Jack Higgins - Brought in Dead

Jack Palmer lifted the sheet and for a brief moment Harriet Craig looked down on the dead face of her sister. She swayed slightly and Miller’s grip tightened on her elbow.

“All right to use your office for ten minutes, Jack?”

“Help yourself.”

It was warm in the tiny glass office after the cold outside. Miller sat her in the only chair and perched on the edge of the desk. Jack Brady leaned against the door, notebook and pencil ready.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you some questions,” Miller said.

She nodded, gripping her handbag so tightly that her knuckles gleamed white. “That’s all right.”

“Were you aware that for the past three months your sister was living at a house in Grosvenor Road under the name of Joanna Martin?”

She shook her head. “No — in fact it doesn’t make sense. We understood she was in London. We’ve had three letters from her and they were all postmarked Chelsea.”

“I understand there was some trouble at the College of Art?” Miller said. “That she had to leave? Could you tell me about that?”

“It’s rather difficult to explain. Joanna was always a sweet kid. Very talented, but a little naïve, that’s why my father thought it would be better to let her attend the local college and live at home instead of going away.”

She took a deep shuddering breath and when she continued, her voice was much stronger. “And then, about four months or so ago she seemed to change overnight. It was as if she’d become a different person.”

“In what way exactly?”

“Her whole temperament altered. She became violently angry on the slightest excuse. It became almost impossible to handle her. She came home drunk a couple of times and then she started staying out all night. Naturally my father didn’t like that, but he’s often away on business and in any case, she was hardly a child.”

“How old was she?”

“Twenty last month. After a while, there was trouble at the college. She behaved so badly that she was asked to leave.”

“What happened then?”

“She had a furious row with my father and ended by packing her bags and leaving. She said she intended to continue her studies at one of the London colleges.”

“What about money? Did your father agree to support her?”

“There was no need. She had some of her own. Just over a thousand pounds. A legacy from an old aunt a year or two ago.”

“What about boy friends? At the college, for instance?”

“In the two years she was there, she never brought a single one home. As I’ve said, until that sudden dreadful change in her she was a shy, rather introverted girl, very much bound up in her work.”

“Did she ever mention a man named Max Vernon at all?”

Harriet Craig frowned slightly. “Not that I recall. Who is he?”

“Just someone who apparently knew her, but it’s of no consequence.” Miller hesitated and went on, “Your sister was a drug addict, Miss Craig. Were you aware of that fact?”

His answer was plain in the incredulous horror in her eyes as she looked up at him sharply. Her head moved slightly from side to side, her mouth opened as if to speak, but no sound was uttered.

Miller stood up as she buried her face in her hands and broke into a storm of weeping. He patted her gently on the shoulder and turned to Brady.

“Take her home, Jack. You can use my car.”

“What about you?”

“I think I’ll have another little chat with Monica Grey and this time I’ll have some straight answers. You can catch up with me there.”

He went out quickly, fastening the belt of his trenchcoat as he moved along the corridor, and the expression on his face was like the wrath of God.

The door of her room was unlocked and when he opened it gently and went in, she was sitting on the edge of the bed buffing her nails. She glanced up sharply and Miller closed the door.

“Sergeant Miller,” she said and then her voice faltered.

Miller produced one of the photos and held it up. “Joanna Maria Craig.” He slipped the photo back into his pocket. “Why did you lie to me?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Joanna Craig was a student at the College of Art for the best part of two years. So were you. And don’t try to tell me you never came across her. You were in the same year group. I’ve just checked.”

She stared up at him, her face white, and he took his time over lighting a cigarette. “Another thing. Mrs. Kilroy told me that Joanna had just arrived on the doorstep one day complete with baggage; that there just happened to be a vacancy. Now that isn’t true, is it? She knew there was a vacancy because you told her.”

She shook her head vigorously. “It isn’t true.”

“Isn’t it? Then try this for size. You work for Max Vernon, don’t you?”

And this time he had her. Her eyes widened in horror, and he went on relentlessly, “Joanna was his girl friend — I’ve got proof. Are you going to try to tell me you didn’t know that as well?”

She tried to get to her feet and he flung her back across the bed fiercely. “Come on, damn you! What about the truth for a change?”

She turned her face into the pillow and burst into a flood of tears, her whole body shaking. Miller stood looking down at her, something close to pity in his eyes, and then he moved across the room quickly and went into the small kitchen. He found half a bottle of gin in one of the cupboards, poured a generous measure into a tumbler and went back.

He sat on the edge of the bed and she turned her tear-stained face towards him. “He’ll kill me. I know he will.”

“No one’s going to kill you.” Miller held out the glass. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

She struggled up against the pillows. “You don’t know what he can be like.”

“Max Vernon?”

She nodded and sipped some of her gin. “He’s a devil — a walking devil. Cruel, arrogant — anything he wants, he takes.”

“And that included Joanna Craig?”

Her eyes widened in amazement. “How did you know that?”

“Just a hunch. But tell me about it — everything that happened.”

“All right.” She swung her legs to the floor, stood up and paced restlessly about the room as she talked. “You were right about the College of Art. I knew Joanna for nearly two years. Not that we were close friends or anything like that. I liked to live it up. Joanna was more interested in her work.”

“What about boy friends?”

“She hardly ever bothered. This may sound crazy to you, but she had something about her. She was sort of untouched by life if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do,” Miller said.

“Not that there was anything weird about her. Everybody liked her. She was the sweetest person I’ve ever known, but they treated her with respect, particularly the men. That’s something for art students, believe me.”

“And yet she changed,” Miller said. “So utterly and completely that she might have been a different person. Why?”

“She met Max Vernon.”

“I wouldn’t have thought he was her type.”

“He wasn’t — that was the whole trouble.” She swallowed the rest of her gin and sat on the edge of the bed. “I answered an advertisement for female croupiers at the Flamingo. As I told you earlier, the money was so good that I dropped out of the college course and started working there. Max was always throwing big parties and he was pretty free and easy about us bringing our friends along.”

“You took Joanna to one?”

“That’s right. About four months ago. I bumped into her one afternoon quite by chance. There was a party that evening and I asked her to come on impulse. I never expected her to say yes, but she did.”