"Probably nothing, but he was one of the people on the spot when Kate's body was found, and we're questioning everyone connected with her death, however remotely." He waited a moment. "Do you know him?"
"The actor?"
"Yes."
"I've met him a couple of times." He steepled his hands in front of his mouth. "He carried Hannah's buggy over the cobbles at the bottom of the High Street one day when Kate was struggling with some heavy shopping, and she asked me to thank him when we bumped into him about a week later. After that he started popping up all over the place. You know what it's like. You meet someone, and then you see them wherever you go. He's got a sloop on the Lymington River, and we used to talk sailing from time to time. I invited him back to the house once, and he chewed my ear off for hours about some blasted play he was auditioning for. He didn't get the part, of course, but I wasn't surprised. He couldn't act his way out of a paper bag if his life depended on it." His eyes narrowed. "Do you think he did it?"
Galbraith gave a small shake of his head. "At the moment, we're just trying to eliminate him from the inquiry. Were he and Kate friends?"
Sumner's lips twisted. "Do you mean, were they having an affair?"
"If you like."
"No," he said adamantly. "He's a galloping poof. He poses for pornographic gay magazines. In any case she can't ... couldn't stand him. She was furious when I took him back to the house that time ... said I should have asked her first."
Galbraith watched him for a moment. The denial was overdone, he thought. "How do you know about the gay magazines? Did Harding tell you?"
Sumner nodded. "He even showed me one of them. He was proud of it. But then he loves all that. Loves being in the limelight."
"Okay. Tell me about Kate. How long have you and she been married?"
He had to think about it. "Getting on for four years. We met at work and married six months later."
"Where's work?"
"Pharmatec UK in Portsmouth. I'm a research chemist there, and Kate was one of the secretaries."
Galbraith lowered his eyes to cloak his sudden interest. "The drug company?"
"Yes."
"What sort of drugs do you research?"
"Me personally?" He gave an indifferent shrug. "Anything to do with the stomach."
Galbraith made a note. "Did Kate go on working after you married?"
"For a few months until she fell pregnant with Hannah."
"Was she happy about the pregnancy?"
"Oh, yes. Her one ambition was to have a family of her own."
"And she didn't mind giving up work?"
Sumner shook his head. "She wouldn't have it any other way. She didn't want her children to be brought up the way she was. She didn't have a father, and her mother was out all day, so she was left to fend on her own."
"Do you still work at Pharmatec?"
He nodded. "I'm their top scientist." He spoke the words matter-of-factly.
"So you live in Lymington and work in Portsmouth?"
"Yes."
"Do you drive to work?"
"Yes."
"That's a difficult journey," said Galbraith sympathetically, doing a rough calculation in his head. "It must take you-what?-an hour and a half of traveling each way. Have you ever thought of moving?"
"We didn't just think about it," said Sumner with a hint of irony. "We did it a year ago when we moved to Lymington. And, yes, you're right, it's an awful journey, particularly in the summer when the New Forest's packed with tourists." He sounded unhappy about it.
"Where did you move from?"
"Chichester."
Galbraith remembered the notes Griffiths had shown him after Sumner's telephone call. "That's where your mother lives, isn't it?"
"Yes. She's been there all her life."
"You too? A born-and-bred Chichester man?"
Sumner nodded.
"Moving must have been a bit of a wrench, particularly if it meant adding an hour to your journey each way?"
He ignored the question to stare despondently out of the window. "You know what I keep thinking?" he said then. "If I'd stuck to my guns and refused to budge, Kate wouldn't be dead. We never had any trouble when we lived in Chichester." He seemed to realize immediately that his remarks could be interpreted in a number of ways and added what was presumably intended as an explanation: "I mean, Lymington's full of strangers. Half the people you meet don't even live there."
Galbraith had a quick word with Griffiths before she left to accompany William and Hannah Sumner home. She had been given time, while the scene-of-crime officers finished their search of Langton Cottage, to go home in order to change and pack a bag, and was dressed now in a baggy yellow sweater and black leggings. She looked very different from the severe young woman in the police uniform, and Galbraith wondered wryly if the father and daughter would feel more or less comfortable with the Sloppy Joe. Less, he fancied. Police uniforms inspired confidence.
