Brought in Dead

Henry Wade was fat and balding and his several chins and horn-rimmed spectacles gave him the deceptively benign air of a prosperous publican or back street bookie. He was neither. He was head of the department’s Forensic section with the rank of Detective Inspector and the ready smile concealed a brain that in action had the cutting edge of a razor.

When Miller went into the small office at one end of the police lab, he found Wade at his desk filling in a report, covering the paper with the neat italic script that was his special pride.

He turned and smiled. ‘Hello, Nick, I was wondering when you’d turn up.’

‘Anything for me?’

‘Not much, I’m afraid. Come on. I’ll show you.’

Miller followed him into the lab., nodding to the bench technicians as he passed. The girl’s clothing was laid out neatly on a table by the window.

Wade went through the items one by one. ‘The stockings are a well-known brand sold everywhere and the underwear she bought at Marks & Spencer’s along with just about every other girl in the country these days.’

‘What about the dress?’

‘Reasonably expensive, but once again, a well-known brand name available at dozens of shops and stores. One interesting point. Just below the maker’s label, a name tab’s been torn out.’

He picked up the dress pointing with a pair of tweezers and Miller nodded. ‘I noticed.’

‘I had a hunch about that. We matched up a piece of the tab that was still attached to the dress and my hunch paid off. It’s a Cash label. You must have seen them. Little white tabs with the individual’s name woven in red. People buy them for schoolchildren or students going away to college.’

Miller nodded. ‘Thousands of people, including my sister-in-law. Her two kids have them sewn into just about every damned thing they own. Is that all?’

‘No – one other thing. When we checked the nail scrapings we discovered a minute quantity of oil paint. There were one or two spots on the dress, too.’

‘An artist?’ Miller said. ‘That’s something.’

‘Don’t be too certain. Lots of people do a little painting these days.’ Henry Wade grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘You shouldn’t have joined, Nick lad. You shouldn’t have joined.’

Grant was still working away at his desk when Miller peered round the door. ‘Got a minute?’

‘Just about.’ Grant sat back and lit a cigarette. ‘How’s it going?’

‘So far, not so good, but it was something else I wanted to mention. What do you know about a man called Vernon?’

‘Max Vernon, the bloke from London who took over Faulkner’s casino and betting shops?’ Grant shrugged. ‘Not much. The Chief introduced him to me at the Conservative Ball. Obviously a gentleman. Public school and all that sort of thing.’

‘Right down to his Old Etonian tie.’ Miller suppressed a strong desire to burst into laughter. ‘He’s leaning on Chuck Lazer.’

‘He’s what?’ Grant said incredulously.

‘It’s true enough,’ Miller said. ‘I was chatting to Lazer in the Square outside his place when Vernon turned up with a couple of heavies named Carver and Stratton. No comic Vaudeville act those two, believe me. Vernon wants a piece of the Berkley Club. He’ll pay for it of course, all nice and legal, but Chuck Lazer better play ball or else …’

Grant was a different man as he flicked one of the switches on his intercom. ‘Records? Get on to C.R.O. in London at once. I want everything they’ve got on Max Vernon and two men now working for him called Carver and Stratton. Top priority.’

He turned back to Miller. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing much. Vernon didn’t say anything in the slightest way incriminating. On the face of it, he’s making a perfectly legitimate business offer.’

‘Did he know who you were?’

‘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 over-looked 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.’