Miller handed him the gloves, took out his wallet and produced a pound note. ‘This is on me, Jack. Take a taxi to the Packard house. I don’t suppose the mother’s in too good a state, but see if the father can give you a positive identification on those gloves. Come straight on to Narcia Street from there. I’ll be waiting for you.’

‘Mallory isn’t going to like this.’

‘That’s just too bloody bad. How far did you get with Mrs Phillips’s doctor?’

‘He wouldn’t discuss it on the phone. It’s that Indian bloke – Lal Das. You know what these buggers are like. Give ’em an inch and they’ll take a mile every time.’

’All right, Jack, all right, I’ll see him myself,’ Miller said, an edge to his voice, for the kind of racial prejudice that seemed to be part of the make-up of so many otherwise decent men like Brady was guaranteed to bring out the worst in him.

‘Half an hour then,’ Brady said, checking his watch. ‘That’s all it should take.’

‘I’ll wait for you outside.’ Miller watched him run across to one of the taxis, got into the Mini-Cooper and drove away quickly.

13

Lal Das, to whom Brady had referred so contemptuously, was a tall, cadaverous Indian. A Doctor of Medicine and a Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians, he could have secured a senior post in a major hospital any time he wanted and yet he preferred to run a large general practice in one of the less salubrious parts of the city. He had a national reputation in the field of drug addiction and, in this connection, Miller had frequently sought his advice.

The Indian had just finished breakfast and was working his way through the Sunday supplements when Miller was shown in. Das smiled and waved him to a seat. ‘Just in time for coffee.’

‘Thanks very much.’

‘Business, or did you just happen to be in the neighbourhood?’

Miller took the cup of coffee the Indian handed to him and shook his head. ‘You had a call earlier – a query concerning a Mrs Phillips of 10, Narcia Street.’

The Indian nodded. ‘That’s right. The officer who spoke to me wasn’t terribly co-operative. Wouldn’t tell me what the whole thing was about, so I simply refused to give him the information he required until I knew more about it. A doctor/patient relationship can only function satisfactorily when there is an atmosphere of complete trust. I would only be prepared to discuss a patient’s case history and private affairs in exceptional circumstances.’

‘Would murder be extreme enough?’ Miller asked.

Lal Das sighed and put down his cup carefully. ‘I think you’d better tell me about it. I’ll judge for myself.’

‘Fair enough. The man at the centre of things is the woman’s son – Harold Phillips. Presumably he’s a patient of yours also?’