Jack Higgins: Brought in Dead

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?”