Chapter 17
Steve was watching Von. She was standing at the wooden-framed office mirror, adjusting her scarf.
‘Do I have to go, boss? It’ll be heaving with Max’s poncey friends.’
She looked at his reflection. ‘Who else might attend a memorial service for a murdered man, Steve?’
‘Aye, right enough.’ He paused. ‘The murderer.’
The service was in Kensington, at St Mary Abbots, an impressive Victorian Gothic church boasting the tallest spire in London. Von could still remember seeing on television the thousands of votive candles lit to commemorate the Princess of Wales, possibly the church’s most famous parishioner.
The building was already packed, despite their early arrival. The altar under the five stained-glass windows was a mass of lilies, starkly white against the heavy stone. From her position at the back, Von could smell the sweet spicy scent.
‘Better split up, Steve. You take the left and I’ll sit here. Keep your eyes peeled for anything unusual.’ She squeezed herself into the back row.
Richard Quincey was sitting at the front, his shoulders straight. Beside him was a small woman in a fur coat and velour cloche hat. A few rows behind, the cast and crew of the Garrimont were spread across several pews. Chrissie Horowitz, in a black suit, was wearing a hat so enormous that the people on either side had to lean away. Behind her was Michael Gillanders
in a black woollen coat, with Dexter on one side, and the actor who played the detective’s assistant on the other. Jools, the detective, and the actress who’d played the postwoman were sitting behind them. Rose Manning, wearing a brown coat, was kneeling at the back, her orange hair springing out from under her black beret. Her head was bent, and she was clutching a string of pink rosary beads.
Von scanned the congregation, suddenly struck by the realisation that the person who’d left the blood-smeared doll outside her flat was likely to be present. And also knew that she’d be there. The thought chilled her.
The service began with ‘The King Of Love My Shepherd Is’. She knew the words, so was able to keep her eyes on the congregation. Richard Quincey didn’t sing, but kept an arm round his mother.
It was as the minister was starting his eulogy that they heard the commotion. Turning, Von caught sight of Arabella Carrington. She hadn’t seen the Daily Mail’s crime reporter since the Chief Super’s press conference, but she remembered their little sparring match. Arabella stopped briefly at the door, then made for the nave, her silver ankle boots ringing on the flagstones. With her was a man holding a Canon digital camera.
The duty policeman sprang forward and gripped her arm. ‘You can’t come in here, madam. This is a private service.’
‘Let go of me,’ she snapped. ‘You’ve no right to detain us.’
Von slipped out of the pew. ‘He has every right, Miss Carrington. You and your companion will have to leave.’
‘Chief Inspector Valenti.’ Arabella’s eyes slid down Von’s black trouser suit. ‘So, Richard Quincey has marshalled his big guns. Well, we’re not leaving, and you can’t make us.’ She nodded to the photographer who’d been watching the scene calmly.
As he lifted the Canon, Von stepped forward smartly and
snatched it from his hands. She opened the case and removed the memory card. Smiling at Arabella, she let it drop to the floor and splintered it under her heel. ‘Oops, sorry about that,’ she said.
Arabella went purple. ‘You did that deliberately,’ she said, not bothering to keep her voice down. ‘You’ve destroyed private property.’
Von, in turn, let her eyes run down Arabella’s suit. It was shocking pink with tiny white dots.
The stupid cow hasn’t even bothered to dress appropriately
. ‘Send the bill to Clerkenwell CID, Miss Carrington,’ she said quietly. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, we’re in the middle of a service.’
She nodded to the constable, who’d kept his grip on Arabella’s arm. He marched to the door, dragging her behind him. The photographer followed. As he passed Von, he gave her a sly wink.
She resumed her seat. From the pew in front, a woman wearing a black Paddington Bear hat turned to face her.
‘She’ll think twice before she does that again,’ Mrs Deacon said, with a look of satisfaction.
But Von wasn’t listening. She was looking at the frail elderly woman in the fur coat and cloche hat, standing in the nave staring at her, eyes brimming with unshed tears.
The service was over and people were leaving. Most went by the back, but some were pushing through the door at the side of the altar.
Steve joined Von. ‘What was that rammy about, boss?’
‘Gatecrashers. Arabella Carrington and one of her hobbits.’
‘They don’t give up. What were they expecting? People are grieving.’
‘The Chief Super’s not been lavish with his press releases. And when he is, he says the wrong things.’ Her eyes wandered
over the congregation. ‘Did you see anything of interest, Steve?’
‘Loads of people I didn’t know, but no-one who behaved suspiciously.’
‘Let’s get back to the nick, then.’
They were nearly through the door when she caught sight of him. He was in a black coat, standing in front of the altar, listening to the minister. He nodded, in apparent agreement at what was being said. A minute later, he disappeared behind the display of lilies. He would have heard the altercation at the back and seen her. Yet he’d made no attempt to find her afterwards. She was surprised she hadn’t picked him out earlier. But that was understandable. She didn’t know Kenny owned a black coat.
