"Maybe," said Harding again.

"There's no maybe about it. Either you have or you haven't."

He abandoned his "crucifixion" pose to slump forward again. "I've several girlfriends with children," he said sulkily, "and I've entertained them all off and on. I'm trying to remember who was the most recent."

"I'd like the names of every one of them," said Carpenter grimly.

"Well you're not going to get them," said Harding with sudden decision, "and I'm not answering any more questions. Not without a solicitor and not without the conversation being recorded. I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to have done, but I'm buggered if you're going to stitch me up for it."

"We're trying to establish how Kate Sumner came to drown in Egmont Bight."

"No comment."

Carpenter righted the whisky bottle and placed a finger on top of it. "Why did you get drunk last night, Mr. Harding?"

The man stared at the superintendent but didn't say anything.

"You're a compulsive liar, lad. You said yesterday that you grew up on a farm in Cornwall, when the truth is you grew up over a chip shop in Lymington. You told your agent your girlfriend's name was Bibi, when in fact Bibi's been your mate's steady girlfriend for the last four months. You told William Sumner you were a poof, while everyone else around here seems to think you're Casanova. What's your problem, eh? Is your life so boring that you have to play-act some interest into it?"

A faint flush reddened Harding's neck. "Jesus, you're a piece of shit!" he hissed furiously.

Carpenter steepled his hands over the telephone and stared him down. "Have you any objections to us taking a look around your boat, Mr. Harding?"

"Not if you've got a search warrant."

"We haven't."

Harding's eyes gleamed triumphantly. "Don't even think about it then."

The superintendent studied him for a moment. "Kate Sumner was brutally raped before being thrown into the sea to drown," he said slowly, "and all the evidence suggests that the rape took place on board a boat. Now let me explain the rules about searching premises, Mr. Harding. In the absence of the owner's consent, the police have various courses open to them, one of which-assuming they have reasonable cause to suspect that the owner has been guilty of an arrestable offense-is to arrest him and then search any premises he controls in order to prevent the disposal of evidence. Do you understand the implications of what I've just said, bearing in mind that rape and murder are serious arrestable offenses?"

Harding's face had gone very white.

"Answer me, please," snapped Carpenter. "Do you understand the implications of what I've just said?"

"You'll arrest me if I refuse."

Carpenter nodded.

Shock was giving way to anger. "I can't believe you're allowed to behave like this. You can't go around accusing people of rape just so you can search their boats without a warrant. That's abuse of police powers."

"You're forgetting reasonable cause." He enumerated points on his fingers. "One, you've admitted meeting Kate Sumner at nine thirty on Saturday morning shortly before you sailed; two, you've failed to give an adequate explanation of why it took you fourteen hours to sail between Lymington and Poole; three, you've offered conflicting stories about how you came to be on the coastal path above where Kate Sumner's body was found yesterday; four, your boat was berthed at a time and in the vicinity of where her daughter was discovered wandering alone and traumatized; five, you seem unwilling or unable to give satisfactory answers to straightforward questions..." He broke off. "Do you want me to go on?"

Whatever composure Harding had was gone. He looked what he was, badly frightened. "It's all just coincidence," he protested.

"Including little Hannah being found near Salterns Marina yesterday? Was that a coincidence?"

"I guess so..." He stopped abruptly, his expression alarmed. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, the pitch of his voice rising. "Oh, shit! I need to think."

"Well, think on this," said Carpenter evenly. "If, when we search the interior of this boat, we discover a single fingerprint belonging to Kate Sumner-"

"Look, okay," he interrupted, breathing deeply through his nose and making damping gestures with his hands as if it was the detectives who needed calming and not himself. "She and her kid have been on board, but it wasn't on Saturday."

"When was it?"

"I can't remember."

"That's not good enough, Steve. Recently? A long time ago? Under what circumstances? Did you bring them out in your dinghy? Was Kate one of your conquests? Did you make love to her?"

"No, dammit!" he said angrily. "I hated the stupid bitch. She was always throwing herself at me, wanting me to fuck her and wanting me to be nice to that weird kid of hers. They used to hang around down by the fueling pontoon in case I came in for diesel. It used to bug me, it really did."

