Two

Street took a while to get his pipe going before speaking. 'From what I can remember of George, he was thorough rather than intellectual. He paid great attention to detail. Serious but not morose. I can't see him killing himself but then I haven't seen him for over twenty years. A lot has happened in that time; he could be a very different man to the one I joined up with. We've all changed because of the war.'

Ryga silently agreed. If it hadn't been for those long years spent debating, analysing, reflecting and meeting his fellow prisoner, Simmonds, in the prisoner-of-war camp, he'd never have considered a career in the police. He'd have returned to sea. But Simmonds had got him his discharge from the merchant navy and recommended him for a job in the River Police. His involvement in two successful drug smuggling cases in the Port of London had brought him to the attention of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard, and since then rapid promotion to inspector.

Street continued, 'Inspector Holden said Swinley was a reliable constable, meticulous and trusted. He worked well with his colleagues, both young and old. He was adamant there was no mystery about Swinley's death. He hadn't been working on any criminal investigation and no one had it in for him. There was absolutely no reason why anyone would want to push him into the harbour.'

Street smiled. 'I don't like loose ends.' He drew on his pipe before adding, 'Although this might always be one. We've had no official request from Newhaven to take up the case, and we're not likely to get it from Holden, judging by his defensive tone, but then that's to be expected – no one likes to be told they're wrong, especially by an "outsider", and he might very well not be wrong. As far as Holden is concerned the proper channels have been followed, a verdict given and that's the end of it.'

'He didn't mention the missing notebook and buttoned-up tunic?'

'No, and I didn't ask him about it because today was the first I'd heard of it.' Street drew on his pipe sending a blue haze up into the room. 'I'll see what the commander says, but I think he'll tell me we've got enough crime on our patch to investigate without sending a man down to Newhaven, especially when the coroner has already brought in a verdict of accidental death. And he's right, but a promise is a promise. You'd better brief me on what we've got outstanding, in case the commander asks, which he is bound to. Anything new on these furrier thefts?'

'We were hoping the latest one at the Alaska factory in Bermondsey on Monday night would give us something to go on, but we've drawn a blank. The only difference with Alaska's from the other five robberies is that they were all retailers and Alaska's aren't. They dye and recondition furs. Nevertheless, the thieves got away with some valuable mink and sable coats. None of the stolen furs have surfaced for sale in the markets or back streets, but then they're hardly the sort of thing the average person will buy. Only the rich can afford them.'

'And there's not so many of them about these days.'

'I beg to differ, sir – there seem to be plenty of people who made money out of the war and have managed to hold on to it,' Ryga replied with resignation, not bitterness. He'd learned not to waste time and energy trying to right wrongs he couldn't, with one exception, which he now voiced. 'And there are still the spivs making money on the black market.' He would put that right if he caught them.

'And they seem to be getting better at it and more prolific. Plenty to keep us busy, Inspector.'

Ryga agreed. He returned to his office where he anxiously addressed Sergeant Jacobs. 'Any news on Miss Paisley?'

'The War Office say that she's been wounded in the leg. She was flown back to RAF Lyneham in Wiltshire four days ago. She's not hospitalized and they have no idea where she is now. She's not in the armed forces so is free to go wherever she pleases.'

Ryga felt some relief and consoled himself with the fact that it couldn't be too serious or she would be in hospital. Perhaps she had gone to her late aunt's cottage on the Isle of Portland in Dorset where he had met her.

In his office he asked the switchboard to get the number. It rang. There was no answer. Perhaps she was recuperating with friends or relatives. At least she was safe. A leg wound would prevent her from dashing off to some other war-torn area or returning to Korea.

He applied himself to his work. As Street had said, there were plenty of crimes to keep them busy. It was dark when he decided to call it a day. Jacobs had already left for his home in Battersea where he lived with his widowed mother, wife and three children. Ryga rose and turned to the window but he couldn't see a thing. The air was thick with fog and with the sound of the barges on the river – one loud blast, another answering further upriver. Soon the fog would become the thick odorous, choking smog. This weather might keep the fur thieves at bay but equally it could present them, and other criminals, with increased opportunities to steal.

His telephone rang. It was Superintendent Street with the news Ryga had been expecting. Commander Harris had said they had no authority to investigate Swinley's death. Street said he would ring through and relay the news to Mrs Swinley. Ryga wondered how she would take it. He recalled how she had risen from her chair across Street's desk. Her voice had been even in tone when she had said that she would accept the commander's decision but her eyes had said something else. Maybe Street had seen it too, perhaps not. It wasn't sorrow or resignation, not even hope, but what? He couldn't put his finger on it.

He thought of PC George Swinley. Had he disturbed thieves who had pushed him into the harbour and left him to drown? There hadn't been reports of any crimes in the harbour, according to Inspector Holden. But what if a crime had been committed and hadn't been reported or discovered? Had George Swinley chanced upon smugglers, taking advantage of the foul weather, who had made their getaway by boat?

