Jack in the Box (2 page)

He examined the lock. ‘Nope. Looks like he invited his killer in.’

‘He doesn’t seem to own much apart from clothes.’

‘He’s been touring, boss. Maybe he has a house somewhere.’

She scanned the room, trying to get an impression of what Max Quincey’s life was like. If she was going to crack this case, she’d need to know everything about him. ‘What’s that on the table?’ she said suddenly. ‘On top of the newspaper.’

Steve turned. ‘My God,’ he whispered.

‘Don’t touch it. Just tell me what it is.’

It was several seconds before he spoke. ‘Our Jack in the Box has popped up again.’

‘Our what?’

‘You’ve not heard of the Jack in the Box murders, boss?’

‘Hold on. The year I was with the NYPD. The rent boys?’

‘That’s it. Each time, the killer left behind a Jack in the Box.

And its eyes were slashed.’ He bent over the doll. ‘Like this one.’

‘Jesus,’ she murmured. ‘Ring Forensics and find out where the hell they are. Do it now.’ She knelt beside the bed and brought her face close to Quincey’s. His eyes were open, the cheeks streaked as though he’d been crying. There was something odd about the eyes, a squint that wasn’t right. She moved nearer. With a jolt she realised that the eyeballs had collapsed. The streaks weren’t tears – the contents of his eyes had leaked onto his face. ‘And get Danni,’ she shouted, jumping to her feet.

She bent over the table, studying the toy. It was grotesque, a parody of a doll with its coarsely painted face, scratched eyes, and red gash of a mouth. She pushed it back into its box. It sprang out with a ghastly squawk, ‘Jack-jack! Jack-jack!’

Steve wheeled round. ‘Christ, boss, you made me jump.’

She crammed the doll into the box and closed the lid. ‘Tell me everything about the Jack in the Box murders,’ she said softly.

‘There were four of them, poor buggers, all rent boys. Strangled. Eyes slashed. One boy survived.’

‘They didn’t catch the killer, did they?’

‘The senior investigating was DCI Harrower.’ The corner of Steve’s mouth twitched. ‘Not the sharpest pencil in the box.’

‘He had a good track record,’ she said coldly, suddenly defensive of a man she’d never met.

‘I didn’t work with him, but his reputation reached Glasgow.’

She lifted an eyebrow. ‘And that was?’

‘His men would follow him anywhere, but only out of morbid curiosity.’ Steve rubbed his neck. ‘Mind you, in this case, the cards were stacked against him. The dolls were the only real clue. Unfortunately, most of London had them. People took them to work, walked down the street carrying them like children.’

‘I remember. They called it Jack in the Box Fever.’

‘Aye, you could buy the dolls everywhere, not just at the
theatre.’

‘The theatre?’

‘The one showing the play. That was the whole point, boss. During the period of the murders, a play called Jack in the Box was running in London. It was a Brian Rix type of farce. You know the kind, some man always in and out of women’s bedrooms.’

She was only half listening. Her mind was back at the reception at the National Gallery. Max Quincey had told her about his new production of an old play. The play’s name had meant nothing to her then.

But it meant something now – Jack in the Box.

Chapter 3

Von and Steve waited outside the room with the photographer and the Scene Of Crime Officer, watching through the open door as the pathologist examined the body.

Professor Sir Bernard Truscott-Hervey was kneeling beside the bed. Without turning, he beckoned to the photographer. Although it was normal practice for the photographer to finish before the pathologist began, Sir Bernard was notorious for doing things his way. ‘A close-up of the face from this angle, please,’ he said, through his mask. ‘One more, and then I think we’re done.’

As the senior pathologist at the Forensic Science Service, he had had more than his share of murder cases, and his years of experience would always make him Von’s first choice. Unlike her colleagues, she wasn’t put off by his appearance: his bald head, long neck and habit of bending low over a corpse, as though he were about to devour it, had earned him the nickname of The Vulture. When he wasn’t working murder cases, he was a professor at London University, grooming the next generation of forensic scientists. But he had signalled his intention not to retire. Von suspected it wasn’t love for the profession that made him want to continue working into his sixties. She’d met his overbearing tank of a wife.

