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.
It was the neatness that was so surprising and the cleanliness. The bed had been stripped, the blankets folded into squares and stacked at one end of the mattress and the top of the dressing table had quite obviously been dusted. Miller opened one or two of the empty drawers, closed them again and turned.
“And this is exactly how you found the room this morning?”
Mrs. Kilroy nodded. “She came and knocked on my door last night at about ten o’clock.”
“Had she been out?”
“I wouldn’t know. She told me she’d be moving today.”
“Did she say why?”
Mrs. Kilroy shook her head. “I didn’t ask. I was more interested in getting a week’s rent in lieu of notice, which was the agreement.”
“And she paid?”
“Without a murmur. Mind you there was never any trouble over her rent, I’ll say that. Not like some.”
Brady had busied himself during the conversation in moving around the room, checking all drawers and cupboards. Now he turned and shook his head. “Clean as a whistle.”
“Which means that when she left, she must have taken everything with her.” Miller turned to Mrs. Kilroy. “Did you see her go?”
“Last time I saw her was about half ten. She knocked on the door and told me she’d some rubbish to burn. Asked if she could put it in the central heating furnace in the cellar.”
“Have you been down there since?”
“No need. It has an automatic stoking system. Only needs checking every two days.”
“I see.” Miller walked across to the window and pulled back the curtains. “Let’s go back to when you last saw her. Did she seem worried or agitated?”
Mrs. Kilroy shook her head quickly. “She was just the same as she always was.”
“And yet she killed herself less than three hours later.”
“God have mercy on her.” There was genuine horror in Mrs. Kilroy’s voice and she crossed herself quickly.
“What else can you tell me about her? I understand she’d been a tenant of yours for about three months.”
“That’s right. She arrived on the doorstep one afternoon with a couple of suitcases. As it happened, I had a vacancy and she offered a month’s rent in advance in lieu of references.”
“What did you think of her?”
Mrs. Kilroy shrugged. “She didn’t really fit in. Too much of the lady for a district like this. I never asked questions, I always mind my own business, but if anyone had a story to tell it was her.”
“Father Ryan doesn’t seem to think Joanna Martin was her real name.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“What did she do for a living?”
“She paid her rent on time and never caused any trouble. Whatever she did was her own business. One thing — she had an easel set up in here. Used to paint in oils. I once asked her if she was a student, but she said it was only a hobby.”
“Did she go out much — at night, for instance?”
“She could have been out all night and every night as far as I was concerned. All my lodgers have their own keys.” She shrugged. “More often than not I’m out myself.”
“Did anyone ever call for her?”
“Not that I noticed. She kept herself to herself. The only outstanding thing I do remember is that sometimes she looked really ill. I had to help her up the stairs one day. I wanted to call the doctor, but she said it was just her monthly. I saw her later that afternoon and she looked fine.”
Which was how one would expect her to look after a shot of heroin and Miller sighed. “Anything else?”
“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Kilroy hesitated. “If she had a friend at all, it was the girl in number four — Monica Grey.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ve seen them going out together, mainly in the afternoons.”
“Is she in now?”
“Should be. As far as I know, she works nights in one of these gaming clubs.”
Miller turned to Brady. “I’ll have a word with her. You get Mrs. Kilroy to show you where the furnace is. See what you can find.”
The door closed behind them and Miller stood there in the quiet, listening. But there was nothing here — this room had no personality. It was as if she had never been here at all and after all, what did he really know about her? At the moment she existed only as a series of apparently contradictory facts. A well-bred girl, she had come down to living in a place like this. A sincere Catholic, she had committed suicide. Educated and intelligent, but also a drug addict.
None of it made any sense at all and he went along the corridor and knocked at number four. There was an immediate reply and he opened the door and entered.
She was standing in front of the dressing table, her back to the door and dressed, as far as he could judge in that first moment, in stockings and a pair of dark briefs. In the mirror, he was aware of her breasts, high and firm, and then her eyes widened.
“I thought it was Mrs. Kilroy.”
Miller stepped back into the corridor smartly, closing the door. A moment later it opened again and she stood there laughing at him, an old nylon housecoat belted around her waist.
“Shall we try again?”
Her voice was hoarse but not unattractive with a slight Liverpool accent and she had a turned-up nose that gave her a rather gamin charm.
“Miss Grey?” Miller produced his warrant card. “Detective Sergeant Miller — Central C.I.D. I wonder if I might have a word with you?”
Her smile slipped fractionally and a shadow seemed to cross her eyes as she stepped back and motioned him in. “What have I done now? Over-parked or something?”
There were times when the direct approach produced the best results and Miller tried it now. “I’m making enquiries into the death of Joanna Martin. I understand you might be able to help me.”
It had the effect of a physical blow. She seemed to stagger slightly, then turned, groped for the end of the bed and sank down.
“I believe you were pretty good friends,” Miller continued.
She stared up at him blindly then suddenly got to her feet, pushed him out of the way and ran for the
