Thirteen

After collecting his murder case from the station, Ryga made for Myra's house. He wanted to see if he could lift any prints from it that might belong to the mystery woman. There would be plenty of Myra's, possibly others from the wake, but knowing Myra to be house-proud he was certain she would have dusted, and thoroughly polished, after the mourners had left. And the mourners would have been entertained in the front parlour. It was possible Myra had shown her visitor in there. He might also find some hairs from the mink coat which would prove she had entered the house. Neither the fingerprints – if they existed – nor any hairs from the coat could lead them to the mystery woman's identity though, not unless her prints were on file.

  As he let himself in he thought the house seemed colder than before, not because a fire hadn't been lit for three days but it was the chill of finality. He knew that Myra Swinley wouldn't return. He lifted prints from the crockery on the table, again considering the fact that only one place was set. Had the mystery woman washed up her plate, cup and saucer and put them away to make it appear as though Myra had been alone? It was a possible explanation, but why then let the ticket collector see them together? She hadn't exactly been secretive about her meeting with Myra. On the contrary, the ticket collector had said they'd been talking.

  He poured the dregs of the dark brown sludge of tea and tea leaves from the tea pot into a small glass jar, sealed it, wrote on the label and put it in his case. Next he lifted some fingerprints from the mantelpiece and another set from the kitchen. He did the same in the bedroom, pausing to look out of the window where he could see the red roof of the Watch House, the Motor Torpedo Boat, Sleeper's Hole and Joseph Moore's hut. He made a mental note to ask Sergeant Jacobs to check out the Motor Torpedo Boat with Chelsea Yacht and Boat Company when he rang him after six o'clock.

  Descending, he took prints from the arms of the chairs at the table and examined them with his magnifying glass. They matched the others in the house, so they had to be Myra's. And there were none in the front parlour save Myra's. He picked up Myra's raincoat from the hall stand and sniffed. The smell of perfume had worn off. There seemed no point in sending it up to the lab but perhaps they could find just a trace of it and some hairs which belonged to the mystery woman, or even to the mink!

  He wrapped the coat in brown paper, a supply of which he carried in the murder case. Then he conducted a search of the downstairs cupboards and the more unlikely places for where George Swinley might have hidden the contents of the packages – the inside of the piano, under the aspidistra, in Myra's knitting bag, under the cushions of all the chairs, he even looked under the mattresses upstairs. Nothing, which didn't really surprise him. Swinley must have disposed of them.

  He locked up and made his way back to the station in the gathering gloom of the afternoon. There he gave instructions to Williams to despatch the items and fingerprints to the Yard. Then, with the hissing gas fire full on, he wrote up his reports of the day. The telephone rang just after six. It was Dunton, the stationmaster, with the news that the mystery woman hadn't caught the train back to Lewes for her onward journey to Victoria that night. Ryga had half expected that.

  He put a call through to Sergeant Jacobs, pleased to find him still at his desk. The sergeant said he had been working on the fur thefts, reviewing all the reports, hoping for a breakthrough. One idea had occurred to him: they had all taken place in premises close to the river. 'It's possible the furs could have been got away by boat. That last robbery at Alaska's Furriers is at Fountain Dock and close by is East Lane Stairs, with West Wharf further up the river. The other robberies weren't far from the river. A fast car down to a landing stage would have got them there in minutes. And the weather on the nights of all the robberies was either fog or heavy rain making visibility poor, so not a lot of movement on the river. Beat officers and the River Police are making enquiries with the wharf men.'

  'Talking of fur coats,' Ryga said, 'I've got a mystery woman wearing one who I would very much like to locate.' And swiftly Ryga updated him, telling him about the newsagent and the packages. Jacobs agreed it could be drugs.

  Ryga continued, 'This woman, and whoever she works for, couldn't risk Myra stirring up trouble.'

  'But hang on sir, they've had plenty of time to silence Mrs Swinley since her husband disappeared and since his body was found, so why wait until now?'

  'Because somehow they've discovered she went to Scotland Yard. Or Collier, the newsagent, knows more than he's saying and tipped off this mystery woman after Mrs Swinley's phone call to him last Wednesday. The mystery woman and Myra were seen together leaving the station. Myra must have told her that she was waiting to hear from us as to whether or not we would investigate her husband's death.'

  'This woman and her confederates should have waited then to dispose of poor Mrs Swinley because the answer was no and Myra would have had no choice but to accept the coroner's verdict.'

  'Yes, but they couldn't take that risk. The fact that the mystery woman didn't use her return ticket indicates that someone met her in a car or a boat. And I think it's the latter. Somehow they got Myra on board, killed her, ditched her body in the sea and also took her husband's boat. They scuttled it to make it appear like suicide. I know there are several blanks, Jacobs, but between us and Miss Paisley let's see if we can fill them in. Instigate enquiries at Victoria Station around the time of Myra's train. I'd like to know if the woman approached Myra on the platform, or if they entered the station together, and if they boarded separately or together. She's very striking looking so would probably have been noticed.' Ryga knew that patient questioning of the porters on duty at the time could yield a result. He gave Jacobs a detailed description.

