Jack Higgins - Brought in Dead

Martha examined it with a slight frown. “This is a mortuary photo, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. I pulled her out of the river this morning.”

“Suicide?” There was an expression of real grief on her face. “Poor child. Poor, poor child.”

“No ordinary suicide,” Miller said. “This girl did everything she could to destroy her identity before she died.”

He sketched in the main facts and she nodded sombrely. “So Father Ryan thinks that Joanna Martin wasn’t her real name?”

“He got that impression, which the other two people I’ve spoken to who knew her confirm. Coming to see you was just a hunch really. I was hoping that somebody might have put out a search for her — that you might recognise her photo.”

Martha nodded and held up the medal. “She still hung on to Joanna. Interesting that — they nearly always do hang on to their Christian name. It’s as if they’re afraid of losing themselves entirely.”

She gave him back the medal and made a few notes on her pad. “Let’s see what we’ve got. About nineteen, fair hair, blue eyes. Well spoken, educated, obviously from a superior background and an artist. We’ll look under the name of Martin first, just in case, and we’ll check the Christian name.”

“I didn’t know you could do that?”

“As I said, so many of them hang on to their Christian names that it’s worth cross-indexing and Joanna isn’t very common these days. We’ll see what we’ve got here and I’ll also put through a call to London. Should take about fifteen minutes.”

Before he could reply, the ’phone on her desk rang. She took the call and then held out the receiver. “For you — Detective Constable Brady.”

Martha went into the outer office and Miller sat on the edge of the desk. “What have you got?”

“Plenty,” Brady said. “I’ve just had a session with a character named Jack Fenner. He’s been a registered addict for just over a year now. He makes a living as a dance band drummer.”

“I think I’ve seen him around,” Miller said. “Small, fair-haired.”

“That’s him. He says he had a prescription for heroin and cocaine filled at the all-night chemist’s in City Square at midnight on the dot. Joanna Martin stopped him on his way out and offered him a couple of quid for enough pills for a shot. His story is that he felt sorry for her. Said she had the shakes.”

“No chance of a mistake?”

“Definitely not.” Brady laughed harshly. “In fact this is where it gets interesting. Fenner says he’s seen her before.”

“Where?”

“At Max Vernon’s place, the Flamingo, about six weeks ago. The regular drummer was ill that night and Fenner stood in for him. Apparently it was Vernon’s birthday and he threw a big private binge. Fenner remembers the girl because Vernon kept her with him for most of the evening, which Fenner says is highly unusual. Apparently our Max prefers variety.”

“Now that is interesting,” Miller said. “Fenner’s certain he’s never seen her at any other time?”

“Dead certain — is it important that he should have?”

“Could be. Look at it this way. The girl wasn’t a registered addict, we know that, so where did she get the stuff from? If she’d been working the prescription racket outside the all-night chemist’s regularly, Fenner would have seen her many times. An addict needs at least one fix a day remember. Usually more.”

“Which means that someone must be peddling the stuff?”

“Could be.” Behind Miller, the door opened as Martha Broadribb returned and he added hastily, “I’ve got to go now, Jack. I’ll see you back at the office in half an hour.”

He turned, eyebrows raised enquiringly, and Martha shook her head. “I’m sorry, Nicholas. Not a thing. There was one Joanna on file, that’s all — a West Indian nurse.”

Miller sighed and stood up. “Never mind, Martha, it was just a hunch. Thanks for the tea anyway. I’ll leave you a copy of the photo just in case.”

He dropped it on the desk and as he turned, she placed a hand on his arm, concern on her face. “You’re worried about this one, aren’t you? There’s no need to be. Something will turn up. It always does.”

He grinned and kissed her briefly on the forehead. “Don’t work too hard, Martha. I’ll be seeing you.”

The door closed behind him. She stood there staring blankly at it for a moment, then took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, sat down at her typewriter and started to work.

Brady was sitting on the other side of Grant’s desk when Miller looked round the door of the superintendent’s office. Grant waved him in at once.

“Jack’s been filling me in on your progress so far. You don’t seem to be doing too badly. At least you’ve got a name for her now.”

“Which doesn’t seem to mean a great deal,” Miller said. “I’m afraid Martha Broadribb couldn’t help at all.”

“Never mind,” Grant said. “Something will turn up.”

Miller smiled. “The second time I’ve been told that today. Anything through from C.R.O. on Max Vernon and company yet?”

Grant nodded, his face grim. “And it doesn’t make pleasant reading.” Brady started to get up and the superintendent waved him down. “You might as well hear this, Jack. I’ll be circularising the information anyway.”

He put on his reading glasses and picked up the white flimsy that had been delivered from Records ten minutes earlier. “Let’s start with his two bully boys and a nice pair they are. Benjamin Carver, 35. Last known profession, salesman. Four previous convictions including five years for robbery with violence; conspiracy to steal; larceny; grievous bodily harm. He’s been pulled in for questioning on twenty-three other occasions.”

“And Stratton?”

“Even worse. Mad as a March Hare and twisted with it. William, ‘Billy’ Stratton, 34. Three previous convictions including a five stretch for robbery with violence. Remember the Knavesmire Airport bullion robbery?”

“He was in on that?”

Grant nodded. “The psychiatrists did what they could for him during his last stretch, but it wasn’t much. Psychopathic tendencies and too damned handy with a chiv. The next time he stands in the dock it’ll be for murder, mark my words.”

“And Vernon?”

“Nothing.”

“You mean he’s clean?” Miller said in astonishment.

“As a whistle.” Grant dropped the flimsy on the table. “Six years ago he was invited to help Scotland Yard with their enquiries concerning the Knavesmire Airport bullion robbery. The interview lasted exactly ten minutes, thanks to the best lawyer in London.”

“And that’s all?”

“All that’s official.” Grant picked up another flimsy. “Now let’s look at what they have to say about him unofficially. Believe me, it’ll make your hair stand on end.”

“Maxwell Alexander Constable Vernon, 36. Younger son of Sir Henry Vernon, managing director of the Red Funnel shipping line. From Eton he went to Sandhurst and was commissioned in the Guards.”

“Only the best, eh?”

Grant nodded. “The rot set in when he was seconded for duty with a Malayan infantry regiment during the emergency. Vernon proved so successful at rooting out the Communists in his area that he was awarded the D.S.O. Then they discovered he’d been indulging in an orgy of sadism and torture. No one could afford a public scandal at the time so he was simply persuaded to resign his commission. His family disowned him.”

“He took to crime?”

“That’s what it looks like. Organised prostitution — he started with a call-girl racket — illegal clubs, protection, dope peddling — anything that pays, that’s our Maxwell. And he’s a bright boy — don’t make any mistake about that. The Knavesmire Airport heist was only one of half a dozen big jobs he’s probably been behind during the past five or six years.”