Brought in Dead Read online

  Brought in Dead

  Jack Higgins

  When a young woman commits suicide, Detective Sergeant Nick Miller follows a hazardous trail to find the powerful man responsible for the girl’s fate, only to watch him walk out of court a free man. But the dead girl’s father swears to exact justice — with or without the law on his side.

  Jack Higgins

  Brought In Dead

  For Dorothy Limón — a real fan

  CHAPTER 1

  The girl was young and might have been pretty once, but not now. Her right eye was almost closed, the cheek mottled by livid bruises and her lips had been split by the same violent blow that had knocked out three teeth.

  She hobbled painfully into the Line-Up room supported by a woman P.C., a pathetic, broken figure with a blanket over her shoulders to conceal the torn dress. Miller and Brady were sitting on a bench at the far end of the room and Brady saw her first. He tapped his companion on the shoulder and Miller stubbed out his cigarette and went to meet her.

  He paused, noting her condition with a sort of clinical detachment, and the girl shrank back slightly from the strange young man with the white face and the eyes that seemed to stare right through her like dark glass.

  Detective Sergeant Nicholas Miller was tired — more tired than he had been in a long, long time. In the ten hours he had already spent on duty, he had served as investigating officer at two burglaries, a factory breakin and a closing-hours brawl outside a pub near the market in which a youth had been slashed so badly across the face that it was more than likely that he would lose his right eye. This had been followed almost immediately by a particularly vile case of child cruelty which had involved forcible entry, in company with an N.S.P.C.C. inspector, of a house near the docks where they had found three children huddled together like animals, almost naked, showing all the signs of advanced malnutrition, squatting in their own dirt in a windowless boxroom that stank like a pigsty.

  And now this. Compassion did not come easily at five o’clock on a dark February morning, but there was fear on this girl’s face and she had suffered enough. He smiled and his whole personality seemed to change and the warmth reached out to envelop her so that sudden, involuntary tears sprang to her eyes.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Everything’s going to be fine. Another couple of minutes and it’ll be all over.” He turned to Detective Constable Brady. “Let’s have them, Jack.”

  Brady nodded and pressed a red button on a small control panel on the wall. A hard white light illuminated a stage at the far end of the room and a moment later, a door opened and half a dozen men filed in followed by two constables who marshalled them in line.

  Miller took the girl gently by the arm, but before he could speak, she started to tremble violently. She managed to raise her right hand, pointing at the prisoner who stood number one in line, a great ox of a man, his right cheek disfigured by a jagged scar. She tried to speak, something rattled in her throat and she collapsed against Miller in a dead faint.

  He held her close against his chest and looked up at the stage. “Okay, Macek, let’s be having you.”

  A thick-set, fourteen-stone Irishman with fists like rocks, Detective Constable Jack Brady had been a policeman for twenty-five years. A quarter of a century of dealing with human wickedness in all its forms, of walking daily in squalor and filth and a gradual erosion of the spirit had left him harsh and embittered, a hard, cruel man who believed in nothing. And then a curious thing had happened. Certain villains now serving collectively some twenty-five years in one of Her Majesty’s Prisons had thrown him down a flight of stairs, breaking his leg in two places and fracturing his skull, later leaving him for dead in a back street.

  Most men would have died, but not Jack Brady. The priest was called, the last rites administered and then the surgeons took over and the nurses and physio-therapists, and in three months he was back on duty with a barely perceptible limp in his left leg.

  The same, but not the same. For one thing he was noticed to smile more readily. He was still a good tough cop, but now he seemed gifted with a new understanding. It was as if through suffering himself, he had learned compassion for others.

  The girl painfully signed her name at the bottom of the typed statement sheet and he helped her to her feet and nodded to the woman P.C.

  “You’ll be all right now, love. It’s all over.”

  The girl left, sobbing quietly, and Miller came in holding a teletype flimsy. “Don’t waste too much sympathy on her, Jack. I’ve just heard from C.R.O. She’s got a record. Four previous convictions including larceny, conspiracy to steal, breaking and entering and illegal possession of drugs. To cap that little lot, she’s been on the trot from Peterhill Remand Home since November last year.” He dropped the flimsy on the table in disgust. “We can certainly pick them.”

  “That still doesn’t excuse what Macek did to her,” Brady said. “Underneath that surface toughness she’s just a frightened little girl.”

  “Sweetness and light.” Miller said. “That’s all I need.” He yawned, reaching for a cigarette. The packet was empty and he crumpled it with a sigh. “It’s been a long night.”

  Brady nodded, applying a match to the bowl of his pipe. “Soon be over.”

  The door opened and Macek entered, escorted by a young probationer constable. The Pole slumped down on one of the hard wooden chairs at the table and Miller turned to the probationer.

  “I could do with some tea and a packet of cigarettes. See what the canteen can offer, will you?”

  The young constable went on his way briskly, for Miller was a particular hero of his — Nick Miller, the man with the law degree who had made Detective Sergeant with only five years’ service. All this and an interest, so it was rumoured, in his brother’s business that enabled him to live in a style to which few police officers were accustomed.