Sir Bernard hauled himself to his feet and edged round the bed towards the door. He lowered his mask and snapped off his gloves.

‘Is there anything you can tell me, Sir Bernard?’ said Von.

He peered over his half-moon spectacles. ‘Such as?’

‘Time of death.’

‘What are we today? Thursday the 14th.’ He studied her face. ‘Given the temperature in the room, the body temperature, and the fact that rigor’s beginning to wear off, I’d say some time during the evening of Tuesday, the 12th. A more precise timing will have to wait till I get back to the lab. Do you happen to know whether the windows have been opened in the last couple of days?’

‘I’ll check with the landlady and have someone phone you.’ She was determined to extract as much as she could before Sir Bernard disappeared. ‘Am I right in saying that the blow to the head wasn’t fatal?’ she said.

‘You are.’ He motioned to the lamp lying beneath the armchair. ‘I suspect that may be the culprit. Photograph it and bag it, please,’ he said to the SOCO. ‘It was a nasty crack, Chief Inspector, but he was conscious while he was being strangled.’

‘Was he struck before or after he was tied up?’ said Steve.

Sir Bernard rested his watery gaze on Steve, well aware of the detective’s dislike of pathologists. ‘Impossible to tell, as I’m sure you realise. All I can say is that he was tied up before rigor set in. I suggest you wait for an assessment from that dolly-bird psychologist.’ He made a show of turning round as though looking for her. ‘Where is she, by the way? Polishing her nails, I should imagine.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’ Von said quietly, not rising to the bait.

‘The tie round his neck is Sydney Sussex, if I’m not mistaken.’ He added with a mocking bow, ‘University of Cambridge.’

‘You do surprise me,’ said Steve. ‘I could have sworn they were Aston Villa’s colours.’

Sir Bernard ignored the remark. ‘I’ve been asked to fast-track
the post-mortem, Chief Inspector. I’ll phone through the date.’ A smile played about his lips. ‘I know how much Inspector English likes attending.’

‘Can prints be lifted from the tie?’ Von said.

‘We’ll do what we can.’

‘What about the eyes?’

‘What about them?’

Why is it such hard work with him? I’m a police officer running a murder case, not one of his medical students
. ‘Can you confirm they’ve been cut?’

‘Judging by the quantity of liquid on his face, I’d say that both the vitreous and aqueous humours have been compromised.’

‘Post mortem?’

‘Strangulation causes the capillary blood vessels round the eyes to haemorrhage. If the eyes were cut
after
strangulation, I’d expect an abnormal quantity of blood in the humours. I’ll know after we’ve done the tests.’ He turned to go.

‘Can you tell what sort of implement was used?’ she said, catching him by the arm.

‘Not without more detailed examination. Now, Chief Inspector, you really must excuse me.’

‘Thank you, Sir Bernard.’

They watched his retreating back. ‘Well, he’s mellowed,’ murmured Steve.

‘How can you tell?’

‘He called Danni a psychologist. Last time, he used the word, quack.’ He peered over the bannister. ‘No sign of her, boss.’

‘We can’t wait, Steve. We’ve still to check the bathroom.’

The partition shook as she pulled at the flimsy door. She poked her head inside. ‘No cupboards. A ledge above the wash-hand basin. Toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, shaving brush, safety razor.’

Steve was peering over the top of her head. ‘The mirror’s broken. Looks like he had his seven-years’ bad luck all in one go.’

‘Don’t you know it’s unlucky to be superstitious, Steve?’ She signalled to the SOCO. ‘We need Forensics back in to do the bathroom. I’m interested in the toothbrush. People sometimes share them. And bag the towels. We may get DNA other than Quincey’s.’

‘Anyone at home?’ came a voice from the corridor.

Steve broke into a grin. ‘Dr Mittelberg. So, did you pass him on the way out?’

‘The Vulture? Certainly did.’ Danni Mittelberg had removed her stilettos and was clambering into a pair of white overalls. ‘Why are the Forensics boys waiting downstairs?’

