***I have since had time to consider the logistics of how the dinghy was actually removed from Lulworth Cove in broad daylight, and I've realized that Harding or indeed any boat owner would have had some difficulty.

It's important to recognize that Crazy Daze must have anchored in the middle of Lulworth Bay, and Harding could only have come ashore in his own dinghy. Joyriders going for a spin would have attracted little attention (the assumption would be that the boat belonged to them) but a man on his own, coping with two dinghies, would have stood out like a sore thumb, particularly as the only way he could have removed them from the Cove (unless he was prepared to waste time deflating them) was to tow them in tandem or parallel behind Crazy Daze. It is highly unusual for a yacht to have two dinghies, and once the theft had been reported, that fact is bound to have registered with the coastguards in the lookout point above Lulworth.

I think now that a more likely scenario for the theft was removal by foot. Let's say an opportunist thief spotted that the outboard wasn't padlocked, released its clamps, and carried it away quite openly to his car/house/garage/caravan. Let's say he wandered back half an hour later to see if the owners had returned, and finding they hadn't, he simply hoisted the dinghy above his head and carried that away too. I'm not suggesting that Kate Stunner's murder was premeditated at this early stage, but what I am suggesting is that the opportunist theft of the Spanish dinghy in May gave rise to an ideal method in August for the disposal of her body. (NB: thefts of or from boats represent some of the highest crime statistics along the south coast.) I strongly advise, therefore, that you try to find out if anyone connected with Kate was staying in or near Lulworth between 24-31 May. I suspect the sad irony will be that she, her husband, and her daughter were-there are several caravan parks and campsites around Lulworth-but I think this will please you. It strengthens the case against the husband.

For reasons that follow, I am no longer confident that you'll find the outboard. Assuming the intention was for the stolen dinghy, plus contents (i.e., Kate) to sink, then the outboard must have been on board.

You may remember my querying the "hypothermia" issue in the pathologist's report when you showed it to me on Monday. The pathologist's view is that Kate was swimming in the water for some considerable time prior to drowning, which caused her stress and cold. At the time I wondered why it took her so long to swim a comparatively short distance, and I suggested that she was more likely to suffer hypothermia from being exposed to air temperature at night rather than sea temperature-the latter being generally warmer. It would depend of course on how good a swimmer she was, particularly as the pathologist refers to her entering the sea a minimum of half a mile WSW of Egmont Bight, and I assumed she must have swum a great deal farther than his estimate. However, you told Miss Jenner this morning that Kate was a poor swimmer, and I have been wondering since how a poor swimmer could have remained afloat long enough in difficult seas to show evidence of hypothermia before death. I have also been wondering why her killer was confident of making it safely back to shore, since there are no lights on that part of the coast and the currents are unpredictable.

One explanation which covers the above is that Kate was raped ashore, her killer presumed her dead after the strangulation attempt, and the whole "drowning" exercise was designed to dispose of her body off an isolated stretch of coast.

Can you buy this reasoning? 1) He bundled her naked and unconscious body into the stolen dinghy, then took her a considerable distance-Lulworth Cove to Chapman's Pool = 8 nautical miles approx.-before he tied her to the outboard and left the dinghy to sink with its contents (wind-chill factor would already have caused hypothermia in a naked woman); 2) once set adrift, Kate came around from the strangulation attempt/Rohypnol and realized she had to save herself; 3) her broken fingers and nails could have resulted from her struggle to break free of her bonds then release the clamps holding the outboard in place in order to eject its weight, probably capsizing the dinghy in the process; 4) she used the dinghy as a float and became separated from it only when she lapsed into unconsciousness or became too tired to hold on; 5) in all events, I am guessing the dinghy traveled much closer to shore than the pathologist's estimate, otherwise the boat would have become swamped and the killer himself would have been in trouble; 6) the killer climbed the cliffs and returned to Lulworth/Kimmeridge via the coastal path during the dark hours of the night.