  As the door closed, Miller turned to Macek. “Now then, you bastard, let’s get down to it.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say,” Macek said woodenly.

  Brady laughed harshly and there was a heavy silence. Macek looked furtively at Miller, who was examining his fingernails, and said desperately, “All right, so I knocked her around a little. Bloody little tart. She had it coming.”

  “Why?” Brady demanded.

  “I took her in,” Macek said. “Gave her a place to stay. The best of everything. Then I find her sneaking out at two in the morning with my wallet, my watch and everything else of value she could lay her hands on. What would you have done?”

  He sounded genuinely aggrieved and Miller picked up the girl’s statement. “She says here that you’ve been living together for five weeks.”

  Macek nodded eagerly. “I gave her the best — the best there was.”

  “What about the men?”

  “What men?”

  “The men you brought round to the house every night. The men who called because they needed a woman.”

  “Do me a favour,” Macek said. “Do I look like a pimp?”

  “Don’t press me to answer that,” Miller told him.

  “You’ve kept the girl under lock and key for the past two weeks. When she couldn’t take any more, you beat her up and threw her out.”

  “You try proving that.”

  “I don’t need to. You said you’ve been living together as man and wife.”

  “So what? It’s a free country.”

  “She’s just fifteen.”

  Macek’s face turned grey. “She can’t be.”

  “Oh, yes she can. We’ve got her record card.”

  Macek turned desperately to Brady. “She didn’t tell me.”

  “It’s a hard cruel world, isn’t it, Macek?” Brady said.

  The Pole seemed t
o pull himself together. “I want a lawyer.”

  “Are you going to make a statement?” Miller asked.

  Macek glared across the table. “You get stuffed,” he said viciously.

  Miller nodded. “All right, Jack, take him down and book him. Make it abduction of a minor and rape. With any luck and his record, we might get him seven years.”

  Macek sat there staring at him, horror in his eyes, and Jack Brady’s iron fist descended, jerking from the chair. “On your way, soldier.”

  Macek stumbled from the room and Miller turned to the window and pulled the curtain. Rain drifted across the glass in a fine spray and beyond, the first light of morning streaked the grey sky. The door opened behind him and the young probationer entered, the tea and cigarettes on a tray. “That’ll be six bob, sarge.”

  Miller paid him and slipped the cigarettes into his pocket. “I’ve changed my mind about tea. You have it. I’m going home. Tell Detective Constable Brady I’ll ’phone him this afternoon.”

  He walked along the quiet corridor, descended three flights of marble stairs and went out through the swing doors of the portico at the front of the Town Hall. His car was parked at the bottom of the steps with several others, a green Mini-Cooper, and he paused beside it to light a cigarette.

  It was exactly five-thirty and the streets were strangely empty in the grey morning. The sensible thing to do was to go home to bed and yet he felt strangely restless. It was as if the city lay waiting for him and obeying a strange, irrational impulse he turned up the collar of his dark blue Swedish trenchcoat against the rain and started across the square.

  For some people the early morning is the best part of the day and George Hammond was one of these. Lockkeeper in charge of the great gates that prevented the canal from emptying itself into the river basin below, he had reported for duty at five-forty-five, rain or snow, for more than forty years. Walking through the quiet streets, he savoured the calm morning with a conscious pleasure that never varied.

  He paused at the top of the steps at the end of the bridge over the river and looked down into the basin. They catered mainly for barge traffic this far upstream and they floated together beside the old Victorian docks like basking sharks.

  He went down the steps and started along the bank. One section of the basin was crammed with coal barges offering a convenient short-cut to the other side and he started to work his way across.

  He paused on the edge of the final barge, judging the gap between the thwart and the wharf. He started his jump, gave a shocked gasp and only just managed to regain his balance.

  A woman stared up at him through the grey-green water. In a lifetime of working on the river George Hammond had found bodies in the basin before, but never one like this. The eyes stared past him, fixed on eternity, and for some inexplicable reason he knew fear.

  He turned, worked his way back across the river, scrambled up on the wharf and ran along the bank.

  Nick Miller had just started to cross the bridge as Hammond emerged from the top of the steps and leaned against the parapet sobbing for breath.

  Miller moved forward quickly. “Anything wrong?”

  “Police!” Hammond gasped. “I need the police.”

  “You’ve found them,” Miller said crisply. “What’s up?”

  “Girl down there in the water,” Hammond said. “Other side of the coal barges beneath the wharf.”

  “Dead?” Miller demanded.

  Hammond nodded. “Gave me a hell of a turn, I can tell you.”

  “There’s an all-night café on the other side of the bridge. ’Phone for a patrol car and an ambulance from there. I’ll go down and see what I can do.”

  Hammond nodded, turned away and Miller went down the steps quickly and moved along the bank. It had stopped raining and a cool breeze lifted off the water so that he shivered slightly as he jumped for the deck of the first coal barge and started to work his way across.

  He couldn’t find her at first and then a sudden eddy of the current swirled, clearing the flotsam from the surface and she stared up at him.

