With a resigned smile, she drew attention to herself by hefting soiled straw through the stable doorway on the end of a pitchfork. The weather hadn't broken for three weeks, and sweat was running freely down her face as she emerged into the fierce sunlight. She was irritated by her own discomfort and wished she'd put on something else that morning or that PC Ingram had had the courtesy to warn her he was coming. Her checkered cheesecloth shirt gripped her damp torso like a stocking, and her jeans chafed against the inside of her thighs. Ingram spotted her almost immediately and was amused to see that, for once, the tables were turned, and it was she who was hot and bothered and not he, but his expression as always was unreadable.

She propped the pitchfork against the stable wall and wiped her palms down her already filthy jeans before smoothing her hair off her sweaty face with the back of one hand. "Good morning, Nick," she said. "What can I do for you?"

"Miss Jenner," he said, with his usual polite nod. "This is Detective Inspector Galbraith from Dorset HQ. If it's convenient, he'd like to ask you a few questions about the events of last Sunday."

She inspected her palms before tucking them into her jeans pockets. "I won't offer to shake hands, Inspector. You wouldn't like where mine have been."

Galbraith smiled, recognizing the excuse for what it was, a dislike of physical contact, and cast an interested glance around the cobbled courtyard. There was a row of stables on each of three sides, beautiful old red-brick buildings with solid oak doors, only half a dozen of which appeared to have occupants. The rest stood empty, doors hooked back, brick floors bare of straw, hay baskets unfilled, and it was a long time, he guessed, since the business had been a thriving one. They had passed a faded sign at the entrance gate, boasting: BROXTON HOUSE RIDING & LIVERY STABLES, but, like the sign, evidence of dilapidation was everywhere, in the crumbling brickwork that had been thrashed by the elements for a couple of hundred years, in the cracked and peeling paintwork and the broken windows in the tack room and office, which no one had bothered-or could afford?-to replace.

Maggie watched his appraisal. "You're right," she said, reading his mind. "It has enormous potential as a row of holiday chalets."

"A pity when it happens, though."

"Yes."

He looked toward a distant paddock where a couple of horses grazed halfheartedly on drought-starved grass. "Are they yours as well?"

"No. We just rent out the paddock. The owners are supposed to keep an eye on them, but they're irresponsible, frankly, and I usually find myself doing things for their wretched animals that was never part of the contract." She pulled a rueful smile. "I can't get it into their owners' heads that water evaporates and that the trough needs filling every day. It makes me mad sometimes."

"Quite a chore then?"

"Yes." She gestured toward a door at the end of the row of stables behind her. "Let's go up to my flat. I can make you both a cup of coffee."

"Thank you." She was an attractive woman, he thought, despite the muck and the brusque manner, but he was intrigued by Ingram's stiff formality toward her, which wasn't readily explained by the story of the bigamous husband. The formality, he thought, should be on her side. As he followed them up the wooden stairs, he decided the constable must have tried it on at some point and been comprehensively slapped down for playing outside his own league. Miss Jenner was top-drawer material, even if she did live in something resembling a pigsty.

The flat was the antithesis of Nick's tidy establishment. There was disorder everywhere, bean bags piled in front of the television on the floor, newspapers with finished and half-finished crosswords abandoned on chairs and tables, a filthy rug on the sofa which smelled unmistakably of Bertie, and a pile of dirty washing-up in the kitchen sink. "Sorry about the mess," she said. "I've been up since five, and I haven't had time to clean." To Galbraith's ears, this sounded like a well-worn apology that was trotted out to anyone who might be inclined to criticize her lifestyle. She swiveled the tap to squeeze the kettle between it and the washing-up. "How do you like your coffee?"

"White, two sugars, please," said Galbraith.

"I'll have mine black please, Miss Jenner. No sugar," said Ingram.

"Do you mind Coffeemate?" Maggie asked the inspector, sniffing at a cardboard carton on the side. "The milk's off." Cursorily she rinsed some dirty mugs under the tap. "Why don't you grab a seat? If you chuck Bertie's blanket on the floor, one of you can have the sofa."

"I think she means you, sir," murmured Ingram as they retreated into the sitting room. "Inspector's perks. It's the best seat in the place."

