Jack in the Box (7 page)

‘It’s part of a line of questioning.’ Von nodded at the green book. ‘Perhaps you’d like to consult your diary.’

‘I don’t write that sort of thing down. I think I was here from about seven onwards. It may have been earlier. I can’t remember, exactly.’

‘Could someone have been in your office without your knowledge?’

‘Only Mrs Marks, but she’s away by four.’

‘What were you doing?’ said Steve.

‘If you must know, I was looking through the expenses for the Quincey Players’ summer tour.’

‘If I’ve understood you correctly, you had nothing to do with that tour,’ Von said.

‘I’m good with figures, and Maxie isn’t. He asked me to run my eye over them.’

‘Someone phoned Max Quincey from this office at 6.10pm on the night he was murdered.’

A look of relief crossed her face. ‘Yes, that was me. I found a discrepancy in the accounts, and called Maxie. He came over and we went through them together.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said sheepishly. ‘I forgot.’

Steve’s voice was friendly. ‘A strange thing to forget, that you asked a man who has just been murdered to come over.’

‘You’ve been firing all these questions at me, I was confused. Maxie arrived, we looked at the ledger, and he left.’

‘And that would have been when?’ said Von.

She frowned. ‘About 7.30pm. After he left I stayed and caught up on paperwork.’

Von nodded at the ancient PC on the desk. ‘Did you use your computer?’

‘When I said paperwork, I meant paperwork. I’ve only just started getting everything computerised.’

‘What sort of paperwork?’

‘Letters mainly. We’re running an appeal. The theatre’s losing money hand over fist.’ She motioned to the pile on her desk. ‘Correspondence with benefactors. Take a look, if you like.’

‘Did you ever visit Max Quincey at his digs, Chrissie?’ Von said, watching her closely.

‘Never. Why would I?’

‘You said you got on well. It’s not an unreasonable question.’

She sneered. ‘Getting past that shrew of a landlady is a major hurdle, and not one I’m prepared to tackle.’

‘You’ve met her, then?’

‘I’ve told you I haven’t.’

‘I’m wondering how you know she’s a shrew.’

‘Maxie told me about her. Now, if there’s nothing else, I really do have to get on.’

‘You’ve been most helpful, Chrissie. Perhaps you could take us to the front entrance? Unfortunately, we didn’t leave a trail of coloured beads.’

She got to her feet, smiling warmly. ‘This way.’

In the foyer, Von said, ‘If you can think of anything else that
might help us, Chrissie, please do get in touch.’

‘I will.’ She turned to Steve. ‘Goodbye, Steve.’ She threw him a final lingering glance before making for the stairs.

Von was studying Steve over the top of a super-sized sandwich, one of the Drunken Duck’s specialities.

‘We’d have got the truth if I’d left you alone with her,’ she said.

‘I don’t know what you mean, boss.’

‘Don’t give me that look. I could see what was going on,
Steve
.’

‘Och, she’s not my type. All fur coat and nae knickers, that one.’

She smiled. ‘I thought blondes
were
your type. What colour hair does Annie have?’

‘Dark.’ He looked away. ‘Like yours.’

She laid her sandwich on the plate, and wiped her fingers. ‘Okay, let’s review where we are. So far, the last sighting of Max Quincey was by Chrissie Horowitz, an hour or so before he was killed. She mentioned someone called Gillanders, who was in the original production. The name rings a bell.’

‘He’s one of Mrs Deacon’s lodgers.’

‘He’s next on our list, then.’

‘Where the hell’s my scampi and chips?’ Steve muttered. ‘Can I have some of your sandwich? My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.’

She pushed the plate towards him. ‘Here, have the rest.’

‘That phone call Chrissie made just after six was interesting, boss. We had to worm that out of her.’

