"Sure you do. You lot are all the same."

"I'm more interested in Steve's pornography. I gather you don't approve of it?"

A closed expression tightened the young man's features. "It's cheap filth. I'm a teacher. I don't like that kind of crap."

"What kind of crap is it? Describe it to me."

"What's to describe? He's got a todger the size of the Eiffel Tower, and he likes to display it." He shrugged. "But that's his problem, not mine."

"Are you sure about that?"

Bridges squinted painfully through the smoke from his spliff. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"We've been told you live in his shadow."

"Who by?"

"Steve's parents."

"You don't want to believe anything they say," he said dismissively. "They stood in judgment on me ten years ago, and have never changed their opinion since. They think I'm a bad influence."

Galbraith chuckled. "And are you?"

"Let's put it this way, my parents think Steve's a bad influence. We got into a bit of trouble when we were younger, but it's water under the bridge now."

"So what do you teach?" Galbraith asked, looking around the room and wondering how anyone could live in such squalor. More interestingly, how could anyone so rank boast a girlfriend? Was Bibi as squalid?

Campbell's description of the setup after his interview with Bridges on Monday had been pithy. "It's a pit," he said. "The bloke's spaced out, the house stinks, he's shacked up with a tramp who looks as if she's slept with half the men in Lymington, and he's a teacher, for Christ's sake."

"Chemistry." He sneered at Galbraith's expression, misinterpreting it. "And, yes, I do know how to synthesize lysergic acid diethylamide. I also know how to blow up Buckingham Palace. It's a useful subject, chemistry. The trouble is"-he broke off to draw pensively on his spliff- "the people who teach it are so bloody boring they turn the kids off long before they ever get to the interesting bits."

"But not you?"

"No. I'm good."

Galbraith could believe it. Rebels, however flawed, were always charismatic to youth. "Your friend is in the Poole hospital," he told the young man. "He was attacked by a dog on the Isle of Purbeck this morning and had to be shipped out by helicopter to have his arm stitched." He looked at Bridges inquiringly. "Any idea what he was doing there? In view of the fact he was bailed to this address and presumably you have some knowledge of what he gets up to."

"Sorry, mate, that's where you're wrong. Steve's a closed book to me."

"You said you warned him I'd come checking."

"Not you personally. I don't know you from Adam. I told him the filth would come. That's different."

"Still, if you had to warn him, Tony, then you must have known he was about to leg it. So where was he planning to go and what did he plan to do?"

"I told you. The guy's a closed book to me."

"I thought you were at school together."

"We've grown apart."

"Doesn't he doss here when he's not on his boat?"

"Not often."

"What about his relationship with Kate?"

Bridges shook his head. "Everything I know about her is in my statement," he said virtuously. "If I knew anything else, I'd tell you."

Galbraith looked at his watch. "We've got a bit of a problem here, son," he said affably. "I'm on a tight schedule, so I can only give you another thirty seconds."

"To do what, mate?"

"Tell the truth." He unclipped his handcuffs from his belt.

"Pull the other one," scoffed Bridges. "You're not going to arrest me."

"Too right I am. And I'm a hard bastard, Tony. When I arrest a lying little toe-rag like you, I take him out just as he is, never mind he's got a bum like a pizza and his prick's shrunk in the fucking wash."

Bridges gave a throaty chuckle. "The press would crucify you. You can't drag a naked guy through the streets for illegal possession. It's hardly even a crime anymore."

"Try me."

"Go on then."

Galbraith snapped one bracelet onto his own wrist, then leaned forward and snapped the other onto Tony's. "Anthony Bridges, I am arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy in the rape and murder last Saturday night of Mrs. Kate Sumner of Langton Cottage and the grievous bodily assault this morning of Miss Margaret Jenner of Broxton House." He stood up and started walking toward the door, dragging Bridges behind him. "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense-"

"Shit!" said the young man stumbling to his feet. "This is a joke, right?"

"No joke." The DI twitched the spliff out of the young man's fingers and flicked it, still alight, into the corridor. "The reason Steven Harding was attacked by a dog this morning is because he attempted to assault another woman in the same place that Kate Sumner died. Now you can either tell me what you know, or you can accompany me to Winfrith, where you will be formally charged and interviewed on tape." He looked the man up and down, and laughed. "Frankly, I couldn't give a toss either way. It'll save me time if you talk to me now, but"-he shook his head regretfully-"I'd hate your neighbors to miss the fun. It must be hell living next door to you."

