Chapter 2

Detective Sergeant Nicholas Miller was tired and it showed in his face as he went down the steps to the tiled entrance hall of the Marsden Wing of the General Infirmary. He paused to light a cigarette and the night sister watched him for a moment before emerging from her glass office. Like many middle-aged women she had a weakness for handsome young men. Miller intrigued her particularly for the dark blue Swedish trenchcoat and continental raincap that gave him a strange foreign air which was hardly in keeping with his profession. Certainly anything less like the conventional idea of a policeman would have been hard to imagine.

“How did you find Mr. Grant tonight?” she asked as she came out of her office.

“Decidedly restless.” Miller’s face was momentarily illuminated by a smile of great natural charm. “And full of questions.”

Detective Superintendent Bruce Grant, head of the city’s Central C.I.D., had been involved in a car accident earlier in the week and now languished in a hospital bed with a dislocated hip. Misfortune enough considering that Grant had been up to his ears in the most important case of his career. Doubly unfortunate in that it now left in sole charge of the case Detective Chief Superintendent George Mallory of Scotland Yard’s Murder Squad, the expert his superiors had insisted on calling in, in response to the growing public alarm as the Rainlover still continued at large.

“I’ll tell you something about policemen, Sister,” Miller said. “They don’t like other people being brought in to handle things that have happened on their patch. To an old hand like Bruce Grant, the introduction of Scotland Yard men to a case he’s been handling himself is a personal insult. Has Mallory been in today, by the way?”

“Oh yes, but just to see Inspector Craig. I don’t think he called in on Superintendent Grant.”

“He wouldn’t,” Miller said. “There’s no love lost there at all. Grant’s one satisfaction is that Craig was in the car with him when the accident happened which leaves Mallory on his own in the midst of the heathen. How is Craig?”

“Poorly,” she said. “A badly fractured skull.”

“Serves him right for coming North.”

“Now then, Sergeant, I was a Londoner myself twenty years ago.”

“And I bet you thought that north of High Barnet we rolled boulders on to travellers as they passed by.”

He grinned wickedly and the night sister said, “It’s a change to see you smile. They work you too hard. When did you last have a day off?”

“A day? You must be joking, but I’m free now till six a.m. As it happens, I’ve had an invitation to a party, but I’d break it for you.”

She was unable to keep her pleasure at the compliment from showing on her pleasant face and gave him a little push. “Go on, get out of it. I’m a respectable married woman.”

“In that case I will. Don’t do anything I would.” He smiled again and went out through the swing doors.

She stood there in the half-light, listening to the sound of the car engine dwindle into the distance, then turned with a sigh, went back into her office and picked up a book.

Nick Miller had met Joanna Hartmann only once at a dinner party at his brother’s place. The circumstances had been slightly unusual in that he had been in bed in his flat over the garage block at the rear of the house when his brother had arrived to shake him back to reality with the demand that he get dressed at once and come to dinner. Miller, who had not slept for approximately thirty hours, had declined with extreme impoliteness until his brother indicated that he wished him to partner a national television idol who had the nation by the throat twice-weekly as the smartest lady barrister in the game. It seemed that her fiancé had failed to put in an appearance, which put a completely different complexion on the whole thing. Miller had got dressed in three minutes flat.

The evening had been interesting and instructive. Like most actresses, she had proved to be not only intelligent, but a good conversationalist and for her part she had been intrigued to discover that her host’s handsome and elegant younger brother was a policeman.

A pleasant evening, but nothing more, for a considerable amount of her conversation had concerned her fiancé, Bruno Faulkner the sculptor, who had followed her north when she had signed to do her series for Northern Television and Nick Miller was not a man to waste his time up blind alleys.

Under the circumstances her invitation was something of a surprise, but it had certainly come at the right moment. A little life and laughter was just what he needed. Something to eat, a couple of stiff drinks and then home to bed or perhaps to someone else’s? You never knew your luck where show people were concerned.

She had the top flat in Dereham Court, a new luxury block not far from his own home and he could hear cool music drifting from a half-open window as he parked the green Mini-Cooper and went up the steps into the hall.

She opened the door to him herself, a tall, elegant blonde in a superb black velvet trouser suit who looked startlingly like her public image. When she greeted him, he might have been the only person in the world.

“Why, Nick, darling, I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it.”

He took off his coat and cap and handed them to the maid. “I nearly didn’t. First evening off for a fortnight.”

She nodded knowingly. “I suppose you must be pretty busy at the moment.” She turned to the handsome greying man who hovered at her elbow, a glass in one hand. “Nick’s a detective, Frank. You’ll know his brother, by the way. Jack Miller. He’s a director of Northern Television. This is Frank Marlowe, my agent, Nick.”

Marlowe thawed perceptibly. “Why, this is real nice,” he said with a faint American accent. “Had lunch with your brother and a few people at the Midland only yesterday. Let me get you a drink.”