‘Ah, but it’s not the only interesting phone call made the day Max died.’ She pulled a sheaf of papers from her bag. ‘I’ve been looking through his mobile records. Just after 10.00am, Max made a call to Directory Enquiries. It was the last call
he ever made from his mobile, and I’m sure it’s significant.’ She scanned the pages. ‘But look, look at this, Steve. Chrissie Horowitz phoned him, not just after 6.00pm on the 12th, but several times since he arrived on September 1st.’ She drew out Chrissie’s business card. ‘And he’s been phoning her mobile and office number too. They were in touch almost every other day. Apart from the calls he made to Andolini’s Pizza Palace and the Jaipur Indian Takeaway on Pentonville Road, most of his calls involved Chrissie.’

‘That’s a hell of a lot of errors in his ledgers,’ Steve said with his mouth full.

‘Yeah, I didn’t buy that story any more than you did.’

‘You know what was the final nail in the coffin? The shrew of a landlady she claimed not to have met.’

The scampi arrived. Von sneaked a chip and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘All the phone calls between them were a couple of minutes long.’

‘They were setting up meetings.’

‘Okay, let’s assume Chrissie did visit Max at his digs. She knows he’s been murdered and lies about visiting him. A natural reaction.’

‘But we’ve no reason to think she killed him. Where’s the motive?’

‘Why would she visit him in the first place, Steve? They weren’t having sex, Max was gay.’

‘So why the endless phone calls? What was going on between them?’

‘Just friends? Having drinks together?’

He looked doubtful.

She took another chip. ‘Even if we discovered she’d been in his room, what of it? It’s circumstantial evidence. We need to find the man he had sex with.’

‘Or the boy.’ He opened the jar of tomato sauce.

‘The report from Forensics should be waiting at the nick.’ She glanced at the plate of scampi. ‘Come on, shove that into your pocket and let’s go.’

‘But I’ve ordered rhubarb crumble,’ he said in a stricken voice.

‘Forget it. That report may provide us with our motive. And, once we have it, we’ll be able to put our knickers on the outside.’

He looked at her appreciatively. ‘You first, boss.’

As they hailed a cab, Von thought about their interview with Chrissie Horowitz. Chrissie had been economical with the truth, to put it mildly. It seemed an unlikely pairing but she was definitely involved with Max Quincey. Were they in a scam together? Serious enough to have got him killed? And, if so, was she next?

Chapter 9

Still no Forensics?’ Von brought her hand down hard on the table. ‘So get on to them. Use some initiative.’

‘We’ve rung them several times, ma’am,’ one of the detectives said unhappily. ‘The report won’t be ready till tomorrow at the earliest.’

‘Call them first thing.’ She turned to the room. ‘Right, there’s something we need to chase up. Quincey made a call to Directory Enquiries the morning of the day he was killed. Did anyone check whether he was put straight through?’

‘I did,’ Zoë said. ‘There’s no record of Directory Enquiries connecting him.’

‘It couldn’t have been to get Chrissie’s number, boss. Both hers were stored in his mobile. If he phoned Directory Enquiries, it was to get another number.’

Von massaged her temples. ‘Yet he made no other calls from his mobile that day. To all intents and purposes he was incommunicado till he was killed.’

‘The press have been asking to see you, ma’am,’ Zoë said. ‘They want a statement from the senior investigating. I referred them to the Chief Super, as you requested.’

Larry looked up. ‘Talking of press releases, some nutter came in to confess to the Jack in the Box murders.’

‘You’re sure he was a nutter?’ Von said quickly.

He grinned. ‘He would have been seven in 1985, ma’am.’

This was par for the course. Every murder investigation had
its quota of crank calls. ‘Okay, Steve and I are going hunting,’ she said. ‘Michael Gillanders knew Max Quincey in ’85. That makes him number one on my list of most-wanted.’

Steve steered the Toyota out of the station car park. Late afternoon light shone half-heartedly over the rooftops as they turned into Farringdon Road, and there was a taste of rain in the air.

‘I could have had that rhubarb crumble after all, boss.’

