Hensbury stared at her, his mouth working. ‘You’re finished, Von.’
‘You first, sir,’ she croaked.
Larry began to lead him away.
‘Wait.’ She motioned to her bag.
Steve brought it over. Seeing how unsteady she was, he opened it and held it out. She rummaged inside and brought out latex gloves and a plastic bag. With shaking hands, she
pulled on the gloves. ‘Turn him round,’ she said hoarsely.
Steve and Larry exchanged glances. Larry pushed Hensbury so he was facing the door.
She knelt and eased the signet ring from his left hand, then dropped it into the bag and sealed it. ‘Get this to Sir Bernard,’ she said, thrusting it at Larry. ‘I don’t care how you do it, but have him start on it immediately.’
‘What should he be looking for, ma’am?’
‘He needs to cross-match with Tubby’s DNA. That ring will contain traces of his blood and tissue.’
She motioned to him to turn Hensbury back round. ‘And that will be enough to bring you down, you bastard.’ She steadied herself and delivered a vicious kick to his groin. He dropped to the floor, and lay writhing and moaning softly.
‘Get him out of my sight,’ she spat.
Larry hauled Hensbury to his feet and dragged him from the room.
Steve took her arm. ‘You need to get to a hospital and have yourself checked out.’ He indicated her throat. ‘You can hardly talk.’
‘No time. Who knows how quickly we’ll get the forensics back?’ She massaged her neck. ‘We may get Simon for Tubby’s murder, but he’ll deny killing Max or running the drugs ring. We need to break him, and we need to do it within the next twenty-four hours. Or let him go.’ Steve seemed to be having difficulty keeping his eyes on her face. ‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Do I look frightful?’
‘Not at all, boss,’ he said quietly. He lifted his gaze to hers.
Then she had it. With as much dignity as she could muster, she wrapped her shirt over her breasts and pulled the zip up over her plum-coloured satin-lace bra.
Chapter 32
Simon Hensbury threw his head back and blew smoke up to the ceiling. ‘And that’s the best you’ve got?’
They were in the main interview room. Von and Steve were sitting facing Hensbury. His solicitor, a rangy man who was balding prematurely, was sprawled in the chair next to him, a bored expression on his face.
Von had finished outlining the case against Hensbury. She’d put every fact before him save one: sleeving her aces was something she’d learnt, not from her old governor, but from her brothers. ‘You’re absolutely sure you never visited Max Quincey at Mrs Deacon’s?’ she said.
Hensbury looked as though he’d been waiting for the question. He lifted the cigarillo to his lips. ‘I’d never even heard of the place, Chief Inspector, until Max Quincey’s death was reported in the papers.’
She pushed the plastic bag towards him. ‘Recognise this?’ she said softly.
He glanced at it, and his expression changed.
‘You left a perfect set of prints on the taps in Max Quincey’s bathroom, Simon. They place you in his room on the day he died.’
He stared at the toothbrush. ‘Impossible.’
‘The jury won’t think so.’ She crossed her arms. ‘Why did you kill Max? Did he get greedy? Did he threaten to expose you?’
He puffed at the cigarillo. ‘Circumstantial evidence. You know it, and I know it. Even if I admit I visited him there, those prints could have been deposited at any time.’
‘Max’s room was cleaned the morning of the day he died. The landlady will testify to polishing the taps.’ She brought her face close to his. ‘You went to see him, Simon, and you wore a wig because you didn’t want to be identified.’
‘A
wig
?’
She waited till he’d stopped laughing. ‘You left hairs from that wig in Max’s room. We’re going to find it, and when we do, you’ll be up for double murder. You’ll be in prison for a long, long time.’
He glared at her, hatred in his eyes.
‘How many distributors were there, Simon? Max was one, but there were others.’
He drew on the cigarillo, his eyes half closed.
‘Kenny Downley was another.’ She paused just long enough to get his interest. ‘And then there’s Jonathan Moudry.’
For an instant, he froze. The mask came down quickly, but not before she’d seen the alarm in his eyes. It told her what she wanted to know, that Jonathan Moudry could identify him.
He stubbed out the cigarillo, smiling faintly. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘Tell us how it works, Simon. Start at the beginning. Where do you source the heroin?’