How experienced was the pathologist who had conducted the autopsy on Swinley? Had he looked hard enough for any signs that Swinley had been murdered, such as bruises and contusions? Maybe both were in evidence on the corpse but were explained by the body being knocked about in the harbour. From what Myra had said it sounded as though a GP pathologist had conducted the post-mortem, which was to be expected – forensic pathologists were only called in when it was a clear case of murder and not always then depending on their availability and the case.

Ryga again tried Eva's numbers, both her London flat and the house in Portland, without success. He ate in the canteen then headed for his small flat in Pimlico. He could barely see a foot in front of him. And even though he knew the way blindfolded it still took him four times longer than usual. As he'd silently predicted, the fog had become smog. The air was clawing, foul and sulphurous. It made him long for the crisp, salty air of the ocean off Portland in Dorset. As he let himself in, he also longed for company, and female at that. Two women had entered his life in September, Eva Paisley and Sonia Shepherd, the latter the landlady of The Quarryman's Arms on Portland where he'd been staying while investigating the murder of a man found in the cove nearby.

He'd thought of Sonia many times since his return to London, recalling her deep-set, dark, smudgy eyes, dark hair and shapely figure. He'd visited her twice since then. Once to tell her that he had managed to persuade the War Office not to pursue reclaiming the war widow's pension they had paid to her since her husband had been officially declared dead after Dunkirk, because she had genuinely not known that he had, in fact, been alive and a deserter. And the second time had been to make sure she was all right. He knew she might be struggling financially with the termination of her pension, but she had told him crisply that she and her young son, Steven, were managing, thank you. Maybe they were. They had friends in the community, but he could see that she was desperately worried, and understandably so. Sam Shepherd was a fraudster, a bully and a conman, and Ryga wanted nothing more than to see him get what he deserved. But the price would hurt Sonia, and he hated the thought of that. To date no one had been able to find Shepherd. Perhaps he had absconded to America, as he had told Sonia he would. There was an all ports alert out for him and Ryga had asked to be notified if Sam Shepherd was located.

He tried to read but couldn't concentrate so he popped into the pub on the corner where he sat with a beer, watching the handful of customers come and go while thinking of The Quarryman's Arms and Sonia behind the bar with her quarrymen and elders supping ale. He felt a fondness for the Isle of Portland with its rugged stony landscape, its secluded bays, windswept hills and strong sea breeze. And he felt a fondness for Sonia. Eva had said that Sonia was in love with him, but she had shown no signs of that – quite the opposite in fact at their last encounter. Ryga understood her feelings of antipathy. After all, how could Sonia be fond of the man she believed would finally apprehend her husband and have him convicted? Not because she still loved her husband – she didn't by her own admittance – but for the shame it would bring on her. Everyone on Portland would know, and her son would be bullied because his father was liar, a coward and a crook.

Ryga spent a restless night with dreams of the war, Eva and PC George Swinley, which merged into becoming a crazy mixed-up nightmare with himself being chased. He was glad to wake. The smog was denser than ever and the stinking yellow air clung to everything, terrifyingly suffocating. He took the bus to work. It crawled at a snail's pace. He could have walked quicker but he had hoped that being inside he might at least avoid some of the choking smog. He didn't. It seemed to curl and weave its way through the open platform into the crowded vehicle with its coughing occupants.

Alighting long before his stop, he walked along the Embankment unable to see barely an inch in front of him, or where the pavement ended and the road began, let alone see the Thames. He heard it though. The swish of the water and the almost constant hooting of the barges. Maybe this was what it had been like for George Swinley.

Ryga took a handkerchief from his Macintosh and, before placing it to his mouth, wiped his running, stinging eyes. Had George Swinley done the same? No, the Newhaven sea fog wouldn't be sulphurous like this devil that enveloped him. Mrs Swinley hadn't mentioned her husband's handkerchief having been found on his body.

Thankful to be in his office with the windows firmly shut, Ryga applied himself to his work, hoping that a stiff breeze would spring up and blow the damn smog away. He made two telephone calls to two newspaper editors he knew, one at the Daily Telegraph and the other at the Daily Express. Both had published Eva's war photographs. He'd seen them in the newspapers in all their horror. They were though, he suspected, the tamer ones that wouldn't offend the readers too much but would, however, alert them to the conditions the British soldiers and others were experiencing in Korea. He updated each editor on the thefts from furriers, and a couple of other cases, then raised the subject of Eva Paisley, but neither editor knew where he could contact Miss Paisley aside from her London apartment, and both were curious to know what the Scotland Yard detective wanted with her. He fobbed them off with a story that having worked with her once on the murder case in Portland, he wondered now she was back in Britain if she might be available to assist the police again if needed. He hoped they fell for it because he didn't fancy them looking for news and creating it where there was none.