‘Stop acting like a big girl,’ Von said good-naturedly. ‘I’ll buy you dinner some time.’

He smiled. ‘Best offer I’ve had all day.’

‘Don’t give me that. Chrissie Horowitz’s home phone number was the best offer you’ve had all day.’

‘Boss!’

She glanced at him. He was trying his best to look shocked, but failing.

The young man was removing Jack in the Box dolls from a large crate and stacking them on the tables in the foyer. ‘I’m afraid he’s not here,’ he said. ‘Have you tried his digs?’

Von was having difficulty concealing her irritation. ‘There was no reply from his digs. As you’re opening tomorrow, I assumed he’d be here rehearsing.’

‘Not him. He’s always telling us he knows the part like the back of his hand.’

Brilliant. Gillanders has gone to ground. And Steve isn’t letting me forget his rhubarb crumble
.

‘You could try Rose Manning,’ the young man was saying. ‘Wardrobe mistress. She might know where he is.’

‘Where can we find her?’

‘In the costumes room, giving the clothes a final press.’ He motioned towards the stairs. ‘The ceiling’s a bit low down there, so watch yourselves.’

The dimly lit costumes room, deep in the basement, was the size of a small warehouse. Von peered through the gloom. There seemed to be nothing but long racks of clothes. The strong smell of mothballs, mingled with cigarette smoke, hung in the air.

Steve nudged her. ‘Boss. See this?’

Inside the door, illuminated by the light from the corridor, was a cluster of large packing cases.

She bent over them. ‘Yes, the knots. They look like the ones round Max’s wrists.’

‘Can I help you?’ The voice was harsh, grating.

‘We’re looking for Rose Manning,’ she said, straightening quickly.

‘I’m Rose,’ the disembodied voice said. ‘And who may you be?’

She spoke into the darkness. ‘Police officers.’

From the back of the room, a tall thin woman emerged. She came slowly towards them, pushing through the racks and sending up faint clouds of dust. She stopped under a hanging lamp. Her hair was short, coloured with henna, and so badly permed it was like wire. The light from the lamp filtered through it, transforming it into a three-dimensional orange halo.

‘I’ll need to see some identification. Hold on, I’ll put the main lights on.’ A defensive note crept into the woman’s voice. ‘I’ve been told to save on electricity.’

She reached behind Von and flicked a switch, flooding the room with strong white light. As she stepped past, Von caught the sickly smell of cheap perfume. Carnation, an old woman’s scent.

‘As I said, some identification, please.’ The woman leant against the wall and brought a cigarette to her lips. Her nails were long and sharp, and painted in a blood-red varnish.

She gave their warrant cards only a cursory glance. Her clear blue eyes bored into Von’s. Her face was a smoker’s, heavily
lined, the skin sallow. Like many women in her fifties she’d applied too much powder, and it had settled into her wrinkles and on the hairs above her lip. Her finely-plucked eyebrows had been pencilled in perfect arches, giving her a look of constant surprise.

‘Mrs Manning,’ Von said, ‘we’re looking for Michael Gillanders.’

‘It’s Miss.’

‘One of the workmen told us you might know where we can find him.’

Rose dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out with her toe. ‘I’ve no idea why he said that, I’m sure. I’m not his keeper.’

Jesus, how hard is it to give a straight answer?
‘Do you know where he’s likely to be?’

‘This is about poor Mr Quincey, isn’t it?’ She closed her eyes and tears coursed down her face, leaving wet lines in her powdered cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, I need to sit down. Come through to my work area, I’ve some chairs there.’ She turned away, clutching at her pearls.

The back of the warehouse was like a small sitting room, with a sofa, a table, and two wooden chairs. Against the wall was an ancient foot-operated Singer sewing machine and, beside it, an ironing board. An industrial-strength iron sat at the side, steaming gently. The presence of an ancient Grundig television set in the corner, and a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream on the table, bore testament to the fact that not all Rose Manning’s working hours were spent working.

