Twenty-Six

Later that evening, Ryga, once again with Sergeant Williams and a police constable, made his way to the harbour but this time to the Motor Torpedo Boat, Constance. It was almost déjà-vu, thought Ryga, of his previous day's interview with Broxham. Had he got it right this time? There was still a lot he didn't know and much that didn't tie up, but he was hoping Dakins would provide the missing information. From his analysis of Dakins' personality, he thought he would be more likely to confess than someone of Broxham's mentality, and that was what he was banking on, he had told Superintendent Street.

As before, he posted the constable outside, but this time asked him to take cover in Joseph Moore's hut, much to the old man's delight. Moore volunteered his services if needed but Ryga told him it wouldn't be necessary. He didn't say who they were meeting or why. He told the constable that he would use his whistle to signal when he was ready for his assistance but urged him to keep a sharp lookout and if Dakins left the Constance without him and Sergeant Williams then he was to go after him.

Sergeant Williams took up cover in the cabin just off the salon where Ryga said he was to remain until he was summoned. He wanted Dakins to think he was alone on board. Soon the sound of a small boat's engine caught the air. Ryga, on deck, crossed to port. Leemings had done as he'd requested and Dakins was in the tender from the customs launch.

'Hello, Inspector,' Dakins called out. 'Mr Leemings said you wanted me on board to verify that the Constance was how I found her and nothing's been disturbed. Although I must say it's very late for such an escapade.'

'Yes, I'm sorry, but Mr Leemings told me you were on the late shift and time is important. I've almost narrowed it down to who murdered PC Swinley and how. The owner of this boat is connected with it. I think you can help me.'

'I don't see how,' Dakins said, as he brought the small craft round to the stern. Ryga caught the line and tied it off on the Constance. There was a ladder at the stern, and Dakins climbed nimbly up it and boarded the boat. He had with him a strong flashlight. Ryga didn't fancy that being brought down on the back of his head.

'Let's go down to the salon,' Ryga said, showing his own torch light into the bridge, now the galley. He waited until Dakins descended to the salon before following him. It was gloomy, but Ryga had also bought an extra battery-powered light, which he had already put on the table. He switched it on, throwing shadows around the cabin, and switched off his own torch.

Dakins did the same, saying, 'I went over this vessel thoroughly after the coastguard, Lawes, brought her into Newhaven. There was nothing on it to provide the identity of the owner, who we now know, and no contraband on board.'

'Not contraband, no, but there was something.'

Dakins looked puzzled, but behind his confused expression was unease. 'You believe there was something which I missed.'

'You didn't miss it.'

For a moment Dakins looked stunned and then wary. He moved slightly to Ryga's left. As he did the boat rocked a little. Ryga didn't think the movement was solely to do with Dakins, but Williams drawing closer.

'Are you accusing me of taking something?' Dakins hotly declared, but his voice echoed with fear.

Dakins might be able to bully Leemings and others but he wouldn't get away with it with him.

'Yes. You were the first person to board this boat, and you found something that you helped yourself to.'

Dakins mouth fell open at the bluntness of Ryga's reply. The hand carrying the torch twitched. He moved slightly forward. Ryga steeled himself. 'I wouldn't do that, Dakins. I am not George Swinley, and neither am I vulnerable, like Feline Perrier and Myra Swinley.'

Dakins' body jerked. His hand twitched again, his tongue came out and slaked his lips. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Leslie Dakins, I'm arresting you for the murders of––'

'No!' he shouted. 'I haven't killed anyone.'

'You have the motive for killing Mr and Mrs Swinley and Feline Perrier – the items you stole from this boat. You have the opportunity – you were on shift and able to leave unchallenged because of your position in the Waterguard. You have the means – the customs launch, or its tender, to moor up alongside the harbour. And you have the weapon – that torch or another like it.' Ryga held his gaze. 'And don't think you can bluff it out with me. I have enough to charge you and will see you in court.'

Dakins' skin blanched; his body started shaking. 'Please, you must believe me, I haven't killed anyone. I only took what was on this table. Can I sit down? I don't feel well.'

'Over there with your back to the helm. Sergeant Williams?'

Williams emerged from the cabin. 'Relieve him of his torch, Sergeant. Then take this down.'

Dakins now looked completely beaten. Ryga had thought he would try and bluster for a while but the fact he would be charged with murder – a capital offence – was enough to make him cave in much quicker than Ryga had expected. Ryga remained standing opposite Dakins across the table, while Williams' bulky figure blocked the door to the galley.

'It was on this table, a box, along with a letter,' Dakins said miserably.

Dakins nodded. 'I swear, I haven't killed anyone.'

'You'll need to convince me of that. You followed George Swinley on Saturday the fourth of November when he caught the Seaford train and you saw him rendezvous with Feline Perrier. You overheard part, or maybe all, of their conversation and began to see a way that you could make some money.'

'No. Why would I follow him?' Dakins said wretchedly.

It was a valid point and one that Ryga had struggled with until his earlier interview with Leemings. 'Because you were afraid that Swinley was on to you. Maybe he even hinted to you as such. Or perhaps Mr Leemings, who knows you are crooked, had passed on his concerns to PC Swinley, who he occasionally met in The Hope Inn.'

Dakins swallowed hard and rubbed his eyes. 'I'll lose my job.'

'You should have thought about that before you started stealing.'

'I don't . . .' But Dakins realized it was pointless bluffing.

Ryga said, 'When you saw Swinley turn towards Ashmore's house you had confirmation that he was on to you because the miniatures are not the only things you have stolen – you've been turning a blind eye to Broxham's smuggling operations for some time, in return for a share of the goods, or perhaps payment.'