"I'll be with you early tomorrow morning," he told her, "and I need you to prod him a bit before I get there. I want lists of their friends in Lymington, a second list of friends in Chichester, and a third list of work friends in Portsmouth." He ran a tired hand around his jaw, while he tried to organize his memory. "It would be helpful if he splits those with boats, or with access to boats, from those without, and even more helpful if he separates Kate's personal friends from their joint friends."
"Okey-doke," she said.
He smiled. "And try to get him to talk about Kate," he went on. "We need to know what her routine was, how she managed her day, which shops she used, that kind of thing."
"No problem."
"And his mother," he said. "I get the impression Kate forced him to move away from her, which may have caused some friction within the family."
Griffiths looked amused. "I don't blame her," she said. "He's ten years older than she was, and he'd been living at home with Mummy for thirty-seven years before they got married."
"How do you know?"
"I had a chat with him when I asked him for his previous address. His mother gave him the family home as a wedding present in return for him taking a small mortgage to help her buy a flat in some sheltered accommodation across the road."
"A bit too close for comfort, eh?"
She chuckled. "Bloody stifling, I should think."
"What about his father?"
"Died ten years ago. Up until then it was a menage a trois. Afterward, a menage a deux. William was the only child."
Galbraith shook his head. "How come you're so well informed? It can only have been a very little chat."
She tapped the side of her nose. "Sensible questions and a woman's intuition," she said. "He's been waited on all his life, which is why he's so convinced he won't be able to cope."
"Good luck then," he said, meaning it. "I can't say I envy you."
"Someone has to look after Hannah." She sighed. "Poor little kid. Do you ever wonder what would have happened to you if you'd been abandoned the way most of the kids we arrest are abandoned?"
"Sometimes," Galbraith admitted. "Other times I thank God my parents pushed me out of the nest and told me to get on with it. You can be loved too much as well as too little, you know, and I'd be hard-pushed to say which was the more dangerous."
*8*
The decision to question Steven Harding was made at eight o'clock that Monday night when the Dorset police received confirmation that he was on board his boat in the Lymington River; although the interview itself did not take place until after nine because the officer in charge, Detective Superintendent Carpenter, had to drive from Winfrith in order to lead it. DI John Galbraith, who was still in Poole, was instructed to make his own way to Lymington and meet his governor outside the harbormaster's office.
Attempts had been made to raise Harding on his radio and his mobile telephone, but as both were switched off, the investigating officers had no way of finding out whether he would still be there on Tuesday morning. A call to
his agent, Graham Barlow, had elicited only a furious tirade against arrogant young actors "who are too big for their boots to attend auditions" and who could "dream on about future representation."
"Of course I don't know where he'll be tomorrow," he had finished angrily. "I haven't heard a cheep out of him since Friday morning, so I've sacked the bugger. I wouldn't mind if he was making any money for me, but he hasn't worked in months. From the way he talks, you'd think he was Tom Cruise. Ha! Pinocchio's nearer the mark ... he's certainly wooden enough..."
Galbraith and Carpenter met up at nine o'clock. The superintendent was a tall rangy man with a shock of dark hair and a ferocious frown that made him look permanently angry. His colleagues had ceased to notice it, but suspects were often intimidated by it. Galbraith had already rung through a brief report of his conversation with Sumner, but he went through it again for the superintendent's benefit, particularly the reference to Harding being "a galloping poof."
"It doesn't square with what we've been told by his agent," said Carpenter bluntly. "He describes him as sex-mad, says he's got girls falling over themselves to get into bed with him. He's a cannabis smoker, a heavy-metal fanatic, collects adult movies, and when he's got nothing better to do, sits for hours in strip joints watching the girls shed their kit. He's got a thing about nudity, so when he's on his own, either on the boat or in his flat, he prances around bollock-naked. Chances are we'll find him with his dick hanging out when we go aboard."
