Did you find out about that? Maybe you suspected that the baby she was carrying wasn't yours? Maybe you were afraid she was going to foist another bastard on to you?'
Sumner stared at his hands.
'Did you rape her?' Galbraith went on remorselessly. 'Was that part of the
'Why would I want to rape her when I didn't need to?' he asked.
'I'm only interested in a yes or a no, William.'
His eyes flashed angrily. 'Then no, dammit. I never raped my wife.'
'Maybe you dosed her with Rohypnol to make her more compliant?'
'No.'
'Then tell me why Hannah's so sexually aware?' Galbraith said next. 'Did you and Kate perform in front of her?'
More anger. 'That's revolting.'
'Yes or no, William.'
'No.' The word came out in a strangled sob.
'You're lying, William. Half an hour ago, you described how you had to sit with her in a hotel bedroom because she wouldn't stop crying. I think that happened at home as well. I think sex with Kate involved Hannah as an audience because you got so fed up with Hannah being given as the excuse for the endless brush-offs that you insisted on doing it in front of her. Am I right?'
He buried his face in his hands and rocked himself to and fro. 'You don't know what it's like ... she wouldn't leave us alone ... she never sleeps ... pester, pester all the time ... Kate used her as a shield...'
'Is that a yes?'
The answer was a whisper of sound. 'Yes.'
'WPC Griffiths said you went into Hannah's room last night. Do you want to tell me why?'
Another whisper. 'You won't believe me if I do.'
'I might.'
Sumner raised a tear-stained face. 'I wanted to look at her,' he said in despair. 'She's all I've got left to remind me of Kate.'
Carpenter lit a cigarette as Ingram's careful spadework disclosed the first strap of a rucksack. 'Good work, lad,' he said approvingly. He dispatched one of the DCs to his car to collect some disposable gloves and plastic sheeting, then watched as Ingram continued to remove the shale from around the crumpled canvas.
It took Ingram another ten minutes to release the object completely and transfer it to the plastic sheet. It was a heavy-duty green camper's rucksack, with a waist strap for extra support and loops underneath for taking a tent. It was old and worn, and the integral backframe had been cut out for some reason, leaving frayed canvas edges between the stitched grooves that had contained it. The frays were old ones, however, and whatever had persuaded the owner to remove the frame was clearly ancient history. It sat on the sheeting, collapsed in on itself under the weight of its straps, and whatever it contained took up less than a third of its bulk.
Carpenter instructed one detective constable to seal each item in a forensic bag as he took it out and the other to note what it was, then he squatted beside the rucksack and carefully undid the buckles with gloved fingertips, flipping back the flap. 'Item,' he dictated. 'One pair of twenty times sixty binoculars, name worn away, possibly Optikon ... one bottle of mineral water, Volvic ... three empty crisp packets, Smith's ... one baseball cap, New York Yankees ... one blue-and-white checked shirt-men's-made by River Island ... one pair of cream cotton trousers- men's-also made by River Island ... one pair of brown safari-style boots, size seven.'
He felt inside the pockets and took out some rancid orange peel, more empty crisp packets, an opened packet of Camel cigarettes with a lighter tucked in among them, and a small quantity of what appeared to be cannabis, wrapped in cling film. He squinted up at the three policemen.
'Well? What do you make of this little lot? What's so incriminating about it all that Nick mustn't know he had it?'
'The C,' said one. 'He didn't want to be caught in possession.'
'Maybe.'
'God knows,' said the other.
The superintendent stood up. 'What about you, Nick? What do you think?'
'I'd say the shoes are the most interesting item, sir.'
Carpenter nodded. 'Too small for Harding, who's a good six foot, and too big for Kate Sumner. So what's he doing carrying a pair of size-seven shoes around with him?'
No one volunteered an answer.
DI Galbraith was on his way out of Lymington when Carpenter phoned through instructions to locate Tony Bridges and put the 'little bastard' through the wringer. 'He's been holding out on us, John,' he declared, detailing the contents of Harding's rucksack, what was on the Frenchman's video, and repeating verbatim the messages that Ingram had taken from the voice mail. 'Bridges
'What happens if I can't find Bridges?'
'He was in his house two or three hours ago, because the last message came from his number. He's a teacher, don't forget, so he won't have gone to work, not unless he has a holiday job. Campbell's advice is: Check the pubs.'
