The Breaker.

by Minette Walters.

Dorset: county of southwestern England, bordered to the south by the seas of the English Channel, to the east by the county of Hampshire, and to the west by the county of Devon. Some 100 miles southwest of London, Dorset's total area, mainly rural, is approximately 1,000 square miles. Urban development along the coastline is centered on the seaside resorts of Bournemouth and Poole, and farther to the west on Weymouth and Portland. West Dorset (main town-Dorchester) has been immortalized as Wessex in the writings of Thomas Hardy and was the scene of the Tolpuddle martyrs' historic stand for organized labor in the nineteenth century. The Isle of Purbeck, a small peninsula to the southwest of Poole (main town-Swanage) is an isolated area of great beauty, home to Purbeck marble and the magnificent medieval ruins of Corfe Castle.

While Scotland Yard still maintains links between British law-enforcement agencies and Interpol, its responsibilities are now limited to metropolitan London. In the forty-six counties of England, the responsibility for serious cases is borne by county constabulary headquarters, and it is these areas of excellence which take the lead in provincial murders. It should always be remembered that nowhere in England is very far from anywhere else-for example, Lymington, in Hampshire, is only thirty-odd miles from Poole, in Dorset-however, local knowledge is always invaluable, and in this story I have given a starring role to Police Constable Ingram, a uniformed constable in a tiny police station on the Isle of Purbeck, who may-or may not?- know what he's talking about. Dorset Constabulary HQ (familiarly known as Winfrith) is located equidistantly between Poole and Dorchester, and is home to my fictional heavyweights, Detective Superintendent Carpenter and Detective Inspector Galbraith.

-Minette Walters.

Sunday, 10 August 1997-1:45 A.M.

She drifted with the waves, falling off their rolling backs and waking to renewed agony every time salt water seared down her throat and into her stomach. During intermittent periods of lucidity when she revisited, always with astonishment, what had happened to her, it was the deliberate breaking of her fingers that remained indelibly printed on her memory, and not the brutality of her rape.

Sunday, 10 August 1997-5:00 A.M.

The child sat cross-legged on the floor like a miniature statue of Buddha, the gray dawn light leeching her flesh of color. He had no feelings for her, not even common humanity, but he couldn't bring himself to touch her. She watched him as solemnly as he watched her, and he was enthralled by her immobility. He could break her neck as easily as a chicken's, but he fancied he saw an ancient wisdom in her concentrated gaze, and the idea frightened him. Did she know what he'd done?

Prologue.

The most widely held view is that rape is an exercise in male domination, a pathological assertion of power, usually performed out of anger against the entire sex or frustration with a specific individual. By forcing a woman to accept penetration, the man is demonstrating not only his superior strength but his right to sow his seed wherever and whenever he chooses. This has elevated the rapist to a creature of legendary proportions-demoniacal, dangerous, predatory-and the fact that few rapists merit such labels is secondary to the fear the legend inspires.

In a high percentage of cases (including domestic, date and gang rape) the rapist is an inadequate individual who seeks to bolster poor self-image by attacking someone he perceives to be weaker than himself. He is a man of low intelligence, few social skills, and with a profound sense of his own inferiority in his dealings with the rest of society. A deepseated fear of women is more common to the rapist than a feeling of superiority, and this may well lie in early failure to make successful relationships.

Pornography becomes a means to an end for such a person because masturbation is as necessary to him as the regular fix is to a heroin addict. Without orgasm the sex-fixator experiences nothing. However, his obsessive nature, coupled with his lack of achievement, will make him an unattractive mate to the sort of woman his inferiority complex demands, namely a woman who attracts successful men. If he has a relationship at all, his partner will be someone who has been used and abused by other men, which only exacerbates his feelings of inadequacy and inferiority.