"That's something to look forward to then," said Galbraith gloomily.
Carpenter chuckled. "He fancies himself-doesn't think he's doing the business unless he's got two birds on the go at one time. Currently there's a twenty-five-year-old in London called Marie, and another called Bibi or Didi, or something similar, down here. Barlow's given us the name of a friend of Harding's in Lymington, one Tony Bridges, who acts as his answering service when he's out at sea, so I've sent Campbell around to have a word with him. If he gets a line on anything he'll call through." He tugged at his earlobe. "On the plus side, the sailing lobby speak well of him. He's lived in Lymington all his life, grew up over a chip shop in the High Street, and he's been mucking around in boats since he was ten. He made it to the top of the waiting list for a river mooring just over three years ago-they're like gold dust apparently-whereupon he sank every last cent into buying Crazy Daze. He spends his free weekends on her, and the number of man-hours he's put in to getting her shipshape would leave lesser men weeping. That's a quote from some fellow in the yacht club. The general consensus seems to be that he's a bit of a lad, but his heart's in the right place."
"He sounds like a ruddy chameleon," said Galbraith cynically. "I mean that's three different versions of the same guy. Arse-bandit, rampant stud, and all-around good bloke. You pays your money and takes your choice, eh?"
"He's an actor, don't forget, so I doubt if any of them are accurate. He probably plays to the gallery whenever he's given a chance."
"A liar, more like. According to Ingram, he said he grew up on a farm in Cornwall." Galbraith raised his collar as a breeze blew down the river, reminding him that he had put on light clothes that morning when the air temperature had touched the low thirties. "Do you fancy him for it?"
Carpenter shook his head. "Not really. He's a bit too visible. I think our man's more likely to be textbook material. A loner ... poor work record ... history of failed relationships ... probably lives at home with his mother ... resents her interference in his life." He raised his nose to sniff the air. "At the moment, I'd say the husband sounds a more likely candidate."
Tony Bridges lived in a small terraced house behind the High Street and gave a nod of agreement when the gray-haired detective sergeant at his door asked if he could talk to him for a few minutes about Steven Harding. He had no shirt or shoes on, just a pair of jeans, and he weaved unsteadily down the corridor as he led the way to an untidy sitting room. He was thin and sharp-featured, with a peroxided crew-cut that didn't suit his sallow complexion, but he smiled amiably enough as he gestured DS Campbell through the door. Campbell, who thought he smelled cannabis in the air, had the distinct impression that visits from the police were not unusual and suspected the neighbors had much to put up with.
The house gave the impression of multiple occupancy, with a couple of bicycles leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor, and assorted clothes lying in heaps about the furniture and floor. Dozens of empty lager cans had been tossed into an old beer crate in a corner-left over, Campbell presumed, from a long-dead party-and overflowing ashtrays reeked into the atmosphere. Campbell wondered what the kitchen was like. If it was as rank as the sitting room, it probably had rats, he thought.
"If his car alarm's gone off again," said Bridges, "then it's the garage you want to talk to. They fitted the sodding thing, and I'm sick to death of people phoning you lot about it when he's not here. I don't even know why he bothered to have it put in. The car's a pile of crap, so I can't see anyone wanting to steal it." He picked up an opened Enigma can from the floor and used it to point to a chair. "Take a pew. Do you want a lager?"
"No thanks." Campbell sat down. "It's not about his alarm, sir. We're asking routine questions of everyone who knows him in order to eliminate him from an inquiry, and we were given your name by his agent."
"What inquiry?"
"A woman drowned on Saturday night and Mr. Harding reported finding the body."
"Is that right? Shit! Who was it?"
"A local woman by the name of Kate Sumner. She lived in Rope Walk with her husband and daughter."
"Fucking Nora! Are you serious?"
"Did you know her?"
Tony took a swill from the can. "I knew of her, but I never met her. She had this thing about Steve. He helped her out once with her kid, and she wouldn't leave him alone. It used to drive him mad."
