"Oh, for sure. Look, he was thirty-seven years old, and he wasn't the marrying kind. Wendy Plater nearly got him up to scratch once till Kate put a spanner in the works by telling him she was a lush. He dumped her so quick, you wouldn't believe." She smiled reminiscently. "Kate practically had to put a ring through his nose to get him to the registry office. It might have been different if his mother had approved, but old Ma Sumner and Will were like a couple of old folks, and Kate had to work her socks off every night to make sex more attractive to the silly sod than having his laundry done on a regular basis."

"Was it true about Wendy Plater?"

Polly looked uncomfortable again. "She gets drunk sometimes but not on a regular basis. Still, as Kate said, if Will had wanted to marry her, he wouldn't have believed it, would he? He just seized on the first good excuse to get out."

Galbraith looked down at Kate Sumner's childish writing in the draft letter she'd written to Polly and wondered about the nature of ruthlessness. "Did the affair with Purdy continue after she married William?"

"No," said Polly with conviction. "Once Kate made up her mind to something, that was it."

"Would that stop her having an affair with someone else? Let's say she was bored with William and met someone younger-would she have been unfaithful in those circumstances?"

Polly shrugged. "I don't know. I sort of thought she might have something going because she hadn't bothered to phone me for ages, but that doesn't mean she did. It wouldn't have been serious, anyway. She was pleased as punch about moving to Lymington and getting a decent house, and I can't see her giving all that up very easily."

Galbraith nodded. "Have you ever known her to use feces as a means of revenge?"

"What the hell's fee-sees?"

"Crap," Galbraith explained obligingly, "turds, dung, number twos."

"Shit!"

"Exactly. Have you ever known her to smear crap over anyone's belongings?"

Polly giggled. "No. She was much too prissy to do anything like that. A bit of a hygiene freak, actually. When Hannah was a baby she used to swab the kitchen down every day with Dettol in case there were any germs. I told her she was crazy-I mean germs are everywhere, aren't they-but she still went on doing it. I can't see her touching a turd in a million years. She used to hold Hannah's nappies at arm's length after she'd changed her."

Curiouser and curiouser, thought Galbraith. "Okay. Give me a rough idea of the timetable. How soon after she told Purdy she was going to marry William did the wedding actually take place?"

"I can't remember. A month maybe."

He did a quick calculation in his head. "So if Purdy was off for three months, then it was two months after the wedding that she left work because she was pregnant?"

"Something like that."

"And how pregnant was she, Polly? Two months? Three months? Four months?"

A resigned expression crossed the young woman's face. "She said as long as it looked like her it wouldn't matter, because William was so besotted he'd believe anything she told him." She read Galbraith's expression correctly as one of contempt. "She didn't do it out of malice. Just desperation. She knew what it was like to grow up in poverty."

Celia's adamant refusal to go with Harding in the helicopter and her inability to bend at the hip meant that she was going to either have to walk home in extreme pain or travel flat on her back on the floor of Ingram's Jeep, which was full of oilskins, waders, and fishing tackle. With a wry smile he cleared a space and bent to pick her up. However, she was even more adamant in her refusal to be carried. "I'm not a child," she snapped.

"I don't see how else we can do it, Mrs. Jenner," he pointed out, "not unless you slide in on your front and lie facedown where I usually put my fish."

"I suppose you think that's funny."

"Merely accurate. I'm afraid it's going to be painful whatever we do."

She looked at the uncomfortable, ridged floor and gave in with bad grace. "Just don't make a meal of it," she said crossly. "I hate fuss."

"I know." He scooped her into his arms and leaned into the Jeep to deposit her carefully on the floor. "It's going to be a bumpy ride," he warned, packing the oilskins around her as wadding. "You'd better shout if it gets too much for you, and I'll stop."

It was already too much, but she had no intention of telling him so. "I'm worried about Maggie," she said through gritted teeth. "She ought to be back by now."

"She'll have led Stinger toward the stables not away from them," he told her.

"Are you ever wrong about anything?" she asked acidly.

"Not where your daughter's knowledge of horses is concerned," he answered. "I have faith in her, and so should you." He shut the door on her and climbed in behind the wheel. "I'll apologize in advance," he called as he started the engine.

