‘And the eyes?’
He smiled faintly. ‘I was wondering when we’d get round to that. They’ve been pricked with something sharp. Not a needle. Something wider. A scalpel, perhaps, or a small knife. The incision in the cornea was quite clean, so not a knife with a serrated edge.’
‘How much strength would you need?’
‘A quick stabbing motion with something sharp would puncture the eye.’ He regarded her coolly. ‘I see where you’re going with this. All it needs is a determined jab from someone with moderate strength so, yes, a woman could have done it.’ He motioned to the corpse’s face. ‘The eyelids were intact so the eyes were open when they were pierced. Quite a neat job. If it was a scalpel, you might be looking for a surgeon.’ He inclined his head. ‘Like myself.’
‘Not the result of a frenzied attack, then.’
‘The cut was deep enough to pierce both humours, but the weapon didn’t reach as far as the retina. I’ve seen some attacks which were so bad that the eye socket was damaged. This is nothing like that.’
Then Danni was right. There
was
a significant difference between Quincey’s attack and those of the rent boys. ‘Did he have sex before he died, Sir Bernard?’
‘He did.’
‘Anally?’
‘He wasn’t penetrated anally. There was no semen in his mouth, but there were traces on his penis, so he ejaculated before he was killed. And he wore a condom.’
‘We didn’t find any.’
‘Pity. In the absence of the condom I can’t tell whether he penetrated his partner anally, vaginally, or orally. But the lab should be able to identify the brand of condom from the chemicals on his skin.’ He pulled off his robes. ‘There were traces of sweat residue on his body, but I’m not sure how much DNA we’ll extract.’ Like most pathologists she had worked with, Sir Bernard liked to stray onto her patch. ‘I don’t need to remind you, Chief Inspector, that if the person he had sex with was his killer, any DNA the killer deposited as sweat will be contaminated with Quincey’s own. It may be virtually useless in a court of law.’
No, you don’t need to remind me
. ‘And the report will arrive when?’
‘The preliminary findings should be ready early next week.’ He peered over her shoulder, as though looking for someone. ‘Your partner lasted a little longer this time, Chief Inspector. It was a full fifteen minutes before he went green.’ He lowered his voice, although he and Von were the only ones in the room. ‘We have a little sweepstake going, my staff and I. We estimate
how long DI English will last after the first incision. The person who gets closest wins.’
He looked up at the first-floor observation window. A group of people were standing grinning. One of them gave him the thumbs-up sign.
‘I believe it’s me again,’ he said gleefully. ‘I have an unfair advantage, of course. I know what causes your DI to faint, so I can time things accordingly. At fifty pounds a throw, it’s a nice little setup.’
She recalled her last sight of Steve, gagging, rushing from the room. And they’d all been waiting for it. She glowered at the observation window.
Bastards. All of you
.
‘Now, I must go, Chief Inspector. It’s Friday and I’m off to the opera with the Commissioner. I trust you know your way out.’
After he’d gone, she stared at Quincey’s remains. The ultimate degradation: Max Quincey was a piece of flesh on a butcher’s slab, his organs laid aside, the top of his head sawn off, his brains packing the scales. Sir Bernard was off to the opera with the Commissioner, leaving a junior to reassemble the corpse.
She moved closer, ignoring the sharp odour nipping at her nostrils, and peered into the ruined eyes.
‘Come on,’ she murmured, as if the dead man could hear. ‘Speak to me. Give me something.’
Steve was sitting in the Drunken Duck, nursing his soda water. He was looking into the glass as though it held something interesting. His complexion was like cheese. ‘Sorry about that, boss.’
‘Forget it.’ Von sat down next to him. ‘Did you barf in the taxi?’ she said gently.
‘I did it in the lavvie.’ He rubbed his arm. ‘Did the wee shite
win the sweepstake, then?’
‘You know about that?’
‘Everyone knows.’
She wanted to take his mind off the autopsy. ‘I’m thinking of going to see the Millennium Dome.’ She nudged him playfully. ‘Have you taken your barmaid yet?’ She knew Steve had his pick of women, but Annie MacMullen, a woman that Steve had described as having a tidy body, was the girl he came back to. ‘I take it you’re still seeing her.’
‘Annie? Only just.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘I took her to the ballet at Covent Garden. Thought I’d try something different. Turned out it really wasn’t her thing. Wasn’t mine, either. A waste of time and money all round.’
‘Which ballet?’
‘Swan Lake.’
She sipped at her vodka. ‘What was it about?’
‘A white swan, black swan, bad guy, and a corps de ballet.’
‘Like a murder investigation but without the two swans.’