As Von and Steve entered the incident room, everyone leapt to their feet.
‘I want to tell her,’ said Larry, grinning. ‘Hold the front page, ma’am,’ he added, before the others could speak, ‘the Quincey Players are “The Quincey Players Limited”.’
‘A
registered
company?’ Von said in surprise.
‘We couldn’t find the books so Zoë contacted Companies House. There are two partners. Max Quincey was one of them.’
‘Let me guess,’ she said, smiling craftily. ‘The other is Richard Quincey.’
‘The other is Michael Gillanders,’ said Zoë.
Michael Gillanders. The last name she had expected. She let out a breath. ‘Okay, Zoë, give me the bottom line.’
‘The Players were set up in 1985 with £20,000 provided by Richard Quincey. Gillanders didn’t put in anything.’
‘And Max made him a partner? For nothing?’
‘The devil’s in the detail, ma’am. The Quincey Players is essentially an investment company. Gillanders made all the investment decisions. Max was just a sleeping partner.’
‘How much is the company worth now?’
‘In excess of £500,000.’ Her statement silenced the room. ‘And here’s the crucial clause. On the death of either partner, the surviving partner inherits the company in its entirety.’
Von’s mind was racing. ‘If we’re looking for a motive for Gillanders to murder Max, this is a perfect worked example. He can now get his hands on half a million.’ She frowned. ‘Max was a partner in a successful company, so how come he was in so much debt?’
‘He couldn’t use the Player’s funds, ma’am, or offer the company as surety for a bank loan, not without consent from Gillanders. I suspect the Players were to provide for him and Gillanders in their old age. Nothing was ever withdrawn.’
‘There’s something else,’ Larry said. ‘We’ve had a closer look at Max’s bank statements. Every so often, money comes into his account as cash. Always a few hundred at a time.’
‘Regular deposits?’
‘No. Nor is it the same amount each time. But it’s been going on for the last fifteen years.’
‘Could his brother be helping him out?’ Steve said.
‘If he is, I’d be surprised if he gives him cash,’ said Von. ‘He’s more likely to pay by cheque or bank transfer.’
‘Not if he wants to keep it quiet, ma’am,’ said Zoë.
‘If it’s coming out of his account, it can be audited and he’ll know that.’
Which is why he won’t lie to me when I ask him
. ‘But Michael Gillanders, a partner. I’d have guessed it was Chrissie before I guessed it was him.’
‘There’s nothing equivalent coming out of her account,’ said Zoë, ‘so Max wasn’t getting the cash from her. Her bank manager told us there’s nothing unusual or irregular in her finances.’
Von paced the floor. ‘If Chrissie was in a scam with Max, she may not have put the cash through her account. She may have
laundered it.’ She slammed her hand against the wall. ‘Chrissie was up to something with him. Something she’s hidden well.’
‘The Garrimont’s books are kosher too, ma’am,’ Zoë said quietly.
‘And Gillanders?’ said Steve. ‘He’ll be back at the theatre.’
‘We now have our first solid motive for the murder of Max Quincey. I think it’s high time we had another chat with the gentleman. Bring him in.’
‘If he protests?’
‘Caution him.’
Chapter 18
‘He’s in room two, ma’am,’ the constable said.
Von looked up from her desk. ‘And DI English?’
‘Waiting for you there.’
Steve was outside the interview room, watching Michael Gillanders through the glass. He straightened as Von approached.
‘Any trouble?’ she said.
‘He complained all the way to the car. I thought he was going to do a runner so I had to strongarm him. I tried to be discreet but Rose Manning heard the rumpus and came to the foyer to investigate.’ He looked at his feet. ‘She saw me cuff him and caution him. It’ll be all round the theatre by now.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Let’s go.’
As they entered, Gillanders rose abruptly. ‘I really must protest,’ he blurted.
She nodded to the constable, who stepped back. ‘Please sit down, Mr Gillanders,’ she said. ‘And stay seated.’ She switched on the recorder. ‘Interview commencing at 5.45pm, Thursday, 21st September, 2000. Officers present are Detective Chief Inspector Yvonne Valenti, and Detective Inspector Steven English.’ She turned to Gillanders. ‘Would you like your solicitor here, Mr Gillanders?’
‘How long will that take?’
‘Depends how far he has to travel.’
He sighed theatrically. ‘Then let’s just get on with it.’
‘For the tape, Mr Gillanders has waived his right to a solicitor. He is interviewed under caution, on tape, and without his solicitor present.’ She opened her file. ‘Mr Gillanders, you are a co-director of the Quincey Players Limited. Is that correct?’ She watched the passage of emotions on his face. ‘Please answer the question. For the tape, Mr Gillanders nodded.’ She paused. ‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’
‘Why should I? It can’t possibly have any relevance to Max’s murder.’
