Seventeen

It was very late when Ryga got to bed; in fact, it had hardly been worth going because for the few hours left to him by the time he returned to the hotel he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. Not only was he haunted by the image of Feline Perrier but he was also plagued by the myriad of questions regarding her death and that of the fate of Myra Swinley. As Eva had been, she admitted the next morning over breakfast. They could discuss them all day – as they had last night when heading back to the hotel – and they'd still not get the answers. Those lay in the gathering of information.

Last night Eva had taken photographs of the body fully clothed in situ with the aid of a powerful flashlight and torches, and in the mortuary at the local hospital. Her presence had caused a bit of a stir with the mortician and the police doctor, who both clearly thought the task was no job for a woman, but Ryga had quietly insisted that she stay, while Eva had simply got on with the job. Ryga barely needed to tell her what was required. It was a solemn and distasteful task but necessary. He felt sorrow and anger at such a violent and wasteful end to a young life.

The police doctor officially certified death and confirmed that in his opinion the cause appeared to be the blow to the head, but he couldn't say whether that had been inflicted by the killer or by a fall. Ryga had asked for the body to be undressed and this was again photographed by Eva. Ryga noted how Feline was still wearing all her clothes including her gloves, so the flesh was remarkably untouched by the ravages of nature because not only had she been protected from the elements and the birdlife under that upturned boat – which was where it was obvious her body had been hidden since Thursday night – but she'd also been fully clothed. However, where the flesh had been exposed – the face and neck – there were distasteful signs of decay caused by sea lice and crabs, not to mention the maggots that had hatched in the body. Her small black hat with the veil had been slightly askew on her short dark hair. The fur coat carried a label, Alaska Furriers, London, the one she had been modelling in the photograph Eva had obtained. Eva said that Feline's clothes were exquisitely made, not chain store, and her underwear was silk and of the highest quality. She said she'd probably be able to trace who had made and supplied them but that wouldn't solve the mystery of who had killed her because, despite what the doctor said, that blow to the head hadn't been caused by any fall.

Ryga had called Superintendent Street at his home. Street said he would request the autopsy to be conducted by a forensic Home Office Pathologist who would hopefully arrive that day. He asked if Ryga wanted Jacobs down there to assist but Ryga said the sergeant would be more useful in London obtaining information about Feline Perrier and her brother, who was also missing, because the Chelsea Yacht and Boat Company had confirmed the Motor Torpedo Boat moored in Newhaven Harbour was Phillipe Perrier's and that it had left Chelsea on 11 November. Ryga said he would use Sergeant Williams and his officers to assist. He also mentioned the role Eva had already played and said she would continue to help with the investigation. Street seemed perfectly happy with that. The clothes had been wrapped up in paper and were that morning being despatched to the Yard laboratory for examination.

The air was bitingly cold as he and Eva stepped outside and made for Sleeper's Hole. The dawn had arrived late and dismally grey. At least Ryga assumed it was grey – he couldn't see it. He could barely see the other side of the harbour, the fog was so thick. Eva said she was wearing two sweaters under her faithful old donkey jacket and she wore a pair of fingerless mittens. Ryga was sorely tempted to buy a jumper from the local menswear outfitters but didn't.

It was two hours after high water. Joseph Moore, now recovered from the trauma of falling over the body, was drawing on his pipe, sitting on the remaining upturned boat. He greeted them solemnly, said he couldn't believe what had happened and that he hadn't slept a wink all night for thinking of the poor woman. He looked on incredulously as Eva set about photographing where Feline had lain and the surrounding area.

'Not much point doing that now the body's gone,' he volunteered. 'Fair gave me a turn seeing it there. My foot struck against it. Thought it was a bit of old wood washed up, and blow me if it wasn't a woman. Who is she?'

'What time did you go out last night?' Ryga asked.

'About seven o'clock.'

'Yes. Had a beer and came back just before ten.'

That beer had lasted him a while. 'Did you hear or see anything unusual?'

Ryga looked pointedly at him.

'No, nothing out of the ordinary,' he said. 'A coaster came in and another made its way down from North Quay.

'When did you notice this boat had been turned up the right way?'

