by Hania Allen
‘Police officers,’ Von said quickly. ‘We’re with the Metropolitan Police.’
The man frowned. ‘My sister’s had a terrible shock. Must you do this today?’
‘Are you Mrs Deacon?’ Von said, addressing the woman.
She nodded, her wrinkled lips trembling so violently that Von could see the slight gap between her front teeth.
‘We’ll need to speak to you, Mrs Deacon.’ Seeing the look on her face, she added gently, ‘But we don’t need to do it now.’
The man seemed relieved. ‘Come on, Mavis,’ he said, guiding her back into the room. ‘It’s on the top floor,’ he whispered to Von. ‘You can’t miss it. It’s the only room on the landing.’
‘It was the landlady who found the body,’ Von said, after he’d closed the door. ‘She became suspicious when she saw Quincey’s curtains closed all day yesterday.’
Steve frowned. ‘So he’s been dead for a day?’
‘At least.’
‘Gee, I just love it when that happens.’
The narrow staircase was covered in a patterned carpet, threadbare where it curved over the steps. Several stair rods were loose.
‘Three flights, Steve.’ She peered up. ‘Gee, I just love it when that happens.’
At the top of the house, a second policeman stood outside a door that was closed and taped off. He nodded at Von. ‘The room’s as we found it, ma’am. The door was closed.’
‘Unlocked?’
‘I’m afraid so, ma’am.’
‘Just our bloody luck,’ she muttered.
It meant that, for at least a day, anyone could have come into the room. It was what detectives dreaded most: a contaminated crime scene. In the hands of an experienced defence pathologist, any evidence painstakingly gathered could be rendered useless in court. Von had had a case like this blown wide open, and she was determined to avoid a repeat.
She ripped the cellophane packaging from the box in the corridor and removed white suits, latex gloves, and overshoes.
‘Shouldn’t we wait for Forensics, boss?’ Steve said, pulling on gloves.
‘We’ll be careful.’ She knew what would happen once Forensics arrived: the place would be like Piccadilly Circus. What she needed was that first impression of the crime scene which could give her a leg up in the investigation. Her old governor used to call it quality time with the corpse.
She opened the door and ducked under the tape.
The curtains were so thin, she had no difficulty distinguishing the objects in the room. Someone had made a bad job of erecting a partition to create an en-suite bathroom. A lacquered wardrobe towered in the corner, the doors hanging wide. Beside it was a matching chest. Its surface was littered with books and papers, the top drawer open, ties trailing from it like multi-coloured tongues. A cluttered table flanked by two armchairs stood against the opposite wall. The bedside cabinet and brass-framed double bed took up what space was left, and behind them hung the only picture in the room: a reproduction of one of the scenes from Hogarth’s ‘A Harlot’s Progress’.
Something pricked her nostrils: the unmistakable stench of death. But overlaid with another odour. ‘Can you smell tobacco, Steve?’
‘Too sweet for cigarettes. Weed, perhaps?’
‘Not a smell you’d forget, is it?’
She skirted the foot of the bed. With a rapid movement, she drew back the curtains.
Morning light streamed in, illuminating the body of Max Quincey.
He was lying on the bed, legs apart, naked except for the school tie. It was pulled tight, the knot half-hidden in the folds of flesh under his chin. His wrists were secured to the bed frame, hands bent forwards, fingers slightly curled. His lips and the tongue protruding from his mouth were pale blue. A trickle of blood from his left nostril had solidified into a black line that stopped at his upper lip. His chest hair was dark and tangled, and so profuse that the tie seemed to float above his body. The sheet between his legs was stained brown.
Von had worked on enough murder cases not to flinch when she saw a corpse. Nor did she behave like some of her male colleagues, whose insensitivity degenerated sometimes into gallows humour, masking their true feelings. Her initial reaction was, inexplicably, one of shame and she approached a corpse with respect bordering on reverence.
‘He’s been hit, Steve. See here? The swelling above the temple?’ She flattened the hair with a fingertip and examined the cracked discoloured skin. ‘But not hard enough to kill him.’
Steve motioned to the clothes scattered across the room. ‘He undressed in a hurry. Or someone did it for him. Could it have been a sex romp that went wrong?’
‘Erotic asphyxia? If it was, then I can understand what the Chief Super was trying to tell me. The press will have a field day with this.’
‘I thought you said he wore cravats, boss. I’ve counted four ties round his wrists.’
‘Maybe people who wear cravats also wear ties.’ She jerked her head at the door. ‘Any sign of forced entry?’
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.’