that part of the coast and the currents are unpredictable.
One explanation which covers the above is that Kate was raped ashore, her killer presumed her dead after the strangulation attempt, and the whole 'drowning' exercise was designed to dispose of her body off an isolated stretch of coast.
Can you buy this reasoning? 1) He bundled her naked and unconscious body into the stolen dinghy, then took her a considerable distance-Lulworth Cove to Chapman's Pool = 8 nautical miles approx.-before he tied her to the outboard and left the dinghy to sink with its contents (wind-chill factor would already have caused hypothermia in a naked woman); 2) once set adrift, Kate came around from the strangulation attempt/Rohypnol and realized she had to save herself; 3) her broken fingers and nails could have resulted from her struggle to break free of her bonds then release the clamps holding the outboard in place in order to eject its weight, probably capsizing the dinghy in the process; 4) she used the dinghy as a float and became separated from it only when she lapsed into unconsciousness or became too tired to hold on; 5) in all events, I am guessing the dinghy traveled much closer to shore than the pathologist's estimate, otherwise the boat would have become swamped and the killer himself would have been in trouble; 6) the killer climbed the cliffs and returned to Lulworth/Kimmeridge via the coastal path during the dark hours of the night.
This is as far as my thoughts have taken me, but if the dinghy was involved in the murder then it must have come from the west-Kimmeridge Bay or Lulworth Cove-because the craft was too fragile to negotiate the race around St. Alban's Head. I realize none of this explains Hannah, although I can't help feeling that if you can discover where the stolen dinghy was hidden for two months, you may also discover where Kate was raped and where Hannah was left while her mother was being drowned.
(NB: None of the above rules out Harding-the rape may have taken place on his deck with the evidence subsequently washed away, and the dinghy may have been towed behind Crazy Daze-but does it make him a less likely suspect?)
*17*
The sun had been up less than an hour on Friday morning when Maggie Jenner set off along the bridleway behind Broxton House, accompanied by Bertie. She was on a skittish bay gelding called Stinger, whose owner came down from London every weekend to her cottage in Langton Matravers to ride hard around the headlands as an antidote to her high-pressure job as a money broker in the City. Maggie loved the horse but loathed the woman, whose hands were about as sensitive as steam hammers and who viewed Stinger in the same way as she probably viewed a snort of cocaine-as a quick adrenaline fix. If she hadn't agreed to pay well over the odds for the livery service Maggie provided, Maggie would have refused her business without a second's hesitation, but as with most things in the Jenners' lives, compromise had become the better part of staving off bankruptcy.
She turned right at St. Alban's Head Quarry, negotiating her way through the gate and into the deep, wide valley that cleaved a grassy downland passage toward the sea between St. Alban's Head to the south and the high ground above Chapman's Pool to the north. She nudged her mount into a canter and sent him springing across the turf in glorious release. It was still cool, but there was barely a breath of wind in the air, and as always on mornings like this her spirits soared. However bad existence was, and it could be very bad at times, she ceased to worry about it here. If there was any point to anything, then she came closest to finding it, alone and free, in the renewed optimism that a fresh sun generated with each daybreak.
She reined in after half a mile, and walked the gelding toward the fenced coastal path which hugged the slopes of the valley on either side in a series of steep steps cut into the cliffs. It was a hardy rambler who suffered the agony of the downward trek only to be faced with the worse agony of the upward climb, and Maggie, who had never done either, thought how much more sensible it was to ride the gully in order to enjoy the scenery. Ahead, the sea, a sparkling blue, was flat calm without a sail in sight, and she slipped lightly from the saddle while Bertie, panting from the exertion of keeping up, rolled leisurely in the warming grass beside the gelding's hooves. Looping Stinger's reins casually around the top rail of the fence, she climbed the stile and walked the few yards to the cliff edge to stand and glory in the vast expanse of blueness, where the line of demarcation between sky and sea was all but invisible. The only sounds were the gentle swish of breakers on the shore, the sigh of the animals' breaths, and a lark singing in the sky above...
It was difficult to say who was the more startled, therefore, Maggie or Steven Harding, when he rose out of the ground in front of her after hoisting himself over the cliff edge where the downland valley dropped toward the sea. He crouched on all fours for several seconds, his face pale and unshaven, breathing heavily, and looking a great deal less pretty than he had five days before. More like a rapist, less like a Hollywood lead. There was a quality of disturbing violence about him, something calculating in the dark eyes that Maggie hadn't noticed before, but it was his abrupt rearing to full height that caused her to shriek. Her alarm transmitted itself immediately to Stinger, who pranced backward, tearing his reins free of the fence, and thence to Bertie, who leaped to his feet, hackles up.
But Harding, for reasons best known to himself, darted across her path in Stinger's direction, and the gelding, eyes rolling, took off like lightning up the hill.
She was completely unprepared for his backhand slap that caught her a glancing blow across the side of her face, and as she hit the ground with a resounding thud, the only thought in her head was: What on earth does this idiot think he's doing...?
Ingram squinted painfully at his alarm clock when his phone rang at 6:30 a.m. He lifted the receiver and listened to a series of high-pitched, unintelligible squeaks at the other end of the line, which he recognized as coming from Maggie Jenner.
'You'll have to calm down,' he said when she finally took a breath. 'I can't understand a word you're saying.'
More squeaks.
'Pull yourself together, Maggie,' he said firmly. 'You're not a wimp, so don't behave like one.'