He downed his soda. ‘Can I get you another drink before I go?’
‘You get on, Steve. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She watched him push his way through the crowded pub. A night out with Annie would take his mind off the post-mortem. She wondered idly how far on they were in their relationship. Few women could resist Steve, Annie would have had him in bed by now. Her thoughts wandered back to the early morning: Kenny’s fingers between her legs, the bed warmed by their lovemaking. She pulled the phone from her bag and called him. It went straight to voicemail. Strange. Journalists were like policemen, they always kept their phones on. Why had Kenny switched his off?
Chapter 8
‘Look, I know it’s first thing in the morning, but can I see some evidence you’re still alive?’ Von surveyed the room, which reeked of stale beer. All of them, Steve included, looked as though they’d had a wild night. She, on the other hand, had spent her time catching up on paperwork. It gave her the moral authority to be bitchy. ‘So, who’s first?’ she barked.
Steve glanced up from his papers. ‘We’ve been in touch with Boodle’s, boss. The Chief Super was there throughout the evening of September 12th. He arrived just before 7.00pm and left at 11.30.’
And they’ll tell him I checked
. ‘So, he has an alibi,’ she said.
‘Also, we’ve got Quincey’s phone records now,’ he continued. He waited till everyone looked at him. ‘Max got a call on his mobile the night he was killed. It was made from the Garrimont, the theatre manager’s office, to be precise.’
‘What time was this?’ Von said.
‘Shortly after 6.00pm.’
‘Do we know the manager’s name?’
‘Christine Horowitz.’
A phone call taken by the victim on the night he was killed might not be significant, but, as with everything, it would have to be chased up.
‘And we’ve been back to the boarding houses,’ said Zoë. She threw Steve a smile as if to apologise for trumping him. ‘The landlady at number seventeen told me Max came to London
often. He was back earlier this year.’
‘Was he now?’ Von said, narrowing her eyes. ‘I bet I know where he was staying. Okay, get over to Mrs Deacon’s. I want the precise dates Max was in London.’
‘Do we pull her in for obstruction, ma’am?’
‘Nah, if every copper did that, the nicks would be bursting.’
Zoë scanned her notes. ‘Mrs Deacon’s other tenants saw nothing suspicious on the night he was killed, but few have alibis. They say they only knew Max to talk to.’
‘He must have had friends somewhere. We need to find them.’ She ran her hands through her hair. ‘So, any leads on Manny Newman’s whereabouts?’
‘His last known was his mother’s address, but she couldn’t tell us where he is now,’ said Zoë.
‘Couldn’t or wouldn’t?’
‘She’s off her face most of the time, ma’am. She’s a user. We’ve drawn a blank.’
‘Not quite. Manny’s blind. That means he’s probably supported by the state. Try social services. And what did you come up with on the other rent boys?’ She caught the look that passed across the room. ‘Okay, let’s have it.’
‘Zoë and I went to the Duke, ma’am,’ said a detective. He glanced at Zoë for confirmation. ‘But it’s like we were lepers. Everyone clammed up the moment we began asking questions. Some of the regulars are old enough to remember the murders but they had sudden cases of amnesia. As soon as the photos of the boys came out, we got the cold shoulder.’
‘Did you ask them about Max?’
‘Same story. No-one recognised him.’
‘The landlord knows more than he’s letting on,’ said Zoë. ‘Dickie Womack. He’s been there for years.’
‘As far back as 1985?’
‘Even further.’
‘And is there any CCTV?’
‘Zoë and I did a thorough recce,’ said the detective. ‘There’s nothing within several streets of the Duke.’
‘With the sex trade in that area?’ She stared at him till he looked away. Something wasn’t right. Every square inch of Soho was bristling with cameras, so why wasn’t the Duke? ‘Okay, keep digging. Try the other places frequented by the boys, but don’t turn up anywhere mob-handed. It’s softly, softly.’ She nodded at Larry. ‘You’ve not been to the Duke. Get yourself down there, but don’t let them know you’re a copper.’
He smirked. ‘Sure thing, ma’am.’
‘Right, it’s high time we talked to Quincey’s work mates, starting with the theatre manager. Someone get hold of a list of the cast and crew for the current production of Jack in the Box.’
Larry held up a yellow leaflet. ‘No need. I’ve got a programme.’
She looked at him enquiringly. ‘Going to see it?’
‘The whole nick has bought tickets, ma’am.’
