Читать книгу Brought in Dead - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 7

Detective Superintendent Bruce Grant, head of the city’s Central Division C.I.D., stood at the window of his office drinking a cup of tea and stared out morosely at the driving rain. He had a slight headache and his liver was acting up again. He was getting old, he decided – old and fat through lack of exercise and the stack of paperwork waiting on his desk didn’t help. He lit a cigarette, his first of the day, sat down and started on the In-tray.

The first report was headed Found Dead – Unidentified. Grant read it through, a slight frown on his face, and pressed the button on his intercom.

‘Is Sergeant Miller in?’

‘I believe he’s in the canteen, sir,’ a neutral voice replied.

‘Get him for me, will you?’

Miller arrived five minutes later, immaculate in a dark blue worsted suit and freshly laundered white shirt. Only the skin that was stretched a little too tightly over the high cheekbones gave any hint of fatigue.

‘I thought you were supposed to be having a rest day?’ Grant said.

‘So did I, but I’m due in court at ten when Macek is formally charged. I’m asking for a ten-day remand. That girl’s going to be in hospital for at least a week.’

Grant tapped the form on his desk. ‘I don’t like the look of this one.’

‘The girl I pulled out of the river?’

‘That’s right. Are you certain there was no identification?’

Miller took an envelope from his pocket and produced a small gold medallion on the end of a slender chain. ‘This was around her neck.’

Grant picked it up. ‘St Christopher.’

‘Have a look on the back.’

The engraving had been executed by an expert: To Joanna from Daddy – 1955. Grant looked up, frowning. ‘And this was all?’

Miller nodded. ‘She was wearing stockings, the usual in underclothes, and a reasonably expensive dress. One rather sinister point. Just beneath the maker’s label there was obviously some sort of name tab. It’s been torn out.’

Grant sighed heavily. ‘Do you think she might have been put in?’

Miller shook his head. ‘Not a chance. There isn’t a mark on her.’

‘Then it doesn’t make sense,’ Grant said. ‘Suicide’s an irrational act at the best of times. Are you asking me to accept that this girl was so cold-blooded about it that she took time off to try to conceal her identity?’

‘It’s the only thing that makes sense.’

‘Then what about the chain? Why didn’t she get rid of that, too?’

‘When you habitually wear a thing like that you tend to forget about it,’ Miller said. ‘Or maybe it meant a lot to her – especially as she was a Catholic.’

‘That’s another thing – a Catholic committing suicide.’

‘It’s been known.’

‘But not very often. There are times when such things as statistical returns and probability tables have their uses in this work – or didn’t they teach you that at the staff college? What have Missing Persons got to offer?’

‘Nothing yet,’ Miller said. ‘There’s time of course. She looks old enough to have been out all night. Someone could conceivably wait for a day or two before reporting her missing.’

‘But you don’t think so?’

‘Do you?’

Grant looked at the form again and shook his head. ‘No, I’d say anything we’re going to find out about this one, we’ll have to dig up for ourselves.’

‘Can I have it?’

Grant nodded. ‘Autopsy isn’t mandatory in these cases but I think I’ll ask the County Coroner to authorise one. You never know what might turn up.’

He reached for the ’phone and Miller went back into the main C.I.D. room and sat down at his desk. There was an hour to fill before his brief court appearance – a good opportunity to get rid of some of the paperwork in his In-tray.

For some reason he found it impossible to concentrate. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, and her face rose out of the darkness to meet him, still that faint look of surprise in the eyes, the lips slightly parted. It was as if she was about to speak, to tell him something but that was impossible.

God, but he was tired. He settled back in his chair and cat-napped, awaking at exactly five minutes to ten feeling curiously refreshed, but when he went downstairs and crossed the square to the county court building, it wasn’t the Macek case he was thinking about.

The City Mortuary was at the back of the Medical School, a large, ugly building in Victorian Gothic with stained glass windows by the entrance. Inside, it was dark and cool with green tiled walls and a strange aseptic smell that was vaguely unpleasant.

Jack Palmer, the Senior Technician, was sitting at his desk in the small glass office at the end of the corridor. He turned and grinned as Miller paused in the doorway.

‘Don’t tell me – let me guess.’

‘Anything for me?’ Miller asked.

‘Old Murray’s handled it himself. Hasn’t had time to make out his report yet, but he’ll be able to tell you what you need to know. He’s cleaning up now.’

Miller peered through the glass wall into the white tiled hall outside the theatre and saw the tall, spare form of the University Professor of Pathology emerge from the theatre, the front of his white gown stained with blood.

‘Can I go in?’

Palmer nodded. ‘Help yourself.’

Professor Murray had removed his gown and was standing at the sluice, washing his hands and arms, when Miller entered. He smiled, speaking with the faint Scots accent of his youth that he had never been able to lose.

