"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."