The Garrimont was on Shaftesbury Avenue, the heart of London’s West End theatre district. It stood on the opposite side of the street to the Trocadero, but nearer Piccadilly Circus. A four-storeyed Victorian building, it was faced with Portland stone and crowned with a small cupola. It had never been profitable, and had come close to being earmarked for redevelopment after the war, but a former actor who remembered his days treading the boards had bought it for an undisclosed sum. Although the theatre had been saved, few funds were available for its upkeep, and its steady decline began. The entrance, once a forest of white columns, was reinforced with concrete blocks, and the rich mahogany doors had been replaced with steel-framed glass.
‘Bit of a dive,’ said Steve, pulling at the door. ‘Couldn’t see Swan Lake performed here.’
A grand staircase swept up from the foyer into darkness. There were doors on either side, and a flight of steps leading to the basement. The carpet, which had originally been red, was faded and starting to fray, and the all-pervading smell was a blend of floral room spray and carpet cleaner.
A woman in a superbly tailored red suit was standing at the foot of the staircase, an anxious look on her face. Seeing them, she smiled hesitantly, then came forward, hand extended.
Steve’s jaw dropped. ‘Ding dong,’ he said, under his breath.
‘Miss Horowitz?’ said Von. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Valenti. This is Detective Inspector English.’
The woman shook hands. ‘Please, we don’t stand on ceremony here. Everyone calls me Chrissie.’
‘And I’m Steve,’ he said, grasping her hand firmly.
Her gaze lingered on his face. Von noticed he seemed reluctant to relinquish his hold.
‘I thought I’d better come and scoop you up,’ Chrissie said. ‘This is a real rabbit warren. You need to lay a trail of coloured beads if you want to find your way back from anywhere.’ Her laugh was full-throated and confident. ‘Shall we go to my office?’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned and disappeared through a door.
They followed her down the cramped corridors.
Von glanced at Steve. ‘You okay?’ she murmured. ‘You look as though you’re having difficulty breathing.’
‘Wow, boss, I hadn’t expected such a goddess.’
She smiled mischievously. ‘She’s taller than you, Steve.’
‘Only because she’s wearing heels.’
With or without heels, Chrissie Horowitz was tall for a woman. Von, who had never been able to wear stilettos, admired the effortless way she walked without slipping. Her skirt was tight over her narrow hips, the length just the right side of elegant, and her jacket, reaching to the edge of the skirt, was cut
to accommodate her large bust. Von made a mental note to find out where she shopped. Chrissie’s appearance seemed at odds with the general shabbiness of the building, and Von wondered if all theatre managers were as glamorous.
Chrissie stopped outside a door and fumbled with her keys. ‘Do come in. I’ve sent for coffee.’
The small dark office was made darker by the low ceiling. Whatever wallpaper had been pasted up had long since been covered in paint, presumably in an attempt to brighten the room, which held nothing but a cluttered desk, several chairs, and stacks of cardboard boxes.
Chrissie arranged herself behind the desk. Von and Steve took the chairs opposite.
‘Miss Horowitz—,’ Von began.
Chrissie raised a hand, smiling. ‘Chrissie.’
‘Chrissie. I expect you know why we’re here.’
‘I’m assuming it’s about poor Maxie. I’ve already had the press snooping around, sniffing for a story. But what could I tell them?’
‘We’re hoping you can tell us something that will help us catch his killer. How long did you know Max?’
Chrissie ran her hands down her thighs. ‘Less than three weeks. I’d corresponded with him about the forthcoming show, of course, but I didn’t actually meet him till he arrived in London.’
‘Can you remember the date?’ Steve said, writing.
‘It would have been’ – she opened a large book bound in green leather – ‘September 1st. A Friday. We had a drink in the evening and ran through some work-related matters.’
Von felt Steve glance in her direction. He was thinking the same.
A drink in the evening? That was quick off the mark…
‘What sort of a man was Max Quincey?’ she said.
‘Oh, enormous fun. He had a wicked sense of humour. We
hit it off straight away, it was impossible not to like him.’
‘Someone found it possible.’
‘Well, he wasn’t in the first flush of youth. By the time you reach his age, you’ll have made enemies. Specially in the acting business.’
‘More so than in any other business?’ said Steve.
Chrissie crossed her legs, pulling her hem down, but not before Von had seen a brown birthmark, the shape and size of a butterfly, partly hidden under the stocking top. ‘Do you know much about the world of the theatre, Steve?’ Chrissie said.
‘Only from the viewpoint of a paying customer,’ he smiled.
‘It can be vicious. More vicious than you can imagine. Everyone hates everyone else.’ She nodded, her face serious. ‘If Maxie had enemies that were prepared to kill him, that’s where you’ll find them.’
‘You’ve painted a bleak picture,’ said Von. ‘Didn’t he have any friends at all?’
