Henry Wade was fat and balding and his several chins and horn-rimmed spectacles gave him the deceptively benign air of a prosperous publican or back street bookie. He was neither. He was head of the department’s Forensic section with the rank of Detective Inspector and the ready smile concealed a brain that in action had the cutting edge of a razor.

When Miller went into the small office at one end of the police lab, he found Wade at his desk filling in a report, covering the paper with the neat italic script that was his special pride.

He turned and smiled. ‘Hello, Nick, I was wondering when you’d turn up.’

‘Anything for me?’

‘Not much, I’m afraid. Come on. I’ll show you.’

Miller followed him into the lab., nodding to the bench technicians as he passed. The girl’s clothing was laid out neatly on a table by the window.

Wade went through the items one by one. ‘The stockings are a well-known brand sold everywhere and the underwear she bought at Marks & Spencer’s along with just about every other girl in the country these days.’

‘What about the dress?’

‘Reasonably expensive, but once again, a well-known brand name available at dozens of shops and stores. One interesting point. Just below the maker’s label, a name tab’s been torn out.’

He picked up the dress pointing with a pair of tweezers and Miller nodded. ‘I noticed.’

‘I had a hunch about that. We matched up a piece of the tab that was still attached to the dress and my hunch paid off. It’s a Cash label. You must have seen them. Little white tabs with the individual’s name woven in red. People buy them for schoolchildren or students going away to college.’

Miller nodded. ‘Thousands of people, including my sister-in-law. Her two kids have them sewn into just about every damned thing they own. Is that all?’

‘No – one other thing. When we checked the nail scrapings we discovered a minute quantity of oil paint. There were one or two spots on the dress, too.’

‘An artist?’ Miller said. ‘That’s something.’

‘Don’t be too certain. Lots of people do a little painting these days.’ Henry Wade grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘You shouldn’t have joined, Nick lad. You shouldn’t have joined.’

Grant was still working away at his desk when Miller peered round the door. ‘Got a minute?’

‘Just about.’ Grant sat back and lit a cigarette. ‘How’s it going?’

‘So far, not so good, but it was something else I wanted to mention. What do you know about a man called Vernon?’

‘Max Vernon, the bloke from London who took over Faulkner’s casino and betting shops?’ Grant shrugged. ‘Not much. The Chief introduced him to me at the Conservative Ball. Obviously a gentleman. Public school and all that sort of thing.’