Five

Crossing the railway track, he made for the rough path through the brown-green slime where a couple of rotting wooden hulks, and five small boats – two of them upturned – rested. Ahead of him, almost in the centre of the U, was a landing stage jutting out into the harbour, where one medium-sized sailboat was tied up. To the left, northwards, was a small corrugated-iron hut with a tin chimney emitting a dribble of black smoke. Propped in front of it was a rusting man's bicycle, an old pram piled with bits of wood, an upended tin bath and a wooden beer barrel that was being used as a water butt, not for the watering of any plants, Ryga thought, because there were none, but for washing and maybe even for drinking after being boiled. Ryga couldn't see how anyone could be living in the hut, but since the war he'd seen people living in all sorts of accommodation, including redundant war boats, one of which he could see moored further up the harbour, a Motor Torpedo Boat. There were plenty of those on the Thames at Chelsea, converted into makeshift homes.

Which of these small boats was Swinley's? He felt certain it would be in immaculate condition with the timber well-varnished. But the three upright boats tethered to a buoy were in poor condition while the overturned ones looked about to fall to pieces. He took a chance that he wouldn't sink into mud up to his ankles and stepped off the track to further inspect the boats. He was relieved to find the ground surprisingly firm. Swinley's boat had been unused since November, when he had gone missing, so it was possible that rainwater could have gathered, but the wood on these looked as though it hadn't been cared for in years.

'You the man from Scotland Yard?'

Ryga spun round – he hadn't heard anyone approach. Facing him was a stringy little man of about sixty with a weatherworn face and several gaps in his teeth in a wide mouth where a smouldering pipe was clamped in one corner. He was dressed shabbily in an ancient, patched and mended tweed jacket, trousers and well-worn boots. A cloth cap was parked at an angle on his head revealing wisps of grey hair.

'I am. How did you know?'

'No one comes down to the Hole dressed like that.' The man prised the pipe from his mouth and waved it over Ryga's Trilby hat, Macintosh, smart trousers and stout, muddy brogues. 'And it's about time one of you lot showed up,' he added vehemently, replacing the pipe in its customary corner where, Ryga noted, the mouth tilted down as though it had adjusted itself to the appendage over the years.

'Why do you say that?' he asked, curious.

'Because someone needs to find out who killed George Swinley.'

'You think he was murdered?'

'I do, and so do you, otherwise you wouldn't be here.'

'Why would someone want to kill George Swinley, Mr . . .?'

'Moore. Joseph. Don't know. He was a decent sort but I can tell you this: George knew this harbour and the quays like the back of his hand. Foggy, dark, blindfolded, he still wouldn't have fallen in.'

'He could have been taken ill.'

'Ah, he could, but I don't think he was.'

'Because he always seemed in the best of health.' Joseph Moore sniffed and looked a little sly before adding, 'Maybe he discovered something.'

'No idea. But being a policeman, he could have seen or heard something that was against the law, and before you ask, no, I don't know what it was, but some folks are always up to mischief.'

'Anyone particular come to mind?'

Ryga wasn't sure if that was the truth. Before he could press him though, Joseph Moore continued, 'George should have been a carpenter or shipwright – he was a skilled craftsman and loved building his boat. Then again, maybe it was best he became a copper because there's not much call for carpenters and shipwrights these days, whereas there's always work for policemen.'

'Not sad for you. Keeps you in a job. So who called the Yard in? Not Inspector Holden. He'd not want anyone from London tramping round his patch. Besides, the coroner said accidental death.'

'Mrs Swinley doesn't believe it was.'

'I thought as much,' Moore declared triumphantly.

'She spoke to you about it?'

'No, but I could see it in her eyes at the inquest and the funeral.'

Ryga was sceptical about that but he'd give Moore the benefit of doubt. 'You went to the funeral then?'

'Just said I did, didn't I?'

'The least I could do was to pay my respects. George and I used to have a fair old chat while he worked on his boat. We'd talk about the sea, the ships, his boat, but never about his work. Man's entitled to leave his job behind him and enjoy his leisure is what I say. I live over there.'

He pointed to the corrugated hut with its dribbling smoke chimney. 'Been there since my house copped it in 'forty-two. All went west including the misses. I was on fire watch at the engineering works over at North Quay.'

Moore shrugged his bony shoulders. 'I'm not the only one. Mrs Swinley was kind to me then and has been ever since. We had no kids, me and Molly, just like her and George. She always asks if I'm eating properly and often makes me up a dinner and brings it over to the hut. My cooking facilities being limited, like. She does a lot of charitable work round these parts at St Margaret's.'

'The church?' Ryga asked, recalling that PC Jenkins had mentioned it.

