Eighteen

Ryga had postponed his visit to the Customs House and had called in at Myra's house where he had made straight for the knitting bag. He'd found several knitting needles, including a pair of nines, but no single ones. Along with the grey skein of wool and the navy-blue balls of wool he'd seen on his earlier visit, he'd found a few more balls of assorted colours in the depths of the bag, but there wasn't any knitting in progress and no knitting patterns. Perhaps Myra had recently finished a knitting project and hadn't the heart to embark on a new one with her husband gone. There was no longer that need or desire to knit jumpers, gloves or hats for him.

'The other questions I asked myself, Sergeant, were what was it doing on board a boat owned by Phillipe Perrier? How did it get there, how long has it been there, and does it have any significance to this case?'

'It must have, especially as the other one's gone missing, and that's because the other one is the murder weapon.'

'And where did the killer get the knitting needles from?' posed Ryga. He had already speculated on this, but he was interested to see if the sergeant would come to the same conclusion. He did.

'Myra Swinley's house. He took a pair of them, stabbed Feline Perrier with one of them, mislaid the second one and took off because he didn't have time to look for it. Could be the brother.'

'Then where has he been since the twelfth of November? And why not leave by his boat after killing his sister?'

Ryga had checked in with Hailsham on his way back to the police station from Myra's and Hailsham had confirmed there hadn't been a tender on board the Constance when it had been brought in. And Ryga kept coming back to the same point – why abandon such a lovingly restored and maintained boat?

'Perhaps the knitting needle has been there for some time,' Ryga said, 'and has no significance at all. It could belong to a friend of Phillipe Perrier's from Chelsea boatyard. It could be his sister's. I saw the body, Williams, and there was no puncture wound in the chest.'

'Might be so small you didn't notice it, sir. Or maybe she was stabbed elsewhere on the body, in the back, for example.'

'Not that I could see there either but then I didn't examine it closely.'

'There you are then. It could have been the head, of course.'

'There was that blow to the head, so it's possible that disguised a stab wound, but it would take some force to stab someone with this through the head!'

'And a cold-blooded villain at that,' Williams agreed sadly.

'Does Mrs Williams knit?'

'Of course, she's always got something on the go,' Williams answered, slightly puzzled by the question.

'Does she always knit from a pattern?'

'Mostly. I see her marking it and tutting at it sometimes, although scarves she can knit blindfolded she's done that many, and balaclavas. She knits for the church's fundraising committee. But I can't see how a knitting needle belonging to any of them could have ended up on Perrier's boat.'

'Neither can I. Nevertheless, send it up to the Yard as soon as you can, Sergeant, along with these other samples.'

'Will do. Oh, and a message came for you earlier, sir, to say the pathologist was driving down from London. He should be at the mortuary by three o'clock.'

That gave Ryga an hour. He'd like to speak to the pathologist before he began the autopsy. 'Is the car available for me to use, Sergeant?'

'Yes, Inspector Holden is still poorly. His wife said he tried to come into work this morning, especially when he heard a body had been found, but he was too weak. He sends his apologies. I expect he's annoyed at not being here to be involved.'

'Better he stays where he is and gets fit instead of spreading his germs around.'

'That's what I said. Is there anything more you need, sir?'

Ryga said there wasn't. He had already given Sergeant Williams orders for his officers on the beat to instigate routine enquiries. An appeal in the local newspaper had gone out, which also might encourage someone to come forward, but Ryga was positive he'd get the same answers as he had from Moore and Hailsham – that it had been too cold for many to be abroad last night and to have witnessed anything.

Sergeant Williams returned within a minute and placed a package wrapped in greaseproof paper on Ryga's desk. 'The wife made them for you,' he said shyly. 'Cheese and homemade chutney sandwiches. She's won prizes for her chutney,' he added proudly.

'Thank you, that's extremely kind of her,' Ryga said gratefully. He was, he realized, hungry, not having eaten since breakfast, and that had only been two pieces of toast. He hoped Eva had managed to get something to eat. He could tell by Williams' expression that he wouldn't be happy, or budge, until he had tried one.

'I'm not surprised she's a prize winner. The chutney, and the sandwiches, are delicious,' Ryga announced after biting into the wedge of bread. And he meant it.

