Brought in Dead

The small office of the Stone Street Citadel was badly overcrowded, half a dozen young men and women working busily surrounded by green filing cabinets, double-banked to save space.

“I’ll see if the Major’s in her office,” said Miller’s escort, a thin, earnest young man in blazer and flannels, and he disappeared in search of Martha Broadribb.

Miller leaned against a filing cabinet and waited, impressed as always at the industry and efficiency so obviously the order of the day. A sheet of writing paper had fallen to the floor and he picked it up and read the printed heading quickly. Missing Relatives Sought in any part of the World: Investigations and Enquiries carried out in Strictest Confidence: Reconciliation Bureau: Advice willingly Given.

The biggest drawback to tracing a missing person from the official point of view was that there was nothing illegal about disappearing. Unless there was a suspicion of foul play, the police could do nothing, which produced the ironical situation that the greatest experts in the field were the Salvation Army, who handled something like ten thousand British and foreign enquiries a year from their Headquarters in Bishopsgate, London, and who were constantly in touch with centres throughout the country such as the Stone Street Citadel.

The young man emerged from the inner office, his arm around the shoulders of a middle-aged woman in a shabby coat who had obviously been weeping. He nodded briefly without speaking and Miller brushed past them and went in.

Major Martha Broadribb was exactly five feet tall, her trim uniformed figure bristling with a vitality that belied her sixty years. Her blue eyes were enormous behind steel-rimmed spectacles and she had the smooth, unused face of an innocent child. And yet this was a woman who had laboured for most of her life in a China Mission, who had spent three terrible years in solitary confinement in a Communist prison camp.

She came forward quickly, a smile of genuine affection on her face. “Nicholas, this is nice. Will you have a cup of tea?”

“I wouldn’t say no,” Miller said. “Who was that who just left?”

“Poor soul. Her husband died a year ago.” She took a clean cup and saucer from a cupboard and moved to the tea-tray that stood on her desk. “She married one of her lodgers last month. He persuaded her to sell the house and give him the money she received to buy a business.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Miller said. “He’s cleared off?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“She’s been to the police?”

“Who told her that as he hadn’t committed a criminal offence they were powerless to act.” She stirred his tea briskly. “Four lumps and much good may it do you.”

“Do you think you’ll find him?”

“Certain to,” she said, “and he’ll face up to his responsibilities and do right by the poor woman after I’ve had a chance of talking to him. I’m certain of that.”

Another one who thought most people were good at heart. Miller smiled wryly, remembering their first meeting. On his way home one night he had answered an emergency call simply because he happened to be in the vicinity and had arrived at a slum house near the river in time to find a graceless, mindless lout doing his level best to beat his wife to death after knocking Martha Broadribb senseless for trying to stop him, breaking her right arm in the process. And the very next day she had visited him in the Bridewell, plaster-cast and all.

She lit a cigarette, her one vice, and leaned back in her chair. “You look tired, Nicholas.”

“I feel tired,” he said. “A perpetual state these days, but don’t let’s go into that.” He passed one of the photos across. “Ever seen her?”

Martha examined it with a slight frown. “This is a mortuary photo, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. I pulled her out of the river this morning.”

“Suicide?” There was an expression of real grief on her face. “Poor child. Poor, poor child.”

“No ordinary suicide,” Miller said. “This girl did everything she could to destroy her identity before she died.”

He sketched in the main facts and she nodded sombrely. “So Father Ryan thinks that Joanna Martin wasn’t her real name?”

“He got that impression, which the other two people I’ve spoken to who knew her confirm. Coming to see you was just a hunch really. I was hoping that somebody might have put out a search for her — that you might recognise her photo.”

Martha nodded and held up the medal. “She still hung on to Joanna. Interesting that — they nearly always do hang on to their Christian name. It’s as if they’re afraid of losing themselves entirely.”

She gave him back the medal and made a few notes on her pad. “Let’s see what we’ve got. About nineteen, fair hair, blue eyes. Well spoken, educated, obviously from a superior background and an artist. We’ll look under the name of Martin first, just in case, and we’ll check the Christian name.”

“I didn’t know you could do that?”

“As I said, so many of them hang on to their Christian names that it’s worth cross-indexing and Joanna isn’t very common these days. We’ll see what we’ve got here and I’ll also put through a call to London. Should take about fifteen minutes.”

Before he could reply, the ’phone on her desk rang. She took the call and then held out the receiver. “For you — Detective Constable Brady.”

Martha went into the outer office and Miller sat on the edge of the desk. “What have you got?”

“Plenty,” Brady said. “I’ve just had a session with a character named Jack Fenner. He’s been a registered addict for just over a year now. He makes a living as a dance band drummer.”

“I think I’ve seen him around,” Miller said. “Small, fair-haired.”

“That’s him. He says he had a prescription for heroin and cocaine filled at the all-night chemist’s in City Square at midnight on the dot. Joanna Martin stopped him on his way out and offered him a couple of quid for enough pills for a shot. His story is that he felt sorry for her. Said she had the shakes.”

“No chance of a mistake?”

“Definitely not.” Brady laughed harshly. “In fact this is where it gets interesting. Fenner says he’s seen her before.”

“Where?”

“At Max Vernon’s place, the Flamingo, about six weeks ago. The regular drummer was ill that night and Fenner stood in for him. Apparently it was Vernon’s birthday and he threw a big private binge. Fenner remembers the girl because Vernon kept her with him for most of the evening, which Fenner says is highly unusual. Apparently our Max prefers variety.”

“Now that is interesting,” Miller said. “Fenner’s certain he’s never seen her at any other time?”

“Dead certain — is it important that he should have?”

“Could be. Look at it this way. The girl wasn’t a registered addict, we know that, so where did she get the stuff from? If she’d been working the prescription racket outside the all-night chemist’s regularly, Fenner would have seen her many times. An addict needs at least one fix a day remember. Usually more.”

“Which means that someone must be peddling the stuff?”

“Could be.” Behind Miller, the door opened as Martha Broadribb returned and he added hastily, “I’ve got to go now, Jack. I’ll see you back at the office in half an hour.”

He turned, eyebrows raised enquiringly, and Martha shook her head. “I’m sorry, Nicholas. Not a thing. There was one Joanna on file, that’s all — a West Indian nurse.”

Miller sighed and stood up. “Never mind, Martha, it was just a hunch. Thanks for the tea anyway. I’ll leave you a copy of the photo just in case.”

He dropped it on the desk and as he turned, she placed a hand on his arm, concern on her face. “You’re worried about this one, aren’t you? There’s no need to be. Something will turn up. It always does.”

He grinned and kissed her briefly on the forehead. “Don’t work too hard, Martha. I’ll be seeing you.”

The door closed behind him. She stood there staring blankly at it for a moment, then took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, sat down at her typewriter and started to work.