Jack in the Box

by Hania Allen

  ‘We’ll say our goodbyes later, Von.’ He grinned, showing discoloured teeth. ‘We’ll see each other one last time.’

  She felt a sudden shiver through her body. ‘Come with me,’ she blurted, grabbing his arm. ‘I can take you to a safe house.’

  ‘Got things to sort out. And one or two people to see.’ He patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve shaken him off. As long as I don’t go back to my place, I’ll be all right.’

  She released him slowly. ‘If you feel things are getting hot, Tubby, come into the nick and ask for me. Any time.’

  Something passed across his face, a look of sadness. Then he pushed his chair back, and left.

  She sat staring into her mug. So Max was the Cutter. They’d need to rethink. If Max had been so high up in this ring, then the motive for his killing was unlikely to be a simple double-cross. But his death had taken him out of the drug loop, and no-one would want that. All of them from the distributors to the street men were dependent on him. Mr Big would have to find someone else. He may well have done so already. She pushed the mug away. Damn it. They’d been so close. Max was the only one who’d known who Mr Big was. He was dead, and the information dead with him. Unless he’d left a clue somewhere.

  She sat bolt upright. Unless he’d left a clue somewhere.

  But Max had left a clue. A clue she’d found that morning on his newspaper.

  ‘That’s where I’m going, Steve.’

  ‘I’ll get my coat.’

  ‘I’m going alone.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Von, if your snout thinks he’s being followed, then it’s not safe. Not safe for you.’

  She smiled sadly. He must be worried. He rarely calls me by my name. ‘If we go together, they’ll know who we are,’ she said. ‘Look, I’ll be careful. It’s broad daylight.’

  ‘We could go in undercover.’ He looked at his feet. ‘Pretend to be a couple.’

  She did him the courtesy of taking the suggestion seriously. ‘Don’t be offended, Steve, but you’ve got the word copper printed on your forehead.’ She waited until he’d lifted his eyes to hers. ‘I won’t be long. I have just one question to ask.’

  ‘Whether he knew Max Quincey was the Cutter?’

  ‘Got it in one.’ She picked up her jacket. ‘There’s something you need to do while I’m out. Track down the Chief Super and get that money authorised.’

  He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘It won’t be easy, you know how tight he is. Could you do it when you return?’

  ‘No pun intended, but my currency’s low with the Chief Super.’

  He must have heard the anxiety in her voice. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said.

  ‘And if Kenny calls at the nick, can you ensure he doesn’t leave?’

  ‘Okay. But why?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with him.’ She wondered what to say. She wouldn’t tell him till she had the proof. ‘We had a row, Steve. He may come looking for me here.’ Not quite the truth, but not a lie either. And men understood about rows.

  His face cleared. ‘Absolutely, boss.’

  As Von stepped into the Iron Duke, all conversations stopped. She knew why they were staring. She’d been careful with her appearance, dressing the way she had a couple of years back when she’d gone undercover as a prostitute. She was wearing a skirt that could best be described as a long cummerbund, and a low-cut top, showing so much cleavage that any man she spoke to rarely lifted his eyes to her face. Better still, the bruise on her cheek had darkened.

  She wobbled on her heels to the bar, and climbed onto a stool. Her feet were aching. She’d come by bus, not only because she didn’t want to risk being seen in a car, but because driving down Soho’s one-way streets was a nightmare.

  She could have met Dickie at his house, or at St Pats, but she wanted to see the Duke. She found it easily enough near the street corner, wedged between a sex shop and a massage parlour. Above the tired façade was a board portraying Arthur Wellesley, the first Duke of Wellington, his right hand inside his jacket as was the custom for portraits. A few feet from the entrance, a woman selling The Big Issue was sitting leaning against the wall. Von bent to give her some coins. As she stepped back, her heels caught in the iron grille covering the delivery chute into the Duke’s cellar.

  The inside of the pub was surprisingly classy. The floor had been mopped, and the polished mirrors threw back such a perfect reflection that at first glance the room seemed twice its size. To one side was a platform with speakers and other equipment for karaoke night. There was a strong smell of malt.

