Graveyard to hell, p.18
Graveyard to Hell, page 18
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. What’s 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? It’s 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.
‘I’ve just seen Das. He told me he’d 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. I’d cut my throat before I’d 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. ‘Can’t say I do.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘Heh, isn’t that a morgue photograph?’
Miller nodded. ‘I pulled her out of the river this morning. Trouble is we can’t identify her.’
‘Suicide?’
‘That’s right. The autopsy showed she was an addict. I was hoping she might be registered, that Das might know her.’
‘And she isn’t? That makes it difficult.’
‘What’s the drug market like now, Chuck?’ Miller said. ‘Where would she get the stuff?’
‘Difficult to say. I’ve been out of circulation for quite a while, remember. As far as I know, there isn’t any really organized peddling if that’s what you mean. Remember where you first met me?’
Miller grinned. ‘Outside the all-night chemist’s in City Square.’
‘That’s 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 chemist’s in any big city round about that time. The non-registered users hang around outside hoping to buy a few pills. They’re 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 recognize her, that’s for sure. The most exclusive club in the world.’
‘Thanks very much,’ Miller said. ‘I didn’t get any sleep last night either.’
‘You shouldn’t 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 wouldn’t 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 boy’s called Carver – Simon Carver. The little guy’s the one to watch. Stratton – I don’t know his first name.’
‘Have they been leaning on you?’
Lazer bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. ‘Nothing quite so obvious. Let’s say I’ve 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, I’m 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 isn’t,’ Lazer replied.
Carver took a step forward, but before anything could develop, Miller said quickly, ‘That’s an Old Etonian tie you’re wearing, did you know that?’
Vernon turned, his smile still hooked firmly into place. ‘How very gratifying. You’re the first person to recognize it since I’ve been here. Of course, we are a little far north.’
‘Dangerous country,’ Miller said. ‘We’ve been known to roll boulders down the hillside on unwary travellers – stone strangers.’
‘How fascinating.’ Vernon turned to Lazer. ‘Introduce me to your friend, Chuck.’
‘A pleasure,’ Lazer said. ‘Nick Miller. Detective Sergeant, Central C.I.D.’
Vernon hesitated momentarily and then extended his hand. ‘Always a pleasure to meet the law.’
Miller stayed where he was on the bench, hands tucked casually into his pockets. ‘I can’t say it’s mutual.’
‘You watch your mouth, copper,’ Carver said harshly.
He started to move, Lazer whistled twice and the Dalmatians arrived on the run. They stood beside him, pointing at Carver, something rumbling deep down in their throats.
Carver hesitated, obviously uncertain, and Miller laughed. ‘Know why they call them carriage dogs, Carver? They were specially bred during the eighteenth century as travelling companions to take care of highwaymen.’
Something glowed deep in Carver’s eyes and Vernon chuckled. ‘That’s damned good. Damned good.’ He grinned at Carver. ‘See, you learn something new every day of the week.’
He turned away without another word and walked back to the Rolls, Carver and Stratton hurrying after him. Lazer leaned down to fondle the ears of the two dogs and Miller said softly, ‘I think you could have trouble there, Chuck.’
‘If it comes, I’ll handle it.’
Miller shook his head. ‘You mean I’ll handle it and that’s an order.’ He got to his feet and grinned. ‘I’ve got to get moving.’
Lazer stood up and produced a small gold-edged card from his breast pocket. ‘I know it’s illegal to do it this way, but there’s a membership card. Why not drop in? It’s been a long time since I heard you play piano.’
‘I might just do that,’ Miller said and he turned and walked away across the grass.
As the Rolls-Royce moved out into the main traffic stream, Max Vernon leaned forward and slid back the glass panel of the partition.
‘This chap Miller,’ he said to Carver, ‘know anything about him?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘Then start digging. I want to know everything – everything there is to know.’
‘Any special reason?’ Carver said.
‘Well, let me put it this way. The only other copper I’ve ever met who made a practice of wearing sixty-guinea suits is doing a five stretch in the Ville for corruption.’
Carver’s eyes widened and Vernon closed the glass panel, leaned back in his seat and lit a cigarette, a slight smile on his face.
3
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 overlooked 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.’
‘She first came to my church about three months ago. I noticed something different about her at once. This is a twilight area, most of the houses in multiple occupation, the tenants constantly coming and going. Joanna was obviously the product of a safer more ordered world. She was out of her element.’
‘Can you tell us where she lived?’
‘She had a room with a Mrs Kilroy, a parishioner of mine. It’s not far from here. I’ve given Detective Constable Brady the address.’
Somehow, the fact that he had used Brady’s official title seemed to underline a new formality in the interchange. It was as if he were preparing himself for the question that he knew must come.
‘I know this must be a difficult situation for you, Father,’ Miller said gently. ‘But this girl had problems and they must have been pretty desperate to make her take the way out that she did. Can you throw any light on them?’
Brady cleared his throat awkwardly and shuffled his feet. The old man shook his head. ‘For me, the secrecy of the confessional must be absolute. Surely you must be aware of that, Sergeant.’
Miller nodded. ‘Of course, Father. I won’t press you any further. You’ve already helped us a great deal.’
Father Ryan stood up and held out his hand. ‘If I can help in any other way, don’t hesitate to get in touch.’
Brady was already moving away. Miller started to follow and hesitated. ‘One more thing, Father. I understand there could be some difficulty regarding burial because of the manner of death.’
‘Not in this case,’ Father Ryan said firmly. ‘There are several mitigating circumstances. I intend raising the matter with the Bishop personally. I may say with some certainty that I foresee little difficulty.’
Miller smiled. ‘I’m glad.’
‘Forgive me for saying so, but you appear to have some personal interest here? May I ask why?’
‘I pulled her out of the river myself,’ Miller told him. ‘Something I’m not likely to forget in a hurry. I know one thing – I’d like to get my hands on whoever was responsible.’
Father Ryan sighed. ‘It’s a strange thing, but in spite of the fact that most people believe priests to be somehow cut off from the real world, I come face to face with more human wickedness in a week than the average man does in a lifetime.’ He smiled gently. ‘And I still believe that at heart, most human beings are good.’
‘I wish I could agree, Father,’ Miller said sombrely. ‘I wish I could agree.’ He turned and walked away quickly to where Jack Brady waited at the gate.
Mrs Kilroy was a large, unlovely widow with flaming red hair that had come straight out of a bottle and a thin mouth enlarged by orange lipstick into an obscene gash.
‘I keep a respectable place here, I’ve never had any trouble before,’ she said as she led the way upstairs.
‘No trouble, Mrs Kilroy,’ Brady said persuasively. ‘We just want to see the room, that’s all, and ask a few questions.’
The landing was long and dark, its polished lino covered by a thin strip of worn carpeting. The door at the far end was locked. She produced a bunch of keys, opened it and led the way in.
The room was surprisingly large and furnished in Victorian mahogany. The curtains at the only window were partially closed, the traffic sounds outside muted and unreal as if from another world and a thin bar of sunlight fell across the floor adding a new richness to the faded colours of the old Indian carpet.