The smog stayed all day, making it dark, heavy and depressing. The deep blasts of horns from the barges, along with long, panicking ones, sounded almost constantly and were punctuated by the sharp, irritable horns of the buses and cars. It was late afternoon when Street telephoned him to say that he had called Myra Swinley last night and four times throughout the day but had received no answer. He said he'd try again later that night.

Ryga thought it unusual that she hadn't answered when she must have been impatiently awaiting Street's decision, or rather the commander's passed on by Street. Perhaps when Street had telephoned she'd been shopping, or had been in the garden and hadn't heard the telephone. And last night she might not have reached home when he had called.

Ryga was on the point of heading for home when there was a knock on his door and a constable entered. 'Telegram for you, sir.'

'Thank you.' Ryga took it and dismissed the constable. Telegrams always conjured up apprehension because they were often the harbinger of bad news, and he wondered if it came with announcement of a relative's death. Not that he had many, but there were still some aunts and uncles scattered about Britain. The telegram was not from one of them though and it didn't bring bad news. On the contrary, it brought the best possible news he could have received. It was from Eva. It simply said: J'ai revien. Her parting telegram had also been in French and simple, just like this one, no words wasted. He smiled and called Jacobs in to relay the news to him. Of course, Ryga had known she was back, but now he not only had an address in Godalming, Surrey but more importantly a telephone number, which, reaching for his phone, he asked the switchboard to get for him. A woman answered. Not Eva. He asked if he could speak to Miss Paisley and announced himself. He was invited to hold the line. He did so with a slightly quickening pulse, and a few moments later he was listening, with relief, to Eva's voice.

'I read the article in the newspaper, saw that the idiots had mentioned me and I wondered if you'd be worried.'

'I was. Am. Are you all right?'

'Of course. It's nothing. Just a bullet graze in the right thigh, luckily the fleshy part. Not that there is much flesh on my legs, which you'll have to take my word for because you've only seen them clothed in trousers. It was hardly enough to send me home, but I couldn't argue with the commanding officer and the doctor. It's all right, Ryga, it didn't do any serious damage. It just means I won't be doing the hundred-yard sprint for a while. But I am mobile and being looked after by my father and his wife.'

Not her mother then. 'When do you expect to be back in town?'

'Now if I could manage it,' she said, dropping her voice.

Ryga smiled. Knowing her even as briefly as he did, he suspected she was feeling like a caged tiger. His thoughts flicked to Myra Swinley.

'Are you still there?' Eva said.

'What's the matter? Working on a difficult murder?'

'No, just some annoying robberies of furs.'

'Are you psychic?' he joked.

'No, just desperate.'

'I'd have thought you'd have had enough excitement in Korea.'

'If that's the right word for it. Conditions are hell and not getting any better, but we'll save the political discussion for another time. What's bothering you?'

'If you were desperately waiting for a telephone call which would tell you if your husband's death might or might not be investigated by Scotland Yard, what would you do?'

'Nail myself to the chair next to the blasted instrument and urge it to ring with all my might. I'd be scared that if I moved even a foot away I might not hear it.'

'But she isn't sticking to the phone. The chief's been trying to get her all day without any answer.'

Ryga swiftly told her. He saw no reason not to, and he trusted her implicitly. He welcomed a fresh perspective on things. When he'd finished giving her the details there was a pause before she spoke.

'I think someone ought to knock on her door and check she's OK.'

Ryga's feelings exactly, unless Street had finally managed to speak to her. He said as much.

She said, 'Call me to let me know what happens. I hope to be back in my apartment on Monday, although my father might have other ideas.'

Ryga rang off, wondering what her father thought of her occupation. Maybe he'd given up trying to persuade her not to go to war-torn countries years ago seeing as it wouldn't make the slightest difference what he said.

He rose and crossed to Jacob's office, where he told the sergeant the good news about Eva. He'd just finished when Street entered, pipe in his hand and a deep frown on his forehead. This looked ominous.

'Pack your bag, Ryga. I want you to go to Newhaven.'

'The commander has changed his mind about investigating George Swinley's death?' Ryga asked, surprised.

'Yes, because I telephoned Newhaven and asked an officer to go round to see if Myra Swinley was all right. I've been worried that she isn't answering her phone.'

So Street had come to the same conclusion as he and Eva had done.

'There was no answer to the constable's knock on her door and the neighbours haven't seen her. He found a key under a flowerpot by the front door and let himself in. There's no sign of Myra. Her bed hasn't been slept in and there are remains of tea on the kitchen table. A neighbour, on questioning, says there aren't any relatives she would have gone to stay with. Besides, why should she when she was waiting to hear if we were going to look into her husband's death? I've discussed it with Commander Harris who's been in touch with the Sussex chief constable and it's been agreed that someone from the Yard should go down to Newhaven and look into this new development. If Myra shows up when you're there then fine, you return. Inspector Holden at Newhaven will book you into the Bridge Hotel. You're to catch the seven forty-five train from Victoria.'