Jack in the Box

by Hania Allen

  The smile faded. ‘I have no son.’

  ‘Are you saying Jonathan’s no longer alive?’

  ‘I’m saying I never had a son.’

  ‘This is an address in the Jesmond area of Newcastle.’ Von held out the copy of Jonathan Moudry’s birth certificate. ‘Someone called Janet Moudry, with the same national insurance number as yours, lived at that address and gave birth to a son, Jonathan, on July 3rd 1965.’ She paused. ‘Are you denying that was you?’

  The woman’s face crumpled and she slumped back in the chair. ‘Yes, that was me.’

  ‘It’s vital we find him, Mrs Moudry. Do you know where he is?’

  She shook her head.

  Von struggled to keep the irritation from her voice. ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘I can’t remember, Miss Valenti. That’s the truth.’

  ‘A year ago? Ten years ago?’

  ‘Longer than that.’

  ‘And where did you see him?’

  ‘He visited me here.’ She closed her eyes. ‘He said he was going away for a long time and wouldn’t be in touch regularly, and that I wasn’t to worry about him.’

  ‘He can’t have visited you here,’ Von said annoyed by such an obvious lie. ‘You’ve only lived here five years.’

  The woman’s eyes flew open. She seemed frozen with terror.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Moudry, we know more about you than you think. Now, I suggest you stop lying to us.’

  ‘I don’t know where’ – she faltered – ‘Jonathan is now.’

  It was time to get heavy. Von glanced at Steve.

  ‘Mrs Moudry,’ he said softly, ‘are you aware that we can arrest you for obstruction?’

  The woman bent over her hands, interleaving the fingers, saying nothing. Her hair was pulled back so tightly that its beige-whiteness blended with the colour of her face, making it impossible to tell where hair ended and skin began.

  Von studied the bowed head. The threat of being arrested didn’t seem to bother Janet Moudry. Whatever secret she was hiding, she was prepared to guard fiercely. If they wanted to get at the truth, they’d have to try a different approach.

  ‘Do you have a recent photo of Jonathan?’ she said encouragingly.

  The woman seemed to perk up. ‘I have ones of him as a child.’

  ‘Could I have a look at them?’

  She slid a large box out from beneath the dresser. Kneeling on the floor, she removed the lid. Inside were a jumble of items: photographs, birthday cards, children’s books. She pulled out a bundle of photos and searched through them. ‘This is Jo when he was twelve,’ she said, pride in her voice.

  The photo, taken in close-up, was of a slim-framed boy with brown hair and a shy smile. The eyes were like his mother’s.

  ‘What a lovely boy,’ Von said, smiling. ‘Do you have any of him older?’

  She delved around in the box, removing most of the items before finding what she was looking for. ‘This is him taken on the last day of school. He was sixteen.’

  It was the same boy, but the face was thinner, the hair cropped close to the head. Something stirred deep in Von’s memory, but refused to surface. ‘What was he like?’ she said. ‘What did he want to be when he grew up?’

  ‘He had his heart set on being an actor, ever since he was small. Always clowning around, putting on funny voices. Had me and his dad in stitches.’ Her face became animated. ‘When he was older, he took part in school plays, drama was his favourite subject. His dad wanted him to be something big in the city, but that wasn’t for Jo.’

  ‘And when he left school?’

  ‘He went to a college in Newcastle and did drama.’

  Her eyes didn’t leave Janet Moudry’s face. ‘Did he act when he came to London?’

  ‘He managed to get a few small roles.’ She was sorting through the photographs.

  ‘Did you ever see him perform?’

  She shook her head, her attention still on her sorting.

  ‘Which shows was he in?’ said Steve suddenly. ‘Did he send you their reviews?’

  She lifted her eyes to his. ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t you think that strange?’ he said.

  ‘We’d lost touch by then,’ she said cagily. She placed the photos in the box and gathered up the other objects.

  Von glanced at Steve. He, too, was unable to comprehend the sudden change. It was as though a switch had been thrown: as soon as London was mentioned, Janet Moudry stopped wanting to talk about her son’s acting.

  Von picked up a children’s book. The title took up most of the cover: The Giant Who Sailed to the Moon. ‘Was this Jo’s?’ she said.

