Jack in the Box (5 page)

Von smiled encouragingly. He was thinking along the right lines, searching for a motive. ‘You’re saying the co-incidence of the
play’s
return could be nothing more than the co-incidence of
Max Quincey’s
return?’ she said.

‘Quincey’s arrest in 1985 was widely covered. Everyone knew he was the prime suspect.’

‘But who knew he was returning to London this month?’ Zoë said quietly.

‘His brother,’ said Von. ‘And everyone who attended the National Gallery reception last Saturday.’

‘The posters advertising Jack in the Box are all over the underground,’ someone chipped in. ‘It’s billed as “The Play Of The Year 2000”. Quincey’s name is everywhere.’

Steve rubbed his face. ‘I don’t get it. Who would want to revenge themselves on a group of rent boys?’

‘And why?’ Von said. ‘It’s a possible motive, though, and we can’t afford to ignore it.’ She paced the floor. ‘Right, find out what you can about the boys. Start at the Iron Duke. Show photos of them, Quincey as well. There might be someone still there from 1985. While you’re in Soho, double-check the CCTV. I can’t believe there’s none in that area.’ She stared at the photographs of the rent boys, pinned up on the incident wall. ‘Manny Newman is still alive. Find out where he’s living. Okay, there’s more to be squeezed from the old case, but that’s it for tonight. Before you leave, I need to tell you there’s a press conference first thing tomorrow.’

There were groans from every part of the room. Zoë caught her eye. ‘Ma’am, after this story leaks, there’ll be no end of crank calls.’

‘It can’t be helped. Draft in more clerical to deal with them.’

The detectives left, some singly, most in groups. Their excited voices reached her from the hall. They’d be off to a pub to talk over the case, and possibly her handling of it. She smiled. It was how she’d behaved as a junior detective, always thinking she knew better than her superiors. She should join them, try to get to know them better, but she wanted to get home. Kenny might call round.

Steve hovered at the door. ‘You staying late, boss?’

‘Just going. Don’t wait for me.’

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. ‘Night, then.’

She stood looking at the photo of Manny Newman, the tousled brown hair, the freshness of his cheeks, the light in his eyes. He’d been in his teens at the time of the attack. Still a child. She ran her fingertips over his eyes, feeling her heart clench. Then she fetched her coat, switched off the lights, and left.

Chapter 6

As she turned the key in the lock, Von knew that Kenny was in. It was that pungent blend of Chinese food and stale cigarette smoke that settled like fog in her flat whenever he chose to visit. In the early days, he’d visited every night. She was barely through the door, when he’d be pushing himself at her, grabbing at her breasts, his mouth seeking hers. They never reached the bedroom, making love as soon as their clothes were off. Depending on what they wore, it could be the hall, the kitchen, or the sitting room. Lately, he’d been visiting less often. And it was weeks since they’d made love. Instead, they had sex.

The deep voice came from the sitting room. ‘That you, Von?’

She dropped her bag onto a chair.
Jesus, he asks that every time. Who the hell else is it likely to be?

The kitchen was depressingly the same: piles of dishes were balanced under the still-dripping tap, and discarded cartons of take-away food littered the working surface. He might at least have cleared up. But then, this wasn’t his flat. They’d taken the decision to keep separate households. Just in case.

She’d met him not long after she started working at Clerkenwell. The press officer warned her that a Kenny Downley was coming to interview her, the first female DCI at the nick. She and Kenny hit it off straightaway. He’d just started working for The Guardian. A step up from The Mirror, he said, means I get to interview big shots and not just the small fry. She laughed at his jokes, most of which were against himself, and
accepted his suggestion they have a drink after work. Two days later, he took her out to dinner but, instead of trying to get her into bed, he left after seeing her home. The following morning, flowers arrived with a note saying how much he’d enjoyed her company. She was flattered, and thought her run of bad luck with men had come to an end.