Dakins swallowed hard.

'I'm right, aren't I?'

So Ryga's suspicions were confirmed. Broxham had resumed his black-market operation and Dakins was corrupt. He felt the thrill of victory. 'You told me you had seen Swinley walk in the direction of the Downs knowing that if I asked at Ashmore's house neither Ashmore nor Broxham would admit to seeing Swinley. You'd hope I would think Swinley was just going for a breath of fresh air. What you didn't know was that he was collecting information in Seaford about the miniatures.'

Dakins clasped his shaking hands tight together on the table.

'Perhaps Broxham told you not to worry about Swinley, or ordered you to deal with him, and you did. You decided to kill him.'

'Please, you must believe me. I haven't killed anyone,' Dakins pleaded.

Ryga thought he looked close to crying. Ignoring his denial, Ryga pressed on. 'You took the customs tender to the landing stage off the alleyway, which you knew was part of Swinley's beat. There, after tying it off, you intercepted Swinley at the top of the alleyway and told him you suspected some illegal smuggling was going on that night. He took out his notebook and pencil to write it down, but you urged him down the alleyway on some pretext of hearing a noise. On the quayside he dropped his pencil, or you nudged him and dislodged it. He bent down to retrieve it. You struck him on the back of the head with your heavy torch and pushed him into the harbour.' But Ryga paused as he remembered the police constable's helmet. It wasn't found on him and it would have resisted a blow to the head if the constable had been wearing it. Dakins could have struck Swinley a blow on the back of the neck and then pushed him in the harbour and the helmet had become dislodged. It would take some doing with the strap under the chin, but it was possible.

Fear and misery shone in Dakins' eyes and on his countenance. 'All I did was take the box and the letter, which were on this table. I didn't think anyone would miss the miniatures.'

'No, because you killed their rightful owner, Feline Perrier, and you hoped to get away with it.'

'I keep telling you, I'm not a killer,' Dakins said wretchedly.

'On the night of the seventh of December you had ample opportunity to bring the customs tender across the harbour, meet Feline Perrier, here in Sleeper's Hole, kill her and put her body under an upturned boat. You lured her here, telling her that her brother's boat was moored up and there was something on it that was addressed to her, which of course there had been – the letter and the box of miniatures. After disposing of Feline, you called on Myra Swinley because the letter you had stolen from this boat explained that Phillipe Perrier had given the evidence of how he had traced the miniatures to PC Swinley. You were afraid she would tell all.'

Dakins wrung his hands continuously. Williams sniffed and scratched at his notebook.

'You called on Myra Swinley and, of course, you were in uniform and she trusted you. You spun her some yarn about uncovering a smuggling operation and that in doing so you believed you had found something belonging to her husband – his notebook – and could she come with you to identify it.'

'I didn't do any of this. I was at work,' he bleated.

'You took Myra's body up the harbour in her husband's boat, ditched her overboard and then smashed the boat up on the shore of Denton Island and walked back to the customs tender, which you took back to the customs landing stage.'

Dakins' terrified eyes darted around the shadowy cabin as though seeking refuge. He rubbed a shaking hand across them. 'I swear to you, Inspector Ryga, I only took the miniatures. My God, this is the end for me. I'll go to prison.'

'You'll go to the gallows for three murders unless you can convince me otherwise.' Ryga said tersely. Dakins was a thief, but was he a killer?

Dakins licked his lips. 'I didn't kill PC Swinley. I have an alibi.' Taking a deep breath, he said rapidly, 'That night, seventh of November, I was at Railway Quays with Neil Broxham, on board his boat.'

'I transferred some goods to it.'

'So, not only were you turning a blind eye to Broxham bringing in contraband, you were also stealing from your bonded warehouse, fiddling the figures so that no one would miss the goods, or if they did then you would claim that it was all that had been delivered.' And Leemings had suspected as much, but couldn't get proof, and Dakins had made out that Leemings was getting muddled and forgetful. Dakins had been so convincing that his bosses and colleagues believed that Leemings had lost his grip.

Had Swinley discovered this? Had Perrier known that Broxham was smuggling and selling stolen goods and had given Swinley the evidence? Or had Feline found out what her lover was doing and had told her brother? Did this in fact have anything to do with the miniatures?

'Does Charles Ashmore know about this illegal operation?'

'I don't know. Maybe.'

How many times have you done this?'

'And does Broxham know you stole the miniatures?'

'No. The letter said he had taken them from a former SS officer in Lubeck in payment for getting him out of Germany. I thought if I told Broxham I had them he'd say they were his and wouldn't give me anything for them.'

'What else did Phillipe's letter say?' Ryga asked sharply, feeling saddened by the sordid affair, yet more repercussions from the war that had cost another three lives, possibly four if he included Phillipe Perrier.

'That he would be dead by the time his sister received it. He had achieved what he set out to do – locate and restore the miniatures to his family. He left them to her as a legacy and asked her not to marry Broxham.'

'He exposed Broxham as a crook.'

Dakins nodded miserably.

'And you thought you might also use that as blackmail. He also mentioned Frederick Charles Ashmore in the letter, his fraudulent rank and their black-market dealings in Lubeck.' Again Dakins nodded, his eyes downcast. 'Where are the miniatures now?'

'In a drawer in my lodgings at Seaford. I'm not well,' Dakins bleated. 'I thought that I'd be able to give up work and retire to a warmer, drier climate.'

The only climate Dakins was going to get was either hot as hell, if he had committed the murders, or cold and bleak with the smell of disinfectant and a view of prison walls. 'Sergeant Williams, let's escort Mr Dakins to the police station.'