Jack in the Box

by Hania Allen

  Chrissie Horowitz was in the foyer talking to the workmen. They were wearing identical t-shirts today, white, imprinted with a picture of a Jack in the Box doll.

  She broke into a smile when she saw Von and Steve. ‘You got my message, then. Rose told me you’d been looking for Michael Gillanders. He’s preparing for the final rehearsal.’ She turned to the man Von recognised as having directed them to the costumes room. ‘Dexter, can you be a darling and take these officers to the dressing rooms?’

  ‘It was thoughtful of you to call us, Chrissie,’ said Von. ‘I realise you’re opening tonight. We’ll try not to keep Mr Gillanders long.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. The rehearsal doesn’t start till after lunch.’ The corners of her mouth twitched. ‘Mr Gillanders needs at least two hours to prepare himself. Mentally and physically.’

  The dressing rooms were on the ground floor, on the other side of the building from the manager’s office. The end door was stencilled with a large gold star. Music pulsed from behind it. Edith Piaf was singing ‘Milord’.

  ‘Michael Gillanders,’ Dexter said, indicating the name on the door.

  Von glanced back down the corridor. ‘And we find our way back how?’

  ‘Ask Himself to page me.’ He looked curiously at her. ‘Are you going to read him his rights?’

  ‘We can’t discuss that with you, Dexter.’

  He grinned and left.

  She waited until he’d disappeared, then knocked loudly.

  ‘He won’t hear you through that racket,’ Steve said. He gripped the handle and pushed the door open.

  Her first thought was that the room had been ransacked. Clothes lay scattered over the furniture and across the floor. A rack stuffed full of brightly-coloured costumes took up the length of one wall, opposite a large painted wooden chest, its top drawer gaping. A Jack in the Box, already popped, stood on the dressing table.

  The source of the music was a Roberts radio cassette recorder, sitting amongst the clutter of jars and brushes. Steve marched over and switched it off. Edith Piaf died in mid-note.

  Something stirred in one of the armchairs. A man in a light blue suit, pink shirt and red and black paisley cravat had been sitting so well camouflaged against the riot of colour, that neither Steve nor Von had seen him. He rose, pulling his hand quickly out of his flies. He zipped them up and thrust a handkerchief into his pocket.

  His red face was twitching with rage. ‘Get out. I said no interruptions. Who the hell are you, anyway?’ His manner changed, and he said more quietly, ‘Are you press?’

  ‘Not even close,’ said Von, studying his cravat. ‘Police officers.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re a strippergram, aren’t you? So who’s paying you?’ He slammed his fist on the dressing table, making the jars rattle. ‘I demand to know whose idea this is.’

  She held up her warrant card. He leant forward and peered at it, screwing up his eyes.

  ‘You can check us out with Clerkenwell Police Station,’ she said patiently.

  He straightened. ‘You a copper too?’ he said to Steve.

  ‘Detective Inspector English,’ said Steve.

  ‘Well, what do you want? I’m in my costume, so you’d better make it quick. Rehearsal starts in a couple of minutes.’

  ‘It doesn’t start for a couple of hours,’ she said. ‘Are you Michael Gillanders?’

  ‘What if I am?’

  ‘We’d like to ask you some questions.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘The murder of Max Quincey.’ She smiled warmly. ‘May we sit down?’

  ‘If you like, but there’s not much I can tell you.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’

  She wriggled into the armchair. Steve perched on the edge of the dresser, avoiding the spilt powder.

  Gillanders hesitated, then sank slowly into his chair. He pulled a packet of cigarillos from his jacket and lit up, drawing slowly. Leaning back, he ran a hand over his hair. It was fine and silky, falling to his shoulders. And it was blond, with the beginnings of a bald patch.

  Von, whose experience of actors was limited to her brief encounter with Max Quincey, studied him with interest. He seemed ill at ease, constantly glancing at his watch and smoothing down his clothes. His actions reminded her of a junky whose fix is long overdue. She wondered if all actors were as highly strung.

  ‘So you’re a detective,’ Gillanders said, glaring at her.

  ‘Does it show?’

  His eyes travelled down her body. ‘Now that I see you close up, I’m afraid it does.’