It could be argued that the rapist, a man of limited intelligence, limited sensation, and limited ability to function, is more to be pitied than feared, because his danger lies in the easy ascendancy society has given him over the so-called weaker sex. Every time judges and newspapers demonize and mythologize the rapist as a dangerous predator, they merely reinforce the idea that the penis is a symbol of power... -Helen Barry, The Mind of a Rapist *1*

The woman lay on her back on the pebble foreshore at the foot of Houns-tout Cliff, staring at the cloudless sky above, her pale blond hair drying into a frizz of tight curls in the hot sun. A smear of sand across her abdomen gave the impression of wispy clothing, but the brown circles of her nipples and the hair sprouting at her crotch told anyone who cared to look that she was naked. One arm curved languidly around her head while the other rested palm-up on the sea-washed pebbles, the fingers curling in the tiny wavelets that bubbled over them as the tide rose; her legs, opened shamelessly in relaxation, seemed to invite the sun's warmth to penetrate directly into her body.

Above her loomed the grim shale escarpment of Houns-tout Cliff, irregularly striped with the hardy vegetation that clung to its ledges. So often shrouded in mist and rain during the autumn and winter, it looked benign in the brilliant summer sunlight. A mile away to the west, on the Dorset Coast Path that hugged the clifftops to Weymouth, a party of hikers approached at a leisurely pace, pausing every now and then to watch cormorants and shags plummet into the sea like tiny guided missiles. To the east, on the path to Swanage, a single male walker passed the Norman chapel on St. Alban's Head on his way to the rock-girt crucible of Chapman's Pool, whose clear blue waters made an attractive anchorage when the wind was light and offshore. Because of the steep hills that surround it, pedestrian visitors to its beaches were rare, but at lunchtime on a fine weekend upwards of ten boats rode at anchor there, bobbing in staggered formation as the gentle swells passed under each in turn.

A single boat, a thirty-two-foot Princess, had already nosed in through the entrance channel, and the rattle of its anchor chain over its idling engines carried clearly on the air. Not far behind, the bow of a Fairline Squadron carved through the race off St. Alban's Head, giving the yachts that wallowed lazily in the light winds a wide berth in its progress toward the bay. It was a quarter past ten on one of the hottest Sundays of the year, but out of sight around Egmont Point the naked sunbather appeared oblivious to both the shimmering heat and the increasing likelihood of company.

The Spender brothers, Paul and Daniel, had spotted the nudist as they rounded the Point with their fishing rods, and they were now perched precariously on an unstable ledge some hundred feet above her and to her right. They took turns looking at her through their father's expensive binoculars, which they had smuggled out of the rented holiday cottage in a bundle of T-shirts, rods, and tackle. It was the middle weekend of their two weeks' holiday, and as far as the elder brother was concerned, fishing had only ever been a pretext. This remote part of the Isle of Purbeck held little attraction for an awakening adolescent, having few inhabitants, fewer distractions, and no sandy beaches. His intention had always been to spy on bikini-clad women draped over the expensive motor cruisers in Chapman's Pool.

"Mum said we weren't to climb the cliffs because they're dangerous," whispered Danny, the virtuous ten-year-old, less interested than his brother in the sight of bare flesh.

"Shut up."

"She'd kill us if she knew we were looking at a nudie."

"You're just scared because you've never seen one before."

"Neither've you," muttered the younger boy indignantly. "Anyway, she's a dirty person. I bet loads of people can see her."

Paul, the elder by two years, treated this remark with the scorn it deserved-they hadn't passed a soul on their way around Chapman's Pool. Instead, he concentrated on the wonderfully accessible body below. He couldn't see much of the woman's face because she was lying with her feet pointing toward them, but the magnification of the lenses was so powerful that he could see every other detail of her. He was too ignorant of the naked female form to question the bruises that blotched her skin, but he knew afterward that he wouldn't have questioned them anyway, even if he'd known what they meant. He had fantasized about something like this happening-discovering a quiescent, unmoving woman who allowed him to explore her at his leisure, if only through binoculars. He found the soft flow of her breasts unbearably erotic and dwelled at length on her nipples, wondering what it would be like to touch them and what would happen if he did. Lovingly he traversed the length of her midriff, pausing on the dimple of her belly button, before returning to what interested him most, her opened legs and what lay between them. He crawled forward on his elbows, writhing his body.

