Jack in the Box

by Hania Allen

  ‘May I smoke?’

  ‘You may not.’ Von steepled her fingers. ‘Rose, I put it to you that you killed Michael Gillanders, locked the door to the costumes room and hid the steam iron under the sink in your sister’s kitchen. Even without the forensic evidence, I’ve enough to charge you.’

  The woman lowered her head.

  ‘Come on, Rose, you’ll help yourself by admitting to it. It’ll play well in court.’

  She lifted her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The judge will direct the jury to be lenient.’ When the silence had gone on too long, Von said, ‘Did you kill Michael Gillanders?’ She paused. ‘For the tape, Rose Manning nodded her head.’ She sat back. ‘Why, Rose?’

  ‘Because he deserved it, that’s why. Your assistant arrested him – I saw him – and then you let him go. But I know he killed Mr Quincey.’

  ‘Where’s the evidence?’

  ‘He couldn’t stand him because he was a homo.’

  ‘That’s your evidence?’ Von said, in mock surprise. ‘The last time we spoke, you suggested Michael Gillanders killed Max Quincey so he could take over the Players. Now you’re saying it’s because he couldn’t stand his homosexual activities. Which is it Rose?’

  She glared, saying nothing.

  Von chose her words carefully. ‘It didn’t bother you that Max Quincey was a homosexual, did it? He was a gentleman, after all.’

  ‘The finest,’ Rose said emphatically. She jabbed a finger. ‘And I’ll tell you another thing, you’re no lady.’

  It was time for the broadside. ‘What was Max Quincey’s business at the Iron Duke, Rose? I’m talking about the time of the Jack in the Box murders of 1985.’

  It was as though Rose had been turned to stone. The colour left her face.

  Bingo. I’ve got her…‘You said they didn’t like Mr Quincey there, the landlord, in particular. But Max didn’t always go to the Duke, did he?’ she added softly. ‘You occasionally found boys for him.’

  Rose sucked in her breath, her lips trembling. Von nodded to Steve, who pushed over a lighter and a packet of Silk Cut.

  Rose pounced on them and lit up greedily. ‘He asked me to do it,’ she said, her hands shaking.

  ‘Did he tell you which boys to bring back?’

  She drew on the cigarette, looking straight ahead. ‘I knew the kind he liked. Young, and clean. I had to be picky.’

  ‘Where did you bring them, Rose?’

  ‘To the theatre. My costumes room.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘I put a sheet down.’

  ‘Did you watch?’

  She didn’t answer immediately. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Did Max like you to watch?’

  She spoke so quietly that Von had to strain to hear. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, what was it? Blow jobs? Did he penetrate them?’

  ‘I don’t see that that’s any of your business.’

  ‘It’s very much my business.’

  She looked at the wall behind Von. ‘He penetrated them. The boys were on their hands and knees.’ She flicked ash onto the ground with a tap of her finger. ‘If the boys wanted it, he’d give them orgasms. Using his hand. Some wanted that, you know,’ she added defiantly.

  ‘How long did this go on?’

  ‘Till he was caught at it.’

  ‘Who caught him, Rose?’

  ‘Zack. He must have seen me bring the boy in.’ She blew smoke through her nostrils. ‘Mr Quincey liked them to wear make-up. Had to be done professionally, it did. Sometimes I’d do it for them, using greasepaint. Well, there was this young lad, all made up with red lipstick and the like. Zack came in as Mr Quincey was about to start. He just stared, then went over and wiped the make-up off. The boy was hollering to be paid so he paid him himself.’

  ‘How did Zack behave? Was he angry?’

  ‘More sad than angry, really. Anyway, after that, I took them to my sister’s.’ She stabbed out her cigarette. ‘Beryl’s a nurse, works shifts. But we had to stop. One of the neighbours told her and she raised merry hell.’

  Von withdrew the photographs from the file, and laid them on the table. ‘The suspect is being shown a series of photographs. Rose, do you recognise any of these as the boys you procured for Mr Quincey? Take your time.’

  Rose pored over them. ‘He was one,’ she said, pointing to Gilly. ‘A great favourite of Mr Quincey’s, he was.’ She tapped the photo of Charlo. ‘And this one, I remember that collar round his neck. As for the others, I’m not sure.’

