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. Ive checked with Forensic. Theyll have a report ready by noon. These are from Photography.
That should give us a lead. Brady took a buff envelope from his overcoat pocket. Ive checked with Forensic. Theyll 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.
Dont they always? Miller slipped the other prints into his pocket. I think Ill 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. Youre a good Catholic, arent you, Jack?
I go to Mass now and then.
Maybe the girl did. Theres 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. Ill drop you off at the Cathedral if you like.
They got into the car and Brady glanced at his copy of the girls photograph again before putting it away in his wallet. He shook his head. It doesnt make sense, does it? Have you any idea what its like down there on the docks at that time in the morning?
Just about the darkest and loneliest place in the world, Miller said.
Brady nodded. One things certain. She must have been pretty desperate. Id like to know what got her into that state.
So would I, Jack, Miller said. So would I, and he released the handbrake and drove rapidly away.
Drug addicts are possibly the most difficult of all patients to handle and yet Dr. Lal Das specialised in them. He was a tall cadaverous Indian, with an international reputation in the field, who persisted in running a general practice in one of the less salubrious parts of the city, a twilight area of tall, decaying Victorian houses.
He had just finished his morning calls and was having coffee in front of the surgery fire when Miller was shown in. Das smiled and waved him to a seat. A pleasant surprise. You will join me?
Thanks very much.
Das went to the sideboard and returned with another cup. A social call?
Im afraid not. Miller produced one of the photos. Have you ever seen her before?
Das shook his head. Who is she?
We dont know. I pulled her out of the river this morning.
Suicide?
Miller nodded. Professor Murray did an autopsy. Shed had a fix about half an hour before she died.
What was the dosage?
Two grains of heroin one of cocaine.
Then she cant have been an addict for long. Most of my regulars are on five, six or seven grains of heroin alone. There were the usual tracks in her arm?
Only a few.
Which would seem to confirm my theory. Das sighed. What a tragedy. She looks such a pleasant child. He handed the photo back. Im sorry, I cant help. You have no idea as to her identity at all?
I was hoping she might be a registered addict.
Das shook his head emphatically. Definitely not. We have a new scheme operating under which all registered addicts must attend my clinic at St. Gregorys Hospital on Saturday mornings.
Is this as well as their visits to their own doctor?
Das nodded. Believe me, sergeant, if she was registered I would know her.
Miller swallowed the rest of his coffee. Id better get moving. Got a lot of ground to cover.
Why not have a chat with Chuck Lazer? Das said. If anyone could help, he could.
Thats an idea, Miller said. How is he these days? Still dry?
For ten months now. A remarkable achievement, especially when one considers that his intake was of the order of seven grains of heroin and six of cocaine daily.
I hear hes running a small casino club now.
Yes, the Berkley in Cork Square. Very exclusive. Havent you been?
I got an invitation to the opening, but I couldnt make it. Does he still play a good jazz piano?
Oscar Peterson at his best couldnt improve on him. I was there last Saturday. We were talking about you.
Ill drop in and see him, Miller said. Wheres he living now?
He has an apartment over the club. Very pleasant. Hell probably be in bed now, mind you.
Ill take that chance.
They went out into the hall. Das opened the front door and shook hands formally. If I can help in any way
Ill let you know, Miller said and he ran down the steps to the Mini-Cooper and drove away.
Cork Square was a green lung in the heart of the city, a few sycamore trees scattered here and there, the whole surrounded by quiet, grey-stone Georgian houses, most of them occupied by consultant physicians and barristers.
The entrance to the Berkley Club was a cream-painted door, its brass handle and plate shining in the sunlight. Even the neon sign was in perfect taste with the surroundings and had obviously been specially designed. Miller pulled in to the kerb, got out and looked up at the front of the building.
Hey, Nick, you old so-and-so! What gives?
The cry echoed across the square and as he turned, Chuck Lazer moved out of the trees, a couple of Dalmatians straining ahead of him on twin leads. Miller went to meet him, leaving the path and crossing the damp grass.
