This is as far as my thoughts have taken me, but if the dinghy was involved in the murder then it must have come from the west-Kimmeridge Bay or Lulworth Cove-because the craft was too fragile to negotiate the race around St. Alban's Head. I realize none of this explains Hannah, although I can't help feeling that if you can discover where the stolen dinghy was hidden for two months, you may also discover where Kate was raped and where Hannah was left while her mother was being drowned.
(NB: None of the above rules out Harding-the rape may have taken place on his deck with the evidence subsequently washed away, and the dinghy may have been towed behind Crazy Daze-but does it make him a less likely suspect?)
*17*
The sun had been up less than an hour on Friday morning when Maggie Jenner set off along the bridleway behind Broxton House, accompanied by Bertie. She was on a skittish bay gelding called Stinger, whose owner came down from London every weekend to her cottage in Langton Matravers to ride hard around the headlands as an antidote to her high-pressure job as a money broker in the City. Maggie loved the horse but loathed the woman, whose hands were about as sensitive as steam hammers and who viewed Stinger in the same way as she probably viewed a snort of cocaine-as a quick adrenaline fix. If she hadn't agreed to pay well over the odds for the livery service Maggie provided, Maggie would have refused her business without a second's hesitation, but as with most things in the Jenners' lives, compromise had become the better part of staving off bankruptcy.
She turned right at St. Alban's Head Quarry, negotiating her way through the gate and into the deep, wide valley that cleaved a grassy downland passage toward the sea between St. Alban's Head to the south and the high ground above Chapman's Pool to the north. She nudged her mount into a canter and sent him springing across the turf in glorious release. It was still cool, but there was barely a breath of wind in the air, and as always on mornings like this her spirits soared. However bad existence was, and it could be very bad at times, she ceased to worry about it here. If there was any point to anything, then she came closest to finding it, alone and free, in the renewed optimism that a fresh sun generated with each daybreak.
She reined in after half a mile, and walked the gelding toward the fenced coastal path which hugged the slopes of the valley on either side in a series of steep steps cut into the cliffs. It was a hardy rambler who suffered the agony of the downward trek only to be faced with the worse agony of the upward climb, and Maggie, who had never done either, thought how much more sensible it was to ride the gully in order to enjoy the scenery. Ahead, the sea, a sparkling blue, was flat calm without a sail in sight, and she slipped lightly from the saddle while Bertie, panting from the exertion of keeping up, rolled leisurely in the warming grass beside the gelding's hooves. Looping Stinger's reins casually around the top rail of the fence, she climbed the stile and walked the few yards to the cliff edge to stand and glory in the vast expanse of blueness, where the line of demarcation between sky and sea was all but invisible. The only sounds were the gentle swish of breakers on the shore, the sigh of the animals' breaths, and a lark singing in the sky above...
It was difficult to say who was the more startled, therefore, Maggie or Steven Harding, when he rose out of the ground in front of her after hoisting himself over the cliff edge where the downland valley dropped toward the sea. He crouched on all fours for several seconds, his face pale and unshaven, breathing heavily, and looking a great deal less pretty than he had five days before. More like a rapist, less like a Hollywood lead. There was a quality of disturbing violence about him, something calculating in the dark eyes that Maggie hadn't noticed before, but it was his abrupt rearing to full height that caused her to shriek. Her alarm transmitted itself immediately to Stinger, who pranced backward, tearing his reins free of the fence, and thence to Bertie, who leaped to his feet, hackles up.
"You stupid bastard!" Maggie shouted at him, giving vent to her fear in furious remonstration as she heard Stinger's snort of alarm and stamping hooves. She turned away from Harding in a vain attempt to catch the excited gelding's reins before he bolted.
Pray God, he didn't ... he was worth a fortune to Broxton House Livery Stables ... she couldn't afford it if he damaged himself ... pray God, pray God...
But Harding, for reasons best known to himself, darted across her path in Stinger's direction, and the gelding, eyes rolling, took off like lightning up the hill.
"Oh, shit!" Maggie stormed, stamping her foot and raging at the young man, her face red and ugly with ungovernable fury. "How could you be so bloody infantile, you-you creep! What the hell did you think you were doing! I swear to Christ if Nick Ingram knew you were here he'd crucify you! He already thinks you're a fucking pervert!"
She was completely unprepared for his backhand slap that caught her a glancing blow across the side of her face, and as she hit the ground with a resounding thud, the only thought in her head was: What on earth does this idiot think he's doing...?
Ingram squinted painfully at his alarm clock when his phone rang at 6:30 a.m. He lifted the receiver and listened to a series of high-pitched, unintelligible squeaks at the other end of the line, which he recognized as coming from Maggie Jenner.
"You'll have to calm down," he said when she finally took a breath. "I can't understand a word you're saying."
More squeaks.
"Pull yourself together, Maggie," he said firmly. "You're not a wimp, so don't behave like one."
"I'm sorry," she said with a commendable attempt to compose herself. "Steven Harding hit me, so Bertie went for him ... there's blood everywhere ... I've rigged up a tourniquet on his arm, but it's not working properly ... I don't know what else to do ... I think he's going to die if he doesn't get to a hospital."
He sat up and rubbed his face furiously to eradicate sleep. He could hear the white noise of empty space and the sound of birdsong in the background. "Where are you?"
"At the end of the quarry gully ... near the steps on the coastal path ... halfway between Chapman's Pool and St. Alban's Head ... Stinger's bolted, and I'm afraid he's going to break a leg if he trips on his reins ... we'll lose everything ... I think Steve's dying..." Her voice faded as she turned away from the signal. "Manslaughter ... Bertie was out of control..."
"I'm losing you, Maggie," he shouted.
"Sorry." Her voice came back in a rush. "He's not responding to anything. I'm worried Bertie's severed an artery, but I can't get the tourniquet tight enough to stop the bleeding. I'm using Bertie's lead, but it's too loose, and the sticks here are all so rotten they just keep breaking."
"Then forget the lead and use something else-something you can get a grip on-a T-shirt maybe. Wind it around his arm as tight as you can above the elbow, then keep twisting the ends to exert some pressure. Failing that, try and locate the artery on the underside of his upper arm with your fingers and press hard against the bone to stop the flow. But you've got to keep the pressure on, Maggie, otherwise he'll start bleeding again, and that means your hands are going to hurt."
"Okay."
"Good girl. I'll get help to you as fast as I can." He cut her off and dialed Broxton House. "Mrs. Jenner?" he said, flicking over to the loudspeaker when the receiver was lifted at the other end. "It's Nick Ingram." He flung himself out of bed and started to drag on some clothes. "Maggie needs help, and you're the closest. She's trying to stop a man from bleeding to death in the quarry gully. They're at the coastal path end. If you take Sir Jasper and get up there PDQ, then the man stands a chance. Otherwise-"