Jack in the Box (10 page)

‘All the cast will be there. I want to see what sort of a dynamic there is. With luck, we’ll learn something useful about Max.’ She sipped her vodka. ‘Anyway, I thought you wanted your canapés.’

They stood with their drinks until the bell. ‘First bell, boss.’ He jotted the time in his notebook. ‘9.15pm on the dot. The interval’s twenty minutes.’

They returned to the balcony. After the second bell, the curtain rose suddenly, catching out some of the dawdlers.

Millie and the detective were standing where they’d been at the close of the first half. Jack was nowhere to be seen. While Millie busied herself in the kitchen, the detective took the opportunity to snoop around the bedroom. He found Jack
hiding in the wardrobe.

Then the fun began. Unwilling to confess she had a lover, Millie introduced Jack as her husband. But then Sebastian arrived unexpectedly. Spinning him a yarn to explain the presence of the detective, Millie persuaded him to hide in a large blanket box, telling the detective that the mystery caller was a debt collector, arrived to extort money from her husband. Fearful that he himself might be taken for Sebastian, the detective hid under the bed. The rest of the play was a wild romp consisting of disguises, chases, and near-miss discoveries. Eventually, however, the game was up. The detective (now minus his clothes and wearing Millie’s dressing gown) realised he’d been duped, and Jack was apprehended. Sebastian, seeing the doll in the bedroom, concluded Millie must have a secret lover. In the final scene, when Sebastian said to the detective (still wearing Millie’s clothes), ‘Well, if it wasn’t you in my wife’s bedroom last night, who was it?’, the doll popped out of its box and screeched, ‘Jack-jack! Jack-jack!’ The audience shrieked with laughter. Jack the Lad, suitably crestfallen, lifted the doll, unscrewed the base, and a large wad of banknotes fell out.

As the curtain came down to ‘Sex Bomb’, deafening applause filled the auditorium. The curtain rose and the six actors came onto the stage. Michael Gillanders, still in pink chiffon, clasped his colleagues’ hands and bowed deeply.

‘It was good,’ said Von.

‘Aye, can’t deny it. Specially the lass who played Millie. I may bring Annie tomorrow night and actually watch it.’

‘You think it’s Annie’s thing?’ she said, her eyes still on Gillanders.

‘After Swan Lake, anything would be her thing.’ He handed Von her bag. ‘You were right about the lighting, though. And the music. It came on only at the start and end.’

As they left their seats, she peered up the raked auditorium
to the lighting box. For a second, she thought she saw a head bob inside.

‘You go on to the reception, Steve. I’ll catch you there.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To poke around upstairs.’

‘Shouldn’t I come with you?’

‘I won’t be long. I need you at the reception.’ She patted his arm. ‘Try to draw the cast out. But don’t introduce yourself as a copper. Socialise. Drink a lot.’

‘At this rate I’ll turn into an alkie.’

She threw him an affectionate look. ‘What’s the problem? You’re a Scotsman.’

She made her way up the rows to a door at the back. The sign on it read: Staff Only. The door would lead either out of the auditorium, or into a cupboard. She glanced around quickly, then leant against it, turning the handle. The door opened onto a short corridor with a flight of stairs at either end. From the sound of voices and laughter, she guessed that the stairs to the left led to the foyer. She turned right.

As she reached the end of the corridor, she saw the door with the word, Lighting, in faded red paint. She knocked gently. There was no reply. She gripped the handle and twisted firmly. The door was locked.

The stairs descended into darkness. She pulled a torch from her bag and started down, switching it on when it became too dim to see. The last few steps ended abruptly at a fire door. She played the beam over it, examining it closely. It was a door that opened from the inside, but needed a key to come in from the street. There was no sign of an alarm, so she pushed it open and poked her head out. The side alley was littered with styrofoam cups and half-eaten burgers. The stench of urine hit her nostrils.

She shut the door and made her way up the stairs slowly, doing the calculation. From the lighting box, it would take
a minute to reach the alley. And less than five minutes to Shaftesbury Avenue and Piccadilly Circus. And from the tube station, to the rest of London.

She was so deep in thought that she didn’t see him.

He was standing at the top of the stairs, his bulk eclipsing the light from the ceiling lamp. Her torch was shining directly into his eyes. She switched it off quickly.

‘Who the devil are you?’ The voice was gruff.

She retrieved her card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Valenti.’

‘Where’s your warrant?’

‘This is my warrant card.’ She continued to walk up the stairs.

‘I mean your warrant to search this place. I know the law.’

‘I don’t need one. I’m here at the invitation of the manager.’

‘Not in this corridor, you’re not.’