This is as far as my thoughts have taken me, but if the dinghy was involved in the murder then it must have come from the west-Kimmeridge Bay or Lulworth Cove-because the craft was too fragile to negotiate the race around St. Alban's Head. I realize none of this explains Hannah, although I can't help feeling that if you can discover where the stolen dinghy was hidden for two months, you may also discover where Kate was raped and where Hannah was left while her mother was being drowned.

(NB: None of the above rules out Harding-the rape may have taken place on his deck with the evidence subsequently washed away, and the dinghy may have been towed behind Crazy Daze-but does it make him a less likely suspect?) *17*

The sun had been up less than an hour on Friday morning when Maggie Jenner set off along the bridleway behind Broxton House, accompanied by Bertie. She was on a skittish bay gelding called Stinger, whose owner came down from London every weekend to her cottage in Langton Matravers to ride hard around the headlands as an antidote to her high-pressure job as a money broker in the City. Maggie loved the horse but loathed the woman, whose hands were about as sensitive as steam hammers and who viewed Stinger in the same way as she probably viewed a snort of cocaine-as a quick adrenaline fix. If she hadn't agreed to pay well over the odds for the livery service Maggie provided, Maggie would have refused her business without a second's hesitation, but as with most things in the Jenners' lives, compromise had become the better part of staving off bankruptcy.

She turned right at St. Alban's Head Quarry, negotiating her way through the gate and into the deep, wide valley that cleaved a grassy downland passage toward the sea between St. Alban's Head to the south and the high ground above Chapman's Pool to the north. She nudged her mount into a canter and sent him springing across the turf in glorious release. It was still cool, but there was barely a breath of wind in the air, and as always on mornings like this her spirits soared. However bad existence was, and it could be very bad at times, she ceased to worry about it here. If there was any point to anything, then she came closest to finding it, alone and free, in the renewed optimism that a fresh sun generated with each daybreak.

She reined in after half a mile, and walked the gelding toward the fenced coastal path which hugged the slopes of the valley on either side in a series of steep steps cut into the cliffs. It was a hardy rambler who suffered the agony of the downward trek only to be faced with the worse agony of the upward climb, and Maggie, who had never done either, thought how much more sensible it was to ride the gully in order to enjoy the scenery. Ahead, the sea, a sparkling blue, was flat calm without a sail in sight, and she slipped lightly from the saddle while Bertie, panting from the exertion of keeping up, rolled leisurely in the warming grass beside the gelding's hooves. Looping Stinger's reins casually around the top rail of the fence, she climbed the stile and walked the few yards to the cliff edge to stand and glory in the vast expanse of blueness, where the line of demarcation between sky and sea was all but invisible. The only sounds were the gentle swish of breakers on the shore, the sigh of the animals' breaths, and a lark singing in the sky above...

It was difficult to say who was the more startled, therefore, Maggie or Steven Harding, when he rose out of the ground in front of her after hoisting himself over the cliff edge where the downland valley dropped toward the sea. He crouched on all fours for several seconds, his face pale and unshaven, breathing heavily, and looking a great deal less pretty than he had five days before. More like a rapist, less like a Hollywood lead. There was a quality of disturbing violence about him, something calculating in the dark eyes that Maggie hadn't noticed before, but it was his abrupt rearing to full height that caused her to shriek. Her alarm transmitted itself immediately to Stinger, who pranced backward, tearing his reins free of the fence, and thence to Bertie, who leaped to his feet, hackles up.

"You stupid bastard!" Maggie shouted at him, giving vent to her fear in furious remonstration as she heard Stinger's snort of alarm and stamping hooves. She turned away from Harding in a vain attempt to catch the excited gelding's reins before he bolted.

Pray God, he didn't ... he was worth a fortune to Broxton House Livery Stables ... she couldn't afford it if he damaged himself ... pray God, pray God...

But Harding, for reasons best known to himself, darted across her path in Stinger's direction, and the gelding, eyes rolling, took off like lightning up the hill.

"Oh, shit!" Maggie stormed, stamping her foot and raging at the young man, her face red and ugly with ungovernable fury. "How could you be so bloody infantile, you-you creep! What the hell did you think you were doing! I swear to Christ if Nick Ingram knew you were here he'd crucify you! He already thinks you're a fucking pervert!"

