by Hania Allen
‘I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.’
‘Immunity?’
‘The only offer I have. Somehow I don’t think cash would do it. If he’d wanted money, he’d know how to get it.’
He paused before speaking. ‘I know I’ve said it before, but don’t you think we should contact the drugs squad? This is their patch.’
She set down her glass firmly. ‘They screwed up my investigation last time. It’s why I was thrown off the murder team.’
‘You’ve never told me what happened,’ he said cautiously.
What was there to tell? He knew the facts, that she and a female colleague had been staking out the house of a drug dealer wanted for triple murder, when members of the drugs squad blazed in. She’d alerted them of her intentions and requested they stay away till she’d made the arrest, but they’d ignored her, wanting to take the credit for the bust. In the ensuing shootout, her colleague had been killed. Von, too gutted to put up any resistance, had taken the rap. She studied Steve’s face. No, he didn’t want the facts, he wanted her to tell him how she felt. But she had no intentions of telling him that there wasn’t a day when she didn’t wake up, feeling she was to blame.
He tossed the beer mat aside. ‘Don’t you trust the drugs squad on this?’
‘Sorry, I’ve run out of trust.’
‘You’ve a pretty low opinion of them.’
‘More like subterranean.’
He frowned. ‘Okay, so how do we proceed?’
‘Maybe the simplest solution is the best. I’ll go there tomorrow.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better to wait and see what your snout comes up with?’
‘There’s no longer any time left for waiting.’ After a silence, she nodded towards the bar. ‘Is it me, Steve, or are you seeing these dolls everywhere?’
At the far end of the counter, a young man was sitting on a stool, playing with a Jack in the Box. He seemed to derive endless pleasure from pushing the doll into the box, then popping it again.
‘Time to leave,’ she said. ‘Whenever I hear that screech, I feel like going outside and shooting myself.’
Chapter 23
The desk sergeant raised his head as Von arrived. ‘Ma’am, they’re paging you.’
‘Someone’s at work before I am?’ she said.
‘That must be a record, Chief Inspector,’ he replied shyly.
She threw him a smile and made her way to the incident room.
As she entered, Steve waved the phone at her. ‘Chrissie Horowitz is on for you, boss. She won’t speak to anyone else. Sounds like she’s going to throw a wobbler.’
She took the phone. ‘Miss Horowitz? What can I do for you?’
‘Oh, thank goodness you’ve arrived,’ came the husky voice. ‘It’s Michael Gillanders. He’s gone missing.’
‘Missing? Are you sure?’
‘He didn’t show up for the Sunday performance. We had to use the understudy.’ There was an edge of panic to her voice. ‘He’s never done this before. He’s meticulous about his performances.’
‘You’ve checked his lodgings?’
‘I haven’t, no.’
He’s probably on a bender. I would be, if I had five hundred grand.
‘If he’s not here tomorrow, Wednesday, what should I do?’ Chrissie was saying.
She tried to sound reassuring. ‘Check his lodgings. There may be a simple explanation for his non-appearance.’
‘And if he’s not there?’
‘His understudy is going to get some valuable experience.’ She regretted the words immediately. She could almost feel Chrissie freeze.
‘Do you think he’s done a bunk?’
‘If he’s not at his lodgings, call me and I’ll get someone to check the hospitals.’
Horror in the voice now. ‘You don’t think he’s dead?’
‘If I thought that, Miss Horowitz, I’d be checking the mortuaries.’
A pause. ‘Very well, I’ll be in touch. Thank you.’
Steve was frowning. ‘Don’t tell me Gillanders has gone AWOL.’
‘And he’s our prime suspect. Brilliant.’
‘Should we be worried?’
‘Probably, but I can only worry about one thing at a time.’ She reached for her coat. ‘I’m going to the Duke.’
‘It’s 9.00am, boss. The pubs aren’t open yet.’
‘I’m going to the house.’
He began to protest but she cut him off. ‘It’s the obvious place, Steve. We won’t be seen or overheard.’ She picked up her bag. ‘Mind the shop while I’m gone.’
