by Hania Allen
‘You think Hensbury is that heavily involved?’ Steve said, anxiety in his voice.
‘I think Hensbury’s the Cutter. He killed both Max Quincey and Tubby. Those are his prints in the bathroom, and he’s left-handed, which is consistent with the marks on Tubby’s cheek. He killed Max for reasons unknown, although I can think of any number of scenarios, but Tubby was killed because he got too close.’ She dropped her voice. ‘Hensbury is dangerous. He may not think twice about killing a copper. Any copper. Not just me.’ She saw their disbelief turn to alarm.
‘So how do we get him?’ Steve said.
‘No point examining his finances, he’ll have covered his tracks. He’s been doing this for years.’ She pushed her hands through her hair. ‘We need someone to identify him. That means getting hold of a distributor, they’re the only people the Cutter deals with. Kenny might have been able to recognise the voice, but we’ve still to find him. Max, of course, isn’t alive to testify. That leaves Jonathan Moudry. He’s now top of our list of most-wanted.’
‘There’s also Mr Big,’ a detective said. ‘He knows the Cutter.’ A look of longing came into his eyes. ‘If we could only get him, that would be a scoop for this nick.’
‘Nah, there’s no Mr Big,’ Larry said. ‘Never has been. This Cutter and Mr Big are one and the same.’ He fingered the mouse mat. ‘Look, think about it. Everyone tells you there’s a Mr Big, but no-one knows his name. No-one’s seen him, heard his voice, knows anything about him. This Cutter has invented him to put the fear of God into everyone. What better ogre than one you’ve never seen? No wonder an almighty hush descends on the place when the coppers come around lifting stones. He’s a shadow. And they’re terrified of it.’
Steve rubbed the back of his neck. ‘If it’s true, the Cutter’s kept the myth going for twenty years.’ He stared at the monitor. ‘What if we can’t find anyone to finger Hensbury?’
‘There’s one other thing we could try.’ She hesitated. ‘I have his phone number.’
He dragged his eyes to hers. ‘No point wearing a wire, boss, if you’re going to be taking your clothes off.’
She looked away, unable to bear his unspoken accusation. ‘We’ll bug the hotel room,’ she said.
‘You’re sure he’ll come?’
She thought back to the Saturday morning, and Simon’s parting words: I hope I’ll see you again. ‘He’ll come,’ she said.
‘Let’s do it, then.’ He scraped the chair back, and left the room.
She watched him go. How quickly things could change. If she’d suggested this yesterday, he’d have told her it was too dangerous.
It was lunchtime of the same day, and Von and Steve were in her office. He was sitting so he didn’t have to look at her.
‘I’ve left Hensbury a message asking him to call me,’ she said, picking at her sandwich.
‘Is he even in the country?’
‘Let’s assume he is. Tonight is too soon but tomorrow, Saturday, is a possible. We can get the place bugged today.’
‘We’ll need adjacent rooms,’ he said quietly.
‘Can I leave you to organise that?’
He nodded stiffly.
‘And I’m cancelling all leave. We’re getting too close.’
He said nothing. Nor did he look surprised.
The phone rang.
‘Is that DCI Valenti?’ came the voice at the other end.
‘Miranda, what can I do for you?’
‘Sir Bernard has finished the autopsy, Chief Inspector. He’s wondering if you’d like to hear what he’s found. Is now a good time?’
‘Please tell Sir Bernard we’re on our way.’
Steve eased the Toyota out of the station car park and turned into Farringdon Road.
The sky was clear except for a bank of cloud on the horizon. The wind had dropped and the mingled smells of petrol fumes and rotting leaves stank out the air. It was the end of September, but already people were wearing scarves and heavy coats.
‘You’re very quiet,’ said Von.
‘Got a lot to think about, boss.’
‘You might slow down. You nearly hit that pedestrian.’
‘Perhaps ma’am would prefer to drive,’ he said smoothly.
‘For God’s sake, Steve, stop this now,’ she muttered. ‘We’ve got a murder case to solve.’