‘There’s no room here to swing a cat,’ said Von. ‘They want us to finish before they take the place apart.’ She watched Danni dress. ‘Glad you could make it, Danni,’ she said warmly.

Von had met Danni Mittelberg four years ago. As their careers progressed, they regularly worked together, recognising in each other the desire to succeed against the odds. But these days the gloss was starting to come off the relationship: Von found Danni’s clear-eyed gaze uncomfortable. As part of Danni’s research into the criminal mind, she had spent six months undercover in a psychiatric hospital. She shrugged off criticism that it was a gimmick, stunning the professional world by publishing a book which stayed in the bestseller list for over a year. Von had read the book, and suspected it was just a matter of time before she became the anonymous subject of Danni’s next one.

Danni lifted the hood over her auburn hair and tucked in the stray curls. She pulled on a pair of overshoes and drew gloves over her long-fingered hands. ‘I’m assuming everything’s been catalogued and recorded?’

‘It’s okay to move things,’ said Von.

Danni spoke in the clipped precise way she did when appraising a crime scene. ‘Duvet and pillows on the floor. Clothes scattered everywhere.’ She picked up a cream-coloured shirt. ‘Strange style. Looks Elizabethan. Who was he? An actor?’

Von exchanged a glance with Steve. She was saying nothing. Danni would have to earn her money.

‘Whatever he was, he was a clothes horse.’ Danni fingered a peacock-blue jacket. ‘Gieves and Hawkes. Expensive, yet flung onto the floor. He was in a hurry.’

‘To have sex?’ said Steve.

‘To have sex. They could hardly wait to get their clothes off. And it wasn’t a quick wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. They took their time. And they were practised at it.’

‘You think they knew each other? This wasn’t a tom he brought back home?’

‘It was someone he knew.’ She crossed to the chest of drawers and riffled through the papers before inspecting the books. ‘Interesting mix. Complete Works of Shakespeare, Churchill’s “The Gathering Storm”, and Graham Greene’s “Our Man in Havana”.’

‘He was educated,’ said Von.

‘Someone took a great deal of trouble to tie him up.’ Danni was studying the corpse. ‘It’s tempting to think it was a sex prank that backfired, but it wasn’t. A single restraint round each wrist is the norm in bondage cases.’

‘And the knots?’

Danni looked appreciatively at her. ‘You noticed them too. I guess you were in the Girl Guides, then.’

‘Okay,’ said Steve, ‘I’ll come clean and tell you I was in the Boy Scouts, but I can’t tie knots like those.’

‘They may look elaborate, but they aren’t.’ Danni grinned.
‘If Girl Guides know them, then so should a Boy Scout.’

‘You’re saying whoever did this wouldn’t need specialist knowledge?’

‘They wouldn’t, but the point I’m making is that these knots weren’t tied by someone about to have sex. Whoever did this immobilised him for some other purpose.’ She indicated the tie round Quincey’s neck. ‘May I look?’

‘Go ahead,’ said Von. ‘He’s been swabbed all over. And he’s softening up, rigor has already left the neck.’

Danni placed her hands on either side of Quincey’s head and turned it gently. ‘This is an ordinary single knot. The kind you’d tie if you wanted to strangle someone.’

‘Any significance in the tie itself?’ said Steve. ‘Apart from the colours, which are Aston Villa’s.’

‘He went to Sidney Sussex College.’ She leant forward. ‘He’s been crying.’

‘Those aren’t tear streaks. Someone’s pierced his eyes,’ said Von.

Danni peered into the blue-grey face. ‘Good God,’ she breathed. ‘What did The Vulture say about this?’

‘Only that the cut was deep enough to empty the eyeballs. Nothing about how it was done.’

‘Sir Bernard never commits before being sure.’

‘We’ve conducted a systematic search of the room but there’s nothing sharp enough to blind him.’

‘Let me know if you find the weapon. It’ll tell me more about the killer.’ Danni straightened. ‘This wasn’t the result of a burglary that went wrong. I’m betting nothing was taken.’

‘As far as we can tell, it’s all here, wallet, credit cards. We found his mobile on the floor.’

