One

US Marines and 7th Division infantrymen have been surrounded by Communist Korean and Chinese forces south of the Chosin reservoir and are under fire in sub-zero temperatures. Allied aircraft are supplying the trapped troops with ammunition and food. Wounded men have been evacuated to hospitals on the coast, with some being flown home to Britain, among them eminent war photographer, Miss Eva Paisley.

That couldn't be all there was? he thought desperately, flicking through the rest of the newspaper. There must be more. But there wasn't, just a lot of tosh on the latest movie star to arrive in London, a married politician who was said to be having an affair with an unnamed woman, and the weather, which hardly ever changed these days unless it was from rain to fog and back to rain. Surely the war in Korea deserved more than this, he thought with disgust, tucking the paper under his arm and hurrying to the newspaper vendor on the corner of the street. Perhaps there was more in one of the other newspapers. He bought three. Then, in the shelter of another doorway, out of the invidious December rain, he scoured them. Nothing. Not a single line on the Korean War. No one wanted to read about war. They'd all had enough of it with the last one for six years – memories were still sharp. People were terrified of another world war, so they did what they always do, he thought, a little despondently – they closed their ears and shut their eyes to it.

He threw three of the newspapers into the first litter bin he came to and hurried back to work along Victoria Embankment toward his office at New Scotland Yard. Was she critically injured? he wondered. Blinded, even? Pray God, no, not that for such a talented photographer. Perhaps it was only a slight wound. But they wouldn't fly her back to Britain for that, not unless she had decided to return, he thought hopefully. Or perhaps it was so serious that they had no option but to airlift her home to a specialist hospital. He felt cold inside.

He made his way to the first floor, where in the office which adjoined his he greeted Sergeant Jacobs with, 'Read that.' He quickly entered his office, picked up the telephone and asked to be connected to the War Office. Jacobs came in with a worried frown on his round, malleable face.

'The RAF might be able to tell us where she was flown into,' he suggested. 'It could be Northolt given that she lives in London.'

As Ryga was about to reply his call came through. 'This is Detective Inspector Ryga, Scotland Yard,' he announced into the receiver, gesturing Jacobs into the seat opposite his desk. 'I understand from the newspaper reports that Miss Eva Paisley's been injured in Korea. I want to know how seriously and where she's been taken. Yes, it is urgent. No, I'll hold on. All right. Call me back as soon as you can.'

'Maybe she's OK and is at home. I could telephone her, leaving your line free in case the War Office get back pronto, although I wouldn't hold your breath on that, sir. If she answers I'll put it through to you.'

It was a good idea. Ryga retrieved his wallet from his inside suit jacket pocket. Extracting a business card, he handed it over to Jacobs, who returned to his small, smoke-filled office where Ryga watched him through the glass panel as he lifted the receiver and asked to be put through to Eva's number.

Hanging up his Macintosh and hat, he told himself that she was probably all right and he was worrying for nothing, but he also examined his reaction to the disturbing news. He had naturally been concerned about her going to Korea, but there had been nothing he could do to stop her. He had no call to prevent her. She was an independent woman – there were no ties between them. She was also an experienced, talented photographer and had been involved in many theatres of war, including D-Day. They weren't involved romantically, or even professionally. He'd only known her for a week while on an investigation on the Isle of Portland in Dorset in September, but that didn't stop him worrying about her.

She'd sent him a telegram at the end of September saying, Au revoir. He had known that meant she was on her way to Korea. I'm a war photographer, Ryga, it's what I do. He'd rejoined, aren't there things you can chronicle here in the UK? There was after all plenty of hardship, austerity and homelessness. Victory had created as many problems as war.

He rose and crossed to Jacobs, who shook his head as he replaced the receiver. Eva wasn't in her apartment. There was nothing for it but to wait for the War Office to call.

Ryga's telephone rang. He swivelled back and snatched it up but it was his chief, Detective Chief Superintendent Street, summoning him to his office. Curbing his disappointment, Ryga asked Jacobs to listen out for his phone and to get as much detail as he could if the War Office called while he was with the chief.

Walking the short distance along the corridor to the adjoining room, Ryga knocked and entered Street's office. For once it wasn't filled with his pipe smoke. The reason seemed to be the visitor sitting across the desk from the well set-up fair man in his mid-forties. She glanced up at Ryga with an anxious expression. She was late forties, smartly but not expensively dressed in a black coat with a small black hat perched on her dark curly hair, black gloves folded neatly in her lap on top of a black handbag – a smallish square one with a leather and suede trim – and by her side was a black umbrella. Her lined face was strained and her eyes looked tired.

'This is Mrs Myra Swinley,' Street introduced her. 'Inspector Alun Ryga.'

Ryga took her hand, noting the fatigue in her face and a sadness in the depths of her toffee-coloured eyes, but also the set of her chin and the firmness of her mouth. There was a cup of tea on Street's desk in front of the woman, but it hadn't been touched and she hadn't removed her coat. Not because Street's office was cold – on the contrary, the gas fire hissed on low and it felt stuffy. Through the closed windows came the noise of the traffic on the Embankment punctuated by an impatient vehicle horn and the toot of the barges on the Thames.

