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  As requested by the nine-nine-nine operator, Steven Harding shepherded the boys down the hill to the police car, which was parked beside the boat sheds, where they waited with varying degrees of patience until its occupant returned. The brothers, who had sunk into an exhausted silence after their mad dash around Chapman's Pool, wanted to be gone, but they were intimidated by their companion, a twenty-four-year-old actor, who took his responsibilities in loco parentis seriously.

  He kept a watchful eye on his uncommunicative charges (too shocked to speak, he thought) while trying to cheer them up with a running commentary of what he could see of the rescue. He peppered his conversation with expressions like: "You're a couple of heroes..." "Your mum's going to be really proud of you..." "She's a lucky lady to have two such sensible sons..." But it wasn't until the helicopter flew toward Poole and he turned to them with a smile of encouragement, saying: "There you are, you can stop worrying now. Mum's in safe hands," that they realized his mistake. It hadn't occurred to either of them that what appeared to be general remarks about their own mother applied specifically to "the lady on the beach."

  "She's not our mum," said Paul, dully.

  "Our mum's going to be really angry," supplied Danny in his piping treble, emboldened by his brother's willingness to abandon the prolonged silence. "She said if we were late for lunch she'd make us eat bread and water for a week." (He was an inventive child.) "She's going to be even angrier when I tell her it's because Paul wanted to look at a nudie."

  "Shut up," said his brother.

  "And he made me climb the cliff so he could get a better look. Dad's going to kill him for ruining the binoculars."

  "Shut up."

  "Yeah, well, it's all your fault. You shouldn't have dropped them. Penis-brain!" Danny added snidely, in the safe knowledge that their companion would protect him.

  Harding watched tears of humiliation gather in the older boy's eyes. It didn't take much reading of the references to "nudie," "better look," "binoculars," and "penis-brain" to come up with a close approximation of the facts. "I hope she was worth it," he said matter-of-factly. "The first naked woman I ever saw was so old and ugly, it was three years before I wanted to look at another one. She lived in the house next to us, and she was as fat and wrinkled as an elephant."

  "What was the next one like?" asked Danny with the sequential logic of a ten-year-old.

  Harding exchanged a glance with the elder brother. "She had nice tits," he told Paul with a wink.

  "So did this one," said Danny obligingly.

  "Except she was dead," said his brother.

  "She probably wasn't, you know. It's not always easy to tell when someone's dead."

  "She was," said Paul despondently. "Me and Danny went down to get the binoculars back." He unraveled his bundled T-shirt to reveal the badly scratched casing of a pair of Zeiss binoculars. "I-well, I checked to make sure. I think she drowned and got left there by the tide." He fell into an unhappy silence again.

  "He was going to give her mouth-to-mouth," said Danny, "but her eyes were nasty, so he didn't."

  Harding cast another glance in the older brother's direction, this time sympathetic. "The police will need to identify her," he said matter-of-factly, "so they'll probably ask you to describe her." He ruffled Danny's hair. "It might be better not to mention nasty eyes or nice tits when you do it."

  Danny pulled away. "I won't."

  The man nodded. "Good boy." He took the binoculars from Paul and examined the lenses carefully before pointing them at the Beneteau in Chapman's Pool. "Did you recognize her?" he asked.

  "No," said Paul uncomfortably.

  "Was she an old lady?"

  "No."

  "Pretty?"

  Paul wriggled his shoulders. "I guess so."

  "Not fat then?"

  "No. She was very little, and she had blond hair."

  Harding brought the yacht into sharp focus. "They're built like tanks, these things," he murmured, traversing the sights across the bay. "Okay, the bodywork's a bit scratched, but there's nothing wrong with the lenses. Your dad won't be that angry."

  Maggie Jenner would never have become involved if Bertie had responded to her whistle, but like all dogs he was deaf when he wanted to be. She had dismounted when the noise of the helicopter alarmed the horse, and natural curiosity had led her to walk him on down the hill while the rescue was under way. The three of them rounded the boat sheds together, and Bertie, overexcited by all the confusion, made a beeline for Paul Spender's crotch, shoving his nose against the boy's shorts and breathing in with hearty enthusiasm.