"What are you doing?" demanded Danny suspiciously, crawling up beside him. "Are you being dirty?"

" 'Course not." He gave the boy a savage thump on the arm. "That's all you ever think about, isn't it? Being dirty. You'd better watch it, penis-brain, or I'll tell Dad on you."

In the inevitable fight that followed-a grunting, red-faced brawl of hooked arms and kicking feet-the Zeiss binoculars slipped from the elder brother's grasp and clattered down the slope, dislodging an avalanche of shale in the process. The boys, united in terror of what their father was going to say, abandoned the fight to wriggle back from the brink and stare in dismay after the binoculars.

"It's your fault if they're broken," hissed the ten-year-old. "You're the one who dropped them."

But for once his brother didn't rise to the bait. He was more interested in the body's continued immobility. With an awful sense of foreboding it dawned on him that he'd been masturbating over a dead woman.

*2*

The clear waters of Chapman's Pool heaved in an undulating roll to break in rippling foam around the pebble shore of the bay. By now three boats were anchored there, two flying the red ensign-Lady Rose, the Princess, and Gregory's Girl, the Fairline Squadron; the third, Mirage, a French Beneteau, flew the tricolor. Only Gregory's Girl showed any sign of real activity, with a man and a woman struggling to release a dinghy whose winching wires had become jammed in the ratchet mechanism of the davits. On Lady Rose, a scantily clad couple lounged on the flying bridge, bodies glistening with oil, eyes closed against the sun, while on Mirage, a teenage girl held a video camera to her eye and panned idly up the steep grassy slope of West Hill, searching for anything worth filming.

No one noticed the Spender brothers' mad dash around the bay, although the French girl did zoom in on the lone male walker as he descended the hillside toward them. Seeing only with the tunnel vision of the camera, she was oblivious to anything but the handsome young man in her sight, and her smitten heart gave a tiny leap of excitement at the thought of another chance encounter with the beautiful Englishman. She had met him two days before at the Berthon Marina in Lymington, when with a gleaming smile he'd told her the computer code for the lavatories, and she couldn't believe her good luck that he was here ... today ... in this shit-hole of boring isolation which her parents described as one of England's gems.

To her starved imagination he looked like a longer-haired version of Jean-Claude Van Damme in his sleeveless T-shirt and bottom-hugging shorts-tanned, muscled, sleek dark hair swept back from his face, smiling brown eyes, grittily stubbled jaw-and in the narrative tale of her own life, romanticized, embellished, unbelievably innocent, she pictured herself swooning in his strong arms and capturing his heart. Through the intimacy of magnification she watched his muscles ripple as he lowered his rucksack to the ground, only for the lens to fill abruptly with the frantic movements of the Spender brothers. With an audible groan, she switched off the camera and stared in disbelief at the prancing children, who, from a distance, appeared to be showing enthusiastic delight.

Surely he was too young to be anybody's father?

But ... A Gallic shrug...

Who knew with the English?

Behind the questing mongrel which zigzagged energetically in pursuit of a scent, the horse picked its way carefully down the track that led from Hill Bottom to the Pool. Tarmac showed in places where the track had once been a road, and one or two sketchy foundations among the overgrown vegetation beside it spoke of buildings long abandoned and demolished. Maggie Jenner had lived in this area most of her life but had never known why the handful of inhabitants in this corner of the Isle of Purbeck had gone away and left their dwellings to the ravages of time. Someone had told her once that "chapman" was an archaic word for merchant or peddler, but what anyone could have traded in this remote place she couldn't imagine. Perhaps, more simply, a peddler had drowned in the bay and bequeathed his death to posterity. Every time she took this path she reminded herself to find out, but every time she made her way home again she forgot.

The cultivated gardens that had once bloomed here had left a lingering legacy of roses, hollyhocks, and hydrangeas amid the weeds and grasses, and she thought how pleasant it would be to have a house in this colorful wilderness, facing southwest toward the channel with only her dog and her horses for company. Because of the threat of the ever-sliding cliffs, access to Chapman's Pool was denied to motorized traffic by padlocked gates at Hill Bottom and Kingston, and the attraction of so much stillness was a powerful one. But then isolation and its attendant solitude was becoming something of an obsession with her, and occasionally it worried her.