Street gestured Ryga into the chair next to the woman. 'Mrs Swinley's husband was Police Constable George Swinley.'

Ryga noted the use of the past tense. That would account for the woman's sombre appearance and her sorrowful expression.

'George and I joined the force together,' Street continued. 'He served with me, here in London, until he met and married Myra in 1921 and moved to her hometown of Newhaven on the south coast. He transferred to the police there.' Street addressed the woman directly. Gently he said, 'Tell Inspector Ryga in your own words, Myra, and in your own time, what has brought you here.'

She nodded and turned her gaze on Ryga. 'My husband was a conscientious and clever policeman, Inspector. He could have become a sergeant, an inspector even, but he was never ambitious and he enjoyed meeting and helping people on his beat, as well as catching criminals. He had his police service interrupted by the war. He registered immediately on the outbreak when, as you know, men between eighteen and forty-one were obliged to. He was thirty-nine. It was before they decided to make the police a reserved occupation. But there you are, these things happen. He was in the Royal Artillery, in one of the anti-aircraft divisions moving around to different places: Dundee, Belfast, the Midlands, London and anywhere else they wanted him. He was part of the invasion force of Sicily and Italy in 1943 and saw action at Cassino. He suffered a head injury and was sent home for treatment at Graylingwell Hospital in Chichester. They specialized in that kind of thing for wounded servicemen.'

Ryga's thoughts flashed to Eva. Had Jacobs heard from the War Office yet? He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on Mrs Swinley's story wondering where it was leading and why the chief was interested, aside from the fact that PC Swinley had been an old friend.

'He made a good recovery, and was discharged, but it left him with bad headaches, which have become less frequent over time. George returned to his job with Newhaven Police in 1945 just after VE Day. Do you know the town?'

'I do. I sailed into the harbour while in the merchant navy before the war,' Ryga answered, omitting to say that he had continued to serve in the merchant navy during the war until his ship had been captured by a German raiding party in 1941. He'd then spent the rest of the war in a German prisoner-of-war camp. It wasn't relevant.

'Then you'll know, Inspector, that it's a busy working harbour and the only river harbour in the country. We live in Fort Road, which runs parallel to the harbour on the west side. It was my parents' house. My father – who was a master in the merchant navy – died in 1922 and my mother four years before that. I was their only child, although there had been a boy, but he died of diphtheria when he was two years old.'

Ryga could see from her expression, and the prolonged pause, that she was coming to the difficult and distressing part of her story. He caught the sound of a ringing phone as a door down the corridor opened, then it was silenced as the door closed, or perhaps someone had answered it.

She took a breath. 'Thirty days ago, on Tuesday the seventh of November, George was on the two p.m. to ten p.m. shift. He returned to the station at six o'clock for his half an hour meal break – a flask of soup and some sandwiches I'd made him. He seemed fine, his usual self, and resumed his beat at six thirty. He should have returned to the station to sign off at ten o'clock but he didn't. Sergeant Williams waited for an hour believing that George might be busy talking to someone, but when he still didn't return he got worried and sent out constables to look for him. No one could find George. Sergeant Williams reported to Inspector Holden at his home and they both came to see me. By then it was eleven thirty and I was beginning to get concerned. You see, at first I thought George was late because he'd got caught up on an arrest. Inspector Holden told me what had happened and asked me if there had been anything troubling George, or if he had been feeling unwell, but he seemed fine when he left home.' Again, she paused. Street nodded encouragingly at her.

She continued, 'Over the next few days enquiries were made around the town. The last person to see George was the vicar outside the church in South Road just on nine o'clock. George and the Reverend Isaacs talked briefly about the weather. It was very foggy. George continued on his beat. No one saw him again. On Saturday the eighteenth of November his body was found in the harbour by two boys who had been larking around on a handmade raft.'

'I'm sorry, Mrs Swinley,' Ryga said gently, and felt genuinely sorry for her loss.

She pushed her hands together and kept her eyes fixed on him, as though by sheer willpower she could prevent herself from feeling, and therefore from breaking down. Ryga sensed an inner strength about her. Something was holding her together and she'd cling to whatever it was for as long as possible. He knew that feeling. He'd experienced it in the prison camp in Germany, to hold on at all costs, to keep believing, even when you didn't, because to admit defeat meant collapse. She cleared her throat and looked down. Ryga flashed Street a glance. Street shook his head slightly.

After a moment, she continued, 'I asked to see him but they wouldn't let me. They said it would be too distressing.'

Ryga recalled the state of the bodies he'd fished out of the sea and of the Thames. The state of decomposition depended on how long they had been immersed. George Swinley's body would have automatically sank. His heavy uniform would have kept him submerged for some time until the putrefactive gas in the body had caused it to rise to the surface and float. In the Thames, at this time of year, it usually took between ten to fourteen days, a similar period of time it seemed with Newhaven Harbour.

She picked up the cup of what must by now be cold tea, her hand steady. Street asked her if she'd like a fresh cup but she shook her head. 'I nearly always drink it cold by the time I get round to it,' she said with a small smile. 'They knew it was George because of his uniform and his police number. He was a good man.'

