by Hania Allen
‘So we’re good to go?’ she said.
Dexter cracked his knuckles. ‘Zack is still in the lighting box.’
‘You didn’t warn him we were coming?’
‘I’ve followed your instructions to the letter.’ He smiled dreamily. ‘Shall I take you up?’
‘I think I know the way. Those stairs?’
‘Third floor, follow the corridor round. His is the last door on the right. I’ll be around in case you need me.’ With a small bow, he left.
‘Polite young man,’ she said, as they made for the stairs. ‘Don’t you think, Steve?’
‘I’ve always found him gormless-looking. What’s all this cloak and dagger stuff? I’ve followed your instructions to the letter,’ he added in the tone of an undertaker.
‘I want to surprise Lazarus. Corner him in his den.’
‘Put him off his guard, eh?’ He rubbed his cheek. ‘In Glasgow, that tactic often landed me with a shiner.’
‘Isn’t that part of the fun of being a detective?’ She glanced at the wall. ‘Okay, here’s the corridor.’
‘This place is dark and poky, and everywhere looks the same.’
‘I’ve cracked it, Steve. It’s the pictures. Along here, we have Monet.’
‘Impressive, boss,’ he breathed.
They stopped outside the lighting manager’s room. She recognised it from opening night. She was about to knock, when the door opened, leaving her with her hand in the air. Zack Lazarus stood in front of her.
‘Mr Lazarus, we’d like to speak to you.’
‘You’re police,’ he said calmly. ‘I remember you.’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Valenti.’ She indicated Steve. ‘Detective Inspector English. Can we come in?’
‘I’m working.’
She stepped past him. ‘As it happens, so are we.’
In front of her was a wide glass window through which she could see the auditorium and the stage. A small console was fixed to the table, the switches labelled. On the floor was a rusty toolbox, its lid thrown back to reveal a jumble of screwdrivers, spanners, and wrenches. A faint smell of oil hung in the air, reminding her of her brothers’ garage.
There was hardly enough room for three people. A Jack in the Box was sitting on the only chair. They’d have to do this standing.
Lazarus closed the door. ‘There’s nothing I can tell you,’ he said without preamble.
She smiled prettily. ‘You don’t know what I’m going to ask.’
‘Max Quincey. You told me before.’
‘And you said his murder was the best thing that could have happened. Why was that, Mr Lazarus?’
‘You know why. He was a queer.’
‘That’s a justification for murder?’ she said, feigning surprise.
‘Tis in my book.’
‘Where were you on the night of Tuesday, September 12th?’
He drew his shoulders back, glowering at her.
‘Please answer my question, Mr Lazarus.’
He continued to say nothing.
‘You’ve got ten seconds,’ she said softly, ‘or we take you down to the nick.’
Steve took a step forward. Lazarus frowned, throwing him a glance. ‘Okay, then. A Tuesday? Can’t remember.’
‘Not visiting Max Quincey in his digs?’ she said.
‘Don’t even know where he lives.’ He nodded at the equipment. ‘I was probably here, trying to get all this ready.’
‘In the evening?’
‘Best time, no-one’s around a week before opening night. In the day, there are rehearsals, and the theatre’s also booked out for schools who need a stage. Chrissie’s idea, a way to make money. Been very successful.’ He nodded. ‘Got a business head on her shoulders. God knows, we need someone to turn this place around.’
‘Do you work the lights when the schools use the place?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘I couldn’t help noticing that the lighting didn’t dim when I was here on opening night.’
He flushed. ‘Still trying to get it working.’ He avoided her eyes, as though ashamed of his lack of expertise.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘System’s so antiquated that dimming and brightening isn’t safe. Whole place needs rewiring. Chrissie’s promised it’s the first thing we’ll do when the funds come in. In the meantime, I have to do what I can with this.’ He indicated the console. ‘I’m trying a workaround, but I haven’t succeeded.’
‘What do you do in this room while the play’s actually running?’ she said, examining the console.
‘Keep an eye out that nothing fuses.’
