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      ‘She was a heroin addict?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And you have supplied her with heroin?’

      ‘I have.’

      ‘I see,’ said Stephens with finality. He glanced at Pomray, then turned back to Warren. ‘I don’t know that I like that.’

      ‘I don’t care whether you like it or not,’ said Warren equably. ‘May I see my patient – you’ll be wanting a death certificate. It had better come from me.’

      Of all the bloody nerve, thought Stephens. He turned abruptly and threw open the door of the bedroom. ‘In there,’ he said curtly.

      Warren walked past him into the room, followed closely by Pomray. Stephens jerked his head at Sergeant Ipsley, indicating that he should leave, then closed the door behind him. When he strode to the bed Warren and Pomray were already in the midst of a conversation of which he understood about one word in four.

      The sheet with which Pomray had draped the body was drawn back to reveal again the naked body of June Hellier. Stephens butted in. ‘Dr Warren: I suggested to Dr Pomray that perhaps this girl was a diabetic, because of those puncture marks. He said there was sepsis and that no doctor would allow that to happen to his patient. This girl was your patient. How do you account for it?’

      Warren looked at Pomray and there was a faint twitch about his mouth that might have been a smile. ‘I don’t have to account for it,’ he said. ‘But I will. The circumstances of the injection of an anti-diabetic drug are quite different from those attendant on heroin. The social ambience is different and there is often an element of haste which can result in sepsis.’

      In an aside to Pomray he said, ‘I taught her how to use a needle but, as you know, they don’t take much notice of the need for cleanliness.’

      Stephens was affronted. ‘You taught her how to use a needle! By God, you make a curious use of ethics!’

      Warren looked at him levelly and said with the utmost deliberation, ‘Inspector, any doubts you have about my ethics should be communicated to the appropriate authority, and if you don’t know what it is I shall be happy to supply you with the address.’

      The way he turned from Stephens was almost an insult. He said to Pomray, ‘I’ll sign the certificate together with the pathologist. It will be better that way.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Pomray thoughtfully. ‘It might be better.’

      Warren stepped to the head of the bed and stood for a moment looking down at the dead girl. Then he drew up the sheet very slowly so that it covered the body. There was something in that slow movement which puzzled Stephens; it was an act of … of tenderness.

      He waited until Warren looked up, then said, ‘Do you know anything of her family?’

      ‘Practically nothing. Addicts resent probing – so I don’t probe.’

      ‘Nothing about her father?’

      ‘Nothing beyond the fact that she had a father. She mentioned him a couple of times.’

      ‘When did she come to you for drugs?’

      ‘She came to me for treatment about a year and a half ago. For treatment, Inspector.’

      ‘Of course,’ said Stephens ironically, and produced a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘You might like to look at this.’

      Warren took the sheet and unfolded it, noting the worn creases. ‘Where did you get it?’

      ‘It was in her handbag.’

      It was a letter typed in executive face on high quality paper and bore the embossed heading: REGENT FILM COMPANY, with a Wardour Street address. It was dated six months earlier, and ran:

      Dear Miss Hellier,

      On the instructions of your father I write to tell you that he will be unable to see you on Friday next because he is leaving for America the same afternoon. He expects to be away for some time, how long exactly I am unable to say at this moment.

      He assures you that he will write to you as soon as his more pressing business is completed, and he hopes you will not regret his absence too much.

       Yours sincerely,

       D. L. Walden

      Warren said quietly, ‘This explains a lot.’ He looked up. ‘Did he write?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Stephens. ‘There’s nothing here.’

      Warren tapped the letter with a finger-nail. ‘I don’t think he did. June wouldn’t keep a secondhand letter like this and destroy the real thing.’ He looked down at the shrouded body. ‘The poor girl.’

      ‘You’d better be thinking of yourself, Doctor,’ said Stephens sardonically. ‘Take a look at the list of directors at the head of that letter.’

      Warren glanced at it and saw: Sir Robert Hellier (Chairman). With a grimace he passed it to Pomray.

      ‘My God!’ said Pomray. ‘That Hellier.’

      ‘Yes, that Hellier,’ said Stephens. ‘I think this one is going to be a stinker. Don’t you agree, Dr Warren?’ There was an unconcealed satisfaction in his voice and a dislike in his eyes as he stared at Warren.

      II

      Warren sat at his desk in his consulting-room. He was between patients and using the precious minutes to catch up on the mountain of paperwork imposed by the Welfare State. He disliked the bureaucratic aspect of medicine as much as any doctor and so, in an odd way, he was relieved to be interrupted by the telephone. But his relief soon evaporated when he heard his receptionist say, ‘Sir Robert Hellier wishes to speak to you, Doctor.’

      He sighed. This was a call he had been expecting. ‘Put him through, Mary.’

      There was a click and a different buzz on the line. ‘Hellier here.’

      ‘Nicholas Warren speaking.’

      The tinniness of the telephone could not disguise the rasp of authority in Hellier’s voice. ‘I want to see you, Warren.’

      ‘I thought you might, Sir Robert.’

      ‘I shall be at my office at two-thirty this afternoon. Do you know where it is?’

      ‘That will be quite impossible,’ said Warren firmly. ‘I’m a very busy man. I suggest I find time for an appointment with you here at my rooms.’

      There was a pause tinged with incredulity, then a splutter. ‘Now, look here …’

      ‘I’m sorry, Sir Robert,’ Warren cut in. ‘I suggest you come to see me at five o’clock today. I shall be free then, I think.’

      Hellier made his decision. ‘Very well,’ he said brusquely, and Warren winced as the telephone was slammed down at the other end. He laid down his handset gently and flicked a switch on his intercom. ‘Mary, Sir Robert Hellier will be seeing me at five. You might have to rearrange things a bit. I expect it to be a long consultation, so he must be the last patient.’

      ‘Yes, Doctor.’

      ‘Oh, Mary: as soon as Sir Robert arrives you may leave.’

      ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

      Warren released the switch and gazed pensively across the room, but after a few moments he applied himself once more to his papers.

      Sir Robert Hellier was a big man and handled himself in such a way as to appear even bigger. The Savile Row suiting did not tone down his muscular movements by its suavity, and his voice was that of a man unaccustomed to brooking opposition.

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