As he moved away, Joanna took Miller’s arm and led him towards a white-haired old lady in a silver lamé gown who sat on a divan against the wall watching the world go by. She had the face of the sort of character actress you’ve seen a thousand times on film and television and yet can never put a name to. She turned out to be Mary Beresford, Joanna’s aunt, and Miller was introduced in full. He resisted an insane impulse to click his heels and kiss the hand that she held out to him, for the party was already turning out to be very different from what he had imagined.

That it was a very superior sort of soirée couldn’t be denied, but on the whole, the guests were older rather than younger, the men in evening wear, the women exquisitely gowned. Certainly there were no swinging young birds from the television studios in evidence—a great disappointment. Cool music played softly, one or two couples were dancing and there was a low murmur of conversation.

“What about the Rainlover then, Sergeant Miller?” Mary Beresford demanded.

The way she said sergeant made him sound like a lavatory attendant and she’d used the voice she kept for grand dowager parts.

“What about him?” he said belligerently.

“When are you going to catch him?” She said it with all the patience of an infant teacher explaining the school rules to a rather backward child on his first day. “After all, there are enough of you.”

“I know, Mrs. Beresford,” Miller said. “We’re pretty hot on parking tickets, but not so good on maniacs who walk the streets on wet nights murdering women.”

“There’s no need to be rude, Sergeant,” she said frostily.

“Oh, but I’m not.” Behind him Joanna Hartmann moved in anxiously, Frank Marlowe at her shoulder. Miller leaned down and said, “You see the difficulty about this kind of case is that the murderer could be anyone, Mrs. Beresford. Your own husband—your brother even.” He nodded around the room. “Any one of the men here.” There was an expression of real alarm on her face, but he didn’t let go. “What about Mr. Marlowe, for instance?”

He slipped an edge of authority into his voice and said to Marlowe, “Would you care to account for your movements between the hours of eight and nine last night, sir? I must warn you, of course, that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.”

Mary Beresford gave a shocked gasp, Marlowe looked decidedly worried and at that precise moment the record on the stereogram came to an end.

Joanna Hartmann grabbed Miller’s arm. “Come and play the piano for us.” She pulled him away and called brightly over her shoulder to Marlowe who stood there, a drink in each hand, mouth gaping. “He’s marvellous. You’d swear it was Oscar Peterson.”

Miller was angry, damned angry, but not only at Mary Beresford. She couldn’t help being the woman she was, but he was tired of the sort of vicious attack on the police that met him every time he picked up a newspaper, tired of cheap remarks and jibes about police inefficiency from members of the public who didn’t seem to appreciate that every detective who could be spared had been working ninety to a hundred hours a week since the Rainlover had first killed, in an attempt to root him out. But how did you find one terrifyingly insane human being in a city of three-quarters of a million? A man with no record, who did not kill for gain, who did not even kill for sexual reasons. Someone who just killed out of some dark compulsion that even the psychiatrists hadn’t been able to help them with.

The piano was the best, a Bechstein grand and he sat down, swallowed the double gin and tonic that Marlowe handed him and moved into a cool and complicated version of “The Lady Is a Tramp.” One or two people came across to stand at the piano watching, because they knew talent when they heard it and playing a good jazz piano was Miller’s greatest love. He moved from one number into another. It was perhaps fifteen minutes later when he heard the door bell chime.

“Probably Jack and Bruno,” Joanna said to Marlowe. “I’ll get it.”

Miller had a clear view of the door as she crossed the room. He looked down at the keyboard again and as he slowed to the end of his number, Mary Beresford gave a shocked gasp.

When Miller turned, a spectacularly fleshy-looking young tart in black plastic mac, mini-skirt and knee-length leather boots stood at the top of the steps beside the maid who had apparently got to the door before Joanna. A couple of men moved into the room behind her. It was pretty obvious which was Bruno Faulkner from what Miller had heard, and it was just as obvious what the man was up to as he helped the girl off with her coat and looked quickly around the room, a look of eager expectancy on his face.

Strangely enough it was the girl Miller felt sorry for. She was pretty enough in her own way and very, very nubile with that touch of raw cynicism common to the sort of young woman who has slept around too often and too early. She tilted her chin in a kind of bravado as she looked about her, but she was going to be hurt, that much was obvious. Quite suddenly Miller knew with complete certainty that he didn’t like Bruno Faulkner one little bit. He lit a cigarette and started to play—“Blue Moon.”

Of course Joanna Hartmann carried it all off superbly as he knew she would. She walked straight up to Faulkner, kissed him on the cheek and said, “Hello, darling, what kept you?”

“I’ve been working, Joanna,” Faulkner told her. “But I’ll tell you about that later. First, I’d like you to meet Grace. I hope you don’t mind us bringing her along.”

“Of course not.” She turned to Grace with her most charming smile. “Hello, my dear.”

The girl stared at her open-mouthed. “But you’re Joanna Hartmann. I’ve seen you on the telly.” Her voice had dropped into a whisper. “I saw your last film.”

“I hope you enjoyed it.” Joanna smiled sweetly at Morgan. “Jack, be an angel. Get Grace a drink and introduce her to one or two people. See she enjoys herself.”