The bell jangled deep in the house. A minute later, Von heard the shuffling of slippered feet, followed by the sound of bolts being drawn. A white-haired woman, bowed with age, opened the door a fraction.
‘Mrs Womack?’ Von said brightly. ‘I’m here to see Dickie.’
Fear shrouded the woman’s eyes. ‘What about?’
She hesitated. The wrong reply, and the door would be slammed in her face. ‘I’ve come about a job. I heard that Dickie is looking for bar help.’
The woman’s face cleared and she opened the door further. ‘One moment, please.’ She turned away and Von saw the sharp curve in her spine. ‘Dickie,’ the woman yelled. ‘Someone for you.’ She disappeared, leaving the door wide.
Dickie lived off Soho Square, a tiny oasis of green in a desert of brick and stone. The pavement was lined with poplars. At this time of year, the trees were almost bare, their branches like dense webs. Von watched a man sweeping leaves into piles. He worked steadily, his brush making a loud swishing noise.
A short while later, a tall gaunt man ambled down the corridor.
She held up her card. ‘Is there somewhere private we can speak, Dickie?’ She kept her voice low. ‘Somewhere your mother won’t overhear us?’
The man stiffened. ‘What’s this about?’
‘I just want a confidential chat.’
‘What do you mean, confidential?’ he said, his eyes narrowing.
‘I’m going to ask you some confidential questions, and you’re going to give me some confidential answers.’
‘If this is about serving after drinking-up time—’
‘It isn’t. Look, Dickie, I’m not here to give you grief, I’m just after some information.’ She hoped he’d respond to the appeal in her voice. ‘I don’t want your mother to hear us and neither do you. Where can we go where we won’t be overheard and you won’t be recognised?’
A slow grin spread over his face. ‘Wait here. I’ll get my jacket.’
‘It’s years since I’ve been in a church,’ Von said. ‘I thought they were kept locked during the day.’
Dickie shrugged. ‘Some are, some aren’t. I took a guess with St Pats.’
‘We’ll be okay to talk here?’
‘If you can’t talk in a church, girl, where can you talk?’
They were in the confessional of St Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church on Soho Square. The cubicle, a black wooden structure which reeked of body odour, seemed thrown together in a hurry, as though the builders had remembered it at the last minute. There was just enough room on the priest’s side for two people.
She moved the heavy curtain and peered out. The church’s interior was large and gloomy, incense hanging in the air like mist. The walls of the side chapels were stained with damp. Something gleamed on the altar; candlesticks, and a golden monstrance. The curved wall behind the altar was inscribed with the words, ‘Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus’ in grimy gold letters.
‘Strange finding a Catholic church so close to Soho’s sex shops,’ she said. ‘But conveniently near to where you live, Dickie. Do you come here to confess your sins?’
‘I’m a Protestant.’
She smiled. ‘Even so, it’s nice and quiet. I should imagine it makes a change from the noise in the Duke.’
‘You get used to working in a pub.’ He was examining her warrant card. ‘Valenti’s an Italian name.’
‘My grandparent
s were Italian.’
‘I can tell by your looks, all that dark hair, and those eyes. But your skin’s pale.’
‘Not difficult in this climate.’
He motioned to her cheek. ‘Your feller hit you?’
‘Something like that. Looks worse than it is.’ She knew that her bruise, however colourful, was nothing compared with what a Soho resident would see on a regular basis.
‘Says here you’re a DCI.’ He handed back the card. ‘You’re a woman.’
‘Last time I checked, anyway.’
‘From where I’m sitting, you don’t look the detective type.’
‘Now I’m offended.’
He grinned. ‘So, how can I help you, girl? Confidentially.’
‘Call me Von.’
She considered how much to tell him. It was possible he was in it up to his neck, despite what Tubby and the others had told her. She doubted it somehow, he had the air of a man who kept on working because he had to. She decided honesty was the best policy. ‘I’m running a murder investigation,’ she said.
His eyebrows shot up. ‘You?’
