Brought in Dead

CHAPTER 4

The small office of the Stone Street Citadel was badly overcrowded, half a dozen young men and women working busily surrounded by green filing cabinets, double-banked to save space.

“I’ll see if the Major’s in her office,” said Miller’s escort, a thin, earnest young man in blazer and flannels, and he disappeared in search of Martha Broadribb.

Miller leaned against a filing cabinet and waited, impressed as always at the industry and efficiency so obviously the order of the day. A sheet of writing paper had fallen to the floor and he picked it up and read the printed heading quickly. Missing Relatives Sought in any part of the World: Investigations and Enquiries carried out in Strictest Confidence: Reconciliation Bureau: Advice willingly Given.

The biggest drawback to tracing a missing person from the official point of view was that there was nothing illegal about disappearing. Unless there was a suspicion of foul play, the police could do nothing, which produced the ironical situation that the greatest experts in the field were the Salvation Army, who handled something like ten thousand British and foreign enquiries a year from their Headquarters in Bishopsgate, London, and who were constantly in touch with centres throughout the country such as the Stone Street Citadel.

The young man emerged from the inner office, his arm around the shoulders of a middle-aged woman in a shabby coat who had obviously been weeping. He nodded briefly without speaking and Miller brushed past them and went in.

Major Martha Broadribb was exactly five feet tall, her trim uniformed figure bristling with a vitality that belied her sixty years. Her blue eyes were enormous behind steel-rimmed spectacles and she had the smooth, unused face of an innocent child. And yet this was a woman who had laboured for most of her life in a China Mission, who had spent three terrible years in solitary confinement in a Communist prison camp.

She came forward quickly, a smile of genuine affection on her face. “Nicholas, this is nice. Will you have a cup of tea?”

“I wouldn’t say no,” Miller said. “Who was that who just left?”

“Poor soul. Her husband died a year ago.” She took a clean cup and saucer from a cupboard and moved to the tea-tray that stood on her desk. “She married one of her lodgers last month. He persuaded her to sell the house and give him the money she received to buy a business.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Miller said. “He’s cleared off?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“She’s been to the police?”

“Who told her that as he hadn’t committed a criminal offence they were powerless to act.” She stirred his tea briskly. “Four lumps and much good may it do you.”

“Do you think you’ll find him?”

“Certain to,” she said, “and he’ll face up to his responsibilities and do right by the poor woman after I’ve had a chance of talking to him. I’m certain of that.”

Another one who thought most people were good at heart. Miller smiled wryly, remembering their first meeting. On his way home one night he had answered an emergency call simply because he happened to be in the vicinity and had arrived at a slum house near the river in time to find a graceless, mindless lout doing his level best to beat his wife to death after knocking Martha Broadribb senseless for trying to stop him, breaking her right arm in the process. And the very next day she had visited him in the Bridewell, plaster-cast and all.

She lit a cigarette, her one vice, and leaned back in her chair. “You look tired, Nicholas.”

“I feel tired,” he said. “A perpetual state these days, but don’t let’s go into that.” He passed one of the photos across. “Ever seen her?”

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.”

“Why move up here though?” Brady put in. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m not so sure,” Grant said. “Since the middle of last year there’s been open warfare in London between the four most powerful gangs, mainly over the protection racket. These things always run to a pattern. The villains carve each other up — in this case they’re even using shooters — and the police stand by to pick up the pieces when it’s all over. Nobody wins that kind of fight and Vernon was clever enough to realise that. As soon as he heard the first rumblings, he sold out to one of his rivals and dropped out of sight.”

“To reappear here?” Brady said.

Grant got to his feet and paced to the window. “I’ve always thought this might happen one day. That the London mobs would start looking for fresh fields. I’ll have to have a word with the old man about it.” He shook his head. “I’d love to know what Vernon’s been up to since he’s been here.”

“Maybe Chuck Lazer could give me a few pointers,” Miller said.

Grant swung round, his face brightening. “That’s a thought. See what you can get out of him.”

“I’ll do my best,” Miller said, “but don’t expect too much. To a certain extent Lazer’s on the other side of the fence, remember. I’ll keep you posted.”

He returned to the main C.I.D. room and Brady followed him. “What now?”

