Jack in the Box

by Hania Allen

  ‘He started at the Iron Duke, which is where the victims found their clients, but that led nowhere. The Jack in the Box dolls at the crime scenes made him think the murderer had seen the play, so he scoured the lists of credit card names. It was a dead end.’

  ‘It could have been someone who hadn’t gone to the play, ma’am,’ Larry said. ‘Half of London must have seen the dolls. There were posters everywhere. The plastic bags they were sold in carried their picture. There were even adverts in the newspapers.’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ she said, keen to encourage comments from the others. ‘And what conclusion did Harrower come to about the mutilations of both the boys and the dolls?’

  ‘There’s nothing in the report, boss. If the DCI came to a conclusion, he didn’t record it.’

  Von had met Tom Harrower only once, at a police awards ceremony. His vacant stare, sulky mouth, and nasal voice had reminded her of a schoolboy. When she’d steered the conversation to the latest developments in psychology, it was clear from the way he listened with a polite sneer on his face that he put little stock in behavioural science.

  ‘One of his team suggested the killer might have been a member of the play’s cast,’ Steve was saying. ‘But the DCI rejected that hypothesis.’ He turned to the wall. ‘You need to look at the street map to see why.’

  The Garrimont, the theatre where the play was running, was at the Piccadilly Circus end of Shaftesbury Avenue, and was circled in red. Four green squares were marked on the map.

  ‘These squares show the locations of the bodies, boss. I’ve recorded the time of death underneath. Gilly McIlvanny’s is estimated as between 9.00pm and 10.00pm. His squat is just over half a mile from the Garrimont. Jimmy Porteous’s house is much further away, across the river in the Borough. His boy, Charlo, has a recorded TOD of between 10.00pm and 11.00pm. The gents’ lavatory where Liam was attacked is not far from Tottenham Court Road tube. His TOD is between 2.00am and 3.00am. The most accurate time, of course, is Manny’s. His warehouse is further up Tottenham Court Road behind the shops. He was attacked just before the security guard found him at 1.00am.’

  ‘What time did the play end?’

  ‘We don’t know for sure. All we could find is a reference in DCI Harrower’s report that the play was over by the time Manny and Liam were attacked in the early hours, but not over when Gilly and Charlo were killed. As DCI Harrower assumed the same Mr X was responsible for all the attacks, he concluded it couldn’t be a cast member, as no-one could leave the Garrimont, pick up Gilly and Charlo, have sex, attack them and then get back in time for curtain call.’

  ‘That’s fine as far as it goes,’ she said impatiently, ‘but what about the interval? Do we know when it was and how long?’

  ‘We don’t, but how long are intervals? Half an hour, tops. Yet look where Jimmy Porteous’s house is. South of the river. Charlo died between 10.00pm and 11.00pm. The play would have been into its second half by then.’

  ‘Too many ifs, buts, and maybes. We need to get a handle on the timings. Let’s see if we can track down a programme from 1985.’ She examined the map. ‘What about the director? Is he around once the play starts?’

  ‘I’ve got Max Quincey’s statement,’ Zoë said, leafing through her file. She handed Von a sheet. ‘He claimed he always stood in the wings throughout performances. Problem is that the stage manager and staff said they were so used to his presence they could neither confirm nor deny it. It didn’t help that they were interviewed several days after the first two murders.’

  ‘And the two late attacks? Manny’s and Liam’s? Did Quincey have an alibi?’

  ‘He claimed he was alone in his digs. You’ll note, ma’am,’ Zoë added wryly, ‘that in 1985 he lodged with Mrs Deacon.’

  ‘Did he indeed? She told us the first time she saw Quincey was two weeks ago.’

  Larry was playing with his mouse mat, a slight frown on his face. ‘You’ve been unusually quiet,’ Von said to him. ‘What’s your take on this?’

  He cleared his throat as though he’d been caught napping. ‘Max Quincey was arrested but not charged.’ He tossed the mat aside. ‘Maybe the fact he was a suspect was enough to seal his fate. Maybe Quincey was murdered out of revenge by someone who thought he’d killed the rent boys.’

  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 go
ing 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.