“Glad to, Joanna.” Morgan guided the girl away expertly, sat her in a chair by the piano. “I’ll get you a drink. Back in a jiffy.”

She sat there looking hopelessly out of place. The attitude of the other guests was what interested Miller most. Some of the women were amused in a rather condescending way, others quite obviously highly indignant at having to breathe the same air. Most of the men on the other hand glanced at her covertly with a sort of lascivious approval. Morgan seemed to be taking his time and she put a hand to her hair nervously and tilted her chin at an ageing white-haired lady who looked her over as if she were a lump of dirt.

Miller liked her for that. She was getting the worst kind of raw deal from people who ought to know better, but seldom did, and she was damned if she was going to let them grind her down. He caught her eye and grinned. “Anything you’d like to hear?”

She crossed to the piano and one or two people who had been standing there moved away. “What about ‘St. Louis Blues?’” she said. “I like that.”

“My pleasure. What’s your name?”

“Grace Packard.”

He moved into a solid, pushing arrangement of the great jazz classic that had her snapping her fingers. “That’s the greatest,” she cried, eyes shining. “Do you do this for a living?”

He shook his head. “Kicks, that’s all. I couldn’t stand the kind of life the pro musicians lead. One-night stands till the early hours, tour after tour and all at the union rate. No icing on that kind of cake.”

“I suppose not. Do you come here often?”

“First time.”

“I thought so,” she grinned with a sort of gamin charm. “A right bunch of zombies.”

Morgan arrived with a drink for her. She put it down on top of the piano and clutched at his arm. “This place is like a morgue. Let’s live it up a little.”

Morgan didn’t seem unwilling and followed her on to the floor. As Miller came to the end of the number someone turned the stereogram on again, probably out of sheer bloody-mindedness. He wasn’t particularly worried, got to his feet and moved to the bar. Joanna Hartmann and Faulkner were standing very close together no more than a yard from him and as he waited for the barman to mix him a large gin and tonic, he couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

“Always the lady, Joanna,” Faulkner said. “Doesn’t anything ever disturb your poise?”

“Poor Bruno, have I spoiled your little joke? Where did you pick her up, by the way?”

“The public bar of The King’s Arms. I’d hoped she might enliven the proceedings. At least I’ve succeeded in annoying Frank from the look on his face. Thanks be for small mercies.”

Joanna shook her head and smiled. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I could make several very pleasant suggestions. Variations on a theme, but all eminently worthwhile.”

Before she could reply, Mary Beresford approached and Faulkner louted low. “Madam, all homage.”

There was real disgust on her face. “You are really the most disgusting man I know. How dare you bring that dreadful creature here.”

“Now there’s a deathless line if you like. Presumably from one of those Victorian melodramas you used to star in.” She flinched visibly and he turned and looked towards the girl who was dancing with Morgan. “In any case what’s so dreadful about a rather luscious young bird enjoying herself. But forgive me. I was forgetting how long it was since you were in that happy state, Aunt Mary.” The old woman turned and walked away and Faulkner held up a hand defensively. “I know, I’ve done it again.”

“Couldn’t you just ignore her?” Joanna asked.

“Sorry, but she very definitely brings out the worst in me. Have a martini.”

As the barman mixed them, Joanna noticed Miller and smiled. “Now here’s someone I want you to meet, Bruno. Nick Miller. He’s a policeman.”

Faulkner turned, examined Miller coolly and sighed. “Dammit all, Joanna, there is a limit you know. I do draw the line at coppers. Where on earth did you find him?”

“Oh, I crawled out of the woodwork,” Miller said pleasantly, restraining a sudden impulse to put his right foot squarely between Faulkner’s thighs.

Joanna looked worried and something moved in the big man’s eyes, but at that moment the door chimes sounded. Miller glanced across, mainly out of curiosity. When the maid opened the door he saw Jack Brady standing in the hall, his battered, Irish face infinitely preferable to any that he had so far met with that evening.

He put down his glass and said to Joanna. “Looks as if I’m wanted.”

“Surely not,” she said in considerable relief.

Miller grinned and turned to Faulkner. “I’d like to say it’s been nice, but then you get used to meeting all sorts in my line of work.”

He moved through the crowd rapidly before the big man could reply, took his coat and cap from the maid and gave Brady a push into the hall. “Let’s get out of here.”

The door closed behind them as he pulled on his trenchcoat. Detective Constable Jack Brady shook his head sadly. “Free booze, too. I should be ashamed to take you away.”

“Not from that lot you shouldn’t. What’s up?”

“Gunner Doyle’s on the loose.”

Miller paused, a frown of astonishment on his face. “What did you say?”

“They moved him into the Infirmary from Manningham Gaol yesterday with suspected food poisoning. Missed him half an hour ago.”

“What’s he served—two and a half years?”

“Out of a five stretch.”

“The daft bastard. He could have been out in another ten months with remission.” Miller sighed and shook his head. “Come on then, Jack, let’s see if we can find him.”