"Who's Bertie?" whispered Galbraith.

"The Hound of the Baskervilles. His favorite occupation is to shove his nose up men's crotches and give them a good slobbering. The stains tend to hang around through at least three washes, I find, so it pays to keep your legs crossed when you're sitting down."

"I hope you're joking!" said Galbraith with a groan. He had already lost one pair of good trousers to the previous night's soaking in the sea. "Where is he?"

"Out on the razzle, I should think. His second-favorite occupation is to service the local bitches."

The DI lowered himself gingerly into the only armchair. "Does he have fleas?"

With a grin, Ingram jerked his head toward the kitchen door. "Do mice leave their droppings in sugar?" he murmured.

"Shit!"

Ingram removed himself to a windowsill and perched precariously on the edge of it. "Just be grateful it wasn't her mother who was out riding on Sunday," he said in an undertone. "This kitchen's sterile by comparison with hers." He had sampled Mrs. Jenner's hospitality once four years ago, the day after Healey had fled, and he'd vowed never to repeat the experience. She had given him coffee in a cracked Spode cup that was black with tannin, and he had gagged continuously while drinking it. He had never understood the peculiar mores of the impoverished landed gentry, who seemed to believe the value of bone china outweighed the value of hygiene.

They waited in silence while Maggie busied herself in the kitchen. The atmosphere was ripe with the stench of horse manure, wafted in from a pile of soiled straw in the yard outside, and the heat baking the interior of the flat through the uninsulated roof was almost unbearable. In no time at all both men were red in the face and mopping at their brows with handkerchieves, and whatever brief advantage Ingram thought he had gained over Maggie was quickly dispelled. A few minutes later she emerged with a tray of coffee mugs, which she handed around before sinking onto Bertie's blanket on the sofa.

"So what can I tell you that I haven't already told Nick?" she asked Galbraith. "I know it's a murder inquiry because I've been reading the newspapers, but as I didn't see the body I can't imagine how I can help you."

Galbraith pulled some notes from his jacket pocket. "In fact it's rather more than a murder inquiry, Miss Jenner. Kate Sumner was raped before she was thrown into the sea, so the man who killed her is extremely dangerous and we need to catch him before he does it again." He paused to let the information sink in. "Believe me, any help you can give us will be greatly appreciated."

"But I don't know anything," she said.

"You spoke to a man called Steven Harding," he reminded her.

"Oh, good God," she said, "you're not suggesting he did it?" She frowned at Ingram. "You've really got it in for that man, haven't you, Nick? He was only trying to help in all conscience. You might as well say any of the men who were in Chapman's Pool that day could have killed her."

Ingram remained blandly indifferent to both her frown and her accusations. "It's a possibility."

"So why pick on Steve?"

"We're not, Miss Jenner. We're trying to eliminate him from the inquiry. Neither I nor the inspector wants to waste time investigating innocent bystanders."

"You wasted an awful lot of time on Sunday doing it," she said acidly, stung by his dreary insistence on treating her with forelock-tugging formality. He smiled but didn't say anything. She turned back to Galbraith. "I'll do my best," she said, "although I doubt I can tell you much. What do you want to know?"

"It would be helpful if you can start by describing your meeting with him. I understand you rode down the track toward the boat sheds and came across him and the boys beside PC Ingram's car. Is that the first time you saw him?"

"Yes, but I wasn't riding Jasper then. I was leading him, because he was frightened by the helicopter."

"Okay. What were Steven Harding and the two boys doing at that point?"

She shrugged. "They were looking at a girl on a boat through the binoculars, at least Steve and the older brother were. I think the younger one was bored by it all. Then Bertie got overexcited-"

Galbraith interrupted. "You said they were looking through binoculars. How did that work exactly? Were they taking it in turns?"

"No, well, that's wrong. It was Paul who was looking; Steve was just holding them steady for him." She saw his eyebrows lift in inquiry and anticipated his next question. "Like this." She made an embracing gesture with her arms. "He was standing behind Paul, with his arms around him, and holding the binoculars so Paul could look through the eyepieces. The child thought it was funny and kept giggling. It was rather sweet really. I think he was trying to take his mind off the dead woman." She paused to collect her thoughts. "Actually, I thought he was their father, till I realized he was too young."

