Jack in the Box (26 page)

The phone rang.

‘Is that DCI Valenti?’ came the voice at the other end.

‘Miranda, what can I do for you?’

‘Sir Bernard has finished the autopsy, Chief Inspector. He’s wondering if you’d like to hear what he’s found. Is now a good time?’

‘Please tell Sir Bernard we’re on our way.’

Steve eased the Toyota out of the station car park and turned into Farringdon Road.

The sky was clear except for a bank of cloud on the horizon. The wind had dropped and the mingled smells of petrol fumes and rotting leaves stank out the air. It was the end of September, but already people were wearing scarves and heavy coats.

‘You’re very quiet,’ said Von.

‘Got a lot to think about, boss.’

‘You might slow down. You nearly hit that pedestrian.’

‘Perhaps ma’am would prefer to drive,’ he said smoothly.

‘For God’s sake, Steve, stop this now,’ she muttered. ‘We’ve got a murder case to solve.’

She stared at his profile but he wouldn’t so much as glance at her. They continued in silence until they reached Lambeth Road.

Miranda ushered them into the office.

Sir Bernard was leafing through his papers. ‘Good afternoon, Chief Inspector.’ He inclined his head at Steve. ‘Inspector English.’ His eyes widened. ‘Good heavens, you both look as though you’ve been in the wars.’

‘We have,’ Von said.

He didn’t press them, just nodded slowly. He steered them to the coffee table.

‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ he said, opening a file. ‘The victim received a large number of blows to the head, resulting in severe damage to the optic nerves and traumatic brain injury.’

‘How traumatic?’ said Steve.

‘Enough to cause massive intracranial haemorrhaging. One of the blows was fatal.’

‘So he didn’t die by strangulation?’ she said.

‘I suspect whoever was beating him simply went too far, found they couldn’t revive him, and decided to make sure he was dead by strangling him.’

‘Can you tell what he was beaten with?’

‘His face was a mass of contusions. The condition of the skin and the nature of the bruising leads me to conclude that the attacker wore boxing gloves. Broken bones in his face might have suggested a knuckleduster but, apart from a smashed nose, there were none.’ He peered over his spectacles. ‘There are two further types of injury I need to draw your attention to. We found tiny pieces of glass embedded in one eye, consistent with spectacles shattering under a blow.’

Bile surged into her mouth, and she swallowed repeatedly.

‘And there are cuts in the right cheek.’ Sir Bernard removed a photograph from the file. ‘They weren’t made by someone wearing gloves. Nor were they made with a sharp implement, like a knife.’

‘What then?’ she said.

‘Under magnification, they are more tears than cuts. The bruising is greater than that caused by a simple incision.’ He frowned. ‘It’s difficult to say what could have done it. Something slightly pointed, perhaps, but definitely blunt.’

‘Scissors?’

‘Possibly.’

She glanced at Steve. ‘Strange choice of implement, specially if you’re extracting information.’

‘Maybe it’s all he had to hand, boss.’

‘If you find the implement that did it, Chief Inspector, there’ll be blood and tissue there, which I’m sure will further your investigation. There’s one other thing I should tell you. Your friend hadn’t long to live. The stomach cancer was well advanced.’ He stopped, seeing her expression. ‘Ah, you had no idea. I’m sorry,’ he added more gently. ‘His clothes were loose, suggesting his body weight was dropping.’

‘Would he have known?’ said Steve, after a glance at her face.

‘There were scars on his body consistent with surgery.’ Sir Bernard hesitated. ‘I see this has come as a bit of a shock, Chief Inspector.’

‘How long did he have?’ she said, her voice shaking.

‘Three months. Six at the outside.’

She was struggling to keep back the tears. ‘Can you give us the time of death, Sir Bernard?’

He buried his face in his papers. ‘The textbook answer is between 9.00pm and 10.00pm but, as he was found promptly, I can say with some certainty that it was nearer 10.00pm.’

‘Had he been beaten over a long period of time?’

‘From the nature of the contusions, I would say he sustained his injuries over several hours.’