'Yes, in South Road. I saw that look in Myra's eyes when she watched that coffin being lowered in the ground. She wasn't sad, more like puzzled.'

'That's not unusual. Confusion is a natural reaction to losing a loved one.'

'I know, but it wasn't like that,' Moore said firmly. 'It was . . .' He took a breath and sucked on his pipe as he seemed to search for the right words to describe what he meant. 'It was more like she was anxious. It's difficult to describe.'

Ryga still wasn't sure if Moore was simply making this up to appear interesting and mysterious to the 'Man from the Yard.' He thought Moore was probably lonely and still grieving for his wife. But that didn't mean Ryga should dismiss what Moore said. He could have a critical eye and an insightful knowledge of humanity. And Ryga always considered anyone worth listening to in a murder investigation, if George's death was murder, and that was looking increasingly more probable. Besides, Moore was correct in his analysis of Myra Swinley's reaction because she had ended up at the Yard.

He said, 'Mrs Swinley is missing.'

Moore's pipe drooped as his mouth fell open. His lined face creased with concern. 'And that's not all that's missing. George's boat has gone.'

It was Ryga's turn to be surprised. His mind raced with this latest news. He didn't like the sound of this but he just couldn't see Myra going off in it. She had said she was a landlubber. Not that it meant she couldn't, and wouldn't, take her late husband's boat out to sea. But why should she? Could she have done so in order to end her life?

'It was here Thursday night,' Moore declared, 'when I left for the pub about seven, and it's not here now. I can't see Myra taking it out, although I suppose it is possible, but George said she was frightened of being on the sea. And, besides, she wouldn't know how to handle it.'

That confirmed it for Ryga. 'Did you see it when you returned from the pub?'

'It was dark. I didn't really notice.'

'Why didn't you report it missing yesterday?'

'Because I didn't know it was. I went out early and got back late Friday and both times it was dark. I had the chance of a day's work over at North Quay so took it. I was dog tired when I got back. I had something to eat, drank a bottle of beer, which I had fetched from the pub on my way home, read the newspaper then went to bed. I only just noticed it was missing this morning, when you showed up, and I'm reporting it now, to you.'

Ryga wondered if any of the other boat owners or the harbour master had noticed it missing. If so, why not report it knowing that its owner was dead? But then, maybe they thought Myra Swinley had organized its removal or sold it. 'Could it have come adrift on high water?'

'No. It was tethered to that buoy.' Moore pointed to where the two upturned boats lay. And the rope's not been cut. It's probably been stolen by some light-fingered blighter who, knowing George was dead and buried, thought they could help themselves.'

Moore could be right. By now it could have been repainted and renamed. Nevertheless, he asked Moore to describe the boat to him and jotted down the details, noting it was a fairly ordinary, small wooden boat, varnished a mahogany brown, with nothing particularly distinctive about it. There were probably several similar along the shore. The name Sunrise was painted on its hull in bright yellow. Moore confirmed it had oars and an outboard engine, a Johnson five-horse-powered one, not terribly powerful but still of value to a thief.

As though reading his thoughts, Moore said, 'George used to take the outboard and oars home in a wheelbarrow, especially during the winter, but he died before he could this time and Mrs Swinley probably didn't think to do it.'

'You could have offered to do it for her.'

Moore looked regretful. 'I could and should have.'

Ryga would ask Inspector Holden if his officers could look out for the boat although he didn't hold much hope of finding it. He said, 'If you hear any news of it will you let me know? You can leave a message at the police station.'

Moore promised he would. 'George would have liked a sailboat. He always said that his next project was to build one, but he won't now.'

No, thought Ryga. 'Was this part of George's beat?

'No. His beat stopped further up Fort Road at the junction with Chapel Street. Then he'd head north instead of coming down here, south.'

'So you didn't see him the night he disappeared?'

Ryga thought it worth his while talking to the harbour master who might know more about Swinley and his missing boat. He asked where he could locate him.

'That's Peter Hailsham. You'll find him at the Watch House just over there.' Once again, the pipe came out and Ryga followed its direction to a yellow building with a red roof in the northernmost corner of Sleeper's Hole.

He thanked Moore and headed towards it. Removing his hat, he entered the stuffy building where a smouldering coal fire was giving off more smoke than heat. After introducing himself with a show of his warrant card to a man in his mid-twenties, Ryga asked to see the harbour master. A few minutes later a strong-featured man with a heavily lined face, jutting chin and beetling grey eyebrows under a permanently creased forehead appeared from the backroom. Ryga felt it was difficult to put an age on him. He could have been anywhere between forty-five and sixty-five. He was lean and tall but stooped, and his skin was slightly jaundiced, as were the whites of his eyes. He introduced himself with a firm but brief shake of his hand as Peter Hailsham and asked Ryga to follow him outside. Ryga was glad to do so even though the December day seemed intent on chilling him to his bones, despite his hat, coat and scarf. Hailsham offered Ryga a cigarette, which he refused.

