"There she is," he said, jerking his head to the left while he lifted his inflatable clear of the waterline, "but God only knows what she's doing out here. People don't abandon perfectly good dinghies for no reason."

Galbraith shook his head in amazement. "How the hell did you spot it?" he asked, gazing up at the sheer cliffs above them and thinking it must have been like looking for a needle in a haystack.

"It wasn't easy," Ingram admitted, leading the way toward it. "More to the point, how the hell did it survive the rocks?" He stooped over the upturned hull. "It must have come in like this, or its bottom would have been ripped out, and that means there won't be anything left inside. Still"-he raised an inquiring eyebrow-"shall we turn it over?"

With a nod, Galbraith grasped the stern board while Ingram took a tuck in the rubber at the bow. They set it right-way-up with difficulty because the lack of air meant there was no rigidity in the structure and it collapsed in on itself like a deflated balloon. A tiny crab scuttled out from underneath and slipped into a nearby rock pool. As Ingram had predicted, there was nothing inside except the wooden floorboards and the remains of a wooden seat, which had snapped in the middle, probably on its journey to and fro across the rocks. Nevertheless, it was a substantial dinghy, about ten feet long and four feet wide, with its stern board intact.

Ingram pointed to the indentations where the screw clamps of an outboard motor had bitten into the wood, then squatted on his haunches to examine two metal rings screwed into the transom planking aft and a single ring screwed into the floorboarding at the bow. "It's been hung from davits off the back of a boat at some point. These rings are for attaching the wires before it's winched up tight against the davit arms. That way it doesn't swing about while the host boat's in motion." He searched the outside of the hull for any sign of a name, but there was none. He looked up at Galbraith, squinting against the setting sun. "There's no way this dropped off the back of a cruiser without anyone noticing. Both winching wires would have to snap at the same moment, and the chances of that happening would be minimal, I should think. If only one wire snapped-the stern wire, for example-you'd have a heavy object swinging like a pendulum behind you, and your steering would go haywire. At which point you'd slow right down and find out what the problem was." He paused. "In any case, if the wires had sheared they'd still be attached to the rings."

"Go on."

"I'd say it's more likely it was launched off a trailer, which means we need to ask questions at Swanage, Kimmeridge Bay, or Lulworth." He stood up and glanced toward the west. "Unless it came out of Chapman's Pool, of course, and then we need to ask how it got there in the first place. There's no public access, so you can't just pull a trailer down and launch a dinghy for the fun of it." He rubbed his jaw. "It's curious, isn't it?"

"Couldn't you carry it down and pump it up in situ?"

"It depends how strong you are. They weigh a ton, these things." He stretched his arms like a fisherman sizing a fish. "They come in huge canvas holdalls, but trust me, you need two people to carry them any distance, and it's a good mile from Hill Bottom to the Chapman's Pool slip."

"What about the boat sheds? The SOCOs took photographs of the whole bay and there are plenty of dinghies parked on the hard standing beside the sheds. Could it be one of those?"

"Only if it was nicked. The fishermen who use the boat sheds wouldn't abandon a perfectly good dinghy. I haven't had any reports of one being stolen, but that might be because no one's noticed it's missing. I can run some checks tomorrow."

"Joyriders?" suggested Galbraith.

"I doubt it." Ingram touched his foot to the hull. "Not unless they fancied the hardest paddle of their life to get it out into the open sea. It couldn't have floated out on its own. The entrance channel's too narrow, and the thrust of the waves would have forced it back onto the rocks in the bay." He smiled at Galbraith's lack of comprehension. "You couldn't take it out without an engine," he explained, "and your average joyrider doesn't usually bring his own means of locomotion with him. People don't leave outboards lying around any more than they leave gold ingots. They're expensive items, so you keep them under lock and key. That also rules out your pumping up in situ theory. I can't see anyone lugging a dinghy and an outboard down to Chapman's Pool."

Galbraith eyed him curiously. "So?"

"I'm thinking on the hoof here, sir."

"Never mind. It sounds good. Keep going."

"If it was stolen out of Chapman's Pool, that makes it a premeditated theft. We're talking someone who was prepared to lug a heavy outboard along a mile-long path in order to nick a boat." He lifted his eyebrows. "Why would anyone want to do that? And, having done it, why abandon ship? It's a bit bloody odd, don't you think? How did they get back to shore?"

"Swam?"

"Maybe." Ingram's eyes narrowed to slits against the brilliant orange sun. He didn't speak for several seconds. "Or maybe they didn't have to," he said then. "Maybe they weren't in it." He lapsed into a thoughtful silence. "There's nothing wrong with the stern board, so the outboard should have pulled it under as soon as the sides started to deflate."

"What does that mean?"

"The outboard wasn't on it when it capsized."

Galbraith waited for him to go on, and when he didn't, he made impatient winding motions with his hand. "Come on, Nick. What are you getting at? I know sweet FA about boats."

The big man laughed. "Sorry. I was just wondering what a dinghy like this was doing in the middle of nowhere without an outboard."

"I thought you said it must have had one."

"I've changed my mind."

