Breaker

the nine-nine-nine call. Up until then I couldn't have given a toss what time it was.' He looked at Galbraith again, and there was irritation in his dark eyes. 'I hate being ruled by the bloody clock. It's social terrorism to force people to conform to arbitrary evaluations of how long something should take. That's why I like sailing. Time's irrelevant, and there's bugger all you can do about it.'

'What sort of car did the couple drive?' asked Carpenter, unmoved by the young man's flights of philosophical fancy.

'I don't know. A sedan of some sort. I don't notice cars.'

'What color?'

'Blue, I think.'

'What were the couple like?'

'We didn't talk much. They had a Manic Street Preachers album on tape. We listened to that.'

'Can you describe them, Mr. Harding?'

'Not really. They were ordinary. I spent most of the time looking at the backs of their heads. She had blond hair, and he had dark hair.' He reached for the whisky bottle and rolled it between his palms, beginning to lose his patience. 'Why the hell are you asking me these questions anyway? What the fuck does it matter how long it took me to get from A to B, or who I met along the way? Does everyone who dials nine-nine-nine get the third degree?'

'Just tying loose ends, sir.'

'So you said.'

'Wouldn't it be truer to say that Chapman's Pool was your destination, and not Lulworth Cove?'

'No.'

A silence developed. Carpenter stared fixedly at Harding while he continued to play with the whisky bottle. 'Were there any passengers on board your boat on Saturday?' he asked then.

'No.'

'Are you sure about that, sir?'

'Of course I'm bloody sure. Don't you think I'd have noticed them? It's hardly the QE2, is it?'

Carpenter leafed idly through the logbook. 'Do you ever carry passengers?'

'That's none of your business.'

'Maybe not, but we've been led to believe you're a bit of a lad.' He lifted an amused eyebrow. 'Legend has it that you regularly entertain ladies on board. I'm wondering if you ever take them sailing with you'-he jerked his head toward the cabin-'or does all the action take place in there when you're moored up to your buoy?'

Harding took time to consider his answer. 'I take some of them out,' he admitted at last.

'How often?'

Another long pause. 'Once a month, maybe.'

Carpenter slapped the exercise book onto the table and drummed his fingers on it. 'Then why is there no mention of them in here? Surely you have a responsibility to record the names of everyone on board in case of an accident? Or perhaps you don't care that someone might drown because the coastguards assume you're the only person they're looking for?'

'That's ridiculous,' said Harding dismissively. 'The boat would have to turn turtle for a scenario like that, and the log'd be lost anyway.'

'Have any of your passengers ever gone overboard?'

Harding shook his head but didn't say anything. His eyes flickered with open suspicion from one man to the other, tasting their mood in the way a snake flicks his tongue to taste scent on the air. There was something very studied about every movement he made, and Galbraith regarded him objectively, mindful that he was an actor. He had the impression that Harding was enjoying himself, but he couldn't think why this should be unless Harding had no idea the investigation involved rape and murder and was merely using the experience of an interrogation to practice 'method-acting' techniques.

'Do you know a woman by the name of Kate Sumner?' asked Carpenter next.

Harding pushed the bottle aside and leaned forward aggressively. 'What if I do?'

'That's not an answer to my question. Let me repeat it. Do you know a woman by the name of Kate Sumner?'

'Yes.'

'Do you know her well?'

'Well enough.'

'How well is well enough?'

'None of your bloody business.'

'Wrong answer, Steve. It's very much our business. It was her body you saw being winched into the helicopter.'

His reaction surprised them.

'I had a feeling it might be,' he said.