"Yes."
"What time did you tie up, Mr. Harding?"
"I've no idea." He frowned. "Pretty late. What's that got to do with anything?"
"Do you keep a log?"
He glanced toward his chart table. "When I remember."
"May I look at it?"
"Why not?" He leaned over and retrieved a battered exercise book from the clutter of paper on the lid of the chart table. "It's hardly great literature." He handed it across.
Carpenter read the last six entries.
09 August 97.
10.09
Slipped mooring.
"
11:32
Rounded Hurst Castle.
10 August 97.
02:17
Berthed, Salterns Marina.
"
18:50
Slipped mooring.
"
19:28
Exited Poole Harbor.
11 August 97.
00.12
Berthed, Lymington.
"You certainly don't waste your words much, do you?" he murmured, flicking back through the pages to look at other entries. "Doesn't wind speed or course ever feature in your log?"
"Not often."
"Is there a reason for that?"
The young man shrugged. "I know the course to everywhere on the south coast, so I don't need to keep reminding myself, and wind speed is wind speed. That's part of the beauty of it. Any journey takes as long as it takes. If you're the sort of impatient type who's only interested in arrivals, then sailing will drive you nuts. On a bad day it can take hours to go a few miles."
"It says here you tied up in Salterns Marina at two seventeen on Sunday morning," said Carpenter.
"Then I did."
"It also says you left Lymington at ten oh-nine on Saturday morning." He did a quick calculation. "Which means it took you fourteen hours to sail approximately thirty miles. That's got to be a record, hasn't it? It works out at about two knots an hour. Is that as fast as this thing can go?"
"It depends on the wind and the tide. On a good day I can do six knots, but the average is probably four. In fact I probably sailed sixty miles on Saturday because I was tacking most of the way." He yawned. "Like I said, it can take hours on a bad day, and Saturday was a bad day."
"Why didn't you use your motor?"
"I didn't want to. I wasn't in a hurry." His expression grew wary with suspicion. "What's this got to do with the woman on the beach?"
"Probably nothing," said Carpenter easily. "We're just tying up some loose ends for the report." He paused, assessing the young man thoughtfully. "I've done a little sailing myself in the past," he said then, "and I'll be honest with you, I don't believe it took you fourteen hours to sail to Poole. If nothing else, the offshore winds as the land cooled in the late afternoon would have boosted your speed well over two knots. I think you sailed on past the Isle of Purbeck, perhaps with the intention of going to Weymouth, and only turned back to Poole when you realized how late it was getting. Am I right?"
"No. I hove to off Christchurch for a few hours to do some fishing and have a nap. That's why it took so long."
Carpenter didn't believe him. "Two minutes ago you gave tacking as the explanation. Now you're claiming a fishing break. Which was it?"
"Both. Tacking and fishing."
"Why isn't it in your log?"
"It wasn't important."
Carpenter nodded. "Your approach to time seems a little"-he sought a suitable word-"individualistic, Mr. Harding. For example, you told the police officer yesterday that you were planning to walk to Lulworth Cove, but Lulworth's a good twenty-five miles from Salterns Marina, fifty in total if you intended to walk back again. That's an ambitious distance for a twelve-hour hike, isn't it, bearing in mind you told the harbormaster at Salterns Marina you'd be back by late afternoon?"
Harding's eyes gleamed with sudden amusement. "It doesn't look nearly as far by sea," he said.
"Did you make it to Lulworth?"
"Like hell I did!" he said with a laugh. "I was completely whacked by the time I reached Chapman's Pool."
"Could that be because you travel light?"
"I don't understand."
"You were carrying a mobile telephone, Mr. Harding, but nothing else. In other words you set out on a fifty-mile hike on one of the hottest days of the year with no fluids, no money, no sunscreen protection, no additional clothes if you started to burn, no hat. Are you usually so careless about your health?"
He pulled a wry face. "Look, all right it was stupid. I admit it. That's the reason I turned back after your bloke drove the kids away. If you're interested, the return journey took twice as long as the journey out because I was so damn knackered."
"About four hours then," suggested DI Galbraith.
"More like six. I started after they left, which was twelve thirty near enough, and got to the marina around six fifteen. I drank about a gallon of water, had something to eat, then set off for Lymington maybe half an hour later."
"So the hike out to Chapman's Pool took three hours?" said Galbraith.
"Something like that."
"Which means you must have left the marina shortly after seven thirty to be able to make the emergency call at ten forty-three."
"If you say so."
"I don't say so at all, Steve. Our information is that you were paying for your berth at eight o'clock, which means you couldn't have left the marina until several minutes later."
Harding linked his hands behind his head and stared across the table at the inspector. "Okay, I left at eight," he said. "What's the big deal?"
"The big deal is there's no way you could have hiked sixteen miles along a rough coastal path in two and a half hours"-he paused, holding Harding's gaze-"and that includes the time you must have lost waiting for the ferry."
There was no hesitation in his reply. "I didn't go along the coastal path, or not to start off with anyway," he said. "I hitched a lift with a couple on the ferry who were heading for the country park near Durlston Head. They dropped me off by the gates leading up to the lighthouse, and I got onto the path there."
"What time was that?"
He shifted his gaze to the ceiling. "Ten forty-three minus however long it takes to jog from Durlston Head to Chapman's Pool, I suppose. Look, the first time I remember checking my watch yesterday was just before I made the nine-nine-nine call. Up until then I couldn't have given a toss what time it was." He looked at Galbraith again, and there was irritation in his dark eyes. "I hate being ruled by the bloody clock. It's social terrorism to force people to conform to arbitrary evaluations of how long something should take. That's why I like sailing. Time's irrelevant, and there's bugger all you can do about it."
"What sort of car did the couple drive?" asked Carpenter, unmoved by the young man's flights of philosophical fancy.
"I don't know. A sedan of some sort. I don't notice cars."
"What color?"
"Blue, I think."
"What were the couple like?"
"We didn't talk much. They had a Manic Street Preachers album on tape. We listened to that."
"Can you describe them, Mr. Harding?"
"Not really. They were ordinary. I spent most of the time looking at the backs of their heads. She had blond hair, and he had dark hair." He reached for the whisky bottle and rolled it between his palms, beginning to lose his patience. "Why the hell are you asking me these questions anyway? What the fuck does it matter how long it took me to get from A to B, or who I met along the way? Does everyone who dials nine-nine-nine get the third degree?"
"Just tying loose ends, sir."
"So you said."
"Wouldn't it be truer to say that Chapman's Pool was your destination, and not Lulworth Cove?"
"No."
A silence developed. Carpenter stared fixedly at Harding while he continued to play with the whisky bottle. "Were there any passengers on board your boat on Saturday?" he asked then.
"No."
"Are you sure about that, sir?"
"Of course I'm bloody sure. Don't you think I'd have noticed them? It's hardly the QE2, is it?"
Carpenter leafed idly through the logbook. "Do you ever carry passengers?"