by Hania Allen
‘What did you do with the scissors, Chrissie?’ Von said.
‘They’re still in my tote bag. When I got home, I threw the bag into the back of the wardrobe and forgot about it.’
‘Why didn’t you ditch them? They link you to the murder.’
She looked up slowly. ‘I never thought I’d get caught.’
Von said nothing, waiting for her to finish.
‘I wiped everything I’d touched. Then I picked up the used condoms and shoved them into my bag. The last thing I did was to close the curtains.’
‘Why?’
‘I really don’t know. It seemed the right thing to do. After that, I crept out. The place was deserted.’ Her eyes were empty of expression. ‘Not a living soul saw me.’
The silence in the room was absolute.
Von leant over the machine. ‘Interview terminated at 1.58pm.’
Chapter 37
Von could tell from their faces that they’d heard everything.
Steve was staring open-mouthed. ‘Who’d have thought it? Our Jack turned out to be a Jill.’
‘A fascinating case,’ said Danni. ‘That physical transformation when Chrissie started speaking as Jonathan. I’ve seen only one other example.’
‘But how was it possible? Didn’t the operation change his voice?’
‘Jonathan had his gender reassignment op while still in his twenties, after the voice had broken. Although it’s possible to have the vocal cords tightened, he opted for vocal training to feminise the voice. Did you notice how Jonathan spoke in more of a monotone than Chrissie? One of the things you learn in voice therapy is to vary your pitch when you’re speaking as a woman.’
‘We interviewed Chrissie yesterday and confronted her about Jonathan,’ said Von. ‘Yet she spoke and behaved as she’s always done.’
‘Ah, but what did you talk about?’ Danni said, growing excited. ‘I’m betting it was nothing to do with the boys’ killings. It’s that that Chrissie Horowitz can’t face up to. It’s a type of denial. She can talk happily about Jonathan’s drug dealing, but not about his being a murderer.’
Steve ruffled his hair. ‘Do you think the jury will be swayed by any of this split personality identity disorder crap?’
‘Gender dysphoria, you mean,’ Danni said, eyeing him coldly. ‘It may seem like crap to you, but it would have felt very real to Jonathan. He would have been torn between his need to blind and his desire not to hurt.’ She turned to Von. ‘You once asked me what the killer’s state of mind was, and I said self-loathing. Once Jonathan had made up his mind to have sex with those boys, he would have been in a dark place, knowing what the outcome would be.’
‘I doubt a jury will have much sympathy,’ said Von. ‘The boys’ murders were pre-meditated. Chrissie admitted as much.’
‘There’s one thing I don’t get,’ said Steve. ‘Jonathan was a woman in a man’s body, right? So, why did he penetrate the boys?’
Danni didn’t answer immediately. ‘There was a conflict between his man’s body and the need to penetrate, and his woman’s psyche and the need to be penetrated. The needs of his man’s body won out. But penetration disgusted him, specially as he had to watch himself. It was his gender reassignment operation that reversed that.’ She hesitated. ‘The mirror is what threw me. I thought he used it to watch himself killing. In the end it was to watch himself having sex. It was unfortunate for Gilly and the others that they watched him too. I don’t know why I didn’t come to this conclusion earlier.’
‘If we’re making confessions, I was wrong as well,’ said Von. ‘I assumed he’d brought the dolls with him.’
‘An easy mistake to make. But I was right about one thing,’ Danni added gleefully.
‘Pray tell.’
‘Mr X and Mr Y. You were convinced that the same person killed Max Quincey and the rent boys. I was right. It was two different people.’
She nodded sourly. And she’ll dine out on this for months.
‘Well, I’d better get back to the Hall. There’s a riding gala on. I take it you’ll let me have access to Chrissie Horowitz for further interviews?’
Fodder for your next book, I’ll bet. ‘I expect so.’
‘Well, cheerie-bye, then.’ She blew the room a kiss, and left in a flurry of tweed and leather.
