Twenty-Five

Late Tuesday morning, Ryga gathered up the beat officer in Chapel Street, a puzzled PC Jenkins who said that he couldn't believe for one minute that such an upstanding man as Mr Hailsham could be involved in the murder of that poor woman and Mrs Swinley. He just wasn't the type. Ryga swiftly but kindly told him there was no type. And he thought he should heed his own advice because he had fully expected the killer to be either Ashmore or Broxham and he'd been wrong. Admittedly the properties belonging to Broxham and Ashmore hadn't yet been searched, but earlier that morning Ryga had searched Ashmore's boat. The miniatures weren't on board.

It was just before midday when he knocked on Hailsham's door, which was answered by Mrs Cray in a brightly coloured floral apron. There were dark circles under her bloodshot, tired eyes. She looked anxiously at PC Jenkins.

'I'll not have Mr Hailsham bothered,' she declared.

'I hope not to trouble him too much, Mrs Cray, but I do need to speak to him,' Ryga said, thinking that Hailsham must be genuinely ill because Mrs Cray looked as though she'd been nursing him all night. Had that illness, as he had previously considered, been caused by guilt over a triple murder?

As though reading his mind, or perhaps because Hailsham had been confessing his sins, Mrs Cray quickly said, 'He's got nothing to do with the murder of that woman.'

'We'll only take a moment of his time,' Ryga said firmly and moved to enter.

'You won't get any sense out of him.'

'Because of his influenza, Mrs Cray? Is that what is really ailing him?'

Her fingers plucked nervously at the pocket of her apron.

'Or is there something more?' Ryga quietly persisted. 'Maybe I should see him and find out.'

She blocked the way. 'You can't go up there.'

I can and I will, Mrs Cray.'

'Can't you just leave him in peace? Hasn't he suffered enough?'

She looked taken aback. 'Why should he feel guilty? He's done nothing wrong. All right, so he was in Fort Road the night you say that poor woman was killed and put under the boat, as you have obviously been told, but Mr Hailsham didn't do it.'

No one had told Ryga that Hailsham had been in Fort Road on the night in question, but then why shouldn't he have been, it was his route home. Mrs Cray was a little too defensive.

'Mr Hailsham feels very bad that he wasn't there to stop her from being killed, but how would he know that was going to happen? And he feels dreadful that for all these days the poor woman was there under that rotting boat and everyone was walking around her.'

Not everyone, thought Ryga, just him, Joseph Moore, Hailsham and the person who had uncovered her, her killer, who could be the man upstairs, supposedly ill in bed. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Cray, but I have to speak to him.'

'You can speak but he won't be able to answer you. He'll be all right in a couple of days with the right nursing from me, and peace and quiet, and I'm here to see he gets it.'

'I must insist, Mrs Cray.'

He held her gaze and after a moment she gave a heavy sigh and reluctantly capitulated. 'All right, you can come in, but not him.' She pointed at Jenkins. 'You stay there and don't move an inch. I'll not have your big feet clomping through the house.'

Ryga suppressed a smile and followed Mrs Cray up the stairs to a bedroom at the front of the house, which was in darkness because the curtains were drawn. Ryga could smell sickness as soon as he entered, banishing all his thoughts that the harbour master was faking it. Looking down at the trembling, shivering man with yellowing skin, he felt acute sympathy for him.

'You know,' she said, shocked.

'I've seen it many times. Why did you say it was influenza?'

'Because he doesn't like anyone to know.'

'It's nothing to be ashamed of.'

'I keep telling him that. He was in Burma and he's worried if people know he suffers from malaria they'll ask him about it and he doesn't want to talk about the war and what happened. He had a bad time – even I don't know what happened – and to cap it all the poor man's wife and two children were killed in a raid in Portsmouth. After he was demobbed he worked at Chichester Harbour but it was too close to Portsmouth and memories of the terrible loss he suffered. So he came here to start afresh. He says it's time to forget and move on.'

Move on at least, thought Ryga. It was hard to forget even when you tried. But he understood Hailsham's sentiments.