  Janet Moudry’s eyes widened as she saw the book. She made as if to snatch it from Von but thought better of it. She sat back on her heels.

  There’s something here she doesn’t want me to see. Von glanced at the inscription: To Jo, Happy Birthday from your Aunt Stella. She flicked through the pages, looking for a clue as to what had unsettled Janet Moudry. Then she saw the author’s name – Stella Horowitz.

  Stella Horowitz. Aunt Stella.

  ‘What is your maiden name, Mrs Moudry?’

  When the reply came, it was almost a whisper. ‘Horowitz.’

  ‘So Stella Horowitz is your sister?’

  She nodded. ‘She’s a writer of children’s books.’

  Von’s heart was thumping painfully. She skipped to the inside back cover. There was a photo of the author, a pretty woman in her mid-twenties. In other circumstances, she might have missed the resemblance but, now she knew the family connection, it was obvious. Particularly the eyes.

  ‘Do you know a Chrissie Horowitz, Mrs Moudry?’

  The voice was choked with fear. ‘I’ve never heard of her.’

  ‘I think you have. She’s the manager at the Garrimont theatre.’

  ‘I don’t know her,’ the woman blurted. She was trembling so violently that she nearly fell forward.

  Steve put an arm round her shoulders and helped her into the armchair.

  ‘Who is she?’ Von said. ‘Who is Chrissie?’ She hesitated. ‘Jo’s sister?’

  ‘I had only one child.’

  She glanced at the publication date, then again at the photograph of Stella Horowitz. Stella would be in her late fifties by now. If Jo didn’t have a sister, there could be only one explanation: Chrissie must be Stella Horowitz’s daughter.

  And, therefore, Jonathan Moudry’s cousin.

  Jonathan and Chrissie. Cousins. The last thing she’d have expected. Her mind was in turmoil. Jonathan was a distributor, so had Chrissie been involved in the drug ring with him? And after he left London, she stayed in the ring, carrying on the business with Max. It would explain the phone calls.

  Steve was a step ahead. ‘If Chrissie was in on the scam, boss, she’d probably be able to identify Hensbury.’

  ‘And might also know where Jonathan is. Two positive IDs are better than one.’

  He was on his feet. ‘If we get a move on, we can pick her up at the Garrimont.’

  They hadn’t noticed that Janet Moudry was talking.

  ‘I always knew things were different with Jo. It was the dressing-up, you see. And the roles he liked to play.’ She was staring into space, seemingly oblivious to their presence. ‘He didn’t mix with the other children at school. I thought it was on account of the acting, his classmates were into football and stuff like that.’ She picked up the knitting and began to wind the wool round a finger. ‘I caught him one day. He’d been in my bedroom, trying on my clothes.’ She stopped suddenly and stared at Von in bewilderment, as though seeking an explanation.

  ‘How old was he then, Mrs Moudry?’ Von said softly.

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘And he was wearing your dress?’

  ‘Not just the dress. He had on stockings and shoes. And he was putting on my lipstick. I asked him if he was taking part in a play. He just laughed and said, yes Ma, I’m in the Christmas panto, playing the part of a woman.’

&n
bsp; She kept her eyes on Janet Moudry’s. ‘Did you see him in the panto?’

  ‘He was Widow Twanky.’ She smiled. ‘He was good, too. When he did “There’s a Hole in my Bucket”, he brought the house down.’ Her smile died. ‘But the clothes he wore as Widow Twanky weren’t like my clothes. I had nice clothes then, elegant clothes.’

  ‘And did you see him in your clothes again?’

  ‘He was sixteen. It was his last term at school. I thought he was out of the house – it was a Saturday – so I went into his bedroom to check whether he had anything needing washed. He wasn’t good about bringing his stuff down.’ She was unravelling the knitting now. ‘But he hadn’t gone out. He was lying on the bed, wearing my underwear.’ She flushed, pressing the points of the needles into her fingers. ‘He was wearing my bra and pants. He had his hand inside.’

  ‘Did he realise you were there?’ Von said, taking the needles from her gently.

  ‘His eyes were closed. He hadn’t heard me come in. I tiptoed out.’

  ‘Did you talk to him about it?’