Rose sank into the sofa and wiped her eyes with a patterned handkerchief. ‘Mr Quincey was such a lovely man, a real gentleman.’

‘How well did you know him?’ said Von.

‘We go back a long way, we do. I knew Mr Quincey since he first came to this theatre, long before he formed the
Quincey Players.’ There was pride in her voice. ‘I worked here permanently then. In charge of all this. My empire, it was. They used to say the Garrimont had the best wardrobe mistress in London.’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘I had a system. I could find a costume in less than fifteen seconds flat, I could.’

She disappeared into the labyrinth of clothes, returning a few seconds later with a long black dress. She laid it on the table lovingly. ‘Bombazine. From our production of Lady Windermere’s Fan. You don’t see it much these days.’ She nodded towards the clothes lying on the ironing board. ‘But that’s my stuff now. And what’s in those packing cases. I was about to start pressing the costumes when you arrived,’ she added in a pained voice.

‘We’ll try not to keep you long, Miss Manning. So, when did you first meet Mr Quincey?’

‘Lord, now you’re asking. When the play ran here first.’

‘Jack in the Box?’

‘Can’t remember the year, though.’

‘’85.’

‘If you say so,’ she sniffed.

She seemed disinclined to continue, more from apathy than a genuine reticence to talk about the past. ‘Mr Quincey was the director, wasn’t he?’ Von prompted.

A light came into her eyes. ‘After the play ended he set up the business and went on the road. He asked me to leave the Garrimont and join him.’ Her expression softened. ‘Rosie, he said, you’re the best. I can’t do it without you. That’s what he called me, Rosie. Course I went. I mean, I couldn’t leave him in the lurch, could I?’

‘You were here as wardrobe mistress in 1985?’ said Steve.

‘I’ve just said so, haven’t I?’

‘Then you’ll remember the Jack in the Box murders,’ Von said quietly.

Her hands flew to her chest and she clutched at the rope of pearls. ‘Those boys,’ she breathed. ‘Of course I remember.’

‘Max Quincey was a suspect.’

‘He never did it, he was innocent. He couldn’t have killed those boys. He didn’t have a harmful bone in his body.’ Her voice broke. ‘It was a vicious slander, that’s what it was. A wicked thing to say.’

‘Why do you think he was a suspect, Miss Manning?’

‘He was fingered, that’s what he was,’ she spat out. ‘He was seen at the Duke, talking to young boys. And he always had a doll with him.’ She nodded towards the sewing machine. Beside it, on the floor, stood a Jack in the Box, already popped. ‘I asked him why he carried them around. Good for luck, Rosie, and good for business, he used to say. He was trying to publicise the show, you see. Lord knows, he didn’t need to. After the first murder we were sold out, right to the last day, we were.’ She smoothed her skirt, running her fingers over the pleats. ‘Everyone knew he liked little boys. But that wasn’t his fault, it’s the way he was made. That detective, what was his name, Harrington, he didn’t like men who did, well, you know what I mean. Anyway, he had to drop the charges in the end. No evidence, you see.’ She jabbed a finger at Von. ‘That boy that survived, he listened to a tape of Mr Quincey’s voice. Said it definitely wasn’t him.’

Von was impressed. If Rose could recall details like this after fifteen years, she had an excellent memory. ‘Who else was here back then, Miss Manning, that’s still here now?’

‘Just myself and Mr Quincey.’

‘Miss Horowitz told us Michael Gillanders was also here.’

‘What would she know, she wasn’t around then. But she happens to be right. Michael Gillanders
was
in the play when it first ran. A minor part.’ Her mouth twisted into an expression of distaste. ‘If you ask me, he should have stayed with it. His
acting skills leave a lot to be desired. Mr Mediocrity, that’s who he is. Can’t understand why Mr Quincey gave him the star role, Jack the Lad.’

‘Jack the Lad?’ said Steve.

