Campbell thought back to his interview with Bridges on Monday night. "Perhaps he feels responsible for you."

"That's not the reason," she said scornfully. "He's a sad little bastard-that's the reason. None of his girlfriends stay with him because he's stoned most of the time and can't do the business properly. He's been going out with this hairdresser for about four months now, and Steve says he's been feeding her drugs so she won't complain about his lousy performance. If you want my opinion, there's something wrong with him-he's always trying to touch up girls in class-but our stupid headmaster's too thick to do anything about it."

Campbell exchanged a glance with his colleague. "How does Steve know he's been feeding her drugs?" he asked.

"He's seen him do it. It's like a Mickey Finn. You dissolve a tablet in lager, and the girl passes out."

"Do you know what drug he's using?"

Another shrug. "Some sort of sleeping pill."

I'm not going to explain anything without a solicitor here," said Bridges adamantly. "Look, this was one sick woman. You think that kid of hers is weird? Well, trust me, she's as sane as you and me compared with her mother."

WPC Griffiths heard the sound of smashing glass from the kitchen and lifted her head in immediate concern. She had left Hannah watching television in the sitting room, and as far as she knew, William was still in his study upstairs, where he had retreated, angry and resentful, after his interview with DI Galbraith. With a perplexed frown, she tiptoed along the corridor and pushed open the sitting-room door to find Sumner standing just inside. He turned an ashen face toward her, then gestured helplessly toward the little girl, who stalked purposefully about the room, picking up pictures of her mother and throwing them with high-pitched guttural cries into the unlit fireplace.

Ingram put a cup of tea in front of Steven Harding and took a chair on the other side of the table. He was puzzled by the man's attitude. He had expected a long interview session, punctuated by denials and counteraccusations. Instead Harding had admitted culpability and agreed with everything Maggie had written in her statement. All that awaited him now was to be formally charged and held over till the next morning. His only real concern had been his telephone. When Ingram had handed it to the custody sergeant and formally entered it into the inventory of Harding's possessions, Harding had looked relieved. But whether because it had been returned or because it was switched off, Ingram couldn't tell.

"How about talking to me off the record?" he invited. "Just to satisfy my own curiosity. There's no tape. No witnesses to the conversation. Just you and me."

Harding shrugged. "What do you want to talk about?"

"You. What's going on. Why you were on the coastal path on Sunday. What brought you back to Chapman's Pool this morning."

"I already told you. I fancied a walk"-he made a good attempt at a cocky grin-"both times."

"All right." He splayed his palms on the edge of the table, preparatory to standing up. "It's your funeral. Just don't complain afterward that no one tried to help you. You've always been the obvious suspect. You knew the victim, you own a boat, you were on the spot, you told lies about what you were doing there. Have you any idea how all that is going to look to a jury if the Crown Prosecution Service decides to prosecute you for Kate Sumner's rape and murder?"

"They can't. They haven't got any evidence."

"Oh, for Christ's sake grow up, Steve!" he said in irritation, subsiding onto his chair again. "Don't you read the newspapers? People have spent years in prison on less evidence than Winfrith has against you. All right, it's only circumstantial, but juries don't like coincidence any more than the rest of us, and frankly, your antics of this morning haven't helped any. All they prove is that women make you angry enough to attack them." He paused, inviting a reply that never came. "If you're interested in the report I wrote on Monday, I mentioned that both Miss Jenner and I thought you were having difficulty coping with an erection. Afterward one of the Spender boys described how you were using your telephone as a masturbation aid before Miss Jenner arrived." He shrugged. "It may have had nothing to do with Kate Sumner, but it won't sound good in court."

A dull flush spread up Harding's throat and into his face. "That sucks!"

"True nevertheless."

"I wish to God I'd never helped those kids," he said with a burst of anger. "I wouldn't be in this mess but for them. I should have walked away and left them to cope on their own." He pushed his hair off his face with both hands and rested his forehead in his palms. "Jesus Christ! Why do you have to put something like that in a report?"

"Because it happened."

"Not like that it didn't," he said sullenly, the flush of humiliation lingering in his cheeks.

"Then how?" Ingram watched him for a moment. "Headquarters thinks you came back to gloat over the rape and that's what caused your erection."

"That's bullshit!" said the young man angrily.

"What other explanation is there? If it wasn't the thought of Kate Sumner's body that excited you, then it had to be Miss Jenner or the boys."

Harding raised his head and stared at the policeman, his eyes widening in shocked revulsion. "The boys?" he echoed.

It crossed Ingram's mind that the facial expression was a little too theatrical, and he reminded himself, as Galbraith had done, that he was dealing with an actor. He wondered what Harding's reaction would be when he was told about the videotape. "You couldn't keep your hands off them," he pointed out. "According to Miss Jenner, you were hugging Paul from behind when she rounded the boat sheds."

"I don't believe this," said Harding in desperation. "I was only showing him how to use the binoculars properly."

"Prove it."

"How can I?"

