Jack in the Box

by Hania Allen

  ‘Only briefly.’ She smiled back, wanting him to see she agreed with him. ‘I admit he’s an unlikely candidate. Could he have been at the other end, then? Selling on the street?’

  ‘If Max Quincey passed on packets of dust, I would have seen and I never did.’

  She ran a hand through her hair. Always the same story. Whatever Max was guilty of, it wasn’t dealing.

  She fumbled in her bag and pulled out the programme for Jack in the Box. ‘I want you to tell me whether you recognise any of these people, Dickie.’ She pointed to the thumbnail of Gillanders. ‘This is a recent photo. I don’t have one from fifteen years ago.’

  He peered at the programme. ‘Never seen him.’

  ‘Not even during the last couple of weeks?’

  He held the sheet to his face. ‘Absolutely sure. But it doesn’t mean he’s not involved. Some of the distributors meet their sellers outside. There are plenty of places around here for little clandestine meetings.’

  She reached to take back the programme but he stopped her.

  ‘Half a mo.’ He tapped the photo of Zack Lazarus. ‘I’ve seen him.’

  ‘At the Duke?’

  ‘A long time ago. Haven’t seen him for ages.’

  ‘What do you remember about him?’

  ‘He came to see one of the boys. Always the same one, I forget which. Those eyes and that pockmarked skin are unmistakable. He sat with the boy. Didn’t want to pick him up, mind. He bought him drinks and grub. Then left on his own.’ He pointed at the sheet. ‘And that one. She came in here too.’

  Von stared, unbelieving. ‘Rose Manning came here?’

  ‘Never knew her name. But it’s a face you’d not forget. She decked one of my customers with her handbag once for looking at her the wrong way. Used to sit near the door with her brandy and babycham. She’d size up the boys, pick one out, then leave with him.’

  ‘She’d leave with a boy?’ Von said in amazement.

  ‘She was particular, like. Not just any boy.’

  ‘What do you think she did with them?’

  His mouth formed into a smile. ‘Would have thought that was obvious. Some of the boys do it with women, too.’

  Rose? Having sex with a rent boy? It beggared belief.

  She pointed at the photo of Chrissie Horowitz. ‘Did she ever come in? Take a good look, Dickie.’

  ‘Ah, I’d remember a skirt like that,’ he said approvingly. ‘But, no, she’s never come in, to my knowledge.’ He tilted his head. ‘You thinking there may be women in on the ring? Tends to be a boys’ game, but some of the toms who work this area offer smack to their clients.’

  ‘Could this man who cuts the stuff be a woman?’

  ‘It’s not impossible. I mean, these days women do the jobs men used to.’ He grinned. ‘Some of them even become detectives. Wasn’t like that in my day.’

  ‘When men were men?’ she smiled coyly.

  ‘And women were grateful.’ He studied the photo of Chrissie. ‘But there may be skirts in on it higher up. Even one as posh-looking as that.’

  Higher up? So, Chrissie was a possible. Her mind was racing. And Rose and Zack frequented the Duke. Perhaps they were all part of the ring, the entire cast and crew of the Garrimont.

  And maybe Max had been in on it, after all.

  ‘Look, you did mean it, didn’t you?’ Dickie was saying. ‘About protection. I’ve kept quiet all these years because I’m afraid of him. I have family too, my mother and three girls.’

  She looked at him as though seeing him for the first time. ‘You have my word.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘Thank you, Dickie. You’ve been extremely helpful.’

  ‘I’ll go out first,’ he said, rising with difficulty in the cramped space. ‘Maybe you could wait a bit? So we’re not seen together?’

  She handed him a card, and he left hurriedly.

  In no mood to leave, she sat in the confessional, thinking through what he’d told her.

  The footsteps were so soft, she didn’t hear them approach. The curtain was drawn back gently. ‘Do you want me to hear your confession, my child?’ a voice said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ She looked up at the priest.

  The man was smiling faintly. ‘Do you want to confess your sins?’

  ‘Father,’ she said, getting heavily to her feet, ‘how much time have you got?’

  Chapter 24

  In the Drunken Duck, as they were having lunch, Von updated Steve on her conversation with Dickie.

  ‘You were away a long time, boss. I was worried.’