She fixed him with her steely gaze. ‘The name of the character. I take it you don’t know the play.’

‘We’ve got tickets for opening night,’ said Von. ‘So what sort of a person is Michael Gillanders?’ She smiled conspiratorially, hoping Rose would take her into her confidence. ‘Apart from being a bad actor.’

Rose sighed heavily. ‘I really can’t think why Mr Quincey ever took him on tour. I asked him once and he said, Keep your friends close, Rosie, but your enemies closer. Says it all.’

‘No love lost between them, then?’ said Steve.

She threw her head back and laughed. As she drew in her breath, the laugh turned into a hacking cough. ‘No-one likes Gillanders,’ she wheezed, ‘specially the cast. Don’t take my word for it, ask them. He’s always trying to spike their performances. Makes him look so much better, you see. But then, if you can’t act…’ She wiped her eyes. ‘Gillanders told me once he wanted to be in films, in a Hollywood movie. You wouldn’t believe he fancies himself as a great romantic lead. I could just see it now: From Here to Obscurity.’

Von ran a hand across her mouth, trying not to laugh. She didn’t dare look at Steve.

‘Mr Quincey got lots of placings on the tour, he did,’ Rose was saying. ‘We went all over Britain. And the cast loved him. He was a brilliant director.’ Her eyes were glistening. ‘I used to sneak in and watch the rehearsals. Mr Quincey never directed from the seats. He stood on the stage, close to the actors. I can see him now, in his cashmere shawl. He’d wear it hanging from his elbows, like a lady’s wrap. He had such style. The actors were like his family, he once told me. He gave them so much support
whenever Gillanders was doing his thing.’

‘Doing his thing?’ said Steve.

‘Ruining their performances, I’ve just told you.’ She glared at him. ‘Do keep up. You’re not half as quick as she is,’ she said, indicating Von.

‘Why do you think Michael Gillanders stayed with the Players, Miss Manning?’ Von said. ‘From what you’ve told us, he didn’t seem happy.’

‘He wanted to take over running the Quincey Players and get all the money for himself. That was his big ambition. Plain for all to see, it was.’

‘Do you think he could have harmed Mr Quincey?’

‘Course he could,’ she said, almost to herself. She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Yes, I think he could have done him.’

‘But why wait till now?’ said Steve. ‘Why wait fifteen years?’

Her jaw dropped. ‘Where
did
they find you? Look, I’d have thought that was obvious.’

‘Not to me,’ he said, smiling faintly.

‘Gillanders would be a suspect, wouldn’t he, if he did it on the tour. Better to wait till they were back here.’ She took his silence for incomprehension. ‘There’d be loads of people to come under suspicion, wouldn’t there? Half the regulars at the Duke, I should imagine. That Detective Harriman really didn’t do his job there either, did he?’

‘Why the Duke?’ said Von.

‘They didn’t like Mr Quincey. That landlord was always giving him the eye. That’s why—’ She stopped, as though she’d said too much.

‘That’s why what?’ Von said quickly.

She hesitated. ‘That’s why he kept himself to himself.’

She’s lying. She was going to say something else
. But Von knew better than to persist when someone clammed up. There were other ways of obtaining information. She decided to change
tack. ‘Miss Manning, did you ever visit Max Quincey in his lodgings?’

Rose drew herself up. ‘Our relationship’ – she accented the word – ‘was strictly professional. An unmarried lady would never visit a gentleman in his rooms.’

‘Even one who’s gay?’ said Steve.

She stiffened. ‘Whatever his persuasion, he was still a single gentleman.’

Von jerked her head towards the back of the room. ‘You said those packing cases travel with you. The knots look complicated. Did you tie them?’

She seemed mildly surprised. ‘Zack Lazarus showed us all how to tie them years ago. He’s the lighting manager. Good at knots, he is. It looks difficult but it’s easy once you know how.’

‘Why not use simple knots?’