  Von let her breath out slowly. So Max had known the Irish boys. And the Irish boys had been selling drugs. But she still needed to find evidence that Max was in the ring. ‘Did you ever see Max give these boys anything?’ she said. ‘Presents? Anything at all?’

  ‘Presents? He didn’t even pay them. I handled all that.’

  Von stared into the bloodshot eyes. She’s telling the truth. She knows nothing about the drugs. ‘Let’s come now to how you killed Michael Gillanders, Rose. Just tell us in your own words.’

  Rose lit another cigarette and smoked silently for a while. ‘The actors come down before the performance if they want their costumes to get a final press, or there’s something needs fixing. On Sunday afternoon, Michael Gillanders came in already wearing his. He did that sometimes. He’d take the suit off and stand there in his underwear while I ironed his clothes. He liked to taunt me, he did. Take a good look at what you’re missing, Rose, he used to say. Not everyone has the good fortune to be hung like a donkey. This time he was especially nasty, said I must be missing my pederast friend. He undid his belt and started to pull his trousers down. I had the iron in my hand, and he was bending over. So I hit him.’ She squashed out the cigarette, her face streaked with tears. ‘He’d pushed me to the edge with his filthy remarks about Mr Quincey. Mr Quincey was such a lovely man. He’d never hurt a fly.’ She rubbed at her eyes. ‘I put the iron in my bag, locked the door as per usual, and went home.’

  She seemed unaware of the enormity of what she’d done. Her tears were all for Max Quincey. Von almost felt sorry for her. ‘You’ve killed a man, Rose. Do you know what the consequences will be?’

  ‘The jury will understand why I did it,’ she said defiantly. ‘It was justice for Mr Quincey, a murdered man. It was a spur of the moment thing, unpremeditated, it was. They won’t convict me.’

  ‘I think you’ll find you’re wrong about that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re going to prison, Rose.’ She nearly added, and for a very long time.

  Rose stared, her eyes blank. ‘I knew today wasn’t going to be a good day. My star sign said so.’

  ‘Then let me read you your horoscope.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Rose Manning, I am charging you with the murder of Michael Gillanders.’

  Before she could continue, Rose gave a groan and collapsed onto the table, scattering the photographs.

  Danni was sitting in Von’s office.

  Von dropped the file on the desk, avoiding her eyes. She wants to know whether I’ve slept with Simon. Well, she can whistle for it. ‘I take it you heard everything, Danni?’

  Danni tucked her skirt under her thighs. ‘Seems cut and dried.’

  ‘Forensics will back it up but her confession clinches it. Though I thought she seemed a little too willing to confess.’

  ‘She wants it off her conscience. It’s a textbook case. She saw an opportunity, lost her head, and killed a man in the heat of the moment. She’s no killer.’

  ‘The jury won’t see it that way. But we learnt something else, didn’t we?’ Von said, looking at Steve.

  He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, as he always did when she tested him. ‘Aye, there’s no doubt about it now. Max Quincey knew the boys who were killed.’

  ‘And is Gillanders still your prime suspect?’ Danni said to Von. ‘If so, your job is done. You can’t prosecute a dead man.’

  ‘I’m shying away from Gillanders for any of the killings, Max’s included.’
She chewed her lip. ‘I think Max was killed because he was mixed up in that drug ring. The problem is that everyone I talk to tells me different. Jimmy Porteous, Dickie Womack, who had the opportunity to observe him many times at the Duke. And now Rose.’ Her mind went back to the interview. ‘But Rose finding his boys for him. And watching him with them.’

  ‘An unlikely procuress.’ Danni made an arch with her fingers. ‘The picture I’m building of Max Quincey does him no favours. He used people, then discarded them when he no longer needed them. He knew Rose would do anything because she loved him, but he was indifferent to her feelings.’

  ‘Do you think he was capable of love?’ said Steve.

  ‘Everyone is,’ she said, as if Steve had insulted her. ‘To get back to the drugs, how did the Chief Super react when you told him about the ring?’