  Maggie whistled, and was ignored. "Bertie!" she called. "Come here, boy'."

  The dog was a huge, fearsome-looking brute, the result of a night on the tiles by an Irish wolfhound bitch, and saliva drooled in great white gobbets from his jaws. With a flick of his hairy head, he splattered spittle across Paul's shorts and the terrified child froze in alarm.

  "Bertie!"

  "It's all right," said Harding, grabbing the dog by the collar and pulling him off, "he's only being friendly." He rubbed the dog's head. "Aren't you, boy?"

  Unconvinced, the brothers retreated rapidly to the other side of the police car.

  "They've had a tough morning," explained Harding, clicking his tongue encouragingly and walking Bertie back to his mistress. "Will he stay put if I let him go?"

  "Not in this mood," she said, pulling a lead from her back trouser pocket and clipping one end into the collar before attaching the other end to the nearest stirrup. "My brother's two boys adore him, and he doesn't understand that the rest of the world doesn't view him in quite the same way." She smiled. "You must have dogs yourself, either that or you're very brave. Most people run a mile."

  "I grew up on a farm," he said, stroking Sir Jasper's nose and studying her with frank admiration.

  She was a good ten years older than he was, tall and slim with shoulder-length dark hair and deep brown eyes that narrowed suspiciously under his assessing gaze. She knew exactly what type she was dealing with when he looked pointedly at her left hand for the wedding ring that wasn't there. "Well, thanks for your help," she said rather brusquely. "I can manage on my own now."

  He stood back immediately. "Good luck then," he said. "It was nice meeting you."

  She was all too aware that her distrust of men had now reached pathological proportions, and wondered guiltily if she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion. "I hope your boys weren't too frightened," she said rather more warmly.

  He gave an easy laugh. "They're not mine," he told her. "I'm just looking after them till the police get back. They found a dead woman on the beach, so they're pretty shook up, poor kids. You'd be doing them a favor if you persuaded them Bertie's just an overgrown hearth rug. I'm not convinced that adding canophobia to necrophobia all in one morning is good psychology."

  She looked undecidedly toward the police car. The boys did look frightened, she thought, and she didn't particularly want the responsibility of inspiring a lifelong fear of dogs in them.

  "Why don't we invite them over," he suggested, sensing her hesitation, "and let them pat him while he's under control? It'll only take a minute or two."

  "All right," she agreed halfheartedly, "if you think it would help." But it was against her better judgment. She had the feeling that once again she was being drawn into something she wouldn't be able to control.

  It was after midday by the time PC Ingram returned to his car to find Maggie Jenner, Steven Harding, and the Spender brothers waiting beside it. Sir Jasper and Bertie stood at a distance, secure in the shade of a tree, and the aesthete in Nick Ingram could only admire the way the woman displayed herself. Sometimes he thought she had no idea how attractive she was; other times, like now, when she placed herself side by side with natural, equine, and human beauty, demanding comparison, he suspected the pose was deliberate. He mopped his forehead with a large white handkerchief, wondering irritably who the Chippendale was and how both he and Maggie manage
d to look so cool in the intolerable heat of that Sunday morning. They were looking at him and laughing, and he assumed, in the eternal way of human nature, they were laughing at him.

  "Good morning, Miss Jenner," he said with exaggerated politeness.

  She gave a small nod in return. "Nick."

  He turned inquiringly to Harding. "Can I help you, sir?"

  "I don't think so," said the young man with an engaging smile. "I think we're supposed to be helping you."

  Ingram was Dorsetshire born and bred and had no time for wankers in dinky shorts, sporting artificial tans. "In what way?" There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice that made Maggie Jenner frown at him.

  "I was asked to bring these boys to the police car when I made the emergency call. They're the ones who found the dead woman." He clapped his hands across their shoulders. "They're a couple of heroes. Maggie and I have just been telling them they deserve medals."