'Do you know if Mr Hailsham was admitted to Graylingwell Hospital in Chichester?' Ryga wondered if the shock of the loss of his wife and children, coming on top of his experiences in Burma, had caused him to have a mental breakdown.

'Not as far as I'm aware.'

Ryga would need to check. 'Have you called the doctor?'

'What can he do that I can't?' she scoffed.

'He can give you a prescription for medication that can ease the symptoms and you don't have to pay for it or the doctor's visit any more. I'll get PC Jenkins to call in at the doctor's house and ask him to pay a visit.'

She was about to refuse but she must have seen he was genuinely concerned. She gave a curt nod.

'I won't trouble him.' Ryga stepped outside on to the landing. In a lowered tone, he said, 'But you might be able to help me further.' Her light grey eyes narrowed a little. He could see she was enormously fond of Hailsham and perhaps that fondness went deeper.

'You said that Mr Hailsham was in Fort Road on Thursday the seventh of December. What time was this?'

'Oh, I see you're checking I'm telling the truth. You don't believe me,' she declared indignantly, folding her arms across her chest. 'If you must know it was just before six thirty.'

'Where was he going?'

'Home, of course. Here.'

'You saw him arrive?'

She shifted uneasily.

'Please, Mrs Cray, the truth.'

'You're not to breathe a word of this to anyone if I tell you. Not even to the vicar. I'll not have any gossip spread about Peter.'

Ryga guessed what was coming next. 'Of course.'

'He didn't come here but next door, to my house. I'm a widow. My husband died before the war; he was killed in an accident in the docks at Railway Quay. Peter – Mr Hailsham – and I have been friends since he came here.'

Just friends? But Ryga didn't say anything. Besides, it wasn't his business. Perhaps though she was giving Hailsham a false alibi. Was she shielding a murderer? He had urged PC Jenkins to keep an open mind and so should he. But Ryga was convinced that Mrs Cray was not the type to lie and cover up for anyone, even the man she was fond of. He could hear the constable shuffling his feet and breathing heavily and nasally at the foot of the stairs.

'We listened to the wireless until nine thirty. Had a cocoa and Peter left just after eleven.'

'Thank you, Mrs Cray. I won't trouble you further.' Not unless he established a connection with Graylingwell Hospital where Hailsham could have come across Phillipe and Feline. 'I hope Mr Hailsham makes a quick recovery, and I'll see the doctor gets to you.'

He stepped outside, replaced his hat and gave Jenkins instructions to tell the doctor to make a visit as soon as he could. Consulting his watch, he made for the allotments where Sergeant Williams said he would find Lawes, the coastguard officer, who was off duty. Williams knew him well and could vouch for him. They were also neighbours. Williams emphatically declared that Lawes would never steal, and as for murder, well, that was completely out of the question. Ryga trusted Sergeant Williams's judgement but he'd see for himself.

Lawes was a tall man with a hatchet face, dark, deep-set sparkling eyes, a meerschaum pipe in the corner of his wide mouth, a Breton cap on grey hair and a weather-tanned face.

'Not much to do here at this time of the year, but it's restful,' he said after Ryga had introduced himself, although he could see that Lawes had guessed who he was, probably from Williams' description of him. 'If it's about giving you my fingerprints, I did that yesterday.'

'Yes, thank you. Sergeant Williams told me. Did you notice anything unusual about the Motor Torpedo Boat Constance, aside from the fact there was no one on board?'

Lawes pushed back his Breton cap. 'No. It was all neat and shipshape. Lovely craft, well looked after. Nice to see it being put to good use instead of being used to kill people or prevent us from being killed.'

Ryga agreed. 'Was there any paperwork or packages lying around?'

'Not that I saw. Mr Dakins might be able to help you there. He'd checked all the cabins before I came on board. I never went over her. I was on the bridge the whole time. He didn't say he had found anything.'