  She counted a dozen people, some in pairs, a few sitting separately, all nursing their drinks. Malkie and Rocky Balboa might be amongst them, but she didn’t dare study anyone too closely.

  On the counter was a Jack in the Box doll, already popped. Identical dolls were sitting on other tables.

  Dickie was behind the counter, polishing glasses and hanging them from the tracks in the low ceiling. If he thought it strange a prostitute should enter a rent boys’ bar, he gave no indication. He threw her the briefest glance. She remembered his words: It’s pretending I don’t notice that’s kept me alive.

  Good boy. Keep pretending.

  ‘A vodka tonic, please, love,’ she said, broadening her accent. She unzipped her jacket. ‘Jesus, my feet are killing me.’ She removed a shoe and, leaning over, massaged her toes, making sure everyone in the room had a good look at her breasts.

  Dickie handed her the drink, barely looking at her.

  ‘Can you tell me where the loo is, darling?’ she said, after a while. ‘If I don’t pee soon, I’ll go in my knickers.’

  He continued to polish the glasses, motioning with his head to the door at the back of the room. ‘End of the corridor, to your right.’

  She followed the corridor to the ladies, and waited outside. A minute later, Dickie appeared. He hurried towards her, frowning.

  She put a finger to her lips. With a furtive glance around, he took her arm and steered her towards the steps. The smell of yeast and malt grew stronger as they descended into the gloom.

  ‘I’m the only one allowed in the cellar, so we should be okay,’ he said. ‘You’re taking a hell of a risk coming here, girl.’ He stared at her breasts and a slow grin spread across his face. ‘But I have to say, your disguise is great.’

  She smiled, moving closer so her breasts grazed his chest. ‘I’m built for comfort, not speed.’ She pulled a photo from her bag. ‘Have you seen this man before?’

  He gestured to her to keep her voice down, and held the photo up to the grille. ‘That tattoo on his neck’s unmistakable.’

  The tattoo…She felt her legs give way. ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘A couple of days ago.’

  ‘And at the time of the Jack in the Box murders?’

  ‘Definitely then.’ He paused. ‘And many times since. He’s a distributor.’

  She was having difficulty breathing. ‘You saw him pass packets to the boys?’

  ‘I never saw.’

  ‘Then how do you know?’

  ‘I overheard one of the boys talking to him in the gents.’ He pointed to the air vent high in the wall. ‘Sound carries all over this building, girl. That’s how I know things.’

  ‘Did he meet with anyone in particular? Max Quincey, for example?’

  He screwed up his eyes. ‘Max Quincey? Gawd, now you’re asking. Can’t remember. It was too long ago. And Max hung around with loads of people.’ His expression cleared. ‘What I do remember is that he’d sometimes bring the boys presents.’

  Presents…Her throat tightened. ‘What kind of presents?’

  ‘Clothes, mainly. Trendy stuff.’

  ‘Didn’t you think it odd? He wasn’t a client.’

  He shrugged. ‘They were nice kids. And this guy seemed to have plenty to splash around.’

  ‘Did he give the boys anything apart from clothes?’ she said, knowing the answer.

  ‘This might sound stran
ge, but they seemed to like the dolls. There was talk they were becoming collectors’ items. Once the shops began to run out, the dolls were traded by people who wanted to collect them.’ He rubbed his cheek. ‘This guy – what was his name? – yes, Robbie, he always had a doll with him.’

  She felt faint. She leant against the wall and closed her eyes.

  ‘You okay, girl?’ he said, concern in his voice.

  ‘I’m fine.’ She straightened. ‘One last thing, Dickie. I meant to ask before, but why is there no CCTV outside the Duke? Or on any of the streets nearby? The rest of Soho is bristling with cameras.’

  ‘Dunno. There used to be cameras years ago, but they kept getting vandalised. I guess the council decided not to throw good money after bad.’ He seemed nervous. ‘Look, is this all you want to ask? It’s just that changing over barrels doesn’t take that long. People are going to start wondering what I’ve been doing.’

  ‘What’s the going rate for a blow job?’

  He seemed alarmed. ‘Twenty quid. Why?’