"That spliff's going to set my house on fire!"

Galbraith watched the joint smolder gently on the wooden floorboards. "It's too green. You're not curing it properly."

"You'd know, of course."

"Trust me." He yanked Bridges down the corridor. "Where were we? Oh, yes. It may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court." He pulled open the door and ushered the man outside. "Anything you do say may be given in evidence." He prodded Bridges onto the pavement in front of a startled old lady with fluffy white hair and eyes as big as golf balls behind pebble spectacles. "Morning, ma'am," he said politely.

Her mouth gaped.

"I've parked behind Tesco's," he told Bridges, "so it'll probably be quicker if we go up the High Street."

"You can't take me up the High Street like this. Tell him, Mrs. Crane."

The elderly woman leaned forward, putting a hand behind her ear. "Tell him what, dear?"

"Oh, Jesus! Never mind! Forget it!"

"I'm not sure I can," she murmured in a confidential tone. "Did you know you were naked?"

"Of course I know!" he shouted into her deaf ear. "The police are denying me my rights, and you're a witness to it."

"That's nice. I've always wanted to be a witness to something." Her eyes brimmed with sudden amusement. "I'll tell my husband about it. He'll be pleased as punch. He's been saying for years that the only thing that happens when you burn the candle at both ends is the wick gets smaller." She gave a joyful laugh as she moved on. "And, you know, I always thought it was a joke."

Galbraith grinned after her. "What do you want me to do with your front door?" he asked, grabbing the handle. "Slam it shut?"

"Jesus no!" Bridges lurched backward to stop the door from closing. "I haven't got a key, for Christ's sake."

"Losing your nerve already?"

"I could sue you for this."

"No chance. This was your choice, remember. I explained that if I had to arrest you, I would take you out as you were, and your response was: Go on then."

Bridges looked wildly up the road as a man rounded the corner, and Galbraith was rewarded with a scrambling stampede for the safety of the corridor. He shut the door and stood with his back to it, halting further flight by a jerk on the handcuffs. "Right. Shall we start again? Why did Steve go back to Chapman's Pool this morning?"

"I don't know. I didn't even know he was there." His eyes widened as Galbraith reached for the door handle again. "Listen, dickhead, that guy coming up the street's a journalist, and he's been pestering me all morning about Steve. If I'd known where the bastard was I'd have sent the bloke after him, but I can't even get him to answer his mobile." He jerked his head toward the sitting room. "At least let's get out of earshot," he muttered. "He's probably listening at the door, and you don't want the press on your back any more than I do."

Galbraith released the handcuffs on his own wrist and followed Bridges into the sitting room again, treading on the spliff as he went. "Tell me about the relationship between Steve and Kate," he said, resuming his seat. "And make it convincing, Tony," he added, taking his notebook from his pocket with a sigh, "because A: I'm knackered; B: you're getting up my nose; and C: it's completely immaterial to me if your name is plastered across the newspapers tomorrow morning as a probable suspect on a rape and murder charge."

"I never did understand the attraction. I only met her once, and as far as I'm concerned, she's the most boring woman I've ever come across. It was in a pub one Friday lunchtime, and all she could do was sit and look at Steve as if he were Leonardo DiCaprio. Mind you, when she started talking, it was even worse. God, she was stupid! Having a conversation with her was like listening to paint dry. I think she must have lived on a diet of soap operas, because whatever I said reminded her of something that had happened in Neighbours or EastEnders, and it got on my tits after a while. I asked Steve later what the hell he thought he was doing, and he laughed and said he wasn't interested in her for her conversation. He reckoned she had a dream of an arse, and that was all that mattered. To be honest, I don't think he ever intended it to get as serious as it did. She met him in the street one day after the incident with Hannah's buggy and invited him back to her house. He said it was all pretty mind-blowing. One minute he was struggling to find something to talk about over a coffee in the kitchen, and the next she was climbing all over him. He said the only bad part was that the kid sat in a highchair watching them do it because Kate said Hannah would scream her head off if she tried to take her out.

