Report from Falmouth police, following an interview with Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Harding
Subject: Steven Harding
Mr. and Mrs. Harding live at 18 Hall Road, a modest bungalow to the west of Falmouth. They retired to Cornwall in 1991 after running a flsh-and-chip shop in Lymington for 80+ years. They used a considerable proportion of their capital to put their only child, Steven, through a private drama college following his failure to gain any A- level passes at school, and feel aggrieved that they now live in somewhat straitened circumstances as a result. This may in part explain, why their attitude toward their son is critical and unfriendly.
They describe Steven as a 'disappointment' and evince considerable hostility toward him because of his 'immoral lifestyle.' They blame his wayward behavior-'He is only interested in sex, drugs and rock and roll'-and lack of achievement-'He has never done a day's serious work in his life'-on laziness and a belief that 'the world owes him a living.' Mr. Harding, who is proud of his working-class roots, says Steven looks down on his parents, which explains why Steven has been to see them only once in six years. The visit-during the summer of 1995- was not a success and Mr. Harding's views on his son's arrogance and lack of gratitude were explosive and earthy. He uses words like 'poser,' 'junky,' 'parasite,' 'oversexed,' 'liar,' 'irresponsible' to describe his son, although it is clear that his hostility has more to do with his inability to accept Steven's rejection of working-class values than any real knowledge of his son's current lifestyle as they have had no contact with him since July 1995.
Mrs. Harding cites a school friend of Steven's, Anthony Bridges, as a malign influence on his life. According to her, Anthony introduced Steven to shoplifting, drugs, and pornography at the age of twelve, and Steven's lack of achievement stems from a couple of police cautions he and Anthony received during their teenage years for drunk and disorderly behavior, vandalism, and theft of pornographic materials from a newsagent. Steven became rebellious and impossible to control after these episodes. She describes Steven as 'too handsome for his own good,' and says that girls were throwing themselves at him from an early age. She says Anthony, by contrast, was always overshadowed by his friend and that she believes this is why it amused Anthony to 'get Steven into trouble.' She feels very bitter that Anthony, despite his previous history, was bright enough to go to university and find himself a job in teaching, while Steven had to rely on the funding his parents provided, for which they have received no thanks.
When Mr. Harding asked Steven how he was able to afford to buy his boat, Crazy Daze, Steven admitted he had received payment for several hard-core pornography sessions. This caused such distress to his parents that they ordered him from their house in July 1995 and have neither seen nor heard from him since. They know nothing about his recent activities, friends, or acquaintances and can shed no light on the events of 9-10 August 1997. However, they insist that, despite all his faults, they do not believe Steven to be a violent or aggressive young man.
*15*
Maggie Jenner was raking straw in one of the stables when Nick Ingram and John Galbraith drove into Broxton House yard on Thursday morning. Her immediate reaction, as it was with all visitors, was to retreat into the shadows, unwilling to be seen, unwilling to have her privacy invaded, for it required an effort of will to overcome her natural disinclination to participate in anything that involved people. Broxton House, a square Queen Anne building with pitched roof, red-brick walls, and shuttered upper windows, was visible through a gap in the trees to the right of the stableyard, and she watched the two men admire it as they got out of the car, before turning to walk in her direction.
With a resigned smile, she drew attention to herself by hefting soiled straw through the stable doorway on the end of a pitchfork. The weather hadn't broken for three weeks, and sweat was running freely down her face as she emerged into the fierce sunlight. She was irritated by her own discomfort and wished she'd put on something else that morning or that PC Ingram had had the courtesy to warn her he was coming. Her checkered cheesecloth shirt gripped her damp torso like a stocking, and her jeans chafed against the inside of her thighs. Ingram spotted her almost immediately and was amused to see that, for once, the tables were turned, and it was she who was hot and bothered and not he, but his expression as always was unreadable.
She propped the pitchfork against the stable wall and wiped her palms down her already filthy jeans before smoothing her hair off her sweaty face with the back of one hand. 'Good morning, Nick,' she said. 'What can I do for you?'
'Miss Jenner,' he said, with his usual polite nod. 'This is Detective Inspector Galbraith from Dorset HQ. If it's convenient, he'd like to ask you a few questions about the events of last Sunday.'
She inspected her palms before tucking them into her jeans pockets. 'I won't offer to shake hands, Inspector. You wouldn't like where mine have been.'
Galbraith smiled, recognizing the excuse for what it was, a dislike of physical contact, and cast an interested glance around the cobbled courtyard. There was a row of stables on each of three sides, beautiful old red-brick buildings with solid oak doors, only half a dozen of which appeared to have occupants. The rest stood empty, doors hooked back, brick floors bare of straw, hay baskets unfilled, and it was a long time, he guessed, since the business had been a thriving one. They had passed a faded sign at the entrance gate, boasting: BROXTON HOUSE RIDING & LIVERY STABLES, but, like the sign, evidence of dilapidation was everywhere, in the crumbling brickwork that had been thrashed by the elements for a couple of hundred years, in the cracked and peeling paintwork and the broken windows in the tack room and office, which no one had bothered-
Maggie watched his appraisal. 'You're right,' she said, reading his mind. 'It has enormous potential as a row of holiday chalets.'
'A pity when it happens, though.'
'Yes.'
He looked toward a distant paddock where a couple of horses grazed halfheartedly on drought-starved grass. 'Are they yours as well?'
'No. We just rent out the paddock. The owners are supposed to keep an eye on them, but they're irresponsible, frankly, and I usually find myself doing things for their wretched animals that was never part of the contract.' She