"So, let me get this straight," murmured Carpenter sarcastically. "To stop her pestering you, you invited her on board?"

"I thought if I was polite ... Ah, what the hell! Go ahead, search the damn boat. You won't find anything."

Carpenter nodded to Galbraith. "I suggest you start in the cabin. Do you have another lamp, Steve?"

Harding shook his head.

Galbraith unhooked a flashlight from the aft bulkhead and flicked the switch to see if it was working. "This'll do." He propped open the cabin door and swung the beam around the interior, settling almost immediately on a small pile of clothes on the port shelf. He used the end of his pen to push a flimsy blouse, a bra, and a pair of panties to one side to reveal some tiny child's shoes nestling together on the shelf. He turned the beam of the flashlight full on them and stood back so they were visible to Carpenter and Harding.

"Who do the shoes belong to, Mr. Harding?"

No answer.

"Who do the women's clothes belong to?"

No answer.

"If you have an explanation for why these articles are on board your boat, Steve, then I advise you to give it to us now."

"They're my girlfriend's," he said in a strangled voice. "She has a son. The shoes belong to him."

"Who is she, Steve?"

"I can't tell you. She's married, and she's got nothing to do with this."

Galbraith emerged from the cabin with one of the shoes hooked on the end of his biro. "There's a name written on the strap, guv, H. Sumner. And there's staining on the floor in here." He pointed the flashlight beam toward some dark marks beside the bunk bed. "It looks fairly recent."

"I need to know what caused the stains, Steve."

In one lithe movement, the young man erupted out of his seat and grabbed the whisky bottle in both hands, swinging it violently to his left and forcing Galbraith to retreat into the cabin. "Enough, okay!" he growled, moving toward the chart table. "You're way off beam on this one. Now back off before I do something I'll regret. You've got to give me some space, for Christ's sake. I need to think."

He was unprepared for the ease with which Galbraith plucked the bottle from his grasp and spun him around to face the teak-clad wall while securing his wrists behind his back with handcuffs.

"You'll have plenty of time for thinking when we get you into a police cell," said the DI unemotionally as he pushed the young man facedown onto the settee. "I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

Had William Sumner not had a key to his front door, Sandy Griffiths would have questioned whether he had ever lived in Langton Cottage, because his knowledge of the house was minimal. Indeed, the police constable who had stayed behind to act as her shadow was better informed than he was, having watched the scene-of-crime officers meticulously examine every room. Sumner looked at her blankly each time she asked him a question. Which cupboard was the tea in? He didn't know. Where did Kate keep Hannah's nappies? He didn't know. Which towel or flannel was hers? He didn't know. Could he at least show her to Hannah's room so that she could put the child to bed? He looked toward the stairs. "It's up there," he said, "you can't miss it."

He seemed fascinated by the invasion of his home by the search team. "What were they looking for?" he asked.

"Anything that will connect with Kate's disappearance," said Griffiths.

"Does that mean they think I did it?"

Griffiths eased Hannah on her hip and turned the child's head into her shoulder in a somewhat futile attempt to block her ears. "It's standard procedure, William, but I don't think it's something we should talk about in front of your daughter. I suggest you take it up with DI Galbraith tomorrow."

But he was either too insensitive or too careless of his daughter's welfare to take the hint. He stared at a photograph of his wife on the mantelpiece. "I couldn't have done it," he said. "I was in Liverpool."

At the request of Dorsetshire Constabulary, the Liverpool police had already begun preliminary inquiries at the Regal Hotel. It was early days, of course, but the account William Sumner had settled that morning made interesting reading. Despite being a heavy user of the telephone, coffee lounge, restaurant, and bar in the first two days, there was a period of twenty-four hours between lunchtime on Saturday and a noon drink in the bar on Sunday when he had failed to make use of a single hotel service.