'Not until I walked into the poor dead woman. I think it was upturned all of yesterday, but I can't swear to it.' Ryga wondered if Hailsham would remember.

Moore pushed back his cap. 'How long has she been under there?'

'Since last Thursday night, we believe.'

'Good Gawd, a week, and there's me walking round the poor creature! Who could have put her there?'

'Who owns that boat?' asked Ryga.

'No idea. It's been here for years.'

He could see that, by its sorry state. Ryga was amazed it hadn't fallen to pieces when the killer had lifted it and dragged Feline under it, and then when he had again lifted it up and moved it slightly to the right and exposed her body. One man could easily have done it alone. But while Feline was being killed, where was Myra? At home still? Or had she too been knocked out, put in her husband's small boat, and after the killer had hidden Feline, been taken out into the harbour?

Ryga opened his murder case, drawing a wide-eyed look from Moore and a gurgle of his pipe. Ryga tried to get some prints from the ends and the sides of the boat, where the killer would have lifted it, but there were only smudges. Either the mud and rain had obliterated any prints or the killer had worn gloves. He took samples of the mud around the boat and where Feline had lain, another activity that caused Moore to shake his head in wonder. Eva took more pictures.

To Moore, Ryga said, 'We'll need your fingerprints for elimination purposes.'

'I haven't touched the boat.'

'Want to take them now?'

'No, call in at the station as soon as you can.'

Eva nodded to say she had all she needed. She addressed Moore. 'Could I take some photographs of you and your home later?' She jerked her head in the direction of the corrugated-iron edifice, adding, 'I don't work for the police. At least not all the time. I'm usually just a nosy photographer.'

'I can't see why you'd want to photograph it, or me. It's nothing to look at and neither am I.'

She smiled. 'Ah, but you are, Mr Moore, and I'd love to see inside your home. Both you and it fascinate me.'

Moore's mouth fell open before he visibly preened himself. 'Then call in and have a cup of tea, miss, whenever you like.'

'So that's how you do it,' Ryga said, as they walked to the landing stage where the Motor Torpedo Boat the Constance was berthed. 'Charm and flattery.'

'Works most of the time, but not always. And those who don't like being photographed are often the people I would like to – the interesting ones, with hidden depths,' she said, glancing at him. He remembered he had told her he was averse to being snapped after she had done so without his knowledge while he'd been on the isolated Church Ope Cove on Portland Island trying to fathom out why a man in a pinstriped suit had ended up dead in it.

They'd arrived at the boat. Ryga was looking forward to seeing if the interior was as exquisitely kept as the exterior.

Eva said, 'I see what you mean about her being lovingly restored. Phillipe's disappearance and Feline's deaths must be connected, Ryga. What on earth were they up to, and how and why involve George Swinley?'

'Let's hope something inside can tell us that, or at least give us some ideas.' Ryga did, however, think that Sergeant Jacobs' enquiries at the Yard into both Feline and Phillipe's backgrounds, and the search of Feline's apartment, would provide a better chance of that.

He would need the boat keys, which he said he'd get from Hailsham, but as he was about to make for the Watch House, Hailsham emerged from it and came hurrying towards them. 'I've just been told the news about the body. It's not Myra Swinley, is it?' he asked, alarmed.

'No. It's a woman who was seen alighting from the train with her last Thursday.'

'This is a terrible turn of events. Who is she? Why would anyone want to kill her?' Hailsham removed his cap and ran a hand over his head. Replacing his cap, he reached for a cigarette from his jacket pocket and offered the packet round, eyeing Eva curiously. Ryga introduced her but made no explanation of her role. They both refused the cigarettes.

Ryga said, 'This boat belongs to the dead woman's brother, Phillipe Perrier.'

Hailsham's jaw dropped. 'Then what has––'

'I need to see on board.'

'Of course. I'll fetch the key.'

While he did, Ryga climbed on board with Eva. The exterior of the boat had been stripped of all the weaponry. There was a metal plaque above the hatch telling them she had been built in Portsmouth, probably, Ryga thought, by Vosper Thorneycroft based there.

Hailsham returned and handed over the key which was on a piece of stout string tied to a float.

'I'd like to retain it for a while,' Ryga said. 'Did you or your staff see or hear anything unusual yesterday evening?'