If he’d been beaten that long, it wouldn’t be because he’d withheld information: Tubby would have given it up after the first blow. Whoever did this did it because he wanted to. He wanted her to see what he was capable of. Steve was right, it was a warning. They were taunting her.
He
was taunting her. Simon. The killer…

‘On another topic, Chief Inspector, we now have the toxicological results on the powder you sent us.’

Her mind was still on Tubby. ‘Powder?’ she said faintly.

‘The packets in Max Quincey’s doll, boss.’

‘It was high grade heroin, mixed with quinine. Whoever did the mixing knew what he was doing. He added quinine so the proportion of heroin was just sufficient to give the user a high.’ He smiled bleakly. ‘A professional. You may be looking for someone with a biochemical background.’

Or a copper who’s worked in the drugs squad
. ‘And the fingerprints?’ she said.

‘We found several on the packets and the paper they were wrapped in. They were Max Quincey’s.’

She held her breath. ‘Any others?’

‘None that we could distinguish. His were the prevalent ones, deposited the most recently.’

She was aware of what was going through Sir Bernard’s mind. He knew Max Quincey was the Chief Super’s brother and that, at some stage, she was going to have to tell him that Max had been a drug dealer.

‘I don’t envy you, Chief Inspector,’ he said quietly, watching her.

She looked him full in the face, intending him to read her expression. When the time came, she would have no hesitation in revealing to the Chief Super, and to the world, what sort of a
man Max Quincey had been.

‘Thank you, Sir Bernard,’ she said, getting to her feet.

He stopped her at the door. ‘One moment, Chief Inspector, I’ve just remembered.’ He opened a drawer. ‘It came in today. That blond hair from Max Quincey’s room, there was something unusual about it. It’s why it’s taken us this long.’

Her heart was racing. ‘Have you managed to extract DNA after all?’

‘Not with the follicle missing. But the DNA is now immaterial. It wouldn’t belong to whoever deposited that hair. You see, it’s precisely because it’s blond, that we nearly missed it. The hair is Asian.’ He glanced down the page. ‘Asian hair that’s been dyed blond, and treated with the chemicals you use to make hair into high quality wigs.’

She stared at him.
A wig
. No wonder they hadn’t found a match with Gillanders. Or Chrissie. Whoever had visited Max Quincey had worn a blond wig. ‘If we found this wig, Sir Bernard, would you be able to say whether there’s a match with the sample from Max’s room?’

‘Most certainly. The hair was dyed and chemically treated to create a glossy look. Everyone’s hair responds differently to treatment, so the sample is unique.’

‘Could it have been a toupee, instead of a wig?’ Steve said.

‘It could, although the hair was on the long side for a toupee. But some men may want to wear their hair long.’

Of course, it made sense. Simon had worn a blond hairpiece. Although it would have been quiet at Mrs Deacon’s, he’d have disguised himself in case the street’s landladies moved their lace curtains for a better look.

Sir Bernard was frowning. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t send those results to you sooner, Chief Inspector. I hope it’s not hampered your investigations.’

She knew he prided himself on getting information to the
police promptly. A delay such as this might have caused him sleepless nights. She smiled warmly. ‘It’s not hampered our investigations at all, Sir Bernard. Thank you. We’ll let ourselves out.’

As they drove through London, Von said, ‘What did you make of that?’

‘The autopsy results?’

‘Everything.’

‘The wig or toupee is the most significant thing. From what I remember of Hensbury, his hair is dark, going grey. And short. A long blond wig would disguise him perfectly.’

‘But?’ she said, sensing doubt in his voice.

‘It’s circumstantial. As is his left-handedness.’

‘We’re back to getting an ID, then. We need to find Kenny and this Jonathan Moudry.’

They were nearing the police station. She gazed out of the window at the lunchtime traffic. Would she see Kenny again? Probably not. What surprised her was how much pain the thought gave her.

Chapter 31

‘A wig?’

‘Or a toupee, Larry.’

‘It explains why we got no match with the lot at the Garrimont, ma’am. But who would wear a blond wig?’

‘My bet’s on Simon Hensbury.’ She chewed her thumb. ‘So has Zoë phoned in yet?’

‘She’s double-checked the airports and ferry ports.’

‘The Tunnel?’

He nodded slowly. ‘Nothing. And Downley hasn’t used his credit card recently.’

