Читать книгу Brought in Dead - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 8

Henry Wade was fat and balding and his several chins and horn-rimmed spectacles gave him the deceptively benign air of a prosperous publican or back street bookie. He was neither. He was head of the department’s Forensic section with the rank of Detective Inspector and the ready smile concealed a brain that in action had the cutting edge of a razor.

When Miller went into the small office at one end of the police lab, he found Wade at his desk filling in a report, covering the paper with the neat italic script that was his special pride.

He turned and smiled. ‘Hello, Nick, I was wondering when you’d turn up.’

‘Anything for me?’

‘Not much, I’m afraid. Come on. I’ll show you.’

Miller followed him into the lab., nodding to the bench technicians as he passed. The girl’s clothing was laid out neatly on a table by the window.

Wade went through the items one by one. ‘The stockings are a well-known brand sold everywhere and the underwear she bought at Marks & Spencer’s along with just about every other girl in the country these days.’

‘What about the dress?’

‘Reasonably expensive, but once again, a well-known brand name available at dozens of shops and stores. One interesting point. Just below the maker’s label, a name tab’s been torn out.’

He picked up the dress pointing with a pair of tweezers and Miller nodded. ‘I noticed.’

‘I had a hunch about that. We matched up a piece of the tab that was still attached to the dress and my hunch paid off. It’s a Cash label. You must have seen them. Little white tabs with the individual’s name woven in red. People buy them for schoolchildren or students going away to college.’

Miller nodded. ‘Thousands of people, including my sister-in-law. Her two kids have them sewn into just about every damned thing they own. Is that all?’

‘No – one other thing. When we checked the nail scrapings we discovered a minute quantity of oil paint. There were one or two spots on the dress, too.’

‘An artist?’ Miller said. ‘That’s something.’

‘Don’t be too certain. Lots of people do a little painting these days.’ Henry Wade grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘You shouldn’t have joined, Nick lad. You shouldn’t have joined.’

Grant was still working away at his desk when Miller peered round the door. ‘Got a minute?’

‘Just about.’ Grant sat back and lit a cigarette. ‘How’s it going?’

‘So far, not so good, but it was something else I wanted to mention. What do you know about a man called Vernon?’

‘Max Vernon, the bloke from London who took over Faulkner’s casino and betting shops?’ Grant shrugged. ‘Not much. The Chief introduced him to me at the Conservative Ball. Obviously a gentleman. Public school and all that sort of thing.’

‘Right down to his Old Etonian tie.’ Miller suppressed a strong desire to burst into laughter. ‘He’s leaning on Chuck Lazer.’

‘He’s what?’ Grant said incredulously.

‘It’s true enough,’ Miller said. ‘I was chatting to Lazer in the Square outside his place when Vernon turned up with a couple of heavies named Carver and Stratton. No comic Vaudeville act those two, believe me. Vernon wants a piece of the Berkley Club. He’ll pay for it of course, all nice and legal, but Chuck Lazer better play ball or else …’

Grant was a different man as he flicked one of the switches on his intercom. ‘Records? Get on to C.R.O. in London at once. I want everything they’ve got on Max Vernon and two men now working for him called Carver and Stratton. Top priority.’

He turned back to Miller. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing much. Vernon didn’t say anything in the slightest way incriminating. On the face of it, he’s making a perfectly legitimate business offer.’

‘Did he know who you were?’

‘Not until Lazer introduced us.’

Grant got up and walked to the window. ‘I don’t like the sound of this at all.’

‘It certainly raises interesting possibilities,’ Miller said. ‘Those houses Faulkner was running in Gascoigne Square. His call-girl racket. Has Vernon taken those over too?’

‘An intriguing thought.’ Grant sighed heavily. ‘It never rains but it pours. Try and look in this afternoon at about three. I should have heard from C.R.O. by then.’

When Miller went back into the main C.I.D. room a young P.C. was hovering beside his desk. ‘I took a message for you while you were in with the super, sergeant.’

‘Who from?’

