes to jog from Durlston Head to Chapman's Pool, I suppose. Look, the first time I remember checking my watch yesterday was just before I made the nine-nine-nine call. Up until then I couldn't have given a toss what time it was." He looked at Galbraith again, and there was irritation in his dark eyes. "I hate being ruled by the bloody clock. It's social terrorism to force people to conform to arbitrary evaluations of how long something should take. That's why I like sailing. Time's irrelevant, and there's bugger all you can do about it."

  "What sort of car did the couple drive?" asked Carpenter, unmoved by the young man's flights of philosophical fancy.

  "I don't know. A sedan of some sort. I don't notice cars."

  "What color?"

  "Blue, I think."

  "What were the couple like?"

  "We didn't talk much. They had a Manic Street Preachers album on tape. We listened to that."

  "Can you describe them, Mr. Harding?"

  "Not really. They were ordinary. I spent most of the time looking at the backs of their heads. She had blond hair, and he had dark hair." He reached for the whisky bottle and rolled it between his palms, beginning to lose his patience. "Why the hell are you asking me these questions anyway? What the fuck does it matter how long it took me to get from A to B, or who I met along the way? Does everyone who dials nine-nine-nine get the third degree?"

  "Just tying loose ends, sir."

  "So you said."

  "Wouldn't it be truer to say that Chapman's Pool was your destination, and not Lulworth Cove?"

  "No."

  A silence developed. Carpenter stared fixedly at Harding while he continued to play with the whisky bottle. "Were there any passengers on board your boat on Saturday?" he asked then.

  "No."

  "Are you sure about that, sir?"

  "Of course I'm bloody sure. Don't you think I'd have noticed them? It's hardly the QE2, is it?"

  Carpenter leafed idly through the logbook. "Do you ever carry passengers?"

  "That's none of your business."

  "Maybe not, but we've been led to believe you're a bit of a lad." He lifted an amused eyebrow. "Legend has it that you regularly entertain ladies on board. I'm wondering if you ever take them sailing with you"-he jerked his head toward the cabin-"or does all the action take place in there when you're moored up to your buoy?"

  Harding took time to consider his answer. "I take some of them out," he admitted at last.

  "How often?"

  Another long pause. "Once a month, maybe."

  Carpenter slapped the exercise book onto the table and drummed his fingers on it. "Then why is there no mention of them in here? Surely you have a responsibility to record the names of everyone on board in case of an accident? Or perhaps you don't care that someone might drown because the coastguards assume you're the only person they're looking for?"

  "That's ridiculous," said Harding dismissively. "The boat would have to turn turtle for a scenario like that, and the log'd be lost anyway."

  "Have any of your passengers ever gone overboard?"

  Harding shook his head but didn't say anything. His eyes flickered with open suspicion from one man to the other, tasting their mood in the way a snake flicks his tongue to taste scent on the air. There was something very studied about every movement he made, and Galbraith regarded him objectively, mindful that he was an actor. He had the impression that Harding was enjoying himself, but he couldn't think why this should be unless Harding had no idea the investigation involved rape and murder and was merely using the experience of an interrogation to practice "method-acting" techniques.

  "Do you know a woman by the name of Kate Sumner?" asked Carpenter next.

  Harding pushed the bottle aside and leaned forward aggressively. "What if I do?"

  "That's not an answer to my question. Let me repeat it. Do you know a woman by the name of Kate Sumner?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you know her well?"

  "Well enough."

  "How well is well enough?"

  "None of your bloody business."

  "Wrong answer, Steve. It's very much our business. It was her body you saw being winched into the helicopter."

  His reaction surprised them.

  "I had a feeling it might be," he said.

  *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 we
re 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.