Breaker

'Mostly on his boat.'

Campbell frowned. 'In the cabin?'

'Not often. The cabin stinks,' she said. 'He takes a blanket up on deck, and we do it in the sunshine or under the stars. It's great.'

'Moored up to the buoy?' asked Campbell, with a rather shocked expression. Like Galbraith earlier, he was wondering about the generation gap that seemed to have opened, unobserved, between himself and today's youth. 'In full view of the Isle of Wight ferry?'

'Of course not,' she said indignantly, wriggling her shoulders again. 'He picks me up somewhere and we go for a sail.'

'Where does he pick you up?'

'All sorts of places. Like he says, he'd get strung up if anyone knew he was going with a fifteen-year-old, and he reckons if you don't use the same place too often, no one notices.' She shrugged, recognizing that further explanation was necessary. 'If you use a marina once in two weeks, who's going to remember? Then there's the salt flats. I walk around the path from the Yacht Haven, and he just shoots in with his dinghy and lifts me off. Sometimes I go to Poole by train and meet him there. Mum thinks I'm with Dad; Dad thinks I'm with Mum. It's simple. I just phone him on his mobile, and he tells me where to go.'

'Did you leave a message on his phone this morning?'

She nodded. 'He can't phone me in case Mum gets suspicious.'

'How did you meet him in the first place?'

'At the Lymington yacht club. There was a dance there on St. Valentine's Day, and Dad got tickets for it because he's still a member even though he lives in Poole now. Mum said Fliss and me could go if Dad watched out for us, but he got shit-faced as usual and left us to get on with it. That's when he was going out with his bitch of a secretary. I really hated her. She was always trying to put him against me.'

Campbell was tempted to say it wouldn't have been difficult. 'Did your father introduce you to Steve? Did he know him?'

'No. One of my teachers did. He and Steve have been friends for years.'

'Which teacher?'

'Tony Bridges.' Her full lips curved into a malicious smile. 'He's fancied me for ages, and he was trying to make this pathetic move on me when Steve cut him out. God, he was pissed about it. He's been needling away at me all term, trying to find out what's going on, but Steve told me not to tell him in case he got us into trouble for underage sex. He reckons Tony's so fucking jealous he'd make life hell for us if he could.'

Campbell thought back to his interview with Bridges on Monday night. 'Perhaps he feels responsible for you.'

'That's not the reason,' she said scornfully. 'He's a sad little bastard-that's the reason. None of his girlfriends stay with him because he's stoned most of the time and can't do the business properly. He's been going out with this hairdresser for about four months now, and Steve says he's been feeding her drugs so she won't complain about his lousy performance. If you want my opinion, there's something wrong with him-he's always trying to touch up girls in class-but our stupid headmaster's too thick to do anything about it.'

Campbell exchanged a glance with his colleague. 'How does Steve know he's been feeding her drugs?' he asked.

'He's seen him do it. It's like a Mickey Finn. You dissolve a tablet in lager, and the girl passes out.'

'Do you know what drug he's using?'

Another shrug. 'Some sort of sleeping pill.'

I'm not going to explain anything without a solicitor here,' said Bridges adamantly. 'Look, this was one sick woman. You think that kid of hers is weird? Well, trust me, she's as sane as you and me compared with her mother.'

WPC Griffiths heard the sound of smashing glass from the kitchen and lifted her head in immediate concern. She had left Hannah watching television in the sitting room, and as far as she knew, William was still in his study upstairs, where he had retreated, angry and resentful, after his interview with DI Galbraith. With a perplexed frown, she tiptoed along the corridor and pushed open the sitting-room door to find Sumner standing just inside. He turned an ashen face toward her, then gestured helplessly toward the little girl, who stalked purposefully about the room, picking up pictures of her mother and throwing them with high-pitched guttural cries into the unlit fireplace.

Ingram put a cup of tea in front of Steven Harding and took a chair on the other side of the table. He was puzzled by the man's attitude. He had expected a long interview session, punctuated by denials and counteraccusations. Instead Harding had admitted culpability and agreed with everything Maggie had written in her statement. All that awaited him now was to be formally charged and held over till the next morning. His only real concern had been his telephone. When Ingram had handed it to the custody sergeant and formally entered it into the inventory of Harding's possessions, Harding had looked relieved. But whether because it had been returned or because it was switched off, Ingram couldn't tell.

'How about talking to me off the record?' he invited. 'Just to satisfy my own curiosity. There's no tape. No witnesses to the conversation. Just you and me.'

Harding shrugged. 'What do you want to talk about?'

'You. What's going on. Why you were on the coastal path on Sunday. What brought you back to Chapman's Pool this morning.'

'I already told you. I fancied a walk'-he made a good attempt at a cocky grin-'both times.'

'All right.' He splayed his palms on the edge of the table, preparatory to standing up. 'It's your funeral. Just don't complain afterward that no one tried to help you. You've always been the obvious suspect. You knew the victim, you own a boat, you were on the spot, you told lies about what you were doing there. Have you any idea how all that is going to look to a jury if the Crown Prosecution Service decides to prosecute you for Kate Sumner's rape and murder?'

'They can't. They haven't got any evidence.'

'Oh, for Christ's sake grow up, Steve!' he said in irritation, subsiding onto his chair again. 'Don't you read the