Ingram tilted his chair back and stretched his long legs out in front of him, lacing his hands behind his head. "Tell me why you were at Chapman's Pool. Let's face it, whatever you were doing can't be any worse than the constructions that are being put on your actions at the moment."

"I'm not saying another word."

Ingram stared at a mark on the ceiling. "Then let me tell you what I think you were doing. You went there to meet someone," he murmured. "I think it was a girl and I think she was on one of the boats, but whatever plans you'd made with her were scuppered when the place started jumping with policemen and sightseers." He shifted his attention back to Harding. "But why the secrecy, Steve? What on earth were you intending to do with her that meant you'd rather be arrested on suspicion of rape and murder than give an explanation?"

It was two hours before a solicitor arrived, courtesy of Tony's grandfather, and after a brief discussion with his client, and following police assurances that, because of his alibi, Tony was not under suspicion of involvement in Kate Sumner's death, he advised him to answer their questions.

"Okay, yes, I got to know Kate pretty well. She lives-lived-about two hundred yards from my grandfather's garage. She used to come in and talk to me whenever I was in there because she knew I was a friend of Steve's. She was a right little tart, always flirting, always opening those baby blue eyes of hers and telling stories about how this and that man fancied her. I thought it was a come-on, particularly when she said William had a problem getting it up. She told me she went through pints of baby oil to help the poor sod out, and it made her laugh like a drain. Her descriptions were about as graphic as you can get, but she didn't seem to care that Hannah was listening or that I might get to be friendly with William." He looked troubled, as if the memory haunted him. "I told you she was sick. Matter of fact, I think she enjoyed being cruel to people. I reckon she made that poor bastard's life hell. It certainly gave her a kick slapping me down when I tried to kiss her. She spat in my face and said she wasn't that desperate." He fell silent.

"When was this?"

"End of February."

"What happened then?"

"Nothing. I told her to fuck off. Then Steve started dropping hints that he was balling her. I think she must have told him I'd made a pass, so he thought he'd swagger a bit just to rub it in. He said everyone had had her except me."

Carpenter pulled forward a piece of paper and flicked the plunger on his pen. "Give me a list," he said. "Everyone you know who had anything to do with her."

"Steve Harding."

"Go on."

"I don't know of anyone else."

Carpenter laid his pen on the table again and stared at the young man. "That's not good enough, Tony. You describe her as a tart, then offer me one name. That gives me very little confidence in your assessment of Kate's character. Assuming you're telling the truth, we know of only three men who had a relationship with her-her husband, Steven Harding, and one other from her past." His eyes bored into Bridges'. "By any standards that's a modest number for a thirty-year-old woman. Or would you call any woman who's had three lovers a tart? Your girlfriend, for example? How many partners has Bibi had?"

"Leave Bibi out of this," said Bridges angrily. "She's got nothing to do with it."

Galbraith leaned forward. "She gave you your alibi for Saturday night," he reminded him. "That means she has a great deal to do with it." He folded his hands in front of his mouth and studied Bridges intently. "Did she know you fancied Kate Sumner?"

The solicitor laid a hand on the young man's arm. "You don't need to answer that."

"Well, I'm going to," he said, shaking himself free. "I'm fed up with them trying to drag Bibi into it." He addressed Galbraith. "I didn't fucking well fancy Kate. I loathed the stupid bitch. I just thought she was easy, that's all, so I tried it on once. Listen, she was a cockteaser. It gave her a buzz to get blokes excited."

"That's not what I asked you, Tony. I asked you if Bibi knew you fancied Kate."

"No," he muttered.

Galbraith nodded. "But she knew about Steve and Kate?"

"Yes."

"Who told her? You or Steve?"

Bridges slumped angrily in his chair. "Steve mostly. She got really worked up when Kate started smearing Hannah's crap all over his car, so he told her what had been going on."

Galbraith leaned back, letting his hands drop to the tabletop. "Women don't give a toss about a car unless the guy who drives it matters to her. Are you sure your girlfriend isn't playing away from home?"

Bridges erupted out of his seat in a fury of movement, "You are so fucking patronizing. You think you know it all, don't you? She got mad because there was shit all over the handle when she tried to open the door. That's what got her worked up. Not because she cares about Steve or the car, but because her hand was covered in crap. Are you so stupid you can't work that out for yourselves?"

"But doesn't that prove my point?" said Galbraith unemotionally. "If she was driving Steve's car, she must have had more than a nodding acquaintance with him."

"I was driving it," said Bridges, ignoring the solicitor's restraining hand to lean across the table and thrust his face into the inspector's. "I checked the driver's-side handle and it was clean, so I released the locks. What never occurred to me was that the bloody bitch might have changed tactics. This time the crap was on the passenger's side. Now, get this, dickhead. It was still soft when Bibi touched it, so that meant Kate must have put it there minutes before. It also meant that Bibi's hand stank to high bloody heaven. Can you follow all that, or do you want me to repeat it?"

"No," said Galbraith mildly. "The tape recorder's pretty reliable. I think we got it." He nodded toward the chair on the other side of the table. "Sit down, Tony." He waited while Bridges resumed his seat. "Did you see Kate walk away?"