  Highly strung, and rude with it. ‘Mr Gillanders, how well did you know Max Quincey?’

  He blew smoke through his nostrils, flaring them, the action accentuating his pinched features. ‘We worked together. We didn’t socialise, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Steve. ‘Max Quincey seemed a popular sort of man.’

  ‘That pederast? Popular? You’re jesting.’ He dragged on his cigarillo, staring fixedly at Von’s chest.

  ‘We’re not jesting,’ she said. ‘We’re investigating his murder.’

  ‘You can take it from me that no-one in this theatre liked Quincey.’ He continued to stare at her chest.

  She kept her voice level. ‘Mr Gillanders, why are you talking to my breasts? Do you think they’ll talk back to you?’

  His head shot up. He looked away, flustered.

  ‘So when did you meet Max?’ she said.

  ‘It feels like since before the dawn of man, but it would have been when Jack in the Box ran here in the eighties.’

  ‘And were you in that production?’ Steve said, writing.

  ‘Not the lead, which I’m playing now, of course. I was the detective’s assistant.’ He smirked. ‘A bit like yourself.’

  Steve continued to write, not taking the bait.

  ‘What made you go on the road with the Quincey Players?’ Von said.

  ‘Max offered me a job.’ Gillanders wiped ash off his trousers. ‘Jobs don’t grow on trees in this business.’

  ‘And you’ve been with the Quincey Players ever since?’

  ‘Fraid so. I see myself doing Hamlet or Lear, eventually. The Quincey Players are merely a stepping stone.’

  ‘But nothing better came along?’ Steve said, his lips curving into a smile. ‘In fifteen years, no-one from the RSC came knocking at your door?’

  Gillanders threw him a look of loathing. ‘Despite all appearances to the contrary, Max wasn’t a bad manager. We had no shortage of bookings, and we performed a wide variety of plays.’ He puffed slowly at his cigarillo. ‘He ran the Players well, I have to give him that.’

  ‘And how much are the Players worth?’ said Steve.

  ‘No idea,’ Gillanders said lazily. ‘But we did well enough we got hefty Christmas bonuses. Not many touring companies can boast that.’

  ‘What will happen to the Quincey Players now?’ said Von.

  ‘Someone will take it over,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Any name spring to mind?’

  ‘I really can’t say.’

  ‘You hadn’t thought of running it yourself?’ she said, watching him.

  He inclined his head. ‘If I’m asked to help out as director, of course I’ll step into the breach. I wouldn’t want the Players to go under.’

  He seemed to be holding something back. It was time to hit him in a different place. ‘I notice you’re lodging with Mrs Deacon, as was Max Quincey,’ she said. ‘A coincidence?’

  ‘What are you insinuating?’

  ‘It’s a simple question.’

  ‘Then here’s a simple answer. Max arranged the accommodation. If you want to know why we ended up in the same boarding house, you’ll have to ask him.’ He smiled faintly. ‘But you can’t, can you?’

  She kept her eyes on his. ‘Where were you on the evening of September 12th, Mr Gillanders?’

  ‘Ah, straight for the jugular. I went to the
cinema, the Odeon at Leicester Square.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘The Watcher. With Keanu Reeves.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  His smile mocked her. ‘A serial killer.’

  ‘Did you pay by credit card?’

  ‘Cash.’

  ‘Anyone corroborate that?’

  ‘The man who took it could.’

  ‘Did you go with anyone?’

  ‘I went alone.’

  ‘What time did the film start?’

  ‘About seven. I can’t remember exactly.’

  ‘Did you eat before or after the film?’

  ‘I ate before.’

  ‘In Leicester Square?’

  ‘I bought a kebab from a stall, and walked around the Square eating it.’

  ‘It was a cold night for eating outside,’ said Steve, not looking up.

  Gillanders regarded him through a veil of smoke. ‘That’s not my recollection.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to harm Max Quincey?’ said Von.

  ‘What an extraordinary question.’

  ‘Would you mind answering it?’

  ‘Most of the cast and crew, for starters. Max was a brutal taskmaster. Never satisfied with anything less than perfection.’

  ‘But that was his job, wasn’t it? Directing?’