She was completely unprepared for his backhand slap that caught her a glancing blow across the side of her face, and as she hit the ground with a resounding thud, the only thought in her head was: What on earth does this idiot think he's doing...?

Ingram squinted painfully at his alarm clock when his phone rang at 6:30 a.m. He lifted the receiver and listened to a series of high-pitched, unintelligible squeaks at the other end of the line, which he recognized as coming from Maggie Jenner.

"You'll have to calm down," he said when she finally took a breath. "I can't understand a word you're saying."

More squeaks.

"Pull yourself together, Maggie," he said firmly. "You're not a wimp, so don't behave like one."

"I'm sorry," she said with a commendable attempt to compose herself. "Steven Harding hit me, so Bertie went for him ... there's blood everywhere ... I've rigged up a tourniquet on his arm, but it's not working properly ... I don't know what else to do ... I think he's going to die if he doesn't get to a hospital."

He sat up and rubbed his face furiously to eradicate sleep. He could hear the white noise of empty space and the sound of birdsong in the background. "Where are you?"

"At the end of the quarry gully ... near the steps on the coastal path ... halfway between Chapman's Pool and St. Alban's Head ... Stinger's bolted, and I'm afraid he's going to break a leg if he trips on his reins ... we'll lose everything ... I think Steve's dying..." Her voice faded as she turned away from the signal. "Manslaughter ... Bertie was out of control..."

"I'm losing you, Maggie," he shouted.

"Sorry." Her voice came back in a rush. "He's not responding to anything. I'm worried Bertie's severed an artery, but I can't get the tourniquet tight enough to stop the bleeding. I'm using Bertie's lead, but it's too loose, and the sticks here are all so rotten they just keep breaking."

"Then forget the lead and use something else-something you can get a grip on-a T-shirt maybe. Wind it around his arm as tight as you can above the elbow, then keep twisting the ends to exert some pressure. Failing that, try and locate the artery on the underside of his upper arm with your fingers and press hard against the bone to stop the flow. But you've got to keep the pressure on, Maggie, otherwise he'll start bleeding again, and that means your hands are going to hurt."

"Okay."

"Good girl. I'll get help to you as fast as I can." He cut her off and dialed Broxton House. "Mrs. Jenner?" he said, flicking over to the loudspeaker when the receiver was lifted at the other end. "It's Nick Ingram." He flung himself out of bed and started to drag on some clothes. "Maggie needs help, and you're the closest. She's trying to stop a man from bleeding to death in the quarry gully. They're at the coastal path end. If you take Sir Jasper and get up there PDQ, then the man stands a chance. Otherwise-"

"But I'm not dressed," she interrupted indignantly.

"I couldn't give a shit," he said bluntly. "Get your arse up there and give your daughter some support because, by God, it'll be a first if you do."

"How dare-"

He cut her off and set in motion the series of calls thai would result in the Portland Search and Rescue helicopter being scrambled in the direction of St. Alban's Head for the second time in less than a week, when the ambulance service expressed doubt about their ability to reach a man in a remote grassy valley before he bled to death.

By the time Nick Ingram reached the scene, having driven his Jeep at breakneck speed along narrow lanes and up the bridleway, the drama was effectively over. The helicopter was on the ground some fifty yards from the scene of the accident, engine idling; Harding was conscious and sitting up being attended by a paramedic; and another hundred yards to the south of the helicopter and halfway up the hillside, Maggie was busy trying to catch Stinger, who rolled his eyes and backed away from her every time she came too close. She was clearly trying to head him off from the cliff edge, but he was too frightened of the helicopter to move in its direction, and all she was succeeding in doing was driving him toward the three-foot-high fence and the perilously steep steps that edged the cliff. Celia, clad in a pair of pajama trousers and a tannin-stained bedjacket, stood arrogantly to one side with one hand grasping Sir Jasper's reins tightly beneath his chin and the other wound into the looped end in case he, too, decided to bolt. She favored Ingram with a frosty glare, designed to freeze him in his tracks, but he ignored her and turned his attention to Harding.