After a few months, Kenny hinted at moving in, but she wasn’t ready. They had their first real row, made worse by her inability to explain her reticence. He took it personally and disappeared for several days. She was surprised at how much it had affected her. But he returned, grudgingly accepting it might be wiser to keep their separate flats. Her concession was to suggest they exchange keys, convincing him it was almost the same as cohabiting. After they made love, and he fell asleep, she asked herself why she was unwilling to share her life fully with him, why she was unwilling to share her life with anyone. Was it simply because she’d lose control of it? But how much control did people have over their lives anyway?

She opened a cupboard packed with tins past their sell-by date, then closed it again. ‘Have you eaten?’ she shouted through the kitchen door.

‘I stopped off at the Pearl. I had mine a couple of hours ago. Yours is warming.’

She peered inside the oven. Mongolian beef and egg fried rice: the speciality of the Pearl of Hong Kong. What he always brought her. She’d given up asking for something different.

She was piling food onto a plate when he came into the kitchen. ‘I meant to ring,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

He smiled, the creases round his eyes deepening. ‘Don’t apologise. I know how it is.’

‘It’s a new case, and I had to get it started.’

‘Forget it.’ He reached into the fridge.

‘I thought you said you were going to lay off beer. You’ll
never get rid of that belly otherwise.’

‘You wouldn’t love me skinny, believe me.’ He held up a bottle. ‘You drinking?’

‘I’ll have wine. There’s some open next to the sink.’ She picked up the plate. ‘You couldn’t bring it in, could you?’ she said over her shoulder.

The sitting room was the largest room in the flat. It had a high ceiling and elaborate coving, and could have been furnished elegantly had Von not bought too much of the wrong kind of furniture at a local auction. The sofa and easy chairs fought for space amongst the general clutter of small tables, Pink Floyd CDs, and piles of police magazines and forensic journals on loan from The Vulture. Cheap IKEA rugs had been thrown onto the patterned carpet, and the walls were hung with scenes from a Moorish harem, left behind by the previous owners. She hadn’t made time to replace either the pictures or the sixties-style wallpaper. After ten years in the flat, she probably never would.

Kenny sank into an armchair. ‘So, a new case.’ He lifted a hand as though to ward off an objection. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t pry. And anything you tell me won’t leave this room. I haven’t forgotten our rules.’

‘You never do,’ she said softly. She surprised herself by adding, ‘That’s why I love you.’

‘Is there anything about the case you
can
tell me?’ he said, filling her wine glass.

‘Remember the man we met at the National Gallery? The Chief Super’s brother?’ She blew on the food to cool it. ‘He’s been murdered.’

His arm jerked, causing him to spill wine on the carpet. ‘God, I’m sorry, love. I’ll get that stain out.’ He fetched a cloth from the kitchen and mopped up the spill. ‘His brother, was it?’ he said, not looking up.

‘Max Quincey. It’s a pity you didn’t talk to him. I noticed you didn’t stay long after the Chief Super came over.’

‘And you know why that is. Remember the thrashing he gave me after that article?’

Kenny, hoping to get the inside track on the work of the drugs squad, had interviewed the Chief Super as part of a series entitled ‘Man of Today’. The piece was flattering enough, and cast Richard Quincey in as favourable a light as possible. The Guardian’s editor, however, who’d had a previous run-in with Richard Quincey, changed the title at the last minute (without Kenny’s knowledge) to ‘Man of Yesterday’. The Chief Super had been livid and had taken his anger out on Kenny.

‘What made you leave in such a hurry?’ she said, chewing on a piece of beef. ‘Your readers would have loved Max Quincey.’

‘I’d arranged to meet someone, this hot story I’m working on. After weeks of running round in circles, I’ve finally managed to get a lead.’

‘Must be good, I’ve hardly seen you. Did you get enough out of the reception to write your piece?’

‘Pretty much. These events are all the same. I got a list of the attendees, I can wing the rest.’ He handed her the glass of wine. ‘So, what did this Max Quincey have to say?’

‘He wanted to know what it’s like being a detective. Amazing the romantic notion the public have about solving crime.’

‘And did he tell you why he’d decided to come back to London? I mean, specifically?’

She lifted her eyes to his. ‘That’s a strange question to ask.’

He smiled his crooked smile, where one corner of the mouth lifted. ‘Can’t help being a journalist, I suppose.’