‘Jack Brady. He said he was ringing from St Gemma’s Roman Catholic Church in Walthamgate. He’d like you to join him there as soon as you can.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes – he said to tell you that he thinks he’s traced the girl.’

The lights in the little church were very dim and down by the altar the candles flickered and the figure of the Virgin in the chapel to one side seemed to float there in the darkness.

For Miller, this was unfamiliar territory and he paused, waiting as Jack Brady dipped a knee, crossing himself reverently. The man they had come to see knelt in prayer at the altar and when he got to his feet and came towards them, Miller saw that he was very old, the hair silvery in the subdued light.

Brady made the introductions. ‘Father Ryan, this is Detective Sergeant Nick Miller.’

The old man smiled and took Miller’s hand in a grip that was surprisingly firm. ‘Jack and I are old friends, sergeant. For fifteen years or more he ran the boxing team for me at the Dockside Mission boys’ club. Shall we sit in the porch? A pity to miss the sunshine. It’s been a hard winter.’

Brady opened the door and Father Ryan preceded them. He sat on the polished wooden bench that over-looked the quiet graveyard with the row of cypress trees lining the road beyond the high wall.

‘I understand you might be able to help us with our enquiry, Father,’ Miller said.

The old man nodded. ‘Could I see the photo again?’

Miller passed it across and for a moment there was silence as Father Ryan examined it. He sighed heavily. ‘Poor girl. Poor wee girl.’

‘You know her?’

‘She called herself Joanna Martin.’

‘Called herself …?’

‘That’s right. I don’t think it was her real name.’

‘Might I ask why?’

Father Ryan smiled faintly. ‘Like you, I deal with people, sergeant. Human beings in the raw. Let’s say one develops an instinct.’

Miller nodded. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘She first came to my church about three months ago. I noticed something different about her at once. This is a twilight area, most of the houses in multiple occupation, the tenants constantly coming and going. Joanna was obviously the product of a safer more ordered world. She was out of her element.’

‘Can you tell us where she lived?’

‘She had a room with a Mrs Kilroy, a parishioner of mine. It’s not far from here. I’ve given Detective Constable Brady the address.’

Somehow, the fact that he had used Brady’s official title seemed to underline a new formality in the interchange. It was as if he were preparing himself for the question that he knew must come.

‘I know this must be a difficult situation for you, Father,’ Miller said gently. ‘But this girl had problems and they must have been pretty desperate to make her take the way out that she did. Can you throw any light on them?’

Brady cleared his throat awkwardly and shuffled his feet. The old man shook his head. ‘For me, the secrecy of the confessional must be absolute. Surely you must be aware of that, sergeant.’

Miller nodded. ‘Of course, Father. I won’t press you any further. You’ve already helped us a great deal.’

Father Ryan stood up and held out his hand. ‘If I can help in any other way, don’t hesitate to get in touch.’

Brady was already moving away. Miller started to follow and hesitated. ‘One more thing, Father. I understand there could be some difficulty regarding burial because of the manner of death.’

‘Not in this case,’ Father Ryan said firmly. ‘There are several mitigating circumstances. I intend raising the matter with the Bishop personally. I may say with some certainty that I foresee little difficulty.’

Miller smiled. ‘I’m glad.’

‘Forgive me for saying so, but you appear to have some personal interest here? May I ask why?’

‘I pulled her out of the river myself,’ Miller told him. ‘Something I’m not likely to forget in a hurry. I know one thing – I’d like to get my hands on whoever was responsible.’

Father Ryan sighed. ‘It’s a strange thing, but in spite of the fact that most people believe priests to be somehow cut off from the real world, I come face to face with more human wickedness in a week than the average man does in a lifetime.’ He smiled gently. ‘And I still believe that at heart, most human beings are good.’

‘I wish I could agree, Father,’ Miller said sombrely. ‘I wish I could agree.’ He turned and walked away quickly to where Jack Brady waited at the gate.

Mrs Kilroy was a large, unlovely widow with flaming red hair that had come straight out of a bottle and a thin mouth enlarged by orange lipstick into an obscene gash.

