Jack in the Box

by Hania Allen

  ‘Do you have the name of your brother’s accountant?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘I thought you might have given him the name of yours.’

  ‘Well I haven’t. You can get my accountant’s name from my secretary. Check with him directly. Now, is there anything else?’

  Oh, yes, I’m only just getting started. ‘What do you know of your brother’s movements after he formed the Quincey Players?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, my brother and I hardly saw each other after university.’

  ‘And you told me your brother hadn’t been back to London for several years.’

  His tone was icy. ‘Your point is?’

  ‘You’re unaware, then, that your brother visited London many times since 1985, the last being earlier this year?’

  A look of bewilderment came into his eyes. ‘He came to London?’ he said, half to himself. He picked up a paper clip and opened it out. ‘I didn’t know that. But then there’s no reason why he should want to visit me, after all this time.’

  At last, he’s telling the truth. ‘And your brother had no family other than yourself?’

  ‘Our mother is still alive. But Max had no children.’

  ‘Your brother’s statements show nothing in the way of regular payments to his ex-wife. Was there any agreement for spousal support?’

  ‘Max left her the house. The split was final in that respect.’ He stirred, as if from a dream. ‘Mention of my mother has reminded me. I’m due to pick her up at Euston in less than an hour. She’s arriving for the memorial service tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll be there, sir.’

  ‘I would arrive early,’ he said, rising. ‘All of my brother’s theatre friends will be coming.’

  She nodded. And possibly his murderer.

  Chapter 14

  ‘So I’m finally going to meet Steve’s hot-knickered goddess,’ said Danni. ‘Do you want me to come in, or just observe?’

  ‘Observe,’ said Von, leaning back in the chair. ‘Steve will be questioning her and I’ll be outside, listening to your running commentary.’

  ‘And what are you looking for?’

  ‘She’s lied to us about how much contact she’s had with Max Quincey. I’m convinced the two of them were up to something. I want to find out what.’

  Danni was silent for a moment. ‘You’ve got dark circles under your eyes, Von. Burning the candle at both ends?’

  ‘At one end.’ She rotated her shoulders. ‘We’re nowhere near making a collar. The problem is motive.’

  ‘And who stood to inherit on Max’s death?’

  ‘We’ve not found a will so it’ll be his mother as next-of-kin. But I think we’ve finally hit on something. The Quincey Players may be worth a mint, and there may be a co-owner. I thought at first that it’s the Chief Super, but he says no.’

  ‘And now you’re thinking it’s Chrissie who’s co-owner?’

  ‘Max visited London several times in the last fifteen years, and it might have been to see her. She claimed their chumminess was all about looking through the Players’ books. And maybe it was,’ she added softly.

  There was a knock at the door, and Larry entered.

  ‘Chrissie Horowitz is being printed, ma’am,’ he said, looking at Danni.

  ‘Thanks. Can you ask DI English to come in for a minute?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He glanced at Danni’s legs as he closed the door.

  Steve entered, grinning when he saw Danni. ‘Glad you could tear yourself away from your students, Dr Mittelberg. It’s nice to see that not all academics sit on their jacksis all day.’ He ignore Danni’s playful V-sign, and switched his attention to Von. ‘We going in, boss?’

  ‘You are. I’m going to be sitting on my jacksi with Danni, observing through the window.’

  ‘So how do you want me to play it?’

  ‘Robustly. Lay off the charm, which she’ll be expecting. If she’s rattled, she’s more likely to give something away.’ She leant forward. ‘I want to know what she and Max have been up to. All this guff about meeting for drinks and helping with the figures may have been intended to throw us off the scent.’

  ‘The scent?’

  ‘About who really co-owns the Quincey Players.’

  ‘Sorry, boss. Still lost.’

  ‘It may be Chrissie herself.’

  His face cleared. ‘Ah.’

  ‘And take Zoë.’

  ‘The strawberry blonde?’ said Danni. ‘That’d be enough to make any woman’s self-assurance evaporate.’

  ‘Use interview room three, Steve. And don’t forget to ask for a sample of her hair.’

  ‘She may refuse.’

  ‘Ask nicely. If she wants to know why, then tell her.’