Hello there, Chuck. Whats all this? He bent down to pat the eager dogs.
The American grinned. Part of my new image. The customers love it. Gives the place tone. But never mind that. How are you? Its been too long.
He was bubbling over with genuine pleasure, the blue eyes sparkling. When Miller had first met him almost a year previously during a murder investigation, Lazer had been hopelessly hooked on heroin with the gaunt fleshless face of an emaciated saint. Now, there was meat on his bones and the neatly trimmed dark fringe beard combined with the expensive sports coat to give him a positively elegant appearance.
He slipped the dogs leads and the Dalmatians moved into the flower beds as he and Miller sat down on a bench.
Ive just seen Das. He told me hed been to the club. Gave me a glowing report. Miller offered him a cigarette. On you too.
Lazer grinned. No need to worry about me, Nick. Id cut my throat before Id take another shot. He lit his cigarette and exhaled smoke in a blue cloud. What did you want with Das business?
Miller produced one of the photos and passed it across. Know her?
Lazer shook his head. Cant say I do. He frowned suddenly. Heh, isnt that a morgue photograph?
Miller nodded. I pulled her out of the river this morning. Trouble is we cant identify her.
Suicide?
Thats right. The autopsy showed she was an addict. I was hoping she might be registered, that Das might know her.
And she isnt? That makes it difficult.
Whats the drug market like now, Chuck? Miller said. Where would she get the stuff?
Difficult to say. Ive been out of circulation for quite a while, remember. As far as I know, there isnt any really organised peddling if thats what you mean. Remember where you first met me?
Difficult to say. Ive been out of circulation for quite a while, remember. As far as I know, there isnt any really organised peddling if thats what you mean. Remember where you first met me?
Miller grinned. Outside the all-night chemists in City Square.
Thats where it changes hands. Most registered addicts see their doctor at his evening surgery and usually get a prescription dated for the following day. Legally, they can have it filled from midnight onwards which is why you always find a bunch waiting in the all-night chemists in any big city round about that time. The non-registered users hang around outside hoping to buy a few pills. Theyre usually in luck. Quite a few doctors tend to over-prescribe.
So all I have to do is go down to City Square at midnight and pass her photo around?
If she was an addict, someone will recognise her, thats for sure. The most exclusive club in the world.
Thanks very much, Miller said. I didnt get any sleep last night either.
You shouldnt have joined. Lazer chuckled and then his smile faded.
Miller glanced across to the club as a dark blue Rolls eased in to the kerb. The first man to emerge was built like a pro wrestler, shoulders bulging massively under a dark blue overcoat. The driver came round to join him, a small, wiry man with jet black hair, and held open the rear door.
The man who got out was large and rather fleshy with hair so pale that it was almost white. He wore a single-breasted suit of dark grey flannel that was straight out of Savile Row, a white gardenia in the buttonhole, and carried himself with the habitual arrogance of a man who believes that he exists by a kind of divine right. The small man said something to him and they all turned and glanced at Lazer and Miller.
Friends of yours? Miller said as they moved across the grass.
Lazer shook his head. I wouldnt say that exactly. The fancy boy is Max Vernon. Came up from London about four months ago and bought out Harry Faulkner. Took over his betting shops, the Flamingo Club everything.
What about his minders?
The big boys called Carver Simon Carver. The little guys the one to watch. Stratton I dont know his first name.
Have they been leaning on you?
Lazer bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. Nothing quite so obvious. Lets say Ive got a very nice little business and Mr. Vernon would like a piece of the action. For a consideration, of course. All nice and legal. Unfortunately, Im not interested in selling.
Vernon paused a couple of yards away, Carver and Stratton on either side of him. Hello there, old man, he said cheerfully. I was hoping to find you in. Time we had another little chat.
Not in my book it isnt, Lazer replied.
Carver took a step forward, but before anything could develop, Miller said quickly, Thats an Old Etonian tie youre wearing, did you know that?