‘I keep a respectable place here, I’ve never had any trouble before,’ she said as she led the way up-stairs.

‘No trouble, Mrs Kilroy,’ Brady said persuasively. ‘We just want to see the room, that’s all, and ask a few questions.’

The landing was long and dark, its polished lino covered by a thin strip of worn carpeting. The door at the far end was locked. She produced a bunch of keys, opened it and led the way in.

The room was surprisingly large and furnished in Victorian mahogany. The curtains at the only window were partially closed, the traffic sounds outside muted and unreal as if from another world and a thin bar of sunlight fell across the floor adding a new richness to the faded colours of the old Indian carpet.

It was the neatness that was so surprising and the cleanliness. The bed had been stripped, the blankets folded into squares and stacked at one end of the mattress and the top of the dressing table had quite obviously been dusted. Miller opened one or two of the empty drawers, closed them again and turned.

‘And this is exactly how you found the room this morning?’

Mrs Kilroy nodded. ‘She came and knocked on my door last night at about ten o’clock.’

‘Had she been out?’

‘I wouldn’t know. She told me she’d be moving today.’

‘Did she say why?’

Mrs Kilroy shook her head. ‘I didn’t ask. I was more interested in getting a week’s rent in lieu of notice, which was the agreement.’

‘And she paid?’

‘Without a murmur. Mind you there was never any trouble over her rent, I’ll say that. Not like some.’

Brady had busied himself during the conversation in moving around the room, checking all drawers and cupboards. Now he turned and shook his head. ‘Clean as a whistle.’

‘Which means that when she left, she must have taken everything with her.’ Miller turned to Mrs Kilroy. ‘Did you see her go?’

‘Last time I saw her was about half ten. She knocked on the door and told me she’d some rubbish to burn. Asked if she could put it in the central heating furnace in the cellar.’

‘Have you been down there since?’

‘No need. It has an automatic stoking system. Only needs checking every two days.’

‘I see.’ Miller walked across to the window and pulled back the curtains. ‘Let’s go back to when you last saw her. Did she seem worried or agitated?’

Mrs Kilroy shook her head quickly. ‘She was just the same as she always was.’

‘And yet she killed herself less than three hours later.’

‘God have mercy on her.’ There was genuine horror in Mrs Kilroy’s voice and she crossed herself quickly.

‘What else can you tell me about her? I understand she’d been a tenant of yours for about three months.’

‘That’s right. She arrived on the doorstep one afternoon with a couple of suitcases. As it happened, I had a vacancy and she offered a month’s rent in advance in lieu of references.’

‘What did you think of her?’

Mrs Kilroy shrugged. ‘She didn’t really fit in. Too much of the lady for a district like this. I never asked questions, I always mind my own business, but if anyone had a story to tell it was her.’

‘Father Ryan doesn’t seem to think Joanna Martin was her real name.’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised.’

‘What did she do for a living?’

‘She paid her rent on time and never caused any trouble. Whatever she did was her own business. One thing – she had an easel set up in here. Used to paint in oils. I once asked her if she was a student, but she said it was only a hobby.’

‘Did she go out much – at night, for instance?’

‘She could have been out all night and every night as far as I was concerned. All my lodgers have their own keys.’ She shrugged. ‘More often than not I’m out myself.’

‘Did anyone ever call for her?’

‘Not that I noticed. She kept herself to herself. The only outstanding thing I do remember is that sometimes she looked really ill. I had to help her up the stairs one day. I wanted to call the doctor, but she said it was just her monthly. I saw her later that afternoon and she looked fine.’

Which was how one would expect her to look after a shot of heroin and Miller sighed. ‘Anything else?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Mrs Kilroy hesitated. ‘If she had a friend at all, it was the girl in number four – Monica Grey.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I’ve seen them going out together, mainly in the afternoons.’

‘Is she in now?’

‘Should be. As far as I know, she works nights in one of these gaming clubs.’

Miller turned to Brady. ‘I’ll have a word with her. You get Mrs Kilroy to show you where the furnace is. See what you can find.’