*10*

During the twenty minutes that he waited in the sitting room at Langton Cottage the following morning to speak to William Sumner, John Galbraith learned two things about the man's dead wife. The first was that Kate Sumner was vain. Every photograph on display was either of herself, or of herself and Hannah, and he searched without success for a likeness of William, or even of an elderly woman who might have been William's mother. In frustration he ended up counting the pictures that were there-thirteen-each of which showed the same prettily smiling face within its framework of golden curls. Was this the cult of the personality taken to its extreme, he wondered, or an indication of a deep-seated inferiority which needed constant reminders that to be photogenic was a talent like any other?

The second thing he learned was that he could never have lived with Kate. She delighted, it seemed, in applying frills to everything: lace curtains with frills, valances with frills, armchairs with frills-even the lampshades had tassels attached to them. Nothing, not even the walls, had escaped her taste for overembellishment. Langton Cottage was of nineteenth-century origin with beamed ceilings and brick fireplaces, and instead of the plain white plaster that would have shown these features off to their best advantage, she had covered the walls of the sitting room-probably at considerable expense-with mock Regency wallpaper, adorned with gilt stripes, white bows, and baskets of unnaturally colored fruit. Galbraith shuddered at the desecration of what could have been a charming room and unconsciously contrasted it with the timbered simplicity of Steven Harding's sloop, which was currently being put under a microscope by scene-of-crime officers while Harding, exercising his right to remain silent, cooled his heels in a police cell.

Rope Walk was a quiet tree-lined avenue to the west of the Royal Lymington and Town yacht clubs, and Langton Cottage had clearly not been cheap. As he knocked on the door at eight o'clock on Tuesday morning after two hours' sleep, Galbraith wondered how big a mortgage William had had to raise to buy it and how much he earned as a pharmaceutical chemist. He could see no logic behind the move from Chichester, particularly as neither Kate nor William appeared to have any links with Lymington.

He was let in by WPC Griffiths, who pulled a face when he told her he needed to talk to Sumner. "You'll be lucky," she whispered. "Hannah's been bawling her head off most of the night, so I doubt you'll get any sense out of him. He's had almost as little sleep as I've had."

"Join the club."

"You, too, eh?"

Galbraith smiled. "How's he holding up?"

She shrugged. "Not too well. Keeps bursting into tears and saying it's not supposed to be like this." She lowered her voice even further. "I'm really concerned about Hannah. She's obviously scared of him. She works herself into a tantrum the minute he enters the room, then calms down rapidly as soon as he leaves. I ordered him to bed in the end to try and get her to sleep."

Galbraith looked interested. "How does he react?"

"That's the odd thing. He doesn't react at all. He just ignores it as if it's something he's grown used to."

"Has he said why she does it?"

"Only that, being out at work so much, he's never had a chance to bond with her. It could be true, you know. I get the impression Kate swaddled her in cotton wool. There are so many safety features in this house that I can't see how Hannah was ever expected to learn anything. Every door has a child lock on it-even the wardrobe in her own bedroom-which means she can't explore, can't choose her own clothes, or even make a mess if she wants to. She's almost three, but she's still sleeping in a crib. That's pretty weird, you know. More like prison bars than a nursery. It's a damned odd way to bring up a child and, frankly, I'm not surprised she's a withdrawn little thing."

"I suppose it's occurred to you that she might be scared of him because she watched him kill her mother," murmured Galbraith.

Sandy Griffiths spread her hand and made a rocking motion. "Except I don't see how he can have done it. He's made a list of some colleagues who can alibi him for Saturday night in Liverpool, and if that holds good then there's no way he could have been shoving his wife in the water at one a.m. in Dorset."

"No," agreed Galbraith. "Still..." He pursed his lips in thought. "Do you realize the SOCOs found no drugs in this house at all, not even paracetamol? Which is odd, considering William's a pharmaceutical chemist."

"Maybe that's why there aren't any. He knows what goes into them."

"Mmm. Or they were deliberately cleared out before we got here." He glanced toward the stairs. "Do you like him?" he asked her.

"Not much," she admitted, "but you don't want to go by what I say. I've always been a lousy judge of character where men are concerned. He could have done with a good smacking thirty years ago, in my opinion, just to teach him some manners but as things are, he seems to view women as serving wenches."

He laughed. "Are you going to be able to stick it out?"