She reached the top of the stairs and stood so she could see him. He was short for a man, and solidly built, like a bulldog. His head was closely shaven. Although his complexion was not spotty, his face was scarred with childhood eczema. She put him in his late thirties.

‘Are you Zack Lazarus?’ she said.

He looked surprised. ‘How did you know my name?’

‘Rose Manning mentioned you’d helped her with her knots.’

‘You’ve been speaking to Rose about me?’

‘We interviewed her as part of our enquiries.’ When there was no response, she added, ‘We’re conducting an investigation into the murder of Max Quincey.’

‘Saw that in the papers.’ After a pause, he said, ‘Best thing that ever happened, if you ask me.’

‘I will ask you, Mr Lazarus. But not here and now.’ She nodded towards the corridor. ‘I take it that leads straight down to the foyer?’

‘Yeah. Three flights.’

‘Thank you. Good night, then.’

She walked down the corridor, resisting the urge to look back. She knew he’d be watching.

Chapter 12

The foyer was swarming – even more people seemed to want to buy the dolls now that they’d seen the play – and Von had to push her way through the corridor into the hospitality suite. She stood on tip-toe, searching the room.

Steve was near the drinks tables, talking to the actress who’d played Millie. She’d changed into a little black dress and wound her hair into a knot which sat at the nape of her neck. Steve seemed to be enjoying himself. He was leaning into her, his face close to hers.

He glanced up and, seeing Von approach, beckoned to her. ‘Over here, boss,’ he shouted above the noise.

Von wriggled through the throng, knocking someone’s glass and showering liquid over his dinner jacket. ‘Sorry,’ she said, cringing, ‘I have a habit of doing that.’

The man muttered a curse and, excusing himself to his companions, made for the door.

Steve was smiling broadly. ‘Boss, meet Jools Lamberton. Jools, my boss, Von Valenti.’

Good boy, he’s remembered. Only names. No mention of what we are
. ‘Pleased to meet you, Jools,’ she said.

‘Likewise, darling.’ Jools’s eyes were a vacant blue under her false lashes. She hadn’t removed her stage make-up, a mistake as it made her look more tired than glamorous.

‘From now on I’ll only ever be able to see you as Millie Davenshawe,’ Von simpered. ‘That part was made for you.’ She
waited until she had the woman’s full attention, or as much of it as she ever granted to anyone. ‘But you’re too young to have played it when it first ran.’

Jools looked puzzled.

‘In 1985,’ Von said.

‘Oh no, did it really run then?’ She drew her brows together, caking her make-up into fine lines. ‘Bother. It’s bad luck to star in anything other than a new play. The way Max talked, I’d assumed tonight was the world premiere.’

‘Max Quincey?’

She turned her glass in her hands. ‘Such a lovely man. I thought so, anyway.’

‘You sound as though there were people who didn’t.’

‘Well someone killed him.’ She smiled maliciously. ‘The police haven’t a scooby. They probably think it was one of the cast. But, between you and me, none of the men here has two balls to rub together. And they’re so brainless, they wouldn’t know how to murder anyone.’ She leant forward conspiratorially. ‘No, I have a
theory
.’

‘Do tell,’ Von said, making a show of being riveted.

‘A debt collector killed him.’

She struggled to keep the disappointment from her voice. ‘Like in the play?’

‘Sounds a bit of a co-incidence, but everyone knew Max was in hock.’

‘But didn’t he own the Quincey Players?’

‘Well, not outright,’ Jools said, sounding unsure. ‘I think he owned it jointly with that brother of his. He’s some big detective or other. An Inspector.’

‘Gosh, did Max tell you that?’

‘He confided to me once that his brother had provided the start-up money. That would have meant he part owned it, wouldn’t it? And it must have been the lion’s share.’

‘Might he just have put up the money and left Max to it?’ said Steve.

‘Oh, come on, I know all about detectives. I’ve read the novels. They’re down there with tax inspectors and traffic wardens. They’re always either on the take or running some sort of racket.’ She gulped the last of her champagne. ‘Anyway, enough of this. Tell me more about yourself, Von. What’s it like being a taxidermist?’

As Von opened her mouth to speak, Jools shrieked, ‘Oh, there’s Michael.’ She thrust her glass into Steve’s hand. ‘Sorry, darlings, got to go. Photo call and all that. But don’t go away, this won’t take long.’

They watched Jools stumble across the floor.

‘A taxidermist?’ said Von.

‘She asked me what I did, and I had to say something.’

‘And if Chrissie or Gillanders had come along?’

‘I’d have rescued the situation,’ he said confidently.

‘Have you talked with anyone else, Steve, or was it just Jools?’

