The Breaker (35 page)

Galbraith shook his head, remembering his own soaking off the Isle of Purbeck and the difficulties involved in winching boats up and down slips. "It sounds like bloody hard work to me. What does he make on a shipment like this?"

"Anything between five hundred and a thousand quid a trip."

"What do you make out of it?"

"I take payment in kind. Cigarettes, lager, whatever."

"For a drop?"

Bridges nodded.

"What about rent on this garage?"

"Use of
Crazy Daze
whenever I want it. It's a straight swap."

Galbraith eyed him thoughtfully. "Does he let you sail it or just borrow it to shag your girlfriends?"

Bridges grinned. "He doesn't let
anyone
sail it. It's his pride and joy. He'd kill anyone who left a mark on it."

"Mmm." Galbraith lifted a white wine bottle out of another box. "So when was the last time you used it for a shag?"

"A couple of weeks ago."

"Who with?"

"Bibi."

"Just Bibi? Or do you shag other girls behind her back?"

"Jesus, you don't give up, do you? Just Bibi, and if you tell her any different I'll make a formal complaint."

Galbraith tucked the bottle back into its box with a smile and moved on to another one. "How does it work? Do you call Steve in London and tell him you want the boat for the weekend? Or does he offer it to you when he doesn't want it?"

"I get to use it during the week. He gets to use it at weekends. It's a good deal, suits everyone."

"So it's like your house? Anyone and everyone can pile in for a quick shag whenever the mood takes them?" He flicked the young man a look of disgust. "It sounds pretty sordid to me. Do you all use the same sheets?"

"Sure." Bridges grinned. "Different times, different customs, mate. It's all about enjoying life these days, not being tied to conventional views of how to conduct yourself."

Galbraith seemed suddenly bored with the subject. "How often does Steve go to France?"

"It probably works out at an average of once every two months. It's no big deal, just booze and cigarettes. If he clears five thousand quid in a year he reckons he's done well. But it's peanuts, for Christ's sake. That's why I told him he should come clean. The worst that can happen is a few months in jail. It would be different if he was doing drugs but"-he shook his head vigorously-"he wouldn't touch them with a bargepole."

"We found cannabis in one of his lockers."

"Oh, come on," said Bridges with a sigh. "So he smokes the odd joint. That doesn't make him a Colombian drug baron. On that basis, anyone who enjoys a drink is smuggling alcohol by the lorry load. Look, trust me, he doesn't bring in anything more dangerous than red wine."

Galbraith moved a couple of boxes. "What about dogs?" he asked, lifting a plastic kennel out from behind them and holding it up for Bridges to look at.

The young man shrugged. "A few times maybe. Where's the harm? He always makes sure they've got their anti-rabies certificates." He watched a frown gather on Galbraith's forehead. "It's a stupid law," he repeated like a mantra. "Six months of quarantine costs the owner a fortune, the dogs are miserable while it's happening, and not a single one has ever been diagnosed with rabies in all the time this country's been enforcing the rabies regulations."

"Cut the crap, Tony," said the DI impatiently. "Personally, I think it's a crazy law that allows a smackhead like you within a hundred miles of impressionable children, but I'm not going to break your legs to keep you away from them. How much does he charge?"

"Five hundred, and I'm no fucking smackhead," he said with genuine irritation. "Smack's for idiots. You should bone up on your drug terminology."

Galbraith ignored him. "Five hundred, eh? That's a nice little earner. What does he make per person? Five
thousand
?"

There was a distinct hesitation. "What are you talking about?"

"Twenty-five different sets of fingerprints inside
Crazy Daze
, not counting Steve's or Kate and Hannah Sumner's. You've just accounted for two-yours and Bibi's-that still leaves twenty-three unaccounted for. That's a lot of fingerprints, Tony."

Bridges shrugged. "You said it yourself, he runs a sordid establishment."

"Mmm," murmured Galbraith, "I did say that, didn't I?" His gaze shifted toward the trailer again. "Nice rib. Is it new?"