She stared at his profile but he wouldn’t so much as glance at her. They continued in silence until they reached Lambeth Road.
Miranda ushered them into the office.
Sir Bernard was leafing through his papers. ‘Good afternoon, Chief Inspector.’ He inclined his head at Steve. ‘Inspector English.’ His eyes widened. ‘Good heavens, you both look as though you’ve been in the wars.’
‘We have,’ Von said.
He didn’t press them, just nodded slowly. He steered them to the coffee table.
‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ he said, opening a file. ‘The victim received a large number of blows to the head, resulting in severe damage to the optic nerves and traumatic brain injury.’
‘How traumatic?’ said Steve.
‘Enough to cause massive intracranial haemorrhaging. One of the blows was fatal.’
‘So he didn’t die by strangulation?’ she said.
‘I suspect whoever was beating him simply went too far, found they couldn’t revive him, and decided to make sure he was dead by strangling him.’
‘Can you tell what he was beaten with?’
‘His face was a mass of contusions. The condition of the skin and the nature of the bruising leads me to conclude that the attacker wore boxing gloves. Broken bones in his face might have suggested a knuckleduster but, apart from a smashed nose, there were none.’ He peered over his spectacles. ‘There are two further types of injury I need to draw your attention to. We found tiny pieces of glass embedded in one eye, consistent with spectacles shattering under a blow.’
Bile surged into her mouth, and she swallowed repeatedly.
‘And there are cuts in the right cheek.’ Sir Bernard removed a photograph from the file. ‘They weren’t made by someone wearing gloves. Nor were they made with a sharp implement, like a knife.’
‘What then?’ she said.
‘Under magnification, they are more tears than cuts. The bruising is greater than that caused by a simple incision.’ He frowned. ‘It’s difficult to say what could have done it. Something slightly pointed, perhaps, but definitely blunt.’
‘Scissors?’
‘Possibly.’
She glanced at Steve. ‘Strange choice of implement, specially if you’re extracting information.’
‘Maybe it’s all he had to hand, boss.’
‘If you find the implement that did it, Chief Inspector, there’ll be blood and tissue there, which I’m sure will further your investigation. There’s one other thing I should tell you. Your friend hadn’t long to live. The stomach cancer was well advanced.’ He stopped, seeing her expression. ‘Ah, you had no idea. I’m sorry,’ he added more gently. ‘His clothes were loose, suggesting his body weight was dropping.’
‘Would he have known?’ said Steve, after a glance at her face.
‘There were scars on his body consistent with surgery.’ Sir Bernard hesitated. ‘I see this has come as a bit of a shock, Chief Inspector.’
‘How long did he have?’ she said, her voice shaking.
‘Three months. Six at the outside.’
She was struggling to keep back the tears. ‘Can you give us the time of death, Sir Bernard?’
He buried his face in his papers. ‘The textbook answer is between 9.00pm and 10.00pm but, as he was found promptly, I can say with some certainty that it was nearer 10.00pm.’
‘Had he been beaten over a long period of time?’
‘From the nature of the contusions, I would say he sustained his injuries over several hours.’
If he’d been beaten that long, it wouldn’t be because he’d withheld information: Tubby would have given
it up after the first blow. Whoever did this did it because he wanted to. He wanted her to see what he was capable of. Steve was right, it was a warning. They were taunting her. He was taunting her. Simon. The killer…
‘On another topic, Chief Inspector, we now have the toxicological results on the powder you sent us.’
Her mind was still on Tubby. ‘Powder?’ she said faintly.
‘The packets in Max Quincey’s doll, boss.’
‘It was high grade heroin, mixed with quinine. Whoever did the mixing knew what he was doing. He added quinine so the proportion of heroin was just sufficient to give the user a high.’ He smiled bleakly. ‘A professional. You may be looking for someone with a biochemical background.’
Or a copper who’s worked in the drugs squad. ‘And the fingerprints?’ she said.
‘We found several on the packets and the paper they were wrapped in. They were Max Quincey’s.’