  ‘Never.’ She stared at Von, her eyes burning. ‘And I never told his father. He wouldn’t have understood. Men don’t, do they?’

  ‘What happened after Jo left home?’

  ‘He went to college. He came back for Christmas and his birthday. And for my birthday.’ She smiled proudly. ‘He always came home for that. But then he moved to London and I hardly saw him.’ She gazed wistfully at Von. ‘I can tell you have children, Miss Valenti, so you’ll know what it’s like when they leave home and discover life. You have to let them go. You have to let them find their own path.’

  ‘And what path did Jo find?’ Von said, her heart aching for the woman.

  ‘I saw him less and less. He changed, withdrew into himself. But he must have been doing well at the acting because he was making good money. Used to send some home, to help me out. Walter had left me by then, you see.’ Her lips trembled. ‘Then, one day, he up and told me he was going to South America. To have it done.’ She clawed at her skirt. ‘The operation.’

  ‘And have you seen him since he returned?’

  ‘A few times.’ She lifted her gaze to Von’s. ‘You know where he is now, don’t you, Miss Valenti?’

  ‘I think I do.’ She got to her feet. ‘Thank you, Mrs Moudry.’

  She paused at the door. ‘What colour hair did Jo have? I mean, as a teenager. The early photos show him with brown hair.’

  ‘It was the same shade as his Aunt Stella’s, but a bit darker.’

  ‘And after the operation?’

  ‘He went blonde. Told me he goes to the top hairdresser in London now.’

  ‘And has his hair dyed?’

  ‘Not just dyed. He has extensions put in.’ Janet Moudry continued to scratch at her skirt. ‘I looked glamorous once, with all that big hair.’ She raised her eyes defiantly. ‘I looked like that once.’

  Von and Steve were in the Toyota, heading east. The Saturday traffic was clogging the roads, and they were moving at little more than a crawl. The early evening sun was setting behind the buildings.

  ‘Okay, boss, all I got from that is that Chrissie Horowitz is Jonathan Moudry’s cousin. And he’s changed his appearance.’

  ‘It’s not that Chrissie Horowitz is related to Jonathan Moudry. Chrissie Horowitz is Jonathan Moudry.’

  He turned to stare at her.

  ‘He began as a transvestite,’ she said, ‘but the operation his mother was referring to was a sex change. He became a woman, and took his mother’s maiden name, Horowitz.’

  ‘You’re saying that Chrissie Horowitz was once a man?’ he breathed.

  ‘It’s what her mother’s saying.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said faintly.

  ‘Why? Because she’s so sexy? Think about it, Steve. That husky voice is unusual in a woman. Her sex-change operation was post-puberty, remember. And those slim hips.’ She smiled. ‘Whatever she paid the surgeons, she got her money’s worth.’

  ‘And to think I found her attractive.’

  ‘Well, why not? You’re not the first man to fancy a transsexual.’

  He seemed anxious to move off the topic. ‘Janet Moudry told us Jonathan was making good money, enough to send home.’

  ‘Won’t have been from bit-part acting, that’s for sure. But we’ve been wrong about one thing, Steve.’

  ‘Oh? Only one?’

  ‘It might not have been Hensbury who deposited that blond hair in Max’s room.’

  ‘How do you make that out? We took a sample of Chrissie’s, and Forensics confirmed the hairs weren’t hers.’

  ‘But Chrissie wore hair extensions. They can fall out or be pulled out.’ She gave her head a small shake. ‘We’ve been so hung up on wigs and toupees, we’ve lost sight of the fact that good quality hair extensions can also be made from Asian hair. Chrissie is now back in the frame for having visited Max in his room on the day he died.’

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ he said in exasperation. ‘The sample she gave us didn’t match what was in the room.’

  ‘That’s because she didn’t give us a sample from the hair extensions. The hair she gave us was her own. She plucked it from her fringe.’

  Chapter 33

  The theatre was crowded.

  Steve pushed through the foyer. ‘Standing room only, boss. We’ve come at a bad time, the play’s about to start.’

  Dexter was selling dolls at the table. Von tried to catch his eye but he was preoccupied with the credit-card machine, his head bent in concentration.

  ‘There’s the bell,’ she said. ‘It’s only five minutes to curtain up.’