She kept her tone professional. ‘On Max Quincey’s death, you became sole owner of a company worth over £500,000 which you can now liquidate in its entirety, something you couldn’t do when Max Quincey was alive. And you say there’s no relevance?’
‘You’re not suggesting I’d kill Max for £500,000?’
‘It’s been done before.’
‘What pathetic people you deal with. I wouldn’t be a copper for any money.’ He pulled out a packet of Hoyo de Monterrey. ‘May I smoke?’
‘You may not.’
He shrugged, and threw the packet onto the table. ‘Is this all you’ve got, Chief Inspector? It’s just that the show—’
‘Mr Gillanders, I put it to you that you killed Max Quincey. You had motive and you had opportunity. You waited until the play, Jack in the Box, was running in London again and deliberately chose that period to murder him using the same modus operandi as in the Jack in the Box murders of 1985. You knew those murders were unsolved and you wanted us to believe that the man who killed those boys, also killed Max Quincey.’
He swallowed hard. ‘I told you where I was when Max was murdered. At the Odeon in Leicester Square.’
‘You were nowhere near Leicester Square, Mr Gillanders.
You were in your room at Mrs Deacon’s. It happens to be directly beneath Max Quincey’s. You heard Max Quincey’s lover leaving his room, and you waited till he passed through your corridor and downstairs. Then you crept up to Max’s room, struck him with the bedside lamp, tied him to the bedframe and strangled him. To throw us off the scent and make us think we were looking for the Jack in the Box murderer, you slashed his eyes and did the same to the doll.’
The colour left his face. ‘That’s a vicious lie.’
She nodded at the packet of cigarillos. ‘That’s the same brand Max Quincey smoked. A co-incidence? I think not. There are, after all, hundreds of brands. Did you visit Max Quincey in his room, Mr Gillanders?’ She brought her face close to his. ‘Did you sit with him, trying to drum up the courage to kill him, calming your nerves by smoking?’
‘You’re clutching at straws, Chief Inspector. I detect the whiff of desperation.’
‘There’s another facet we should explore. Perhaps Max Quincey wasn’t your first victim. In the 1985 production of Jack in the Box, you took the role of the detective’s assistant.’
‘Where’s this going?’ he said slowly.
‘It was a role which allowed you to leave the stage twenty minutes after the play had started. That gave you ample time to slip away from the Garrimont, murder Gilly McIlvanny and Charlo Heggarty, and return in time for curtain call.’ She clasped her hands loosely on the table. ‘What do you say to that, Mr Gillanders?’
He was staring at her, his eyes wild. He seemed to be having difficulty breathing.
She made her voice deliberately harsh. ‘Did you also murder Liam Mahoney and attack Manny Newman?’
‘By God, you’re wrong about this. All of it.’
‘According to your statement, you had no alibi for those two
attacks.’
He was shaking with rage now. ‘That doesn’t mean I murdered them. Why in God’s name would I?’
‘You tell me, Mr Gillanders.’
‘I didn’t know them. I didn’t know anything about them,’ he shouted. ‘They were forced onto the streets, poor devils.’ His voice broke, and tears trickled down his cheeks. He pulled a brightly-coloured handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Where’s your evidence for these preposterous allegations?’ he said, his hands trembling.
He knows we’ve got nothing
. She waited until he’d finished wiping his face. ‘We’d like your fingerprints and a sample of hair.’
‘To eliminate me from your enquiries, I suppose,’ he said listlessly, pocketing the handkerchief. ‘And if I refuse?’
‘We can get a court order.’
‘And if we do it now?’
‘We’ll get them to Forensics today. If you’ve nothing to worry about, it will put you in the clear.’
He looked at her hopefully. ‘If I agree, you’ll let me go now?’
‘A car will take you back to the theatre.’
‘Then for goodness’ sake, let’s get on with it.’ His eyes held hers. ‘You’re looking in the wrong place, Chief Inspector.’
‘Where should I be looking?’
‘The Iron Duke. Where else?’
‘Why the Iron Duke?’
He looked bewildered. ‘Because it’s where the boys worked, of course.’
After a silence, she said, ‘Interview terminated at 6.15pm.’ She switched off the machine, and nodded to the constable. He ushered Gillanders out.
‘Worth a try, boss. Sometimes they’re jolted into confessing.’ Steve jerked his head at Gillanders’s chair. ‘I didn’t think he’d
break down like that, though. Could he have been acting?’
‘This time, I don’t think so. He didn’t behave like a guilty man. That state of shock came from somewhere else.’
‘Aye, it was mention of the rent boys.’