‘And if it does?’
‘I spring into action.’
She studied his face. ‘How well did you know Max Quincey?’
‘As well as anyone else,’ he said caustically.
‘But you weren’t a member of the Quincey Players.’
‘I’m employed by the Garrimont. Chrissie Horowitz is my boss, not Quincey.’
She glanced through the window. ‘You’ve been working with him for, what, three weeks?’
‘About that,’ he said warily.
‘But, apart from this season, you’ve never seen him before.’ She made it sound like a statement. It was a tactic which sometimes got results.
He sneered. ‘Is this what the Old Bill call entrapment? Look, you know I was here the last time the play was running, when Max Quincey was director. Ergo, I’ve seen him before.’
He’s no fool. I’ll have to tread carefully. ‘So what was your relationship like with Max Quincey that first time?’
‘He wasn’t my boss then, either. Always been the theatre manager.’
‘But you would have worked with him,’ said Steve. ‘He would have given you directions about when to dim, when to use spotlights, and so on.’
‘He may have. Can’t remember.’
‘Try, Mr Lazarus,’ Von said.
He sighed loudly. ‘We had several meetings about the lighting. He lost it and bawled me out.’
‘Over what?’
‘The system was just as crap then as it is now.’ He hesitated. ‘When he arrived a couple of weeks ago, he gave me a flea in my ear that it still hadn’t been fixed. As if it were all my fault. So we had to do it the way we did before. I set up the lighting at the start of the play and then leave it.’
‘And that’s how it was done the last time?’
‘Exactly the same.’
‘You didn’t like Max Quincey, did you, Mr Lazarus?’ she said suddenly. ‘I don’t mean to work with, I mean personally.’
‘He was the worst kind of faggot. Rolled in shit, like a dog.’
‘Meaning?’ said Steve.
‘Don’t you understand plain English? Perhaps you should go back to Jockland.’ He spoke through clenched teeth. ‘There are different kinds of queers. Some that like their own kind. And others that prey on young boys.’
‘And which kind was Max Quincey?’ said Von.
‘You know which kind. You know what I’m talking about. Those young lads.’
She resisted the urge to step backwards. ‘The rent boys?’
He was shouting into her face now. ‘The Jack in the Box murders, by God.’
‘Let’s talk about those murders, then,’ she said, pulling a file from her bag. ‘In your statement, you said you’d no alibi for the murder of Liam Mahoney, or for the attack on Manny Newman. Those attacks took place after the play had ended. You claim you went for a drink after work, then straight home. No-one at the bar could remember seeing you.’
‘Doesn’t mean anything,’ he spat out. ‘If it did, that old copper would have done something about it.’
‘The other two murders took place while the play was running. If the lighting level didn’t change, you’d have had nothing to do.’
He thrust his face into hers. ‘What are you insinuating?’
‘You could have slipped out at any time,’ she said, drawing back her head to escape the
reek of sweat.
The anger drained from his voice. ‘You think I did those boys.’
‘Well, in your language, weren’t they queers?’
The temper was back. ‘I’ve no idea. Not all lads who go on the game are homosexuals. They’re victims of a system and a society that refuses to help them. Victims to pond life like Quincey.’
‘Which is why he deserved to die.’
‘Spot on. And I’ll tell you another thing. There’d be no end of people lining up to do it.’
‘People like yourself?’ she said softly.
‘Oh no, you don’t catch me that easily.’ His eyes drilled into hers. ‘Go to the Iron Duke. That’s where you’ll find Quincey’s killer. And I hope you give him a medal.’
‘Why the Iron Duke?’
He seemed unsure of himself. ‘It’s where the boys hung out.’
‘Have you ever been there?’
He looked away. ‘No.’
Gotcha. Now you’re lying. ‘One final thing, Mr Lazarus. We’d like you to come down to Clerkenwell Police Station.’
‘What the hell for?’
‘To take your fingerprints.’
‘I didn’t kill him,’ he said, his voice flat.