'I'll tell her that,' Williams said, pleased and proud.

The sergeant brought him in cup of tea. Sometime later, Ryga, checking his watch after finishing off his reports, saw it was threetwenty and time he made for the mortuary.

He found Dr Plumley, a broad, squat man with a balding head, hair in his ears and nose, and a frown on his podgy fifty-year-old face, already gowned and gloved, inspecting the body of Feline Perrier. Ryga thought there was something a little obscene about his critical and obsessive gaze but quickly checked his revulsion and irritation. This was the doctor's job. And wherever Feline was now she wouldn't worry.

The body hadn't been washed. With unaccustomed crispness, caused partly by his anger at Feline's fate and Plumley's manner, Ryga updated the doctor on the finding of the knitting needle. He asked if it could have been the murder weapon. This caused Plumley's bushy grey eyebrows to rise in his broad high forehead. Sarcastically he replied, 'I have no idea, Inspector Ryga. I will, of course, look for puncture marks and other indications of the cause of death. It is my job so to do.'

It was as though Ryga had questioned his ability. 'Thank you,' he answered politely, thinking it pointless being frosty with a man who, he surmised, wouldn't notice the difference between politeness and sarcasm anyway. 'Can you give me an estimate of time of death?'

'From what I've seen of the evidence of maggots, which I'd say were in their first stage of development, she's been dead about five days.'

'The last time she was seen alive was a week ago.'

'Then you have the advantage of me. Anything else you've omitted to tell me?'

Plumley appeared to be a prickly soul but Ryga didn't mind that, just as long as he was proficient at his job.

'She was discovered in Sleeper's Hole close to the harbour, a mud inlet off the harbour,' he explained. 'It's probable that she was placed there after being killed, rather than being washed up. If there is any evidence of this I'd be interested to know it.'

'That might be difficult to tell, Inspector, certainly initially. I'll take samples of skin and internal organs, which will be analysed, but you won't get those results for some days. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get on. I want to be back in London tonight.'

Ryga asked to be notified at the police station when he had finished, which he estimated would be at approximately seven p.m. Ryga hoped Plumley wouldn't rush on account of his haste to return to London and therefore miss anything vital.

Next he drove across the swing bridge to the Customs House and found Leslie Dakins with another man who he introduced as his boss, Chief Preventive Officer Harold Leemings. Leemings was a tall, thin man with potato-coloured skin, a discontented expression and a hint of hostility in his grey eyes. Ryga quickly ascertained from Leemings that last night only he and Dakins had been in the Customs House.

Requesting a private word with them both, Leemings showed Ryga into a small staff room where a gurgling tea urn was creating a damp, steamy atmosphere. Taking the offered seat but refusing refreshment, Ryga told them about the death of Feline Perrier and where and how her body had been found, drawing startled and concerned looks from both men. Neither claimed to have seen or heard anything unusual last night, although Dakins said that he had been out on the customs launch for two hours on receiving notification that a cruiser was making for Cuckmere Haven.

'It turned out they had got lost in the fog, the sailor's nightmare – it slowed them down and took them off course. I said they were lucky to get back at all, and safely. Some idiots go out no matter what the weather. I helped escort them back to Seaford, arrived here just after nine, then signed off.'

'I'd just left when the call came through at seven,' Leemings said a little sourly. 'Otherwise I would have stopped Dakins from going out because of the weather.'

Dakins threw Ryga a slightly apologetic smile. Ryga could guess what he was thinking. Fog made the perfect cover for smugglers, and members of the Waterguard had to go out no matter what the weather.

'I alerted the coastguard who accompanied me,' Dakins said with a slightly weary tone as though he'd said this already, several times.

Leemings' lips tightened and his body stiffened.

Ryga quickly interjected. He asked if they had seen an abandoned tender anywhere along the coast. 'Not George Swinley's small wooden boat,' he added. 'I think this one might have been launched from the Motor Torpedo Boat Constance.'

They hadn't. Ryga requested they look out for it. 'We also need your prints, Mr Dakins,' he continued. 'The dead woman's brother owns that boat. We're trying to trace him to give him the news, but he could have taken off in that tender and . . . well, you don't need me to spell it out to you.'