  The "Maggie" wasn't lost on Ingram, although he questioned her enthusiasm for being on Christian-name terms with such an obvious poser. She had better taste, he thought. Ponderously, he shifted his attention to Paul and Danny Spender. The message he had received couldn't have been clearer. Two boys had reported seeing their mother fall from a cliff while using a pair of binoculars. He knew as soon as he saw the body-not enough bruises-that it couldn't have fallen, and looking at the boys now-too relaxed-he doubted the rest of the information. "Did you know the woman?" he asked them.

  They shook their heads.

  He unlocked his car door and retrieved a notebook and pencil from the passenger seat. "What makes you think she was dead, sir?" he asked Harding.

  "The boys told me."

  "Is that right?" He examined the young man curiously, then deliberately licked the point of his pencil because he knew it would annoy Maggie. "May I have your name and address, please, plus the name of your employer if you have one?"

  "Steven Harding. I'm an actor." He gave an address in London. "I live there during the week, but if you have trouble getting hold of me you can always go through my agent, Graham Barlow of the Barlow Agency." He gave another London address. "Graham keeps my diary," he said.

  Bully for Graham, thought Ingram sourly, struggling to suppress rampant prejudices against pretty boys ... Chippendales ... Londoners ... actors ... Harding's address was Highbury, and Ingram would put money on the little poser claiming to be an Arsenal fan, not because he'd ever been to a match but because he'd read Fever Pitch, or seen the movie. "And what brings an actor to our neck of the woods, Mr. Harding?"

  Harding explained that he was in Poole for a weekend break and had planned to walk to Lulworth Cove and back that day. He patted the mobile telephone that was attached via a clip to his waistband, and said it was a good thing he had, otherwise the boys would have had to hoof it to Worth Matravers for help.

  "You travel light," said Ingram, glancing at the phone. "Aren't you worried about dehydrating? It's a long walk to Lulworth."

  The young man shrugged. "I've changed my mind. I'm going back after this. I hadn't realized how far it was."

  Ingram asked the boys for their names and addresses together with a brief description of what had happened. They told him they'd seen the woman on the beach when they rounded Egmont Point at ten o'clock. "And then what?" he asked. "You checked to see if she was dead and went for help?"

  They nodded.

  "You didn't hurry yourselves, did you?"

  "They ran like the clappers," said Harding, leaping to their defense. "I saw them."

  "As I recall, sir, your emergency call was timed at ten forty-three, and it doesn't take nearly three-quarters of an hour for two healthy lads to run around Chapman's Pool." He stared Harding down. "And while we're on the subject of misleading information, perhaps you'd care to explain why I received a message saying two boys had seen their mother fall from a cliff top after using a pair of binoculars?"

  Maggie made a move as if she was about to say something in support of the boys, but Ingram's intimidating glance in her direction changed her mind.

  "Okay, well, it was a misunderstanding," said Harding, flicking his thick dark hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head. "These two guys"-he put a friendly arm across Paul's shoulders-"came charging up the hill shouting and yelling about a woman on the beach beyond the Point and some binoculars falling, and I rather stupidly put two and two together and made five. The truth is, we were all a bit het-up. They were worried about the binoculars, and I thought they were talking about their mother." He took the Zeisses from Paul's hands and gave them to Ingram. "These belong to their father. The boys dropped them by accident when they saw the woman. They're very concerned about how their dad's going to react when he sees the damage, but Maggie and I have persuaded them he won't be angry, not when he hears what a good job they've done."

  "Do you know the boys' father, sir?" asked Ingram, examining the binoculars.

  "No, of course not. I've only just met them."

  "Then you've only their word that these belong to him?"

  "Well, yes, I suppose so." Harding looked uncertainly at Paul and saw the return of panic in the boy's eyes. "Oh, come on," he said abruptly. "Where else could they have got them?"

  "Off the beach. You said you saw the woman when you rounded Egmont Point," he reminded Paul and Danny.

  They nodded in petrified unison.

  "Then why do these binoculars look as if they've fallen down a cliff? Did you find them beside the woman and decide to take them?"