  Jacobs said, 'I'll also locate the guard on that train. He might be able to give us more information.'

  'Oh, and check with the Chelsea Yacht and Boat Company if they had a Motor Torpedo Boat, number twenty-one renamed Constance, moored there at any time.'

  'Connected with the investigation?'

  'No, it's moored here at Newhaven, but its owner is missing and no one knows who that is. It looks like a possible suicide or accident.'

  'Righty-oh. Shall I update the chief for you?'

  'Please.' Ryga told him about the samples, prints and raincoat he was sending up for the lab to analyse, then rang off.

  He thought of telephoning Eva then decided to hold back a while. He sat deep in thought. A remark made by Dakins, the custom officer, niggled at him. It was that best suit of Swinleys, which might not have been his best anyway, but Swinley had been smartly dressed. Where had he told Myra he was going dressed like that and on three occasions, always given that he wore his best suit the other times he collected the packages? Wouldn't she have suspected something? Maybe she had, which was why she had telephoned the number she had found in her husband's trousers or jacket – his best perhaps. She'd have been surprised, and perhaps relieved, to find it was a newsagent's and not a woman. She might also have been puzzled but pushed it aside to consider more fully after her visit to the Yard. But why would Swinley dress so smartly to visit a rundown newsagent's? Maybe he always liked to look smart. Or perhaps he had donned his best suit on that Saturday only.

  Then there was the fact that Dakins had seen him walk right to the end of the esplanade and turn on to the lane that led over the Downs. The opposite direction to Colliers. Here, then, were some of those blanks he'd mentioned to Jacobs. Ryga knew he would have no peace until he looked into the matter more thoroughly. Tomorrow he would retrace Swinley's footsteps along Seaford esplanade and towards the Downs, and he'd call again on the newsagent.

  That decided he headed back to the hotel, where he ate an indifferent meal, missed Eva's company, worried about Sonia's whereabouts and spent an uncomfortable night in a chilly room with a lumpy mattress and a dog somewhere nearby which seemed intent on barking all night.

  It was a relief to get up and after eating lukewarm scrambled eggs and burnt toast and swallowing three cups of tea he was glad to strike out towards the railway station. He could have used the police car but had decided that taking the train and following in Swinley's footsteps might be more productive, and at the same time he could ask the railway station staff and train guards if they remembered seeing Swinley or the mystery woman. No one had.

  It was just after ten when he stopped off at Collier's before following in Swinley's footsteps along the Seaford esplanade. The scruffy, shuffling newsagent swore on all he held scared that he didn't know the 'young attractive woman's' name who had deposited the packages and therefore couldn't have told it to the woman who phoned him last Wednesday. Neither had he described her. And no one else had contacted him or come calling or deposited or asked about any packages save him.

  Collier said that Swinley had collected the package on Saturday 4 November at about four o'clock, when it was dark. That had given Swinley plenty of time to walk along the esplanade and up on to the Downs. On Monday 30 October, Swinley had again arrived about four p.m., but on the 7 November, Swinley had shown up late morning at about eleven. The times fitted in with his shifts.

  Ryga set off along the esplanade wondering how the woman had first made contact with Swinley to tell him about the packages. Had they met somewhere to make arrangements? Or was it as he and Eva had discussed – she had telephoned Swinley? That brought him back again to how they had known one another.

  Despite the damp cold wind coming off the sea it was a pleasant walk, and he practically had the esplanade to himself save for a couple of people walking their dogs. The white chalk cliffs of Seaford Head were shrouded in mist and he thought back to Saturday 4 November when Swinley had walked this way in the drizzling rain. Perhaps Swinley, like him, enjoyed walking as it helped him to think and often threw up new ideas. Or perhaps he had just been killing time until it was dark enough to collect the package.

  The esplanade gave on to a narrow single tarmacked lane to the left. Ryga followed it, twisting first northwards and then east. Low hedges bordered small fields either side of him. Just as Ryga considered turning back he saw a substantial brick house built in a mock Tudor style on a slight knoll behind the hedge, and a little further on a wide gap in the hedge which led into a driveway.

  He halted and stared up at the large house set in landscaped gardens of bare branched trees and shrubs. To the left was a substantial garage complex in front of which were two cars, a low-slung modern sports number and a Rolls-Royce. A man in grey overalls was wiping down the latter. It was the sort of house in which an expensively dressed fashionable woman in a mink coat would reside and where Swinley would have donned his best suit to visit. Had he come here to meet her face-to-face? But if she lived here then why leave the packages with Collier? All right, so she didn't want to risk anyone seeing her give them to Swinley. Her husband perhaps? This was all supposition, but now that he was here he thought he might as well check it out.