She held her breath. ‘Any others?’
‘None that we could distinguish. His were the prevalent ones, deposited the most recently.’
She was aware of what was going through Sir Bernard’s mind. He knew Max Quincey was the Chief Super’s brother and that, at some stage, she was going to have to tell him that Max had been a drug dealer.
‘I don’t envy you, Chief Inspector,’ he said quietly, watching her.
She looked him full in the face, intending him to read her expression. When the time came, she would have no hesitation in revealing to the Chief Super, and to the world, what sort of a man Max Quincey had been.
‘Thank you, Sir Bernard,’ she said, getting to her feet.
He stopped her at the door. ‘One moment, Chief Inspector, I’ve just remembered.’ He opened a drawer. ‘It came in today. That blond hair from Max Quincey’s room, there was something unusual about it. It’s why it’s taken us this long.’
Her heart was racing. ‘Have you managed to extract DNA after all?’
‘Not with the follicle missing. But the DNA is now immaterial. It wouldn’t belong to whoever deposited that hair. You see, it’s precisely because it’s blond, that we nearly missed it. The hair is Asian.’ He glanced down the page. ‘Asian hair that’s been dyed blond, and treated with the chemicals you use to make hair into high quality wigs.’
She stared at him. A wig. No wonder they hadn’t found a match with Gillanders. Or Chrissie. Whoever had visited Max Quincey had worn a blond wig. ‘If we found this wig, Sir Bernard, would you be able to say whether there’s a match with the sample from Max’s room?’
‘Most certainly. The hair was dyed and chemically treated to create a glossy look. Everyone’s hair responds differently to treatment, so the sample is unique.’
‘Could it have been a toupee, instead of a wig?’ Steve said.
‘It could, although the hair was on the long side for a toupee. But some men may want to wear their hair long.’
Of course, it made sense. Simon had worn a blond hairpiece. Although it would have been quiet at Mrs Deacon’s, he’d have disguised himself in case the street’s landladies moved their lace curtains for a better look.
Sir Bernard was frowning. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t send those results to you sooner, Chief Inspector. I hope it’s not hampered your investigations.’
She knew he prided himself on getting information to the police promptly. A delay such as this might have caused him sleepless nights. She smiled warmly. ‘It’s not hampered our investigations at all, Sir Bernard. Thank you. We’ll let ourselves out.’
As they drove through London, Von said, ‘What did you make of that?’
‘The autopsy results?’
‘Everything.’
‘The wig or toupee is the most significant thing. From what I remember of Hensbury, his hair is dark, going grey. And short. A long blond wig would disguise him perfectly.’
‘But?’ she said, sensing doubt in his voice.
‘It’s circumstantial. As is his left-handedness.’
‘We’re back to getting an ID, then. We need to find Kenny and this Jonathan Moudry.’
They were nearing the police station. She gazed out of the window at the lunchtime traffic. Would she see Kenny again? Probably not. What surprised her was how much pain the thought gave her.
Chapter 31
‘A wig?’
‘Or a toupee, Larry.’
‘It explains why we got no match with the lot at the Garrimont, ma’am. But who would wear a blond wig?’
‘My bet’s on Simon Hensbury.’ She chewed her thumb. ‘So has Zoë phoned in yet?’
‘She’s double-checked the airports and ferry ports.’
‘The Tunnel?’
He nodded slowly. ‘Nothing. And Downley hasn’t used his credit card recently.’
She turned away in frustration. They’d moved as quickly as they could, but Kenny had always had the advantage.
‘We’ve been trawling through the PNC,’ he said. ‘There’s no Jonathan Moudry with any priors. We tried all spelling variations of the name.’
She rubbed her eyes. ‘Public records, then?’
‘There’s only one Jonathan Moudry. He was born in Newcastle in 1965.’
‘The age is right,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Do we know where he is now?’
‘Vanished, ma’am. We’ve checked missing persons but he hasn’t turned up there, either.’
‘His parents still living in Newcastle?’
