‘We don’t know, Mrs Deacon.’
‘And you didn’t go into the bathroom?’ said Steve.
‘I’ve just said I haven’t. Why are you asking?’
He looked up from his notebook. ‘We noticed the mirror was broken, and wondered whether the killer might have done it.’
‘It’s been like that for years. You can’t get good tradesmen round here for love nor money,’ she added defensively.
‘Do you know whether anyone entered the room either before or after you discovered Mr Quincey’s body?’ said Von.
‘They could have. As I said, the room was unlocked. I didn’t
see no-one, but I was out for part of yesterday.’
‘Yesterday was Wednesday. What about the day before? Did you see the curtains drawn then?’
‘Can’t say that I did, but then, I didn’t look. I saw Mr Quincey at breakfast on the Tuesday. That was the last time I laid eyes on him.’ The tears again.
‘Did Mr Quincey always take breakfast here?’ Von said gently.
Mrs Deacon drew the dressing gown more tightly to her neck. ‘Course he did. I do a good breakfast, I do. Best in this street. And you can write that down,’ she nodded to Steve.
‘So, weren’t you suspicious when you didn’t see him at breakfast yesterday? Wednesday?’
‘Well, he occasionally has’ – she stiffened – ‘overnight guests. When that happens, they don’t come down to breakfast.’
‘Could you describe any of them?’
‘Don’t see them. But I hear them come in.’ She smiled craftily. ‘After all these years as a landlady, I can tell how many feet are climbing the steps without having to see. And whether they’re men or women.’ She settled herself into the sofa. ‘Mr Quincey was a
beau viveur
, as those Frenchies say. But that’s what you’d expect. He was an important man. Always entertaining visitors.’
‘Did he have visitors on Tuesday evening?’
‘Can’t say. Was out myself at the bingo. Left at about five and didn’t get back till eleven.’
‘How often did Mr Quincey have overnight guests?’ said Steve.
Mrs Deacon pulled the gown to her throat. ‘Often enough, him being such a good-looking feller. Mind you, overnight guests are against the house rules. But I usually let my tenants off provided they’re quiet.’
So Max Quincey received guests in his room. Nothing unusual about that. ‘Do you have a signing-in book?’ Von said
suddenly.
‘Don’t need one. My tenants come and go as they please, with or without guests.’
‘So had Mr Quincey been lodging with you long?’
‘He arrived on September 1st. It was a Friday. I remember because my brother was visiting. He always pops in on a Friday. He helped Mr Quincey with his luggage.’
It was time for the question Von always dreaded asking. The answer could set them chasing their tails. ‘Mrs Deacon, can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?’
‘Everyone liked him.’ Her voice became agitated. ‘He was a proper gentleman, he was. Always treated me like a lady. And he was a good tenant. Paid his rent on time every month. In cash. And he was never late.’
Every month? She’s just told us that Quincey arrived on September 1st. That’s only a fortnight ago
.
Von looked at Steve. He shook his head to indicate he had no further questions. She got to her feet and handed Mrs Deacon a card.
‘You’ve been very helpful. If you think of anything, please get in touch.’ She paused. ‘How long have you had this establishment, Mrs Deacon?’
The woman lifted her eyes from the card. ‘Twenty-three years, this coming month. Why do you ask?’
‘Do you keep records of your lodgers?’
A note of caution crept into the voice. ‘Course I do. Keep everything for the Revenue, don’t I?’
‘Had Mr Quincey ever rented from you before?’ Von said softly.
‘No,’ came the quick reply. ‘First time I clapped eyes on him was that Friday my brother was here.’
‘What about when the play ran in 1985?’
‘I don’t remember anything about that.’
‘But you know which play I’m talking about, don’t you, Mrs Deacon?’
A haunted look came into the woman’s eyes. ‘I remember the killings. Who wouldn’t? I mean, it was all over the papers, wasn’t it?’ She turned her body so that Von couldn’t see her face.
‘Thank you, Mrs Deacon. We’ll let ourselves out.’
As they left the building, the sun slipped from behind a cloud, painting the brick walls with light. A man on roller skates sailed past, executing a rapid turn on one leg.
‘She’s hiding something,’ Steve said, when they were settled in the Toyota. ‘You saw how she came over all shifty when you mentioned the old murders.’ He turned the car round. ‘So is she in the frame?’
‘Because the first person to discover the body is the prime suspect?’ Von smiled. ‘I’d put down good money that there’ll be no end of people who’ll vouch she was at the bingo the night Quincey was murdered.’