"Are you all right, sir?"

The young man nodded. He was dressed in Levi's and a pale green sweatshirt, both of which were copiously splattered with blood, and his lower right arm was tightly bandaged.

Ingram turned to the paramedic. "What's the damage?"

"He'll live," said the man. "The two ladies managed to stop the bleeding. He'll need stitching, so we'll take him to Poole and get him sorted there." He drew Nick aside. "The young lady could do with some attention. She's shaking like a leaf, but she says it's more important to catch the horse. The trouble is he's torn his reins off, and she can't get close enough to get a grip on his throat strap." He jerked his head toward Celia. "And the older one's not much better. She's got arthritis, and she wrecked her hip riding up here. By rights, we ought to take them with us, but they're adamant they won't leave the animals. There's also a time problem. We need to get moving, but the loose horse is going to bolt in real earnest the minute we take off. It's terrified out of its wits already and damn nearly skidded over the cliff when we landed."

"Where's the dog?"

"Vanished. I gather the young lady had to thrash him with his lead to get him off the lad, and he's fled with his tail between his legs."

Nick rumpled his sleep-tousled hair. "Okay, can you give us another five minutes? If I help Miss Jenner round up the horse, we may be able to persuade her mother to go in for some treatment. How about it?"

The paramedic turned to look at Steven Harding. "Why not? He says he's strong enough to walk, but it'll take me a good five minutes to get him in and settled. I don't fancy your chances much, but good luck."

With a wry smile, Nick put his fingers to his lips and gave a piercing whistle before scanning both hillsides with narrowed eyes. To his relief, he saw Bertie rise out of the grass on the breast of Emmetts Hill about two hundred and fifty yards away. He gave another whistle, and the dog came like a torpedo toward him. He raised his arm and dropped him to the ground when he was still fifty yards away, then went back to Celia. "I need a quick decision," he told her. "We've got five minutes to catch Stinger before the helicopter leaves, and it strikes me Maggie'll have more chance if she's riding Sir Jasper. You're the expert. Do I take him up to her or do I leave him with you, bearing in mind I know nothing about horses and Jasper's likely to be just as frightened of the noise as Stinger is?"

She was a sensible woman and didn't waste time on recriminations. She handed the loop of the reins into his left hand and guided his right into position under Jasper's chin. "Keep clicking your tongue," she said, "and he'll follow. Don't try and run, and don't let go. We can't afford to lose both of them. Remind Maggie they'll both go mad the minute the helicopter takes off, so tell her to ride like the devil for the middle of the headland and give herself some space."

He set off up the slope, whistling Bertie to follow and gathering him in to his left leg so that the dog walked like a shadow beside him.

"I didn't realize it was his dog," said the paramedic to Celia.

"It's not," she said thoughtfully, shading her eyes against the sun to watch what happened.

She saw her daughter come stumbling down toward the tall policeman, who had a quick word with her, then hefted her lightly into Jasper's saddle before, with a gesture of his arm, he sent Bertie out in a sweeping movement toward the cliff edge to circle around behind the excited gelding. He followed in Bertie's wake, placing himself as an immovable obstacle between the horse and the brink, while directing the dog to hamper Stinger's further retreat up the hillside by dashing to and fro above him. Meanwhile, Maggie had turned Sir Jasper toward the quarry site and had kicked him into a canter. Faced with the unpalatable alternatives of a dog on one side, a helicopter on the other, and a man behind, Stinger chose the sensible option of pursuing the other horse toward safety.

"Impressive," said the paramedic.

"Yes," said Celia even more thoughtfully. "It was, wasn't it?"

Polly Garrard was about to leave for work when DI John Galbraith rang her front doorbell and asked if she was willing to answer a few more questions about her relationship with Kate Sumner. "I can't," she told him. "I'll be late. You can come to the office if you like."

"Fine, if that's the way you want it," he assured her. "It might make things difficult for you, though. You probably won't want eavesdroppers to some of the things I'm going to ask you."

