"I think so, si-rr," he said in a broad Dorsetshire burr, resisting the temptation to tug his forelock. "If you find some of her hairs on a man's boat, that'll mean he's the rapist."

"Near enough."

"That's amazing, sir-rr," murmured Ingram.

"You don't sound convinced," said DI Galbraith, watching his performance with amusement.

He shrugged and reverted to his normal accent. "The only thing that nonintimate samples will prove is that she visited his boat at least once, and that's not proof of rape. The only useful DNA tests will have to be done on her."

"Well, don't hold your breath," the DI warned. "Water doesn't leave trace evidence. The pathologist's taken swabs, but he's not optimistic about getting a result. Either she was in the sea too long and anything useful was flushed away, or her attacker was wearing a condom." He was a pleasant-looking man with cropped ginger hair and a smiling, freckled face that made him look younger than his forty-two years. It also belied a sharp intelligence that caught people unawares if they were foolish enough to stereotype him by his appearance.

"How long was long?" asked Ingram with genuine curiosity. "Put it this way, how does the pathologist know she swam half a mile? It's a very precise estimate for an unpredictable stretch of water."

"He based it on the condition of the body, prevailing winds and currents, and the fact that she must have been alive when she reached the shelter of Egmont Point," said John Galbraith, opening his briefcase and extracting a sheet of paper. "Victim died of drowning at or around high tide, which was at one fifty-two a.m. British Summer Time on Sunday, ten August," he said, skip-reading the document. "Several indicators, such as evidence of hypothermia, the fact that a keeled boat couldn't have sailed too close to the cliffs, and the currents around St. Alban's Head suggest she entered the sea"-he tapped the page with his finger-"a minimum of half a mile west-southwest of where the body was found."

"Okay, well, assuming the minimum, that doesn't mean she swam half a mile. There are some strong currents along this part of the coast, so the sea would have caused her eastward drift. In real terms she would only have swum a couple of hundred yards."

"I presume that was taken into account."

Ingram frowned. "So why was she showing evidence of hypothermia? The winds have been light for the last week, and the sea's been calm. In those conditions, an average swimmer could cover two hundred yards in fifteen to twenty minutes. Also, the sea temperature would have been several degrees higher than the night air, so she'd be more likely to develop hypothermia on the beach than she would in the water, especially if she was naked."

"In which case she wouldn't have died from drowning."

"No."

"So what's the point you're making?" asked Galbraith.

Nick shook his head. "I don't know, except that I'm having trouble reconciling the body I saw with what the pathologist is saying. When the lifeboat crew at Swanage fished a corpse out of the sea last year, it was black with bruises and had swelled to twice its normal size."

The DI consulted the paper again. "Okay, well, there's a time constraint. He says the time of death must have coincided with high water to leave it stranded on the beach as the tide receded. He also makes the argument that if she hadn't reached the shelter of Egmont Point before she drowned, the body would have been pulled under by back eddies and towed out around St. Alban's Head. Put those two together and you have your answer, don't you? In simple terms she must have died within yards of the shore, and her body was stranded shortly afterward."

"That's very sad," said Ingram, thinking of the tiny hand waving in the spume.

"Yes," agreed Galbraith, who had seen the body in the mortuary and was as moved by the unnecessary death as Ingram was. He found the constable easy to like. But then he always preferred policemen who showed emotion. It was a sign of honesty.

"What evidence is there that she was raped if everything useful was flushed away?"

"Bruising to the inside of her thighs and back. Rope marks on her wrists. Bloodstream full of benzodiazepine ... probably Rohypnol. Do you know what that is?"

"Mmm. The date-rape drug ... I've read about it ... haven't come across it, though."

Galbraith handed him the report. "It'll be better if you read it yourself. They're preliminary notes only, but Warner never commits anything to paper unless he's pretty damn sure he's right."

It wasn't a long document, and Ingram read it quickly. "So you're looking for a boat with bloodstains?" he said, laying the pages on the desk in front of him when he'd finished.

"Also skin tissue if she was raped on a wooden deck."

The tall policeman gave a doubtful shake of his head. "I wouldn't be too optimistic," he said. "He'll hose down the deck and the topsides the minute he gets into a marina, and what the sea hasn't already taken, fresh water will finish off."

"We know," said Galbraith, "which is why we need to get a move on. Our only lead is this tentative identification, which if it's true suggests the boat she was on might have come from Lymington." He took out his notebook. "A three-year-old kid was found abandoned near one of the marinas in Poole yesterday, and the description of the missing mother matches our victim. Her name's Kate Sumner, and she lives in Lymington. Her husband's been in Liverpool for the last four days, but he's on his way back now to make the identification."

