Breaker

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.'