"As far as Steve was concerned, that was it. That's what he told me anyway. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, and bye-bye. So I was a bit surprised when he asked if he could bring her here on a couple of occasions in the autumn term. It was during the day, while her husband was at work, so I never saw her. Other times, they did it on his boat or in her house, but mostly they did it in his Volvo. He'd drive her out into the New Forest and they'd dose the kid with paracetamol so she'd sleep on the front seat while they set to in the back. All in all it went on for about two months, until he started to get bored. The trouble was Kate had nothing going for her except her arse. She didn't drink, she didn't smoke, she didn't sail, she had no sense of humor and all she wanted was for Steve to get a part in EastEnders. It was pathetic really. I think it was the ultimate dream for her, to get hitched to a soap star and swan around being photographed on his arm.

"In all honesty, I don't think it ever occurred to her that he was only balling her because she was available and didn't cost him a penny. He said she was completely gobsmacked when he told her he'd had enough and didn't want to see her again. That's when she turned nasty. I guess she'd been conning idiots like her husband for so long it really pissed her off to find she'd been taken for a ride by a younger guy. She rubbed crap all over the sheets in his cabin, then she started setting off his car alarm and smearing shit all over his car. Steve got incredibly uptight about it. Everything he touched had crap on it. What really bugged him was his dinghy. He came down one Friday and found the bottom ankle-deep in water and slushy turds. He said she must have been saving them up for weeks. Anyway, that's when he started talking about going to the police.

"I told him it was a crazy idea. If you get the filth involved, I said, you'll never hear the end of it. And it won't be just Kate who's after you, it'll be William, too. You can't go around sleeping with other guys' wives and expect them to turn a blind eye. I told him to cool down and move his car to another parking place. So he said, what about his dinghy? And I said I'd lend him one that she wouldn't recognize. And that was it. Simple. Problem sorted. As far as I know he didn't have any more aggro from her."

It was a while before Galbraith responded. He had been listening attentively and making notes, and he finished writing before he said anything. "Did you lend him a dinghy?" he asked.

"Sure."

"What did it look like?"

Bridges frowned. "The same as any dinghy. Why do you want to know that?"

"Just interested. What color was it?"

"Black."

"Where did you get it from?"

He started to pluck Rizla papers from their packet and make a patchwork quilt of them on the floor. "A mailorder catalogue, I think. It's the one I had before I bought my new rib."

"Has Steve still got it?"

He hesitated before shaking his head. "I wouldn't know, mate. Wasn't it on Crazy Daze when you searched it?"

Thoughtfully, the DI tapped his pencil against his teeth. He recalled Carpenter's words of Wednesday: "I didn 't like him. He's a cocky little bastard, and a damn sight too knowledgeable about police interviews." "Okay," he said next. "Let's go back to Kate. You say the problem was sorted. What happened then?"

"Nothing. That's it. End of story. Unless you count the fact that she ends up dead on a beach in Dorset the weekend Steve just happens to be there."

"I do. I also count the fact that her daughter was found wandering along a main road approximately two hundred yards from where Steve's boat was moored."

"It was a setup," said Bridges. "You should be giving William the third degree. He had far more reason to murder Kate than Steve did. She was two-timing him, wasn't she?"

Galbraith shrugged. "Except that William didn't hate his wife, Tony. He knew what she was like when he married her, and it made no difference to him. Steve, on the other hand, had got himself into a mess and didn't know how to get out of it."

"That doesn't make him a murderer."

"Perhaps he thought he needed an ultimate solution."

Bridges shook his head. "Steve's not like that."

"And William Sumner is?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never met the bloke."

"According to your statement you and Steve had a drink with him one evening."

"Okay. Correction. I don't know the bloke. I stayed fifteen minutes tops and exchanged maybe half a dozen words with him."

Galbraith steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and studied the young man. "But you seem to know a lot about him," he said. "Kate, too, despite only meeting each of them once."

Bridges returned his attention to his patchwork quilt, sliding the papers into different positions with the balls of his fingers. "Steve talks a lot."

Galbraith seemed to accept this explanation, because he gave a nod. "Why was Steve planning to go to France this week?"

"I didn't know he was."

"He had a reservation at a hotel in Concarneau, which was canceled this morning when he failed to confirm it."

Bridges' expression became suddenly wary. "He's never mentioned it."

"Would you expect him to?"

"Sure."

"You said you and he had grown apart," Galbraith reminded him.

"Figure of speech, mate."

A look of derision darkened the inspector's eyes. "Okay, last question. Where's Steve's lock-up, Tony?"

"What lock-up?" asked the other guilelessly.

"All right. Let me put it another way. Where does he store the equipment off his boat when he's not using it? His dinghy and his outboard, for example."