Ingram picked up the incident report he'd typed that morning and squared it between his large hands. "It's probably just coincidence," he said thoughtfully, "but the guy who made the emergency call keeps a boat in Lymington. He sailed it into Poole late on Saturday night."

"What's his name?"

"Steven Harding. Claimed to be an actor from London."

"You think he was lying?"

Ingram shrugged. "Not about his name or his occupation, but I certainly think he was lying about what he was doing there. His story was that he'd left his boat in Poole because he fancied some exercise, but I've done a few calculations and by my reckoning there's no way he could have made it on foot in time to make the call at ten forty-three. If he was berthed in one of the marinas then he'd have to have taken the ferry to Studland, but as the first crossing isn't until seven that means he had to cover sixteen-odd miles of coastal path in just over three hours. If you take into account that a good percentage is sandy beach and the rest is a roller-coaster ride of hills, I'd say it was an impossibility. We're talking an average of over five miles an hour, and the only person I can think of who could sustain that sort of speed on that kind of terrain is a professional marathon runner." He pushed the report across. "It's all in there. Name, address, description, name of boat. Something else that's interesting is that he sails into Chapman's Pool regularly and knows everything there is to know about the back eddies. He's very well informed about the seas around here."

"Is he the one who found the body?"

"No, that was two young lads. They're on holiday with their parents. I doubt there's any more they can tell you, but I've included their names and the address of their rented cottage. A Miss Maggie Jenner of Broxton House talked to Harding for an hour or so after he made the call, but he doesn't appear to have told her much about himself except that he grew up on a farm in Cornwall." He laid a hand the size of a dinner plate on the report. "He was sporting an erection, if that's of any interest. Both Miss Jenner and I noticed it."

"Jesus!"

Ingram smiled. "Don't get too excited. Miss Jenner's a bit of a looker, so it may have been her that brought it on. She has that effect on men." He lifted his hand. "I've also included the names of the boats that were anchored in the bay when the body was found. One was registered in Poole, one in Southampton, and the third was French, although it shouldn't be too hard to find. I watched it leave yesterday evening, and it was heading for Weymouth, so I guess they're on holiday and working their way along the coast."

"Good work," said Galbraith warmly. "I'll be in touch." He tapped the pathologist's report as he turned to go. "I'll leave this with you. Maybe something will strike you that hasn't struck any of us."

Steven Harding woke to the sound of a dying outboard motor, followed by someone banging his fist on the stern of Crazy Daze. It was at its permanent mooring, a buoy in the Lymington River, and was well out of reach of casual visitors unless they had a dinghy of their own. The swell was sometimes unpleasant, particularly when the Lymington-Yarmouth ferry went past on its way to the Isle of Wight, but it was affordable, private, and suitably remote from prying eyes.

"Hey, Steve! Get up, you bastard!"

He groaned as he recognized the voice, then rolled over in his bunk, pulling the pillow over his head. His brain was splitting from a piledriver of a hangover, and the last person he wanted to see at the crack of dawn on Monday morning was Tony Bridges. "You're banned from coming aboard, arsehole," he roared angrily, "so bugger off and leave me alone!"

But Crazy Daze was sealed up as tight as a can of beans, and he knew his friend couldn't have heard him.

The boat tilted as Tony climbed aboard after securing his dinghy next to Harding's on the aft cleat. "Open up!" he said, hammering on the companionway hatch. "I know you're in there. Have you any idea what time it is, you stupid sod? I've been trying to get you on your mobile for the last three hours."

Harding squinted at his watch. Three ten, he read. He sat bolt upright and banged his already aching head on the planked ceiling. "Fucking Ada!" he muttered, crawling off his bunk and stumbling into the saloon to pull the bolt on the hatch. "I was supposed to be in London by midday," he told Tony.

"So your agent keeps telling me. He's been calling me nonstop since eleven thirty." Tony pulled back the main hatch and dropped down into the saloon, sniffing the ripe atmosphere with an expression of distaste. "Ever heard of fresh air?" he asked, pushing past his friend to open the forward hatch in the cabin and create a through draft. He looked at the rumpled sheets and wondered what the hell Steve had been doing. "You're a bloody fool," he said unsympathetically.

"Go away. I'm sick." Harding groaned again as he slumped onto the port settee in the saloon and dropped his forehead into his hands.