  She picked at the congealing lasagne. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but he wouldn’t have spoken if you’d been there.’

  ‘You charmed him, then.’

  ‘My Dad was a landlord, I know what presses their buttons.’ She put her fork down. ‘We’ve been barking up the wrong tree with Gillanders and the Quincey Players, Steve. I’m convinced now that the motive for Max Quincey’s death is drug-related. The problem is, how, exactly.’

  ‘You’re not thinking he’s Mr Big.’

  ‘Whoever Big is, he’s making big money. Max Quincey made small deposits into his bank account, and he was still heavily in debt. I don’t think he’s even the Cutter. But he may have been dealing, despite what everyone is telling me. It would account for that regular cash.’

  ‘Rose, though,’ Steve said, chewing his sandwich, ‘now that was a surprise. I didn’t know rent boys had sex with women. You learn something every day in this job, it’s better than the Encyclopedia Britannica.’

  Before she could reply, her mobile rang. She snapped it open and listened. Her expression changed. ‘We’re leaving, Steve.’

  He looked at his half-eaten sandwich.

  She hauled him to his feet. ‘Take it with you.’

  ‘What’s the rush, boss?’

  ‘It’s the Garrimont.’ She pushed the table aside. ‘We have to get over there. Now!’

  Chrissie was waiting in the foyer. Her face was ashen and she was trembling violently.

  ‘Thank God you’ve come,’ she moaned.

  ‘Did anyone go into the costumes room, other than yourself?’ Von said.

  ‘Only the cleaner, Mrs Marks.’ Chrissie swallowed hard. ‘We didn’t touch anything, and I made sure the door was relocked after I left.’

  ‘What do you mean, relocked?’

  ‘Mrs Marks found it locked.’

  ‘Do you have the key?’

  ‘Mrs Marks has it.’

  Von instructed her constables to keep watch at all the building’s exits, and she and Steve followed Chrissie to her office.

  ‘We need your keys, please, Maureen,’ Chrissie said, as they entered the room.

  Mrs Marks’s head shot up. She was sitting at the desk, her face flushed, sipping a golden-coloured liquid. She fumbled in her housecoat and produced a large bunch of keys. ‘It’s this one,’ she said, indicating a blue Yale.

  ‘Miss Horowitz, I need you to stay here,’ said Von. ‘You too, Mrs Marks. I’ll have to question you both later.’

  ‘Of course,’ Chrissie murmured.

  ‘Mrs Marks, where exactly—’

  ‘At the far end. Where Miss Manning has her things.’

  Back in the foyer, they pulled on their gloves and made their way downstairs.

  Von examined the wooden frame. ‘No sign of forced entry.’ She unlocked the door. As it opened, the familiar smell of carnation and mothballs hit her. But overlaid now with something sweeter.

  Before her were the racks of clothes, facing her in the dark like an expectant crowd. Steve switched on the lights, flooding the room with a harsh brightness.

  ‘Let’s go round the side,’ she said. ‘If we disturb the clothes, we’ll get dust over everything.’

  ‘Aye, the forensics in here will be difficult enough as it is.’

  They moved past the packing cases, and skirted the wall. The smell grew stronger.

  They found Michael Gillanders beside the sofa. He was lying on his ba
ck, one hand gripping the upholstery. Beneath him was a partly-congealed puddle of blood, which had spread and seeped up into the material of the sofa. His hair was matted black, and his jacket, saturated with blood, had dried to a dull brown. His trousers were around his knees, revealing the tanned flesh of his thighs.

  She examined the body. Sir Bernard would have no difficulty with this one: Cause of death was a brain haemorrhage from a single blow to the back of the head.

  ‘Been dead a while, boss,’ said Steve, squatting.

  She stared into the sightless eyes. ‘He was a no-show for his Sunday performance.’

  ‘Killed the day before, then?’

  ‘Chrissie would have told us if he’d missed Saturday’s.’ She straightened. ‘From his colour, I’m guessing this happened after the Saturday show. He wore that blue suit and pink shirt in the play.’

  ‘Looks like he was hit from behind, fell against the sofa and rolled off onto his back.’

  She glanced around. It was all there, clothes, the television set. Even the bottle of sherry. But something was different. ‘The iron’s missing,’ she said suddenly.

