Jack in the Box

by Hania Allen

  ‘There’s something else.’ His next words sliced through her. ‘There’s a baby on the way.’

  ‘A baby!’ Her heart contracted. A baby. Oh, Christ…She forced out the question. ‘Is it yours?’

  His silence was more eloquent than words. She turned her head away so he wouldn’t see her face.

  ‘Jesus, love, the last thing I wanted to do was hurt you.’

  ‘Oh, spare me the clichés,’ she shouted. She took a deep breath. ‘You know something, Kenny? When it comes to being a bastard, you never let me down. Now get the fuck out of here before I do something we’ll both regret.’

  He made to move towards her but she backed away.

  She waited till she’d heard the front door close, then collapsed into a chair. Her body felt as though the skin had been stripped from it.

  I’ve seen this coming. Danni’s words. Yet, if Danni had seen, then why hadn’t she, the ace detective? She crushed the lilies in her hands, snapping the leaves off the stems. No, she was fooling herself, she’d seen the signs. It was over. Had been for months. She and Kenny had been going through the motions. She took the bottle of vodka from the fridge and poured herself a glass, drinking it neat the way she had when she was younger and her constitution could stand it. As the alcohol reached her knees, her anger drained away. What rankled was not that their relationship was over, but that he’d been betraying her for months. Maybe, subconsciously, she’d known all along and that was why she’d slept with Simon, to get her own back. Yet, was there any difference between Kenny’s betrayal, and hers? Was a one-night stand, where she’d had fabulous sex with Simon, better or worse than Kenny’s affair with a woman he said he loved, a woman now carrying his child? She threw the glass across the room, feeling a stab of satisfaction as she heard it shatter. That was the problem: she no longer knew.

  Chapter 22

  Von stared, incredulous. ‘You’re absolutely sure? There’s no match for Gillanders on the bathroom-tap prints?’

  Zoë lowered her gaze.

  She glanced across the room. The other detectives were looking everywhere but at her.

  ‘There’s no match with Zack Lazarus or Chrissie, either.’ The girl took a deep breath. ‘We also tried cross-matching with what’s on the PNC, but nothing came back.’

  ‘The blond hairs, then?’ she said, running a hand over her face.

  ‘You might want to sit down for this one, ma’am. Forensics have checked the samples from both Chrissie and Gillanders. There’s no match for either. They say the hair structure is entirely different.’

  She sank into a chair. ‘Fuck. We’re right back where we started.’

  ‘Pity there was no CCTV at Mrs Deacon’s,’ Steve said, sympathy in his eyes. ‘We might have seen the bugger going in.’

  ‘Talking of which, where are we on the footage from Leicester Square? The tapes arrived today. Did we find Gillanders going into the Odeon?’

  ‘Larry’s in the AV suite now, ma’am,’ Zoë said. She exchanged an amused glance with Steve.

  ‘You might want to take a look, boss.’ He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘It’ll cheer you up.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you found him.’

  ‘From the way the cameras are positioned, he could have gone into the Odeon unnoticed.’

  ‘Did anyone check with the cinema staff? Show his photograph around?’

  ‘All the usual things,’ said Zoë. ‘The cinema staff didn’t recognise him but they said themselves they don’t remember faces.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ She slammed her hand against the desk. ‘Another inconclusive result. It’s the first year of the new millennium, and we can’t even establish whether someone went to the cinema.’

  ‘Gillanders said he walked around Leicester Square, ma’am. Larry’s going through the tapes from the surrounding streets.’ She waited till Von looked at her. ‘DI English is right. You really want to see this.’

  Von hauled herself to her feet. ‘Okay, let’s see what Larry’s got.’

  Larry was sitting in the AV suite, his feet up and the remote in his hand, watching images on a large monitor.

  ‘Show me the footage from September 12th,’ she said.

  ‘Nothing yet on Gillanders.’ He grinned, fast forwarding. ‘But this might amuse you, ma’am. It’s a few blocks away from Leicester Square.’

  She squinted at the screen, leaning forward for a better look.