‘Now that he’s a murder victim, I bet you wish you’d stayed and interviewed him.’

He took a swig of beer. He set the bottle down, then picked it up again. ‘So how did he die? Are you able to tell me?’

‘It’ll come out tomorrow at the press conference. He was strangled.’

He ran a hand across his face. ‘Jesus.’

‘You behave as though you knew him,’ she said softly.

He looked up so sharply, she heard the bones in his neck crack. ‘I’ve never met him,’ he said.

‘Haven’t you?’

‘I’d have remembered someone like that. You saw how he dressed.’

She kept her voice steady. ‘Maybe he didn’t dress like that fifteen years ago when you interviewed him.’

The beer bottle stopped halfway to Kenny’s mouth. ‘Fifteen years ago? I would have been in the army.’

‘It was 1985, you were out of the army by then. Max Quincey was here, directing a play. He was the prime suspect in a murder case, and you interviewed him.’

‘I don’t remember. You sure it was me?’

‘I saw an article written by you in the case file.’

A defensive note crept into his voice. ‘It was a long time ago. I can’t remember everyone I interviewed that far back.’

‘But you would have remembered this particular case.’ She stirred the rice with her fork. ‘The Jack in the Box murders.’

He slammed the bottle down. ‘Well I don’t. Look, love, this isn’t your interview room, and I’m not one of your suspects, so stop giving me the third degree, all right?’ He snatched up the bottle and took a vicious gulp.

She was surprised by his outburst. ‘Sorry, Kenny. Old habits die hard.’

They sat in silence, she eating her supper, and he drinking steadily.

‘I’m going away for a few days,’ he said suddenly.

She put down her fork. ‘Again?’

‘Can’t afford not to. I’ve had a tip-off that may lead to
something big.’

There was a time when she’d have been annoyed that Kenny’s work now came before his private life. Yet, could she really blame him? Her own work had always come before hers. He’d once complained that police work was like a drug. And he’d been right. The business of policing was her daily fix. Specially the business of murder.

‘Shall we try to stay in touch this time?’ she said wearily.

‘Love, it’s you who never phones, not me.’ His eyes wandered over her body. ‘So, are we going to bed, or what?’ He reached across and ran a hand over her breasts. ‘There’s something about crisp white shirts concealing a double-D cup that always makes me go hard.’

She gazed into his eyes, her pulse racing. ‘Come on, then.’

Afterwards, she lay thinking about their conversation. Had Kenny forgotten he knew Max Quincey, or was that a fabrication? It troubled her to think he might have lied. If he had, it marked a milestone in their relationship, after which there would be no turning back. Although she dealt on a daily basis with habitual liars, she couldn’t decide about Kenny. She watched him sleep, his receding hair tousled, the dark tattoo running down the side of his neck and over his shoulder. She ran a finger across his three-day-old stubble, silver in the weak light. Then she tucked the duvet around him and switched off the bedside light.

Something woke her. He was shaking her gently. Grey light was seeping through the curtains. She groped for the clock on the bedside cabinet and brought it to her face, squinting at the luminous dial. His hand was moving over her breasts, sliding down her body and between her legs.

She turned towards him sleepily.
Jesus, why do men have to have erections at six in the morning?

Chapter 7

The first press conference of any murder investigation was always well attended and, in anticipation of the turnout, the station had been scoured for chairs. Even the Chief Super had given up his, for once without a fuss. It was 9.00am, and the conference room was packed.

Richard Quincey was sitting behind a table, Von next to him. Before them were the massed ranks of the press. Representatives from at least two television stations were crammed with their equipment into the front two rows. It was as she’d feared: the case had aroused the public’s interest. And she’d put down good money it wasn’t because the victim was the brother of a high-ranking policeman, but because the way he’d been killed was similar to that of the Jack in the Box murders.

‘That’s all I’m able to tell you,’ the Chief Super was saying. ‘Now, are there any questions?’ he added, with exaggerated politeness.

‘Do you think there’s a link between the killing of Max Quincey and the 1985 Jack in the Box murders?’