Galbraith gave a groan. "Do you want to stop talking in riddles, you bastard? I'm wet, I'm freezing to death here, and I could do with a drink."

Ingram laughed again. "I was only thinking that the most obvious way to take a stolen rib out of Chapman's Pool would be to tow it out, assuming you'd come in by boat in the first place."

"In which case, why would you want to steal one?"

Ingram stared down at the collapsed hull. "Because you'd raped a woman and left her half dead in it?" he suggested. "And you wanted to get rid of the evidence? I think you should get your scene-of-crime people out here to find out why it deflated. If there's a blade puncture, then I'd guess the intention was to have the boat and its contents founder in the open sea when the tow rope was released."

"So we're back to Harding?"

The constable shrugged. "He's your only suspect with a boat in the right place at the right time," he pointed out.

Tony Bridges listened to Steven Harding's interminable tirade against the police with growing irritation. His friend paced the sitting room in a rage, kicking at anything that got in his way and biting Tony's head off every time he tried to offer advice. Meanwhile, Bibi, a silent and frightened observer to their mounting anger, sat cross-legged on the floor at Tony's feet, hiding her feelings behind a curtain of thick blond hair and wondering whether it would make the situation better or worse if she announced her intention of going home.

Finally, Tony's patience snapped. "Get a grip before I bloody flatten you," he roared. "You're acting like a two-year-old. Okay, so the police arrested you. Big deal! Just be grateful they didn't find anything."

Steve slammed down into an armchair. "Who says they haven't? They've refused to release Crazy Daze ... my car's in a pound somewhere ... What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Get the solicitor onto it. That's what he's paid to do, for Christ's sake. Just don't keep bellyaching to us. It's fucking boring, apart from anything else. It's not our fault you went to Poole for the sodding weekend. You should have come to Southampton with us."

Bibi stirred uncomfortably on the floor at his feet. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again when caution prevailed. Anger was bubbling in the room like overheated yeast.

Harding slammed his feet onto the floor in a rage. "The solicitor's worse than useless, told me the bastards were entitled to hold evidence for as long as is necessary or some legalized crap like that..." His voice tailed off in a sob.

There was a long silence.

This time fondness for Tony's friend got the better of caution, and nervously Bibi raised her head. She scraped a gap in her hair to look at him. "But if you didn't do it," she said in her soft, rather childish way, "then I don't see what you're worrying about."

"Right," agreed Tony. "They can't prosecute you without evidence, and if they've released you then there isn't any evidence. QED."

"I want my phone," said Harding, surging to his feet again with crackling energy. "What did you do with it?"

"Left it with Bob," said Tony. "Like you told me to do."

"Has he put it on charge?"

"I wouldn't know. I haven't spoken to him since Monday. He was pretty stoned when I gave it to him, so the chances are he's forgotten all about it."

"That's all I need." The angry young man launched a kick at one of the walls.

Bridges took a pull at his lager can, eyeing his friend thoughtfully over the top of it. "What's so important about the phone?"

"Nothing."

"Then leave my fucking walls alone!" he bellowed, surging out of his own chair and thrusting his face into Harding's. "Show some respect, you bastard! This is my house, not your crappy little boat."

"Stop it!" screamed Bibi, cowering back behind the chair. "What's wrong with you both? One of you's going to get hurt in a minute."

Harding frowned down at her, then held up his hands. "All right, all right. I'm expecting a call. That's why I'm twitched."

"Then use the phone in the hall," said Bridges curtly, flinging himself into the armchair again.

"No." He backed toward the wall and leaned against it. "What did the police ask you?"

"What you'd expect. How well you knew Kate ... whether I thought the harassment was genuine ... whether I saw you on Saturday ... where I was ... what kind of pornography you were into..." He shook his head. "I knew that garbage would come back to haunt you."

"Leave it out," said Harding tiredly. "I told you I'd had enough of your bloody lectures on Monday. What did you tell them?"

Tony frowned warningly at Bibi's bent head, then touched a hand to the back of her neck. "Do you want to do me a favor, Beebs? Hop down to the off-license and get an eight-pack. There's some money on the shelf in the hall."

She rose to her feet with obvious relief. "Sure. Why not? I'll leave them in the hall, then go home. Okay?" She held out a reluctant hand. "I'm really tired, Tony, and I could do with a decent night's kip. You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not." He gripped her fingers for a moment, squeezing them hard. "Just so long as you love me, Beebs."

She tore herself free, cradling her hand under her arm, and made for the hall. "You know I do."

He didn't speak again until he heard the front door close behind her. "You want to be careful what you say around her," he warned Harding. "She had to give a statement, too, and it's not fair to get her any more involved than she is already."

"Okay, okay ... So what did you tell them?"

"Aren't you more interested in what I didn't tell them?"

"If you like."

"Right. Well, I didn't tell them you shagged Kate's brains out."

Harding breathed deeply through his nose. "Why not?"

"I thought about it," Bridges admitted, reaching for a packet of Rizla papers on the floor and setting about rolling himself a joint. "But I know you too well, mate. You're an arrogant son of a bitch with an overinflated opinion of yourself-" he squinted up at his friend with a return of good humor in his eyes-"but I can't see you murdering anyone, particularly not a woman, and never mind she was pissing you off something rotten. So I kept shtoom." He gave an eloquent shrug. "But if I live to regret it, I'll have your stinking hide ... and you'd better believe that."