She smiled. ‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about. There’s a constable waiting outside. It won’t take long, and we’ll bring you straight back.’
He let out a long breath, and reached for his jacket.
‘Has your hair always been that length, Mr Lazarus?’
‘It’s been short for years.’
‘You didn’t have it cut recently?’
‘No, why do you ask?’
‘Just a line of questioning. Shall we go?’
On the pavement, they watched Lazarus drive away with the constable. Dexter appeared, hurrying down the steps.
‘I’m so sorry, Chief Inspector, but I can’t find Michael Gillanders anywhere. He may have gone home to change.’
‘For the performance?’
‘For the memorial service. We’re all going. Chrissie is insisting.’
‘Thanks anyway, Dexter.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘You’re a brick.’
He grinned, then gave a brief nod and left.
Steve watched him go. ‘I didn’t take much to Lazarus, if I’m honest. That holier-than-thou attitude stuck in my craw.’
‘Really? I quite liked him.’
‘Is he in the frame for Quincey’s murder, though? Or the murder of the rent boys?’
‘Difficult to tell. He could have done Quincey. But he doesn’t fit the profile for the boys.’
Steve gave a thoughtful nod. ‘Unless he’s putting on an act.’
‘Either way, Lazarus knows more than he’s letting on.’
‘Couldn’t we say that about everyone we’ve interviewed, boss?’
‘Sadly, yes.’
Chapter 17
Steve was watching Von. She was standing at the wooden-framed office mirror, adjusting her scarf.
‘Do I have to go, boss? It’ll be heaving with Max’s poncey friends.’
She looked at his reflection. ‘Who else might attend a memorial service for a murdered man, Steve?’
‘Aye, right enough.’ He paused. ‘The murderer.’
The service was in Kensington, at St Mary Abbots, an impressive Victorian Gothic church boasting the tallest spire in London. Von could still remember seeing on television the thousands of votive candles lit to commemorate the Princess of Wales, possibly the church’s most famous parishioner.
The building was already packed, despite their early arrival. The altar under the five stained-glass windows was a mass of lilies, starkly white against the heavy stone. From her position at the back, Von could smell the sweet spicy scent.
‘Better split up, Steve. You take the left and I’ll sit here. Keep your eyes peeled for anything unusual.’ She squeezed herself into the back row.
Richard Quincey was sitting at the front, his shoulders straight. Beside him was a small woman in a fur coat and velour cloche hat. A few rows behind, the cast and crew of the Garrimont were spread across several pews. Chrissie Horowitz, in a black suit, was wearing a hat so enormous that the people on either side had to lean away. Behind her was Michael Gillanders in a black woollen coat, with Dexter on one side, and the actor who played the detective’s assistant on the other. Jools, the detective, and the actress who’d played the postwoman were sitting behind them. Rose Manning, wearing a brown coat, was kneeling at the back, her orange hair springing out from under her black beret. Her head was bent, and she was clutching a string of pink rosary beads.
Von scanned the congregation, suddenly struck by the realisation that the person who’d left the blood-smeared doll outside her flat was likely to be present. And also knew that she’d be there. The thought chilled her.
The service began with ‘The King Of Love My Shepherd Is’. She knew the words, so was able to keep her eyes on the congregation. Richard Quincey didn’t sing, but kept an arm round his mother.
It was as the minister was starting his eulogy that they heard the commotion. Turning, Von caught sight of Arabella Carrington. She hadn’t seen the Daily Mail’s crime reporter since the Chief Super’s press conference, but she remembered their little sparring match. Arabella stopped briefly at the door, then made for the nave, her silver ankle boots ringing on the flagstones. With her was a man holding a Canon digital camera.
The duty policeman sprang forward and gripped her arm. ‘You can’t come in here, madam. This is a private service.’
‘Let go of me,’ she snapped. ‘You’ve no right to detain us.’
Von slipped out of the pew. ‘He has every right, Miss Carrington. You and your companion will have to leave.’