Larry watched her go, a wistful expression on his face. ‘What now, ma’am? Shall we break out the champagne?’ he added more cheerfully.
‘There’s a large number of arrests to be made,’ Von said, cuffing him playfully. ‘Once you’ve finished typing the warrants, you can go home. We’ll celebrate next week, that’s a promise.’
Steve was jiggling coins in his pocket. ‘We got the call a short time ago, boss. The Chief Super’s been detained. There’s some paperwork before we can have him extradited.’
‘If he’s under arrest, there’s no immediate rush.’ She lowered her voice so the others wouldn’t hear. ‘I thought you and I might celebrate at the Drunken Duck.’
He stiffened. ‘Best not. We need to get on with the warrants.’
She watched him join the others at the computers, conscious that what was broken between them couldn’t now be mended. She packed up the laptop wearily. Her report could be written at home.
She heard it as soon as she let herself into the flat: the steady beep of the answer machine. It could wait. She was loaded with bags. And she needed a drink. She kicked the door shut and let everything fall to the floor, swearing softly as she heard the thud of the laptop.
In the kitchen, she squatted beside the wine rack and pulled out the oldest bottle she had, a Reserve Shiraz, vintage 1992. She pulled the cork and left the bottle on the table to breathe. She ticked off mentally what still needed to be done. Any arrests that weren’t made today would be made tomorrow. She’d pulled half the Met off London’s golf courses to help with them. That wasn’t going to make her popular, but it hardly mattered now. Tomorrow, she’d make an appointment with the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, unless he made an appointment with her first. He’d have heard everything by now, the entire force was buzzing with it. You’ll never get beyond DCI, Von. The Met won’t forgive you for this. But that was no longer important. She’d made her collar. She’d finally found the murderer of Max Quincey.
She poured a large glass, savouring the rhythmic gurgle as the wine flowed from the bottle. That damned beep again. Better answer it, she wouldn’t enjoy the wine otherwise. She set down the glass and went into the living room.
If she hadn’t been looking in the direction of the phone, she wouldn’t have seen him. Kenny Downley was sitting in the high wing-backed chair, an expression of mild surprise on his face. His head was tilted away because the top of the chair had disappeared, along with the back of his head. Behind him, bits of upholstery, mingled with blood and shards of bone, were spattered across the sixties-style wallpaper.
On the floor between his feet was a handgun, which she only later recognised as his old army pistol.
Her legs buckled, and she sank to the floor. Unable to rise, she crawled to the companion chair and pulled herself onto it. She leant back, staring at him, her mind emptied of thought. When her senses returned, she was surprised at what came into her head first, that when you shoot yourself in the mouth with the gun pointed upwards, the top and back of your head disappear. If he’d kept it straight, the bullet would have gone through the brain stem, leaving the head intact. As an army man, he should have known that.
She became increasingly aware of the beep. He’d moved the phone to the little table between the chairs, and its light was flashing insistently.
With a trembling hand, she pressed Play.
His voice filled the room, sounding strange, distant.
‘Von. It’s me. I’m in your living room, calling from my mobile. I thought you might have been home today.’ A pause. ‘Maybe it’s just as well, although I wish I could have heard your voice one last time. I think we’ve said everything that needs to be said, though, hav
en’t we? But you need to understand one thing. Why I’m doing it. It’s for Georgie. You see, you said you were going to put her on the stand, make her testify. It would have destroyed her. She’s not strong, like you. And there’s the baby to think of.’ The voice became hoarse, urgent. ‘But you can’t make her testify if I’m not here, can you, love? You can’t bring a case against me now. Not if I’m dead. Oh, Von.’ A sob. ‘I want you to know that, whatever you think about me and Georgie, I’ve never stopped loving you.’
There was a click, and a soft female voice, ‘End of message.’