“About the girl?” Miller shrugged. “I’m still considering. There are one or two interesting possibilities.”

He pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and the gold medal and chain fell to the floor. Brady picked it up and examined the inscription again. “At least we know one thing for certain — her Christian name.”

Miller paused in the act of lighting his cigarette. “My God, I must be losing my touch.”

“What do you mean?” Brady asked.

“I’m remembering something Martha Broadribb told me. How most people who go missing hang on to their Christian name — there’s a pretty obvious psychological explanation for that. It’s such a common behaviour pattern that they cross-index missing persons under their Christian names as well.”

“And where does that get us?” Brady demanded looking puzzled. “She still couldn’t help, could she?”

“No, but I’m wondering whether we might have just a little bit more luck at the College of Art,” Miller said simply.

“This must be her,” Henderson said suddenly, turning from the file and handing Miller a white index card.

He was a small, greying Scot with a pleasant, lined face, obviously fascinated by the present situation, which had turned what would otherwise have been a day of dull routine into a memorable one.

Miller read the details on the card aloud and Brady made notes. “Joanna Maria Craig, address, Rosedene, Grange Avenue, St. Martin’s Wood.”

Brady pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “Pretty exclusive. We were certainly on the ball there.”

“Apparently she dropped out of the course just over three months ago,” Miller said. “It says here see personal file.”

“That’s what I’m looking for.” Henderson had opened another filing cabinet and was flicking rapidly through the green folders it contained. He nodded suddenly, took one out and opened it as he turned.

After a while he looked up and nodded. “I remember this case now, mainly because of her father.”

“Her father?”

“That’s right. A hell of a nice chap. I felt sorry for him at the time. He’s managing director of that new firm out on the York Road. Gulf Electronics.”

“Why do you say you felt sorry for him?”

“As I recall, she was giving him a hard time. When she first started here everything was fine and then about four months ago she seemed to go to pieces. Cutting lectures, not turning in her work on time, that sort of thing. We called him in to discuss the position.” He frowned suddenly. “Now I remember. He brought his other daughter with him. Charming girl. A schoolteacher I believe. It emerged during the interview that he was a widower.”

“What happened?”

“He promised to try and straighten the girl out, but I’m afraid he had no luck in that direction. There was a nasty incident about a week later with one of the women lecturers. Harsh words and then the girl slapped her in the face. Naturally she had to go after that.”

Miller sat there in silence for a moment, thinking about it, and then got to his feet. He held out his hand. “You’ve helped us a great deal, Mr. Henderson.”

“Anything else I can do don’t hesitate to get in touch,” Henderson said.

Outside, the pale afternoon sun picked out the vivid colours of the mosaic in the concrete face of the new shopping precinct on the other side of the road and Miller paused at the top of the steps to light a cigarette.

Jack Brady looked up at him, eyebrows raised, and Miller sighed. “And now comes the unpleasant bit.”

St. Martin’s Wood was on the edge of the city, an exclusive residential area not far from Miller’s own home. The houses ran very much to a pattern, turn of the century mansions in grey stone, each one standing in an acre or two of garden. The house they were seeking stood at one end of a quiet cul-de-sac behind a high stone wall. Miller turned the Cooper in through the gates and drove along a wide gravel drive, breaking to a halt at the bottom of a flight of shallow steps which led to the front door.

The bell push was obviously electronic, the sound echoing melodiously inside, and after a while the door was opened by a pleasant-faced young maid in a nylon working overall.

“Yes, sir?” she said to Miller.

“Is Mr. Craig at home by any chance?”

“Colonel Craig,” she said in a tone of mild reproof, “is in London at the moment, but we’re expecting him home tonight.”

“Who is it, Jenny?” a voice called and then a young woman appeared from a door to the right.

“The gentlemen wanted to see the colonel, but I’ve told them he isn’t at home,” the maid said.

“All right, Jenny, I’ll handle it.” She came forward, an open book in one hand. “I’m Harriet Craig. Is there anything I can do?”

She was perhaps twenty-two or — three and nothing like her sister. The black shoulder-length hair framed a face that was too angular for beauty, the mouth so wide that it was almost ugly. And then, for no accountable reason, she smiled and the transformation was so complete that she might have been a different person.