Bridges followed his gaze. "Not particularly, I've had it nine months."

Galbraith walked over to look at the two Evinrude outboards at the stern. "It looks new," he remarked, running a finger along the rubber. "Immaculate, in fact. When did you last clean it?"

"Monday."

"And you hosed the garage floor for good measure, did you?"

"It got wet in the process."

Galbraith slapped the inflated sides of the rib. "When did you last take it out?"

"I don't know. A week ago maybe."

"So why did it need cleaning on Monday?"

"It didn't," said Bridges, his expression growing wary again. "I just like to look after it."

"Then let's hope Customs and Excise don't rip it apart looking for drugs, my son," said the policeman with poorly feigned sympathy, "because they're not going to buy your story about red wine being Steve's most dangerous import any more than I do." He jerked his head toward the back of the garage. "That's just a blind in case you're sussed for anything more serious. Like illegal immigration. Those boxes have been in there for months. The dust's so thick I can write my name in it."
 

Ingram stopped at Broxton House on his way home to check on Celia Jenner and was greeted enthusiastically by Bertie, who bounded out of the front door, tail wagging. "How's your mother?" he asked Maggie as he met her in the hall.

"Much better. Brandy and painkillers have put her on cloud nine, and she's talking about getting up." She headed for the kitchen. "We're starving, so I'm making some sandwiches. Do you want some?"

He followed with Bertie in tow, wondering how to tell her politely that he'd rather go home and make his own, but kept his counsel when he saw the state of the kitchen. It was hardly up to hospital standards, but the smell of cleaning rising from the floor, countertops, table, and stove was a huge advance on the ancient, indescribable aroma of dirty dog and damp horse blankets that had shocked his scent and taste buds earlier. "I wouldn't say no," he said. "I haven't had anything to eat since last night."

"What do you think?" she asked, setting to with a loaf of sliced bread, cheese, and tomatoes.

He didn't pretend he didn't know what she was talking about. "All in all, a vast improvement. I prefer the floor this color." He touched the toe of one large boot to a quarry tile. "I hadn't realized it was orange or that my feet weren't supposed to stick to it every time I moved."

She gave a low laugh. "It was damned hard work. I don't think it's had a mop on it for four years, not since Ma told Mrs. Cottrill she couldn't afford her anymore." She glanced critically around the room. "But you're right. A coat of paint would make a hell of a difference. I thought I'd buy some this afternoon and slap it on over the weekend. It won't take long."

He should have brought the brandy up a long time ago, he realized, marveling at her optimism. He would have done if he'd known she and her mother had been on the wagon for four years. Alcohol, for all its sins, wasn't called a restorative for nothing. He cast an interested eye toward the ceiling, which was festooned with cobwebs. "It'll slap right off again unless you shift that little lot as well. Do you have a stepladder?"

"I don't know."

"I've got one at home," he said. "I'll bring it up this evening when I've finished for the day. In return will you put off your paint-buying trip long enough to give me a statement about Harding's assault on you this morning? I'll be questioning him at five o'clock, and I want your version of the story before I do."

She looked anxiously toward Bertie, who, at Ingram's fingered command, had taken up station beside the Aga. "I don't know. I've been thinking about what you said and now I'm worried he's going to accuse Bertie of being out of control and attacking
him
, in which case I'll be faced with a prosecution under the Dangerous Dogs Act and Bertie will be put down. Don't you think it would be better to let it drop?"

Nick pulled out a chair and sat on it, watching her. "He'll probably try to bring a counterprosecution, anyway, Maggie. It's his best defense against anything you might say." He paused. "But if you let him get in first, then you'll be handing him the advantage. Is that what you want?"

"No, of course it isn't, but Bertie
was
out of control. He sank his teeth into the stupid idiot's arm, and I couldn't get him off for love or money." Angrily, she turned a ferocious glare on her dog, then stabbed her knife into a tomato and splattered seeds all over the chopping board. "I had to thrash him in the end to make him release his hold, and I won't be able to deny it if Steve takes me to court."