‘He was understandably rattled when we accused him of murdering Max, but he went to pieces when I started to talk about the boys.’ She removed the tape and dropped it into a plastic bag. ‘Can you make sure Danni hears this?’
‘We have it now, boss. Prints, and hair. I’m betting Forensics will get a match.’
She looked at him. ‘And I’m betting they won’t.’
Von was lying on the sofa when Kenny arrived. She heard the key in the lock, the heavy footsteps, the pause in the hall as he wiped his feet. Sounds she’d heard a hundred times before. And a hundred times before, she’d waited for him in eager anticipation. But this time was different.
‘You’re home, love,’ he said cheerily. He threw his jacket onto the sofa and nuzzled her neck. ‘If I’d known, I’d have brought a takeaway.’
‘Why wouldn’t I be here, Kenny? It’s nearly midnight.’
‘When you’re deep in a case, you work late.’ He fetched a beer from the kitchen, then flopped into an armchair.
She studied his face. ‘So how deep in do you think I am?’
‘I read the papers.’
‘And what have you learnt from the press releases?’
‘Just that you’re no further forward in catching Max’s killer.’
Interesting how he refers to him by his first name. As though he knew him
. ‘Did you think you’d learn more by going to his memorial service this afternoon?’ she said. She felt rather than saw him freeze. ‘Before you deny it, Kenny, let me save you the bother. I saw you there.’
He drank deeply from the bottle, his head tipped back.
‘What were you doing? Sniffing for a story?’ She was having difficulty keeping the anger from her voice. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t see you sneak out the back?’
‘I didn’t sneak out,’ he said firmly. ‘If I’d seen you, I’d have come over.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Kenny, the whole church saw my barney with Arabella Carrington.’
He played with the bottle, turning it in his hands. ‘If you must know, I was hoping to get something for a story. A human interest angle.’
‘The grieving mother?’
‘That sort of thing.’
She swung her legs over the side of the sofa. ‘You know our agreement, Kenny. We don’t stomp on each other’s patches.’
‘The grieving mother is hardly your patch, love,’ he said sarcastically.
‘Why do you need that particular story? You’ve got this thing going with your contact. Or so you keep telling me.’
The muscles in his face tightened.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘I’m not going to ask you about it.’
He hesitated. ‘Look, I was out of order, I’ll try and do it differently next time.’
‘Not good enough. I want a sentence including the word, sorry.’
‘I’m really sorry.’
She was determined to rub his face in it. ‘And you won’t do it again?’
‘Jesus, if you’re going to be like this,’ he said, under his breath. He slammed the bottle down and picked up his jacket.
‘Kenny, wait, I didn’t mean it to come out like that.’ She massaged her temples. ‘I’m tired, that’s all.’
He stopped at the door, and looked at her with disdain.
‘We’re getting nowhere fast and it’s just a matter of time
before the Chief Super takes me off the case,’ she said.
‘You told me a murder investigation requires you to play the long game. Can’t you tell that to the Chief Super?’
Everyone in the force knew of Richard Quincey’s legendary impatience. And it got him results. He’d risen through the ranks because of it. But only a few knew that he didn’t tolerate failure in his subordinates. The chance he’d given her to redeem herself was uncharacteristic, and she knew it was her last one. ‘Not this time,’ she said.
‘Have you got a motive, yet?’ he said, after a pause.
‘There’s no shortage of motives, almost anyone could have done it. But we’ve no real evidence and, without that, our hands are tied.’ She looked up at him. He’d made no effort to move from the door. ‘I’m still convinced there’s a link with the old murders,’ she said.
‘The ones with the dolls?’
Why doesn’t he call them the Jack in the Box murders? He’s a journalist. He remembers details like that
. ‘The only lead we have is the pub in Soho, the Iron Duke,’ she said. ‘Do you know it?’ she added quietly.
‘I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been there.’ He motioned to the empty wine bottle. ‘The wine’s finished. You want some beer?’
She shook her head.
He returned to the armchair, and sat drinking quietly.
‘Are you staying?’ she said, after a while.
‘Do you want me to?’
This was the first time he’d asked her that. Another milestone in their relationship.
‘You know I do,’ she said wearily.
He smiled his odd crooked smile. ‘Sometimes I think I know you, love, and other times I realise I don’t.’
In the bathroom, she slapped on her moisturiser, the part
of her beauty routine she never skipped, no matter how tired she was. As she worked the cream into her skin, she watched in the mirror while he brushed his teeth. He was telling her about the research he’d been doing. He had a habit of speaking as he moved the brush up and down, something which had endeared him to her once, but which she now found irritating. Maybe he found her habits equally irritating.
Afterwards, she lay in his arms, panting. She had to admit that, after all this time, he was still good in bed. She turned to face the wall, pulling the sheet over herself. She doubted he could say the same about her. Perhaps that was why she was smelling perfume on him, a perfume she didn’t wear.