  A young couple rounded the corner into a deserted street. The man had an arm round the girl’s waist, and was propelling her forward because her legs seemed incapable of functioning. At the end of the street, he stopped and propped her against the wall. As he shifted his weight, her head rolled forward, hitting him in the face. He cursed loudly and pushed her back. After a quick look around, he undid his belt. His zip undone, he yanked his trousers down and pulled up her skirt. The girl seemed barely conscious. He fumbled underneath and got her knickers down to her knees. All of a sudden, he sprang back with a cry and stared at his trousers in an attitude of dismay. Released from his support, the girl slumped to the ground, oblivious. It was as he moved back that they saw what had happened: the girl had emptied her bladder. He pulled up his trousers and shook his left leg. With a final glance of disgust at the girl, who was snoring now, he limped away.

  ‘You should sell tickets for that, Larry,’ Von said, nodding. ‘The Met could solve its underfunding problem.’

  ‘We’re going to call it “Don’t Drink And Jive”. Catchy, eh?’

  The door opened suddenly and the Chief Super appeared. She and Larry sprang to their feet.

  ‘A word, please, Yvonne.’

  She sensed something in his voice that made her uneasy. ‘Of course, sir,’ she said quickly. She followed him out of the room.

  He stopped at the end of the corridor. ‘Where are we with the case?’ he said, not bothering to keep his voice down.

  This was a first, he’d never harangued her in a public place before. Briefly, she filled him in on the recent forensic results.

  He nodded curtly. ‘So are you saying this Michael Gillanders is no longer your prime suspect?’

  ‘He’s still my prime suspect, sir – the money angle can’t be ignored – but we’ve no hard evidence he was in your brother’s room.’

  ‘We’ve nothing to feed the media, Yvonne.’

  ‘Then tell them nothing,’ she said impatiently. ‘My staff have been inundated with crank calls. After the last press conference’ – she was tempted to add, Which you held without telling me – ‘we had a call from someone who claimed to have murdered your brother.’

  ‘Did you follow it up?’

  ‘It was a wasted effort. He couldn’t have killed your brother. He was at his local A&E, being treated for substance abuse.’ She hesitated. ‘Sir, have you been discussing the case with Chief Superintendent Hensbury?’

  ‘Not in detail. Why do you ask?’

  She thought quickly. ‘He’s offered his help.’

  ‘Then take it. Simon is an experienced police officer. But he’s gone back to Spain. You’ll have to catch him when he’s next here.’ He drew his brows together. ‘Look, have you examined opportunistic robbery as a motive?’

  She stared at him in amazement. Why is he back with robbery? We’ve been through this. ‘The landlady confirmed nothing was missing,’ she said. ‘What would a thief be after if he left behind your brother’s wallet with his money and cards? And his mobile phone? You said yourself your brother owned nothing of value.’

  ‘And you’re still convinced there’s a connection with those’ – he rolled the word in his mouth before spitting it out – ‘boys?’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ she said, her dislike for him rising dangerously quickly.

  ‘I hope you’re not letting your feelings cloud your judgement.’

  ‘That would be unprofessional, sir.’

  ‘You know I’m not one for micro-managing, Yvonne, but I want to be kept more closely informed. Where do you
intend to go from here?’

  ‘I’m seeing my snout.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘He may uncover something about the boys that’s relevant to the case.’

  He snorted. ‘I very much doubt that. And afterwards?’

  ‘That depends on what he tells me,’ she said, struggling to keep the anger from her voice.

  ‘I’m not happy with the way you’re handling this, Yvonne.’ He brought his face close to hers. The menace in his eyes was unmistakable. ‘Your grasp on this case is perilously close to slipping. Take care you don’t slide with it.’

  She froze. Is he threatening me? She took a step back, unable to tear her eyes from his, seeing a stranger.

  He straightened, then strode away.

  Her body went limp, and she slumped against the coffee machine. So why hadn’t she told him? Why hadn’t she simply said, There’s a drug ring operating out of the Iron Duke and your brother was killed because he was mixed up in it. She knew why. It wasn’t that she wanted the drugs squad kept out. It was because she was convinced there were things Richard Quincey was keeping from her. Although he had a cast-iron alibi for the time of Max’s death, he could still have visited him in his lodgings. He could have smoked Hoyo de Monterrey cigarillos, and left to arrive at Boodle’s by 7.00pm.