"What for?"

"The lousy suspension," he murmured, letting out the clutch and setting off at a snail's pace across the chewed-up turf of the valley. She didn't make a sound the entire way back, and he smiled to himself as he drew into the Broxton House drive. Whatever else she was, Celia Jenner was a gutsy lady, and he admired her for it.

He opened the back door. "Still alive?" he asked, reaching in for her.

She was gray with pain and fatigue, but it took more than a bumpy ride to kill the spark. "You're a very irritating young man," she muttered, as she clamped her arm around his neck again and grunted with pain as he shifted her along the floor. "But you were right about Martin Grant," she admitted grudgingly, "and I've always regretted that I didn't listen to you. Does that please you?"

"No."

"Why not? Maggie would tell you it's the closest I'll ever come to an apology."

He smiled slightly, hefting her against his chest and stepping away from the Jeep. "Is being stubborn something to be proud of?"

"I'm not stubborn, I'm principled."

"Well, if you weren't so"- he grinned at her-"principled, you'd be in the Poole hospital by now getting proper treatment."

"You should always call a spade a spade," she said crossly. "And, frankly, if I was half as stubborn as you seem to think I am, I wouldn't even be in this condition. I object to having my arse mentioned over the telephone."

"Do you want another apology?"

She looked up and caught his eye, then looked away again. "For goodness sake, put me down," she said. "This is so undignified in a woman of my age. What would my daughter say if she saw me like this?"

He took no notice of her and strode across the weed-strewn gravel toward her front door, only lowering her to the ground when he heard the sound of running feet. Maggie, flustered and breathless, appeared around the cornet of the house, a walking stick in each hand. She handed them to her mother. "She's not allowed to ride," she told Nick, bending over to catch her breath. "Doctor's orders. But thank God she never takes anyone's advice. I couldn'l have managed on my own, and I certainly couldn't have got Stinger back without Sir Jasper."

Nick held supporting hands under Celia's elbows while she balanced herself on the sticks. "You should have told me to get stuffed," he said.

She inched forward on her sticks like a large crab. "Don't be ridiculous," she muttered irritably. "That's the mistake I made last time."

*18*

STATEMENT.

Witness: James Purdy, Managing Director, Pharmatec UK

Interviewer: DI Galbraith

Sometime during the summer of 1993, I was working late in the office. As far as I was aware, everyone else had left the premises. On my way out at approximately 9:00 p.m., I noticed a light shining in an office at the end of the corridor. The office belonged to Kate Hill, secretary to the services manager, Michael Sprate, and, because I was impressed by the fact that she was working late, I went in to commend her on her commitment. She had been drawn to my attention when she first joined the company because of her size. She was slim and small with blond hair and remarkable blue eyes. I found her very attractive, but that was not my reason for going into her office that night. She had never given any indication that she was interested in me. I was surprised and flattered, therefore, when she got up from her desk and said she had stayed late in the hope that I would come in.

I am not proud of what happened next. I'm fifty-eight years old, and I've been married thirty-three years, and no one has ever done to me what Kate did that night. I know it sounds absurd, but it's the sort of thing most men dream of: that they'll walk into a room one day and a beautiful woman, for no reason at all, will offer them sex. I was extremely worried afterward because I assumed she must have had an ulterior motive for doing it. I spent the next few days in fear. At the very least I expected her to take liberties in her dealings with me; at the worst I expected some sort of blackmail attempt. However, she was extremely discreet, asked nothing in return, and was always polite whenever I saw her. When I realized there was nothing to fear, I became obsessed with her and dreamed about her night after night.

Some two weeks later, she was again in her office when I passed, and the experience was repeated. I asked her why and she said: "Because I want to." From that moment on, there was nothing I could do to control myself. In some ways, she is the most beautiful thing that has ever happened in my life, and I do not regret one moment of our affair. In other ways, I look back on it as a nightmare. I did not believe hearts could be broken, but mine was broken several times by Kate, never more so than when I heard she was dead.

