Jack Higgins: Brought in Dead

“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?”