'I thought you were first there?' Ryga had got that impression. He tried to recall what Dakins had said. He'd searched her and hadn't found any contraband, and there was nothing to say who the owner was. Ryga had assumed that search had been conducted after the coastguard had moored the Constance up on the customs berth before she'd been moved across the harbour to the landing stage close to the Watch House. His assumption had been wrong.

Lawes was saying, 'As it happened, we were delayed leaving here, and when we reached her Mr Dakins was already tied up alongside and on board. It was a calm day. He came out on deck, said the vessel had been abandoned and asked if I could take it back to Newhaven where it could be more thoroughly searched for details of the owner. I moored it up on the landing stage just behind the customs launch and left Mr Dakins to it.'

This sounded like the truth. Ryga didn't think Lawes was his killer, but just to be thorough he asked him where he had been on 7 December. 'Singing,' came his somewhat surprising answer. 'I was practising with the Sea Cadets, for Christmas wassailing to raise money for more equipment for them.'

'And that was where?'

'In St Margaret's Church hall, here in Newhaven, of course.'

And several people could vouch for that. 'Did any of your colleagues go on board the Constance?'

'No. There was only young Jacob with me, and he brought the coastguard vessel back here while I piloted the Constance.'

'How long was Mr Dakins on board before you arrived?'

'About ten minutes, I guess.'

Plenty of time to find the miniatures. He could have stolen them, but had he known about them beforehand? Ryga asked Lawes if the salon porthole had been open. Lawes said it had been. He'd noticed when he had alighted from the vessel.

As Ryga hurried towards the Watch House his mind raced with the possibility that Perrier had arranged a meeting with Dakins on board his boat. Dakins had gone out in the customs launch, tied up alongside the Constance, climbed on board and killed Perrier and dumped his body overboard, then, secreting the miniatures, he'd called up the coastguard to report a drifting boat and had been on board when the coastguard had arrived.

How had he known about the miniatures though? Had PC Swinley told him about them? Or had Phillipe? It was feasible that Dakins had come into contact with Perrier in the past in this harbour or previously when Dakins had worked in London. The conversation Ryga had had with Dakins and his boss Leemings ran through his mind along with the antipathy between the two men and the fact that Leemings had also searched the Constance, which had startled Dakins. Yes, certain things were falling into place.

At the Watch House, Ryga asked Hailsham's deputy if he could take him across to the Customs House mooring. A few minutes later Chief Preventive Officer Leemings greeted Ryga with the news that Dakins wasn't on duty until six p.m. That suited Ryga because it gave him the opportunity to find out more about Dakins to put with what he already knew and what was running through his mind about the man.

Leemings showed him up the stairs to a small office on the first floor where he offered him a seat across a tidy desk with clipboards stacked on it and in and out basket trays neatly displaying paperwork. There were sea charts on the wall and a variety of shipping timetables and tide times. From the window Ryga could see across the harbour, and the sounds of boats being loaded and unloaded came through the ill-fitting windows along with a cold draft. Leemings looked like a man who had for a long time been struggling to achieve something but had given up.

Ryga didn't mince words but launched straight in. 'I got the impression from our last interview, Mr Leemings, that there is some rivalry between you and Preventative Officer Dakins. Why is that?'

'Is it because you dislike him?'

Leemings shifted uneasily but still said nothing.

'Or is it because you don't trust him?' That got a reaction. A flicker of surprise. Leemings studied him suspiciously as though he were setting a trap. Ryga recalled that Dakins had said Leemings wasn't in the best of health, that he had suffered a breakdown and was struggling with his job. But that might be far from the truth.

'Why don't you like him, Mr Leemings?' Ryga asked quietly.

'Because he's too keen,' Leemings sharply replied, as though he had been waiting a long time to say it.

'I'd have thought that was a bonus. A hardworking man is an asset.'

'What do you mean?' Ryga asked, although he knew full well what Leemings meant. Perhaps that was what he himself had sensed to begin with about Dakins.

Leemings straightened up one of his trays even though it didn't need it. When his eyes came up they were sorrowful rather than angry. 'Every time I query something he's always got an answer.'

