Jack in the Box

by Hania Allen

  ‘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.’

  ‘And the eyes?’

  He smiled faintly. ‘I was wondering when we’d get round to that. They’ve been pricked with something sharp. Not a needle. Something wider. A scalpel, perhaps, or a small knife. The incision in the cornea was quite clean, so not a knife with a serrated edge.’

  ‘How much strength would you need?’

  ‘A quick stabbing motion with something sharp would puncture the eye.’ He regarded her coolly. ‘I see where you’re going with this. All it needs is a determined jab from someone with moderate strength so, yes, a woman could have done it.’ He motioned to the corpse’s face. ‘The eyelids were intact so the eyes were open when they were pierced. Quite a neat job. If it was a scalpel, you might be looking for a surgeon.’ He inclined his head. ‘Like myself.’

  ‘Not the result of a frenzied attack, then.’

  ‘The cut was deep enough to pierce both humours, but the weapon didn’t reach as far as the retina. I’ve seen some attacks which were so bad that the eye socket was damaged. This is nothing like that.’

  Then Danni was right. There was a significant difference between Quincey’s attack and those of the rent boys. ‘Did he have sex before he died, Sir Bernard?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Anally?’

  ‘He wasn’t penetrated anally. There was no semen in his mouth, but there were traces on his penis, so he ejaculated before he was killed. And he wore a condom.’

  ‘We didn’t find any.’

  ‘Pity. In the absence of the condom I can’t tell whether he penetrated his partner anally, vaginally, or orally. But the lab should be able to identify the brand of condom from the chemicals on his skin.’ He pulled off his robes. ‘There were traces of sweat residue on his body, but I’m not sure how much DNA we’ll extract.’ Like most pathologists she had worked with, Sir Bernard liked to stray onto her patch. ‘I don’t need to remind you, Chief Inspector, that if the person he had sex with was his killer, any DNA the killer deposited as sweat will be contaminated with Quincey’s own. It may be virtually useless in a court of la
w.’

  No, you don’t need to remind me. ‘And the report will arrive when?’

  ‘The preliminary findings should be ready early next week.’ He peered over her shoulder, as though looking for someone. ‘Your partner lasted a little longer this time, Chief Inspector. It was a full fifteen minutes before he went green.’ He lowered his voice, although he and Von were the only ones in the room. ‘We have a little sweepstake going, my staff and I. We estimate how long DI English will last after the first incision. The person who gets closest wins.’

  He looked up at the first-floor observation window. A group of people were standing grinning. One of them gave him the thumbs-up sign.

  ‘I believe it’s me again,’ he said gleefully. ‘I have an unfair advantage, of course. I know what causes your DI to faint, so I can time things accordingly. At fifty pounds a throw, it’s a nice little setup.’

  She recalled her last sight of Steve, gagging, rushing from the room. And they’d all been waiting for it. She glowered at the observation window. Bastards. All of you.

  ‘Now, I must go, Chief Inspector. It’s Friday and I’m off to the opera with the Commissioner. I trust you know your way out.’

  After he’d gone, she stared at Quincey’s remains. The ultimate degradation: Max Quincey was a piece of flesh on a butcher’s slab, his organs laid aside, the top of his head sawn off, his brains packing the scales. Sir Bernard was off to the opera with the Commissioner, leaving a junior to reassemble the corpse.

  She moved closer, ignoring the sharp odour nipping at her nostrils, and peered into the ruined eyes.

  ‘Come on,’ she murmured, as if the dead man could hear. ‘Speak to me. Give me something.’

  Steve was sitting in the Drunken Duck, nursing his soda water. He was looking into the glass as though it held something interesting. His complexion was like cheese. ‘Sorry about that, boss.’

  ‘Forget it.’ Von sat down next to him. ‘Did you barf in the taxi?’ she said gently.

  ‘I did it in the lavvie.’ He rubbed his arm. ‘Did the wee shite win the sweepstake, then?’