‘The people you need to ask are those who’ve worked with him over the years. I can give you the names and addresses of the Quincey Players. Many of them go back a long way.’
There was a knock at the door. ‘Coffee,’ she said, getting to her feet.
A small dumpy woman in an overall and cream laceups stood beside a trolley, glaring from behind huge glasses. ‘The muffins is all finished,’ she declared with an air of self-importance.
‘Thank you, Mrs Marks,’ said Chrissie. ‘I’ll take over from here.’ She handed round the coffee, brushing Steve’s shoulder with her breast. Von looked away, smirking, as he nearly dropped his cup.
Chrissie tossed back her blonde mane, and resumed her seat. ‘Mrs Marks is our general factotum. She insists we use the title Mrs, even though she’s never married. She refers to herself
as an undiscovered treasure. So, where were we?’
‘Tell me about the crew,’ Von said over the rim of her cup.
‘The Quincey Players do have staff who tour with them. The lady who works in costumes is one. But most of the crew stay permanently with the Garrimont.’
‘Could you compile a list, please? Who works at the Garrimont and who was travelling with Max?’
‘Easily done,’ Chrissie said smoothly. She tapped away at the computer keyboard.
‘I take it you’re continuing with the play, even without a director,’ Von said, watching her type.
‘You know the old cliché – the show must go on. The cast know the play so well they can perform it with their eyes shut. And ticket sales have rocketed since Maxie died. I hate to hear myself say it, but his murder has been excellent for business. Which reminds me.’ She reached into a drawer. ‘Let me give you these. Two tickets for tomorrow night. With my compliments,’ she added, looking at Steve.
‘Tuesday’s performance?’ Von said, taking the tickets.
‘I never give out anything but opening night. It’s unlucky.’
The printer behind them suddenly spewed out sheets of paper, which fell to the floor. As Chrissie bent to gather them, displaying her cleavage, Steve leant over so far that he nearly fell off his chair. Von lifted her cup to hide her smile.
Then she saw it on the windowsill. ‘I notice you have a Jack in the Box, Chrissie.’
‘For luck.’ Chrissie smiled. ‘Actors are a superstitious lot. As soon as they arrived this morning, I sent one out to all the cast and crew. The manufacturer left it a bit late, they’ve been on order for weeks.’
‘The same manufacturer you used when the play ran before?’ said Steve.
‘I believe so, Steve. Maxie sent me their address.’ She handed
the sheets to Von. ‘I’ve included home addresses.’
‘And your number, in case we need to reach you?’
‘My card.’ She handed one to each of them. ‘It has all my numbers, including my home landline.’ This last piece of information was directed at Steve.
Von glanced at the card before dropping it onto her lap. ‘Were any of the Quincey Players here in 1985, Chrissie?’
‘Heavens, I’ve no idea, I’ve not been here long myself. I wasn’t even in London then.’ She ran a finger round the rim of her cup. ‘Why are you asking about 1985?’
‘Have you heard of the Jack in the Box murders?’
‘Who hasn’t?’ she breathed.
‘So you’ll know what happened to those boys. Do you think it’s a co-incidence that someone from the 1985 production has been murdered in the same way? And just when the play is running again in London?’
‘You know, I really haven’t thought about it.’ Her expression cleared. ‘Wait, I do remember now,’ she said triumphantly. ‘You asked who was here from 1985. Michael Gillanders. He told me he was the only member of Jack in the Box who was in the old production.’
Von felt Steve turn in her direction.
He’s spotted it too, the nifty change of subject
. ‘Do you have a cast list for the 1985 production as well?’ she said.
‘I don’t keep records, not from fifteen years ago. There was a huge throw-out before I arrived. You’ve seen how small this office is. We keep only the bare minimum.’
Von looked at the tickets. ‘I notice it’s an 8.00pm start. Is that usual?’
‘The Garrimont plays have always started at eight. The interval’s at nine and we aim to be finished by eleven.’
‘How long have you been at the Garrimont, Chrissie?’
‘Four years. It was the job that brought me here.’ She gave
a self-deprecating smile. ‘Would you believe I’d never been to London before?’ Her manner became brisk and she stood up, smoothing the back of her skirt. ‘I’ll do my best to unearth an old cast list, although I can’t promise. Now, is there anything else? It’s just that opening night is tomorrow, and—’
‘Where were you on the night of Tuesday, September 12th?’
She looked bewildered. ‘The 12th?’ she said, sinking back into the chair. ‘I think I was here, in my office.’
‘Alone?’
She stared at Von. ‘Yes.’
‘Between what times?’
‘Why are you asking me this?’