She rubbed her tired eyes. "God knows! Your chap left about half an hour ago, and there's supposed to be some relief coming when William's taken away to identify the body and talk to the doctor who examined Hannah. The trouble is, I can't see Hannah letting me go that easily. She clings to me like a limpet. I'm using the spare room to grab kip when I can, and I thought I'd try to organize some temporary cover while she's asleep so I can stay on the premises. But I'll need to get hold of my governor to organize someone locally." She sighed. "I suppose you want me to wake William for you."

He patted her shoulder. "No. Just point me toward his room. I'm happy to do the business."

She was sorely tempted, but shook her head. "You'll disturb Hannah," she said, baring her teeth in a threatening grimace, "and I swear to God I'll kill you if she starts howling again before I've had a fag and some black coffee. I'm bushed. I can't take any more of her screaming without mega-fixes of caffeine and nicotine."

"Is it putting you off babies?"

"It's putting me off husbands," she said. "I'd have coped better if he hadn't kept hovering like a dark cloud over my shoulder." She eased open the sitting-room door. "You can wait in here till he comes. You'll love it. It has all the makings of a shrine."

Galbraith heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to face the door as it opened. Sumner was in his early forties, but he looked a great deal older than that today, and Galbraith suspected Harding would have been a lot harsher in his description if he could have seen Kate's husband like this. He was unshaven and disheveled, and his face was inexpressibly weary, but whether from grief or lack of sleep, it was impossible to say. Nevertheless, his eyes shone brightly enough, and Galbraith took note of the fact. Lack of sleep did not lead automatically to blunted intelligence.

"Good morning, sir," he said. "I'm sorry to bother you again so early but I've more questions to ask, and I'm afraid they won't wait."

"That's all right. Sit down. I feel I was less than helpful last night, but I was so whacked I couldn't think properly." He took an armchair and left Galbraith to the sofa. "I've made those lists you wanted. They're on the table in the kitchen."

"Thanks." He gave the man a searching look. "Did you get any sleep?"

"Not really. I couldn't stop thinking about it. It's all so illogical. I could understand if they'd both drowned, but it doesn't make sense that Kate's dead and Hannah's alive."

Galbraith agreed. He and Carpenter had been puzzling over that very fact most of the night. Why had Kate had to swim for her life while the toddler was allowed to live? The neat explanation-that the boat was Crazy Daze, that Hannah had been on board but had managed to release herself while Harding was walking to Chapman's Pool-failed to address the questions of why the child hadn't been pushed into the sea along with her mother, why Harding was so unconcerned about her wails being heard by other boat users in the marina that he'd left her on her own, and who had fed, watered, and changed her nappy in the hours before she was found.

"Have you had time to go through your wife's wardrobe, Mr. Sumner? Do you know if any of her clothes are missing?"

"Not that I can tell ... but it doesn't mean much," he added as an afterthought. "I don't really notice what people wear, you see."

"Suitcases?"

"I don't think so."

"All right." He opened his briefcase on the sofa beside him. "I've some articles of clothing to show you, Mr. Sumner. Please tell me if you recognize any of them." He removed a plastic bag containing the flimsy blouse found on board Crazy Daze, which he held out for the other man to look at.

Sumner shook his head, without taking it. "It's not Kate's," he said.

"Why so positive," Galbraith asked curiously, "if you didn't notice what she wore?"

"It's yellow. She hated yellow. She said it didn't suit people with fair hair." He gestured vaguely toward the door. "There's no yellow anywhere in the house."

"Fair enough." He took out the bags containing the bra and panties. "Do you recognize either of these as belonging to your wife?"

Sumner reached out a reluctant hand and took both bags, examining the contents closely through the clear plastic. "I'd be surprised if they were hers," he said, handing them back. "She liked lace and frills, and these are very plain. You can compare them with the other things in her drawers, if you like. You'll see what I mean."

Galbraith nodded. "I'll do that. Thank you." He took out the bag with the child's shoes and laid them on his right palm. "What about these?"

Sumner shook his head again. "I'm sorry. All children's shoes look alike to me."

'They have H. Sumner printed inside the strap."