Twenty-Three

it made sense to call in there instead of returning to Newhaven, collecting a constable, then driving back to Seaford. But would Ashmore be at home? The last Ryga knew was that he was in London. Broxham might be there though.

The thin, icy drizzle had turned into something much more forceful and looked set to persist for some time. The sky was a heavy grey, making it darker than usual for the early afternoon, and the windscreen wipers had a job to push the rain away as they sped along the coast. But within half an hour Eva was pulling into the drive of Ashmore's Seaford residence.

'Impressive if you like this kind of thing,' she said, eyeing the house.

He smiled despite the seriousness of the occasion. He'd have loved her to have met Valerie Ashmore and know what she made of that lady. She might still see her. Although there was no sign of the Rolls-Royce or the sports car, both could be garaged and Broxham could be in his flat above it. Mrs Doulton opened the door to them.

'I thought you'd be back,' she announced before running her cold critical eye over Eva. 'Whose she? One of his mistresses?'

Ryga didn't know if she meant Broxham or Ashmore and he wasn't going to ask. Eva seemed to find it amusing although she covered her mirth with a cough.

'Are either Broxham or Major Ashmore at home?' he asked politely but firmly.

'Major Ashmore is.' She stepped back to allow them entry. 'Wait here,' she abruptly commanded.

Definitely frostier than before, thought Ryga. He wondered what had happened to further chill her already cool reception on his previous visits. Perhaps his persistence in returning. Or perhaps she had overheard or seen something that had given her deeper concern and had increased her hostility.

'There are some valuable paintings here,' Eva said quietly. 'That one, for example, is by Christopher Woods.' She indicated the one that Ryga had studied previously of the men on the quayside viewing the fishing boat in the storm which had reminded him of Eva's late Aunt Pru's paintings. He should have known Eva would recognize the artist. 'He's incredibly sought-after. Another tragic story like Constance Mayer's. Christopher Wood threw himself in front of a London train at the age of thirty.'

The door to the parlour opened and Mrs Doulton jerked her head to indicate they could enter. Charles Ashmore didn't look too pleased to see them, although Ryga thought his expression was one more of wariness than hostility. Ashmore eyed Eva suspiciously, as though she was there to trap him. Perhaps he was trying to remember if he had met her before and if he'd had a relationship with her. Ryga thought Ashmore could hardly forget it if he had. How could anyone? But then maybe Ashmore had so many casual affairs that he had stopped noticing the women with whom he had them.

'What is it now, Inspector? I'm very busy,' he said testily.

'This is Miss Paisley,' Ryga said. 'She's assisting me with the investigation into the death of a woman found in Sleeper's Hole on Wednesday night who you know, Major Ashmore. Feline Perrier.'

His eyes narrowed and flicked between them. 'I read about it. Neil told me you'd been here asking about her.' He turned his back on them and crossed to the fireplace. He was obviously trying to get his thoughts and reactions under control. Ryga said nothing. Turning round, Ashmore tersely said, 'Can we make this snappy? My wife will be home shortly. She's Christmas shopping in Brighton.'

'I understand from Mr Broxham that you and Miss Perrier were having an affair.'

'It was finished a long time ago.' Again, that wary glance at Eva.

Ryga suspected that Ashmore was wondering if Eva was a friend of Feline's and one she had confided in. 'When exactly?'

'October.' He thrust his hands in the pockets of his lounge suit jacket.

That confirmed what Broxham had said. 'Your wife told you to end it.'

'Neil told you that, I suppose,' Ashmore snapped, annoyed. 'Well, it's not true. Feline ended it. She said she'd found someone else,' he added with bitterness.

'Yes, your chauffeur. Why didn't you sack him?'

'Why should I? His love affairs have nothing to do with the quality of his driving. You win some, you lose some,' he said in a cavalier tone, daring Eva to react. She didn't, of course.

'Then it's a habit of yours and Broxham's to exchange lovers,' Ryga said smoothly.

Ashmore's face flushed deep red. 'I resent that. And if you are determined to be insulting then I suggest you leave.'

'So you were annoyed and upset at losing Feline to your chauffeur?'

Ashmore's lips tightened. Ryga could see he was making an effort to control himself. 'I couldn't give her the commitment she wanted. She was getting too involved. I wouldn't leave my wife.'

'No, you know a good thing when you see it,' Ryga said evenly without any trace of a sneer, seeing how far it would goad the smooth but worried man in front of them.

'I'll take no more insults from you, Inspector.' He strode towards the door, much as his wife had done in Ryga's previous interview with her, but Ryga's next words drew him up.

'Angry and bitterly jealous over losing Feline, you decided to kill her.'

'Me! My God, are you insane?' He swung round. 'You can't possibly think I would kill anyone.'

'You did in the war.'

'For Christ's sake man, that was different.' He ran a hand over his chin. 'I didn't kill Feline. I couldn't do a thing like that; besides, I was in London.'

'How do you know when she was killed?'

He was stumped for a moment. 'You said her body was found on Wednesday and it was in the papers.'

'She'd been dead for some days, since Thursday the seventh of December. Where were you that night?' Broxham had already told him, but again Ryga wanted to see if both men were singing from the same hymn sheet.

