Jack in the Box (11 page)

But the door had already closed.

She glowered at Kenny. ‘He didn’t deserve that.’

‘I saw you both under the covers. So I jumped to the wrong conclusion. Can you blame me?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

He sank onto the sofa and ran his hands over his face. ‘So tell me about this doll. You said there was blood on the eyes.’

‘Someone’s trying to send me a message.’

‘What have you been doing?’

‘Asking a lot of questions about Max Quincey. And the Jack in the Box murders.’

A look of alarm crossed his face. ‘Then it’s a warning. Like that other time.’

‘Someone wants me to drop the case, or change the direction it’s taking.’

‘And are you going to?’ He was angry now.

‘How long have we been seeing each other, Kenny? Four years? Five?’ She smiled sadly. ‘And you still don’t know me.’

‘Jesus, love, it’s not worth it. Ask to be reassigned. The Chief Super will understand.’

‘He’s given me a final chance to redeem myself.’ She took a deep breath. ‘If I screw this up, I’m back to pounding the beat.’

‘I told you ages ago you should have gone ex-directory.’

‘Drop it, Kenny. It’s late and I need to get to bed.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t want to be alone tonight.’

In the silence that followed, she wondered if he could guess what she was thinking. If anyone had asked her at that moment whether she wanted Steve or him, she wouldn’t have been able to reply. She didn’t know the answer herself.

She took his hand and led him into the bedroom.

Chapter 13

‘So I want you to be vigilant,’ Von was saying, ‘and tell me if anything like this happens to you. Come to me even if you’re just suspicious.’

The team was crowded around her. She read their expressions: most looked shocked, some were thoughtful, one or two avoided eye contact. She had no intention of telling them how shaken she’d been by the incident. The last thing she wanted was for them to pick up on her fear. ‘Right, let’s get to it. Today, we’re back with the rent boys. Specifically who from the Garrimont had the opportunity to kill them. DI English?’

‘I’ve got the timings up for the play,’ Steve said, nodding towards the wall. ‘Jack in the Box starts at 8.00pm, there’s one interval between 9.00pm and 9.20pm, and curtain call is at 11.00pm. Chrissie Horowitz seemed to suggest it was the same in 1985, so we’ll work on that assumption.’

She studied the street map pinned to the wall. ‘Liam was killed between 2.00am and 3.00am, and Manny was attacked shortly before 1.00am. That’s well after the play finished. If the attacker came from the Garrimont, then it could have been anyone.’

‘Correct, boss. Therefore we need only concentrate on Gilly and Charlo. Let’s take Gilly first. He was found in a squat in the Covent Garden area. From Piccadilly Circus, Covent Garden is just two stops on the Piccadilly line.’

‘So, we’re talking, what, fifteen, twenty, minutes to get from
the Garrimont to the squat?’

‘About that, assuming the underground was running properly, or running at all. Longer if he walked up Shaftesbury Avenue or cut across to Cranbourn Street.’

She tapped the wall. ‘Gilly was killed between 9.00pm and 10.00pm. It rules out Jack, and the detective. They’re both on stage the minute the curtain goes up on the second half. What about Sebastian, the husband?’

‘He comes on at 9.40pm and stays on. He’s a possible, but the timing makes it highly unlikely.’

‘So, who’s left?’

‘The detective’s assistant. He’s on at 8.12pm and leaves at 8.18pm. Next time we see him is curtain call.’

‘8.18pm would give him plenty of time to pick up Gilly, have sex, murder him and be back for 11.00pm.’

‘Aye.’

‘Right, let’s move on to Charlo. He was found in his pimp’s house.’ She ran a finger across the map. ‘Porteous lives in a council estate half a mile from Waterloo Road. To get to the Waterloo tube from Piccadilly Circus, it’s three stops on the Bakerloo line.’

Steve nodded thoughtfully. ‘And then, what, fifteen minutes to the flat at a brisk trot.’

‘Charlo was killed between 10.00pm and 11.00pm, again ruling out Jack, the detective, and the husband.’

‘But not the assistant, boss.’

‘Right then. Of the cast, the detective’s assistant is the only one who fits the bill.’ She frowned. ‘Why didn’t Harrower follow it up?’

‘There’s no evidence he timed the entrances and exits. He may just have looked at when the play started and ended.’

‘Who was the detective’s assistant in 1985?’ said Zoë.

‘Michael Gillanders,’ said Von. ‘As an aside, he has dyed
shoulder-length blond hair.’ She turned to Steve. ‘On the subject of Gillanders, did you get anything out of Jools before I arrived?’

‘Who’s Jools, ma’am?’

‘The wife in the play.’

‘The wife was played by a man? I thought that died out with Shakespeare.’

‘Jools is one of those names that can be a man’s or a woman’s, Einstein,’ said Larry, grinning. He pushed Zoë playfully off the desk.

‘To answer your question, boss, Jools told me nothing we didn’t already know about Gillanders.’

