“I go to Mass now and then.”

“Maybe the girl did. There’s an inscription on the other side. Work your way round the parish priests. Someone may recognise her photo or even the medal.”

“More shoe leather,” Brady groaned.

“Good for your soul this one. I’ll drop you off at the Cathedral if you like.”

They got into the car and Brady glanced at his copy of the girl’s photograph again before putting it away in his wallet. He shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense, does it? Have you any idea what it’s like down there on the docks at that time in the morning?”

“Just about the darkest and loneliest place in the world,” Miller said.

Brady nodded. “One thing’s certain. She must have been pretty desperate. I’d like to know what got her into that state.”

“So would I, Jack,” Miller said. “So would I,” and he released the handbrake and drove rapidly away.

Drug addicts are possibly the most difficult of all patients to handle and yet Dr. Lal Das specialised in them. He was a tall cadaverous Indian, with an international reputation in the field, who persisted in running a general practice in one of the less salubrious parts of the city, a twilight area of tall, decaying Victorian houses.

He had just finished his morning calls and was having coffee in front of the surgery fire when Miller was shown in. Das smiled and waved him to a seat. “A pleasant surprise. You will join me?”

“Thanks very much.”

Das went to the sideboard and returned with another cup. “A social call?”

“I’m afraid not.” Miller produced one of the photos. “Have you ever seen her before?”

Das shook his head. “Who is she?”

“We don’t know. I pulled her out of the river this morning.”

“Suicide?”

Miller nodded. “Professor Murray did an autopsy. She’d had a fix about half an hour before she died.”