She sat motionless, his words carving her heart into tiny pieces. She reached across and pressed Delete, sending the message after him into oblivion. The Jack in the Box was sitting beside the phone. She’d never be certain why he’d brought it. Maybe he’d been on his way to make a delivery, or perhaps he’d wanted to present her with firm evidence so she wouldn’t involve Georgie. She unscrewed the base and the little packets spilt out onto the carpet. She reassembled the doll, her movements unhurried, and stood it beside the phone, pressing the box as she withdrew her hand. The doll’s head popped out, grinning, screaming ‘Jack-jack! Jack-jack!’
She gripped the arms of the chair and rocked gently, watching the doll’s head bob around on its spring.
Chapter 38
Deputy Assistant Commissioner Julian Somerville looked up as Von entered. Although this wasn’t her first time at New Scotland Yard, she felt apprehensive, especially in the presence of a man who’d become a legend in his lifetime for the unflinching suppression of corruption in the force.
Julian Somerville pushed the newspaper away, and looked her up and down slowly. ‘So you’re DCI Valenti.’
She stared into the hooded eyes. ‘You asked to see me, sir.’
‘You’ve ruffled a few feathers, Valenti.’ His tone was friendly. ‘But you were doing your job.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Is that, yes sir I’ve ruffled a few feathers, or, yes sir I was doing my job.’
‘Both, sir.’
‘So how did it feel?’ The corners of his lips twitched. ‘Bringing down the whole house of cards.’
She dredged up a smile. ‘Once it sank in, it was exhilarating.’
‘The question is, where do we go from here?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘By the end of the week, half the force will be behind bars.’
‘That’s not my department, sir,’ she said quietly.
He drew his brows together. ‘Perhaps I should ask, where do you go from here, Valenti.’
‘About that, sir, I’ve been giving it some thought.’ She stopped, not sure how to continue.
‘Come out with it. I’m a man given to plain speaking.’
‘I wish to tender my resignation.’
His expression didn’t change. ‘Has someone suggested you resign?’ he said in a soft voice. ‘If so, I’d like to know who.’
‘No-one, sir.’ She looked at the wall. ‘It’s just that, in my investigation, I didn’t always follow protocol, and mistakes were made. I didn’t call the drugs squad in, and I didn’t keep my superior officer informed. There was one time when I didn’t bring evidence to the immediate attention of my staff, because—’
He raised a hand. ‘I don’t want the details, Valenti,’ he said tiredly. He gazed at her without blinking. ‘So what’s the real reason you want to leave?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘I’m sick to the back teeth of all of you. And of this job.’
‘Now, that’s more like it,’ he said, nodding appreciatively.
He walked her to the door. ‘I understand you’ve suffered a bereavement, so I don’t expect an immediate answer. In fact, I don’t want you to say anything, I want you to listen.’ He paused just long enough for her to turn and look at him. ‘Take some time off, a fortnight, a month, whatever you think you may need. Recharge your batteries and then, and only then, think about it.’
‘Think about what, sir?’
‘I’m putting you up for Superintendent. You’ll be in charge at Clerkenwell. As it happens, there’s a vacancy.’ An amused look came into his eyes. ‘The present incumbent will soon be spending time at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’
‘I don’t need to take time off,’ she said firmly. ‘My answer will be the same.’
His eyes were steady. ‘Please just think about it.’
After a brief silence, she said, ‘Yes, sir.’
A large number of Kenny’s colleagues were gathered around the cleft in the ground which would be his final resting place. They stood silently under the white-blue sky, their heads bowed. The minister had left, and the gravediggers were standing watching a short way away. Somewhere, a groundsman was burning leaves, the crackling sound reaching them from the distance, and the air was sharp with the smell of smoke.
From the corner of her eye, Von saw Arabella Carrington amongst the mourners. As always, Arabella was dressed as though for a wedding. She glanced at Von, then nodded, smiling, one professional acknowledging another. Von nodded back, trying to reciprocate the smile, but Arabella had already turned away.
Steve was the only member of the force attending. He stood slightly back and to the side, as though he didn’t belong, his black coat taking the colour from his face. Von had exchanged only a few words with him since the inquest, but she was glad of his presence.