"One of the boys said he was playing around with his telephone before you arrived. Did you see him do that?"

She shook her head. "It was clipped to his waistband."

"What happened next?"

"Bertie got overexcited, so Steve grabbed him and then suggested we put the boys at ease by encouraging them to pat Bertie and Sir Jasper. He said he was used to animals because he'd grown up on a farm in Cornwall." She frowned. "Why is any of this important? He was just being friendly."

"In what way, Miss Jenner?"

Her frown deepened, and she stared at him for a moment, clearly wondering where his questions were leading. "He wasn't making a nuisance of himself, if that's what you're getting at."

"Why would I think he was making a nuisance of himself?"

She gave an irritated toss of her head. "Because it would make things easier for you if he was," she suggested.

"How?"

"You want him to be the rapist, don't you? Nick certainly does."

Galbraith's gray eyes appraised her coolly. "There's a little more to rape than making a nuisance of yourself. Kate Sumner had been dosed with a sleeping drug, she had abrasions to her back, strangle marks at her neck, rope burns to her wrists, broken fingers, and a ruptured vagina. She was then thrown ... alive ... into the sea by someone who undoubtedly knew she was a poor swimmer and wouldn't be able to save herself, even assuming she came around from the effects of the drug. She was also pregnant when she died, which means her baby was murdered with her." He smiled slightly. "I realize that you're a very busy person and that the death of an unknown woman is hardly a priority in your life, but PC Ingram and I take it more seriously, probably because we both saw Kate's body and were distressed by it."

She looked at her hands. "I apologize," she said.

"We don't ask questions for the fun of it," said Galbraith without hostility. "Matter of fact, most of us find this sort of case very stressful, although the public rarely recognizes it."

She raised her head, and there was the glimmer of a smile in her dark eyes. "Point taken," she said. "The problem is, I get the impression you're homing in on Steve Harding just because he was there, and that seems unreasonable."

Galbraith exchanged a glance with Ingram. "There are other reasons why we're interested in him," he said, "but the only one I'm prepared to tell you at the moment is that he'd known the dead woman for quite some time. For that reason alone we'd be investigating him, whether he was at Chapman's Pool on Sunday or not."

She was thoroughly startled. "He didn't say he knew her."

"Would you have expected him to? He told us he never saw the body."

She turned to Ingram. "He can't have done, can he? He said he was walking from St. Alban's Head."

"There's a very good view of Egmont Bight from the coastal path up there," Ingram reminded her. "If he had a pair of binoculars, he could have picked her out quite easily."

"But he didn't," she protested. "All he had was a telephone. You made that point yourself."

Galbraith debated with himself how to put the next question and opted for a straightforward approach. The woman must have a stallion or two in her stables, so she was hardly likely to faint at the mention of a penis. "Nick says Harding had an erection when he first saw him on Sunday. Would you agree?"

"Either that or he's incredibly well endowed."

"Were you the cause of it, do you think?"

She didn't answer.

"Well?"

"I've no idea," she said. "My feeling at the time was that it was probably the girl on the boat who had got him excited. Walk along Studland beach any sunny day and you'll find a hundred randy eighteen- to twenty-four-year-olds cowering in the water because their dicks react independently of their brains. It's hardly a crime."

Galbraith shook his head. "You're a good-looking woman, Miss Jenner, and he was standing close to you. Did you encourage him in any way?"

"No."

"It is important."

"Why? All I know is the poor bloke wasn't in absolute control of himself." She sighed. "Look, I'm really sorry about the woman. But if Steve was involved, then he never gave me any indication of it. As far as I was concerned, he was a young man out for a walk who made a phone call on behalf of a couple of children."

Galbraith laid a forefinger on a page of his notes. "This is a quote from Danny Spender," he said. "Tell me how true it is. 'He was chatting up the lady with the horse, but I don't think she liked him as much as he liked her.' Is that what was happening?"

"No, of course it wasn't," she said with annoyance, as if the idea of being chatted up was pure anathema to her, "though I suppose it might have looked like that to the children. I said he was brave for grabbing Bertie by the collar, so he seemed to think that laughing a lot and slapping Jasper on the rump would impress the boys. In the end I had to move the animals into the shade to get them away from him. Jasper's amenable to most things but not to having his bottom smacked every two minutes, and I didn't want to be prosecuted if he lashed out suddenly."

