Which was how one would expect her to look after a shot of heroin and Miller sighed. ‘Anything else?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Mrs Kilroy hesitated. ‘If she had a friend at all, it was the girl in number four – Monica Grey.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I’ve seen them going out together, mainly in the afternoons.’

‘Is she in now?’

‘Should be. As far as I know, she works nights in one of these gaming clubs.’

Miller turned to Brady. ‘I’ll have a word with her. You get Mrs Kilroy to show you where the furnace is. See what you can find.’

The door closed behind them and Miller stood there in the quiet, listening. But there was nothing here – this room had no personality. It was as if she had never been here at all and after all, what did he really know about her? At the moment she existed only as a series of apparently contradictory facts. A well-bred girl, she had come down to living in a place like this. A sincere Catholic, she had committed suicide. Educated and intelligent, but also a drug addict.

None of it made any sense at all and he went along the corridor and knocked at number four. There was an immediate reply and he opened the door and entered.

She was standing in front of the dressing table, her back to the door and dressed, as far as he could judge in that first moment, in stockings and a pair of dark briefs. In the mirror, he was aware of her breasts, high and firm, and then her eyes widened.

‘I thought it was Mrs Kilroy.’

Miller stepped back into the corridor smartly, closing the door. A moment later it opened again and she stood there laughing at him, an old nylon housecoat belted around her waist.

‘Shall we try again?’

Her voice was hoarse but not unattractive with a slight Liverpool accent and she had a turned-up nose that gave her a rather gamin charm.

‘Miss Grey?’ Miller produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Miller – Central C.I.D. I wonder if I might have a word with you?’

Her smile slipped fractionally and a shadow seemed to cross her eyes as she stepped back and motioned him in. ‘What have I done now? Over-parked or something?’

There were times when the direct approach produced the best results and Miller tried it now. ‘I’m making enquiries into the death of Joanna Martin. I understand you might be able to help me.’

It had the effect of a physical blow. She seemed to stagger slightly, then turned, groped for the end of the bed and sank down.

‘I believe you were pretty good friends,’ Miller continued.