"I hate these cases, John," said Carpenter with genuine regret. "The poor little woman's dead, but her character's going to be blackened whichever way you look at it." He pulled Harding's statement across the desk toward him and drummed his fingers on it in irritation. "Shall I tell you what this smells of to me? The classic defense against rape. She was panting for it, guv. Couldn 't keep her hands off me. I just gave her what she wanted, and it's not my fault if she cried foul afterward. She was an aggressive woman, and she liked aggressive sex." His frown deepened to a chasm. "All Harding's doing is laying some neat groundwork in case we manage to bring charges against him. Then he'll tell us her death was an accident ... she fell off the back of the boat and he couldn't save her."
"What did you make of Anthony Bridges?"
"I didn't like him. He's a cocky little bastard, and a damn sight too knowledgeable about police interviews. But his and his blowsy girlfriend's stories tally so closely with Harding's that, unless they're operating some sort of sick conspiracy, I think we have to accept they're telling the truth." A sudden smile banished his frown. "For the moment anyway. It'll be interesting to see if anything changes after he and Harding have had a chance to talk together. You know we've bailed him to Bridges' address."
"Harding's right about one thing," said Galbraith thoughtfully. "Hannah gives me the creeps, too." He leaned forward, elbows on knees, a troubled expression on his face. "It's codswallop about her screaming every time she sees a man. I was waiting for her father to bring me some lists he'd made, and she came into the room, sat down on the carpet in front of me, and started to play with herself. She had no knickers on, just pulled up her dress and got going like there was no tomorrow. She was watching me the whole time she was doing it, and I swear to God she knew exactly what she was about." He sighed. "It was bloody unnerving, and I'll eat my hat if she hasn't been introduced to some sort of sexual activity, whatever that doctor said."
"Meaning you've got your money on Sumner?"
Galbraith considered for a moment. "Put it this way, I'd says he's a dead cert if, one: his alibi doesn't check out and, two: I can work out how he managed to have a boat waiting for him off the Isle of Purbeck." His pleasant face broke into a smile. "He gets under my skin something rotten, probably because he thinks he's so damned clever. It's hardly scientific but, yes, I'd put my money on him any day before Steven Harding."
For seventy-two hours, local and national newspapers had been carrying reports of a murder inquiry following the finding of a body on a beach on the Isle of Purbeck. On the theory that the dead woman and her daughter had been traveling by boat, sailors between Southampton and Weymouth were being asked to come forward with any sightings of a small blond woman and/or a three-year-old child on the weekend of 9-10 August. During her lunch break that Wednesday, a shop assistant in one of the big department stores in Bournemouth went into her local police station and suggested diffidently that, while she didn't want to waste anyone's time, she thought that something she'd seen on Sunday evening might be connected to the woman's murder.
She gave her name as Jennifer Hale and said she'd been on a Fairline Squadron called Gregory's Girl belonging to a Poole businessman called Gregory Freemantle. "He's my boyfriend," she explained.
The desk sergeant found the description amusing. She'd never see thirty again, and he wondered how old the boyfriend was. Approaching fifty, he guessed, if he could afford to own a Fairline Squadron.
"I wanted Gregory to come and tell you about it himself," she confided, "because he could have given you a better idea of where it was, but he said it wasn't worth the bother because I didn't have enough experience to know what I was looking at. He believes his daughters, you see. They said it was an oil drum, and woe betide anyone who disagrees with them. He won't argue with them in case they complain to their mother when what he ought to be doing..." She heaved the kind of sigh that every potential stepmother has sighed down the ages. "They're a couple of little madams, frankly. I thought we should have stopped at the time to investigate, but"-she shook her head-"it wasn't worth going into battle over. Frankly, I'd had enough for one day."
The desk sergeant, who had stepchildren of his own, gave her a sympathetic smile. "How old are they?"
"Fifteen and thirteen."
"Difficult ages."
"Yes, particularly when their parents..." She stopped abruptly, reconsidering how much she wanted to say.
"It'll get better in about five years when they've grown up a bit."
A gleam of humor flashed in her eyes. "Assuming I'm around to find out, which at the moment doesn't look likely. The younger one's not too bad, but I'd need a skin like a rhinoceros to put up with another five years of Marie. She thinks she's Elle MacPherson and Claudia Schiffer rolled into one, and throws a tantrum if she isn't being constantly petted and spoiled. Still..." She returned to her reason for being there. "I'm sure it wasn't an oil drum. I was sitting at the back of the flying bridge and had a better view than the others. Whatever it was, it wasn't metal ... although it was black ... it looked to me like an upturned dinghy ... a rubber one. I think it may have been partially deflated, because it was pretty low in the water."
The desk sergeant was taking notes. "Why do you think it was connected with the murder?" he asked her.
She gave an embarrassed smile, afraid of making a fool of herself. "Because it was a boat," she said, "and it wasn't far from where the body was found. We were in Chapman's Pool when the woman was lifted off by helicopter, and we passed the dinghy only about ten minutes after we rounded St. Alban's Head on our way home. I've worked out that the time must have been about six fifteen and I know we were traveling at twenty-five knots because my boyfriend commented on the fact as we rounded the Head. He says you'll be looking for a yacht or a cruiser, but I thought-well-you can drown off a dinghy just as easily as off a yacht, can't you? And this one had obviously capsized."
Carpenter received the report from Bournemouth at three o'clock, mulled it over in conjunction with a map, then sent it through to Galbraith with a note attached.
Is this worth following up? If it hasn't beached between St. Alban's Head and Anvil Point, then it'll have gone down in deep water somewhere off Swanage and is irretrievable. However, the timings seem very precise, so assuming it washed up before Anvil Point, your friend Ingram can probably work out where it is. You said he was wasted as a beat copper. Failing him, get on to the coastguards. In fact it might be worth going to them first. You know how they hate having their thunder stolen by landlubbers. It's a long shot-can't see where Hannah fits in or how anyone can rape a woman in a dinghy without turning turtle- but you never know. It could be that boat off the Isle of Purbeck you wanted.