  ‘You didn’t hear the tittle-tattle after rehearsals. The cast were on the point of mutiny. It was all I could do to calm them down – they look up to me as an older brother figure – but they nearly walked out.’ He drew on the cigarillo. ‘Nothing was right as far as Max was concerned. People standing too far forward, then too far back. Lighting all wrong. Max didn’t raise his voice, you understand. He used sarcasm. He belittled. It’s not how I would manage a team of actors.’

  ‘Miss Manning seemed to suggest it was the other way round,’ said Steve. ‘It was Max who was popular and you who weren’t.’

  ‘Piffle. What would that hag know? Always downstairs in her little troglodyte cave. She rarely surfaces to join the world of men.’ An ugly gleam came into his eyes. ‘She’s in hormone hell most of the time.’

  ‘Did Max pick the cast for the play?’ said Von.

  ‘Max?’ He laughed unpleasantly. ‘He couldn’t pick his nose. He left that to me. He had a say, though. Insisted on sitting in on the auditions.’

  She glanced at his receding hairline. ‘How old are you, Mr Gillanders?’

  ‘A gentleman never tells.’ His gaze was steady. ‘And a lady never asks.’

  ‘You see, I’m wondering how old you were in 1985, when Jack in the Box ran here first.’

  His eyes flickered, but he said nothing.

  Interesting how they all become cagey when I talk about the old play. ‘Answer the question please,’ she said. When there was no reply, she added, ‘We can do this down at the police station, if you prefer.’

  ‘Ah yes, the old your-place-or-mine routine.’ He pulled on the cigarillo. ‘I’ll be forty in December. That would make me twenty-five in 1985.’

  ‘Twenty-four,’ said Steve. ‘You were twenty-four when Jack in the Box ran in the October.’

  Gillanders regarded him under half-closed lids. ‘A mathematical genius,’ he lisped.

  ‘Do you remember the Jack in the Box murders, Mr Gillanders?’ Von said.

  He glanced at the doll on the table, then looked away quickly.

  Yes, he remembers. ‘Well?’ she said, when the silence had gone on too long.

  He ran a hand over his eyes. ‘What happened to those boys was terrible,’ he said in a whisper.

  ‘Did you know Max Quincey was a suspect?’

  ‘Everyone knew. The police were all over the theatre. We saw him arrested.’

  ‘Do you think he was involved in those murders?’

  ‘Oh, without a doubt.’

  ‘The police found no evidence,’ she said, her eyes on his.

  ‘Give me some credit. Please. Absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence.’

  ‘Is there any evidence for your statement?’

  ‘If there were, he’d have been locked up.’ He pressed the remains of his cigarillo into a pot of cold cream. ‘You didn’t know him. He had a vicious streak.’ He smiled nastily. ‘Max never could hold his liquor. A glass of Glenmorangie and he’d slur you his life history.’ He drew a cigarillo from the packet and ran a fingernail over it. ‘He was the worst kind of child, the kind that pulls wings off flies. You’d think you’d regret your childhood brutalities, but he didn’t.’

  ‘Brutalities that continued into adulthood?’

  ‘Who knows what goes through a queer’s mind? His bumboys were young and vulnerable. He liked them that way. I’m sure if they’d had wings, he’d have pulled them off.’ He put the cigarillo to his lips and snapped open the lighter. ‘I’ve no doubt he did them all.’ He blew smoke to the ceiling. ‘Now, is there anything else? It’s just that—’

  ‘What is your sexual orientation, Mr Gillanders?’

  He stared at her, then laughed crudely. ‘Oh, I love sex. But not with boys. I’m a red-blooded male.’ He glanced at her breasts. ‘Chrissie Horowitz can corroborate that.’

  ‘I thought a gentleman never tells.’

  ‘Hoist with your own petard. Your next question was going to be about evidence of my sexual orientation. Well, there it is. Ask the lady.’ He looked at a spot behind Von. ‘Yes, I could tell Chrissie Horowitz was up for it the moment I clapped eyes on her. It was only a matter of time before she invited me into her office, and I had my hand up her skirt.’ He winked. ‘I always check out the engine before giving it a service.’

  Von got to her feet, trying to keep the distaste from her face. ‘I think we’re finished here, Mr Gillanders. Could you page Dexter and tell him we’ll meet him at the end of the corridor?’ She paused at the door. ‘I notice you have a Jack in the Box.’

