Miller moved to the other side of the slab, hesitated and then pulled back the rubber sheet revealing the face. Murray had closed the eyes and she looked calm and peaceful, the skin smooth and colourless.

Murray covered her again gently, his face sombre. “I think she was someone who had suffered a great deal. Too much for one so young.”

Miller nodded, unable to speak. That strange aching dryness clutched at his throat again and he turned away quickly. As he reached the door, Murray called softly, “Nick!” Miller turned. “Keep me posted.”

“I’ll do that,” Miller said and the rubber doors swung together behind him.

As he went out into the pale morning sunshine, Jack Brady crossed the car park to meet him.

“Grant thought you might need some help on this one. Have they finished the autopsy?”

Miller nodded. “Murray says she went into the river somewhere around one a.m. She was pregnant, by the way.”

Brady nodded calmly. “Anything else?”

“She was a junkie. Heroin and cocaine.”

“That should give us a lead.” Brady took a buff envelope from his overcoat pocket. “I’ve checked with Forensic. They’ll have a report ready by noon. These are from Photography.”

Miller opened the envelope and examined the prints it contained. Those photography boys certainly knew their job. She might almost have been alive, an illusion helped by the fact that the photos had been taken before Murray had closed her eyes.

Brady took one and frowned. “A damned shame. She looks like a nice kid.”

“Don’t they always?” Miller slipped the other prints into his pocket. “I think I’ll go and see Dr. Das. He knows just about every junkie in town.”

“What about me?”

Miller took the gold St. Christopher from his breast pocket and handed it over. “You’re a good Catholic, aren’t you, Jack?”