  He jerked his head at the doll, still on the floor beside the sewing machine. ‘Anything odd about the Jack in the Box?’

  She noticed he made no effort to go over. She steeled herself, and peered into the grinning face. ‘The eyes are untouched.’

  ‘As are those of Gillanders. Looks like a straightforward murder.’

  ‘There’s no such thing.’ She bit the inside of her lip. ‘I’ve seen all I need. We’ll leave the rest to Forensics. Come on, time to talk to the ladies.’

  The women had been drinking heavily. A strong smell of whisky filled the room.

  ‘Who has keys to the costumes room, apart from Mrs Marks?’ Von said to no-one in particular.

  Chrissie gulped her whisky. ‘As far as I know, it’s Rose Manning.’

  ‘As far as you know?’ When there was no reply she added, ‘Surely, as theatre manager, you know who has keys and who hasn’t.’

  The woman pressed her fingers into her eyes, and sobbed loudly.

  She’s not grieving for Gillanders. It’s because she’s lost her best actor. ‘Look, Chrissie, I need you to focus,’ Von said angrily. She was conscious Steve was staring at her.

  Chrissie lowered her hands. ‘I have a list of key holders somewhere,’ she said, in a vague tone.

  ‘Could you find it, please? An officer from Forensics will be here soon. He’ll need to be taken to the basement. Do you think you can do that?’

  ‘You’re not staying?’ Chrissie said, looking pleadingly at Steve.

  ‘One of my sergeants is on his way,’ Von said. ‘He’ll be taking your statements.’ She glanced at the inch of whisky left in the bottle. Assuming you’re still capable of speaking.

  They were leaving the Garrimont, when a large black saloon drew up.

  ‘Sir Bernard,’ Von said cheerfully, ‘we meet at the most inauspicious moments.’

  ‘The nature of our métiers, is it not?’ He smiled grimly and stepped past her into the theatre.

  She watched him go. ‘We’ll need a search warrant, Steve. Then we’re making a house call.’

  Cathcart Street, in Kentish Town, was a row of two-storeyed, flat-roofed houses, with white frames round the doors and windows.

  ‘Nice area,’ said Von, signalling to Zoë to slow down. ‘I’ve always fancied living in a cobbled street with trees. I bet these have back gardens.’

  Steve was eyeing the houses. ‘Aye, this place used to be solidly working-class, but loads of toffs are moving in now. And film stars.’

  ‘I believe Karl Marx lived here somewhere,’ Zoë said. ‘Is that so?’ Von said. ‘Well, he wouldn’t recognise the place now. You know this area, then?’

  The girl’s voice was noncommittal. ‘It’s the centre of London’s pub rock scene.’

  Von smiled to herself. This was as far as Zoë was prepared to go, but she’d told Von something she didn’t know about her taste in music.

  ‘I wonder why Rose doesn’t bunk at Mrs Deacon’s, boss, like the rest of the Quincey Players.’

  ‘When she’s in town, sir, she lives with her sister.’

  They stopped outside a house distinguishable from its neighbours only by the brightness of the paintwork and the cleanliness of the windows. A weak sun dropped behind the roof, throwing the building into shadow. There was a sharp bite in the air.

  Von rang the bell. After several minutes, the door opened a crack and Rose Manning peered out. Although it was late afternoon, she looked as though she had just left her bed: her hair was dishevelled and she was almost unrecognisable without her make-up, her pasty cheeks lined with tiny broken veins.

  ‘We’d like to talk to you, Miss Manning,’ said Von.

  ‘What about?’ came the suspicious voice.

  ‘Something I’d rather not discuss in the street.’

  The door opened wide, and Rose stood before them in shiny black slacks and a beige polo-neck. She stared at Zoë. ‘Who’s she?’ she said.

  ‘A police officer,’ Von said patiently. ‘She’s going to search the house. I have a warrant that gives us the right.’

  ‘As long as she doesn’t make a mess. My sister will have a fit.’

  Von glanced at Steve. Most people whose houses were about to be torn apart, kicked up a fuss. Rose seemed almost resigned. ‘Where’s your sister now, Miss Manning?’ she said. She preferred not to have family witnessing what she was about to do.

  ‘At work.’ Rose stepped back to let them through. ‘Better come in. We can use the parlour.’