'No. I left here just after eight o'clock. My assistant had already gone home. I had some paperwork to attend to, otherwise I would have gone sooner. Nothing came in this side of the harbour after three p.m. and that was only a small fishing boat. A couple of coasters went up after that to North Quay.'

So no one about, no Joseph Moore or harbour staff to see him unveil a corpse from the upturned boat. But why do so? A question he, Eva and Sergeant Williams had already considered without any answer, save the killer had a prick of conscience. Sergeant Williams had said that maybe the killer wanted to be caught. Ryga had replied that he wished then the culprit would turn himself in, it would save them all time. Maybe he was too afraid to confess, proffered Eva. Or the killer could be taunting them in the belief that he was clever enough not to be apprehended. Why not let Feline rot there for a very long time, until the trail had grown completely cold?

'Did you notice whether that wooden boat was upright or still upturned yesterday?'

Hailsham puffed at this cigarette, his face screwed up as he tried to remember. After a moment, he shook his head. 'Sorry, Inspector, I can't say. Those two boats have been in the Hole for so long that I've stopped noticing them.'

'Do you know who owns it?'

No. It's just one of those fixtures. Like the other one. I don't know who owns that either.'

Ryga thought he'd get much the same answer from the officers at the police station.

He said, 'As you've been on board this boat, Mr Hailsham, I'll need your fingerprints, just so we can eliminate them from our enquiries.'

Ryga would also have to ask Dakins for his. 'If you could call into the station at your convenience, sir.'

Hailsham took the hint that he was no longer required. 'You know where to find me if needed,' he said, alighting, sounding slightly put out.

Eva took some photographs on deck while Ryga entered the Bridge, which was now a galley with gleaming polished wooden units, a sink and small gas hob. There was cutlery in the drawers, clean crockery in the cupboards and also some basic food provisions. The main operations room was now the salon with a rug and two small armchairs, along with a table and two chairs. It was cosy. In the cupboards, which Phillipe or someone else had built around the side of the salon, he found charts of the English Channel, the Solent, the North Sea and France. He could see nothing marked up on them.

Eva joined him and began to photograph the interior. 'I love this boat. It's got a lived-in, much-loved feeling. Found anything interesting?'

The wood panelled captain's cabin contained a double bed, made up, and a locker that held some clothes. The porthole window gave out on to the harbour. The wireless room – still bearing its name in a brass plaque on the solid wood door – was the lavatory and washroom. Towards the prow, there were still the bunks where the crew used to sleep.

Ryga returned to the salon.

'What do you see, Ryga?' Eva asked, just as she had before on their case in Portland in a shabby little jewellers shop.

'A neat man, ordered, meticulous, clever with his hands, someone who likes his own company.' He sniffed. 'I can't smell any perfume but it could have evaporated by now if Feline had been on board. Although I don't think she got this far.'

'She could have been struck after leaving the boat. This could have been the bait that lured her across the Hole from Fort Road. Someone told her that her brother's boat was here and, excited, she hurried here hoping to see him. The porthole is open. Was it open when it was brought in? The killer could have opened to erase the scent of Feline's perfume.'

Ryga said he would ask Dakins, the customs officer. 'It doesn't strike me that this is his main residence. There's not enough clothes, food or personal items here for that.'

'Perhaps he liked to live with the barest essentials. Or perhaps he hasn't any belongings. Many people lost everything in the war and, given what happened to his father, it wouldn't be surprising if Phillipe liked to live with just the minimum required.'

Ryga knew that Eva was right. He kept his possessions to the minimum.

'I wonder if he worked, and if so what he did for a living. His money must have come from somewhere,' Eva mused.

'His sister perhaps? Or perhaps some criminal activity, which is what he had decided to expose via his sister and those packages. Whoever is behind it killed both brother and sister. Yes, I know, why did she give the evidence to PC Swinley? The obvious answer is that Swinley and Perrier must have known one another.'

'They were in different branches of the services. Swinley was with the Royal Artillery, Anti-Aircraft Division while Perrier was Coastal Command. Myra said her husband was moved around to different places – Dundee, Belfast, the Midlands, London. Perhaps they came into contact but why, if Perrier wanted to expose a criminal activity, did he involve his sister? Why not come straight to us at the Yard with what he knew? Let's take a look at the engine room.'