  And she was beautiful — more beautiful than he had ever known a woman to be, that was the strangest thing of all. The body had drifted into the arched entrance of a vault under the wharf and hung suspended just beneath the surface. The dress floated around her in a cloud as did the long golden hair and there was a look of faint surprise in the eyes, the lips parted slightly as if in wonder at how easy it had been.

  Up on the bridge, there was the jangle of a patrol car’s bell and in the distance, the siren of the approaching ambulance sounded faintly. But he couldn’t wait. In some strange way this had become personal. He took off his trenchcoat and jacket, slipped off his shoes and lowered himself over the side.

  The water was bitterly cold and yet he was hardly conscious of the fact as he swam into the archway. At that moment, the first rays of the morning sun broke through the clouds, striking into the water so that she seemed to smile as he reached under the surface and took her.

  A line of broad steps dropped into the basin twenty yards to the right and he swam towards them, standing up when his knees bumped a shelving bank of gravel, lifting her in his arms.

  But now she looked different. Now she looked dead. He stood there knee-deep, staring down at her, a lump in his throat, aware of a feeling of personal loss.

  “Why?” he said to himself softly. “Why?”

  But there was no answer, could never be and as the ambulance turned on the wharf above him he went up the steps slowly, the girl cradled in his arms so that she might have been a child sleeping.

  CHAPTER 2

  Detective Superintendent Bruce Grant, head of the city’s Central Division C.I.D., stood at the window of his office drinking a cup of tea and stared out morosely at the driving rain. He had a slight headache and his liver was acting up again. He was getting old, he decided — old and fat through lack of exercise and the stack of paperwork waiting on his desk didn’t help. He lit a cigarette, his first of the day, sat down and started on the In-tray.

  The first report was headed Found Dead — Unidentified. Grant read it through, a slight frown on his face, and pressed the button on his intercom.

  “Is Sergeant Miller in?”

  “I believe he’s in the canteen, sir,” a neutral voice replied.

  “Get him for me, will you?”

  Miller arrived five minutes later, immaculate in a dark blue worsted suit and freshly laundered white shirt. Only the skin that was stretched a little too tightly over the high cheekbones gave any hint of fatigue.

  “I thought you were supposed to be having a rest day?” Grant said.

  “So did I, but I’m due in court at ten when Macek is formally charged. I’m asking for a ten-day remand. That girl’s going to be in hospital for at least a week.”

  Grant tapped the form on his desk. “I don’t like the look of this one.”

  “The girl I pulled out of the river?”

  “That’s right. Are you certain there was no identification?”

  Miller took an envelope from his pocket and produced a small gold medallion on the end of a slender chain. “This was around her neck.”

  Grant picked it up. “St. Christopher.”

  “Have a look on the back.”

  The engraving had been executed by an expert: To Joanna from Daddy — 1955. Grant looked up, frowning. “And this was all?”

  Miller nodded. “She was wearing stockings, the usual in underclothes, and a reasonably expensive dress. One rather sinister point. Just beneath the maker’s label there was obviously some sort of name tab. It’s been torn out.”

  Grant sighed heavily. “Do you think she might have been put in?”

  Miller shook his head. “Not a chance. There isn’t a mark on her.”

  “Then it doesn’t make sense,” Grant said. “Suicide’s an irrational act at the best of times. Are you asking me to accept that this girl was so cold-blooded about it that she took time off to try
to conceal her identity?”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Then what about the chain? Why didn’t she get rid of that, too?”

  “When you habitually wear a thing like that you tend to forget about it,” Miller said. “Or maybe it meant a lot to her — especially as she was a Catholic.”

  “That’s another thing — a Catholic committing suicide.”

  “It’s been known.”

  “But not very often. There are times when such things as statistical returns and probability tables have their uses in this work — or didn’t they teach you that at the staff college? What have Missing Persons got to offer?”

  “Nothing yet,” Miller said. “There’s time of course. She looks old enough to have been out all night. Someone could conceivably wait for a day or two before reporting her missing.”

  “But you don’t think so?”

  “Do you?”

  Grant looked at the form again and shook his head. “No, I’d say anything we’re going to find out about this one, we’ll have to dig up for ourselves.”

  “Can I have it?”

  Grant nodded. “Autopsy isn’t mandatory in these cases but I think I’ll ask the County Coroner to authorise one. You never know what might turn up.”

  He reached for the ’phone and Miller went back into the main C.I.D. room and sat down at his desk. There was an hour to fill before his brief court appearance — a good opportunity to get rid of some of the paperwork in his In-tray.

  For some reason he found it impossible to concentrate. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, and her face rose out of the darkness to meet him, still that faint look of surprise in the eyes, the lips slightly parted. It was as if she was about to speak, to tell him something but that was impossible.

  God, but he was tired. He settled back in his chair and cat-napped, awaking at exactly five minutes to ten feeling curiously refreshed, but when he went downstairs and crossed the square to the county court building, it wasn’t the Macek case he was thinking about.