‘This is preposterous,’ snapped the solicitor. ‘My client has dealt with your questions. I see no point in your asking them again.’ He picked up his briefcase. ‘Either charge my client, Chief Inspector, or release him.’
‘I have till tomorrow afternoon before I need to make that decision.’
‘Very well. We’ll meet then. This interview is over.’ He got to his feet. ‘Good afternoon.’ With a nod at Hensbury, he left
the room.
‘Where did you get the heroin, Simon?’ she said, her eyes on his.
‘You can switch that machine off, Von. I’m saying nothing without my solicitor present.’ He looked at her breasts. ‘So are you going to accompany me to my cell and tuck me in?’
Von watched Simon leave with the constable.
‘Doesn’t look as though we’re going to break him, Steve. Without the forensics, we’ll be playing “Simon Says” all evening. Let’s pray we get an answer from Sir Bernard before tomorrow afternoon.’
Steve scratched the back of his neck. ‘There’s an outside chance he’s innocent of Max’s murder. He was pally with both him and the Chief Super. He might have visited Max purely socially.’
‘Not Simon. He’d have met him in a wine bar, or a hotel.’ She frowned. ‘But did you see his reaction when I mentioned Jonathan Moudry?’
‘Aye, that got a rise. The only thing that did, in fact. I’m betting Jonathan saw him in daylight.’
‘In daylight, and undisguised. Maybe Moudry walked in on them. Simon would have removed the wig in Max’s room. If Moudry can identify him as the Cutter, we’ve got him.’
‘Time’s not on our side.’
She leant against the wall and closed her eyes. ‘We’ve
got
to find him. We’re so close, Steve. Can’t you feel it?’
He was looking at her steadily. ‘Aye, boss.’
‘Come on,’ she said wearily. ‘Time to visit Jonathan’s mother.’ They were leaving the police station when Larry caught them up.
‘Something’s arrived from Sir Bernard, ma’am,’ he said, out of breath.
‘The analysis on Simon’s ring?’
‘A package, the contents of Max Quincey’s doll. You need to sign off on it before it’s sent to the storeroom.’
‘Leave it on my desk,’ she said, disappointed.
An hour later, they were outside Janet Moudry’s house.
‘You ever been in this part of London, boss?’
‘Sedate upper-class Hampstead?’ Von said scornfully. ‘Sorry, I don’t rub shoulders with millionaires.’
‘I think this area is more middle-class.’ He indicated the front door, painted in royal-blue gloss, its burnished brass knocker in the shape of a bowl of flowers. ‘The millionaires must live elsewhere.’ He rang the bell.
A minute later, the door was opened by a stick-thin woman in a flowery skirt and hand-knitted jumper. She smiled nervously as she looked from Von to Steve.
‘Mrs Moudry?’ Von said brightly. ‘Mrs Janet Moudry?’
‘That’s right, I’m Janet Moudry,’ came the polite reply. She spoke in a north-east accent, her voice low. Her eyes rested on the bruises on Von’s neck.
‘We’re police officers.’ Von held out her warrant card. ‘May we come in?’
Most people were anxious when police called, but what Von saw in Janet Moudry’s eyes was an expression bordering on pure panic.
She’s got something to hide
.
‘Very well,’ Janet Moudry said in a resigned tone. She stepped back, almost wincing as they brushed past. ‘The lounge is to your right.’
The large low-ceilinged room was over-furnished with heavy mahogany pieces, its surfaces polished to a high shine. A lacquered grandfather clock ticked loudly, the sound mingling with the song of blackbirds drifting in through the open windows. Traces of pot pourri lingered in the air. On the floor
was a bundle of Fair Isle knitting. The all-pervading atmosphere was that of sadness for something long gone, and it washed over Von like a wave.
The woman motioned to the armchairs. ‘Some tea?’ she said faintly.
‘No, thank you,’ said Von.
She smiled then. It was a smile which transformed her face. There was a softness in the wide hazel-coloured eyes which suggested that, in her youth, Janet Moudry had been a great beauty. Von had seen that smile before. She couldn’t yet say where.
‘Mrs Moudry, we’re trying to track down the whereabouts of your son.’
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.’