‘Chief Inspector Valenti.’ Arabella’s eyes slid down Von’s black trouser suit. ‘So, Richard Quincey has marshalled his big guns. Well, we’re not leaving, and you can’t make us.’ She nodded to the photographer who’d been watching the scene calmly.
As he lifted the Canon, Von stepped forward smartly and snatched it from his hands. She opened the case and removed the memory card. Smiling at Arabella, she let it drop to the floor and splintered it under her heel. ‘Oops, sorry about that,’ she said.
Arabella went purple. ‘You did that deliberately,’ she said, not bothering to keep her voice down. ‘You’ve destroyed private property.’
Von, in turn, let her eyes run down Arabella’s suit. It was shocking pink with tiny white dots. The stupid cow hasn’t even bothered to dress appropriately. ‘Send the bill to Clerkenwell CID, Miss Carrington,’ she said quietly. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, we’re in the middle of a service.’
She nodded to the constable, who’d kept his grip on Arabella’s arm. He marched to the door, dragging her behind him. The photographer followed. As he passed Von, he gave her a sly wink.
She resumed her seat. From the pew in front, a woman wearing a black Paddington Bear hat turned to face her.
‘She’ll think twice before she does that again,’ Mrs Deacon said, with a look of satisfaction.
But Von wasn’t listening. She was looking at the frail elderly woman in the fur coat and cloche hat, standing in the nave staring at her, eyes brimming with unshed tears.
The service was over and people were leaving. Most went by the back, but some were pushing through the door at the side of the altar.
Steve joined Von. ‘What was that rammy about, boss?’
‘Gatecrashers. Arabella Carrington and one of her hobbits.’
‘They don’t give up. What were they expecting? People are grieving.’
‘The Chief Super’s not been lavish with his press releases. And when he is, he says the wrong things.’ Her eyes wandered over the congregation. ‘Did you see anything of interest, Steve?’
‘Loads of people I didn’t know, but no-one who behaved suspiciously.’
‘Let’s get back to the nick, then.’
They were nearly through the door when she caught sight
of him. He was in a black coat, standing in front of the altar, listening to the minister. He nodded, in apparent agreement at what was being said. A minute later, he disappeared behind the display of lilies. He would have heard the altercation at the back and seen her. Yet he’d made no attempt to find her afterwards. She was surprised she hadn’t picked him out earlier. But that was understandable. She didn’t know Kenny owned a black coat.
As Von and Steve entered the incident room, everyone leapt to their feet.
‘I want to tell her,’ said Larry, grinning. ‘Hold the front page, ma’am,’ he added, before the others could speak, ‘the Quincey Players are “The Quincey Players Limited”.’
‘A registered company?’ Von said in surprise.
‘We couldn’t find the books so Zoë contacted Companies House. There are two partners. Max Quincey was one of them.’
‘Let me guess,’ she said, smiling craftily. ‘The other is Richard Quincey.’
‘The other is Michael Gillanders,’ said Zoë.
Michael Gillanders. The last name she had expected. She let out a breath. ‘Okay, Zoë, give me the bottom line.’
‘The Players were set up in 1985 with £20,000 provided by Richard Quincey. Gillanders didn’t put in anything.’
‘And Max made him a partner? For nothing?’
‘The devil’s in the detail, ma’am. The Quincey Players is essentially an investment company. Gillanders made all the investment decisions. Max was just a sleeping partner.’
‘How much is the company worth now?’
‘In excess of £500,000.’ Her statement silenced the room. ‘And here’s the crucial clause. On the death of either partner, the surviving partner inherits the company in its entirety.’
Von’s mind was racing. ‘If we’re looking for a motive for Gillanders to murder Max, this is a perfect worked example. He can now get his hands on half a million.’ She frowned. ‘Max was a partner in a successful company, so how come he was in so much debt?’
‘He couldn’t use the Player’s funds, ma’am, or offer the company as surety for a bank loan, not without consent from Gillanders. I suspect the Players were to provide for him and Gillanders in their old age. Nothing was ever withdrawn.’