He switched on the radio and the sounds of ‘Lady Hear Me Tonight’ filled the car.
‘Can you turn that down, please?’ ‘Not a fan of Modjo, boss?’ he said, reaching for the volume control.
‘Never heard of him.’ She gazed out of the window. The autumn wind was rising, blowing dead leaves and litter into swirls.
‘So what have we learnt from Mrs Deacon?’ he said.
‘That Quincey was a
bon viveur
.’
‘As those Frenchies say. And he was a proper gentleman.’
She lifted an eyebrow. ‘Not many of those around.’
‘No, boss.’
‘But Mrs Deacon was lying about one thing.’
‘Only one?’
She turned to face him. ‘September 1st wasn’t the first time she met Quincey. She knew him from before.’
Chapter 5
Back in the incident room, they found that house-to-house had revealed nothing, the other landladies had neither seen nor heard a thing, and none of the taxi drivers had been round by Mrs Deacon’s on the night Max Quincey was murdered. Mrs Deacon’s payphone had been out of action for weeks, and there was nothing yet from Quincey’s mobile.
A big fat zero, and more or less what Von had expected. Rapid nil returns came at the start of most murder investigations. She rubbed her forehead. ‘Okay, everyone, DI English and I have been looking through the Jack in the Box murders case file. There appear to be strong similarities with Max Quincey’s. We’re going to review the old case to see if we can find anything that’ll help us catch his killer.’
‘Ma’am, are you thinking that whoever killed Max Quincey is also the Jack in the Box murderer?’ The speaker, a milky-complexioned girl called Zoë, was the only female detective sergeant at Clerkenwell.
‘All I’m saying is that there may be a link between the cases. Finding that link may help us find Quincey’s killer.’ Von opened the file. ‘There were four victims. The first was—’
Everyone sprang to their feet. The Chief Super had entered the room.
He spoke quietly. ‘If I could have a word, Yvonne? In my office.’
‘Of course, sir.’ She turned to Steve. ‘Carry on, Steve.’
In the office, the Chief Super motioned her to a chair. He remained standing. He was shaking visibly, his eyes blazing. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’
She hesitated. ‘What is this about, sir?’
‘I understand you’ve requested the file from 1985.’
‘The Jack in the Box murders. That’s right.’
‘Well, you can take it from me you’re wasting your time. To say nothing of tax-payers’ money. That case has absolutely no relevance to the murder of my brother.’
‘I beg to differ. The modus operandi is too similar. I simply can’t ignore it.’
‘It’s a copycat killing. Nothing more.’ He passed a trembling hand over his forehead. ‘The play comes back to London and some psycho decides it’ll be fun to kill my brother the same way.’
‘Even if that were so, sir, I still need to know what happened in 1985.’ She looked him full in the face. ‘I’d be failing in my duty if I ignored the Jack in the Box murders. We both know that.’
For an instant, she saw hatred in his eyes, but she kept her gaze steady. ‘Of course, you’re right,’ he said. ‘I was just hoping to keep my brother’s name out of’ – he waved a hand dismissively – ‘all that.’ He collapsed into his chair. ‘So where are you with your investigation?’
‘The crime scene has been compromised. Your brother’s body lay in an unlocked room for at least a day, so anything Forensics find may have been deposited after death.’
‘Not an auspicious start. Has the profiler come up with anything?’
‘Nothing definite. What we need to do is interview friends, and–’ she paused. ‘Family. Sometime soon, I’ll have to ask you some questions.’
‘You may as well do that now. Take your notebook out. Do it properly.’
She caught the expression in his eyes.
The bastard. I haven’t prepared for this. And he knows it
.
‘Tell me about your brother, sir.’ She opened her notebook. ‘What kind of man was he?’
‘I didn’t know him well. Not since we went our separate ways.’
‘And when was that?’
‘College. I left home first. I’m older.’
‘Which college did your brother attend?’
‘Sydney Sussex. Cambridge.’
‘Was that your college too?’ she said, knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.
He smiled bitterly. ‘I went to a red-brick university.’
‘Did you visit him at Cambridge?’
‘Once or twice. I was in the Force by then, and too busy with my career.’
‘What did he study?’
‘Nothing sensible.’ He snorted. ‘Philosophy.’ He swivelled in the chair to face the window. ‘Cambridge was where he developed his love of acting. He joined Footlights. Loved it so much he went on to become an actor. I’ve no idea whether he was any good. He gave it up after a few years and went into directing.’
‘Was he popular at Cambridge?’
‘Very.’ He turned and looked hard at her. ‘Too popular, you could say.’
