move. The door slammed in Brady’s face as he reached it and the bolt clicked home. He turned and nodded to the young patrolman, a professional rugby player with the local team, who tucked his head into his shoulder and charged as if he was carving his way through a pack of Welsh forwards.
In the kitchen, the Gunner tugged ineffectually at the window, then grabbed a chair and smashed an exit. A second later, the door caved in behind him as the patrolman blasted through and sprawled on his face.
There was a fallpipe about five feet to one side. Without hesitation, the Gunner reached for the rotting gutter above his head, swung out into the rain and grabbed at the pipe as the gutter sagged and gave way.
He hung there for a moment, turned and grinned at Miller who leaned out of the window, arm outstretched and three feet too short.
“No hard feelings, Mr. Miller. See you in church.”
He went down the pipe like a monkey and disappeared into the darkness and rain below. Miller turned and grinned at Brady. “Still in his bare feet, did you notice? He always was good for a laugh.”
They returned to the bedroom to find Doreen weeping passionately. She flung herself into Brady’s arms the moment he appeared. “Oh, help me, Mr. Brady. As God’s my judge I didn’t know that divil was coming here this night.”
Her accent had thickened appreciably and Brady patted her bottom and shoved her away. “You needn’t put that professional Irish act on with me, Doreen Monaghan. It won’t work. I’m a Cork man meself.”
There was a muffled groan from under the bed. Brady leaned down and grabbed a foot, hauling the sailor into plain view, naked except for his underpants.
“Now I’d say that just about rounds the night off,” Miller said to the big Irishman and they both started to laugh.
Mrs. Goldberg, seventy and looking every year of it with her long jet earrings and a patina of make-up that gave her a distinct resemblance to a death mask, peered round the door and viewed the splintered door with horror.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “The damage. Who’s going to pay for the damage?”
The young patrolman appeared behind her, looking white and shaken. Miller moved forward, ignoring Mrs. Goldberg for the moment. “What happened to you?”
“Thought I’d better get a general call out for Doyle as soon as possible, Sergeant, so I went straight down to my bike.”
“Good lad,” Brady said. “That’s using your nut.”
“They’ve been trying to get in touch with Sergeant Miller for the last ten minutes or so.”
“Oh, yes,” Miller said. “Anything important?”
“Chief Superintendent Mallory wants you to meet him at Dob Court, Sergeant. That’s off Gascoigne Street on the north side of Jubilee Park. The beat man found a woman there about twenty minutes ago.” Suddenly he looked sick. “Looks like another Rainlover killing.”
There were at least a dozen patrol cars in Gascoigne Street when Miller and Brady arrived in the Mini-Cooper and the Studio, the Forensic Department’s travelling laboratory, was just drawing up as they got out and moved along the wet pavement to Dob Court.
As they approached, two men emerged and stood talking. One was Detective Inspector Henry Wade, Head of Forensic, a fat balding man who wore horn-rimmed spectacles and a heavy overcoat. He usually smiled a lot, but now he looked grim and serious as he wiped rain from his glasses with a handkerchief and listened to what Detective Chief Superintendent George Mallory of Scotland Yard’s Murder Squad was saying to him.
He nodded and moved away and Mallory turned to Miller. “Where were you?”
He was forty-five years of age, crisp, intelligent, the complete professional. The provincials he had to work with usually didn’t like him, which suited him down to the ground because he detested inefficiency in any form and had come across too much of it for comfort on his forays outside London.
He thoroughly approved of Miller
In the kitchen, the Gunner tugged ineffectually at the window, then grabbed a chair and smashed an exit. A second later, the door caved in behind him as the patrolman blasted through and sprawled on his face.
There was a fallpipe about five feet to one side. Without hesitation, the Gunner reached for the rotting gutter above his head, swung out into the rain and grabbed at the pipe as the gutter sagged and gave way.
He hung there for a moment, turned and grinned at Miller who leaned out of the window, arm outstretched and three feet too short.
“No hard feelings, Mr. Miller. See you in church.”
He went down the pipe like a monkey and disappeared into the darkness and rain below. Miller turned and grinned at Brady. “Still in his bare feet, did you notice? He always was good for a laugh.”
They returned to the bedroom to find Doreen weeping passionately. She flung herself into Brady’s arms the moment he appeared. “Oh, help me, Mr. Brady. As God’s my judge I didn’t know that divil was coming here this night.”
Her accent had thickened appreciably and Brady patted her bottom and shoved her away. “You needn’t put that professional Irish act on with me, Doreen Monaghan. It won’t work. I’m a Cork man meself.”
There was a muffled groan from under the bed. Brady leaned down and grabbed a foot, hauling the sailor into plain view, naked except for his underpants.
“Now I’d say that just about rounds the night off,” Miller said to the big Irishman and they both started to laugh.
Mrs. Goldberg, seventy and looking every year of it with her long jet earrings and a patina of make-up that gave her a distinct resemblance to a death mask, peered round the door and viewed the splintered door with horror.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “The damage. Who’s going to pay for the damage?”
The young patrolman appeared behind her, looking white and shaken. Miller moved forward, ignoring Mrs. Goldberg for the moment. “What happened to you?”
“Thought I’d better get a general call out for Doyle as soon as possible, Sergeant, so I went straight down to my bike.”
“Good lad,” Brady said. “That’s using your nut.”
“They’ve been trying to get in touch with Sergeant Miller for the last ten minutes or so.”
“Oh, yes,” Miller said. “Anything important?”
“Chief Superintendent Mallory wants you to meet him at Dob Court, Sergeant. That’s off Gascoigne Street on the north side of Jubilee Park. The beat man found a woman there about twenty minutes ago.” Suddenly he looked sick. “Looks like another Rainlover killing.”
There were at least a dozen patrol cars in Gascoigne Street when Miller and Brady arrived in the Mini-Cooper and the Studio, the Forensic Department’s travelling laboratory, was just drawing up as they got out and moved along the wet pavement to Dob Court.
As they approached, two men emerged and stood talking. One was Detective Inspector Henry Wade, Head of Forensic, a fat balding man who wore horn-rimmed spectacles and a heavy overcoat. He usually smiled a lot, but now he looked grim and serious as he wiped rain from his glasses with a handkerchief and listened to what Detective Chief Superintendent George Mallory of Scotland Yard’s Murder Squad was saying to him.
He nodded and moved away and Mallory turned to Miller. “Where were you?”
He was forty-five years of age, crisp, intelligent, the complete professional. The provincials he had to work with usually didn’t like him, which suited him down to the ground because he detested inefficiency in any form and had come across too much of it for comfort on his forays outside London.
He thoroughly approved of Miller
Similar Books