The speaker was Arabella Carrington, the crime reporter for the Daily Mail. She was young and ambitious, and she let you know it. Her trademark panda eyes and hair curling down her back made every head turn whenever she entered a room. Von’s mouth tightened. They’d locked horns before, and Von rarely emerged victorious. Arabella was quick-witted, always several steps ahead, and Von had learnt the hard way that arguing
with her was like trying to nail fluff to the wall. She’d never understood what had lured Arabella to journalism. She would have earned far more as a barrister.

‘We’re ruling nothing out at this stage,’ the Chief Super said. ‘DCI Valenti is examining that case for possible connections.’

‘Is the DCI
reopening
the old case?’ a man at the back asked.

Von opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by the Chief Super. ‘We’re doing nothing of the sort.’

‘Why not?’

‘We haven’t the manpower to waste on cold cases.’

‘
Waste
?’ Arabella said with a quick smile. ‘Do you use that word, Chief Superintendent, because the victims were male prostitutes?’

‘That’s a preposterous suggestion. We treat all our victims with equal respect.’

Von had seen this before. The Chief Super lost control of the situation too easily. She could never understand why a man of his experience gave consideration to every question or comment, instead of side-stepping, as a politician would, or simply refusing to answer. If she’d had the nerve, she’d have suggested he go on one of the Met’s training courses.

Arabella pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. ‘
Equal
respect? But some are more equal than others, Chief Superintendent? Isn’t that it?’ she added coyly.

‘Miss Carrington,’ Von said, not giving the Chief Super the chance to reply, ‘the senior investigating officer put a huge effort into trying to solve that case, but there was simply no hard forensic evidence. Cases of that nature are almost impossible to solve after such a long period of time. However, if we do find a material link to the Jack in the Box murders, we will re-open the case.’ She raised her hand, and the hubbub died down. ‘But I’m sure you’ll understand that the bulk of our effort must go into this current investigation.’

Arabella raised a perfectly waxed eyebrow. ‘Because he’s the Chief Superintendent’s brother?’

Von looked directly at her. ‘Because he’s a member of the public, like yourself. I’m sure the readers of the Daily Mail will be relieved to hear that.’ She addressed the room. ‘We’re asking for every assistance from the public. If anyone was near the scene of the crime on the evening of September 12th, we urge them to come forward.’

‘And can you tell us, Chief Inspector, whether Max Quincey picked up rent boys?’ Arabella said, smirking.

A ripple of interest ran through the room.

‘I won’t answer questions like that.’

‘Could he have been killed because he was a homosexual?’

‘No comment.’

‘Is that why you’re not answering my questions?’

‘No comment.’

‘Is that no comment on he was killed by a homosexual, or no comment on no comment?’

‘It’s just no comment.’ Von gathered up her papers. ‘Now, you must excuse us, we’ve a murder investigation to run. Press releases will be issued from this office in the usual way.’

She rose, ignoring the cries of protest, and left the room, the Chief Super following.

In the corridor, he rounded on her. ‘Do that again, Yvonne, and you’ll be out of the force so quickly, you won’t know what’s hit you.’

‘Excuse me, sir?’

He thrust his face into hers. ‘Don’t ever take over from me like that again.’

‘I thought it the best course of action.’

‘Did you? I didn’t.’

She drew her head back to escape the reek of his after-shave. ‘It wasn’t my intention to undermine you, sir.’

‘It didn’t look that way to me,’ he said, his voice measured. ‘I thought I made it clear I’d be the one handling the press.’

‘And you did, sir. Admirably. But questions of detail should be left to me.’

His lip curled, and he marched away.

She watched him go.
Wanker. That’s the last time I’m bailing you out
.

‘Dr Mittelberg’s arrived, ma’am. She’s in your office.’

Von nodded her thanks and left the incident room.