‘Hardly the time of year to go swimming, especially in that open sewer we call a river. I trust you’ve been given suitable injections?’

‘If I start feeling ill I’ll call no one but you,’ Miller said, ‘that’s a promise.’

Murray reached for a towel and started to dry his arms. ‘They tell me you don’t know who the girl is?’

‘That’s right. Of course she may be reported missing by someone within the next day or two.’

‘But you don’t think so? May I ask why?’

‘It’s not the usual kind of suicide. The pattern’s all wrong. For one thing, the indications are that she did everything possible to conceal her identity before killing herself.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s no chance that she was dumped, is there? Drugged beforehand or something like that?’

Murray shook his head. ‘Impossible – the eyes were still open. It’s funny you should mention drugs though.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ll show you.’

It was cold in the theatre and the heavy antiseptic smell could not wholly smother the sickly-sweet stench of death. Her body lay on the slab in the centre of the room covered with a rubber sheet. Murray raised the edge and lifted the left arm.

‘Take a look.’

The marks of the needle were plainly visible and Miller frowned. ‘She was a junkie?’

Murray nodded. ‘My tests indicate that she had an injection consisting of two grains of heroin and one of cocaine approximately half an hour before she died.’

‘And when would you say that was?’

‘Let’s see now. You pulled her out just before six, didn’t you? I’d say she’d been in the water about five hours.’

‘Which means she went in at one a.m.’

‘Or thereabouts. One can’t be exact. It was a cold night.’

‘Anything else?’

‘What can I tell you? She was about nineteen, well nurtured. I’d say she’d been raised in more than comfortable surroundings.’

‘Was she a virgin?’

‘Anything but – two months pregnant.’ He shook his head and added dryly, ‘A young woman very well acquainted with the sexual act.’

‘What about her clothes?’

‘A chap was here from your Forensic Department. He took them away along with the usual things. Scrapings from under the fingernails, hair samples and so on.’

Miller moved to the other side of the slab, hesitated and then pulled back the rubber sheet revealing the face. Murray had closed the eyes and she looked calm and peaceful, the skin smooth and colourless.

Murray covered her again gently, his face sombre. ‘I think she was someone who had suffered a great deal. Too much for one so young.’

Miller nodded, unable to speak. That strange aching dryness clutched at his throat again and he turned away quickly. As he reached the door, Murray called softly, ‘Nick!’ Miller turned. ‘Keep me posted.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Miller said and the rubber doors swung together behind him.

As he went out into the pale morning sunshine, Jack Brady crossed the car park to meet him.

‘Grant thought you might need some help on this one. Have they finished the autopsy?’

Miller nodded. ‘Murray says she went into the river somewhere around one a.m. She was pregnant, by the way.’

Brady nodded calmly. ‘Anything else?’

‘She was a junkie. Heroin and cocaine.’

‘That should give us a lead.’ Brady took a buff envelope from his overcoat pocket. ‘I’ve checked with Forensic. They’ll have a report ready by noon. These are from Photography.’

Miller opened the envelope and examined the prints it contained. Those photography boys certainly knew their job. She might almost have been alive, an illusion helped by the fact that the photos had been taken before Murray had closed her eyes.

Brady took one and frowned. ‘A damned shame. She looks like a nice kid.’

‘Don’t they always?’ Miller slipped the other prints into his pocket. ‘I think I’ll go and see Dr Das. He knows just about every junkie in town.’

‘What about me?’

Miller took the gold St Christopher from his breast pocket and handed it over. ‘You’re a good Catholic, aren’t you, Jack?’

‘I go to Mass now and then.’

‘Maybe the girl did. There’s an inscription on the other side. Work your way round the parish priests. Someone may recognise her photo or even the medal.’

‘More shoe leather,’ Brady groaned.

‘Good for your soul this one. I’ll drop you off at the Cathedral if you like.’

They got into the car and Brady glanced at his copy of the girl’s photograph again before putting it away in his wallet. He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense, does it? Have you any idea what it’s like down there on the docks at that time in the morning?’

‘Just about the darkest and loneliest place in the world,’ Miller said.

Brady nodded. ‘One thing’s certain. She must have been pretty desperate. I’d like to know what got her into that state.’

‘So would I, Jack,’ Miller said. ‘So would I,’ and he released the handbrake and drove rapidly away.

Drug addicts are possibly the most difficult of all patients to handle and yet Dr Lal Das specialised in them. He was a tall cadaverous Indian, with an international reputation in the field, who persisted in running a general practice in one of the less salubrious parts of the city, a twilight area of tall, decaying Victorian houses.

He had just finished his morning calls and was having coffee in front of the surgery fire when Miller was shown in. Das smiled and waved him to a seat. ‘A pleasant surprise. You will join me?’

