bathroom. He stood there, a slight frown on his face and there was a knock on the outside door. He opened it to find Jack Brady waiting.
“Any luck?” Miller asked.
Brady held up an old canvas bag. “I found all sorts in the ash-pan. What about this for instance?”
He produced a triangular piece of metal, blackened and twisted by the fire, and Miller frowned. “This is a corner piece off a suitcase.”
“That’s right,” Brady shook the bag in his right hand. “If the bits and pieces in here are anything to go by, I’d say she must have put every damned thing she owned into that furnace.”
“Including her suitcase? She certainly wasn’t leaving anything to chance.” Miller sighed. “All right, Jack. Take that little lot down to the car and put in a call to H.Q. See if they’ve anything for us. I shan’t be long.”
He lit a cigarette, moved to the window and looked out into the back garden. Behind him the bathroom door opened and Monica Grey emerged.
She looked a lot brighter as she came forward and sat on the edge of the bed. “Sorry about that. It was rather a shock. Joanna was a nice kid.” She hesitated and then continued. “How — how did it happen?”
“She jumped in the river.” Miller gave her a cigarette and lit it for her. “Mrs. Kilroy tells me you were good friends.”
Monica Grey took the smoke deep into her lungs and exhaled with a sigh of pleasure. “I wouldn’t say that exactly. I went to the cinema with her sometimes in the afternoons or she came in for a coffee, mainly because she happened to live next door.”
“You never went out with her at any other time?”
“I couldn’t — I work nights. I’m a croupier at a gaming club in Gascoigne Square — the Flamingo.”
“Max Vernon’s place?”
She nodded. “Have you been there?”
“A long time ago. Tell me about Joanna? Where did she come from?”
Monica Grey shook her head. “She never discussed her past. She always seemed to live entirely in the present.”
“What did she do for a living?”
“Nothing as far as I could tell. She spent a lot of time painting, but only as a hobby. I know one thing — she was never short of money.”
“What about boy friends?”
“As far as I know, she didn’t have any.”
“Didn’t that seem strange to you? She was an attractive girl.”
“That’s true, but she had her problems.” She appeared to hesitate and then went on. “If you’ve seen her body you must know what I’m getting at. She was a junkie.”
“How did you know that?”
“I went into her room to borrow a pair of stockings one day and found her giving herself a shot. She asked me to keep quiet about it.”
“Which you did?”
Monica Grey shrugged. “None of my affair how she got her kicks. It was one hell of a shame, but there was nothing I could do about it.”
“She was a Catholic,” Miller said, “did you know that?”
She nodded. “She went to church nearly every day.”
“And yet she killed herself after burning everything she owned in the central heating furnace downstairs and ripping the name tab out of the dress she was wearing when she died. It’s only by chance that we’ve managed to trace her this far and when we do, nobody seems to know anything about her. Wouldn’t you say that was peculiar?”
“She was a strange kid. You could never tell what was going on beneath the surface.”
“Father Ryan doesn’t seem to think that Joanna Martin was her real name.”
“If that’s true, she certainly never gave me any clue.”
Miller nodded, turned and paced across the room. He paused suddenly. The table against the wall was littered with sketches, mainly fashion drawings, some in pen and ink, others colour-washed. All showed indications of real talent.
“Yours?” he said.
Monica Grey stood up and walked across. “That’s right. Like them?”
“Very much. Did you go to the College of Art?”
“For two years. That’s what brought me here in the first place.”
“What made you give it up?”
She grinned. “Forty quid a week at the Flamingo plus a dress allowance.”
“Attractive alternative.” Miller dropped the sketch he was holding. “Well, I don’t think I need bother you any more.” He walked to the door, paused and turned. “Just one thing. You do understand that if I can’t trace her family, I may have to ask you to make the formal identification?”
She stood there staring at him, her face very white, and he closed the door and went downstairs. There was a pay ’phone fixed to the wall by the door and Brady leaned beside it filling his pipe.
He glanced up quickly. “Any joy?”
“Not really, but I’ve a feeling we’ll be seeing her again.”
“I got through to H.Q. There was a message for you from Chuck Lazer. Apparently he’s been passing round the copy of the photo you gave him. He’s come up with a registered addict who sold her a couple of pills outside the all-night chemist’s in City Square just after midnight. If you guarantee no charge, he’s agreed to make a statement.”
“That’s all right by me,” Miller said. “You handle it, will you? I’ll drop you off at Cork Square and you can go and see Chuck right away. I’ve a ’phone call to make first.”
“Anything special?”
“Just a hunch. The girl liked to paint, we’ve established that. Another thing — that name tab she ripped out of her dress was a type commonly bought by students. I’m wondering if there might be a connection.”
He found the number he wanted and dialled quickly. The receiver was picked up almost at once at the other end and a woman’s voice said, “College of Art.”
“Put me through to the registrar’s office please.”
There was a momentary delay and then a pleasant Scottish voice cut in, “Henderson here.”
“Central C.I.D. Detective Sergeant Miller. I’m making enquiries concerning a girl named Joanna Martin and I’ve good reason to believe she might have been a student at your college during the last couple of years. Would it take you long to check?”
“No more than thirty seconds, sergeant,” Henderson said crisply. “We’ve a very comprehensive filing system.” A moment later he was back. “Sorry, no student of that name. I could go back further if you like.”
“No point,” Miller said. “She wasn’t old enough.”
He replaced the receiver and turned to Brady. “Another possibility we can cross off.”
“What now?” Brady demanded.
“I still think there’s a lot in this idea of Father Ryan’s that Martin wasn’t her real name. If that’s true, it’s just possible she’s been listed as a missing person by someone or other. You go and see Chuck Lazer and I’ll drop round to the Salvation Army and see if a chat with Martha Broadribb produces anything.”
Brady grinned. “Don’t end up beating a drum for her on Sundays.”
But Miller had to force a smile in reply and as he went down the steps to the car, his face was grim and serious. At the best of times a good copper was guided as much by instinct as solid fact and there was something very wrong here, something much more serious than appeared on the surface of things and all his training, all his experience told him as much.
CHAPTER 4