  This time it was Von who was late. Tubby was already at the table, picking his nose. He hardly looked at her as she laid the cream cakes in front of him.

  She stared, unbelieving. ‘For God’s sake, man, turn down the volume on that tie.’

  ‘It’s my Monday tie. I hate Mondays.’ He looked at the cakes for a full minute before diving in.

  She watched him eat. ‘My meter’s running, Tubby, so shall we get to it?’

  ‘Not yourself today? You’re usually so full of bonhomie.’

  She stirred her tea viciously. ‘You wouldn’t be if you’d just been puréed.’

  ‘Rather you than me. Here, have a cake.’ He held out an éclair. ‘On me.’

  ‘I’m trying to give them up. So shall we cut the foreplay, Tubby? What did you find at the Duke?’

  ‘Well, first of all, they made me feel about as welcome as a dose of the clap.’ He held up a reproachful hand. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t that. They didn’t take me for a copper. No, it was on account of the way I was dressed.’

  She smiled to herself. ‘What’s wrong with your clothes?’

  ‘Not this. This is my Sunday best.’ He cocked his head. ‘Which I put on specially for you. No, I had on my working clothes. My long coat.’

  ‘The one you wear when you expose yourself to schoolgirls?’

  ‘Von, I swear. I don’t do that no more.’ He scooped up a blob of cream. ‘Anyway, I thought it was going to be a spit-and-sawdust sort of place so I dressed to fit in. Some of my clothes, trousers in particular, had one or two stains. But the Duke turned out to be a swanky joint. The landlord told me they had a dress code.’

  ‘A dress code? Is this a wind-up?’

  ‘God’s truth.’

  ‘The landlord of a Soho pub threw you out because of your clothes?’

  ‘Worse. Told me to behave myself. Must have thought I was some sort of rabble-rouser.’ He examined the cakes, unable to decide between the iced puff and the cream horn. ‘So, after a while I got talking. There’s a regular there, a man with a tache.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Malkie. Sits in the snug. Turns out we have history.’

  She sipped her tea. ‘What kind of history?’

  ‘We did time together a while back. Anyway, we had a natter about the good old days.’

  ‘That must have been interesting.’

  He licked cream off his fingers.

  ‘Come on, Tubby, I can’t take the suspense.’

  ‘Well, we’d been chatting a while when he asked me if I was after making a bit. He looked me up and down while we were talking, see?’

  She glanced at his clothes. ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘Said there was good money to be made. Regular money. And I’m not talking serving behind the bar neither, he said.’

  ‘And where was the landlord all this time?’

  ‘Downstairs, changing the barrels. Anyway, Malkie told me he wouldn’t talk at the Duke. Said he’d meet me in Soho Square. He left and, after a quick slash, I left too. He was as good as his word, waiting for me by that little black and white hut.’ He wiped his fingers on his trousers, his eyes on hers. ‘You were right, Von. It’s drugs. But big drugs, bigger than anything I’ve ever seen, probably bigger than anything London’s ever seen. Malkie asked if I wanted in. I said yes, as I reckoned you might want me to go back.’ He played with the handle of his mug. ‘But I’m not sure that I can.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said sharply.

  ‘I’m frightened, Von, I don’t mind admitting it.’

  She laid a hand on his arm. ‘I’m giving you a “Get Out Of Jail Free” card, Tubby. If you have to do a bit of dealing to dig deeper, then I’ll make sure you’re not prosecuted.’

  ‘It’s not prison I’m worried about.’ He gripped the mug. ‘Everyone knows the eleventh commandment: Thou shalt not grass. If I’m not careful I’ll end up with my nuts removed with a cheese grater.’

  ‘Getting caught has never worried you before. You’re the best. You don’t get found out.’

  ‘Everyone gets found out eventually.’ He ran a sweaty hand across his eyes. ‘And that place, the atmosphere, there are eyes and ears everywhere. No wonder Malkie would only talk outside.’

  ‘And Dickie’s not in on it?’ she said, searching his face.