She turned away in frustration. They’d moved as quickly as they could, but Kenny had always had the advantage.

‘We’ve been trawling through the PNC,’ he said. ‘There’s no Jonathan Moudry with any priors. We tried all spelling variations of the name.’

She rubbed her eyes. ‘Public records, then?’

‘There’s only one Jonathan Moudry. He was born in Newcastle in 1965.’

‘The age is right,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Do we know where he is now?’

‘Vanished, ma’am. We’ve checked missing persons but he hasn’t turned up there, either.’

‘His parents still living in Newcastle?’

He consulted his notes. ‘Split up. Father left to work abroad. Mother, Janet Moudry, moved to London five years ago. We
tracked her through her national insurance number, she’s been drawing her pension.’ He looked up. ‘We’ve got the address.’

‘Good work. We could visit Mrs Moudry now but let’s call it a day. You look as bushed as I feel.’

‘Just heard from the techs, boss,’ said Steve, coming in. He looked intently at Larry’s computer, even though it was showing the screensaver. ‘Everything’ll be ready by midday tomorrow. All we need now is for Hensbury to get in touch.’

And he will
. She picked up her coat.
He will
.

The instant Von turned the key in the lock, she knew something was wrong.

She lowered her bag silently to the floor, and looked round the hall, trying to remember how she’d left it. The long drawer in the table was partly open, but it was always like that, the wood was warped. The coats on the pegs were in the same order. Nothing had been disturbed. Yet she knew someone had been in her flat. And perhaps still was.

Her heart hammered in her chest. Was it her imagination, or could she hear the gentle rise and fall of someone’s breathing?

She slid off her shoes and padded softly into the living room. It was empty. She glanced through the adjoining door into the kitchen, ready to make a run for it. It, too, was deserted. Back in the hall, she pushed open the door to the spare room. It was as she’d left it weeks ago. Her crime novels were stacked on the futon bed and in tottering piles on the floor. The French language books were on the table. She and Kenny had talked about buying a property in Brittany and spending weekends there. She’d persuaded him to join her in language classes. He’d dropped out, but she’d persevered, and even done the assignments.

She went slowly back into the hall. Her mobile rang, making her jump.

She pulled it from her bag. ‘Von Valenti.’

‘Simon here,’ came the smooth voice. ‘I got your message.’ A pause. ‘I’d love to meet up, Von. Are you free now, by any chance?’

She glanced at her watch. The techs were still wiring the room. ‘I’m afraid not, sir. I’m about to visit someone.’

‘Ah, I’m flying to Spain tomorrow night.’ A longer pause. ‘You couldn’t rearrange?’

‘Let me call you back in five minutes.’

‘Of course.’

She stood with the phone in her hand. Then she sank to the floor and put her head on her knees.

Five minutes later, she called him. ‘I was unable to rearrange, sir, but I’ve taken the liberty of reserving a room for tomorrow afternoon. I thought, perhaps, we could have a late lunch, talk over the case, that sort of thing…’ She let her voice tail off.

A gentle laugh. ‘Same hotel?’

‘Same hotel.’

‘Perfect. My flight isn’t till eight. That gives us plenty of time, don’t you think?’

‘Plenty of time.’

‘I’ll be there at two.’

‘The room’s in my name, sir.’

A soft chuckle. ‘You know, you really will have to start calling me Simon.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She replaced the phone in her bag.

She was putting her shoes back on when she heard the sound. It came from the bedroom. Only then did she notice that the door was closed. She felt a tingling in her blood. That door was never closed, one of the hinges was working loose. Had Kenny returned? But why? Why had he gone into her bedroom and closed the door? What didn’t he want her to see?

Her stomach cramped with fear. The sound again,
distinguishable now as a low moan. In silent terror she gripped the handle. Putting her weight against the door, she forced it open. ‘Kenny,’ she shouted, her voice breaking on the word.

The room was empty. And exactly as she’d left it, the bed unmade, her nightclothes scattered over the floor, the laddered tights crumpled into a ball.

Yet not exactly as she’d left it. The window was open. The sound had been the bamboo chimes, swaying in the breeze. But she’d shut the window before she left. Always did. It meant that he’d been here. He must have let himself in, heard her arrive, and slipped into the bedroom.

