Breaker

'You wouldn't,' she said frankly. 'You're not the type.'

He was still wondering how to take that when he was put through to Detective Superintendent Carpenter. 'I've fished a boy's T-shirt out of the sea, sir ... almost certainly belonging to one of the Spender boys. It's got a Derby County Football Club logo on the front, and Danny claimed Harding stole it from him.' He listened for a moment. 'Yes, Danny could have dropped it by accident ... I agree, it doesn't make Harding a pedophile.' He held the phone away from his ear as Carpenter's barking beat against his eardrums. 'No, I haven't found the rucksack yet, but as a matter of fact ... only that I've a pretty good idea where it is.' More barking. 'Yes, I'm betting it's what he came back for...' He grimaced into the receiver. 'Oh, yes, sir, I'd say it's definitely in Chapman's Pool.' He glanced at his watch. 'The boat sheds in an hour. I'll meet you there.' He replaced the receiver, saw amusement at his discomfort in Maggie's eyes, and gestured abruptly toward the hall. 'Has the doctor been to see your mother?'

She nodded.

'Well?'

'He told her she was a fool not to take the paramedic's offer to have her admitted as an emergency this morning, then patted her on the head and gave her some painkillers.' Her lips twitched into another small smile. 'He also said she needs a walker and wheelchair, and suggested I drive to the nearest Red Cross depot this afternoon and see what they can do for her.'

'Sounds sensible.'

'Of course it does, but since when did sense feature in my mother's life? She says if I introduce any such contraptions into her house, she won't use them and she'll never speak to me again. And she means it, too. She says she'd rather crawl on her hands and knees than give anyone the impression she's passed her sell-by date.' She gave a tired sigh. 'Ideas on a postcard, please, care of Broxton House Lunatic Asylum. What the hell am I supposed to do?'

'Wait,' he suggested.

'What for?'

'A miraculous cure or a request for a walker. She's not stupid, Maggie. Logic will prevail once she gets over her irritation with you, me, and the doctor. Meanwhile, be kind to her. She crippled herself for you this morning, and a little gratitude and TLC will probably have her on her feet quicker than anything.'

'I've already told her I couldn't have done it without her.'

He looked amused. 'Like mother like daughter, eh?'

'I don't understand.'

'She can't say sorry. You can't say thank you.'

Sudden light dawned. 'Oh, I see. So that's why you went off in a huff two hours ago. It was gratitude you wanted. How silly of me. I thought you were angry because I told you to mind your own business.' She wrapped her arms about her thin body and gave him a tentative smile. 'Well, thank you, Nick, I'm extremely grateful for your assistance.'

He tugged at his forelock. 'Much obliged I'm sure, Miss Jenner,' he said in a rolling burr. 'But a lady like you don't need to thank a man for doing his job.'

Her puzzled eyes searched his for a moment before it occurred to her he was taking the piss, and her overwrought nerves snapped with a vengeance. 'Fuck off!' she said, landing a furious fist on the side of his jaw before marching into the hall and slamming the door behind her.

Two Dartmouth policemen listened with interest to what the Frenchman told them, while his daughter stood in embarrassed silence beside him, fidgeting constantly with her hair. The man's English was good, if heavily accented, as he explained carefully and precisely where he and his boat had been the previous Sunday. He had come, he said, because he had read in the English newspapers that the woman who had been lifted off the shore had been murdered. He placed a copy of Wednesday's Telegraph on the counter in case they didn't know which inquiry he was referring to. 'Mrs. Kate Sumner,' he said. 'You are acquainted with this matter?' They agreed they were, so he produced a videocassette from a carrier bag and put it beside the newspaper. 'My daughter made a film of a man that day. You understand-I know nothing about this man. He may-how you say-be innocent. But I am anxious.' He pushed the video across the desk. 'It is not good what he is doing, so you play it. Yes? It is important, perhaps.'

Harding's mobile telephone was a sophisticated little item with the capacity to call abroad or be called from abroad. It required an SIM (Subscriber Identification Module) card and a PIN number to use it, but as both had been logged in, presumably by Harding himself, the phone was operational. If it hadn't been, Maggie wouldn't have been able to use it. The card had an extensive memory and, depending on how much the user programmed into it, could store phone numbers and messages, plus the last ten numbers dialed out and the last ten dialed in.

The screen was displaying '5 missed calls' and a 'messages waiting' sign. With a wary look toward the door into the hall, Ingram went into the menu, located 'voice mail' followed by 'mailbox,' pressed the 'call' button, and held the receiver to his ear. He massaged his cheek tenderly while he listened, wondering if Maggie had any idea how powerful her punch was.

'You have three new messages,' said a disembodied female voice at the other end.

'Steve?' A lisping, lightweight-foreign?-voice, although Ingram couldn't tell if it was male or female. 'Where are you? I'm frightened. Please phone me. I've tried twenty times since Sunday.'

'Mr. Harding?' A man's voice, definitely foreign. 'This is the Hotel Angelique, Concarneau. If you wish us to keep your room, you must confirm your reservation by noon today, using a credit card. I regret that without such confirmation the reservation cannot be honored.'

'Hi,' said an Englishman's voice next. 'Where the fuck are you, you stupid bastard? You're supposed to be kipping here, for Christ's sake. Dammit, this is the address you've been bailed to, and I swear to God I'll take you to the cleaners if you get me into any more trouble. Just don't expect me to keep my mouth shut next time. I warned you I'd have your stinking hide if you were playing me for a patsy. Oh, and in case you're interested, there's a sodding journalist nosing around who wants to know if it's true you've been questioned about Kate's murder. He's really bugging me, so get your arse back PDQ before I drop you in it up to your neck.'

Ingram touched 'end' to disconnect, then went through the whole process again, jotting down bullet points on the back of a piece of paper which he took from a notepad under the wall telephone. Next he pressed the arrow button twice to scroll up the numbers of the last ten people who had dialed in. He discounted 'voice mail' and made