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.”