The door closed behind them and Miller stood there in the quiet, listening. But there was nothing here – this room had no personality. It was as if she had never been here at all and after all, what did he really know about her? At the moment she existed only as a series of apparently contradictory facts. A well-bred girl, she had come down to living in a place like this. A sincere Catholic, she had committed suicide. Educated and intelligent, but also a drug addict.

None of it made any sense at all and he went along the corridor and knocked at number four. There was an immediate reply and he opened the door and entered.

She was standing in front of the dressing table, her back to the door and dressed, as far as he could judge in that first moment, in stockings and a pair of dark briefs. In the mirror, he was aware of her breasts, high and firm, and then her eyes widened.

‘I thought it was Mrs Kilroy.’

Miller stepped back into the corridor smartly, closing the door. A moment later it opened again and she stood there laughing at him, an old nylon housecoat belted around her waist.

‘Shall we try again?’

Her voice was hoarse but not unattractive with a slight Liverpool accent and she had a turned-up nose that gave her a rather gamin charm.

‘Miss Grey?’ Miller produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Miller – Central C.I.D. I wonder if I might have a word with you?’

Her smile slipped fractionally and a shadow seemed to cross her eyes as she stepped back and motioned him in. ‘What have I done now? Over-parked or something?’

There were times when the direct approach produced the best results and Miller tried it now. ‘I’m making enquiries into the death of Joanna Martin. I understand you might be able to help me.’

It had the effect of a physical blow. She seemed to stagger slightly, then turned, groped for the end of the bed and sank down.

‘I believe you were pretty good friends,’ Miller continued.

She stared up at him blindly then suddenly got to her feet, pushed him out of the way and ran for the bathroom. He stood there, a slight frown on his face and there was a knock on the outside door. He opened it to find Jack Brady waiting.

‘Any luck?’ Miller asked.

Brady held up an old canvas bag. ‘I found all sorts in the ash-pan. What about this for instance?’

He produced a triangular piece of metal, blackened and twisted by the fire, and Miller frowned. ‘This is a corner piece off a suitcase.’

‘That’s right,’ Brady shook the bag in his right hand. ‘If the bits and pieces in here are anything to go by, I’d say she must have put every damned thing she owned into that furnace.’

‘Including her suitcase? She certainly wasn’t leaving anything to chance.’ Miller sighed. ‘All right, Jack. Take that little lot down to the car and put in a call to H.Q. See if they’ve anything for us. I shan’t be long.’

He lit a cigarette, moved to the window and looked out into the back garden. Behind him the bathroom door opened and Monica Grey emerged.

She looked a lot brighter as she came forward and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Sorry about that. It was rather a shock. Joanna was a nice kid.’ She hesitated and then continued. ‘How – how did it happen?’

‘She jumped in the river.’ Miller gave her a cigarette and lit it for her. ‘Mrs Kilroy tells me you were good friends.’

Monica Grey took the smoke deep into her lungs and exhaled with a sigh of pleasure. ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly. I went to the cinema with her sometimes in the afternoons or she came in for a coffee, mainly because she happened to live next door.’

‘You never went out with her at any other time?’

‘I couldn’t – I work nights. I’m a croupier at a gaming club in Gascoigne Square – the Flamingo.’

‘Max Vernon’s place?’

She nodded. ‘Have you been there?’

‘A long time ago. Tell me about Joanna? Where did she come from?’

Monica Grey shook her head. ‘She never discussed her past. She always seemed to live entirely in the present.’

‘What did she do for a living?’

‘Nothing as far as I could tell. She spent a lot of time painting, but only as a hobby. I know one thing – she was never short of money.’

‘What about boy friends?’

‘As far as I know, she didn’t have any.’

‘Didn’t that seem strange to you? She was an attractive girl.’

‘That’s true, but she had her problems.’ She appeared to hesitate and then went on. ‘If you’ve seen her body you must know what I’m getting at. She was a junkie.’

‘How did you know that?’