‘I’m all grown up, Dickie, I even tie my shoelaces by myself.’ She lowered her voice, unnecessary in the deserted church. ‘Does the name Max Quincey mean anything to you?’
His breathing quickened. ‘He was murdered. I read it in the papers, before you ask.’
‘He was a customer of yours.’
‘Was. Past tense.’
‘Everything about him is now past tense, Dickie.’ She played with the priest’s missal, running a finger over the gilding. ‘What was Max into?’
He gazed at her without blinking. ‘I could tell you, girl, but it’ll make you all hot and bothered.’
‘I’ll try to control myself.’
‘Confidential?’
She nodded.
He licked his palm and slicked back his hair. ‘He liked little boys.’
‘Which he picked up at the Duke.’ She held up a hand to stave off his protest. ‘Before you deny it, I know what the Duke is, and I’m not here about that.’
‘Okay, he picked them up there. But the Duke isn’t your sleaze bar. We don’t have a back room. The boys have to take their punters elsewhere.’
She studied his face. The skin was waxy with blotches around the mouth, the result of a poor diet. But his eyes were like her Dad’s. They shone with humanity. ‘How long have you been the landlord, Dickie?’ she said.
‘Since before you were born.’
‘Flatterer.’
He grinned broadly.
‘Ever had any trouble?’ she said.
‘I tell them to take it outside. Either that or sling it.’ He laughed softly. ‘Most folk just want to sit quietly and pickle their brains.’
‘But Max wasn’t like that?’
‘He drank, singled out a boy, and left. His brain was rarely pickled.’
She flicked through the pages of the missal. ‘Were there particular boys he preferred?’
‘The younger the better.’ He smiled thinly. ‘That’s how I remember him, after all this time. Haven’t clapped eyes on him for years, but he’s not a bloke you could forget. He dressed like a ponce, with fancy jackets and that, but mostly he came wearing that ridiculous pork-pie hat. And he liked to flash his cash.’
‘Did he have much to flash?’ she said carefully.
‘Rolls of it, girl. Acting must be a lucrative profession is all I can say. I’m in the wrong job, that’s for sure.’ He leant forward. ‘Max would find a boy, then settle on him like a fly on shit. Was none too discreet about it, either.’ His lips twisted into a sneer. ‘Always checking his meat and two veg, in case it weren’t there no more. He was in the gents once, when I went in. Used to pee sitting down, like a woman. Didn’t always lock the cubicle door.’
‘Can you remember the boys who were around in 1985? It was when the play ran here first.’
He froze. ‘Bugger me, that’s too far back. My memory isn’t what it was.’
‘Let me jog it. There were three Irish lads. You may not remember the names but I could describe them. One had a port-wine stain down his left cheek—’
He gripped her arm. ‘You don’t need to go on, I know the boys you mean. They were killed.’
‘And mutilated.’
‘I know, girl, I identified the bodies,’ he said grimly.
‘There was a fourth boy,’ she said after a pause. ‘But he survived.’
‘So that’s what this is about. You want to catch the Jack in the Box killer.’
‘More than I want to catch Max’s,’ she said, surprising herself by the statement.
He smiled sadly. ‘There weren’t many who mourned for those boys. I was the only one from the Duke who went to the funerals.’
‘Then help me catch their killer.’ She laid her hand over his. ‘Did you ever see Max with them?’
‘Look, Von, Max was never without a boy. But as for which particular boy, I really can’t remember. It was too long ago.’
‘The lad who survived, Manny Newman, has made a fresh start.’ She felt suddenly close to tears. ‘He’s learnt Braille and goes to college.’
‘Ah, you’ve got kids of your own,’ he said shrewdly. He seemed to be wrestling with his thoughts. ‘Okay, girl, there are things I’m prepared to tell you. But so far you’ve been answering your own questions.’
‘Let’s start with the detective who investigated those murders.’
He snorted. ‘Bit of a pansy.’
‘DCI Harrower?’
‘That were him.’
‘In what way was he a pansy?’
‘Gave up too easily.’
