Jack Higgins: Brought in Dead

“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 overlooked 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 upstairs.

“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?”