'You'd better take my fingerprints as well,' Leemings chipped in, frowning more heavily than previously and looking out of sorts. Perhaps he was ill, thought Ryga. 'I went on board while she was moored up here, before Dakins took her over to the landing stage by the Watch House.'

Dakins looked stunned. 'You didn't say.'

'I don't have to report to you, Dakins,' came the sharp rely.

Dakins' lips tightened but he said nothing. Ryga could see there was no love lost between the two men.

'Can I ask why you went on board, sir?' Ryga asked as smoothly and pleasantly as he could. By the gleam in Dakins' eyes Ryga could see it was the question Dakins would have liked to have asked his boss.

'It's part of my duty,' came the stern and surly reply, along with a glare at Dakins as though daring him to comment. Dakins had more sense.

Ryga opened his murder case. 'Then I'll take both your prints.' He did so. No one spoke during the process. Ryga could hear a phone ringing somewhere and men's voices but couldn't make out what they were saying.

'Was the salon porthole open when either of you went on board?' Leemings frowned. 'I can't remember.'

'I think it was,' Dakins said. 'But I can't swear to it. I didn't really look.'

He asked who had piloted the Constance back to the harbour. Perhaps he had noticed.

'The coastguard, Godfrey Lawes,' Dakins replied.

Ryga said he would contact him. As he made to leave, he said, 'Was there anything that struck either of you as unusual on the Constance?'

Dakins answered first. 'Only that it was remarkably tidy and clean and well maintained. I thought it must belong to an ex-serviceman, Royal Navy most probably, someone who might have served on such a craft during the war.'

Leemings threw Dakins a look that Ryga thought was distaste or was it disgust?

'And you, sir?' Ryga addressed Leemings.

'The logbook was missing,' was his sole comment.

Dakins had also told him that. He showed Ryga out. Quietly he said, 'You'll have to forgive Mr Leemings, Inspector. He's not in the best of health. He's a bit forgetful but he doesn't like anyone to point that out. I think he's afraid of losing his job.'

'Does he live in Newhaven?'

'Yes. Not far from Myra and George Swinley's house in Fort Road. I shouldn't say this, but his wife left him just after the war. It was a terrible blow to him. They lost their only son in the war. He was in the navy. Leemings took his wife's desertion badly. He had a breakdown. He's only been back on duty for eight months.'

More fractured lives, thought Ryga, making for the British Transport Commission Police office where he repeated his questions to Inspector Keaton who, like Leemings and Dakins, claimed not to have seen or heard anything suspicious the previous night. Keaton had knocked off at seven thirty and had never been on board the Constance, so there was no need for Ryga to take his prints.

He hadn't been back at the police station long when Eva arrived with a bulky envelope, but before she could speak the telephone rang. It was Sergeant Jacobs at the Yard.

'There were only two photographs in Feline's apartment, one of her and her brother as children and one of them with their parents, Lucy and Maurice Perrier, taken before the war.'

Jacobs said, 'There were no letters or diaries. Her apartment is well kept, looks expensively furnished and is in a respectable area. The neighbours say she'd lived there for about eighteen months but wasn't always at home on account of her modelling work. Feline was friendly, polite, kept herself to herself, was no trouble and always beautifully dressed. I'd say her wardrobe bears that out, fashionable and expensive clothes, shoes and hats and three furs, a fox fur stole, a short mink and a full-length sable. I've become something of an expert,' Jacobs added, tongue-in-cheek.

'Any of them stolen?'

'Not by the labels. None of them come from any of the furriers who have been robbed.'

'Only the one she was wearing when her body was found. It was a swagger mink, the same one Collier the newsagent said she had on when she dropped off the packages and when she alighted from the train with Myra. It was from Alaska's.'

'They don't sell them direct but go through a retailer.'

'She might have modelled one there. Can you check that out, Jacobs? Perhaps they gave her one.'

'That would be mighty generous of them if they did!'

Eva studied him curiously as she sipped the tea Sergeant Williams had brought her.

Jacobs continued, 'She was either very well paid or had a generous boyfriend. Not that the neighbours have seen her with a man but she rented the apartment, as do all the occupants, and the building is owned by . . . you might wish to guess.'

'Ashmore,' Ryga said triumphantly.

'Bang on target. Ashmore Property Developments.'