She tried a shot in the dark. ‘He didn’t give up. I think he was warned off.’
The shot found its mark. His expression changed. ‘I knew this wasn’t only about the murders. You’ve come about the dust.’
‘I’m convinced they’re related.’ She searched his face. ‘Was Max Quincey dealing, Dickie? I know those boys were.’
‘I’m saying no more.’ He started to get to his feet.
She grasped his arm and pulled him down.
‘You’re strong for a woman,’ he said in surprise.
‘Two older brothers. I developed muscles.’
He laughed. ‘I like you, girl.’
‘Likewise,’ she said warmly. ‘You remind me of my Dad.’
‘Is that a compliment?’
‘My Dad’s a grand feller.’
He scratched under his chin. The veins in his hands were like cords. ‘Look, I want to help you, but not with this. It’s more than my life’s worth.’
‘I can give you protection.’ She hesitated. ‘That’s more than Harrower offered, I’d be betting.’
‘He couldn’t. And you can’t. If I say anything, I’ll be dead.’
‘Who are the distributors, Dickie?’ she said, trying to keep the desperation from her voice.
‘It’s not the distributors you want, girl.’
‘I want Mr Big.’
‘Don’t know who he is. No-one knows. No-one sees him except his mate, the one who cuts.’
‘And this mate, have you ever seen him?’
‘He never comes to the Duke.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘But he’s vicious, more vicious than you can imagine. I’d put money down it was him warned Harrower off. He’s the only one with the clout. The distributors would never do it.’
‘You know that for a fact?’ she said, her heart pounding. ‘Harrower was warned off?’
He grabbed her wrist. ‘Will I be protected?’
‘You have my word. Not just protection. You’ll have immunity from prosecution.’
After a silence, he said, ‘I heard them talking on the phone. Harrower had been snooping round, see, asking about the smack.’ He ran the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘I was down in the cellar, changing the barrels. Harrower was in the back room, on the phone. The floorboards are thin in that room and it’s right above the cellar.’
>
‘Did Harrower use this man’s name?’ she breathed.
‘If he did, I didn’t hear it. I came in part way through the conversation.’ He brought his face close to hers. ‘But there was no mistaking the terror in Harrower’s voice. He begged this geezer to leave him and his family alone. Said he’d do whatever he wanted, including diverting his investigation away from the Duke.’
She looked away, hoping he hadn’t seen the excitement in her eyes.
‘Harrower said his daughter had a baby on the way,’ he went on. ‘He kept pleading with him not to touch her. After the call ended, I legged it back upstairs. Poor bloke looked as though he were going to collapse. I offered him a glass of water. He left the Duke and didn’t come back. Never saw him again.’ He hesitated. ‘You don’t know what happened to him? I mean, he was all right wasn’t he? And his lass?’
‘He retired after the case went cold. Died a while later, drowned in a fishing accident.’
‘I felt sorry for him, he was just doing his job. I didn’t mean it when I said he was a pansy.’ He moved his legs carefully in the cramped space. ‘Anyone would do the same if their family were in danger.’
So Harrower had been warned away from the Duke. Small wonder then that he’d ignored what Porteous told him about the drugs. Jesus, his family had been threatened. Her own warning, the mutilated doll left outside her flat, was tame in comparison. But who was this thug who’d threatened Harrower’s daughter? ‘Dickie, this guy on the phone, you say he was the second-in-command. Could he have been Mr Big?’
‘Mr Big would never get involved directly. He’s like fresh air. No-one sees him. No-one smells him.’
She looked at him with interest. ‘How do you know so much about a man you’ve never met? He could walk into the Duke and you’d never know him.’
‘Sure, he could. But stuff filters down, doesn’t it? This mate of Big’s talks to the distributors and they talk to the street men. And I listen, pretending I don’t notice.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘It’s pretending I don’t notice that’s kept me alive.’
‘Could Max Quincey have been Mr Big?’
‘Nah.’
‘But you can’t know for certain.’
He smiled mockingly. ‘Did you ever meet Max Quincey?’