‘Whoever did this hadn’t planned it. He or she was caught unawares, which is usually why people are strangled. Premeditated murder tends to be done differently.’ Danni stared
into the ruined eyes. ‘But the blinding is something else. I need to see the post-mortem results as soon as they come in.’

‘What can you tell us about the attacker? Single? Married? Family man?’

‘Any of the above. Who found the body, by the way?’

‘The landlady saw the drawn curtains. She came up and found the door closed. Suggests he didn’t just run off. He was in control.’ And that would make their job so much harder. A killer who didn’t panic was more likely to clean up after himself.

‘Could a woman have done it?’ said Steve.

‘Some women could,’ Danni said. ‘But I’m guessing this was a man’s doing.’

‘Will he kill again?’

‘Impossible to tell without the motive.’ She looked slowly round the room, stopping when she saw the table. ‘What’s that? The rainbow-striped box next to the ashtray.’

‘A Jack in the Box.’ Von opened the lid, and the doll sprang out, shrieking.

‘The doll’s eyes have been scratched too,’ said Steve.

Danni stared at the painted face with its scarlet rictus. ‘It’s absolutely ghastly. Who would keep such a thing? What is it, anyway?’

‘A toy,’ he said. ‘You push the doll in and it pops out on the end of this concertina thing. You wouldn’t believe children once played with these. Now it’s Grand Theft Auto.’

‘So, the killer slashed the victim’s eyes,’ Danni said, half to herself. ‘And also did the doll.’ She fell silent.

‘Well, what’s his profile?’ Von said impatiently. ‘Who are we looking for?’

‘Sorry, I need to see The Vulture’s report first.’

Von studied her.
Oh, yes? Now who’s not committing?

Later that morning, everyone was crowded into Clerkenwell’s
incident room, a depressing open-plan area decorated in regulation grey. A rushed paint job had caused the walls to blister, reinforcing the general impression of gloom. Someone had tried to lighten the atmosphere by replacing the office furniture with pine desks and brightly coloured plastic chairs, but the laminate had curled at the tables’ edges and the backs had a tendency to come off the chairs. But Von wasn’t complaining; she’d worked in incident rooms where the tables, as well as the chairs, regularly came to pieces.

Most investigating officers running a murder case dealt on a daily basis with a large team, but during the past year Von had been off the murder squad, managing her case loads largely from her office, and dealing only with the DIs. Steve apart, she hadn’t worked with any of the twenty-odd people sitting in front of her and would have to hope that her reputation would be enough to earn her their respect. It was bad enough that, by the time she remembered all their names, the case would probably be over. But her opening briefing, the most important of the case, had gone well.

She turned to the young detective sergeant with the long hair and movie-star looks. He was sitting on the edge of his desk, legs swinging. ‘Larry, could you unscrew that incident board? I want to use the whole wall.’

Larry nodded and jumped to his feet. She caught Steve’s look of approval: a brisk tone was what the staff expected of the senior investigating.

‘Right, gather round,’ she said. ‘First piece of information, we’ve established the victim’s date of birth as July 13th 1955.’

She scrawled the date on the wall, then added in large letters:

MOTIVE

METHOD

OPPORTUNITY

Ignoring the titters of recognition that rippled through the
room, she said, ‘And which is the most important?’

‘Motive,’ came the chorus.

Von was famous throughout the force for the maxim, learnt from her governor: Find the motive, and you find the murderer.

‘The method seems clear,’ she said, facing them, ‘but we need to track down the weapon. You know what to do. Find out when rubbish is collected, the weapon may still be at Mrs Deacon’s in a black bin bag. Check the rubbish bins and nearby skips. Widen the search if necessary.’ She counted off on her fingers. ‘Ascertain Quincey’s movements up to and including the Tuesday evening. Someone may have seen him enter the house with another person. There’s no CCTV in the street, unfortunately. Check out the taxis. And talk to the other tenants of number fifteen. I want to know who Quincey’s friends were. But leave Mrs Deacon, the landlady. DI English and I will speak to her. Check phone records. Not just his mobile, there’s a payphone on the ground floor. I want voicemail, texts, the lot.’ She paused. ‘Okay, what’s wrong? You’re giving each other looks.’