Our affair continued for several months, until January 1994. For the most part it was conducted in Kate's flat, although once or twice, under the guise of business trips, I took her to hotels in London. I was prepared to divorce my wife in order to marry Kate, even though I have always loved my wife and would never do anything willingly to hurt her. I can only describe Kate as a fever in the blood that temporarily upset my equilibrium, because once exorcized, I was able to return to normal.

On a Friday at the end of January 1994, Kate came into my office at about 3:30 p.m. and told me she was going to marry William Sumner. I was terribly distressed and remember little of what happened next. I know I passed out, and when I came around again I was in the hospital. I was told I had had a minor heart attack. I have since confessed to my wife everything that happened.

As far as I am aware, William Sumner knows nothing about my relations with Kate before their marriage. I have certainly not told him, nor have I led him to believe that we were even remotely friendly. It did occur to me that his daughter might be mine, but I have never mentioned it to anyone as I would not lay claim to the child.

I can confirm that I have had no contact with Kate Hill-Sumner since the day in January 1994 when she told me of her decision to marry William Sumner.

James Purdy STATEMENT.

Witness: Vivienne Purdy, The Gables, Drew Street, Fareham

Interviewer: DI Galbraith

I first learned of my husband's affair with Kate Hill some four weeks after his heart attack in January 1994.1 cannot remember the precise date, but it was either the day she married William Sumner or the day after. I found James in tears, and I was worried because he had been making such good progress. He told me he was crying because his heart was breaking, and he went on to explain why.

I was neither hurt nor surprised by his confession. James and I have been married a long time, and I knew perfectly well that he was having a relationship with someone else. He has never been a good liar. My only emotion was relief that he had finally decided to clear the air. I felt no animosity toward Kate Hill-Sumner for the following reasons.

It may sound insensitive, but I would not have regarded it as the worst misfortune that could have happened to me to lose the man I had lived with for thirty-three years. Indeed, in some ways I would have welcomed it as an opportunity to start a new life, free of duty and responsibility. Prior to the events of 1993-94 James was a conscientious father and husband, but his family had always taken second place to his personal ambitions and desires. When I realized that he was having an affair, I made discreet inquiries about the financial position should divorce become inevitable, and satisfied myself that a division of our property would allow me considerable freedom. I renewed my career as a teacher some ten years ago, and my salary is an adequate one. I have also made sensible pension provisions for myself. As a result, I would certainly have agreed to a divorce had James asked for one. My children are grown up, and while they would be unhappy at the thought of their parents separating, I knew that James would continue to be interested in them.

I explained all this to James in the spring of 1994, and showed him the correspondence I had had with my solicitor and my accountant. I believe it concentrated his mind on the choices open to him, and I am confident that he put aside any thought of attempting to rekindle the affair with Kate Hill-Sumner. I hope I don't flatter myself when I say it came as a shock to him to realize that he could no longer take my automatic presence in his life for granted, and that he took this possibility rather more seriously than he took his relationship with Kate Hill-Sumner. I can say honestly that I have no lingering resentment toward James or Kate because it was I who was empowered by the experience. I have a great deal more confidence in myself and my future as a result.

I was aware that William and Kate Hill-Sumner had a child sometime in autumn 1994. By simple calculation, I recognized that the child could have been my husband's. However, I did not discuss the issue with him. Nor Indeed with anyone else. I could see no point in causing further unhappiness to the parties involved, particularly the child.

I have never met Kate Hill-Sumner or her husband.

Vivienne Purdy *19*

Inside Broxton House, Nick Ingram abandoned both women in the kitchen to put through a call to the incident room at Winfrith. He spoke to Detective Superintendent Carpenter, and gave him details of Harding's activities that morning. "He's been taken to the Poole hospital, sir. I shall be questioning him later about the assault, but meanwhile you might want to keep an eye on him. He's not likely to go anywhere in the short term because his arm needs stitching, but I'd say he's out of control now or he wouldn't have attacked Miss Jenner."

"What was he trying to do? Rape her?"

"She doesn't know. She says she shouted at him when her horse bolted, so he slapped her and knocked her to the ground."

"Mmm." Carpenter thought for a moment. "I thought you and John Galbraith decided he was interested in little boys."