He seemed keen to change the subject. He motioned with his chin. ‘Take a look at Gillanders. Have you ever seen such a get-up? I think I preferred him in pink chiffon.’

She peered through the melee. Michael Gillanders, sans nightie and in an ochre-coloured satin suit, was standing at the door. His black shirt was open to the waist, revealing hairless tanned skin. A gold chain hung round his neck. With him was the young man who’d played the detective’s assistant. Gillanders was speaking to him earnestly.

‘What do you think he’s saying, boss?’

‘He’ll be telling the assistant how he played the part in 1985.’

Chrissie arrived with a tray of canapés. ‘Ah, there you are. So tell me, what did you think of the show?’

‘Marvellous,’ said Von. ‘So good that Steve’s thinking of
seeing it again.’

‘We’re very lucky with the cast,’ she said, watching Steve taking as many canapés as he could fit into his hand. ‘Now, you’ll really have to excuse me. I’ve been standing up for four hours. I need a long bath with expensive-smelling stuff in it. I now know what poor Maxie went through, night after night, standing in the wings making sure everything went smoothly. Any ideas I might have entertained of becoming a director have gone straight out of the window.’ She signalled to a waiter, who took the empty tray. ‘I’m really glad you enjoyed the performance. It would have meant so much to Maxie, knowing how his work has been appreciated.’

They watched her leave, moving effortlessly through the crowd, pausing to exchange the odd word with her guests.

‘Okay, Steve, what do you think of Jools’s theory that Max was killed by a debt collector?’

‘Pish.’

‘My sentiments too. A debt collector would have put a bullet in his head.’

‘But the Chief Super underwriting the Players, boss?’ He rubbed his cheek. ‘That’s something new.’

And something he neglected to disclose
.

‘So what does it tell us?’ Steve said.

‘It tells us that nothing in this case is what it seems.’

‘I knew I should have stayed in Glasgow. Everything there is exactly what it seems.’ He lowered his voice. ‘So what did you find in your little recce upstairs?’

‘A lighting box. And a flight of stairs leading down to a fire door, and an alley.’ She looked meaningfully at him. ‘Shaftesbury Avenue’s at the other end.’

‘Well?’

‘Well, Sherlock, you yourself pointed out that the lighting didn’t change, and there was music only at the start and end.’

‘Sex Bomb.’

‘It’s the lighting manager who controls that.’

‘Aye, boss. And so?’

‘And so,’ she said with exaggerated patience, ‘once he’s set the lighting level and played the music, the lighting manager isn’t needed till right at the end. He could have sneaked down those stairs into the alley, and reached Piccadilly Circus station in a matter of minutes. We’ve been knocking ourselves out recording the timings – okay,
you’ve
been knocking yourself out recording the timings – and missed the simple fact that whoever killed the rent boys may not have been one of the cast, but a member of the crew.’

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘So did you find the lighting manager?’

‘We spoke briefly. At some point we’ll need to interview him properly.’

‘Did he have long blond hair?’

‘He didn’t have any hair at all.’

The taxi drew up a little way from her flat. As Steve paid the driver, Von levered herself out of the car and stretched. She was dog-tired. What she needed was a lie-in. Fat chance.

Despite the lateness of the hour, the night was warm and there was a sharp smell in the air. She glanced up at the brooding sky. A thunderstorm was building.

They reached Steve’s Nissan Primera. He paused, looking at the ground. ‘I’ll walk you to your door, boss.’

She hesitated. Kenny might be home, watching from the bedroom window. Oh, sod Kenny. She was growing tired of his pettiness. She slipped her arm through Steve’s, and they strolled down the street, seeming in no hurry to get anywhere.

‘What made you stay in Whitechapel, boss? Not that there’s anything wrong with it,’ he added hastily.

‘Jack the Ripper country, you mean?’

‘And the Elephant Man.’

‘I like the fact it’s working-class, Steve. It’s what I am. As a girl, I played on these pavements. My Dad used to work in a pub in Commercial Road.’

‘Your dad was a publican?’ He rubbed the underside of his jaw. ‘What did he think of you joining the Met, then?’

‘I think he was just relieved I didn’t end up on the streets like his sister. It was my Mum who pushed me, though, she wanted me to go to college. It was a while before she appreciated that joining the police was as good as.’

He laughed. ‘Never heard that before. Most people think coppers are the lowest form of life. So where are your folks now? Still here?’

‘Nah. Retired to a cottage in Yorkshire.’ A cottage she and her brothers had helped them buy.