'When was the last time you saw Constable Swinley?' Ryga began.

'The Monday before he went missing,' Hailsham answered, discarding the match and drawing on his cigarette. Ryga noted his heavily nicotine stained fingers. 'He was on duty?'

'No, this was just after one o'clock. He was going down to work on his boat.'

'Chatty, pleasant. We talked about the weather, the boat movements, the things people find washed up on West Beach.'

'Why the latter?' asked Ryga, wondering if it was of significance but not seeing how it could be.

'It's always a topic of interest around these parts. Sometimes its explosives, sometimes bits of cargo, other times it's what's left of some poor soul who took his life. You've no doubt had a few of them in the Thames.'

Ryga said that sadly he had.

Hailsham continued, 'That's what might have happened to the owner of that.'

He pointed to the Motor Torpedo Boat, which Ryga had noticed earlier from Myra's window. It had been stripped of its weaponry and from the outside looked to have been skilfully converted into a home.

'It was found drifting in the English Channel four weeks ago tomorrow, on the twelfth of November,' Hailsham said. 'The captain on one of the cargo ships spotted her and the coastguard and customs launch brought her back here, to Newhaven. It's not registered here, or at any of the ports on the south coast, but she could have come from further afield, or even from France. She's a lovely craft. I've been on board. She's been beautifully refitted and cared for, but there's nothing to tell us who the owner is. No logbook or papers. No suicide letter either but then maybe the owner didn't feel like writing one, or had no one left to tell,' Hailsham added a little mournfully. Ryga saw the sadness in his eyes and wondered, if Hailsham, like many, had lost loved ones in the war.

Hailsham coughed chestily before continuing, 'Still, you're not here to talk about that but about Swinley. Personally, despite what the coroner said, I can't see George losing his footing.'

'The fog was pretty thick.' Like Thursday night, thought Ryga, when Myra had vanished.

Hailsham sucked on his cigarette.

'When did you last see George's boat, Sunrise?'

'A couple of days ago. Why?' Hailsham looked perplexed.

'Who told you that?'

'Then he should know.' He gazed southwards, frowning in thought, almost as though he was looking for Sunrise. 'It was there Thursday morning,' he said after a moment. 'But I can't swear to seeing it after that. Someone must have stolen it.'

'That's what Moore thinks. Any idea who?'

'A few scoundrels spring to mind. I'll pass their names on to the beat constable. They might have taken it further up the harbour into the River Ouse. Whoever took it might have done so just for the engine, which they can sell, but they'd be fools to try and do so around these parts – word would soon get around. They could have taken the boat out of the harbour though, perhaps along Seaford Bay, and put in somewhere there. The lighthouse staff at the end of East Pier might have spotted it. I'll ask them.' He sounded dubious though, and Ryga also thought it unlikely that they would have seen such a small boat in the bad weather.

Hailsham flicked his cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out with his shoe.

'Did you attend Constable Swinley's funeral and the wake?' asked Ryga.

'Only the funeral.' Hailsham looked puzzled. 'Why all the questions, Inspector? I told Inspector Holden and the coroner everything I know, which is nothing. I didn't see George the night he vanished and I have no idea how he ended up wedged by the gridiron over at Railway Quay.' He jerked his head northwards. He took another cigarette from the packet but didn't light it. Ryga noted his shaking hands. 'Has new information come to light?'

'Mrs Swinley has doubts about the manner of her husband's death.'

Hailsham raised his eyebrows as if to say, And that brought Scotland Yard running.

'And she's missing.'

Hailsham's eyes widened with surprise, then narrowed. He ran a hand over his chin and frowned. 'I see,' he said slowly. Ryga could see him mentally trying to join up the dots.

'We're concerned for her safety.'

'And you don't think she's gone off and done herself in, otherwise you wouldn't be here. Holden would be on the case.'

'I'm assisting the local police.'

'More like they're assisting you.'

'When did you last see Mrs Swinley?' Ryga asked.

'At the funeral a week ago.'

'And she said nothing to you about her husband's death or mentioned anything that now with hindsight seems curious?'

A voice hailed Hailsham. It was the man from his office. 'You're wanted on the telephone.'

He threw Ryga an apologetic glance. 'I'll let you know if I pick up any information about Sunrise.'

Ryga watched him hurry away and then consulted his street map. He thought he might get some information about Myra from the vicar, who was also the last person to see PC Swinley before he disappeared on the 7 November.