‘I’m not so sure,’ Grant said. ‘Since the middle of last year there’s been open warfare in London between the four most powerful gangs, mainly over the protection racket. These things always run to a pattern. The villains carve each other up – in this case they’re even using shooters – and the police stand by to pick up the pieces when it’s all over. Nobody wins that kind of fight and Vernon was clever enough to realize that. As soon as he heard the first rumblings, he sold out to one of his rivals and dropped out of sight.’

‘To reappear here?’ Brady said.

Grant got to his feet and paced to the window. ‘I’ve always thought this might happen one day. That the London mobs would start looking for fresh fields. I’ll have to have a word with the old man about it.’ He shook his head. ‘I’d love to know what Vernon’s been up to since he’s been here.’

‘Maybe Chuck Lazer could give me a few pointers,’ Miller said.

Grant swung round, his face brightening. ‘That’s a thought. See what you can get out of him.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Miller said, ‘but don’t expect too much. To a certain extent Lazer’s on the other side of the fence, remember. I’ll keep you posted.’

He returned to the main C.I.D. room and Brady followed him. ‘What now?’

‘About the girl?’ Miller shrugged. ‘I’m still considering. There are one or two interesting possibilities.’

He pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and the gold medal and chain fell to the floor. Brady picked it up and examined the inscription again. ‘At least we know one thing for certain – her Christian name.’

Miller paused in the act of lighting his cigarette. ‘My God, I must be losing my touch.’

‘What do you mean?’ Brady asked.

‘I’m remembering something Martha Broadribb told me. How most people who go missing hang on to their Christian name – there’s a pretty obvious psychological explanation for that. It’s such a common behaviour pattern that they cross-index missing persons under their Christian names as well.’

‘And where does that get us?’ Brady demanded looking puzzled. ‘She still couldn’t help, could she?’

‘No, but I’m wondering whether we might have just a little bit more luck at the College of Art,’ Miller said simply.

‘This must be her,’ Henderson said suddenly, turning from the file and handing Miller a white index card.

He was a small, greying Scot with a pleasant, lined face, obviously fascinated by the present situation, which had turned what would otherwise have been a day of dull routine into a memorable one.

Miller read the details on the card aloud and Brady made notes. ‘Joanna Maria Craig, address, Rosedene, Grange Avenue, St Martin’s Wood.’