And listened to her conversation with Simon Hensbury.

He would know now that she intended to sleep with him. And had slept with him before.

With every sense numbed, she fell onto the bed and buried her face in the pillow. ‘Oh Kenny,’ she sobbed, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’

Too late – always too late – she recognised the depth of her feelings for him.

The technicians were giving the bugs a final check.

Von studied the layout of the room. Was it the one they’d used last week? All the rooms looked the same. All hotel rooms everywhere looked the same. She was conscious she was visibly nervous, and that it was affecting the others. She hadn’t smoked for years but, God, she wished she had a cigarette.

‘Let me go through it again,’ she said. ‘Under the food trolley, inside the phone in case he uses it, and under the lamps.’

‘And behind the headboard,’ said Steve. He was deliberately looking at Larry.

‘It won’t get that far.’ She ran her hands down the sides of her jeans. ‘What time is it?’

‘One forty. We’d better make ourselves scarce.’ He jerked his
head in the direction of the bed. ‘Remember, we’re behind that wall.’

She tried not to look at him. When it was clear he wasn’t leaving, she lifted her eyes to his. ‘Steve—’

‘If it looks as though you’re getting nowhere, Von, don’t take any risks. Pull him in. We can continue questioning him at the nick.’ With a final glance around, he left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

She stood at the bathroom mirror, smoothing down her hair. She ran her hands lightly over her skin. Although she’d applied concealer, the bruise was still visible, and there were dark circles under her eyes. He might comment, she thought cynically, but once his face was buried in her breasts he’d soon forget what she looked like.

There was a firm knock at the door.
This is it. Time to rock and roll
. Blood pounded in her ears and, for a second, she felt faint.

‘Simon,’ she said, as he entered the room. ‘Excellent timing. Lunch has just arrived.’

He smiled, his eyes moving over her face. ‘Business first, is that it?’

‘I thought it might be wiser.’ She turned away.

‘Not so quickly, Von.’ He caught her by the arm. ‘We’ve plenty of time. Let me look at you.’

The expression in his eyes softened, and she felt the familiar rush of warmth between her legs. But this was the man who’d killed Tubby. She had to keep that in mind at all times.

‘Shall we eat, sir?’ she said lightly.

A look of bafflement crossed his face. Careful. She’d need to be on her guard, or he’d become suspicious.

She slid her arms round his waist and kissed his neck. Praying the bugs wouldn’t pick it up, she whispered into his ear, ‘I’m really no good on an empty stomach.’

He extricated himself, laughing, and threw his coat over a chair. ‘And we don’t want that, now, do we?’ He opened the bottle of champagne. ‘So how is the investigation going? Have you got a prime suspect?’

‘We did, but he was murdered.’

‘And who was he?’ he said, in a bored voice.

‘Michael Gillanders. One of the cast at the Garrimont.’ She piled chicken salad onto a plate. ‘He stood to gain on Max Quincey’s death.’

‘Max had money? You do surprise me.’

‘The Quincey Players is worth a small fortune.’ She paused. ‘But I’ve discounted Gillanders. I don’t think Max was murdered for money. The investigation’s stalled, which is why I wanted this chat.’

He forked smoked trout into his mouth. ‘Fire away.’

‘I’ve been back to the Duke.’

‘And what did you uncover?’

‘A hornets’ nest,’ she said softly.

His head jerked up.

‘The more I delved into the goings-on at the Duke,’ she said, ‘the more suspicious I became. I discovered that DCI Harrower didn’t ignore the drug-related evidence because he’d followed a false trail before. He was warned off. His daughter was threatened. She was expecting a baby.’ She sipped at her champagne. ‘I thought you should know, sir, as his governor.’

His face betrayed no emotion. ‘Tom told me nothing of this.’ He set down his plate and walked to the window. ‘So how long has this been going on?’ He glanced briefly at her. ‘The drugs at the Duke.’

‘At least twenty years.’

He returned to top up their glasses.

She watched him pour.
God, he’s good. His hand isn’t even shaking
.

‘You’re sure of your intelligence?’ he said.

‘It came from my snout.’ She was watching him closely. ‘He’s never wrong.’