  The parlour was a typical woman’s room, with silver frames on the mantelpiece and muslin curtains at the window. The dresser was crammed with garishly-painted Toby jugs. The furnishings, even the walls, seemed to exude the stench of carnation. Her sister must use it too. Von, almost overcome by the smell, tried not to breathe in too deeply.

  She nodded to Zoë to search the house, and she and Steve took the sofa. Rose perched on the edge of the armchair, as though ready to make a dash for it.

  ‘Miss Manning, when did you last see Mr Gillanders?’

  Rose reached into her pocket and produced a packet of cigarettes. She lit one, hands shaking slightly. ‘Can’t say. Why do you ask?’

  ‘He’s been found dead.’

  She said nothing, just stared, her cigarette in the air.

  ‘His body was found in your costumes room.’

  She had the manner of someone not interested in the conversation. But her eyes gave her away, moving restlessly from side to side.

  ‘Why was Mr Gillanders in your room, Miss Manning?’

  She blew smoke to the ceiling. ‘The actors come in to have their costumes pressed.’

  ‘Do they ever press their clothes themselves?’ When there was no reply, Von added, ‘Did Michael Gillanders come in for the Sunday performance?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘You’re lying, Miss Manning. Michael Gillanders didn’t perform on Sunday. There was an understudy.’

  ‘I forget the days.’ She waved her cigarette dismissively. ‘Easy to get muddled up.’

  She’s such a bad liar. This isn’t going to be difficult.

  Zoë poked her head round the door. ‘Ma’am, you need to see this,’ she said urgently.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Manning.’ Von followed her out.

  ‘In the kitchen, ma’am.’

  The door to the cupboard under the sink was open. Inside was a large steam iron.

  ‘Take photos, Zoë, bag it, and take it to the nick. Ask Forensics to fast-track, if they can.’

  The girl indicated the edge of the iron. ‘Blood smears.’

  She shook her head in disgust. ‘What was she thinking, bringing the murder weapon to her sister’s house?’

  She marched back to the parlour. ‘Miss Manning, you need to accompany us to the police station.’

  ‘I can’t go like this,’ Rose said,
horrified. ‘I need to put on my face.’

  ‘You don’t, Miss Manning.’

  Rose glared at her, then slowly got to her feet.

  Von switched on the recorder. ‘Interview commencing at 6.15pm on Tuesday, 26th September, 2000. Officers present are Detective Chief Inspector Yvonne Valenti, and Detective Inspector Steven English.’ She looked up at Rose. ‘Would you like your solicitor here?’

  ‘No,’ came the sharp reply.

  ‘For the tape, Miss Manning has waived her right to a solicitor. She is interviewed under caution, on tape, and without her solicitor present.’

  Rose gulped her tea, regarding Von over the rim as though she were reading a shopping list.

  ‘Miss Manning, were you in the costumes room on Saturday evening?’

  ‘I had to press Jools’s dressing gown.’

  ‘She was there with you?’

  ‘Course. Always watches me like a hawk, that one.’

  Von glanced at her sheet. Both Mrs Marks and Chrissie had stated that, apart from Mrs Marks, the only person with a key to the costumes room was Rose.

  ‘Mrs Marks arrived today and found the costumes room locked, Miss Manning. When she unlocked the door, she discovered the body of Michael Gillanders. Only two people could have locked that room. Mrs Marks herself, and you. What do you have to say?’

  Rose removed a folded white handkerchief and dabbed her lips. ‘It weren’t me.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Must have been Mrs Marks, because it weren’t me.’

  ‘According to her statement, Mrs Marks cleans the costumes room only on a Tuesday. Michael Gillanders was alive on Saturday, because he performed in Jack in the Box. He was killed after that performance, and the door locked. You’ve just told us you were in the costumes room on Saturday.’

  Rose returned the handkerchief to her pocket. ‘If you say so.’

  Von folded her arms. She knew she was skilled enough to wrap this up quickly. But she wanted more from Rose than a mere confession to murder.

  ‘Mr Gillanders was killed by a blow to the head, Rose. The steam iron was missing from the costumes room. We found it in your sister’s kitchen, under the sink.’ She raised her voice. ‘There were bloodstains on it. Forensics will prove it was Michael Gillanders’s blood.’