"I'm ready to be proved wrong, sir."

There was a dry chuckle at the other end. "What's the first rule of policing, son?"

"Always keep an open mind, sir."

"Legwork first, lad. Conclusions second." There was another brief silence. "The DI's gone off in hot pursuit of William Sumner after reading your fax. He won't be at all pleased if Harding's our man after all."

"Sorry, sir. If you can give me a couple of hours to go back to the headland, I'll see if I can find out what he was up to. It'll be quicker than sending any of your chaps down."

But he was delayed by the wretched state of the two Jenner women. Celia was in such pain she was unable to sit down, and so she stood in the middle of the kitchen, legs splayed and leaning forward on her two sticks, looking more like an angry praying mantis than a crab. Meanwhile, Maggie's teeth chattered nonstop from delayed shock. "S-s-sorry," she kept saying, as she took a filthy, evil-smelling horse blanket from the scullery and draped it around her shoulders, "I'm j-just s-s-so c-cold."

Unceremoniously, Ingram shoved her onto a chair beside the Aga and told her to stay put while he dealt with her mother. "Right," he said to Celia, "are you going to be more comfortable lying down in bed or sitting up in a chair?"

"Lying down," she said.

"Then I'll set up a bed on the ground floor. Which room do you want it in?"

"I don't," she said mutinously. "It'll make me look like an invalid."

He crossed his arms and frowned at her. "I haven't got time to argue about this, Mrs. Jenner. There's no way you can get upstairs, so the bed has to come to you." She didn't answer. "All right," he said, heading for the hall. "I'll make the decision myself."

"The drawing room," she called after him. "And take the bed out of the room at the end of the corridor."

Her reluctance, he realized, had more to do with her unwillingness to let him go upstairs than fear of being seen as an invalid. He had had no idea how desperate their plight was until he saw the wasteland of the upper floor. The doors stood open to every room, eight in all, and there wasn't a single piece of furniture in any but Celia's. The smell of long-lying dust and damp permeating through an unsound roof stung his nostrils, and he wasn't surprised that Celia's health had begun to suffer. He was reminded of Jane Fielding's complaints about selling the family heirlooms to look after her parents-in-law, but their situation was princely compared with this.

The room at the end of the corridor was obviously Celia's own, and her bed probably the only one left in the house. It took him less than ten minutes to dismantle and reassemble it in the drawing room, where he set it up close to the French windows, overlooking the garden. The view was hardly inspiring, just another wasteland, untended and uncared for, but the drawing room at least retained some of its former glory, with all its paintings and most of its furniture still intact. He had time to reflect that few, if any, of Celia's acquaintances could have any idea that the hall and the drawing room represented the extent of her remaining worth. But what sort of madness made people live like this? he wondered. Pride? Fear of their failures being known? Embarrassment?

He returned to the kitchen. "How are we going to do this?" he asked her. "The hard way or the easy way?"

Tears of pain squeezed between her lids. "You really are the most provoking creature," she said. "You're determined to take away my dignity, aren't you?"

He grinned as he put one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, and lifted her gently. "Why not?" he murmured. "It may be my only chance to get even."

I don't want to talk to you," said William Sumner angrily, barring the front door to DI Galbraith. Hectic spots of color burned in his cheeks, and he kept tugging at the fingers of his left hand as he spoke, cracking the joints noisily. "I'm sick of the police treating my house like a damn thoroughfare, and I'm sick of answering questions. Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Because your wife's been murdered, sir," said Galbraith evenly, "and we're trying to find out who killed her. I'm sorry if you're finding that difficult to cope with but I really do have no option."

"Then talk to me here. What do you want to know?"

The DI glanced toward the road, where an interested group of spectators was gathering. "We'll have the press here before you know it, William," he said dispassionately. "Do you want to discuss your alleged alibi in front of an audience of journalists?"

Sumner's jittery gaze jumped toward the crowd at his gate. "This isn't fair. Everything's so bloody public. Why can't you make them go away?"

"They'll go of their own accord if you let me in. They'll stay if you insist on keeping me on the doorstep. That's human nature, I'm afraid."