  ‘Got it, boss.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me why I’ve been fingerprinted, Steve.’ Chrissie Horowitz rested her clasped hands on the table, the tips smudged with black ink. ‘Am I a suspect in your murder case? Should I contact my solicitor?’

  ‘Only if you think you need one,’ Steve said easily. ‘But this won’t take long, Miss Horowitz. We just want to clear a few things up.’

  ‘So why have I been fingerprinted?’

  ‘We’ve not been able to identify all the prints in Max Quincey’s room. We’ve taken yours to eliminate them.’

  She ran her fingers over the corners of her mouth, as though checking her lipstick. ‘But I told you I’ve not been in his room.’

  He smiled. ‘Just routine. We’d also like a sample of your hair,’ he added, matter-of-factly.

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘We found blond hairs in the room.’

  She smoothed her brows lightly. ‘How many times do I have to tell you I didn’t visit Maxie in his digs?’

  ‘Max may have accidentally picked up some of your hairs on his coat, and deposited them in his room.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Zoë held out a small plastic bag. Chrissie rummaged through her Jane Shilton handbag and produced a small mirror. She held it close to her face and, with great care, plucked four hairs from her fringe. ‘Is that enough?’ she said, dropping them into the bag.

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Zoë, sealing the plastic.

  ‘What are you hoping to get from her hair?’ Danni said.

  ‘The blond hairs in Max’s room were dyed or streaked, like Chrissie’s. If her sample can place her there beyond shadow of a doubt, she may crack when presented with the evidence.’

  Chrissie sat back and crossed her legs. She was wearing stockings with seams, and stilettos even higher than Danni’s. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with, Steve?’ she said suggestively.

  ‘Come on Steve,’ Von muttered. ‘Go for the jugular.’

  ‘I’ll come to the point, Miss Horowitz.’ He put down his pen. ‘We believe you’re co-owner of the Quincey Players.’

  ‘Not true,’ said Chrissie, startled.

  ‘That’s unsettled her,’ said Danni. ‘See how she’s smoothing her skirt under the table? She can hardly keep still.’

  Steve brought his face close to Chrissie’s. ‘You and Max were involved in something and I intend to find out what. We have Max’s phone records and we know how many times you were ringing each other. Why were you meeting him, Miss Horowitz? What were you into?’

  A note of panic crept into Chrissie’s voice. ‘What do you mean, into?’

  ‘I’m talking about a scam. Why was the Garrimont really in debt?’

  She stared, speechless.

  He leant back and folded his arms. ‘Here’s what I think’s been going on. You and Max were skimming the theatre’s profits. You had one book for the tax man and another at the back of the filing cabinet. The Quincey Players were going from strength to strength, at the expense of the Garrimont.’

  She looked about to choke with indignation. ‘How dare you suggest that. I’ve been working day and night trying to keep that place going. Audit the Garrimont’s accounts, if you
don’t believe me. It’s been losing money for years, since long before Maxie came back to London.’

  ‘Max Quincey was a frequent visitor to Mrs Deacon’s, even during the time the Players were touring. Did you really only meet him for the first time this month? Or did you know him from way back?’

  ‘Of course I only met him this month…’ Her voice drifted away.

  ‘Is she lying?’ said Von.

  Danni frowned. ‘Hard to tell. If she is, she should give up theatre management and go on the stage.’

  ‘We will be checking the Garrimont’s accounts,’ Steve was saying, ‘and the state of your own finances.’

  Chrissie pawed in her bag. ‘Knock yourself out. I’ve nothing to hide.’ She threw down her cheque book and credit card. ‘Do you want me to call my bank manager?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. This is all we need.’ He nodded to Zoë, who wrote down the account numbers.

  ‘Now, are you letting me leave, or do I call my solicitor?’

  ‘I think we’re finished for now.’ He got to his feet. ‘Thank you, Miss Horowitz. If we need to speak to you again, we’ll know where to find you.’

  She rose, giving her skirt a final smooth down.

  He stopped her at the door. ‘One last thing. If we find you’ve lied to us, we’ll charge you with obstruction. Understand?’