The voice came from her left. ‘Chief Inspector?’
Zack Lazarus was smiling hesitantly. He was in a brown jacket that was threatening to burst open.
‘Are you here for the funeral?’ she said in surprise.
He gestured to the middle distance. ‘Max Quincey’s.’
A group of people was standing listening to a man in a cassock. Von recognised Jools, and the other actors from the Garrimont. And the frail-looking woman. She was without the support of the Chief Super this time, but she stood straight, her head held high, finally able to bury her son.
‘I saw your car,’ said Zack, nodding at the police vehicle parked on the path. ‘Thought I’d come over. I heard something about—’ He looked at the coffin. ‘Your guy, wasn’t he? I’m dreadfully sorry.’
After the silence had gone on too long, Von said, ‘How are things going with the show? The cast and crew seem to be disappearing fast.’
He smiled wanly. ‘We’re surviving. Our cleaner, Mrs Marks, has taken on Rose Manning’s job. Not bad with clothes. Come into her element, you could say.’
‘What will happen to the Garrimont, now that Chrissie’s no longer running it?’
‘Dexter’s doing a fair job for now. Made a few changes, and for the better. He’s pretty clued up, I have to admit.’
‘Tell him to apply for the manager’s post when it comes up. He’ll be great.’ She paused. ‘I haven’t spoken out of turn, have I? Were you thinking of applying?’
‘Me? Lord no. Got other things to occupy me.’ He smiled. ‘Started an Open University course. I’ve a power of studying to do.’
She hesitated, then opened her bag and fished out a piece of paper. She scribbled on it and handed it to him. ‘Here, take this.’
‘An address?’ He looked up, puzzled.
‘The person living there needs you. And I think you need him. He goes by the name of Frankie Lowry, now.’
The expression on his face changed, and his eyes filmed over. He nodded, unable to speak.
‘Good luck with your course, Zack,’ she said warmly.
He nodded again, then walked slowly away, staring at the paper in his hand.
Steve had been watching. He stepped forward. ‘Talking of goodbyes, boss, I’ll say mine now. By the way, I hear you’re up for Superintendent.’
‘I’m not taking it. I’m done with policing.’
‘You’re not serious, surely.’
She looked into his eyes, only then appreciating what he’d said. ‘What’s this about goodbyes?’
‘I’ve applied for a transfer back.’
‘To
Glasgow?’ she said faintly.
‘I think it’s best.’ He looked around the cemetery. ‘I’ve never really been at home in London.’
‘Are you taking your barmaid with you?’ she said, trying to inject a note of cheer into her voice. ‘It’s Annie, isn’t it?’
He looked at his feet. ‘It was never Annie.’
‘Steve—’
‘I’ve been meaning to give you this.’ He fumbled in his pocket. ‘We’ve just got it back from Forensics.’
She took the plastic bag. ‘It’s Tubby’s,’ she said, the word catching in her throat.
There was little left of the spectacles, only a small glass shard stuck to the frame.
‘It’ll need to be produced at Hensbury’s trial,’ Steve said. ‘It’s evidence that Tubby was in his lock-up. I thought you’d like to see it.’
She nodded, unable to find the words.
‘Did you hear we finally picked up Malkie and his pal? We have them all now.’ He was staring into the distance. ‘Anyway, good luck with whatever you decide to do, Von,’ he mumbled.
Before she could reply, he turned and walked briskly away. She watched him go, realising with deep regret that a chapter of her life had closed.
There was a touch at her arm. ‘Chief Inspector, we’re off to the pub for a few drinks. For Kenny. Will you join us?’
‘Thanks, Miss Carrington, but I need to get on. Have a glass for me, won’t you?’
Arabella nodded, clearly pleased she’d been let off the hook.
The crowd of journalists dispersed and drifted away. One of the group remained behind. A woman in a severe black suit and low-brimmed hat was watching her. From the swell of the jacket, she looked about four months pregnant. Something in the way she held her head made Von’s heart miss a beat.