Brought in Dead. Jack Higgins

she died.’

      ‘And when would you say that was?’

      ‘Let’s see now. You pulled her out just before six, didn’t you? I’d say she’d been in the water about five hours.’

      ‘Which means she went in at one a.m.’

      ‘Or thereabouts. One can’t be exact. It was a cold night.’

      ‘Anything else?’

      ‘What can I tell you? She was about nineteen, well nurtured. I’d say she’d been raised in more than comfortable surroundings.’

      ‘Was she a virgin?’

      ‘Anything but – two months pregnant.’ He shook his head and added dryly, ‘A young woman very well acquainted with the sexual act.’

      ‘What about her clothes?’

      ‘A chap was here from your Forensic Department. He took them away along with the usual things. Scrapings from under the fingernails, hair samples and so on.’

      Miller moved to the other side of the slab, hesitated and then pulled back the rubber sheet revealing the face. Murray had closed the eyes and she looked calm and peaceful, the skin smooth and colourless.

      Murray covered her again gently, his face sombre. ‘I think she was someone who had suffered a great deal. Too much for one so young.’

      Miller nodded, unable to speak. That strange aching dryness clutched at his throat again and he turned away quickly. As he reached the door, Murray called softly, ‘Nick!’ Miller turned. ‘Keep me posted.’

      ‘I’ll do that,’ Miller said and the rubber doors swung together behind him.

      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. ‘I’ve checked with Forensic. They’ll 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.’

      ‘Don’t they always?’ Miller slipped the other prints into his pocket. ‘I think I’ll 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. ‘You’re a good Catholic, aren’t you, Jack?’

      ‘I go to Mass now and then.’

      ‘Maybe the girl did. There’s 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. I’ll drop you off at the Cathedral if you like.’

      They got into the car and Brady glanced at his copy of the girl’s photograph again before putting it away in his wallet. He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense, does it? Have you any idea what it’s 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 thing’s certain. She must have been pretty desperate. I’d 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?’

      ‘I’m afraid not.’ Miller produced one of the photos. ‘Have you ever seen her before?’

      Das shook his head. ‘Who is she?’

      ‘We don’t know. I pulled her out of the river this morning.’

      ‘Suicide?’

      Miller nodded. ‘Professor Murray did an autopsy. She’d had a fix about half an hour before she died.’

      ‘What was the dosage?’

      ‘Two grains of heroin – one of cocaine.’

      ‘Then she can’t 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. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t 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 Gregory’s 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. ‘I’d 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.’

      ‘That’s 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 he’s running a small casino club now.’

      ‘Yes, the Berkley in Cork Square. Very exclusive. Haven’t you been?’

      ‘I got an invitation to the opening, but I couldn’t make it. Does he still play a good jazz piano?’

      ‘Oscar Peterson at his best couldn’t improve on him. I was there last Saturday. We were talking about you.’

      ‘I’ll drop in and see him,’ Miller said. ‘Where’s he living now?’

      ‘He has an apartment over the club. Very pleasant. He’ll probably be in bed now, mind you.’

      ‘I’ll 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 …’

      ‘I’ll let you know,’ Miller said and he ran down the steps to the Mini-Cooper and drove away.

      Cork