Twelve

Before leaving the hotel the next morning, Ryga rang the brewery who, after some delay, said they had no idea where Mrs Shepherd had gone. She hadn't left a forwarding address. Maybe she had considered running away was her only option, she had a son to raise and a secret to keep, that her husband was a deserter and conman. He knew he couldn't simply leave it there. He had to know if she was all right. At the station, in the privacy of his little office, he put a call through to Weymouth police station and asked for Sergeant Daniels.

Ryga smiled despite his concerns about Sonia. He liked Daniels and the way he addressed him, a hangover from Daniels' brief days in the Royal Air Force at the end of the war. He also admired Daniels' breezy cheerfulness and his dedication to his work. Ryga told him that he wanted to trace Sonia Shepherd who had left The Quarryman's Arms with her son.

'Have you news of her husband?' was Daniel's natural assumption.

'No, but if, or when, we get it, we need to know where she is so that we can communicate with her.' It was partly the truth. 'Make enquiries at the railway and bus stations, Daniels – someone must have sold her a ticket and try to establish what train or bus she took, and to where. The brewery says she didn't leave a forwarding address but see if she did at the post offices either on Portland or in Weymouth.'

'Righto, Skipper, where can I contact you?'

Ryga gave him the telephone numbers of the Newhaven police station and the Bridge Hotel. That done, he asked Sergeant Williams where Inspector Holden was. Ryga thought he should report to him what he had discovered over the weekend, but he was greeted with the news that the inspector had gone down with this dreadful flu. Ryga said he was sorry to hear that while silently hoping Holden's germs weren't floating around waiting to lay him low.

He made his way to the Watch House, having decided to check out boat movements before calling in at the town railway station. He also wanted to have a word with the customs officer who Sergeant Keaton had mentioned, Mr Dakins, who had been with Swinley on the platform of the harbour station on Saturday 4 November.

The fog had lifted but what had replaced it wasn't much better. A cold, grey clamminess seemed to hang depressingly over everything and everyone. He found Hailsham in a haze of tobacco smoke in his office. Ryga asked him if any boats had come into the harbour on the late afternoon or night that Swinley had disappeared, Tuesday 7 November and on Thursday 7 December when Myra had gone missing.

'They could have done, but whoever would have been at the helm would need to be a first-rate seaman in that weather on both nights.'

'Or know the harbour well.'

'There is that. I went off duty at six thirty on Thursday so I wouldn't really know, but you could check with customs across the harbour – they'll have been alerted by the lighthouse staff if any vessel came in, that is if it was showing a light.'

And if murder had been the pilot's intention, thought Ryga, the boat wouldn't have been. He made to leave when Hailsham said, 'I can take you over to the Custom House if you like. It will save you walking all the way around.'

Ryga agreed with alacrity. It would feel good to be back on the water, even for a short trip. As he climbed on board he nodded at the Motor Torpedo Boat. 'Any further news on the owner?'

'I'll ask someone at the Yard to check with the Chelsea Yacht and Boat Company. It might have come from there given that there are quite a few moored up there. If she didn't hail from Chelsea someone might recognize her by her number. Twenty-one,' he said, reading the number painted on the side. Then he frowned, puzzled, as something struck him. 'That's strange. As far as I'm aware there wasn't a number twenty-one. She is a sixty-footer, isn't she, Mr Hailsham?'

'Didn't they only go up to number nineteen?'

'They did. She was probably given that number to fool the Germans into thinking we had more of them than we did. It was common practice in the war.' Hailsham started the engine. It throbbed into life and he swung out into the harbour. 'She's also been renamed Constance.'

It seemed a waste to let her lie here unlived in, Ryga thought as they motored away from her.

Hailsham said, 'Maybe her owner will wash up somewhere along the coast at some time. That's the Customs House.' He pointed at a two-storey building facing on to the northernmost berth on East Quay. Ryga could see two tugs and a small rowing boat. The latter he recognized as the one which took a line across to the West Quay to be attached to a strong hawser which helped to pull the ships round so that they faced out to sea. Hailsham pointed down the harbour out to sea where a powerful motor launch was heading towards them.

'And that's the customs launch,' he said, bringing his boat round to the landing stage.

Ryga jumped nimbly off while Hailsham kept the engine running.

'Anytime you need a lift across, Inspector, just ask me or my assistant if I'm not around.'

Ryga said he would. He waited for the customs launch to come alongside and throttle down. Hailing the uniformed officer at the helm, he said, 'Throw me a line, I'll tie off for you.'

That done and the engine silenced, the officer alighted. He was a couple of years older than Ryga – about mid-thirties – a slight man with tired hazel eyes, a wide mouth and a wind-blown countenance.

'Preventive Officer Leslie Dakins. Can I help you?'

'I hope so.' Just the man he wished to speak with. 'Inspector Ryga, Scotland Yard. I'm looking into the death of PC George Swinley.'

'I thought the constable's death was accidental,' Dakins said, clearly bemused.

'New information has come to light. Did any craft unknown to you come into the harbour on the night of the seventh of November when PC Swinley went missing?'

'Not that I remember. Has someone said one did?'

'No. I wondered if it was possible that PC Swinley had witnessed smuggling, or seen or heard something suspicious and had been attacked and pushed into the harbour as a result by someone from a boat.'

'That can't be. We would have known about it,' Dakins confidently asserted.

'The boat could have been a very small one that got past you and the lighthouse staff without being seen.'

'I doubt it,' Dakins answered in a friendly tone, and yet Ryga sensed a slight arrogance about the man. 'You mentioned new information had come to light, Inspector, hence you being here. Can I ask what that is?'