  She lifted her chin. ‘Everything I’ve told you is the truth.’

  Von watched her flounce out of the room. But has she told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

  ‘What do you reckon, Danni?’ said Steve.

  Danni was perched on the edge of Von’s desk. ‘She’s jawdroppingly sexy and she knows it. All that running of her fingers over her brows, that checking of make-up, she’s more than usually conscious of her appearance. The way she softened her expression and leant into Steve means she knows the effect she has on men.’ She nodded towards Zoë. ‘Clever move having the detective sergeant there. But if you’re asking me whether she was telling porkies, I’d say, probably not.’

  ‘Could she be an expert liar?’ said Von.

  ‘She could have fooled us, yes.’ Danni picked up the paperweight, a life-sized plaster skull, and balanced it in her hand. ‘She’s not short of money. Those were Jimmy Choos she was wearing. What do theatre managers earn? Not enough to buy designer shoes, I’m guessing.’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough, but all we may have achieved is the means by which we eliminate her.’ Von ran her hands over her face. ‘Even if Forensics come up with a match on her hair, it will confirm she was in Max’s room, but it’s not proof of murder.’

  ‘We need a firm motive before we tackle her again, boss, or she’ll bring a claim of harassment.’

  ‘What about this Gillanders character?’ said Danni. ‘Is he still a possible?’

  ‘He’s next on the list.’

  Danni peered into the skull’s eye sockets. ‘And are you still chasing the Jack in the Box murderer?’

  ‘It passes the time,’ Von said with irony.

  ‘Have you reinterviewed the surviving rent boy?’

  ‘Can’t find him.’

  ‘We’ve just tracked him down, ma’am,’ Zoë said quickly.

  ‘Well, halle–bloody–luja.’ She glared at the girl. ‘So why are you telling me only now? And what took you so long?’

  ‘Manny Newman changed his name when he left hospital. He’s known as Frankie Lowry.’

  Chapter 15

  Rain battered against the windscreen as Von and Steve drove across London.

  ‘You sure we shouldn’t leave this till tomorrow, boss? North Peckham isn’t a place I like to be in after the sun goes down.’

  ‘Manny’s likely to be out during the day.’ She threw him a quizzical look. ‘You’re from Glasgow. I thought you Scots were made of strong stuff.’

  ‘There are parts of Glasgow I wouldn’t like to be in after the sun goes down.’

  She peered through the window trying to make out the streets. Sodden litter was piling up in the gutter. Someone had left a grease-stained armchair at the side of the road. She doubted it would stay there long. ‘God, this rain is something else. How much further?’

  ‘Twenty fathoms. Just as well we can’t see much of the landscape.’

  ‘Looks all right to me. Anyway, I hear the place is being redeveloped. Isn’t that greenery over there?’

  ‘Burgess Park, we’re nearly at Manny’s. I wonder how long this regeneration’s been going on. There are still old council estates here.’

  ‘It’s going to take time, Steve. But why did they relocate him here? Not the most salubrious of areas.’

  ‘Probably couldn’t afford to put him anywhere else.’ After a pause, he said, ‘Is Kenny home tonight?’

  ‘I’ve not been able to reach him. He’s switched off his phone.’

  ‘Boss—’

  ‘I’ll be all right, Steve.’ She ran a hand along the upholstery. ‘To tell the truth, I’m more nervous about meeting Manny.’

  He glanced at her in surprise. ‘You’ve interviewed plenty of victims of crime before.’

  ‘This is different. Manny may not want to talk to us.’

  ‘It’ll be fine, boss. You’re good at putting people at their ease.’

  They pulled up at the kerb. The door to the end house opened and a woman in a blue uniform appeared, holding a newspaper over her head. When she saw them, she paused at the porch.

  ‘Police officers,’ Von said, struggling with the golf umbrella. She held up her warrant card. ‘Is Frankie Lowry in?’

  The woman frowned. ‘He in some sort of trouble?’ she said in a ringing voice.

  ‘We just want to ask a few questions.’

  ‘That’s what you all say. Then it leads to tears. The door’s open, but shout who you are, otherwise you’ll frighten him. He hasn’t had a visit from the filth since it happened.’ She looked them up and down. ‘Be sure to close the door securely, mind. And wipe your feet.’