Even as the thought was in her head, she heard the sound of an approaching vehicle, grinding in first gear over the bumps and hollows behind her, and gave a surprised whistle to bring Bertie to heel behind Sir Jasper. She turned in the saddle, assuming it was a tractor, and frowned at the approaching police Range Rover. It slowed as it drew level with her, and she recognized Nick Ingram at the wheel before, with a brief smile of acknowledgment, he drove on and left her to follow in his dusty wake.

The emergency services had rushed into action following a nine-nine-nine call to the police from a mobile telephone. It was timed at 10:43 a.m. The caller gave his name as Steven Harding and explained that he had come across two boys who claimed a body was lying on the beach at Egmont Bight. The details were confused because the boys omitted to mention that the woman was naked, and their obvious distress and garbled speech led Harding to give the impression that "the lady on the beach" was their mother and had fallen from the cliff while using a pair of binoculars. As a result the police and coastguards acted on the presumption that she was still alive.

Because of the difficulty of retrieving a badly injured person from the foreshore, the coastguards dispatched a Search and Rescue helicopter from Portland to winch her off. Meanwhile, PC Nick Ingram, diverted from a burglary investigation, approached via the track that skirted the inappropriately named West Hill on the eastern side of Chapman's Pool. He had had to use bolt cutters to slice through the chain on the gate at Hill Bottom, and as he abandoned his Range Rover on the hard standing beside the fishermen's boat sheds, he was hoping fervently that rubberneckers wouldn't grab the opportunity to follow him. He was in no mood to marshal petulant sightseers.

The only access from the boat sheds to the beach where the woman lay was by the same route the boys had taken-on foot around the bay, followed by a scramble over the rocks at Egmont Point. To a man in uniform, it was a hot and sweaty business, and Nick Ingram, who stood over six feet four inches and weighed upward of 240 pounds, was drenched by the time he reached the body. He bent forward, hands on knees, to recover his breath, listening to the deafening sound of the approaching SAR helicopter and feeling its wind on his damp shirt. He thought it a hideous intrusion into what was obviously a place of death. Despite the heat of the sun, the woman's skin was cold to the touch, and her widely staring eyes had begun to film. He was struck by how tiny she seemed, lying alone at the bottom of the cliff, and how sad her miniature hand looked waving in the spume.

Her nudity surprised him, the more so when it required only the briefest of glances about the beach to reveal a complete absence of towels, clothes, footwear, or possessions. He noticed bruising on her arms, neck, and chest, but it was more consistent with being tumbled over rocks on an incoming tide, he thought, than with a dive off a clifftop. He stooped again over the body, looking for anything that would indicate how it had got there, then retreated rapidly as the descending stretcher spiraled dangerously close to his head.

The noise of the helicopter and the amplified voice of the winch operator calling instructions to the man below had attracted sightseers. The party of hikers gathered on the clifftop to watch the excitement, while the yachtsmen in Chapman's Pool motored out of the bay in their dinghies to do the same. A spirit of revelry was abroad because everyone assumed the rescue wouldn't have happened unless the woman was still alive, and a small cheer went up as the stretcher rose in the air. Most thought she'd fallen from the cliff; a few thought she might have floated out of Chapman's Pool on an inflatable airbed and got into difficulties. No one guessed she'd been murdered.

Except, perhaps, Nick Ingram, who transferred the tiny, stiffening body to the stretcher and felt a dreadful anger burn inside him because Death had stolen a pretty woman's dignity. As always, the victory belonged to the thief and not to the victim.

As requested by the nine-nine-nine operator, Steven Harding shepherded the boys down the hill to the police car, which was parked beside the boat sheds, where they waited with varying degrees of patience until its occupant returned. The brothers, who had sunk into an exhausted silence after their mad dash around Chapman's Pool, wanted to be gone, but they were intimidated by their companion, a twenty-four-year-old actor, who took his responsibilities in loco parentis seriously.