Danni was sitting in Von’s chair, swivelling round in circles. She was wearing one of her couture suits, the kind Von wished she could wear but her bust was too large. Danni’s hair was loose today, falling in waves over her shoulders. She wore little makeup, just a lick of gloss on her lips and indigo-coloured mascara, which enhanced the blueness of her eyes. Von sometimes wondered what the male academics at the university made of their colleague. Not only was her appearance stunning, she was at the top of her game. Von had seen the looks of envy laced with sexual desire that crossed the faces of Danni’s colleagues whenever she attended her lectures on criminal psychology. But Danni’s tastes didn’t run to academics. An expert horsewoman, her weekends were spent riding on her father’s estate, and few of the lecturers would have guessed the nature of the extra services she required of the stable boys.

‘So how did it go?’ Danni said. ‘Judging by your face, not brilliantly.’

Von sat down heavily. ‘Jesus, Danni, there are days when I can’t understand the Chief Super. I save his bacon and he gives me a drubbing.’

Danni crossed her legs, displaying an expanse of smooth white thigh. ‘You’ll never get into the masons now, you’ve been wasting your time practising that funny handshake.’ She
regarded Von with an expression of affection. ‘Look, I wouldn’t worry too much. I’ve seen the Chief Super in action before and I put it down to repressive potty training. Forget about his antiquated behaviour, he’s really not worth expending emotional energy over.’

‘And that cow, Arabella Carrington. I swear, one of these days I’ll forget myself and chin her.’

‘That’ll fast-track you to the end of your blossoming career. Incidentally, I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I had a book-signing.’

‘Ah, yes, “Dissection of a Mind”. How’s it selling?’

‘Fantastically.’

Von reached over to the inner window and pulled down the blind into the corridor, catching the look of disappointment on a constable’s face. Danni’s appearance always caused a stir; the moment she sashayed into the police station, all conversation stopped.

Danni flicked back her hair. ‘Talking of dissection, when’s the autopsy?’

‘This afternoon. Coming?’

‘I’m lecturing. Term’s just started.’ She paused. ‘So, I looked through the old case last night. The guy who ran it, Chief Superintendent Harrower—’

‘Chief Inspector. He retired as DCI. Jack in the Box was his last case.’

‘Whatever. There are some significant questions he seems not to have asked.’ She shuffled through her notes. ‘The blindings, first of all. The sole survivor, Manny, says he was blinded
after
he was strangled. I’m assuming the others were too. Normally, an opportunistic killer doesn’t blind after he kills. He high-tails it pronto.’

‘We wondered about that.’

‘Initially, I thought he blinded the boys to make sure they couldn’t identify him, in case he botched the strangling. Do
you remember the Stryker case?’

Von’s mouth twisted. ‘Who could forget?’

‘He told the police that he hadn’t intended to kill them. All he wanted was to see the fear in their eyes. He stopped the strangling before they died, then revived them, even had a conversation with them. With some, he repeated the strangulation. But my point is this: eventually, he blinded them all so they couldn’t identify him.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘Look at the dead boys, Von.’ Danni held out the photo of Gilly McIlvanny. ‘This one in particular. There’s no way whoever killed him botched it. He knew this boy was dead.’

Gilly’s face swam before her eyes. She looked away quickly. ‘So what sort of a person blinds a corpse?’

‘One that’s deeply disturbed. And there’s something else. In every case, he used a mirror. Manny stated he took care to move the mirror so he could watch himself.’

‘That’s not unusual.’

‘Not for sex. But I’m not convinced he used the mirror to watch himself having sex.’

‘What then? To watch himself killing?’

‘That’s not unusual either, Von. I don’t need to remind you of the cases where the killers have recorded themselves.’

‘Liam’s body was found in a disabled lavatory. The cubicle didn’t have a mirror.’

‘Look at this schematic, though. If he opened the door, he’d see himself in the mirror above the basins. A bit risky, but the time of death was between 2.00am and 3.00am. It would have been quiet.’

Von pushed her hands through her hair. ‘And mutilating the dolls?’

‘The doll is an integral part of the process.’ Danni sighed heavily. ‘I just don’t know why.’

‘And Max Quincey? I know there was no evidence, but could he have killed the boys?’

‘Impossible to say without further information.’

‘Then here’s another question,’ Von said impatiently. ‘Could the killer of the boys also have killed Quincey?’