  ‘Charming,’ said Steve, loudly enough that she’d hear.

  She pushed past them and climbed into a white van, leaving the disintegrating newspaper on the pavement. After several goes at starting, she drove off in a haze of blue exhaust.

  Manny’s maisonette stood in a large council estate. Two things distinguished it from the others in the street: as the end house it had something resembling a garden, and it was in a worse decorative condition, with paint peeling away and a window broken, the glass stuck together with brown tape. On closer inspection, the garden was a square of roughly-applied concrete. Rubbish of every kind had been thrown in – food cartons, empty bottles, blackened banana skins. And syringes.

  They ran to the door. It gave onto a small vestibule. On the right-hand wall hung a heavy woollen coat and two waterproof jackets. A foldable white stick dangled from a peg.

  Von shook the umbrella outside before hanging it up. ‘Frankie Lowry?’ she shouted into the house. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Valenti. Could I have a word?’

  ‘You’d better come in,’ came a voice from inside. ‘I expected you yesterday.’

  She glanced enquiringly at Steve. He shrugged as if to say, ‘Don’t look at me’.

  ‘Where are you?’ she shouted.

  ‘The living room. Come into the hall. It’s the door on the left.’

  The narrow hallway was empty except for a crate of beer bottles pushed against the far wall. A flight of stairs disappeared into the shadows.

  The door on the left stood ajar. She pushed it gently.

  The living room was open plan, converted from a sitting room and a kitchen. A smell of curry lingered in the air. To her right were the kitchen surfaces, an oven, fridge, and washing machine. To the left, a large sofa and a table littered with papers. The sash windows were streaked with dirt, the frayed curtains held back with frayed curtain ties. A sudden gust of wind rattled the panes, stirring the dead wasp on the sill.

  Beside the window, a young man
sat in a Parker Knoll wing chair. He was dressed in jeans and a green sweat shirt, worn and creased, but clean. On his feet were suede boots with heavy-duty soles.

  ‘Please take a seat. Anywhere you like.’ He turned his head in her direction. ‘DCI Valenti, you said? Who’s your pal? A man, from the sound of it.’ He laughed humourlessly. ‘Surprised? I can tell by the way he walks.’

  ‘Detective Inspector English,’ said Steve. ‘We’re from Clerkenwell Police Station.’

  ‘You’re Scottish, west coast accent.’

  ‘Aye, Glasgow.’

  ‘So, a DI and a DCI? I’d better offer you some refreshment, then. To tell the truth, I just expected a sergeant like last time.’

  ‘Mr Lowry,’ Von began, but stopped as he got to his feet.

  ‘Call me Frankie.’ His tone was friendly, and she felt her nervousness evaporate. ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’ he said.

  ‘Coffee. White, no sugar.’

  ‘Same for your DI?’

  ‘Please,’ said Steve.

  He walked confidently to the kitchen, skirting the table as though he could see it.

  ‘May I help?’ she said, bracing herself for a rebuttal.

  ‘If you don’t mind.’ He reached for the jar of Nescafé, pulled off the lid, and fumbled inside for the scoop. He spooned powder into a mug, holding it by the rim and guiding the scoop carefully. ‘Could you fill the kettle, please? The milk’s in the fridge.’ He pulled a face. ‘Hope it’s not gone off. I left the door open this morning by mistake.’

  She ran the water, watching his fingers grope over the plates and bowls. As he slid mugs towards the Nescafé jar, his arm knocked against a glass. It fell to the floor, and rolled towards her. She bent to retrieve it.

  ‘Everything here’s unbreakable,’ he said. ‘The wonders of technology, eh?’

  As they waited for the kettle to boil, she took her first close look at him. Fifteen years after the attack, he was unrecognisable from the photograph. The short brown hair was long and tangled, although it smelt newly-washed. The cheeky smile was gone, and the suntanned skin was covered in blackheads. Over the bridge of his nose and across his temples was a deep white scar. But it was the glass eyes that held her. Lidless, they stared unblinkingly. She felt her heart bang against her ribs. He knows I’m watching him.