‘Okay, let’s look at the Garrimont’s crew next. There are two contenders who are the right age. Max Quincey is one. Zack Lazarus is the other.’

A constable stuck his head round the door. ‘Forensics are on the phone, ma’am, asking you to come over.’

‘That was quick.’

Steve looked at his feet. ‘I asked them to make it a priority. I squared it with the Chief Super.’

‘I’m grateful,’ she said softly. She turned to the others. ‘One last thing. Jools suggested Max’s murder might be money-related. We need to find out what the Players are worth. I’ll be back by mid-day and we’ll review Max’s case over lunch. You’ve been working hard so it’s a Chinese take-away on me.’ A takeaway for nearly twenty people would set her back, but it would be worth it. She noted the looks of approval. ‘Larry, can you phone the order through, please?’

His face brightened. ‘What would you like, ma’am?’

She thought back to the last time she’d eaten Chinese. The previous Thursday, the evening she’d spent with Kenny. ‘Anything except Mongolian beef and egg fried rice.’

They were approaching Lambeth Bridge. The previous night’s thunderstorm hadn’t succeeded in clearing the air; the sky was heavy with clouds, and a mild rain was falling, misting the car’s windows. A helicopter buzzed low overhead, drowning out the sounds of the late morning traffic.

Steve was staring silently ahead.

‘I’ve often wondered who made the decision to site the Metropolitan Police Laboratory across from the Archbishop’s Park,’ Von said lightly. When there was no response, she added, ‘You’re very quiet, Steve.’

‘I haven’t had a chance to speak to you since last night.’ He glanced at her. ‘How are you?’

‘Tired. I couldn’t sleep.’

‘Me neither. I was at work at 6.00am.’

‘Explains why Forensics were so quick off the mark. What did the Chief Super say when you told him?’

‘He sounded sympathetic, and agreed to my request for fast-tracking. He wasn’t his usual self.’

She didn’t answer immediately. ‘The problem is, he can’t bury his brother. Max Quincey will have to stay in the freezer.’

‘Aye, I’ve never understood why the accused has the right to an independent post-mortem.’

‘We’ve no prime suspect, Steve, let alone an accused.’ She ran her hands through her hair. ‘We’ve made no progress at all.’

‘We need to take prints and a hair sample from Gillanders. I know the evidence is circumstantial – dyed blond hair, smokes the same cigarillos as Max, was the detective’s assistant in 1985.’

‘If only to establish him as being in Max’s room, we should do it. But if there’s no match on his hair, then we’re looking for another blond man.’

‘Or boy, boss.’

They were on Lambeth Road, pulling up outside a wide concrete and glass structure.

‘Yes, or boy. Quincey liked them young.’

Miranda Avery was sitting at her desk, filing her nails. A plump pretty woman, not much taller than Von, she was employed by Sir Bernard primarily to ensure he was not disturbed. Many tried, but few succeeded in getting past her. Von was one of the exceptions.

Miranda sat up as Von and Steve entered. ‘I’ll tell Sir Bernard you’re here,’ she said, smiling at Von. ‘He’s been expecting you.’

‘Thank you, Miranda.’

She spoke briefly into the phone, then replaced the receiver. ‘You both know the way.’

Whenever Von entered Sir Bernard’s office, she had the impression she was in someone’s drawing room. The walls were patterned with the spines of leather books, and oriental rugs covered the floor. A jet of flowers stood on the mantelpiece, the sweet scent reaching them across the expanse of the room.

Sir Bernard was sitting behind a carved oak desk, a gift from a grateful student. Seeing them, he got to his feet.

‘Thank you for fast-tracking this one, Sir Bernard,’ Von said.

His rheumy eyes moved over her face. ‘How are you taking this, Chief Inspector?’

Good Lord, he actually sounds concerned
. ‘It comes with the turf,’ she said. ‘It’s not the first time.’

He nodded sympathetically, then motioned to the scallopedged coffee table.

‘You may keep this report.’ He opened a file, even though she knew he could quote the contents verbatim. Sir Bernard’s memory was legendary. At a police function, with over fifty guests attending, she’d seen him successfully accept a bet that he could memorise and recite the list of attendees in under five minutes.

‘There were no prints and nothing we could use for DNA,’
he said, pushing his spectacles further up his nose, ‘either on the doll or on the box. We took the whole thing apart in case a hair had lodged inside. There was no fluff even. The doll looked new.’

‘It was bought earlier that evening,’ said Steve.

‘And you know this how?’ Sir Bernard said tartly.

‘Opening night was yesterday. The dolls were on sale only in the theatre.’

Sir Bernard addressed himself to Von. ‘The string, too, had nothing we could use for DNA. Someone’s been very careful.’

‘Is it possible to get prints off string?’ she said.

‘Sometimes we can lift partials off certain types of plastic, but not this kind. The knot was complicated. It was identical to those in the ties round Max Quincey’s wrists.’ He looked at her over the rim of his spectacles. ‘Could that be significant?’

‘It would be if the press releases hadn’t described the knots in detail.’