‘Thanks very much.’

Das went to the sideboard and returned with another cup. ‘A social call?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ Miller produced one of the photos. ‘Have you ever seen her before?’

Das shook his head. ‘Who is she?’

‘We don’t know. I pulled her out of the river this morning.’

‘Suicide?’

Miller nodded. ‘Professor Murray did an autopsy. She’d had a fix about half an hour before she died.’

‘What was the dosage?’

‘Two grains of heroin – one of cocaine.’

‘Then she can’t have been an addict for long. Most of my regulars are on five, six or seven grains of heroin alone. There were the usual tracks in her arm?’

‘Only a few.’

‘Which would seem to confirm my theory.’ Das sighed. ‘What a tragedy. She looks such a pleasant child.’ He handed the photo back. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help. You have no idea as to her identity at all?’

‘I was hoping she might be a registered addict.’

Das shook his head emphatically. ‘Definitely not. We have a new scheme operating under which all registered addicts must attend my clinic at St Gregory’s Hospital on Saturday mornings.’

‘Is this as well as their visits to their own doctor?’

Das nodded. ‘Believe me, sergeant, if she was registered I would know her.’

Miller swallowed the rest of his coffee. ‘I’d better get moving. Got a lot of ground to cover.’

‘Why not have a chat with Chuck Lazer?’ Das said. ‘If anyone could help, he could.’

‘That’s an idea,’ Miller said. ‘How is he these days? Still dry?’

‘For ten months now. A remarkable achievement, especially when one considers that his intake was of the order of seven grains of heroin and six of cocaine daily.’

‘I hear he’s running a small casino club now.’

‘Yes, the Berkley in Cork Square. Very exclusive. Haven’t you been?’

‘I got an invitation to the opening, but I couldn’t make it. Does he still play a good jazz piano?’

‘Oscar Peterson at his best couldn’t improve on him. I was there last Saturday. We were talking about you.’

‘I’ll drop in and see him,’ Miller said. ‘Where’s he living now?’

‘He has an apartment over the club. Very pleasant. He’ll probably be in bed now, mind you.’

‘I’ll take that chance.’

They went out into the hall. Das opened the front door and shook hands formally. ‘If I can help in any way …’

‘I’ll let you know,’ Miller said and he ran down the steps to the Mini-Cooper and drove away.

Cork Square was a green lung in the heart of the city, a few sycamore trees scattered here and there, the whole surrounded by quiet, grey-stone Georgian houses, most of them occupied by consultant physicians and barristers.

The entrance to the Berkley Club was a cream-painted door, its brass handle and plate shining in the sunlight. Even the neon sign was in perfect taste with the surroundings and had obviously been specially designed. Miller pulled in to the kerb, got out and looked up at the front of the building.

‘Hey, Nick, you old so-and-so! What gives?’

The cry echoed across the square and as he turned, Chuck Lazer moved out of the trees, a couple of Dalmatians straining ahead of him on twin leads. Miller went to meet him, leaving the path and crossing the damp grass.

‘Hello there, Chuck. What’s all this?’ He bent down to pat the eager dogs.

The American grinned. ‘Part of my new image. The customers love it. Gives the place tone. But never mind that. How are you? It’s been too long.’

He was bubbling over with genuine pleasure, the blue eyes sparkling. When Miller had first met him almost a year previously during a murder investigation, Lazer had been hopelessly hooked on heroin with the gaunt fleshless face of an emaciated saint. Now, there was meat on his bones and the neatly trimmed dark fringe beard combined with the expensive sports coat to give him a positively elegant appearance.

He slipped the dogs’ leads and the Dalmatians moved into the flower beds as he and Miller sat down on a bench.

‘I’ve just seen Das. He told me he’d been to the club. Gave me a glowing report.’ Miller offered him a cigarette. ‘On you too.’

Lazer grinned. ‘No need to worry about me, Nick. I’d cut my throat before I’d take another shot.’ He lit his cigarette and exhaled smoke in a blue cloud. ‘What did you want with Das – business?’

Miller produced one of the photos and passed it across. ‘Know her?’

Lazer shook his head. ‘Can’t say I do.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘Heh, isn’t that a morgue photograph?’

Miller nodded. ‘I pulled her out of the river this morning. Trouble is we can’t identify her.’

‘Suicide?’

‘That’s right. The autopsy showed she was an addict. I was hoping she might be registered, that Das might know her.’

‘And she isn’t? That makes it difficult.’

‘What’s the drug market like now, Chuck?’ Miller said. ‘Where would she get the stuff?’

‘Difficult to say. I’ve been out of circulation for quite a while, remember. As far as I know, there isn’t any really organised peddling if that’s what you mean. Remember where you first met me?’

Miller grinned. ‘Outside the all-night chemist’s in City Square.’