‘It’s a completely different pattern of behaviour.’

‘Come on, Danni, there are similarities.’

‘Quincey was strangled. His eyes were slashed. As were those of the doll. Okay, I give you that. But look at the boys’ faces. Their eyes were hacked so badly they lost their eyelids. And yet you had to point out to me that Quincey’s eyes had been cut. There’s also the mirror. There wasn’t one in Quincey’s room. The only mirror was in the bathroom and it couldn’t be seen from the bed, even with the bathroom door open.’

Von played with her pen. ‘Bottom line, Danni, what was the state of mind of the rent boys’ attacker?’

She hesitated. ‘This might sound strange, but I’d say, self-loathing.’

‘Yet he watched himself.’

‘Not unusual for someone who loathes himself.’

‘And Quincey’s killer?’

‘Hard to say. But I’m sure of one thing.’ She placed her hands flat on the desk. ‘The profile of the killer in the two cases is completely different. You’re looking for two separate people.’

‘We’re looking for a Mr X
and
a Mr Y? Look, could Mr X have evolved into Mr Y? Or becomes Mr Y when the conditions are right?’

‘Like Jekyll and Hyde?’ She shook her head slowly, her eyes steady. ‘Not a chance in hell.’ It was that look of defiance that Von disliked: Danni knew her expertise gave her the upper hand in the argument.

‘Have you ever been wrong, Danni?’

If Von had expected her to bristle, she was mistaken. ‘Of
course.’ Danni smiled, inclining her head. ‘But so have you.’

Von threw down the pen and stared out of the window. Maybe the Chief Super was right, and she was wasting her time on the Jack in the Box murders.

‘Not necessarily, boss,’ said Steve, tucking into a Cornish pasty.

They were in the Drunken Duck, having lunch. Although the Clerkenwell area was full of Italian cafés, which Steve preferred, Von always steered him to the Duck. It was a cheerful pub whose trademark was a giant castor-oil plant in the corner. The décor hadn’t changed since the seventies, yet despite the dinginess the place was frequented by the young and upwardly mobile who worked in nearby offices. Steve was generally wary of discussing police work in public places, but the alcoves in the Duck afforded almost complete privacy.

‘What do you mean, not necessarily?’ said Von.

‘The clue to Quincey’s murder may still lie in the old case.’

‘Tell that to the Chief Super when he sacks me.’

He wiped crumbs from his mouth. ‘Two different people, eh? And she’d put money on it? Easy for her to say. As the daughter of a millionaire, she’s got plenty to splash around.’

‘Don’t be like that, Steve.’ Von smiled. ‘Money isn’t the cure for everything.’

‘It’s the cure for being poor,’ he said with feeling. He nodded at her empty glass. ‘We’ve time for another wee swallie.’

‘We won’t get served, you know what this place is like at lunch time.’ She studied him. ‘Can you manage as you are?’

‘What do you mean?’

She chose her words carefully. ‘I know you need to be plastered before you can face a cutting room.’

‘Thanks for that.’ He got to his feet. ‘Let’s go,’ he said stiffly.

‘The cause of death is asphyxia due to ligature strangulation.’ Sir
Bernard peered over the rim of his spectacles. ‘Haemorrhaging in the inner ear is a clear signature.’ He indicated the red welt on the corpse’s neck. ‘Whatever did that was smooth, consistent with the tie we found. There are no fingermarks on the skin, so he wasn’t manually strangled and the tie wrapped round his neck afterwards.’

‘How quick would it have been, Sir Bernard?’ Von said. She was sweating under the lights in the windowless room.

‘With this type of strangulation, the constriction has to be held even after loss of consciousness. I’d say ten to fifteen seconds before he fell unconscious.’

‘Was the attacker left or right-handed?’

‘He would have had to use both hands, therefore I can’t tell.’ Sir Bernard peeled off his gloves. ‘I’ve yet to analyse the internal organs but at first glance there’s nothing unusual for a man of his age. The state of the lungs is consistent with his being a heavy smoker. And I can now give you a more accurate time of death: between 8.00pm and 10.00pm.’