He kept a watchful eye on his uncommunicative charges (too shocked to speak, he thought) while trying to cheer them up with a running commentary of what he could see of the rescue. He peppered his conversation with expressions like: "You're a couple of heroes..." "Your mum's going to be really proud of you..." "She's a lucky lady to have two such sensible sons..." But it wasn't until the helicopter flew toward Poole and he turned to them with a smile of encouragement, saying: "There you are, you can stop worrying now. Mum's in safe hands," that they realized his mistake. It hadn't occurred to either of them that what appeared to be general remarks about their own mother applied specifically to "the lady on the beach."

"She's not our mum," said Paul, dully.

"Our mum's going to be really angry," supplied Danny in his piping treble, emboldened by his brother's willingness to abandon the prolonged silence. "She said if we were late for lunch she'd make us eat bread and water for a week." (He was an inventive child.) "She's going to be even angrier when I tell her it's because Paul wanted to look at a nudie."

"Shut up," said his brother.

"And he made me climb the cliff so he could get a better look. Dad's going to kill him for ruining the binoculars."

"Shut up."

"Yeah, well, it's all your fault. You shouldn't have dropped them. Penis-brain!" Danny added snidely, in the safe knowledge that their companion would protect him.

Harding watched tears of humiliation gather in the older boy's eyes. It didn't take much reading of the references to "nudie," "better look," "binoculars," and "penis-brain" to come up with a close approximation of the facts. "I hope she was worth it," he said matter-of-factly. "The first naked woman I ever saw was so old and ugly, it was three years before I wanted to look at another one. She lived in the house next to us, and she was as fat and wrinkled as an elephant."

"What was the next one like?" asked Danny with the sequential logic of a ten-year-old.

Harding exchanged a glance with the elder brother. "She had nice tits," he told Paul with a wink.

"So did this one," said Danny obligingly.

"Except she was dead," said his brother.

"She probably wasn't, you know. It's not always easy to tell when someone's dead."

"She was," said Paul despondently. "Me and Danny went down to get the binoculars back." He unraveled his bundled T-shirt to reveal the badly scratched casing of a pair of Zeiss binoculars. "I-well, I checked to make sure. I think she drowned and got left there by the tide." He fell into an unhappy silence again.

"He was going to give her mouth-to-mouth," said Danny, "but her eyes were nasty, so he didn't."

Harding cast another glance in the older brother's direction, this time sympathetic. "The police will need to identify her," he said matter-of-factly, "so they'll probably ask you to describe her." He ruffled Danny's hair. "It might be better not to mention nasty eyes or nice tits when you do it."

Danny pulled away. "I won't."

The man nodded. "Good boy." He took the binoculars from Paul and examined the lenses carefully before pointing them at the Beneteau in Chapman's Pool. "Did you recognize her?" he asked.

"No," said Paul uncomfortably.

"Was she an old lady?"

"No."

"Pretty?"

Paul wriggled his shoulders. "I guess so."

"Not fat then?"

"No. She was very little, and she had blond hair."

Harding brought the yacht into sharp focus. "They're built like tanks, these things," he murmured, traversing the sights across the bay. "Okay, the bodywork's a bit scratched, but there's nothing wrong with the lenses. Your dad won't be that angry."

Maggie Jenner would never have become involved if Bertie had responded to her whistle, but like all dogs he was deaf when he wanted to be. She had dismounted when the noise of the helicopter alarmed the horse, and natural curiosity had led her to walk him on down the hill while the rescue was under way. The three of them rounded the boat sheds together, and Bertie, overexcited by all the confusion, made a beeline for Paul Spender's crotch, shoving his nose against the boy's shorts and breathing in with hearty enthusiasm.

Maggie whistled, and was ignored. "Bertie!" she called. "Come here, boy'."

The dog was a huge, fearsome-looking brute, the result of a night on the tiles by an Irish wolfhound bitch, and saliva drooled in great white gobbets from his jaws. With a flick of his hairy head, he splattered spittle across Paul's shorts and the terrified child froze in alarm.

