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 organised 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 recognise 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 recognise 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.
CHAPTER 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.”