She frowned. ‘I don’t understand you, sir.’
‘He formed certain friendships.’ He hesitated. ‘With others in the college.’
‘Is Sidney Sussex a male college?’
‘It was when my brother was there.’
The silence lengthened, but she didn’t intend to be the one to break it.
‘You see, Yvonne, my brother was experimenting. That’s what he told me, and I believed him.’
‘What happened after he left Cambridge?’
‘He married shortly after he took his MA. But it didn’t last.’ A vein pulsed in his temple. ‘His wife discovered him in bed with their neighbour’s teenage son.’
‘And did your brother come out?’ she said, after a pause.
‘If you mean did he broadcast his homosexuality, then the answer’s no. But nor did he hide it. After his divorce, I saw even less of him. Until a few weeks ago, when he rang me out of the blue and told me he’d be coming back to London to direct his play.’
‘What was your reaction?’
‘Hard to say. In an odd way, I was proud of him.’ A wistful expression came into his eyes. ‘He was, after all, leading exactly the sort of life he’d always wanted, doing what he loved.’
‘Were you envious?’
The expression vanished. ‘Of course not,’ he said, contempt in his voice.
‘We’ve not been able to establish a permanent address for your brother. Did he own a house?’
‘He had nothing material. No house. No car. He lived out of a suitcase.’
She thought of the Chief Super’s London flat, with its silk wallpaper and French furniture. The two men couldn’t have been more different.
‘Can you tell me anything about his friends, sir?’
‘I don’t know who they were. As I said, I rarely visited him at Sydney. When I did, he took care to, how shall I put it, shield me from them. Nor can I tell you who his current friends are.’ He corrected himself. ‘Were.’
‘Have you any idea who might have wanted to kill him?’
‘None.’
She wondered how far to go, but the Chief Super would have read the old case file. ‘Sir, are you aware that your brother was DCI Harrower’s prime suspect for the Jack in the Box murders?’
‘Only because Harrower thought he was gay, Yvonne. Tom Harrower was looking for a gay man because the victims were all male prostitutes, and the only survivor admitted to having sex with his attacker. But he found no material evidence it was my brother.’ He dismissed the idea with a shrug. ‘London is full of gays.’
‘So why did he single out your brother?’
‘It was the play. The dolls were the link to the play, and from there to my brother. Not only were the dolls left behind at the crime scenes, the period of the killings coincided almost exactly with the play’s run. Read the file. It’s all there.’ He ran a hand over his eyes. ‘I’m not convinced of my brother’s homosexuality, Yvonne. He liked women.’
She was tempted to point out that even homosexuals have female friends, but she’d get nothing useful if she antagonised him. ‘Were you involved in the investigation?’ she said.
‘Good God, no. Conflict of interest.’
She hesitated. But she’d have to ask, he’d be expecting the question. ‘Could your brother have murdered those boys?’
‘My brother was not a killer, Yvonne.’
Jesus, if I could only have a pound for every time I’ve heard that
. She closed the notebook. ‘Thank you, sir. If you can think of anything else that’s relevant, please let me know.’
‘There’s one question you haven’t asked.’
She looked into the slack face with its deep-set eyes. ‘Where were you on the evening of Tuesday, September 12th?’ she said.
The answer came back quickly. ‘At my club, Boodle’s.’
‘Thank you.’ She got to her feet. ‘Sir, the press—’
‘I’ll handle the press.’ He inclined his head. ‘In consultation
with you, of course. I’ve arranged a conference for first thing tomorrow. Please be there.’
She was about to suggest there might be a conflict of interest, but his expression silenced her.
Von paused in the corridor, glancing at her watch. 4.45pm. Not worth calling Kenny. He’d understand, being late was an occupational hazard for both of them. And Steve would have brought the others up to speed. It would be a wasted opportunity not to press on.
She walked briskly into the incident room, ignoring the looks of sympathy. She handed Steve her notebook. ‘My interview with the victim’s brother. The main thing I’ve learnt is that Max Quincey developed a taste for boys.’
‘We’ve just found that in the file, boss. Several of those interviewed referred to him as “a queer who liked young boys”. Max admitted he frequently had sex with boys, although he claimed he’d never met any of the victims.’
Then what the hell was the Chief Super playing at? He’d have read the file. How could he doubt his brother’s homosexuality if Max admitted to sex with boys? The man was in denial…‘So what else have we got?’ she said wearily.
Steve jerked his head at the wall. ‘We’ve written it up.’
The wall looked like a plan for a military campaign. At the centre was a London street map. ‘Take me through it, Steve. I need cheering up.’