Miller produced his warrant card. “I wonder if we could have a word with you, Miss Craig?”

She looked at the card and frowned. “Is anything wrong?”

“If we could go inside, miss,” Brady said gently.

The drawing room into which she led them was beautifully furnished in excellent taste and purple and white hyacinths made a brave splash of colour in a pewter bowl that stood on the grand piano. She turned, a hand on the mantelshelf.

“Won’t you sit down?”

Miller shook his head. “I think it might be a good idea if you did.”

She stiffened slightly. “You’ve got bad news for me, is that it?” And then as if by intuition, “Is it my sister? Is it Joanna?”

Miller produced one of the photos from his inside pocket. “Is this her?”

She took the photo from him almost mechanically and her eyes widened in horror. When she spoke, it was in a whisper. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“I’m afraid so,” Miller said gently. “She was taken out of the river at dawn today. To the best of our knowledge, she committed suicide.”

“Suicide? Oh, my God.”

And then she seemed to crack, to break into a thousand fragments and as Miller’s arms opened to her, she lurched into them, burying her face against his chest like some small child seeking comfort and strength in a world she could no longer understand.

Jack Palmer lifted the sheet and for a brief moment Harriet Craig looked down on the dead face of her sister. She swayed slightly and Miller’s grip tightened on her elbow.

“All right to use your office for ten minutes, Jack?”

“Help yourself.”

It was warm in the tiny glass office after the cold outside. Miller sat her in the only chair and perched on the edge of the desk. Jack Brady leaned against the door, notebook and pencil ready.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you some questions,” Miller said.

She nodded, gripping her handbag so tightly that her knuckles gleamed white. “That’s all right.”

“Were you aware that for the past three months your sister was living at a house in Grosvenor Road under the name of Joanna Martin?”

She shook her head. “No — in fact it doesn’t make sense. We understood she was in London. We’ve had three letters from her and they were all postmarked Chelsea.”

“I understand there was some trouble at the College of Art?” Miller said. “That she had to leave? Could you tell me about that?”

“It’s rather difficult to explain. Joanna was always a sweet kid. Very talented, but a little naïve, that’s why my father thought it would be better to let her attend the local college and live at home instead of going away.”

She took a deep shuddering breath and when she continued, her voice was much stronger. “And then, about four months or so ago she seemed to change overnight. It was as if she’d become a different person.”

“In what way exactly?”

“Her whole temperament altered. She became violently angry on the slightest excuse. It became almost impossible to handle her. She came home drunk a couple of times and then she started staying out all night. Naturally my father didn’t like that, but he’s often away on business and in any case, she was hardly a child.”

“How old was she?”

“Twenty last month. After a while, there was trouble at the college. She behaved so badly that she was asked to leave.”

“What happened then?”

“She had a furious row with my father and ended by packing her bags and leaving. She said she intended to continue her studies at one of the London colleges.”

“What about money? Did your father agree to support her?”

“There was no need. She had some of her own. Just over a thousand pounds. A legacy from an old aunt a year or two ago.”

“What about boy friends? At the college, for instance?”

“In the two years she was there, she never brought a single one home. As I’ve said, until that sudden dreadful change in her she was a shy, rather introverted girl, very much bound up in her work.”

“Did she ever mention a man named Max Vernon at all?”

Harriet Craig frowned slightly. “Not that I recall. Who is he?”

“Just someone who apparently knew her, but it’s of no consequence.” Miller hesitated and went on, “Your sister was a drug addict, Miss Craig. Were you aware of that fact?”

His answer was plain in the incredulous horror in her eyes as she looked up at him sharply. Her head moved slightly from side to side, her mouth opened as if to speak, but no sound was uttered.

Miller stood up as she buried her face in her hands and broke into a storm of weeping. He patted her gently on the shoulder and turned to Brady.

“Take her home, Jack. You can use my car.”

“What about you?”

“I think I’ll have another little chat with Monica Grey and this time I’ll have some straight answers. You can catch up with me there.”

He went out quickly, fastening the belt of his trenchcoat as he moved along the corridor, and the expression on his face was like the wrath of God.