"Did they tell you she was raped before she was murdered?"

Bridges gave a low whistle of understanding as if pieces of a jigsaw were finally coming together. "No wonder they were so interested in your porno shoots. Your average rapist's a sad bastard in a dirty raincoat who jerks off over that kind of trash." He pulled a plastic bag out from the recesses of his chair and started to fill the Rizla papers. "They must have had a field day with those photographs."

Harding shook his head. "I got rid of the lot over the side before they came. I didn't want any"-he thought about it-"confusion."

"Jesus, you're an arsehole! Why can't you be honest for once? You got shit-scared that if they had evidence of you performing sex acts with an underage kid, they'd have no trouble pinning a rape on you."

"It wasn't for real."

"Chucking the photos away was. You're an idiot, mate."

"Why?"

"Because you can bet your bottom dollar William will have mentioned photos. I sure as hell did. Now the filth will be wondering why they can't find any."

"So?"

"They'll know you were expecting a visit."

"So?" said Harding again.

Bridges cast him another thoughtful glance as he licked the edges of the spliff. "Look at it from their point of view. Why would you be expecting a visit if you didn't know it was Kate's body they'd found?"

*13*

We can go to the pub," said Ingram, locking Miss Creant onto her trailer behind his Jeep, "or I can give you some supper at home." He glanced at his watch. "It's nine thirty, so the pub'll be pretty raucous by now, and it'll be difficult to get anything to eat." He started to peel off his waterproofs, which still streamed water from his immersion in the sea. He had stood at the bottom of the slip as he had guided Miss Creant onto the trailer while Galbraith operated the winch. "Home, on the other hand," he said with a grin, "has drying facilities, a spectacular view, and silence."

"Do I get the impression you'd rather go home?" asked Galbraith with a yawn, levering off his inadequate waders and turning them upside down to empty them in a Niagara Falls over the slip. He was soaked from the waistband down.

"There's beer in the fridge, and I can grill you a fresh sea bass if you're interested."

"How fresh?"

"Still alive Monday night," said Ingram, taking some spare trousers from the back of the Jeep and tossing them across. "You can change in the lifeboat station."

"Cheers," said Galbraith, setting off in stockinged feet toward the gray stone building that guarded the ever-ready Swanage lifeboat, "and I'm interested," he called over his shoulder.

Ingram's cottage was a tiny two-up, two-down, backing onto the downs above Seacombe Cliff, although the two downstairs rooms had been knocked into one with an open-plan staircase rising out of the middle and a kitchen extension added to the back. It was clearly a bachelor establishment, and Galbraith surveyed it with approval. Too often, these days, he felt he still had to be persuaded of the joys of fatherhood.

"I envy you," he said, bending down to examine a meticulously detailed replica of the Cutty Sark in a bottle on the mantelpiece. "Did you make this yourself?"

Ingram nodded.

"It wouldn't last half an hour in my house. I reckon anything I ever had of value was smashed within hours of my son getting his first football." He chuckled. "He keeps telling me he's going to make a fortune playing for Manchester United, but I can't see it myself."

"How old is he?" asked Ingram, leading the way through to the kitchen.

"Seven. His sister's five."

The tall constable took the sea bass from the fridge, then tossed Galbraith a beer and opened one for himself. "I'd have liked children," he said, splitting the fish down its belly, filleting out the backbone, and splaying it spatchcock fashion on the grillpan. He was neat and quick in his movements, despite his size. "Trouble is I never found a woman who was prepared to hang around long enough to give me any."

Galbraith remembered what Steven Harding had said on Monday night about Ingram fancying the woman with the horse and wondered if it was more a case of the right woman not hanging around long enough. "A guy like you'd do well anywhere," he said, watching him take some chives and basil from an array of herbs on his windowsill and chop them finely before sprinkling them over the sea bass. "So what's keeping you here?"

"You mean apart from the great view and the clean air?"

"Yes."

Ingram pushed the fish to one side and started washing the mud off some new potatoes before chucking them into a saucepan. "That's it," he said. "Great view, clean air, a boat, fishing, contentment."

"What about ambition? Don't you get frustrated? Feel you're standing still?"

"Sometimes. Then I remember how much I hated the rat race when I was in it, and the frustrations pass." He glanced at Galbraith with a self-deprecating smile. "I did five years with an insurance company before I became a policeman, and I hated every minute of it. I didn't believe in the product, but the only way to get on was to sell more, and it was driving me nuts. I had a long think over one weekend about what I wanted out of life, and gave in my notice on the Monday." He filled the saucepan with water and put it on the gas.

The DI thought sourly of his various life, endowment, and pension policies. "What's wrong with insurance?"

"Nothing." He tipped his can in the direction of the DI and took a swill. "As long as you need it ... as long as you understand the terms of the policy ... as long as you can afford to keep paying the premiums ... as long as you've read the small print. It's like any other product. Buyer beware."

"Now you're worrying me."