  ‘According to Malkie, he knows what’s going on, but keeps his beak out. Can’t do anything about it, he says, but he won’t get involved.’

  ‘So how does it work? The usual way?’

  He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘The pure stuff comes in, gets cut, and redistributed into packets. The packets are given to the street dealers.’

  ‘And Malkie deals?’

  He nodded. ‘He basically wanted to know if I’d be interested in dealing too. As he said, the supply’s regular and the money’s good.’ He ran a finger around the plate, smearing the remnants of cream. ‘There’s a sort of layer cake with three layers. There’s the bottom, where Malkie is, along with the other street sellers. The geezers above, the distributors, packet the stuff and hand it down. Malkie gets his always from the same bloke. All the street men work that way. Each one sticks to his distributor like shit to an army blanket.’ He glanced around quickly. ‘But above the distributors, there’s someone who cuts the stuff. Uses quinine.’

  ‘He’s the guy at the top?’ she breathed.

  ‘He’s only the number two. He’s known as the Cutter. Noone knows his real name.’

  This didn’t surprise her. When it came to playing for high stakes, anonymity was the name of the game.

  ‘How is the stuff sourced?’ she said, after a pause.

  ‘Above the Cutter there’s the main man, sort of the icing on the cake. Mr Big. He gets the uncut stuff from abroad.’

  ‘Did Malkie tell you anything about him?’ she said, knowing the answer.

  ‘No-one, and I mean no-one, knows his identity, because no-one ever sees him.’ He let out a breath. ‘Malkie said that, if you screw up, Mr Big makes it so you disappear fast. Doesn’t tolerate any weakness in the system.’

  ‘And it’s Mr Big who goes back twenty years?’

  ‘He began the whole operation. And controls it.’

  Her mind was racing. This tallied with Jimmy Porteous’s account of a long-standing ring, going back before 1985, a ring in which the three Irish boys had become involved. And perhaps died because of it. But what was Max Quincey’s involvement? Porteous reckoned that Max wasn’t dealing, yet he’d been seen at the Duke. Rose had told her Max hadn’t been made welcome. They didn’t like Mr Quincey there. That landlord was always giving him the eye. So why didn’t they like him? Had he discovered somethin
g he shouldn’t? Had he threatened to expose the whole thing unless he was paid? Had someone learnt about his blackmail and slipped a word into an unsympathetic ear?

  ‘Malkie told me they need more street men,’ Tubby was saying. ‘Some of the guys are repackaging the stuff faster than you can fart. Everyone’s been told to ask around. I said I was interested but had a few questions.’ He glared at her defiantly. ‘That’s all I have, Von. If you want more, I’ll have to go back, and it’ll cost you. And not just the usual, this time. As I said, I don’t like that place, it gives me the shivers.’

  She punched him lightly on the arm. ‘If you can get me names, you’ll get a bonus. I want Mr Big or, at the least, his second-in-command.’

  He hesitated. ‘Cash in advance?’

  ‘It’s under the mug.’

  Von and Steve were in the snug at the Drunken Duck. From their position in the corner, they could just see the ancient grandfather clock. It was missing its insides, and the hands were frozen at ten past seven. It was a common joke with the landlord that at least it told correct time twice a day, which was more than could be said for the other clocks in London.

  Von rotated her shoulders. ‘The long day closes, Steve. And, God, what a day it’s been.’

  ‘Aye, and it’s only Monday.’

  ‘My turn to get them in.’ She nodded at his glass. ‘Glenmorangie?’ She caught the landlord’s eye and gave their order.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, boss?’ Steve said, studying her thoughtfully.

  ‘Probably, but tell me anyway.’

  ‘Max Quincey was in the ring at the Duke, and wormed his way up the chain.’

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘I wasn’t thinking that, no.’

  Their drinks arrived.

  She sipped slowly. ‘This ring has been running for years, Steve. Everyone we’ve spoken to says the regulars won’t talk because they’re in on it. We need to do something radical. There’s only one person who might be willing to spill, someone who knows what’s happening but won’t get involved.’

  ‘He’s been quiet a long time.’ He played with a beer mat. ‘What makes you think he’ll talk now?’