Miller produced one of the photos and passed it across. “Know her?”

Lazer shook his head. “Can’t say I do.” He frowned suddenly. “Heh, isn’t that a morgue photograph?”

Miller nodded. “I pulled her out of the river this morning. Trouble is we can’t identify her.”

“Suicide?”

“That’s right. The autopsy showed she was an addict. I was hoping she might be registered, that Das might know her.”

“And she isn’t? That makes it difficult.”

“What’s the drug market like now, Chuck?” Miller said. “Where would she get the stuff?”

“Difficult to say. I’ve been out of circulation for quite a while, remember. As far as I know, there isn’t any really organised peddling if that’s what you mean. Remember where you first met me?”

Miller grinned. “Outside the all-night chemist’s in City Square.”

“That’s where it changes hands. Most registered addicts see their doctor at his evening surgery and usually get a prescription dated for the following day. Legally, they can have it filled from midnight onwards which is why you always find a bunch waiting in the all-night chemist’s in any big city round about that time. The non-registered users hang around outside hoping to buy a few pills. They’re usually in luck. Quite a few doctors tend to over-prescribe.”

“So all I have to do is go down to City Square at midnight and pass her photo around?”

“If she was an addict, someone will recognise her, that’s for sure. The most exclusive club in the world.”

“Thanks very much,” Miller said. “I didn’t get any sleep last night either.”

“You shouldn’t have joined.” Lazer chuckled and then his smile faded.

Miller glanced across to the club as a dark blue Rolls eased in to the kerb. The first man to emerge was built like a pro wrestler, shoulders bulging massively under a dark blue overcoat. The driver came round to join him, a small, wiry man with jet black hair, and held open the rear door.