She’d been lucky with her parents, she knew that. They were devoted to each other, and had provided a loving home for herself and her brothers. Not for the first time, she appreciated how different her upbringing had been from Kenny’s. His father had beaten up his mother so many times she was constantly in hospital. Kenny had been raised by his aunt, a decent God-fearing woman, who tried to instil her values into him. But her words had fallen on deaf ears. He left school early, and earned his living shifting hot goods for a friend. Finally, he joined the army. Where his aunt had failed, the army had been the making of him. When his time was up, he returned to live with his aunt and worked as editor for a church magazine. He was good at sniffing out stories. And good with words. When his aunt suggested he submit articles to a newspaper, he jumped at the chance. A short while later, he was taken on by The Mirror, and it was just a matter of time before he got a break and moved to The Guardian. But Kenny had always made his own luck.

They’d reached her flat, the ground floor of a terraced house conversion whose Victorian façade had been reconstructed after the damage suffered in the Blitz. She’d bought the flat before the area’s property boom. Despite the influx of migrant groups, or perhaps because of it, Whitechapel was becoming the place to live and house prices were rising. The large number of Bangladeshis, in particular, were the reason so many Indian restaurants had opened.

She motioned to the building. ‘I’d have preferred a top-floor flat. There’s a cracking view from up there. The Royal London Hospital is just visible from the roof.’

He smiled. ‘Handy.’

‘And my brothers have their garage a couple of streets away.’

‘Handier.’

She saw it before he did. The striped box, sitting on the steps.

‘Someone’s left me a present,’ she said.

She reached over, but he gripped her hand. ‘Don’t touch it.’ He removed a pair of latex gloves from his jacket.

‘You think it’s booby-trapped?’ she said, laughing nervously.

He bent and popped the lid. The doll sprang out, screaming, ‘Jack-jack! Jack-jack!’

‘Christ Almighty.’ He put himself between her and the doll. ‘Don’t look at it, boss.’

But it was too late. She pushed him aside and stared at the smeared eyes and the string round the neck, with its fancy knot. And the paper, taped to the doll, with the words ‘DCI Valenti’.

She’d seen it many times before but it still surprised her, how blood looks black in the dark.

‘I’m fine, Steve. Stop fussing.’

They were sitting on the sofa.

‘You shouldn’t be on your own, boss. Not tonight.’

‘I’ll be okay,’ she said weakly. ‘Kenny will be here soon.’

‘Then I’ll wait until he arrives.’

‘I’d rather you took that thing to Forensics.’

‘They’re closed at this hour.’

‘You know what I mean. Just take it away.’ She glared at him. ‘All right, if you’re not going to obey a direct order, you can at least make me another drink.’

‘You’re cold.’ He took her hands and rubbed them briskly.

She pulled them away and hauled herself off the sofa. ‘Christ, why do I have to do everything myself?’ She snatched the bottle of whisky from the sideboard. ‘Do you want some?’ she barked.

He looked at her in silence.

She returned to the sofa and poured.

‘Why don’t you let me do it, boss?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because most of it’s going on the carpet.’

She slammed the bottle down. ‘Fine. You do it, then.’

‘Look, your nerves are shot, you can’t stay here. I’ll take you down to the station.’

‘Are you going to lock me up?’

‘I didn’t mean the cells. There’s a bed there you can use.’

‘I see what you’re doing, Steve, and I appreciate your concern, but I’m staying here.’

‘Then I’ll sleep on the couch.’

He’s not going to leave. Just my luck to have an awkward bugger for a partner
. ‘Right, I’ll get the spare duvet,’ she said. ‘Now pour me that fucking drink.’

They sat on the sofa, wrapped in the double duvet, and drank whisky till the bottle was empty. Her eyes closed and her head fell onto his shoulder. Neither heard the front door open and close.

‘What the hell’s going on?’

At the sound of the voice, she woke with a start. She pushed
the duvet away and struggled groggily off the sofa. ‘Kenny, where have you been? I’ve been waiting ages for you.’

Kenny picked up the bottle. ‘I can see how you’ve been waiting. Been having quite a party.’

Steve got to his feet. ‘Look, I know how this must seem, but—’

‘And you can bugger off, mate,’ Kenny said, poking him in the chest.

‘For God’s sake, Kenny,’ she said, grabbing his arm. ‘I asked Steve to wait with me. Something horrible’s happened. Someone left a Jack in the Box outside the flat. There’s blood on the eyes, and string round its neck.’

He stared at her. ‘Where is it?’

‘In the boot of Steve’s car. He’s taking it to Forensics.’

‘Can I see it?’

‘I don’t want it contaminated,’ said Steve.

He nodded. ‘I owe you an apology,’ he said curtly.

‘Forget it.’ Steve turned to Von. ‘I’ll be on my way, boss.’ He made for the door.

‘Steve,’ she called after him, ‘wait.’