had of the tumbled sheets in the forward cabin before he closed the door left neither of them in any doubt that he'd spent most of the day sleeping off a ferocious hangover.
'What kind of follow-up questions?' he asked, sliding onto a bench seat at the side of the table and gesturing them to take the other.
'Routine ones, Mr. Harding,' said the superintendent.
'About what?'
'Yesterday's events.'
He pressed the heels of his palms against his lids and rotated them fiercely as if to drive out demons. 'I don't know any more than I told the other guy,' he said, eyes watering as he lowered his hands. 'And most of that was what the boys told me. They reckoned she drowned and got left on the beach. Were they right?'
'It certainly looks that way.'
He hunched forward over the table. 'I'm thinking about making a complaint against that copper. He was bloody rude, made out me and the kids had something to do with the body being there. I didn't mind for myself so much, but I was pretty pissed off for the boys. They were scared of him. I mean, let's face it, it can't be much fun finding a corpse-and then to have some idiot in hobnailed boots making the whole situation worse...' He broke off with a shake of his head. 'Matter of fact I think he was jealous. I was chatting up this bird when he came back, and he looked bloody furious about it. I reckon he fancies her himself, but he's such a dozy pillock he hasn't done anything about it.'
As neither Galbraith nor Carpenter rose in Ingram's defense, a silence fell during which the two policemen cast interested glances about the saloon. In other circumstances the light may well have been romantic, but to a couple of law officers intent on spotting anything that might connect its owner to a brutal rape and murder it was worse than useless. Too much of the interior was obscured by shadow, and if there was evidence that Kate and Hannah Sumner had been on board the previous Saturday then it wasn't obvious.
'What do you want to know?' asked Harding then. He was watching John Galbraith as he spoke, and there was something in his eye-
'We understand you berthed in Salterns Marina on Saturday night and stayed there most of Sunday?' said Carpenter.
'Yes.'
'What time did you tie up, Mr. Harding?'
'I've no idea.' He frowned. 'Pretty late. What's that got to do with anything?'
'Do you keep a log?'
He glanced toward his chart table. 'When I remember.'
'May I look at it?'
'Why not?' He leaned over and retrieved a battered exercise book from the clutter of paper on the lid of the chart table. 'It's hardly great literature.' He handed it across.
Carpenter read the last six entries.
09 August 97.
10.09
Slipped mooring.
'
11:32
Rounded Hurst Castle.
10 August 97.
02:17
Berthed, Salterns Marina.
'
18:50
Slipped mooring.
'
19:28
Exited Poole Harbor.
11 August 97.
00.12
Berthed, Lymington.
'You certainly don't waste your words much, do you?' he murmured, flicking back through the pages to look at other entries. 'Doesn't wind speed or course ever feature in your log?'
'Not often.'
'Is there a reason for that?'
