Breaker

'Will do.'

'How did you get on with Sumner?'

Galbraith thought about it. 'He's cracking up,' he said. 'I felt sorry for him.'

'Less of a dead cert then?'

'Or more,' said Galbraith dryly. 'It depends on your viewpoint. She was obviously having an affair, which he knew about. I think he wanted to kill her ... which is probably why he's cracking up.'

Fortunately for Galbraith, Tony Bridges was not only at home but stoned out of his head into the bargain. So much so that he was completely naked when he came to the front door. Galbraith had momentary qualms about putting anyone in his condition through Carpenter's 'wringer,' but they were only momentary. In the end the only thing that matters to a policeman is that witnesses tell the truth.

'I told the stupid sod you'd check up on him,' Bridges said garrulously, leading the way down the corridor into the chaotic sitting room. 'I mean you don't play silly buggers with the filth, not unless you're a complete moron. His problem is he won't take advice-never listens to a word I say. He reckons I sold out and says my opinions don't count for shit anymore.'

'Sold out to what?' asked Galbraith, picking his way toward a vacant chair and remembering that Harding was said to favor nudity on board Crazy Daze. He wondered gloomily if nakedness had suddenly become an essential part of youth culture, and hoped not. He didn't much fancy the idea of police cells full of smackheads with hairless chests and acne on their bottoms.

'The establishment,' said Bridges, sinking cross-legged onto the floor and retrieving a half-smoked spliff from an ashtray in front of him. 'Regular employment. A salary.' He proffered the joint. 'Want some?'

Galbraith shook his head. 'What sort of employment?' He had read all the reports on Harding and his friends, knew everything there was to know about Bridges, but it didn't suit him at the moment to reveal it.

'Teaching,' the young man declared with a shrug. He was too stoned-or appeared to be too stoned, as Galbraith was cynical enough to remind himself-to remember that he had already given the police this information before. 'Okay, the pay's not brilliant, but, hell, the holidays are good. And it's got to be better than flaunting your arse in front of some two-bit photographer. The trouble with Steve is he doesn't like kids much. He's had to work with some right little bastards and it's put him off.' He lapsed into contented silence with his joint.

Galbraith assumed a surprised expression. 'You're a teacher?'

'That's right.' Bridges squinted through the smoke. 'And don't go getting hot under the collar. I'm a recreational cannabis user, and I've no more desire to share my habit with children than my headmaster has to share his whisky.'

The excuse was so simplistic and so well tutored by the cannabis lobby that it brought a smile to the DI's face. There were better arguments for legalization, he always thought, but your average user was either too thick or too high to produce them. 'Okay, okay,' he said, raising his hands in surrender. 'This isn't my patch, so I don't need the lecture.'

'Sure you do. You lot are all the same.'

'I'm more interested in Steve's pornography. I gather you don't approve of it?'

A closed expression tightened the young man's features. 'It's cheap filth. I'm a teacher. I don't like that kind of crap.'

'What kind of crap is it? Describe it to me.'

'What's to describe? He's got a todger the size of the Eiffel Tower, and he likes to display it.' He shrugged. 'But that's his problem, not mine.'

'Are you sure about that?'

Bridges squinted painfully through the smoke from his spliff. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'We've been told you live in his shadow.'

'Who by?'

'Steve's parents.'

'You don't want to believe anything they say,' he said dismissively. 'They stood in judgment on me ten years ago, and have never changed their opinion since. They think I'm a bad influence.'

Galbraith chuckled. 'And are you?'

'Let's put it this way, my parents think Steve's a bad influence. We got into a bit of trouble when we were younger, but it's water under the bridge now.'

'So what do you teach?' Galbraith asked, looking around the room and wondering how anyone could live in such squalor. More interestingly, how could anyone so rank boast a girlfriend? Was Bibi as squalid?

Campbell's description of the setup after his interview with Bridges on Monday had been pithy. 'It's a pit,' he said. 'The bloke's spaced out, the house stinks, he's shacked up with a tramp who looks as if she's slept with half the men in Lymington, and he's a teacher, for Christ's sake.'

'Chemistry.' He sneered at Galbraith's expression, misinterpreting it. 'And, yes, I do know how to synthesize lysergic acid diethylamide. I also know how to blow up Buckingham Palace. It's a useful subject, chemistry. The trouble is'-he broke off to draw pensively on his spliff- 'the people who teach it are so bloody boring they turn the kids off long before they ever get to the interesting bits.'

'But not you?'

'No. I'm good.'

Galbraith could believe it. Rebels, however flawed, were always charismatic to youth. 'Your friend is in the Poole hospital,' he told the young man. 'He was attacked by a dog on the Isle of Purbeck this morning and had to