"Who told you this?"
"Steve, of course. Who else?" He shook his head. "No wonder he drank himself stupid last night if he's the one who found her."
"He wasn't. Some boys found her. He made the phone call on their behalf."
Bridges pondered for several moments in silence, and it was clearly hard work. Whatever anesthetic he'd taken-cannabis, alcohol, or both-he was having trouble getting his mind into gear. "This doesn't make sense," he said with sudden belligerence, his eyes focusing on Campbell like two little spy cameras. "I know for a fact Steve wasn't in Lymington on Saturday night. I saw him Friday night, and he told me he was going to Poole for the weekend. His boat was out all Saturday and Sunday, which means there's no way he could have reported a drowning in Lymington."
"She didn't drown here, sir. She drowned off the coast about twenty miles from Poole."
"Ah, shit!" He emptied the lager can with one swallow, then crumpled it between his fist and threw it at the beer crate. "Look, it's pointless asking me any more questions. I don't know anything about anyone drowning. Okay? I'm a mate of Steve's, not his blasted keeper."
Campbell nodded. "Fair enough. So, as a mate, do you know if he has a girlfriend down here called Bibi or Didi, Mr. Bridges?"
Tony leveled an accusing finger. "What the hell is this?" he demanded. "Over my dead body are these routine questions. What's going on?"
The DS looked thoughtful. "Steve isn't answering his telephone, so his agent's the only person we've been able to talk to. He told us Steve had a girlfriend in Lymington called Bibi or Didi, and he suggested we contact you for her address. Is that a problem for you?"
"To-ony!" called a drunken female voice from upstairs. "I'm wa-aiting!"
"Too right it's a problem," said Bridges angrily. "That's Bibi, and she's my sodding girlfriend, not Steve's. I'll kill the bastard if he's been two-timing me."
There was the sound of a body slumping on the floor upstairs. "I'm going to sle-ep again, Tony!"
Carpenter and Galbraith traveled out to Crazy Daze on the harbormaster's rib-a souped-up dinghy with a fiberglass keel and a steering column-captained by one of his
young assistants. The night air had become noticeably cold after the heat of the day, and both men wished they had had the sense to wear sweaters or fleeces under their jackets. A stiff breeze was funneling down the Solent, making rigging lines rattle noisily against the forest of masts in the Berthon and Yacht Haven marinas. Ahead of them the Isle of Wight crouched like a slumbering beast against the shadowy sky and the lights from the approaching Yarmouth-Lymington ferry danced in reflection across the waves.
The harbormaster had been amused by police suspicion over their fruitless attempts to raise Harding via radio or mobile telephone. "Do the man a favor! Why should he waste his batteries on the odd chance that you lot want to talk to him? There's no shore power to boats on the buoys. He lights the saloon with a butane gas lamp-claims it's romantic-which is why he prefers a buoy in the river to a pontoon in a marina. That, and the fact that once on board the girls are dependent on him and his dinghy to get them off again."
"Does he take many girls out there?" asked Galbraith.
"I wouldn't know. I've got better things to do than keep a tally of Steve's conquests. He prefers blonds, I know that. I've seen him with a right little stunner recently."
"Small, curly blond hair, blue eyes?"
"Far as I recall, she had straight hair, but don't quote me on it. I'm no good with faces."
"Any idea what time Steve's boat left on Saturday morning?" asked Carpenter.
The harbormaster shook his head. "I can't even see it from here. Ask at the yacht club."
"We already have. No luck."
"Wait till the weekenders come down on Saturday then. They'll be your best bet."
The rib slowed as it approached Harding's sloop. Yellow light glimmered in the midship portholes, and a rubber dinghy bobbed astern in the wash from the ferry. From inside came the faint sound of music.
"Hey, Steve," shouted the harbormaster's lad, rapping smartly on the port planking. "It's Gary. You've got visitors, mate."
Harding's voice came faintly. "Bog off, Gary! I'm sick."
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