  ‘I’m keeping it from him for now,’ Von said, playing with her pen.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’ll bring the drugs squad in over my head. If I find evidence that brother Max was involved, one word from the Chief Super and they’ll hush it up.’

  ‘You really think he’d do that?’

  I want a quick result, Yvonne. And I want a clean result. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past the Chief Super,’ she said.

  ‘But if you went to him with hard evidence, he couldn’t ignore it.’

  ‘He might still hand over to the drugs squad but, no, he couldn’t ignore it. The problem is I’ve no hard evidence.’

  ‘Then you need to find it.’

  She struggled to hide her irritation. Danni had a habit of coming out with the obvious as though she’d thought of it herself.

  ‘So what will you do?’ said Danni.

  ‘What all coppers do when they run out of leads. Go back to the beginning.’

  Danni stared at her as though she’d told her Martians had landed.

  Chapter 25

  Zoë looked up from her desk. ‘You’re in early, ma’am.’

  ‘I want another look at Max Quincey’s effects,’ Von said, unbuttoning her coat. ‘If anyone asks for me, I’m in stores.’

  The attendant, an elderly man with a white bush of hair and age spots on his face, led the way down the narrow corridor towards the back of the storeroom. Von disliked this room, with its cracked lino and smell of lavender polish. It was the type of room from which a quick exit was impossible, because whatever you wanted necessitated a tortuous journey through the maze of shelves and an equally tortuous journey back. Clerkenwell had such a large storeroom because it was shared between several police stations.

  The attendant was fidgeting, clearly wanting to get back to his coffee and newspaper. ‘It’s all on this middle shelf, ma’am.’

  ‘Thanks, Terry.’ She smiled brightly. ‘I’ll call if I need you.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He handed her the list of contents, a plastic sheet, and a pair of latex gloves.

  She waited till he’d gone, then drew on the gloves, and laid Quincey’s bag on the sheet. Kneeling beside it, she removed the contents carefully. First to come out were the ties and cravats, including the blue and red Sydney Sussex tie that had strangled Max Quincey. Next were the Gieves and Hawkes clothes. She dug deeper, finding the ashtray, emptied and washed clean. She sifted through the items, mentally noting where in Max’s room she’d seen them: the Jack in the Box doll, the mobile phone, the watch. At the bottom was the Parker pen and copy of The Guardian, dated September 12th, the day Max Quincey had died. She examined the items, all that was left of him, but they told her nothing she didn’t already know.

  She started to put everything back, pausing when she saw the pen and newspaper. When had Max bought The Guardian? First thing that Tuesday? Or had Mrs Deacon bought it for him? Can’t be precise but it was after seven. That’s when I get up. I popped outside to buy the morning paper. But later the same morning, just after 10.00am, Max had phoned Directory Enquiries. He hadn’t been put through directly, and he hadn’t used his mobile. That meant only one thing: unless he had an excellent memory for figures, whatever number he’d requested must have been written down. She turned the pen in her hand, remembering how it had lain on the newspaper. She opened The Guardian and examined it, poring over every inch. There was nothing. No writing. Not even doodles. She folded the paper the way she’d found it in the bag, the way it had lain on the table, the front page showing.

  Slowly, she ran a finger across the paper. Was it her imagination, or was it less smooth in the margin? She fished in her bag for a soft pencil. With a glance down the corridor, she ran the tip gently over the paper. As if by magic, the imprint of a series of numbers appeared, numbers which someone had written down on something else, leaning heavily on The Guardian.

  She stood under the light, and brought the page close to her face. The writing was large and clear, done hastily but with a flourish. She stared without seeing. Then she slid slowly down the wall in a shower of flaking paint, and squatted on the floor. She leant her head back, breathing with difficulty.

  A phone number. One she recognised. She let the newspaper fall, and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She sat in an attitude of hopelessness, praying there was an innocent explanation, telling herself it might even have been a wrong number, finally thinking of nothing.

