Eleven

He drew a blank. It being Sunday and fewer trains, there was only one man to ask who, in the small station, acted as ticket collector, porter and guard, and he hadn't been on duty on the days in question. Ryga thought he might have more luck if he returned on a weekday. Tomorrow he'd call at both the town and harbour stations at Newhaven to try and ascertain if Swinley had caught the Seaford train from either of them on the other two occasions. After all, he must have got to Seaford to collect his packages somehow. There was the possibility he could have walked there and back though. It was about three miles in each direction. Eva didn't make any progress either, except she said she was pleased with some of the pictures she'd taken around the streets of Seaford.

  Ryga drove back to Newhaven in the thick, grey, enveloping fog that made him feel as though he would drive forever without coming out of it. Traffic signs were no use, as the moment they appeared they disappeared. He knew the way but fog on land could be as equally disorientating as at sea, and he was aware that he could easily drive off the road, or into a brick wall or over a cliff. It took all his concentration, and Eva seemed content to pass the journey in silence.

  The air had grown colder still when, just after eleven, he parked the car at the police station with a sense of relief. It was eerily silent, even more so than the night, he thought, with the exception of the rhythmic regular boom from the lighthouses and a foghorn out to sea, both of which only served to make it more ghostly. The smell of the mud of low tide was like thick boiled molasses and wet socks. It seemed to waft towards them in the mist.

  Eva turned to him. 'I'm going to return to London. I'll develop the pictures I've taken today in my own dark room. I can't impose on Miss Green on a Sunday, and besides I prefer to use my own equipment, which is better. My dark room is also much warmer than hers. Tomorrow I'll make some enquiries with my contacts in the fashion industry about the mystery woman's hats. I'll keep my room on here. I'll be back as soon as I can. Meanwhile, if you find out anything more call me at my flat.'

  'I'll drive you to Lewes.'

  'Not in this weather – it will take forever. It'll be easier and quicker for me to get the train from here and change at Lewes. I'll get something to eat on the train – hopefully there'll be a refreshment car or a Pullman. There's nothing I need from my room – I've got plenty of toiletries and clothes in my flat. I'll get going now.'

  'Then I'll drive you to the Town Station.'

  Eva made the eleven thirty. After consulting the guard, Ryga established that she'd be able to get the eleven forty-seven from Lewes to Victoria and be in London by one thirty. He made some inquiries at the booking office to see if George Swinley had travelled to Seaford on 30 October or the 7 November but was told to come back Monday when the man-in-charge could look it up in the records. The ticket collector couldn't say if Swinley had travelled from there on those occasions as he had been on the late shift.

  Ryga headed back to the hotel for Sunday lunch where Ivy served him. She seemed far more amenable than she had at Saturday morning breakfast. Word had circulated on who he was and why he was there. She asked about Miss Paisley and Ryga said she'd had to return to London but she'd be back within a day or two.

  'You'll be here that long then, sir?'

  'Maybe.'

  She gave him two extra roast potatoes to make up for the lack of meat, she said, it still being on ration.

  'Did you know PC Swinley?' asked Ryga.

  'He used to look in sometimes. Always cheerful and polite. You can't think someone has murdered him!' she said, dropping her voice to a whisper so the other diners wouldn't hear.

  'I don't know, Ivy, that's what I'm trying to find out. Do you know Mrs Swinley?'

  'Only to say "hello" to if I pass her in the High Street.'

  Ryga ate his meal, chewing over the revelation about the packages and the mystery woman, but nothing new occurred to him. It was mid-afternoon when he entered the police station, lit his gas fire and warmed his hands and back against it. When Sergeant Williams brought him a cup of tea, Ryga relayed what he and Miss Paisley had discovered from the newsagent, which drew a startled then worried look from the sergeant. Williams confirmed that Swinley's visits to Seaford could have nothing to do with any current police investigation of theirs. Ryga made no mention of the theory of drugs, which he and Eva had discussed, but he told Williams that Eva had returned to London to see if she could get any information about the mystery woman from her fashion friends.