  ‘We all have one,’ he said carelessly. ‘It’s for luck.’

  ‘Well then, good luck with tonight’s performance.’

  He froze, the cigarillo partway to his lips. His expression changed to one of dismay.

  ‘You should have said, break a leg, boss. That’s why he looked so horrified.’

  ‘I know. I couldn’t resist it. It was the way he boasted he’d had sex with Chrissie Horowitz that did it,’ she added with contempt. ‘What a prick.’

  Steve looked amused. ‘Aye, a true gentleman would never fuck and tell.’ He opened the car door for her.

  As they moved away, her mobile rang. She glanced at the display. ‘I need to take this, Steve.’

  ‘No problem.’

  She clamped the phone to her ear and turned away. ‘Kenny? Where are you?’

  The voice was faint. ‘In the British Library, researching my story.’

  ‘How’s it going? When will I see you?’

  ‘Possibly this evening.’ He sounded excited. ‘My contact is brilliant, love. I’m getting the scoop of the century.’

  ‘That’s great. But listen, I’ll be home late. Steve and I are going to see this play, Jack in the Box.’

  There was an edge of suspicion to the voice. ‘Jack in the Box?’

  Damn it. Just what I need. He’s going to sulk because I’m with Steve. ‘It’s part of our investigation, Kenny.’ She felt Steve glance in her direction.

  ‘If you say so.’

  She was annoyed she had to explain herself. ‘Try to get back this evening, will you?’

  ‘Not much point if you’re going to be out, is there?’ He rang off.

  ‘Jesus,’ she muttered, snapping the phone shut.

  After a pause, Steve said, ‘What do you reckon, then, boss? About our Mr Gillanders?’

  ‘You can keep him.’

  ‘I meant could he be our Mr X?’

  ‘Too early to tell.’

  ‘You were right about Gillanders and the long blond hair, though. And it looked dyed.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I owe you a tenner.’

  ‘Bu
y me a sandwich at the nick.’

  ‘Do you reckon that tan was real?’

  ‘You could see the streaks under his chin.’ She grimaced. ‘It was his voice I couldn’t stand, as though he’d swallowed a mouthful of oil. Must be my working-class upbringing.’

  Steve massaged his neck. ‘Bottom line, is Gillanders in the frame?’

  ‘We need to check his alibi. Let’s pull the CCTV from Leicester Square.’ She thought back to the interview. ‘Did you notice the brand of cigarillos he smokes?’

  ‘Hoyo de Monterrey. I’d recognise that smell anywhere.’

  ‘Maybe he and Max were chummier than he made out.’

  ‘Could be they chatted and smoked together in Max’s room.’

  ‘Tempting to cast him as a suspect, Steve, but there’s no real motive.’ She hesitated. ‘Except possibly the money angle.’

  ‘Surely the Quincey Players aren’t worth that much?’

  ‘It’s not how much they’re worth but how much Gillanders believes they’re worth. He might think Max was sitting on a nice little nest egg.’

  ‘I’ll check him for priors, boss. Maybe we’ll strike lucky.’

  But she had stopped listening. Her mind was back at her conversation with Kenny. Kenny, who’d told her he was phoning from the British Library. With faint sounds of laughter and music and clinking glasses in the background.

  Chapter 11

  Later that day, Steve put his head round Von’s door.

  ‘I’ve been trawling through the Police National Computer, boss. Gillanders is clean as a whistle.’ He leant against the door jamb, smiling lazily. ‘And before you say anything, yes, I’m sure. I know you don’t trust computers, but I do.’

  ‘After all that carry on about the millennium bug?’

  ‘It didn’t hit the PNC,’ he said patiently.

  ‘And the ILOVEYOU virus earlier this year?’

  ‘Nor that.’

  She let it go. She would never win the argument about computers. Like many people not brought up on them, she both hated and feared them, even though she knew they had become a necessary part of policing.

  ‘Okay, so Gillanders has no priors,’ she said. ‘Where do we go from here?’

  ‘I was thinking about the Quincey Players and how much they’re worth. We didn’t find the Players’ books at Max’s. We could ask Chrissie this evening if she still has them.’