'PC Swinley's wife is missing and we're concerned for her safety.'

'Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. But if it's suicide then surely it can't have any bearing on PC Swinley's death being suspicious?'

'I didn't say it was suicide.'

'No, of course not. I just assumed,' Dakins easily replied with a sheepish grin.

'Do you know if any vessels unknown to you came into the harbour on Thursday night, seventh of December?'

'Is that when she went missing?'

'Well, again the answer is no. It was a quiet night, save for the foghorns. I'm sorry I can't help you, Inspector.'

'It was just an idea. But you might be able to help me on another matter. Sergeant Keaton told me that PC Swinley caught the train to Seaford from the harbour station on Saturday the fourth of November and that you were on the platform at the same time. Did you speak with him?'

Dakins looked bewildered by the question but he answered, 'I did. Only briefly. I was just going off duty and I wasn't feeling too bright. I'd been up since before five a.m. and it had been a busy day rummaging craft just off Seaford and further along the coast for contraband goods: tobacco, alcohol, drugs, and with nothing to show for it. PC Swinley said he was going for a walk on the Downs.'

'According to Sergeant Keaton, he wasn't dressed for walking.'

'Now you mention it, no, he wasn't. He had his best suit on, under his overcoat, and ordinary shoes but I didn't think to question him.'

'No, of course not,' Ryga replied smoothly to Dakins' slightly tetchy remark.

'It wasn't exactly suitable walking weather either, damp and chill, like this,' Dakins added. 'But there's no accounting for taste, and it wasn't my business to pry. Besides which, he was, shall I say, a little standoffish. He obviously didn't want to make polite conversation and neither did I. When the train came in, he bid me good afternoon and made for the first carriage. I got in the last one. When we alighted he was ahead of me. He struck out towards the Downs, along the esplanade. My lodgings are on the seafront, almost at the end of the esplanade. I saw him turn off on to the path that leads up to the Downs. It was raining by then, drizzling.'

'Well, thank you, Mr Dakins, that's most helpful.' Ryga shook the customs officer's hand, noting it was damp and limp. He headed for the railway station where he sought out the stationmaster. Within minutes he had discovered that Swinley hadn't caught the train from there on either the 30 October or the 7 November. So he must have walked or gone from the town station.

As Ryga made for the latter he considered Dakins' remarks about Swinley wearing his best suit. You wear your best suit to see a solicitor, to visit friends or relatives, not to collect a package from a grubby backstreet newsagent and tobacconist. Dakins could be mistaken, though – after all, how did he know which suit was Swinley's best? Then there was the fact that Swinley had struck out towards the Downs, the opposite direction from Collier's. Maybe he just wanted to stretch his legs and get some sea air before collecting the package.

At the town station Ryga explained that he was interested to know if PC Swinley had caught the train to Seaford on Monday 30 October or Tuesday 7 November. Dunton, the stationmaster, couldn't remember seeing him, but he asked Ryga to accompany him to the ticket office where the clerk confirmed, after checking his records, that he hadn't sold a ticket to PC Swinley on those dates, or any others, only a day return to Mrs Swinley last Thursday to London.

'That's right,' Dunton reiterated. 'I took her ticket when she alighted.'

Ryga didn't know if the news that Myra was missing had spread around the town. 'What time was that?'

'Ten past six; the train was five minutes late.'

'Did you speak to her?' Ryga asked.

'Only to say "good evening" but she hardly noticed. In fact, she didn't even reply, she was too deep in conversation with someone.'

'Who was that?' Ryga asked, thinking that Myra might have said something more to this local person about her journey to Scotland Yard, and her concerns over the cause of her husband's death.

'No idea, never seen her before,' was Dunton's surprising answer. 'Very attractive woman, smartly dressed, fur coat, veiled hat and pearls. Not from round these parts. Foreign looking.'

Ryga stared at him in astonishment. This he hadn't expected. My God, the mystery woman with Myra Swinley. It had to be her. The description fitted Collier's perfectly. 'Where was the other woman's ticket from?'

'Same place as Mrs Swinley's, London Victoria.'

'And did she return?'

'Not while I was here. I left just after six thirty. I'll ask the night porter when he comes on duty at six and telephone to the police station to let you know if you think it's important.'

It was, very. Ryga said he'd be obliged if he could do that and made his way back to the police station, considering this new surprising development. Had Myra known the mystery woman? Collier, the newsagent, had said he hadn't known the woman's name and that he had said nothing to Myra Swinley about her. Had he lied? Or had the mystery woman contacted Myra and arranged to meet her in London or on the train? It couldn't have been a chance meeting, surely, on the part of the woman in the fur coat. That would be too fantastic.

He recalled that faint smell of perfume on the coat stand in the hall which he hadn't noticed in Street's office on Myra Swinley and now he knew why. It wasn't because of the smell of the gas fire or Street's pipe tobacco but because Myra hadn't been wearing any. The woman in the fur coat had accompanied Myra home and perhaps hung her coat on the stand or brushed up against it. And the visitor would account for Myra not going upstairs and changing before making the tea. But something more rankled with Ryga. Why hadn't there been two places set for tea? Had the mystery woman refused refreshment? Why had she made contact with Myra? Was it to lure her away and kill her or have her killed? It seemed a possible explanation because shortly afterwards Myra had vanished, just as her husband had done, and Ryga was of no doubt that just as Swinley's body had eventually risen to the surface so too, eventually, would that of his poor wife.