'You mean he's smart,' Ryga provoked.

'Too smart. He's always rushing to go out on the launch and alone if he can. He has a ready answer if I tell him he shouldn't have done so. He says it's his job and not his fault that I can't go and we're short-staffed. He shouldn't have even gone out to the Constance. His job isn't rescuing boats or people. He should have left it to the lifeboat and the coastguard. He said the lifeboat was engaged elsewhere. I checked. It was. The coastguard was delayed. The Constance wasn't in any danger of floundering on rocks or drifting into the shipping channel. I know that the owner could have been seriously ill on board, and urgency was required, but he doesn't have to dash off like that when there's a risk to his safety and possible loss of the customs launch.' Leemings tone wasn't bitter but resigned.

'And Dakins said he wasn't afraid to risk his life unlike some. Meaning you.'

Leemings winced and nodded.

'Why did you really go on board the Constance to search it?'

Leemings ran a hand over his round pale face. His eyes searched Ryga's, beseeching him to understand. 'I knew it would be pointless but I wanted to see what it looked like inside. Whether its interior and contents could tell me what . . . if . . .'

'Anything of value had been on board,' Ryga finished for him, when he dried up. 'You think Dakins is corrupt, that he's on the take.'

'I can't prove anything,' Leemings said wretchedly. 'And my boss thinks the sun shines out of Dakins' rear end. He says I'm sour and old fashioned. I say I'm honest, thorough and a stickler for routine and procedures, but that doesn't seem to count for much these days.'

Ryga could see the man had almost given up trying to prove that he thought one of his officers was on the take. Ryga was his last chance. And Ryga's intuition trusted Leemings. Yes, he could be bitter enough to throw the scent on to Dakins but Ryga knew enough about men to know when they were genuinely wretched. And Leemings was. Ryga also sensed Leemings was honest. There was too much about Dakins that he, himself, distrusted, especially now he knew Dakins had been on board the Constance alone for ten minutes and in all likelihood Broxham didn't have the miniatures.

'I'd like to know Dakins' rota for some dates. Can you help me with that?'

Leemings looked taken aback. He had obviously expected Ryga to be of the same opinion as his boss. He pulled himself up and Ryga saw a glimmer of light in the tired eyes.

'It's Thursday the seventh of December I want to know about first.'

Leemings rose and pulled open a drawer in a wooden filing cabin. After consulting some paperwork in a file, he said, 'He started at two p.m. and signed off at ten thirty.'

'No. It was my day off.'

'And how did you spend it?'

'Fishing off the pier and then had a couple of pints in The Hope Inn.'

'Why are you asking me all these questions?' he said, looking downcast again.

'Because I'm trying to establish where a number of people were on the night Mrs Swinley disappeared, and if anyone saw her or the woman she was with, the same woman whose body was found in Sleeper's Hole on Wednesday night.'

'Well, I didn't see anyone except those in the pub, including Joseph Moore and the landlord, who will tell you I was in there until closing time, ten thirty, and walked home.'

Ryga could easily check that. But knew he didn't have to.

'And where was Dakins last Wednesday night?'

'The same shift as now – two p.m. to ten p.m. He was duty officer, working alone.'

That meant no one would have noticed him slipping across the harbour on the customs launch to uncover the body. But why do so? If he was guilty of theft and murder, why not leave Feline there until someone else found her possibly weeks or months later in a horrendous state? He asked what rota Dakins had been working on Tuesday 7 November when Swinley had ended up in the harbour. The answer was again two p.m. to ten p.m.

Ryga made a decision. 'Mr Leemings, I need you to do something for me.' Ryga explained what he wanted. 'I'd appreciate your cooperation.'

'You have it.' Leemings look thoroughly cheered. As they shook hands he appeared to be a different man than the earlier one. It was as though a weight had been lifted from his stooping shoulders. Ryga thought it was the fact that someone at last believed in what he was saying about Leslie Dakins. Ryga hurried back to Newhaven police station to make his arrangements.