  There was a sudden flurry of people buying dolls, then the foyer was empty. Dexter flopped into a chair, and rotated his shoulders.

  ‘Hello, Dexter,’ she said.

  He sprang to his feet. ‘Chief Inspector.’ He stared at her bruises. ‘Good grief, what happened to your neck?’

  ‘You should see the other guy. Look, Dexter, can you do something for me? We need to find Chrissie.’

  ‘She’ll be in the wings. But the play’s starting.’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘If it’s something that can wait till the interval, I’d be delighted to offer you a glass of champagne.’

  ‘Tempting, but can you take us to her, please? Now?’

  He hesitated for only a second. ‘Follow me.’

  He led them through the archway and down the stairs. They heard the opening bars of ‘Sex Bomb’. As they passed the dressing rooms, Tom Jones grew louder.

  Chrissie, in a kingfisher-blue suit, was standing at the side of the stage, her back to them. Jools fidgeted beside her in her pink dressing gown. In the wings opposite, the actress playing the postwoman waited for her entrance.

  ‘Shall I stay, Chief Inspector?’ said Dexter.

  ‘We’ll need you to show us the way back.’

  Jools whispered something to Chrissie, then slipped onto the stage, pink chiffon streaming behind her.

  Von stepped forward. ‘Hello, Chrissie,’ she said, keeping her voice low.

  Chrissie jumped, and put her hand over her chest in an exaggerated manner. ‘I’m afraid my nerves are bad these days.’ She simpered at Steve, her expression turning to one of confusion as he looked away.

  ‘You need to come with us to the station,’ said Von.

  ‘That’s out of the question. I can’t possibly leave, the play’s begun.’

  ‘I’ll have to insist, Chrissie.’ She took a step closer. ‘Or should I say, Jonathan.’

  The colour drained from Chrissie’s face and, for a second, Von thought she might collapse. She nodded to Steve, who gripped her by the arm and led her into the corridor. Dexter was watching the scene, his mouth slack.

  ‘Can you take us back, Dexter?’ Von said.

  He seemed to remember himself. ‘It’s this way,’ he said, his eyes on Chrissie.

  At the front door, they watched Steve bundle Chrissie into the Toyota.

  ‘Wh
at has she done, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘I can’t answer that.’

  He ran his tongue over his lips. ‘Who’s going to stand in for her? What about the prompting?’

  ‘Sorry to land you with a problem, but I’m sure the cast know the play back to front.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘This is your big moment, Dexter. Think of the show, and step up to the mark.’ She smiled. ‘You’re having greatness thrust upon you.’

  Chrissie was sitting in the interview room, glaring at Von and Steve.

  ‘I don’t know what this is about, but you’d better have a good reason for dragging me away in the middle of a show.’ She tossed her hair back. ‘So you found out I was once Jonathan Moudry. What of it? Changing sex isn’t a crime.’

  ‘Drug dealing is, though. As is wasting police time.’ Von’s voice hardened. ‘When Inspector English interviewed you earlier this month, you presented him with nothing but lies.’

  ‘Such as?’ Chrissie said defiantly.

  ‘You said you’d known Max Quincey for less than three weeks, you never visited him in his digs, you weren’t in London in 1985.’ She paused. ‘Shall I go on?’

  Chrissie played with her nails, not looking up.

  ‘We have a witness who knew you when you were Jonathan Moudry. He’s told us you were working with him and Max Quincey in a drug ring operating out of the Iron Duke.’

  Her head shot up. ‘A witness?’ Her voice faltered. ‘Who?’

  ‘Kenny Downley. He’s made a full confession, naming you as accomplice. And he’ll testify to that in a court of law.’ Provided we can find him.

  Chrissie looked away, her shoulders sagging.

  ‘We’re going to charge you with drug trafficking. You’re doing yourself no favours by not co-operating.’ After a pause, she added, ‘Do you want to call your solicitor?’

  ‘What for?’ Chrissie said harshly. ‘A solicitor isn’t going to help me, is he?’

  ‘Do you want to tell us about it?’

  ‘You seem to know everything already.’

  ‘We’ll talk in a bit about 1985, Miss Horowitz. I want to know first what happened on September 12th, the day Max Quincey died.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can tell you.’

  ‘Why did you visit Max?’