He consulted his notes. ‘Split up. Father left to work abroad. Mother, Janet Moudry, moved to London five years ago. We tracked her through her national insurance number, she’s been drawing her pension.’ He looked up. ‘We’ve got the address.’
‘Good work. We could visit Mrs Moudry now but let’s call it a day. You look as bushed as I feel.’
‘Just heard from the techs, boss,’ said Steve, coming in. He looked intently at Larry’s computer, even though it was showing the screensaver. ‘Everything’ll be ready by midday tomorrow. All we need now is for Hensbury to get in touch.’
And he will. She picked up her coat. He will.
The instant Von turned the key in the lock, she knew something was wrong.
She lowered her bag silently to the floor, and looked round the hall, trying to remember how she’d left it. The long drawer in the table was partly open, but it was always like that, the wood was warped. The coats on the pegs were in the same order. Nothing had been disturbed. Yet she knew someone had been in her flat. And perhaps still was.
Her heart hammered in her chest. Was it her imagination, or could she hear the gentle rise and fall of someone’s breathing?
She slid off her shoes and padded softly into the living room. It was empty. She glanced through the adjoining door into the kitchen, ready to make a run for it. It, too, was deserted. Back in the hall, she pushed open the door to the spare room. It was as she’d left it weeks ago. Her crime novels were stacked on the futon bed and in tottering piles on the floor. The French language books were on the table. She and Kenny had talked about buying a property in Brittany and spending weekends there. She’d persuaded him to join her in language classes. He’d dropped out, but she’d persevered, and even done the assignments.
She went slowly back into the hall. Her mobile rang, making her jump.
She pulled it from her bag. ‘Von Valenti.’
‘Simon here,’ came the smooth voice. ‘I got your message.’ A pause. ‘I’d love to meet up, Von. Are you free now, by any chance?’
She glanced at her watch. The techs were still wiring the room. ‘I’m afraid not, sir. I’m about to visit someone.’
‘Ah, I’m flying to Spain tomorrow night.’ A longer pause. ‘You couldn’t rearrange?’
‘Let me call you back in five minutes.’
‘Of course.’
She stood with the phone in her hand. Then she sank to the floor and put her head on her knees.
Five minutes later, she called him. ‘I was unable to rearrange, sir, but I’ve taken the liberty of
reserving a room for tomorrow afternoon. I thought, perhaps, we could have a late lunch, talk over the case, that sort of thing…’ She let her voice tail off.
A gentle laugh. ‘Same hotel?’
‘Same hotel.’
‘Perfect. My flight isn’t till eight. That gives us plenty of time, don’t you think?’
‘Plenty of time.’
‘I’ll be there at two.’
‘The room’s in my name, sir.’
A soft chuckle. ‘You know, you really will have to start calling me Simon.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She replaced the phone in her bag.
She was putting her shoes back on when she heard the sound. It came from the bedroom. Only then did she notice that the door was closed. She felt a tingling in her blood. That door was never closed, one of the hinges was working loose. Had Kenny returned? But why? Why had he gone into her bedroom and closed the door? What didn’t he want her to see?
Her stomach cramped with fear. The sound again, distinguishable now as a low moan. In silent terror she gripped the handle. Putting her weight against the door, she forced it open. ‘Kenny,’ she shouted, her voice breaking on the word.
The room was empty. And exactly as she’d left it, the bed unmade, her nightclothes scattered over the floor, the laddered tights crumpled into a ball.
Yet not exactly as she’d left it. The window was open. The sound had been the bamboo chimes, swaying in the breeze. But she’d shut the window before she left. Always did. It meant that he’d been here. He must have let himself in, heard her arrive, and slipped into the bedroom.
And listened to her conversation with Simon Hensbury.
He would know now that she intended to sleep with him. And had slept with him before.
With every sense numbed, she fell onto the bed and buried her face in the pillow. ‘Oh Kenny,’ she sobbed, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’
Too late – always too late – she recognised the depth of her feelings for him.