"Who attacked first, Bertie or Steve?"

"Me, probably. I was screaming abuse at Steve, so he lashed out at me, then the next thing I knew Bertie was hanging off his arm like a great hairy leech." Unexpectedly, she laughed. "Actually, in retrospect, it's quite funny. I thought they were dancing until red saliva came out of Bertie's mouth. I just couldn't understand what Harding thought he was playing at. First he appears out of nowhere, then he runs at Stinger, then he slaps me and starts dancing with my dog. I felt as if I was in a madhouse."

"Why do you think he slapped you?"

She smiled uncomfortably. "Presumably because I made him angry. I called him a pervert."

"That's no excuse for slapping you. Verbal abuse does not constitute an assault, Maggie."

"Then maybe it should."

"The man hit you," he remarked curiously. "Why are you making excuses for him?"

"Because, thinking back, I was incredibly rude. I certainly called him a creep and a bastard, and I said you'd crucify him if you knew he was there. It's your fault, really. I wouldn't have been so frightened if you hadn't come and questioned me about him yesterday. You planted the idea that he was dangerous."

"Mea culpa,"
he said mildly.

"You know what I mean."

He acknowledged the point gravely. "What else did you say?"

"Nothing. I just screamed at him like a fishwife because he gave me such a shock. The trouble is, he was shocked, too, so we both sort of lashed out without thinking ... he in his way ... me in mine."

"There's no excuse for physical violence."

"Isn't there?" she asked dryly. "You excused mine earlier."

"True," he admitted, rubbing his cheek reminiscently. "But if I'd retaliated, Maggie, you'd still be unconscious."

"Meaning what? That men are expected to show more responsibility than women?" She glanced at him with a half-smile. "I don't know whether to accuse you of being patronizing or ignorant."

"Ignorant every time," he said. "I know nothing about women except that very few of them could land me a knock-out blow." His eyes smiled at her. "But I know damn well that I could flatten any of them. Which is why-unlike Steve Harding-I wouldn't dream of raising my hand against one."

"Yes, but you're so wise and so middle-aged, Nick," she said crossly, "and he isn't. In any case, I don't even remember the way it happened. It was all over so quickly. I expect that sounds pathetic, but I've realized I'm not much good as a witness."

"It just makes you normal," he said. "Very few people have accurate recall."

"Well, the truth is I think he wanted to try and catch Stinger before he bolted and only hit out when I called him a pervert." Her shoulders sagged despondently as if the brandy-courage in her blood had suddenly evaporated. "I'm sorry to disappoint you. I used to see everything so straightforwardly before I got taken to the cleaners by Martin, but now I can't make up my mind about anything. I'd have insisted on a prosecution like a shot this morning, but now I realize I'd
die
if anything happened to Bertie. I love the stupid animal to distraction, and I absolutely refuse to sacrifice him on a point of principle. He's worth a slap from a toe-rag any day. Goddammit, he's
faithful
. All right, he visits you from time to time, but he always comes home to love me at night."

"Okay."

There was a short silence.

"Is that all you're going to say?"

"Yes."

She eyed him with suspicion. "You're a policeman. Why aren't you arguing with me?"

"Because you're intelligent enough to make your own decisions, and nothing I can say will change your mind."

"That's absolutely right." She slapped some butter on a piece of sliced bread and waited for him to say something else. When he didn't, she grew nervous. "Are you still going to question Steve?" she demanded.

"Of course. That's my job. Helicopter rescues don't come cheap, and someone has to account for why this morning's was necessary. Harding was admitted to hospital with dog bites, so I have a responsibility to establish whether the attack on him was provoked or unprovoked. One of you was assaulted this morning, and I have to try and find out which. If you're lucky, he'll be feeling as guilty as you are and there'll be a stalemate. If you're unlucky, I'll be back this evening requesting a statement from you in answer to his assertion that you had no control over your dog."