"Bertie!"

"It's all right," said Harding, grabbing the dog by the collar and pulling him off, "he's only being friendly." He rubbed the dog's head. "Aren't you, boy?"

Unconvinced, the brothers retreated rapidly to the other side of the police car.

"They've had a tough morning," explained Harding, clicking his tongue encouragingly and walking Bertie back to his mistress. "Will he stay put if I let him go?"

"Not in this mood," she said, pulling a lead from her back trouser pocket and clipping one end into the collar before attaching the other end to the nearest stirrup. "My brother's two boys adore him, and he doesn't understand that the rest of the world doesn't view him in quite the same way." She smiled. "You must have dogs yourself, either that or you're very brave. Most people run a mile."

"I grew up on a farm," he said, stroking Sir Jasper's nose and studying her with frank admiration.

She was a good ten years older than he was, tall and slim with shoulder-length dark hair and deep brown eyes that narrowed suspiciously under his assessing gaze. She knew exactly what type she was dealing with when he looked pointedly at her left hand for the wedding ring that wasn't there. "Well, thanks for your help," she said rather brusquely. "I can manage on my own now."

He stood back immediately. "Good luck then," he said. "It was nice meeting you."

She was all too aware that her distrust of men had now reached pathological proportions, and wondered guiltily if she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion. "I hope your boys weren't too frightened," she said rather more warmly.

He gave an easy laugh. "They're not mine," he told her. "I'm just looking after them till the police get back. They found a dead woman on the beach, so they're pretty shook up, poor kids. You'd be doing them a favor if you persuaded them Bertie's just an overgrown hearth rug. I'm not convinced that adding canophobia to necrophobia all in one morning is good psychology."

She looked undecidedly toward the police car. The boys did look frightened, she thought, and she didn't particularly want the responsibility of inspiring a lifelong fear of dogs in them.

"Why don't we invite them over," he suggested, sensing her hesitation, "and let them pat him while he's under control? It'll only take a minute or two."

"All right," she agreed halfheartedly, "if you think it would help." But it was against her better judgment. She had the feeling that once again she was being drawn into something she wouldn't be able to control.

It was after midday by the time PC Ingram returned to his car to find Maggie Jenner, Steven Harding, and the Spender brothers waiting beside it. Sir Jasper and Bertie stood at a distance, secure in the shade of a tree, and the aesthete in Nick Ingram could only admire the way the woman displayed herself. Sometimes he thought she had no idea how attractive she was; other times, like now, when she placed herself side by side with natural, equine, and human beauty, demanding comparison, he suspected the pose was deliberate. He mopped his forehead with a large white handkerchief, wondering irritably who the Chippendale was and how both he and Maggie managed to look so cool in the intolerable heat of that Sunday morning. They were looking at him and laughing, and he assumed, in the eternal way of human nature, they were laughing at him.

"Good morning, Miss Jenner," he said with exaggerated politeness.

She gave a small nod in return. "Nick."

He turned inquiringly to Harding. "Can I help you, sir?"

"I don't think so," said the young man with an engaging smile. "I think we're supposed to be helping you."

Ingram was Dorsetshire born and bred and had no time for wankers in dinky shorts, sporting artificial tans. "In what way?" There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice that made Maggie Jenner frown at him.

"I was asked to bring these boys to the police car when I made the emergency call. They're the ones who found the dead woman." He clapped his hands across their shoulders. "They're a couple of heroes. Maggie and I have just been telling them they deserve medals."

The "Maggie" wasn't lost on Ingram, although he questioned her enthusiasm for being on Christian-name terms with such an obvious poser. She had better taste, he thought. Ponderously, he shifted his attention to Paul and Danny Spender. The message he had received couldn't have been clearer. Two boys had reported seeing their mother fall from a cliff while using a pair of binoculars. He knew as soon as he saw the body-not enough bruises-that it couldn't have fallen, and looking at the boys now-too relaxed-he doubted the rest of the information. "Did you know the woman?" he asked them.