"I was completely whacked by the time I reached Chapman's Pool."
"Could that be because you travel light?"
"I don't understand."
"You were carrying a mobile telephone, Mr. Harding, but nothing else. In other words you set out on a fifty-mile hike on one of the hottest days of the year with no fluids, no money, no sunscreen protection, no additional clothes if you started to burn, no hat. Are you usually so careless about your health?"
He pulled a wry face. "Look, all right it was stupid. I admit it. That's the reason I turned back after your bloke drove the kids away. If you're interested, the return journey took twice as long as the journey out because I was so damn knackered."
"About four hours then," suggested DI Galbraith.
"More like six. I started after they left, which was twelve thirty near enough, and got to the marina around six fifteen. I drank about a gallon of water, had something to eat, then set off for Lymington maybe half an hour later."
"So the hike out to Chapman's Pool took three hours?" said Galbraith.
"Something like that."
"Which means you must have left the marina shortly after seven thirty to be able to make the emergency call at ten forty-three."
"If you say so."
"I don't say so at all, Steve. Our information is that you were paying for your berth at eight o'clock, which means you couldn't have left the marina until several minutes later."
Harding linked his hands behind his head and stared across the table at the inspector. "Okay, I left at eight," he said. "What's the big deal?"
"The big deal is there's no way you could have hiked sixteen miles along a rough coastal path in two and a half hours"-he paused, holding Harding's gaze-"and that includes the time you must have lost waiting for the ferry."
There was no hesitation in his reply. "I didn't go along the coastal path, or not to start off with anyway," he said. "I hitched a lift with a couple on the ferry who were heading for the country park near Durlston Head. They dropped me off by the gates leading up to the lighthouse, and I got onto the path there."
"What time was that?"
He shifted his gaze to the ceiling. "Ten forty-three minus however long it takes to jog from Durlston Head to Chapman's Pool, I suppose. Look, the first time I remember checking my watch yesterday was just before I made the nine-nine-nine call. Up until then I couldn't have given a toss what time it was." He looked at Galbraith again, and there was irritation in his dark eyes. "I hate being ruled by the bloody clock. It's social terrorism to force people to conform to arbitrary evaluations of how long something should take. That's why I like sailing. Time's irrelevant, and there's bugger all you can do about it."
"What sort of car did the couple drive?" asked Carpenter, unmoved by the young man's flights of philosophical fancy.
"I don't know. A sedan of some sort. I don't notice cars."
"What color?"
"Blue, I think."
"What were the couple like?"
"We didn't talk much. They had a Manic Street Preachers album on tape. We listened to that."
"Can you describe them, Mr. Harding?"
"Not really. They were ordinary. I spent most of the time looking at the backs of their heads. She had blond hair, and he had dark hair." He reached for the whisky bottle and rolled it between his palms, beginning to lose his patience. "Why the hell are you asking me these questions anyway? What the fuck does it matter how long it took me to get from A to B, or who I met along the way? Does everyone who dials nine-nine-nine get the third degree?"
"Just tying loose ends, sir."
"So you said."
"Wouldn't it be truer to say that Chapman's Pool was your destination, and not Lulworth Cove?"
"No."
A silence developed. Carpenter stared fixedly at Harding while he continued to play with the whisky bottle. "Were there any passengers on board your boat on Saturday?" he asked then.
"No."
"Are you sure about that, sir?"
"Of course I'm bloody sure. Don't you think I'd have noticed them?
"Could that be because you travel light?"
"I don't understand."
"You were carrying a mobile telephone, Mr. Harding, but nothing else. In other words you set out on a fifty-mile hike on one of the hottest days of the year with no fluids, no money, no sunscreen protection, no additional clothes if you started to burn, no hat. Are you usually so careless about your health?"
He pulled a wry face. "Look, all right it was stupid. I admit it. That's the reason I turned back after your bloke drove the kids away. If you're interested, the return journey took twice as long as the journey out because I was so damn knackered."
"About four hours then," suggested DI Galbraith.
"More like six. I started after they left, which was twelve thirty near enough, and got to the marina around six fifteen. I drank about a gallon of water, had something to eat, then set off for Lymington maybe half an hour later."
"So the hike out to Chapman's Pool took three hours?" said Galbraith.
"Something like that."
"Which means you must have left the marina shortly after seven thirty to be able to make the emergency call at ten forty-three."
"If you say so."
"I don't say so at all, Steve. Our information is that you were paying for your berth at eight o'clock, which means you couldn't have left the marina until several minutes later."
Harding linked his hands behind his head and stared across the table at the inspector. "Okay, I left at eight," he said. "What's the big deal?"
"The big deal is there's no way you could have hiked sixteen miles along a rough coastal path in two and a half hours"-he paused, holding Harding's gaze-"and that includes the time you must have lost waiting for the ferry."
There was no hesitation in his reply. "I didn't go along the coastal path, or not to start off with anyway," he said. "I hitched a lift with a couple on the ferry who were heading for the country park near Durlston Head. They dropped me off by the gates leading up to the lighthouse, and I got onto the path there."
"What time was that?"
He shifted his gaze to the ceiling. "Ten forty-three minus however long it takes to jog from Durlston Head to Chapman's Pool, I suppose. Look, the first time I remember checking my watch yesterday was just before I made the nine-nine-nine call. Up until then I couldn't have given a toss what time it was." He looked at Galbraith again, and there was irritation in his dark eyes. "I hate being ruled by the bloody clock. It's social terrorism to force people to conform to arbitrary evaluations of how long something should take. That's why I like sailing. Time's irrelevant, and there's bugger all you can do about it."
"What sort of car did the couple drive?" asked Carpenter, unmoved by the young man's flights of philosophical fancy.
"I don't know. A sedan of some sort. I don't notice cars."
"What color?"
"Blue, I think."
"What were the couple like?"
"We didn't talk much. They had a Manic Street Preachers album on tape. We listened to that."
"Can you describe them, Mr. Harding?"
"Not really. They were ordinary. I spent most of the time looking at the backs of their heads. She had blond hair, and he had dark hair." He reached for the whisky bottle and rolled it between his palms, beginning to lose his patience. "Why the hell are you asking me these questions anyway? What the fuck does it matter how long it took me to get from A to B, or who I met along the way? Does everyone who dials nine-nine-nine get the third degree?"
"Just tying loose ends, sir."
"So you said."
"Wouldn't it be truer to say that Chapman's Pool was your destination, and not Lulworth Cove?"
"No."
A silence developed. Carpenter stared fixedly at Harding while he continued to play with the whisky bottle. "Were there any passengers on board your boat on Saturday?" he asked then.
"No."
"Are you sure about that, sir?"
"Of course I'm bloody sure. Don't you think I'd have noticed them?
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