  She took a twenty-pound note from her bag. ‘When we go into the bar, just hand me this. People will stop wondering what you’ve been doing.’

  Von was waiting on Oxford Street for the bus to take her to Clerkenwell. She shivered in her short skirt, feeling the cold suck of the wind. An ambulance screamed past, its siren drowning out the noise of the roadworks.

  So now she had the proof. She stared at the photo of Kenny, remembering when she’d taken it. It had been high summer and they’d gone to Brighton. He hadn’t realised she had the camera in her hand, and she’d captured that look of surprise close up. Close up enough also to capture the tattoos.

  At the Duke, then, he was known as Robbie. His brother’s name. Dickie’s words sliced through her like a scalpel: He’s a distributor. And had been for many years. All that time, Kenny would have been working with Max, getting his packets from him. He’s a distributor. No wonder he’d quizzed her hard the night she told him Max had been murdered. When had he become involved? Was it when he interviewed Max at the time of the Jack in the Box murders? Or later. Perhaps he’d stumbled on the drug ring as part of some other investigation and saw it as too good an opportunity to pass up. Everything he’d told her had been a catalogue of lies. He’d even lied about going to the Duke: I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been there.

  What was going to happen to the ring now? Had Mr Big already found his new Cutter? Perhaps that was what Kenny had been up to these past few days. Trying to climb higher up the greasy pole.

  She felt as if she were being squeezed in a vice. Could she suppress Dickie’s evidence? Tip Kenny off? Give him a chance to leg it somewhere? And when the drugs squad came in to clean up the operation at the Duke, which they would eventually, would they uncover his involvement and her duplicity? The knot in her heart tightened. It hardly mattered. Either way, what future was there for them now?

  The bus lurched into view. She tore the photo into tiny pieces and threw them into the gutter. As she climbed onto the platform, a gust of wind lifted them, scattering them high into the air.

  Chapter 27

  ‘He’s late, boss.’

  Von and Steve were waiting on the Thames Path at the southern end of Blackfriars Bridge. Little was visible in the dark other than the grey ribs on the underside of the bridge’s arches, and the outline of St Paul’s Cathedral dominating the skyline to the north. Von shivered, not daring to move in case she stepped into the foul-smelling water. As if recognising her predicament, the moon slid from behind a cloud and illuminated the river, revealing food cartons and other rubbish caught up in the rotting leaves that lapped back and forth in the scum. The cold penetrated her clothes and seeped into her bones, and not for the first time she asked herself why, of all the places in London, Tubby had chosen this spot for his special place.

  ‘How will he react when he finds you’ve not got the money?’ said Steve.

  ‘I don’t care. I’m taking him with me.’

  ‘Kidnapping is a crime,’ he said lightly.

  ‘I’m in no mood for jokes, Steve.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What time is it?’ she said after a while.

  ‘A quarter past ten.’

  She pulled her scarf around her face. ‘He’s never been late before. Something’s happened.’

  ‘Let’s give it another fifteen minutes.’ He paused. ‘Did Kenny show up?’

  ‘At home? There’s nothing on my answer machine.’

  ‘He’ll phone eventually. He always does, doesn’t he?’

  Maybe not this time. She wondered whether Kenny suspected she was close to uncovering his drug involvement, or whether his lack of communication was simply because he’d left her. But she knew him too well. He wouldn’t go without having it out. He’d want his big scene, his grand finale. He’d want closure.

  Steve was fidgeting. ‘When was the last time you—’

  ‘Saturday lunchtime. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.’ She beat her arms in an effort to keep warm.

  ‘Have you thought of contacting The Guardian? They might know what he’s working on, and where he is.’

  She was tempted to say she doubted he was still working for The Guardian. A time was coming when she’d either have to tell Steve everything, or keep quiet and go down with Kenny’s sinking ship.

  ‘What time is it?’ she said again.

  ‘Ten thirty.’

  ‘He’s not coming. Let’s go.’

  The Toyota was heading north across the bridge when Von said, ‘Slow down a minute, Steve. This isn’t the direction he’d be coming from. He operates north of the river, so he goes to Southwark tube and walks up Blackfriars Road.’