  The boys, growing red in the face with anxiety about their Peeping Tom act, looked guilty. Neither answered.

  "Look, lighten up," said Harding unwarily. "It was a bit of fun, that's all. The woman was nude, so they climbed up for a better look. They didn't realize she was dead until they dropped the binoculars and went down to get them."

  "You saw all this, did you, sir?"

  "No," he admitted. "I've already told you I was coming from St. Alban's Head."

  Ingram turned to his right to look at the distant promontory topped by its tiny Norman chapel, dedicated to St. Alban. "You get a very good view of Egmont Bight from up there," he said idly, "particularly on a fine day like this."

  "Only through binoculars," said Harding.

  Ingram smiled as he looked the young man up and down. "True," he agreed. "So where did you and the boys run into each other?"

  Harding gestured toward the coastal path. "They started shouting at me when they were halfway up Emmetts Hill, so I went down to meet them."

  "You seem to know the area well."

  "I do."

  "How come, when you live in London?"

  "I spend a lot of time here. London can be pretty hellish in the summer."

  Ingram glanced up the steep hillside. "This is called West Hill," he remarked. "Emmetts Hill is the next one along."

  Harding gave an amiable shrug. "Okay, so I don't know it that well, but normally I come in by boat," he said, "and there's no mention of West Hill on the Admiralty charts. This whole escarpment is referred to as Emmetts Hill. The boys and I ran into each other approximately there." He pointed toward a spot on the green hillside above them.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ingram noticed Paul Spender's frown of disagreement, but he didn't remark on it.

  "Where's your boat now, Mr. Harding?"

  "Poole. I sailed her in late last night, but as the wind's almost nonexistent and I fancied some exercise"-he favored Nick Ingram with a boyish smile-"I took to my legs."

  "What's the name of your boat, Mr. Harding?"

  "Crazy Daze. It's a play on words. Daze is spelled D-A-Z-E, not D-A-Y-S."

  The tall policeman's smile was anything but boyish. "Where's she normally berthed?"

  "Lymington."

  "Did you come from Lymington yesterday?"

  "Yes."

  "Alone?"

  There was a tiny hesitation. "Yes."

  Ingram held his gaze for a moment. "Are you sailing back tonight?"

&nb
sp; "That's the plan, although I'll probably have to motor if the wind doesn't improve."

  The constable nodded in apparent satisfaction. "Well, thank you very much, Mr. Harding. I don't think I need detain you any longer. I'll get these boys home and check on the binoculars."

  Harding felt Paul and Danny sidle in behind him for protection. "You will point out what a good job they've done, won't you?" he urged. "I mean, but for these two, that poor little woman could have floated out on the next tide, and you'd never have known she was there. They deserve a medal, not aggro from their father."

  "You're very well informed, sir."

  "Trust me. I know this coast. There's a continuous south-southeasterly stream running toward St. Alban's Head, and if she'd been sucked into that, the chances of her resurfacing would have been nil. It's got one hell of a back eddy on it. My guess is she'd have been pounded to pieces on the bottom."

  Ingram smiled. "I meant you were well informed about the woman, Mr. Harding. Anyone would think you'd seen her yourself."

  *3*

  Why were you so bard on him?" asked Maggie critically as the policeman shut the boys into the back of his Range Rover and stood with eyes narrowed against the sun watching Harding walk away up the hill. Ingram was so tall and so solidly built that he cast her literally and figuratively into the shade, and he would get under her skin less, she often thought, if just once in a while he recognized that fact. She only felt comfortable in his presence when she was looking down on him from the back of a horse, but those occasions were too rare for her self-esteem to benefit from them. When he didn't answer her, she glanced impatiently toward the brothers on the backseat. "You were pretty rough on the children, too. I bet they'll think twice before helping the police again."

  Harding disappeared from sight around a bend, and Ingram turned to her with a lazy smile. "How was I hard on him, Miss Jenner?"

  "Oh, come on! You all but accused him of lying."

  "He was lying."

  "What about?"

  "I'm not sure yet. I'll know when I've made a few inquiries."