‘Did Tubby say how he came by this information?’

She hesitated. If this was a question Simon had asked Tubby while beating his brains out, then he’d know that Tubby had told her. It would be fatal to lie.

‘He got it from someone at the Duke. A man called Malkie. And there’s another regular whose name we don’t know.’

‘Have you pulled them in?’ he said warily.

‘We’ve been unable to find them. I’ve come to a stop, sir. A full stop.’

‘And how can I help?’ he said, smiling suddenly.

‘I wondered if you could tell me what you discussed with DCI Harrower.’

‘It’s all in the case file, Von. You know that.’

‘Come on, sir, we both know that detectives discuss things that don’t go into the file.’ She tried to control her nervousness. ‘Did DCI Harrower tell you he’d been warned off, for example?’

‘If he had, then I would have taken the threat seriously and torn the place apart. That’s a strange question, especially as I told you before that Tom said nothing to me about drug dealing.’

His memory’s better than mine. I’ll have to tread more carefully
. ‘I’d forgotten, sir,’ she said, trying to look foolish.

‘It’s of no consequence. Tom and I discussed nothing that didn’t go into the file, he really was a by-the-book man.’ He turned the glass in his hand. ‘How extensive is the drug dealing? I take it these boys who were murdered were in on it?’

‘Not just the boys.’

‘Who else?’ he said, not looking at her.

This was the point of no return. She didn’t hesitate. ‘Max Quincey.’

His head shot up. ‘Max?’

She was having difficulty holding his piercing gaze. ‘He packaged the stuff and gave it to the boys to sell to their clients.’

‘You have evidence for this statement?’ he said coldly.

‘We found packets of heroin in the base of his doll.’

For the first time, she saw his resolve waver. It was no more than a shadow across his eyes, but it gave her the confidence to proceed. ‘Why do you find it so hard to believe, sir?’

‘I’ve known Max for many years, and he’s simply not capable of it.’

‘How many years have you known him?’

He didn’t reply, using the time to bring the mask back down. She could almost hear his thought processes. He’d know she had no tangible evidence to link him to Max. He’d tell her their friendship was the innocent consequence of his friendship with the Chief Super. She was never going to break him here, she might as well pull him in. But something made her go on.

‘You knew Max well, didn’t you, Simon?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you interrogating me, Chief Inspector?’

‘It’s a simple question. Would you mind answering it?’

His eyes held hers. ‘Richard introduced us years ago. I can’t remember when exactly.’

‘Fifteen years ago? Twenty?’

‘I said I can’t remember exactly.’ He fumbled in his pocket. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

‘Not at all. Hoyo de Monterrey, is it?’

He stiffened, his hand still in his jacket.

‘The same brand that Max smoked,’ she said quietly.

He relaxed visibly and pulled out the pack. ‘What of it? We all smoke Hoyo, even his brother.’

She saw it then, as he lifted the cigarillo to his lips. She couldn’t tear her eyes from it, the evidence that, in another age, would have hanged him.

‘You’ve gone pale, Von.’ His voice was steady. ‘Are you unwell?’

She dragged her gaze back to his. ‘Simon Hensbury, I am arresting you for—’

He leapt to his feet, pushing the food trolley aside with such force that it toppled over. For an instant she thought he was going to hit her. She made to step back but he gripped her by the neck and pulled down the zip of her shirt. ‘Are you wearing a wire?’ he hissed, tearing the shirt open.

Both hands were on her throat now. She clawed frantically, but his fingers were like iron.

Lights were popping in her head when she heard the door burst open, followed by the drumming of running feet.

Steve and Larry seized Hensbury and began to prise his hands away. He released his hold on her neck, and rammed his elbow into Steve’s throat. Turning quickly, he lashed out at Larry. But he’d made an error of judgement. Larry, young and agile, ducked smartly, simultaneously landing Hensbury a blow in the solar plexus that made his legs buckle.

‘I wouldn’t try that again, sir,’ Larry said. He forced Hensbury’s hands behind his back. ‘It could seriously damage your health.’

Steve helped her to her feet. Her throat was on fire and she was having difficulty standing. Larry held Hensbury’s arms as Steve snapped on the handcuffs.