  Ryga then asked about Swinley's shifts for Monday 30 October and Saturday 4 November when he had called at the newsagent's. He knew Swinley's shift on 7 November. On Monday 30 October, Williams said Swinley had been on the morning shift from six a.m. to two p.m. So he could have caught the train to Seaford, say after three p.m., given that he would have returned home to change out of his uniform before doing so. His rest day had been Saturday 4 November when he had caught the two fifteen to Seaford. He'd started his two p.m. to ten p.m. shift on Sunday 5 November, and had been working it on Tuesday 7 November when he had picked up his final package, which he must have done in the morning. Ryga realized he had omitted to ask Collier, the newsagent, that. So what had happened to the contents of the packages? If drugs had been inside them Swinley couldn't have taken all of them in the last package before being killed. Not unless he had taken them with the intention of ending his life. Could he have left a suicide note in his notebook on the side of the harbour somewhere and then, overcome with the drugs, fell or threw himself into the water? Ryga hadn't seen any packages as described by Collier in Myra's house.

  He wrote up his interview with Collier. At least they had a new lead to follow up, and tomorrow he would call through to Jacobs and Street at the Yard and update them. He switched off the gas fire, donned his hat and coat, and carried his cup and saucer out to the front desk where he said goodnight to Sergeant Williams, who said he was also leaving shortly after handing over to the six p.m. shift sergeant.

  The fog closed in around Ryga as he made for the hotel, making him feel claustrophobic. Yellowing car lamps loomed out of the dark, startling him, the fog muffling the sound of their engines. The icy drops of water dripped off his hat and settled on his shoulders. It was difficult to see a yard ahead. It was bad enough here but it must be awful in London, he thought, where the fog would once again have turned to a thick, nauseating, choking sulphuric stink, clawing at your throat and stinging your eyes. He didn't envy Eva being back there. By now she was safely ensconced in her apartment, buried in her dark room, busy at work. He wondered what her apartment was like. Modern, he thought, not ostentatious, practical, possibly even untidy. But then she might have someone who came in to 'do' for her.

  A ship's hooter sounded so loud that Ryga started and thought he must have walked right down to the quay without realizing it. He hadn't though, because here was the entrance to the hotel. But the sound had triggered a thought. Could Swinley's killer have slipped into the harbour on a boat during the late afternoon of 7 November under cover of darkness and fog, waited for the constable, killed him, and then slipped out again on a rising tide much later that night or in the early hour of the morning? Could that same person have repeated the process on Thursday 7 December, luring Myra to one of the landing stages and killed her?

  It was a theory that he warmed to as he stepped into the welcoming heat of the hotel bar and reception. It was deserted. A fire burned in the grate. Ryga removed his hat, shook the damp from it and crossed to it to warm himself. His thoughts took him to another burning coal fire in a pub in Portland, and he was filed with an impulse to talk to Sonia.

  He made for the hotel's telephone cubicle, which was thankfully vacant. Taking some coins from his pocket, he put them in the slot and pressed button A as the telephone was answered. He felt a quickening heartbeat at the thought of hearing Sonia's voice. But it was a man who answered. She must have help, he thought, although it was Sunday and usually the quietest day of the week for the pub.

  'I'd like to speak to Mrs Shepherd. It's Mr Ryga.'

  'She's not here,' came the reply, surprising Ryga for a moment, but then why shouldn't she have an evening off?

  'Do you know when she'll be back?'

  'She won't be.'

  'I'm sorry?' Ryga asked, bewildered.

  'She's no longer the landlady.'

  Ryga's heart lurched. My God, had Sam Shepherd returned to Portland and persuaded her to leave with him? No, the brewery must have dispensed with her services. Knowing of her husband's desertion, and his record of helping himself to the profits, which Sonia had replaced, they'd sacked her and forced her and her son from their home. His body stiffened with fury. 'Has she been moved to another pub?' he asked, hoping that was the situation.

  'No. She handed in her notice and left on the thirtieth of November.'

  This Ryga hadn't expected. Why should she do that? Why not tell him? But then why should she? There was nothing between them. She didn't know he would be in contact; in fact, he hadn't given her any indication that he wanted to see her again, for which he cursed his sluggishness and stupidity.

  'Do you know where she's gone? You must have a forwarding address.' He heard the desperation in his voice.

  'No idea. You could try the brewery.'

  Ryga would but he'd get no answer until tomorrow, Monday.

  He should have anticipated this. She could have taken flight because she was terrified that her husband would come to her. He tried to tell himself that his concern was professional but his churning stomach was saying different. Maybe she had met a man, and she had happily gone off with him. The ache inside him told him he didn't much like that thought either. Why did he feel it should be his role to banish those dark circles from under her eyes? He had to know where she was and make sure she was all right. And if the brewery didn't know then someone at the railway stations in Portland and Weymouth might know the train she had caught and to where. Now he had two missing women to find, and one was someone he knew he cared about deeply.