"No."

"You should have done. You said the feces were still soft."

Tony pulled both hands across his peroxided hair and bent forward over the table. "There were plenty of places she could have been hiding. She was probably watching us."

"Did you ever wonder if you were the target and not Steve? You describe her as sick and say she spat at you."

"No."

"She must have known Steve allows you to drive his car."

"Once in a while. Not often."

Galbraith flipped another page of his notebook. "You told me this afternoon that you and Steve had an arrangement regarding your grandfather's garage and Crazy Daze. A straight swap, you called it."

"Yes."

"You said you took Bibi there two weeks ago."

"What of it?"

"Bibi doesn't agree with you. I phoned her at her parents' house two hours ago, and she said she's never been on Crazy Daze."

"She's forgotten," he said dismissively. "She was drunk as a skunk that night. What does it matter anyway?"

"Let's just say we're interested in discrepancies."

The young man shrugged. "I don't see what difference it makes. It's got nothing to do with anything."

"We like to be accurate." Galbraith consulted his notebook. "According to her, the reason she's never been on Crazy Daze is because Steve banned you from using it the week before you met her. 'Tony trashed the boat when he was drunk,' " he read, " 'and Steve blew his stack. He said Tony could go on using the car but Crazy Daze was off limits.' " He looked up. "Why did you lie about taking Bibi on board?"

"To wipe the stupid smirk off your face, I expect. It pisses me off the way you bastards behave. You're all fascists." He hunched forward, eyes burning angrily. "I haven't forgotten you were planning to drag me through the streets in the buff even if you have."

"What's that got to do with Bibi?"

"You wanted an answer so I gave you one."

"How about this for an answer instead? You knew Bibi had been on board with Steve, so you decided to offer an explanation for why her fingerprints were there. You knew we'd find yours because you went out to Crazy Daze on Monday, and you thought you'd be safe pretending you and Bibi had been there together. But the only place we lifted your prints in the cabin, Tony, was on the forward hatch, while Bibi's were all over the headboard behind the bed. She likes being on top, presumably?"

He dropped his head in misery. "Fuck off."

"It must drive you up the wall the way Steve keeps stealing your girlfriends."

*24*

Maggie lowered her aching arms and tapped pointedly on her watch when Nick shouldered his way through the scullery door, carrying an aluminum stepladder. She was perched precariously on a garden chair on top of the kitchen table, her hair sticky with cobwebs, her rolled-up sleeves saturated with water. "What sort of time do you call this?" she demanded. "It's a quarter to ten, and I have to be up at five o'clock tomorrow morning to see to the horses."

"Good God, woman!" he declared plaintively. "A night without sleep won't kill you. Live dangerously and see how you enjoy it."

"I expected you hours ago."

"Then don't marry a policeman," he said, setting up his ladder under the uncleaned part of the ceiling.

"Chance'd be a fine thing."

He grinned up at her. "You mean you'd contemplate it?"

"Absolutely not," she said, as if offering him a challenge to even try to chat her up. "All I meant was that no policeman has ever asked me."

"He wouldn't dare." He opened the cupboard under the sink and hunkered down to inspect it for cleaning implements and buckets. She was above him-like the rare occasions when she met him on horseback-and she felt an awful temptation to take advantage of the fact by dripping water onto the back of his neck. "Don't even think about it," he said, without looking up, "or I'll leave you to do the whole bloody lot on your own."

She chose to ignore him, preferring dignity to humiliation. "How did you get on?" she asked, stepping down from the chair to dunk her sponge in the bucket on the table.

"Rather well."

"I thought you must have done. Your tail's wagging." She climbed back onto the chair. "What did Steve say?"

"You mean apart from agreeing with everything in your statement?"

"Yes."

"He told me what he was doing at Chapman's Pool on Sunday." He looked up at her. "He's a complete idiot, but I don't think he's a rapist or a murderer."

"So you were wrong about him?"

"Probably."

"Good. It's bad for your character to have everything your own way. What about pedophile?"

"It depends on your definition of pedophilia." He swung forward a chair and straddled it, resting his elbows along the back, content to watch her work. "He's besotted with a fifteen-year-old girl who's so unhappy at home she keeps threatening to kill herself. She's an absolute stunner apparently, nearly six feet tall, looks twenty-five, ought to be a supermodel, and turns heads wherever she goes. Her parents are separated and fight like cat and dog-her mother's jealous of her-her father has a string of bimbos-she's four months pregnant by Steve-refuses to have an abortion-weeps all over his manly bosom every time she sees him"-he lifted a sardonic eyebrow-"which is probably why he finds her attractive-and is so desperate to have the baby and so desperate to be loved that she's twice tried to slit her wrists. Steve's solution to all this was to whisk her off to France in Crazy Daze, where they could live"-another sardonic lift of an eyebrow-"love's young dream without her parents having any idea where she'd gone or who she'd gone with."

Maggie chuckled. "I told you he was a good Samaritan."