Jack Higgins - Brought in Dead

“Why move up here though?” Brady put in. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m not so sure,” Grant said. “Since the middle of last year there’s been open warfare in London between the four most powerful gangs, mainly over the protection racket. These things always run to a pattern. The villains carve each other up — in this case they’re even using shooters — and the police stand by to pick up the pieces when it’s all over. Nobody wins that kind of fight and Vernon was clever enough to realise that. As soon as he heard the first rumblings, he sold out to one of his rivals and dropped out of sight.”

“To reappear here?” Brady said.

Grant got to his feet and paced to the window. “I’ve always thought this might happen one day. That the London mobs would start looking for fresh fields. I’ll have to have a word with the old man about it.” He shook his head. “I’d love to know what Vernon’s been up to since he’s been here.”

“Maybe Chuck Lazer could give me a few pointers,” Miller said.

Grant swung round, his face brightening. “That’s a thought. See what you can get out of him.”

“I’ll do my best,” Miller said, “but don’t expect too much. To a certain extent Lazer’s on the other side of the fence, remember. I’ll keep you posted.”

He returned to the main C.I.D. room and Brady followed him. “What now?”

“About the girl?” Miller shrugged. “I’m still considering. There are one or two interesting possibilities.”

He pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and the gold medal and chain fell to the floor. Brady picked it up and examined the inscription again. “At least we know one thing for certain — her Christian name.”

Miller paused in the act of lighting his cigarette. “My God, I must be losing my touch.”

“What do you mean?” Brady asked.

“I’m remembering something Martha Broadribb told me. How most people who go missing hang on to their Christian name — there’s a pretty obvious psychological explanation for that. It’s such a common behaviour pattern that they cross-index missing persons under their Christian names as well.”

“And where does that get us?” Brady demanded looking puzzled. “She still couldn’t help, could she?”

“No, but I’m wondering whether we might have just a little bit more luck at the College of Art,” Miller said simply.

“This must be her,” Henderson said suddenly, turning from the file and handing Miller a white index card.

He was a small, greying Scot with a pleasant, lined face, obviously fascinated by the present situation, which had turned what would otherwise have been a day of dull routine into a memorable one.

Miller read the details on the card aloud and Brady made notes. “Joanna Maria Craig, address, Rosedene, Grange Avenue, St. Martin’s Wood.”

Brady pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “Pretty exclusive. We were certainly on the ball there.”

“Apparently she dropped out of the course just over three months ago,” Miller said. “It says here see personal file.”

“That’s what I’m looking for.” Henderson had opened another filing cabinet and was flicking rapidly through the green folders it contained. He nodded suddenly, took one out and opened it as he turned.

After a while he looked up and nodded. “I remember this case now, mainly because of her father.”

“Her father?”

“That’s right. A hell of a nice chap. I felt sorry for him at the time. He’s managing director of that new firm out on the York Road. Gulf Electronics.”

“Why do you say you felt sorry for him?”

“As I recall, she was giving him a hard time. When she first started here everything was fine and then about four months ago she seemed to go to pieces. Cutting lectures, not turning in her work on time, that sort of thing. We called him in to discuss the position.” He frowned suddenly. “Now I remember. He brought his other daughter with him. Charming girl. A schoolteacher I believe. It emerged during the interview that he was a widower.”

“What happened?”

“He promised to try and straighten the girl out, but I’m afraid he had no luck in that direction. There was a nasty incident about a week later with one of the women lecturers. Harsh words and then the girl slapped her in the face. Naturally she had to go after that.”

Miller sat there in silence for a moment, thinking about it, and then got to his feet. He held out his hand. “You’ve helped us a great deal, Mr. Henderson.”

“Anything else I can do don’t hesitate to get in touch,” Henderson said.

Outside, the pale afternoon sun picked out the vivid colours of the mosaic in the concrete face of the new shopping precinct on the other side of the road and Miller paused at the top of the steps to light a cigarette.

Jack Brady looked up at him, eyebrows raised, and Miller sighed. “And now comes the unpleasant bit.”

St. Martin’s Wood was on the edge of the city, an exclusive residential area not far from Miller’s own home. The houses ran very much to a pattern, turn of the century mansions in grey stone, each one standing in an acre or two of garden. The house they were seeking stood at one end of a quiet cul-de-sac behind a high stone wall. Miller turned the Cooper in through the gates and drove along a wide gravel drive, breaking to a halt at the bottom of a flight of shallow steps which led to the front door.

The bell push was obviously electronic, the sound echoing melodiously inside, and after a while the door was opened by a pleasant-faced young maid in a nylon working overall.

“Yes, sir?” she said to Miller.

“Is Mr. Craig at home by any chance?”

“Colonel Craig,” she said in a tone of mild reproof, “is in London at the moment, but we’re expecting him home tonight.”

“Who is it, Jenny?” a voice called and then a young woman appeared from a door to the right.

“The gentlemen wanted to see the colonel, but I’ve told them he isn’t at home,” the maid said.

“All right, Jenny, I’ll handle it.” She came forward, an open book in one hand. “I’m Harriet Craig. Is there anything I can do?”

She was perhaps twenty-two or — three and nothing like her sister. The black shoulder-length hair framed a face that was too angular for beauty, the mouth so wide that it was almost ugly. And then, for no accountable reason, she smiled and the transformation was so complete that she might have been a different person.

Miller produced his warrant card. “I wonder if we could have a word with you, Miss Craig?”

She looked at the card and frowned. “Is anything wrong?”

“If we could go inside, miss,” Brady said gently.

The drawing room into which she led them was beautifully furnished in excellent taste and purple and white hyacinths made a brave splash of colour in a pewter bowl that stood on the grand piano. She turned, a hand on the mantelshelf.

“Won’t you sit down?”

Miller shook his head. “I think it might be a good idea if you did.”

She stiffened slightly. “You’ve got bad news for me, is that it?” And then as if by intuition, “Is it my sister? Is it Joanna?”

Miller produced one of the photos from his inside pocket. “Is this her?”

She took the photo from him almost mechanically and her eyes widened in horror. When she spoke, it was in a whisper. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“I’m afraid so,” Miller said gently. “She was taken out of the river at dawn today. To the best of our knowledge, she committed suicide.”

“Suicide? Oh, my God.”

And then she seemed to crack, to break into a thousand fragments and as Miller’s arms opened to her, she lurched into them, burying her face against his chest like some small child seeking comfort and strength in a world she could no longer understand.