‘I went into her room to borrow a pair of stockings one day and found her giving herself a shot. She asked me to keep quiet about it.’

‘Which you did?’

Monica Grey shrugged. ‘None of my affair how she got her kicks. It was one hell of a shame, but there was nothing I could do about it.’

‘She was a Catholic,’ Miller said, ‘did you know that?’

She nodded. ‘She went to church nearly every day.’

‘And yet she killed herself after burning everything she owned in the central heating furnace downstairs and ripping the name tab out of the dress she was wearing when she died. It’s only by chance that we’ve managed to trace her this far and when we do, nobody seems to know anything about her. Wouldn’t you say that was peculiar?’

‘She was a strange kid. You could never tell what was going on beneath the surface.’

‘Father Ryan doesn’t seem to think that Joanna Martin was her real name.’

‘If that’s true, she certainly never gave me any clue.’

Miller nodded, turned and paced across the room. He paused suddenly. The table against the wall was littered with sketches, mainly fashion drawings, some in pen and ink, others colour-washed. All showed indications of real talent.

‘Yours?’ he said.

Monica Grey stood up and walked across. ‘That’s right. Like them?’

‘Very much. Did you go to the College of Art?’

‘For two years. That’s what brought me here in the first place.’

‘What made you give it up?’

She grinned. ‘Forty quid a week at the Flamingo plus a dress allowance.’

‘Attractive alternative.’ Miller dropped the sketch he was holding. ‘Well, I don’t think I need bother you any more.’ He walked to the door, paused and turned. ‘Just one thing. You do understand that if I can’t trace her family, I may have to ask you to make the formal identification?’

She stood there staring at him, her face very white, and he closed the door and went downstairs. There was a pay ’phone fixed to the wall by the door and Brady leaned beside it filling his pipe.

He glanced up quickly. ‘Any joy?’

‘Not really, but I’ve a feeling we’ll be seeing her again.’

‘I got through to H.Q. There was a message for you from Chuck Lazer. Apparently he’s been passing round the copy of the photo you gave him. He’s come up with a registered addict who sold her a couple of pills outside the all-night chemist’s in City Square just after midnight. If you guarantee no charge, he’s agreed to make a statement.’

‘That’s all right by me,’ Miller said. ‘You handle it, will you? I’ll drop you off at Cork Square and you can go and see Chuck right away. I’ve a ’phone call to make first.’

‘Anything special?’

‘Just a hunch. The girl liked to paint, we’ve established that. Another thing – that name tab she ripped out of her dress was a type commonly bought by students. I’m wondering if there might be a connection.’

He found the number he wanted and dialled quickly. The receiver was picked up almost at once at the other end and a woman’s voice said, ‘College of Art.’

‘Put me through to the registrar’s office please.’

There was a momentary delay and then a pleasant Scottish voice cut in, ‘Henderson here.’

‘Central C.I.D. Detective Sergeant Miller. I’m making enquiries concerning a girl named Joanna Martin and I’ve good reason to believe she might have been a student at your college during the last couple of years. Would it take you long to check?’

‘No more than thirty seconds, sergeant,’ Henderson said crisply. ‘We’ve a very comprehensive filing system.’ A moment later he was back. ‘Sorry, no student of that name. I could go back further if you like.’

‘No point,’ Miller said. ‘She wasn’t old enough.’

He replaced the receiver and turned to Brady. ‘Another possibility we can cross off.’

‘What now?’ Brady demanded.

‘I still think there’s a lot in this idea of Father Ryan’s that Martin wasn’t her real name. If that’s true, it’s just possible she’s been listed as a missing person by someone or other. You go and see Chuck Lazer and I’ll drop round to the Salvation Army and see if a chat with Martha Broadribb produces anything.’

Brady grinned. ‘Don’t end up beating a drum for her on Sundays.’

But Miller had to force a smile in reply and as he went down the steps to the car, his face was grim and serious. At the best of times a good copper was guided as much by instinct as solid fact and there was something very wrong here, something much more serious than appeared on the surface of things and all his training, all his experience told him as much.