‘That’s where it changes hands. Most registered addicts see their doctor at his evening surgery and usually get a prescription dated for the following day. Legally, they can have it filled from midnight onwards which is why you always find a bunch waiting in the all-night chemist’s in any big city round about that time. The non-registered users hang around outside hoping to buy a few pills. They’re usually in luck. Quite a few doctors tend to over-prescribe.’

‘So all I have to do is go down to City Square at midnight and pass her photo around?’

‘If she was an addict, someone will recognise her, that’s for sure. The most exclusive club in the world.’

‘Thanks very much,’ Miller said. ‘I didn’t get any sleep last night either.’

‘You shouldn’t have joined.’ Lazer chuckled and then his smile faded.

Miller glanced across to the club as a dark blue Rolls eased in to the kerb. The first man to emerge was built like a pro wrestler, shoulders bulging massively under a dark blue overcoat. The driver came round to join him, a small, wiry man with jet black hair, and held open the rear door.

The man who got out was large and rather fleshy with hair so pale that it was almost white. He wore a single-breasted suit of dark grey flannel that was straight out of Savile Row, a white gardenia in the buttonhole, and carried himself with the habitual arrogance of a man who believes that he exists by a kind of divine right. The small man said something to him and they all turned and glanced at Lazer and Miller.

‘Friends of yours?’ Miller said as they moved across the grass.

Lazer shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly. The fancy boy is Max Vernon. Came up from London about four months ago and bought out Harry Faulkner. Took over his betting shops, the Flamingo Club – everything.’

‘What about his minders?’

‘The big boy’s called Carver – Simon Carver. The little guy’s the one to watch. Stratton – I don’t know his first name.’

‘Have they been leaning on you?’

Lazer bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. ‘Nothing quite so obvious. Let’s say I’ve got a very nice little business and Mr Vernon would like a piece of the action. For a consideration, of course. All nice and legal. Unfortunately, I’m not interested in selling.’

Vernon paused a couple of yards away, Carver and Stratton on either side of him. ‘Hello there, old man,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I was hoping to find you in. Time we had another little chat.’

‘Not in my book it isn’t,’ Lazer replied.

Carver took a step forward, but before anything could develop, Miller said quickly, ‘That’s an Old Etonian tie you’re wearing, did you know that?’

Vernon turned, his smile still hooked firmly into place. ‘How very gratifying. You’re the first person to recognise it since I’ve been here. Of course, we are a little far north.’

‘Dangerous country,’ Miller said. ‘We’ve been known to roll boulders down the hillside on unwary travellers – stone strangers.’

‘How fascinating.’ Vernon turned to Lazer. ‘Introduce me to your friend, Chuck.’

‘A pleasure,’ Lazer said. ‘Nick Miller. Detective Sergeant, Central C.I.D.’

Vernon hesitated momentarily and then extended his hand. ‘Always a pleasure to meet the law.’

Miller stayed where he was on the bench, hands tucked casually into his pockets. ‘I can’t say it’s mutual.’

‘You watch your mouth, copper,’ Carver said harshly.

He started to move, Lazer whistled twice and the Dalmatians arrived on the run. They stood beside him, pointing at Carver, something rumbling deep down in their throats.

Carver hesitated, obviously uncertain, and Miller laughed. ‘Know why they call them carriage dogs, Carver? They were specially bred during the eighteenth century as travelling companions to take care of highwaymen.’

Something glowed deep in Carver’s eyes and Vernon chuckled. ‘That’s damned good. Damned good.’ He grinned at Carver. ‘See, you learn something new every day of the week.’

He turned away without another word and walked back to the Rolls, Carver and Stratton hurrying after him. Lazer leaned down to fondle the ears of the two dogs and Miller said softly, ‘I think you could have trouble there, Chuck.’

‘If it comes, I’ll handle it.’

Miller shook his head. ‘You mean I’ll handle it and that’s an order.’ He got to his feet and grinned. ‘I’ve got to get moving.’

Lazer stood up and produced a small gold-edged card from his breast pocket. ‘I know it’s illegal to do it this way, but there’s a membership card. Why not drop in? It’s been a long time since I heard you play piano.’

‘I might just do that,’ Miller said and he turned and walked away across the grass.

As the Rolls-Royce moved out into the main traffic stream, Max Vernon leaned forward and slid back the glass panel of the partition.

‘This chap Miller,’ he said to Carver, ‘know anything about him?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘Then start digging. I want to know everything – everything there is to know.’

‘Any special reason?’ Carver said.

‘Well, let me put it this way. The only other copper I’ve ever met who made a practice of wearing sixty-guinea suits is doing a five stretch in the Ville for corruption.’

Carver’s eyes widened and Vernon closed the glass panel, leaned back in his seat and lit a cigarette, a slight smile on his face.