He jiggled the coins in his pocket. ‘The first thing to note is the spread of dates. In 1985, Jack in the Box opened on October 2nd, and finished on October 27th. So, more or less the whole month of October.’
‘And the attacks?’
‘Gilly McIlvanny on October 5th, Charlo Heggarty on the 9th, and Liam Mahoney on the 11th. The final victim, Manny
Newman, was attacked on October 25th. That’s two days before the play folded.’
‘So no murders before the play’s run started, and none after it ended,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Okay, how did Harrower proceed?’
‘He started at the Iron Duke, which is where the victims found their clients, but that led nowhere. The Jack in the Box dolls at the crime scenes made him think the murderer had seen the play, so he scoured the lists of credit card names. It was a dead end.’
‘It could have been someone who hadn’t gone to the play, ma’am,’ Larry said. ‘Half of London must have seen the dolls. There were posters everywhere. The plastic bags they were sold in carried their picture. There were even adverts in the newspapers.’
‘That’s a good point,’ she said, keen to encourage comments from the others. ‘And what conclusion did Harrower come to about the mutilations of both the boys and the dolls?’
‘There’s nothing in the report, boss. If the DCI came to a conclusion, he didn’t record it.’
Von had met Tom Harrower only once, at a police awards ceremony. His vacant stare, sulky mouth, and nasal voice had reminded her of a schoolboy. When she’d steered the conversation to the latest developments in psychology, it was clear from the way he listened with a polite sneer on his face that he put little stock in behavioural science.
‘One of his team suggested the killer might have been a member of the play’s
cast
,’ Steve was saying. ‘But the DCI rejected that hypothesis.’ He turned to the wall. ‘You need to look at the street map to see why.’
The Garrimont, the theatre where the play was running, was at the Piccadilly Circus end of Shaftesbury Avenue, and was circled in red. Four green squares were marked on the map.
‘These squares show the locations of the bodies, boss. I’ve recorded the time of death underneath. Gilly McIlvanny’s is estimated as between 9.00pm and 10.00pm. His squat is just over half a mile from the Garrimont. Jimmy Porteous’s house is much further away, across the river in the Borough. His boy, Charlo, has a recorded TOD of between 10.00pm and 11.00pm. The gents’ lavatory where Liam was attacked is not far from Tottenham Court Road tube. His TOD is between 2.00am and 3.00am. The most accurate time, of course, is Manny’s. His warehouse is further up Tottenham Court Road behind the shops. He was attacked just before the security guard found him at 1.00am.’
‘What time did the play end?’
‘We don’t know for sure. All we could find is a reference in DCI Harrower’s report that the play was over by the time Manny and Liam were attacked in the early hours, but not over when Gilly and Charlo were killed. As DCI Harrower assumed the same Mr X was responsible for all the attacks, he concluded it couldn’t be a cast member, as no-one could leave the Garrimont, pick up Gilly and Charlo, have sex, attack them and then get back in time for curtain call.’
‘That’s fine as far as it goes,’ she said impatiently, ‘but what about the interval? Do we know when it was and how long?’
‘We don’t, but how long are intervals? Half an hour, tops. Yet look where Jimmy Porteous’s house is. South of the river. Charlo died between 10.00pm and 11.00pm. The play would have been into its second half by then.’
‘Too many ifs, buts, and maybes. We need to get a handle on the timings. Let’s see if we can track down a programme from 1985.’ She examined the map. ‘What about the director? Is he around once the play starts?’
‘I’ve got Max Quincey’s statement,’ Zoë said, leafing through her file. She handed Von a sheet. ‘He claimed he always stood in
the wings throughout performances. Problem is that the stage manager and staff said they were so used to his presence they could neither confirm nor deny it. It didn’t help that they were interviewed several days after the first two murders.’
‘And the two late attacks? Manny’s and Liam’s? Did Quincey have an alibi?’
‘He claimed he was alone in his digs. You’ll note, ma’am,’ Zoë added wryly, ‘that in 1985 he lodged with Mrs Deacon.’
‘Did he indeed? She told us the first time she saw Quincey was two weeks ago.’
Larry was playing with his mouse mat, a slight frown on his face. ‘You’ve been unusually quiet,’ Von said to him. ‘What’s your take on this?’
He cleared his throat as though he’d been caught napping. ‘Max Quincey was arrested but not charged.’ He tossed the mat aside. ‘Maybe the fact he was a suspect was enough to seal his fate. Maybe Quincey was murdered out of revenge by someone who
thought
he’d killed the rent boys.’