'Might not be the same Charles Ashmore who lives at Seaford.'

'It is. Major Ashmore designates the collecting of rent, and the management of the building, to an agent. I've spoken to the agent, who confirmed that Miss Perrier paid her rent as opposed to having it paid for her or being given the apartment rent free.'

'It doesn't mean that Ashmore personally knows all his tenants.'

'But he'd know the names.'

'Yes, and he denied recognizing Feline's. There was a decidedly frosty look between husband and wife. He looked angry that his wife had admitted recognizing her.'

Ryga wondered if Broxham, the chauffeur, would admit to knowing or recognizing Feline. Perhaps he had seen her with his boss in London. And perhaps Feline had been to Ashmore's house on the days when she had dropped off the packages at Colliers – Friday twenty-seventh of October, Friday third of November and Monday sixth of November. If she had been there, Ryga felt confident that Mrs Doulton would tell him even if the others lied. He asked Jacobs to check with the garage if Feline had used her car on those days, recalling that Eva had ascertained from the garage that she had used it on Saturday 4 November. He then told Jacobs about the possibility of Phillipe's boat having had a tender on board. 'Check that out with the Chelsea Yacht and Boat Company. Did you find any knitting in Feline's flat?'

'No. Should I have done?'

Ryga told him about finding the knitting needle buried deep down in one of the chairs on board Perrier's boat. Eva was listening with an intent expression. Jacobs was of the opinion that it could have been stuck down in the chair for years and could have belonged to a previous owner. That was possible because the chairs could have been bought second hand.

When he came off the line, Ryga swiftly updated Eva, after which she spread her photographs out on the desk. The ones of Feline's body made gruesome viewing.

Ryga said, 'Tomorrow I'll re-interview Ashmore if he's at home. I'll also speak to the chauffeur and housekeeper.'

'I wish I could come with you, but even if you said I could I'm due at the hospital for this wretched leg wound. I might not be able to get back tomorrow evening. My father will expect me to report back to him, and while I'm a big girl now I don't want to cause him any more distress than I already have so it might be a case of duty calls. But will you promise to let me know if you make a major breakthrough or arrest anyone?'

Ryga said he thought either highly unlikely.

The phone rang. Sergeant Williams said that Dr Plumley was on the line. Ryga listened carefully, then thanked the doctor and rang off. To Eva, he said, 'The knitting needle is not the murder weapon. She was asphyxiated after being struck on the back of the head. There was mud in her mouth and trachea.' 'Poor woman.'

'The blow to the head was enough to stun her, then, according to Doctor Pumley, her face was pushed down into the mud and held there. Plumley estimates the time of death to have been between eight thirty p.m. and midnight on the seventh of December. I think it more likely to be closer to eight thirty, after she left Myra's house. I'm certain she was inside it because of the perfume on Myra's coat on the stand.'

'But she didn't stop for tea,' Eva said. 'There was only one place setting.'

Again, something nagged at Ryga. Tea. He stared at the cup and saucer Sergeant Williams had brought in for him earlier, a pale green, while Eva's cup and saucer was white with a floral pattern on it and clearly a notch above that given to police officers, probably only reserved for distinguished visitors.

Suddenly he got it. 'Of course, the best china,' he cried. 'I should have noticed it before. Myra used her best china. It was from the set in the front parlour.' There was another thing that also struck him. There had been no tea cosy on the teapot. Ryga wouldn't mind betting that on his return to Myra's house he'd find an earthenware teapot just like the one Sergeant Keaton had used and a tea cosy in the kitchen. 'Myra was out to impress Feline and invited her into tea. The fact there was only one place setting means that either Myra cleared one away when Feline left, which I think unlikely, or the killer returned to Myra's house and cleared one place setting to make us believe that only Myra had been in the house. And that she left suddenly. Distraught over her husband's death, she took off in her husband's boat with the intention of killing herself, taking her nerve tonic and sleeping pills with her.'

'And before she could take a telephone call from Scotland Yard. The best china doesn't get us much further forward.'

'Everything is a factor in the case. Little by little it will all add up somewhere along the line,' he optimistically replied. And tomorrow he hoped to have more from the Ashmores that could take him a few steps closer to catching a ruthless, cold-blooded killer.