The Breaker (45 page)

"Still ... does Tony walk away scot-free? That's hardly fair, is it? I mean he must have known Steve was guilty."

Nick shrugged. "Claims he didn't, claims he thought it was the husband." He dabbed gently at a spider and watched it scurry away into the shadows. "Galbraith told me he and Carpenter hung Tony up to dry last night for keeping quiet the first time they interviewed him, and Tony's excuse was that Kate was such a bitch he didn't see why he should help the police screw her husband. He reckoned Kate got what she deserved for spouting off about the poor bastard's performance. He has trouble on that front himself, apparently, so his sympathies were with William."

"And this man's a
teacher
?" she said in disgust.

"Not for much longer," Nick reassured her, "unless his fellow inmates have a yen for chemistry. Carpenter's thrown the book at him-perverting the course of justice, supplying drugs, false imprisonment of his girlfriend, rape of said girlfriend under the influence of Rohypnol, incitement to murder ... even"-he chuckled-"criminal damage to Harding's car ... and that's not to mention whatever Customs and Excise chooses to throw at him."

"Serves him right," said Maggie unsympathetically.

"Mmm."

"You don't sound convinced."

"Only because I can't see what prison will do for someone like Tony. He's not a bad guy, just a misguided one. Six months' community service in a home for the disabled would do him more good." He watched the spider sink into a pool of wet emulsion. "On a scale of one to ten, spasmodic impotence doesn't even register compared with severe physical or mental handicap."

Maggie sat up and clasped her arms about her knees. "I thought policemen were supposed to be hard bastards. Are you going soft on me, Ingram?"

He looked down at her with a gleam of amusement in his dark eyes. "Courtship's like that, I'm afraid. The hardness comes and goes whether you like it or not. It's nature."

She lowered her face to her knees, refusing to be diverted. "I don't understand why Steve drowned Kate off Chapman's Pool," she said next. "He knew he was going there the next morning and he must have realized there was a chance she'd wash up on the beach. Why would he want to put his meeting with Marie in jeopardy?"

"I'm not sure you can apply logic to the actions of someone like Harding," he said. "Carpenter's view is that, once he had Kate on board, there would only ever be one place he'd kill her. He says you can tell from the Frenchman's video how hyped up he was by all the excitement." He watched the spider lift his legs from the wet paint and wave them in useless protest. "But I don't think Steve expected her body to be there. He'd broken her fingers and tied her to an outboard, so it must have been a hell of a shock to find she'd managed to free herself. Presumably the intention was to gloat over her grave before absconding with Marie. Carpenter thinks Harding's an embryo serial killer, so in his view Marie's lucky to be alive."

"Do you agree with him?"

"God knows." He mourned the spider's inevitable death as the exhausted creature dipped its abdomen into the paint. "Steve says it was a terrible accident, but I've no idea if he's telling the truth. Carpenter doesn't believe him and neither does DI Galbraith, but I have a real problem accepting that anyone so young can be so evil. Let's just say I'm glad you had Bertie with you yesterday."

"Does Carpenter think he wanted to kill me, too?"

Nick shook his head. "I don't know. He asked Steve what was so important about the rucksack that he'd risked going back for it, and do you know what Steve said? 'My binoculars.' So then Carpenter asked him why he'd left it there at all, and he said: 'Because I'd forgotten the binoculars were in it.' "

"What does that mean?"

Nick gave a low laugh. "That there was nothing in it he wanted, so he decided to dump it. He hadn't had any sleep, he was knackered, and Marie's desert boots kept banging against his back and giving him blisters. All he wanted to do was get rid of it as fast as possible."

"Why is that funny?"

"It's the exact opposite of why I thought he'd left it there."

"No, it's not," she contradicted him. "You told me it would incriminate him because he used it to carry Hannah off his boat."

"But he didn't kill Hannah, Maggie, he killed Kate."

"So?"

"All I did by finding it was help the defense. Harding will argue it proves he never intended to murder anyone."

He sounded depressed, she thought. "Still," she said brightly, "I suppose they'll be offering you a job at headquarters. They must be awfully impressed with you. You homed in on Steve as soon as you saw him."

"And homed straight out again the minute he spun me a plausible yarn." Another low laugh, this time self-deprecating. "The only reason I took against him was because he got up my nose, and the superintendent knows that. I think Carpenter thinks I'm a bit of a joke. He called me a suggestion-junky." He sighed. "I'm not sure I'm cut out for CID work. You can't take a wild guess then invent arguments to support the theory. That's how miscarriages of justice happen."

She cast him a speculative glance. "Is that something else Carpenter said?"

"More or less. He said the days are long past when policemen could play hunches. It's all about putting data into computers now."

She felt angry on his behalf. "Then I'll phone the bastard and give him a piece of my mind," she said indignantly. "If it hadn't been for you, it would have taken them months to make the connection between Kate and Harding-if ever, frankly-and they'd never have found that stranded dinghy or worked out where it was stolen from. He ought to be congratulating you, not finding fault.
I'm
the one who got it all wrong. There's obviously a flaw in my genes that makes me gravitate toward scumbags. Even Ma thought Harding was the most frightful creep. She said: 'Fancy making such a performance over a dog bite. I've had far worse, and all anyone offered me was antiseptic.' "

"She'll have my guts for garters when she finds out I made her wreck her hip for a murderer."