"I'm not surprised. It's like an oven in here." Tony handed him a bottle of mineral water from the galley. "Get some of this into you before you die of dehydration." He stood over him until he'd downed half the bottle, then lowered himself onto the facing settee. "What's going on? I talked to Bob and he said you were supposed to be crashing at his place last night and catching the early train to town this morning."

"I changed my mind."

"So I gather." Tony looked at the empty bottle of whisky on the table between them and the photographs scattered across its surface. "What the hell's up with you?"

"Nothing." He pushed the hair out of his eyes with a frown of irritation. "How did you know I was here?"

Tony jerked his head toward the stern. "I spotted your dinghy. Also I've tried everywhere else. Graham's after your blood, in case you're interested. He's pissed off that you missed the audition. It was in the bag, according to him."

"He's lying."

"Your big chance, he said."

"Fuck that!" said Harding dismissively. "It was a bit part in a kids' TV series. Three days' filming with spoiled brats to make something I wouldn't be seen dead in. Only idiots work with children."

Malice stirred briefly in Tony's eyes before he cloaked his anger behind a harmless smile. "Is that a dig at me?" he asked mildly.

Harding shrugged. "No one forced you to be a teacher, mate. It was your choice." He rocked his flattened palm. "Your funeral when the little bastards finally do your head in."

Tony held his gaze for a moment then picked up one of the photographs. "So how come you don't have a problem with this kind of crap?" he said, jabbing his finger at the image. "Doesn't this count as working with kids?"

No answer.

"You're being exploited by experts-mate-but you can't see it. You might as well sell your arse in Piccadilly Circus as let perverts drool over tacky porno pics of you in private."

"Shut it," growled Harding angrily, touching his fingertips to his eyelids to suppress the pain behind them. "I've had enough of your bloody lectures."

Tony ignored the note of warning. "What do you expect if you keep behaving like an idiot?"

An unfriendly smile thinned the other man's lips. "At least I'm up-front about what I do"-his smile broadened-"in every respect." He stared Bridges down. "Unlike you, eh? How's Bibi these days? Still falling asleep on the job?"

"Don't tempt me, Steve."

"To do what?"

"Shop you." He stared at the photograph in a confusion of disgust and jealousy. "You're a fucking deviant. This kid's barely fifteen."

"Nearly sixteen ... as you damn well know." Harding watched him tear the photograph to shreds. "Why are you getting so het-up about it?" he murmured dispassionately. "It's only acting. You do it in a movie and they call it art. You do it for a mag and they call it pornography."

"It's cheap filth."

"Wrong. It's exciting cheap filth. Be honest. You'd swap places with me any day. Hell, the pay's three times what you get as a teacher." He raised the bottle of mineral water to his mouth and tilted his head back, smiling cynically. "I'll talk to Graham," he said, wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand. "You never know. A little guy like you might go down a wow on the Internet. Pedophiles like 'em small."

"You're sick."

"No," said Harding, dropping his head into his hands, energy spent. "Just broke. It's the inadequate bastards who jerk off over my pictures who're sick."

*6*

Forensic Pathology Report

UF/DP/5136/Interim: Ref: GFS/Dr. J. C. Warner

General description: Natural blond-30 yrs. (approx.)-height 5'-weight: 102 Ibs.-blue eyes-blood group 0-excellent health-excellent teeth (2 fillings; RL wisdom removed)-no surgical scars-mother of at least one child-14 weeks pregnant (fetus male)-non-smoker-small traces of alcohol in blood-consumed last meal approx 3 hrs. before drowning-contents of stomach (other than sea water): cheese, apple-pronounced indentation 3rd finger L-hand indicates recent presence of ring (wedding or otherwise).

Cause of death: Drowning. The evidence prevailing conditions-wind, tide, rocky shoreline; good condition of body-had she entered the sea on or near the shoreline she was obviously determined enough to save herself, and while there is some postmortem bruising, there is not enough to suggest that the corpse remained long in the water after death-points to her coming off a boat in the open sea, alive, and swimming for some considerable time before exhaustion led to drowning within shelter of land.

Contributory factors in victim's death: 0.5 liters of sea water in stomach-fingertip bruising either side of voice-box, indicative of attempted manual strangulation-residual benzodiazepine in bloodstream and tissues (Rohypnol?)-bruising and abrasions to back (pronounced on shoulder blades and buttocks) and inside of thighs, indicative of forced intercourse on a hard surface, such as a deck or an uncarpeted floor-some blood loss from abrasions in vagina (vaginal swabs negative, either due to prolonged immersion in sea water or assailant using a condom)-severe fingertip bruising on upper arms, indicative of manual restraint and/or manual lift (possibly inflicted during ejection from boat)-incipient hypothermia.