  A door slammed nearby, jolting her to her senses. She dragged herself to her feet. She’d have to destroy the paper. And quickly. She began to stuff it under her jacket, when the enormity of what she was doing hit her. What the fuck was she thinking? Tampering with police evidence was a crime. As a police officer, she’d get a custodial sentence. She replaced the paper and pen in the bag, thrusting them to the bottom. Anyone going through Max’s effects would see the imprint, recognise it as a phone number, and conclude she hadn’t acted on it. But that was a chance she’d have to take, she couldn’t think about it now.

  She was zipping the bag shut when her hand brushed against the doll. It sprang open with its cry of ‘Jack-jack! Jack-jack!’ She lifted it out and turned it over, examining it. It was identical to those she was seeing everywhere. No, not identical. Similar yet different. The green paint was flaking and scratched. Yes, that was it. It was worn, more worn than the dolls currently on sale at the Garrimont. As soon as they arrived this morning, I sent one out to all the cast and crew. Chrissie’s words, spoken the day before she and Steve had gone to see the play. Nearly a week after Max had died.

  Yet the doll in her hand had been taken from Max Quincey’s room days before Chrissie’s order had arrived from the manufacturer. There could be only one explanation. This wasn’t one of the dolls made for the current production – this was an old doll, from 1985.

  He was seen at the Duke, talking to young boys. And he always had a doll with him.

  Adrenaline surged through her body. How could she have been so blind? Gripping the doll firmly, she untwisted the base. It was stiff after years of disuse. She gave a sharp wrench and it came off, flying from her hand and clattering to the floor. She reached inside and pulled out the contents. Not a wad of money, as in the play, but something wrapped in yellow paper and secured with an elastic band.

  She removed the band with fingers trembling with excitement. Inside the sheet were over a dozen small packets of white powder. She stared, light-headed, almost dizzy. Good for luck, Rosie, and good for business. She laughed softly. Oh Max, Max, you crafty bugger. I’ve got you.

  Her heart pumping, she reassembled the doll and wrapped it in polythene. She put it carefully into her handbag.

  She was returning Max’s belongings to the shelf when she heard the sound. She paused, holding her breath. Soft footsteps. Someone had entered the storeroom.

  ‘Is that you, Terry?’ she shouted.

  The footsteps stopped.

  She felt a twinge of anxiety. If this was Terry, then why hadn’t he answered? She dropped to her knees. The footsteps started up again. She sank back on her heels, straining to listen, trying to determine their location. The sound grew louder.
Someone was walking, not down her corridor, but the one parallel to it. She peered through the rack, just in time to see a pair of legs in dark pinstripe trousers saunter by.

  Her anxiety deepened. This wasn’t the behaviour of someone with legitimate business. Officers were always accompanied by Terry, who was a stickler for protocol. And they conducted their business quickly in the airless echoing room. So what was this dawdler doing? Spying on her? Trying to find her? She scrambled silently to her feet, wanting nothing more now than to get out of there. If she kept to the wall, she’d eventually find Terry’s desk. She crept away, alert to the possibility that the pinstripe might change direction. But the footsteps grew fainter. He was moving away.

  A minute later, she arrived at the desk. Terry was nowhere to be seen. She picked up the visitor’s book. Hers was the first, and only, signature that day.

  ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’

  She spun round. ‘Jesus, Terry, you gave me a fright.’

  He stared fixedly at the book in her hand. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘Is there another way out of the storeroom?’ she said, her voice low.

  He indicated the fire exit behind her. Like all fire exits at Clerkenwell, it was alarmed. ‘And there’s a door at the back that leads to the main corridor. I don’t have the keys, though.’

  ‘You didn’t see anyone come in without signing?’

  ‘No-one comes in without signing. It’s the rule.’

  ‘But you weren’t at your desk just now,’ she said impatiently. ‘Someone might have slipped in.’

  He drew himself up. ‘I’m allowed breaks to go to the lavatory, ma’am.’

  ‘Of course you are, Terry, of course you are. I’m just saying that someone could have come in without your knowledge.’

  ‘Then he’ll have me to contend with when he comes out,’ Terry said in a tone which was intended to close the conversation.

  In the ensuing silence, she noticed that the footsteps had stopped. Perhaps the suit had overheard the conversation.

  She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I think there’s someone in here who shouldn’t be. When he comes out, make some excuse to detain him and ring me immediately, okay?’