Brought in Dead

‘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 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.