‘That was careless.’

She was tempted to tell him it was the Chief Super who’d released that information without consulting her. But she said nothing. The Chief Super was a personal friend of Sir Bernard’s, and she wasn’t convinced that her comments wouldn’t make their way back to him.

‘And the blood, Sir Bernard?’ said Steve.

‘Not human, you’ll be relieved to hear. It was chicken blood. We found fragments of chicken liver.’

‘Which you can buy in any supermarket.’

‘If you say so, Inspector,’ he said in a matter-of-fact way.

She got heavily to her feet. It had been a wasted journey. ‘Thank you for your time, Sir Bernard.’

He bowed his head. ‘Glad to be of assistance.’

In the Toyota, Steve voiced her thoughts. ‘Pity the press coverage described the knots in the ties.’

‘I sometimes wonder where the Chief Super was when brains were being handed out.’

‘Anyone who reads the papers could have left that doll,’ he said angrily.

She watched the buildings speed by.
No, not anyone. Someone who wants me to give up the case. But which case? Max Quincey’s? Or that of the rent boys?

Von was stuffing crispy duck into her mouth. ‘You say Mrs Deacon cleans the rooms herself?’

‘Every Tuesday morning, ma’am.’ Zoë thumbed through her notebook. ‘That includes wiping down the bathroom taps.’

‘If Quincey was killed on a Tuesday evening, then the prints on those taps were deposited between morning cleaning, and that evening.’

‘We took Mrs Deacon’s fingerprints to eliminate hers.’

‘And how did she respond?’

‘With outrage, ma’am.’

Von smiled, wiping her hands on a napkin. ‘Good work, everyone.’ She reached across the desk for the carton of chow mein. ‘So how are we on the finances?’

‘This Jools person was right,’ Zoë said. ‘Max Quincey was heavily in debt.’

‘How much did he owe?’ Von said, stuffing noodles into her mouth.

‘More than the third world. On his credit card, it’s in excess of £50,000.’

‘How much?’ She nearly choked. ‘What the hell has he been buying? Let me see the statements.’

‘They go back several years, ma’am.’

She examined the sheets. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary, just living expenses he’s let mount up. He pays back little more than the minimum monthly on his card.’

‘What was his income?’ said Steve.

‘He paid himself a small salary as director of the Quincey Players, sir. Obviously not enough to cover his living expenses.’

‘Have you found out yet what the Players are worth?’ Von said, wiping her chin.

Zoë shook her head. ‘We asked Chrissie about the books but she said Max had left them with his accountant.’

‘Name?’

‘Max never told her, ma’am.’

‘If the Quincey Players are worth a small fortune, we might have our motive. And it might be Max’s brother who gains now he’s died.’

‘We’ve also been looking at Mrs Deacon’s records, going back as far as she has them, which is eight years. She records names, the rent, and the date it’s paid.’ Zoë smiled in mock innocence. ‘Sounds like the model landlady.’

‘And do her records confirm Max Quincey was a frequent visitor to London?’

‘They do, and he stayed at hers each time. But, although we pressed her, she couldn’t tell us what his business was.’

‘Except that it was none of ours,’ Larry chipped in.

Von leafed through the sheets. ‘So, a couple of visits a year, on average. But why the hell was he returning to London?’

‘To visit his brother, boss?’

‘I intend to ask him. Anyway, Larry, what have you been up to?’

‘I’ve been in under cover.’ He bit into a fortune cookie. ‘Deep cover.’

She smiled. ‘Fancy yourself as double-oh-seven?’

‘Double-oh-idiot, more likely,’ said Zoë.

Larry threw the cookie wrapper, but she ducked without lifting her eyes from her food. She raised her middle finger, prompting guffaws from across the room.

‘Come on, Larry, thrall us,’ Von said.

‘Okay, so I went to the Iron Duke masquerading as a stockbroker. Made some tentative enquiries about the rent boys. The three Irish boys definitely knew each other. Came over from Dublin together.’ He swallowed the rest of the cookie. ‘Only one of the regulars gave up anything. Even then, I had to get him totally rat-arsed before he’d talk. We were quite chummy by the end.’

‘And you stayed totally stone-cold sober,’ said Steve.

‘Well, I had the odd pint, sir,’ he said, poker-faced. ‘It would have looked odd otherwise. Anyway, the Irish boys were well known at the Duke, happy lads, always arsing around. To hear this guy talk, they almost lived there. Every Christmas, the regulars had a whip-round and bought them presents. There was a big karaoke party. Gilly would sing Irish ballads, unaccompanied. Had a voice like a songbird. When he sang “The Sunshine of Your Smile”, the old lags would start crying into their beer. This regular told me that sometimes they came with’ – he looked uneasy – ‘Charlo’s nigger boyfriend.’

‘Jimmy Porteous,’ said Steve.

‘The boys had nothing steady. When they did work, they tried to get jobs they could do together. They sometimes painted houses for the council.’

‘What about Manny?’ said Von.