"No, she won't. She says you remind her of James Stewart in
Destry Rides Again
."

"Is that good?"

"Oh, yes," said Maggie with a sardonic edge to her voice. "She goes weak at the knees every time she sees it. James Stewart plays a peace-loving sheriff who brings law and order to a violent city by never raising his voice or drawing his gun. It's fantastically sentimental. He falls in love with Marlene Dietrich, who throws herself in front of a bullet to protect him."

"Mmm. Personally, I've always fancied myself as Bruce Willis in
Die Hard
. The heroic, bloodstained cop with his trusty arsenal who saves the world and the woman he loves by blasting hell out of Alan Rickman and his gang of psychopaths."

She giggled. "Is this another attempt at seduction?"

"No. I'm still courting you."

"I was afraid you might be." She shook her head. "You're too nice, that's your trouble. You're certainly too nice to blast hell out of anyone."

"I know," he said despondently. "I don't have the stomach for it." He climbed down the stepladder and squatted on the floor in front of her, rubbing his tired eyes with the back of his hand. "I was beginning to like Harding. I still do in a funny kind of way. I keep thinking what a waste it all is and what a difference it would have made if someone, somewhere, had warned him that everything has a price." He reached up to put the paintbrush in the tray on the table. "To be fair to Carpenter, he
did
congratulate me. He even said he'd support me if I decided to apply for the CID. According to him, I have potential"-he mimicked the superintendent's growl-"and he should know because he hasn't been a super for five years for nothing." He smiled his crooked smile. "But I'm not convinced that's where my talents lie."

"Oh, for God's sake!" she declared, revealing more of her genes than she knew. "You'd make a brilliant detective. I can't think what you're worried about. Don't be so bloody cautious, Nick. You should seize your chances."

"I do ... when they make sense to me."

"And this one doesn't?"

He smiled and stood up, removing the tray to the sink and running water into it. "I'm not sure I want to move away." He glanced about the transformed room. "I rather like living in a backwater where the odd suggestion makes a difference."

Her eyes fell. "Oh, I see."

He rinsed the emulsion out of the brush in silence, wondering if she did, and if "I see" was going to be her only response. He propped the brush to dry on the draining board and seriously considered whether fighting his way through half a mile of razor wire wouldn't be the more sensible option after all. "Shall I come back tomorrow? It's Sunday. We could make a start on the hall."

"I'll be here," she said.

"Okay." He walked across to the scullery door.

"Nick?"

"Yes?" He turned.

"How long do these courtships of yours usually take?"

An amiable smile creased his eyes. "Before what?"

"Before..." She looked suddenly uncomfortable. "Never mind. It was a silly question. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll try not to be late."

"It doesn't matter if you are," she said through gritted teeth. "You're doing this out of kindness, not because you have to. I haven't asked you to paint the whole house, you know."

"True," he agreed, "but it's a courtship thing. I thought I'd explained all that."

She clambered to her feet with flashing eyes. "Go
away
," she said, pushing him through the door and bolting it behind him. "And for God's sake bring some brandy with you tomorrow," she yelled. "Courtship stinks. I've decided I'd rather be seduced."
 

The television was on and Celia, remote control in hand was chuckling to herself when Maggie tiptoed into the drawing room to see if she was all right. Bertie had abandoned the stifling heat of the bed and was stretched out on his back on the sofa, legs akimbo. "It's late, Ma. You ought to be asleep."

"I know, but this is so funny, darling."

"You said it was wall-to-wall horror movies."

"It is. That's why I'm laughing."

Maggie fixed her mother with a perplexed frown, then seized the remote control and killed the picture. "You were listening," she accused her.

"Well..."

"How
could
you?"

"I needed a pee," said Celia apologetically, "and you weren't exactly whispering."

"The doctor said you weren't to walk around on your own."

"I had no option. I called out a couple of times, but you didn't hear me. In any case"-her eyes brimmed with humor-"you were getting on so well that I decided it would be tactless to interrupt you." She appraised her daughter in silence for a moment, then abruptly patted the bed. "Are you too old to take some advice?"

"It depends what it is," said Maggie, sitting down.

"Any man who invites the woman to make the running is worth having."

"Is that what my father did?"

"No. He swept me off my feet, rushed me to the altar, and then gave me thirty-five years to repent at leisure." Celia smiled ruefully.
"Which is why the advice is good. I fell for your father's overinflated opinion of himself, mistook obstinacy for masterfulness, alcoholism for wit, and laziness for charisma..." She broke off apologetically, realizing that it was her daughter's father she was criticizing. "It wasn't all bad," she said robustly. "Everyone was more stoical in those days-we were taught to put up with things-and look what I got out of it. You ... Matt ... the house..."

Maggie leaned forward to kiss her mother's cheek. "Ava ... Martin ... theft ... debts ... heartache ... a wonky hip..."

"Life," countered Celia. "A still-viable livery stable ... Bertie ... a new kitchen ... a future..."

"Nick Ingram?"

"Well, why not?" said Celia with renewed chuckles. "If I was forty years younger and he showed the remotest interest in me, I certainly wouldn't need a bottle of brandy to get things moving."