'I don't know. I can't remember.'

'Then I suggest you try or consult your diary.'

Ashmore's eyes flashed fear. 'I was in London, at my apartment.'

All evening and night?'

'That's not what Broxham told me. He said you were both at The Pelican Club in Mayfair.'

'Well, yes, we were for a while. I'd forgotten. Look, I didn't kill Feline.'

'Then maybe you killed her brother, Phillipe.'

'What! Now I know you're mad.'

'But you do know Phillipe Perrier?'

Please, Major Ashmore, it would save a lot of time if you stopped lying.'

'It's the truth. I don't know him.'

'You met him in 1946 but you've seen him since then.'

Ashmore's troubled eyes flicked between them. He consulted his wristwatch before crossing to the coffee table and opening the cigarette box, where he retrieved a cigarette but didn't light it. He turned back to face them. Ryga could see him weighing up how much to say. He thought it time to increase the pressure. Eva remained silent and watchful beside him.

'You first met Phillipe Perrier when you were stationed in Lubeck with Private Broxham?'

Ashmore's slender hands played with the unlit cigarette.

'When you were a corporal and not a major. You have never been a major,' Ryga continued quietly.

'So Broxham's opened his big mouth. Yes, I was stationed at Lubeck, and yes, I was a corporal. Telling a lie about one's rank is not a criminal offence.'

'But murder and theft are.'

'How many times do I have to tell you I haven't killed anyone and neither have I stolen anything?' But Ashmore was looking increasingly disturbed.

'You traded on the black market in Lubeck.'

'We all did, but I only traded with legitimate items we were given or sent from home – cigarettes, chocolate, food. If you're arresting me for that then you'd have to arrest the whole of my old unit.'

'But you did meet Phillipe Perrier in Lubeck when he was assigned to work with the Monuments Men.'

Ashmore jumped as the mantel clock struck three. He glanced at it nervously. 'All right, I met him, but only briefly. I haven't seen him since.'

'Where were you on the nights of the eleventh and twelfth of November?'

'Just answer the question, Mr Ashmore.'

The dropping of his rank wasn't lost on Ashmore. He lit his cigarette. 'I was in London. I'm involved in negotiating for a bombsite off Horseferry Road, Westminster for development. I returned here on the evening of the twelfth.'

'Did Broxham drive you?'

'No, I drove myself.'

'Then your boat wasn't moored up at Chelsea boatyard?'

'We have evidence to the contrary. Phillipe Perrier's boat was also moored there. You met him on board his boat on the night of the eleventh of November and took his boat out after killing him.'

Ashmore was staring at him aghast. His face had gone ashen. His smouldering cigarette remained in his hand. 'My boat was in Newhaven where it's usually kept.'

That was a surprise to Ryga. Sergeant Jacobs had said it was registered at Dover and Ryga had assumed it was kept there. Neither Hailsham nor Dakins had mentioned it to him, but then why should they when he had asked if any vessel unknown to them had entered and left the harbour on the nights of 7 November and 7 December, not a vessel known to them.

Ryga continued, 'You ditched Perrier's body in the sea, then, using the tender on his boat, you returned to the shore somewhere along the south coast and made your way back to London. Perhaps you hired a taxi or caught the train. Or perhaps an accomplice picked you up. Neil Broxham.'

'This is ludicrous. Why would I kill Perrier? I haven't seen him since 1946.'

'You killed him because he knew that you'd stolen, or been given, items of value that had been looted by the Nazis which belonged to him and Feline, some extremely valuable miniatures.'

Ashmore looked baffled. Ryga thought it could be an act but he was afraid his reaction was genuine. He said, 'You refused to give these miniatures back to Perrier. You killed him to silence him, just as you'd already killed PC Swinley, because Feline had told you that her brother had been in touch with Swinley about the stolen miniatures which he was hot on the trail of. You met Swinley on the quayside, where you struck him a violent blow and pushed him in the harbour, leaving him to drown.'

'I know nothing about any of this,' Ashmore pleaded beseechingly.

Relentlessly Ryga pressed on. 'At that stage you didn't know that Swinley had written evidence, which Feline had delivered to him. But you discovered this later from Feline and when you realized that Swinley's widow could have the evidence to convict you, you followed Feline, or had her tailed, and on the seventh of December you saw her with Myra Swinley. You intercepted Feline and killed her and then returned to Mrs Swinley's house, lured her away and also killed her.'

'This is madness,' Ashmore cried. 'I have no idea what you are talking about.'

Sharply Ryga said, 'Then how do you account for your boat being at Chelsea on the same night that Phillipe Perrier disappeared? And the fact his boat was found drifting in the English Channel the next day?'

'I didn't know my boat was there,' Ashmore said despairingly. His face was drawn and grey. His eyes fearful. 'I wasn't on board. I rarely am. I have no idea most of the time where it is and where it isn't.'

Ryga studied him closely. He could see it was the truth. But Ashmore knew who had taken his boat to London and who Phillipe's killer was. And so too did Ryga. 'Where can we find Neil Broxham?'