The first report was headed Found Dead — Unidentified. Grant read it through, a slight frown on his face, and pressed the button on his intercom.

“Is Sergeant Miller in?”

“I believe he’s in the canteen, sir,” a neutral voice replied.

“Get him for me, will you?”

Miller arrived five minutes later, immaculate in a dark blue worsted suit and freshly laundered white shirt. Only the skin that was stretched a little too tightly over the high cheekbones gave any hint of fatigue.

“I thought you were supposed to be having a rest day?” Grant said.

“So did I, but I’m due in court at ten when Macek is formally charged. I’m asking for a ten-day remand. That girl’s going to be in hospital for at least a week.”

Grant tapped the form on his desk. “I don’t like the look of this one.”

“The girl I pulled out of the river?”

“That’s right. Are you certain there was no identification?”

Miller took an envelope from his pocket and produced a small gold medallion on the end of a slender chain. “This was around her neck.”

Grant picked it up. “St. Christopher.”

“Have a look on the back.”

The engraving had been executed by an expert: To Joanna from Daddy — 1955. Grant looked up, frowning. “And this was all?”

Miller nodded. “She was wearing stockings, the usual in underclothes, and a reasonably expensive dress. One rather sinister point. Just beneath the maker’s label there was obviously some sort of name tab. It’s been torn out.”