It was, like the rest of the boat, spotless. Returning to the salon, Eva said, 'Could Feline have seen her brother's boat moored up here on the way from the railway station to Myra's house?'

'Not from the road, no. She would have seen it from Myra's bedroom window though, but by then it was dark and foggy. I'll see if I can lift some fingerprints and conduct a search. After that I'll ask Hailsham to take me across to the Customs House to speak to Dakins, if he's on duty.'

'I'll get these photographs, and the ones I took last night of Feline, developed and suffer the cold of Miss Green's dark room, as I know you must be keen to have them.'

Ryga began his painstaking work. He took prints from various surfaces across the entire boat including the engine room, while at the same time combing the surfaces and the floors for hairs, fibres and in particular for fur or feathers the latter of which could have come from Feline's coat and hat. He found some fibres on the deck of the salon that looked like fur, carefully placed them in a small paper bag and put them in his case. Even if they had come from Feline's coat, though, it didn't mean she had been on the boat on Thursday evening. They could have been there for some time, before she had gone abroad to work. There were some varying prints which Ryga knew must be Dakins, Hailsham, and the coastguard who had brought the boat in. Once they were ruled out the remaining ones would probably be Perrier's.

He went up on deck. Perrier could have deliberately set his boat adrift on 12 November then returned to shore in a tender he had kept on board, his purpose to make his confederates believe he was dead. He had gone into hiding, fearing for his life, waiting until his sister returned to England. He then had told her to find out if Myra had the packages his sister had left at the newsagent's. Someone had discovered this, or extracted the information from Perrier after tracking him down, and had lured Feline here to kill her. And if so, then Perrier by now was probably also dead. Perhaps Feline, after hearing from her brother, had inadvertently told the very person her brother was trying to expose.

Ryga stared around the deck. The bow was long enough to accommodate a tender and it would have had oars and an engine, like George Swinley's missing boat. There was no covering of any kind lying around. There were two double cleats close to the bow, one on the portside, the other on the starboard side. Both had lines curled around them with two of the starboard lines tied off on the cleats on the landing stage. There were also two double cleats at the stern, with a line again fastened to the landing stage on the starboard side.

He crossed to the bow where the anchor rested on deck and faced south looking down the harbour, out to sea. He could see nothing, and the cold cut through him. The rattling, grinding and throbbing of the harbour at Railway and East Quays sounded a ghostly accompaniment to the foghorns.

There was a steel pole directly in front of him about two feet high. Aside from that the deck was open, broad and long, with two eighteen-inch redundant torpedo tubes either side of the bridge. On the lines connected to the torpedo tubes there were two white buoys on the deck on the port side, and two further buoys attached to lines on the starboard side which were protecting the hull from the wooden landing stage. But Ryga noted two extra lines fixed to the torpedo tubes with nothing attached to the end of them. They were curled up neatly on the deck. There was also a line wrapped around the pole that stood between him and the bridge.

With a quickening pulse, he surmised that their purpose had been to secure a tender. And on close examination of the wet deck – which necessitated him dropping to his knees and causing damp patches on his trousers – he detected that the paint was a slightly lighter shade of grey in a large area of the deck confirming his suspicions.

Ryga returned to the salon. There were two places he hadn't searched – under the cushions of the two seats. Nothing. Hold on, though. His hand reached deep down inside the left-hand seat and struck against something. It was only part of the chair's construction but he hadn't felt it on the first chair. He tried the first chair again, no nothing there. Returning to the second chair, he knelt and pushed his hand deep down inside it. Yes, definitely something there, not that he felt it was of significance – it wasn't paper or wood but a thin rod of some kind. He reached down further, so that his chin was almost resting on the seat of the chair. Any further and his hand would connect with the deck, he thought. Then his fingers curled round it, and with some considerable manipulation, effort and time, he finally managed to bring it to the surface. Astonished and bemused, he found himself holding a size-nine steel knitting needle. It was the last thing he had expected. Carefully, with gloved fingers, he placed it in an evidence bag.