"Oh, shit!" she said immediately. "I knew this was going to happen." She opened the door wide. "You'd better come in," she said, leading the way into a tiny sitting room, "but you can't keep me long. Half an hour max, okay? I've already been late twice this month, and I'm running out of excuses."

She dropped onto one end of a sofa, hooking an arm over its back and inviting him to sit at the other end. She twisted around to face him, one leg curled beneath her so that her skirt rose up to her crotch and her breasts stood out in response to her pulled-back shoulder. The pose was deliberate, thought Galbraith with some amusement, as he lowered himself onto the seat beside her. She was a well-built young woman with a taste for tight T-shirts, heavy makeup, and blue nail polish, and he wondered how Angela Sumner would have coped with Polly as a daughter-in-law in place of Kate. For all her real or imagined sins, Kate seemed to have looked the part of William's wife, even if she did lack the necessary social and educational skills that would have satisfied her mother-in-law.

"I want to ask you about a letter you wrote to Kate in July, which concerns some of the people you work with," he told Polly, taking a photocopy of it out of his breast pocket. He spread it on his knee and handed it to her. "Do you remember sending that?"

She read it through quickly, then nodded. "Yup. I'd been phoning on and off for about a week, and I thought, what the hell, she's obviously busy, so I'll drop her a note instead and get her to phone me." She screwed her face into cartoon pique. "Not that she ever did. She just sent a scrotty little note, saying she'd call when she was ready."

"This one?" He handed her a copy of Kate's draft reply.

She glanced at it. "I guess so. That's what it said, more or less. It was on some fancy-headed notepaper, I remember that, but I was pissed that she couldn't be bothered to write a decent letter back. The truth is, I don't think she wanted me to go. I expect she was afraid I'd embarrass her in front of her Lymington friends. Which I probably would have done," she added in fairness.

Galbraith smiled. "Did you visit the house when they first moved?"

"Nope. Never got invited. She kept saying I could go as soon as the decorating was finished, but"-she pulled another face-"it was just an excuse to put me off. I didn't mind. Fact is, I'd probably have done the same in her shoes. She'd moved on-new house, new life, new friends-and you grow out of people when that happens, don't you?"

"She hadn't moved on completely," he pointed out, "You still work with William."

Polly giggled. "I work in the same building as William," she corrected him, "and it gets up his nose something rotten that I tell everyone he married my best friend. I know it's not true-it never was, really-I mean I liked her and all that, but she wasn't the best-friend type, if you know what I mean. Too self-contained by half. No I just do it to annoy William. He thinks I'm common as muck, and he nearly died when I told him I'd visited Kate in Chichester and met his mother. I'm not surprised. God, she was an old battleaxe! Lecture, lecture, lecture. Do this. Don't do that. Frankly, I'd've wheeled her in front of a bus if she'd been my mother-in-law."

"Was there ever a chance of that?"

"Do me a favor! I'd need to be permanently comatose to marry William Sumner. The guy has about as much sex appeal as a turnip!"

"So what did Kate see in him?"

Polly rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. "Money."

"What else?"

"Nothing. A bit of class, maybe, but an unmarried bloke with no children and money was what she was looking for, and an unmarried bloke with no children and money is what she got." She cocked her head on one side, amused by his expression of disbelief. "She told me once that William's tackle, even when he had a stiffy, was so limp it was more like an uncooked sausage than a truncheon. So I said, how does he do the business? And she said, with a pint of baby oil and my finger up his fucking arse." She giggled again at Galbraith's wince of sympathy for another man's problems. "He loved it, for Christ's sake! Why else would he marry her with his mother spitting poison all over the place? Okay, Kate may have wanted money, but poor old Willy just wanted a tart who'd tell him he was bloody brilliant whether he was or not. It worked like a dream. They both got what they wanted."

He studied her for a moment, wondering if she was quite as naive as her words made her sound. "Did they?" he asked her. "Kate's dead, don't forget."

She sobered immediately. "I know. It's a bugger. But there's nothing I can tell you about that. I haven't seen her since she moved."

