Breaker

some relief coming when William's taken away to identify the body and talk to the doctor who examined Hannah. The trouble is, I can't see Hannah letting me go that easily. She clings to me like a limpet. I'm using the spare room to grab kip when I can, and I thought I'd try to organize some temporary cover while she's asleep so I can stay on the premises. But I'll need to get hold of my governor to organize someone locally.' She sighed. 'I suppose you want me to wake William for you.'

He patted her shoulder. 'No. Just point me toward his room. I'm happy to do the business.'

She was sorely tempted, but shook her head. 'You'll disturb Hannah,' she said, baring her teeth in a threatening grimace, 'and I swear to God I'll kill you if she starts howling again before I've had a fag and some black coffee. I'm bushed. I can't take any more of her screaming without mega-fixes of caffeine and nicotine.'

'Is it putting you off babies?'

'It's putting me off husbands,' she said. 'I'd have coped better if he hadn't kept hovering like a dark cloud over my shoulder.' She eased open the sitting-room door. 'You can wait in here till he comes. You'll love it. It has all the makings of a shrine.'

Galbraith heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to face the door as it opened. Sumner was in his early forties, but he looked a great deal older than that today, and Galbraith suspected Harding would have been a lot harsher in his description if he could have seen Kate's husband like this. He was unshaven and disheveled, and his face was inexpressibly weary, but whether from grief or lack of sleep, it was impossible to say. Nevertheless, his eyes shone brightly enough, and Galbraith took note of the fact. Lack of sleep did not lead automatically to blunted intelligence.

'Good morning, sir,' he said. 'I'm sorry to bother you again so early but I've more questions to ask, and I'm afraid they won't wait.'

'That's all right. Sit down. I feel I was less than helpful last night, but I was so whacked I couldn't think properly.' He took an armchair and left Galbraith to the sofa. 'I've made those lists you wanted. They're on the table in the kitchen.'

'Thanks.' He gave the man a searching look. 'Did you get any sleep?'

'Not really. I couldn't stop thinking about it. It's all so illogical. I could understand if they'd both drowned, but it doesn't make sense that Kate's dead and Hannah's alive.'

Galbraith agreed. He and Carpenter had been puzzling over that very fact most of the night. Why had Kate had to swim for her life while the toddler was allowed to live? The neat explanation-that the boat was Crazy Daze, that Hannah had been on board but had managed to release herself while Harding was walking to Chapman's Pool-failed to address the questions of why the child hadn't been pushed into the sea along with her mother, why Harding was so unconcerned about her wails being heard by other boat users in the marina that he'd left her on her own, and who had fed, watered, and changed her nappy in the hours before she was found.

'Have you had time to go through your wife's wardrobe, Mr. Sumner? Do you know if any of her clothes are missing?'

'Not that I can tell ... but it doesn't mean much,' he added as an afterthought. 'I don't really notice what people wear, you see.'

'Suitcases?'

'I don't think so.'

'All right.' He opened his briefcase on the sofa beside him. 'I've some articles of clothing to show you, Mr. Sumner. Please tell me if you recognize any of them.' He removed a plastic bag containing the flimsy blouse found on board Crazy Daze, which he held out for the other man to look at.

Sumner shook his head, without taking it. 'It's not Kate's,' he said.

'Why so positive,' Galbraith asked curiously, 'if you didn't notice what she wore?'

'It's yellow. She hated yellow. She said it didn't suit people with fair hair.' He gestured vaguely toward the door. 'There's no yellow anywhere in the house.'

'Fair enough.' He took out the bags containing the bra and panties. 'Do you recognize either of these as belonging to your wife?'

Sumner reached out a reluctant hand and took both bags, examining the contents closely through the clear plastic. 'I'd be surprised if they were hers,' he said, handing them back. 'She liked lace and frills, and these are very plain. You can compare them with the other things in her drawers, if you like. You'll see what I mean.'

Galbraith nodded. 'I'll do that. Thank you.' He took out the bag with the child's shoes and laid them on his right palm. 'What about these?'

Sumner shook his head again. 'I'm sorry. All children's shoes look alike to me.'

'They have H. Sumner printed inside the strap.'

He shrugged. 'Then they must be Hannah's.'

'Not necessarily,' said Galbraith. 'They're very small, more suited to a one-year-old than a three-year-old, and anyone can write a name into some shoes.'

'Why would they want to do that?'

'Pretense, perhaps.'

The other man frowned. 'Where did you find them?'

But Galbraith shook his head. 'I'm afraid I can't reveal that at this stage.' He held the shoes up again. 'Would Hannah recognize them, do you think? They may be a pair of cast-offs.'

'She might if the policewoman showed them to her,' said Sumner. 'There's no point in my trying. She screams her head off every time she sees me.' He swept imaginary dirt from the arm of the chair. 'The trouble is I spend so much time at work that she's never had the chance to get to know me properly.'

Galbraith gave him a sympathetic smile while wondering if there was any truth in the statement. Who could