There was short silence before Ryga said, 'How did he die?'

'The coroner brought in a verdict of accidental death. He said that because of the dark and thick fog, George could have become disorientated and couldn't see the harbour in front of him. He took one wrong step and that was it. Once in the water he found it difficult to get out, being weighed down by his uniform and his cape. He panicked, thrashed about, then swallowed too much water and drowned. There was no one to hear his cries, if he'd had time to cry out, because the coroner said he might have blacked out through one of his headaches.'

But there was a defiant gleam in her eyes that told Ryga she didn't believe that for one moment. It was that belief which was giving her inner strength.

'George would never have slipped. It's not right, Inspector Ryga. It doesn't feel right, and before you say it, it's not grief talking. Yes, my world has ended with George's passing but I know someone killed him. Perhaps not deliberately but it wasn't any accident,' she finished determinedly, eyeing them both, her pale cheeks now flushed.

'Why are you so certain?' Ryga asked.

She looked at Street, who said, 'Tell the inspector what you just told me. I'd like to see what he makes of it.'

'For a start, George was absolutely sure-footed, even in the fog.'

Ryga said, 'Here, in London, we have smog so dense that you haven't any idea where you are, and the horns from the barges on the river could come from anywhere.'

'George knew every inch of the harbour, both sides of it too, and the streets around them. He could walk them blindfolded,' she confidently asserted.

'Did the post-mortem determine whether he was alive or dead when he entered the water?'

She winced but answered steadily. 'The doctor said he was alive.'

Ryga nodded. 'You said "for a start". That means there are other reasons why you believe George was killed, aside from those you've already mentioned.'

'If he did slip, or he lost his way, or became dizzy, then where's his notebook? It wasn't found on him.'

'Maybe it fell out of his uniform,' Ryga said, though he couldn't see how it could have done unless it was in his trouser pocket. He suggested this but Myra Swinley was shaking her head.

'He never kept it in his trouser pocket, always in his tunic pocket, like all police officers do, and that was buttoned up when his body was found. George never buttoned it up without returning the notebook and pencil to it.'

'Did you mention this to the coroner at the inquest?'

'Yes, and to Inspector Holden. He said that no one had touched the tunic save the doctor to remove George's clothes before the postmortem. And the doctor said he hadn't unbuttoned the tunic chest pockets. Inspector Holden said that George must have taken out the notebook to write in it, buttoned up the pocket, then lost his footing. The notebook went into the water with him, along with his pencil, but that's not right. And there's another thing,' she added, her eyes shining. 'How could he see to write in his notebook in the dark and fog?'

They were valid points. Ryga admired her reasoning. 'Wouldn't he have had a torch with him?'

'Yes, and he could have propped it up on a post, or the harbour wall, while he wrote some notes, but it was still in his pocket along with his whistle, gloves, truncheon, handcuffs and his wallet.'

Street reached for his pipe and addressed Ryga. 'After Myra telephoned me yesterday, asking if she could see me to talk about George's death, I called Inspector Holden. He said although they would never know exactly what happened there were no suspicious circumstances. It was a tragic accident.'

She sniffed. 'He would say that.'

Ryga could see by Myra Swinley's set expression she would never believe her husband's death was an accident. Many searched for reasons as to why their loved ones had died and clung desperately to false beliefs.

'Perhaps it's the case,' Ryga said. Then quickly added on seeing her expression, 'There's something else, isn't there?'

She hesitated and looked at each of them in turn. 'I've come this far so I might as well go on. I haven't mentioned it to anyone because I know what they'll say. You might say it too and tell me it's another reason why George was found dead and there is nothing suspicious about his death. If you do then . . .' She again took a breath and drew herself up. 'He seemed preoccupied of late. He never said anything to me about what was at the back of his mind and I didn't ask. I thought it might be to do with work.' Her eyes dropped to her hands. When she looked back up the pain reflected in them stabbed at Ryga's heart.

'Did your husband have any friends he might have confided in, outside of work, that is?'

'Not really. He wasn't one for clubs and pubs. He occasionally had a drink in The Hope Inn down on West Pier, but there isn't anyone I know of that he was close to. He was skilled with his hands. He built a small boat. It was his pride and joy. He liked to go out of the harbour in it. He keeps it in Sleeper's Hole, not far from where we live. He never got me in it. A landlubber is what I am and what I'll stay.' And suddenly the import of what she had said struck her. She quickly reached inside her handbag for a handkerchief. The tears rolled down her face but her crying was silent. Hastily, and with an effort, she composed herself. 'I'm sorry,' she said, rising. 'I've taken up too much of your time.'

'Not at all,' Street answered, hastily getting to his feet. Ryga followed suit.

Street said, 'I'll discuss it with the commander. It'll be his decision if we investigate, Myra. I'm sorry I can't do any more than that. I'll have an answer for you later today. Are you on the telephone at home?'

'Yes.' She gave Street her number. Street offered a police car to take her back to Victoria Station but she said she would walk. She needed the air. 'I've said my bit,' she declared, pausing at the door. 'I promised myself I would, and now it's out of my hands. I'll accept your decision, whatever that is.'