Condition of body: Death had occurred within 14 hrs. of being examined-most likely time of death: at or around high water at 1:52 a.m. BST on Sunday, 10 August (see below)-general condition good, although hypothermal evidence, condition of skin, and vasoconstriction of the arterial vessels (indicative of prolonged stress) suggests victim spent considerable time in the sea before drowning-extensive abrasions to both wrists, suggesting she was bound with rope and made efforts to release herself (impossible to say whether she succeeded, or whether her killer released her prior to drowning her)-two fingers on L-hand broken; all fingers on R-hand broken (difficult at this stage to say what caused this-it may have been done deliberately or may have happened accidentally if the woman tried to save herself by catching her fingers on a railing?)-fingernails broken on both hands-postmortem bruising and grazing of back, breasts, buttocks, and knees indicate the body was dragged to and fro across rocks/pebbles prior to being stranded.

Ambient conditions where found: Egmont Bight is a shallow bay, inaccessible to boats other than keelless vessels such as ribs/dinghies (lowest recorded depth = 0.5 m; variation between low and high water = 1.00-2.00 m). Kimmeridge Ledges to the west of Egmont Bight make sailing close to the cliffs hazardous, and sailors steer well clear of the shoreline (particularly at night, when that part of the coast is unlit). Due to a back eddy, a continuous SSE stream runs from Chapman's Pool toward St. Alban's Head, which suggests victim was inside the shelter of Egmont Point before she died and was stranded on the shoreline as the tide receded. Had she drowned farther out, her body would have been swept around the Head. SW winds and currents mean she must have entered the water WSW of Egmont Bight and was towed along the coast in an easterly direction as she swam toward the shore. In view of the above factors,* we estimate the victim entered the sea a minimum of 0.5 miles WSW of where the body was found.

*These estimates are calculated on what an average swimmer could achieve in the conditions.

These conclusions are predicated on the rape taking place on board a boat, most probably on deck.

Difficult at this stage to say to what extent the benzodiazepine would have affected her ability to operate. Further tests required.

Conclusions: The woman was raped and subjected to a manual strangulation attempt before being left to drown in the open sea. She may also have had her fingers broken prior to immersion with the possible aim of hampering her efforts to swim toward the shore. She was certainly alive when she entered the water, so the failure to report her fall overboard suggests her killer expected her to die. The removal of distinguishing features (wedding ring, clothing) suggests a premeditated intent to hinder an investigation should the body surface or be washed ashore.

***NB: In view of the fact that she came so close to saving herself, it is possible that she made the decision to jump while the boat was still in sight of land. However, both the failure to report her "missing overboard" and the evidence of premeditation leaves little room for doubt that her death was intended.

***Rohypnol (manufactured by Roche) Much concern is being expressed about this drug. A soluble, intermediate-acting hypnotic compound-known on the street as the "date-rape drug," or more colloquially as a "roofie." It has already been cited in several rape cases, two being "gang-rape" cases. Very effective in the treatment of severe and disabling insomnia, it can induce sleep at unusual times. Used inappropriately-easily dissolved in alcohol-it can render a woman unconscious without her knowledge, thus making her vulnerable to sexual attack. Women report intermittent bouts of lucidity, coupled with an absolute inability to defend themselves. Its effects on rape victims have been well documented in the U.S., where the drug is now banned: temporary or permanent memory loss; inability to understand that a rape has taken place; feelings of "spaced-out" disconnection from the event; subsequent and deep psychological trauma because of the ease with which the victim was violated against her will (often by more than one rapist). There are enormous difficulties in bringing prosecutions because it is impossible to detect Rohypnol in the bloodstream after seventy-two hours, and few victims regain their memories quickly enough to present themselves at police stations in time to produce positive semen swabs or benzodiazepine traces in the blood.

***NB: The U.K. police lag well behind their U.S. counterparts in both understanding and prosecution of these types of cases.

*7*

Salterns Marina lay at the end of a small cul-de-sac off the Bournemouth-to-Poole coastal road, some two hundred yards from where the Greens had rescued the blond toddler. Its approach from the sea in a pleasure craft was through the Swash Channel and then via the North Channel, which allowed a passage between the shore and the numerous moored boats that flew like streamers from the buoys in the center of the bay. It was a popular stopping-off place for foreign visitors or sailors setting out to cruise the south coast of England, and was often crowded in the summer months.