  ‘Does he live around there?’

  ‘He rents a house near the tube station, and he may have come directly from it. Either way, we won’t find him here. So when we’re off the bridge, turn the car round.’

  ‘Boss, I don’t think—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Steve, just do it.’

  Five minutes later, they were heading back south.

  ‘Would he think we’d wait this long?’ said Steve. ‘If he was held up, he’ll be in touch again tomorrow, surely.’

  ‘I don’t think he was held up.’ She was struggling against the growing feeling of dread. ‘He would have called, he has my number.’

  They drove to Southwark tube station but there was no sign of Tubby on Blackfriars Road.

  She tapped Steve’s arm. ‘Stop here and park the car. We’ll walk to his house.’

  ‘What do you think’s happened, boss?’

  ‘He’ll have gone back for his passport. He lives somewhere near Bear Lane, I’ll know the place when I get there.’

  They found Tubby in his doorway. She recognised the cowboy boots poking out from underneath the pile of rubbish. Whoever had killed him had made a poor job of concealing the body. The black bin bags had been tossed carelessly, and one had split and strewn its stinking contents across the pavement. In death, Tubby had merited less of anyone’s time than he had in life.

  She removed a torch from her pocket and pulled away the bags. Her stomach churned. Tubby’s face was unrecognisable. The blood-clotted hair was plastered to the forehead, the spectacles missing, the swollen flesh a mass of cuts and bruises. Blood, which had coursed from the shattered nose, caked the mouth and chin.

  Steve took her wrist gently and guided the beam down. The torchlight caught the glint of wire in Tubby’s neck.

  She straightened, groaning. ‘This is my fault. I shouldn’t have believed him when he told me he’d be okay. I shouldn’t have let him out of my sight.’

  Steve put an arm round her shoulders. ‘You couldn’t have known this is how he’d end up.’

  Remorse surged through her. Why hadn’t she taken him with her to the station? Why hadn’t she insisted?

  She remembered his words: We’ll say our goodbyes later, Von. She leant forward and stared into the broken face. ‘Goodbye, Tubb
y,’ she whispered.

  Von ran a hand through her hair. ‘I can’t find the Chief Super.’ She looked around the room wildly. Only Steve and Zoë were at their desks. ‘Either of you know where he is?’ she said.

  ‘He left the station in a bit of a rush, ma’am,’ Zoë said. ‘We got a call from his mother’s house to say he wouldn’t be in. His mother’s not herself.’

  It wasn’t like the Chief Super to put his private life first. After his wife had died, he’d taken only the day of the funeral off. His mother must be in a bad way for him to leave the station at such a critical time.

  Zoë was watching her. ‘Are you unwell, ma’am?’ she said quietly.

  ‘I’m fine. Where are the others?’

  ‘At the crime scene.’

  ‘Steve, can I see you in my office, please?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Sure, boss.’

  In her office, she sat down heavily. ‘Please close the door. And sit down.’

  He smiled faintly. ‘Why the cloak and dagger?’

  ‘I have something to tell you,’ she said, staring at the desk.

  Her heart was hammering. But she couldn’t dissemble any longer. She looked him in the eye and told him what she’d been concealing: finding Kenny’s landline number on Max Quincey’s Guardian, and learning from Dickie that Kenny was part of the drug ring.

  He rose and went to the window. He rubbed his arm slowly.

  ‘For God’s sake, Steve, say something.’

  He faced her. ‘What do you intend to do?’ His voice was calm. ‘Are you asking me to keep quiet about this?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, confused. ‘Kenny is now a suspect in the murder of Max Quincey. We have to act accordingly.’

  ‘Why have you shared this with me and not the others?’

  Jesus, he’s determined not to make this easy. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I wanted you to understand why I did it. No, that’s not why. I think I was hoping you might talk me out of it. I’ve been suppressing evidence. I know what the implications are.’

  He sat down. ‘You’ve hardly been suppressing evidence, Von. If you have, it was for all of twenty four hours. Less. You saw Dickie Womack yesterday afternoon.’