"All right. Tell me what you do know. Why did your story about Wendy Plater insulting James Purdy remind you of Kate?" he asked her.

"What makes you think it did?"

He quoted from her letter. " 'She'-meaning Wendy-'had to apologize, but she doesn't regret any of it. She says she's never seen Purdy go purple before! I thought of you immediately, of course...' " He laid the page on the bench between them. "Why that last bit, Polly? Why should Purdy going purple make you think of Kate Sumner?"

She thought for a moment. "Because she used to work at Pharmatec?" she tried unconvincingly. "Because she thought Purdy was a prick? It's just a figure of speech."

He tapped the copy of Kate's draft reply. "She crossed out, 'You promised on your honor' in this before going on to write 'The story about Wendy Plater was really funny!' " he said. "What did you promise her, Polly?"

She looked uncomfortable. "Hundreds of things, I should think."

"I'm only interested in the one that had something to do with either James Purdy or Wendy Plater."

She removed her arm from the back of the seat and hunched forward despondently. "It's got nothing to do with her being killed. It's just something that happened."

"What?"

She didn't answer.

"If it really does have nothing to do with her murder, then I give you my word, it'll go no further than me," he said reassuringly. "I'm not interested in exposing her secrets, only in finding her killer." Even as he spoke, he knew the statement was untrue. All too often, justice for a rape victim meant that she had to endure the humiliation of her secrets being exposed. He looked at Polly with unexpected sympathy. "But I'm afraid I'm the one who has to decide whether it's important."

She sighed. "I could lose my job if Purdy ever finds out I told you."

"There's no reason why he should."

"You reckon?"

Galbraith didn't say anything, having learned from experience that silence often exerted more pressure than words.

"Oh, what the hell!" she said then. "You've probably guessed anyway. Kate had an affair with him. He was crazy about her, wanted to leave his wife and everything, then she blew him away and said she was going to marry William instead. Poor old Purdy couldn't believe it. He's no spring chicken, and he'd been rogering himself stupid to keep her interested. I think he may even have told his wife he wanted a divorce. Anyway, Kate said he went purple and then collapsed on his desk. He was off work for three months afterward, so I reckoned he must have had a heart attack, but Kate said he couldn't face coming back while she was still there." She shrugged. "He started work again the week after she left, so maybe she was right."

"Why did she choose William?" he asked. "She wasn't any more in love with him than she was with Purdy, was she?"

Polly repeated the gesture of rubbing her thumb and fingers together. "Dosh," she said. "Purdy's got a wife and three grown-up children, all of whom would have demanded their cut before Kate got a look in." She pulled a wry face. "Like I said, what she really wanted was an unmarried guy without children. She reckoned if she was going to have to bust a gut to make some plonker happy, she wanted access to everything he owned."

Galbraith shook his head in perplexity. "Then why bother with Purdy at all?"

She hooked her arm over the sofa again and thrust her tits into his face. "She didn't have a father, did she? Any more than I do."

"So?"

"She had a thing about older men." She opened her eyes wide in flirtatious invitation. "Me, too, if you're interested."

Galbraith chuckled. "Do you eat them alive?"

She looked pointedly at his fly. "I swallow them whole," she said with a laugh.

He shook his head in amusement. "You were telling me why Kate bothered with Purdy," he reminded her.

"He was the boss," she said, "the guy with the loot. She thought she'd take him for a few bob, get him to pay for improvements on her flat, while she looked around for something better. The trouble was, she didn't reckon on him getting as smitten as he did, so the only way to get rid of him was to be cruel. She wanted security, not love, you see, and she didn't think she'd get it from Purdy, not after his wife and children had taken their slice. He was thirty years older than she was, remember. Also, he didn't want any more kids, and that was all she really wanted, kids of her own. She was pretty screwed up in some ways, I guess because she'd had a tough time growing up."

"Did William know about her affair with Purdy?"

Polly shook her head. "No one knew except me. That's why she swore me to secrecy. She said William would call the wedding off if he ever found out."

"Would he have done?"