"So was Danny right about you not liking him?"

"I don't see that it matters," she said uncomfortably. "It's a subjective thing. I'm not a very sociable person, so liking people isn't my strong point."

"What was wrong with him?" he went on imperturbably.

"Oh God, this is ridiculous!" she snapped. "Nothing. He was perfectly pleasant from beginning to end of our conversation." She cast an angry sideways glance toward Ingram. "Almost ridiculously polite, in fact."

"So why didn't you like him?"

She breathed deeply through her nose, clearly at war with herself about whether to answer or not. "He was a toucher," she said with a spurt of anger. "All right? Is that what you wanted? I have a thing against men who can't keep their hands to themselves, Inspector, but it doesn't make them rapists or murderers. It's just the way they are." She took another deep breath. "And while we're on the subject-just to show you how little faith you can put in my judgment of men-I wouldn't trust any of you farther than I could throw you. If you want to know why, ask Nick." She gave a hollow laugh as Galbraith lowered his eyes. "I see he's already told you. Still ... if you want the juicier details of my relationship with my bigamous husband, apply in writing and I'll see what I can do for you."

The DI, reminded of Sandy Griffiths' similiar caveat regarding her judgment of Sumner, ignored the tantrum. "Are you saying Harding touched you, Miss Jenner?"

She gave him a withering glance. "Of course not. I never gave him the opportunity."

"But he touched your animals, and that's what put you against him?"

"No," she said crossly. "It was the boys he couldn't keep his hands off. It was all very macho ... hail-fellow-well-met stuff ... you know, a lot of punching of shoulders and high-fives ... to be honest it's why I thought he was their father. The little one didn't like it much-he kept pushing him away-but the older one reveled in it." She smiled rather cynically. "It's the kind of shallow emotion you only ever see in Hollywood movies, so I wasn't in the least bit surprised when he told Nick he was an actor."

Galbraith exchanged a questioning glance with Ingram. "I'd say that's an accurate description," admitted the constable honestly. "He was very friendly toward Paul."

"How friendly?"

"Very," said Ingram. "And Miss Jenner's right. Danny kept pushing him away."

"Child seducer?" wrote Galbraith in his notebook. "Did you see Steve abandon a rucksack on the hillside before he took the boys down to Nick's car?" he asked Maggie then.

She was looking at him rather oddly. "The first time I saw him was at the boat sheds," she said.

"Did you see him retrieve it after Nick drove the boys away?""

"I wasn't watching him." Her forehead creased into lines of concern. "Look ... aren't you jumping to conclusions again? When I said he was touching the boys I didn't mean ... that is ... it wasn't inappropriate ... just, well, overdone, if you like."

"Okay."

"What I'm trying to say is I don't think he's a pedophile."

"Have you ever met one, Miss Jenner?"

"No."

"Well, they don't have two heads, you know. Nevertheless, point taken," he assured her in a conscious echo of what she'd said herself. Gallantly he lifted his untouched mug from the floor and drank it down before taking a card from his wallet and passing it across. "That's my number," he said, getting up. "If anything occurs to you that you think's important, you can always reach me there. Thank you for your help."

She nodded, watching as Ingram moved away from the window. "You haven't drunk your coffee," she said with a malicious gleam in her eyes. "Perhaps you'd have preferred it with sugar after all. I always find the mouse droppings sink to the bottom."

He smiled down at her. "But dog hairs don't, Miss Jenner." He put on his cap and straightened the peak. "My regards to your mother."

Kate Sumner's papers and private possessions had filled several boxes, which the investigators had been working their way through methodically for three days, trying to build a picture of the woman's life. There was nothing to link her with Steven Harding, or with any other man.

Everyone in her address book was contacted without results. They proved, without exception, to be people she had met since moving to the south coast and matched a neat Christmas card list in the bottom drawer of the bureau in the sitting room. An exercise book was found in one of the kitchen cupboards, inscribed "Weekly Diary," but turned out, disappointingly, to be a precise record of what she spent on food and household bills, and tallied, give or take a pound or two, with the allowance William paid her.