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Jack in the Box

Page 34

by Hania Allen


  If he was telling the truth, then Chrissie must have met Max in his room later. But what had she been doing there? Picking up her share of the smack, probably, despite her protestations she was no longer trafficking.

  ‘So where were you for the rest of the day, Simon?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘At your club? At a show?’ she said impatiently. ‘Come on.’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Did you visit your other distributors?’

  ‘I was planning to see them through the week.’

  Simon was no fool. If he’d killed Max, he’d have made sure to arrange a robust alibi for himself, perhaps involving some of his lackeys in the drugs squad. Yet he was freely admitting to not having an alibi for the time Max was killed. Either he was telling the truth, or he was playing a game of double-bluff. She decided to humour him.

  ‘When did you learn that Max had been killed?’ she said.

  ‘When Richard rang me the following day.’

  ‘What was your reaction?’

  ‘I was sorry Max was dead.’

  ‘Were you?’

  A look of disgust crossed his face. ‘What kind of a question is that?’

  ‘Let me clarify, then,’ she said with exaggerated patience. ‘Were you sorry because he was a distributor, and his death left a hole in your business?’

  He looked at her with deep dislike. ‘I was sorry because he was a friend.’

  ‘Who did you think killed him?’

  ‘I had no idea.’ He paused. ‘And I still don’t.’

  ‘Come on, you’re a copper. You must have a theory.’

  ‘Fair point. Very well, I wondered if it was a rival operative, wanting to move in and take over my patch. Eat my porridge, is the appropriate term. Killing Max might have been a signal, a shot across the bows. But when I read the details of the murder, I discounted that theory.’ His lips crimped with distaste. ‘That thing with the eyes, and the doll. Only a total sicko would do that. And, whatever you might think about them, drug traffickers tend not to fall into that category.’

  ‘They’re businessmen, is that it?’ she said, with irony.

  ‘When I ran into you in the restaurant, and you told me you’d sent your snout to the Duke, I realised you might succeed where Tom had failed. I considered using the tactics that had worked with him.’ He looked at her with interest. ‘What would you have done, Von, if I’d threatened your pregnant daughter?’

  She caught her breath. For an instant the room tilted around her. She balled her hand into a fist, but Steve caught her wrist and pulled her back. Hensbury hadn’t moved.

  The solicitor threw his client a look of warning. ‘Maybe now is a good time for a break,’ he said.

  She got herself under control. ‘We’ll continue.’ Hensbury was watching her, his eyes steady.

  ‘Was it you who got in touch with the drugs squad, and told them about my investigation?’ she said, running a hand through her hair.

  ‘I’d hoped they’d take over, but your sergeant sent them packing. You’ve trained your bloodhounds well, Von.’ He inclined his head. ‘But then, you did have a good teacher.’

  ‘Tell me about Tubby.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ he said lazily.

  ‘Why did you have him killed?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘That’s right, you didn’t. You killed him yourself. We have the proof.’

  The interest was back in his voice. ‘Proof?’

  ‘His DNA was found on your ring. You’ve been a good boy so far, so don’t spoil it by lying to us now.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ he said, after a silence. He conferred in low tones with his solicitor. ‘This is what happened,’ he said, turning back to her. ‘One of my men at the Duke had informed me that Tubby was asking dangerous questions. We needed to know what he’d told you, so I had him picked up.’

  ‘Where did you take him?’

  ‘A lock-up garage.’

  Steve pushed a pad toward him. ‘The address,’ he said.

  Hensbury glanced at the solicitor, who nodded silently.

  She watched him write, recognising his angular handwriting and remembering how, as a left-hander, he curled his fingers when he used a fountain pen, so as not to smudge the words. ‘What did you do in the garage, Simon?’ she said softly.

  ‘We interrogated him.’

  ‘For several hours?’

  ‘We had to be sure. Once he began talking, he couldn’t stop.’ He sneered. ‘He caved in like a cheap suit.’

  ‘But you carried on beating him.’

  ‘One of my distributors used to be a boxer,’ he said, with seeming indifference. ‘His problem is that he doesn’t always know when to stop.’

  She ran a hand over her eyes. ‘What did Tubby tell you?’

  ‘That you knew the details of how the ring operated, but you didn’t have the names.’

  ‘You killed him for that?’ she said in disgust.

  ‘We got little that was useful out of Tubby, so I decided to make my own investigations. I remembered your habit of taking paperwork home, so I took a look round your flat.’ He smiled ambiguously. ‘You really should fit bolts on your windows, Von.’

  So it hadn’t been Kenny. She’d had a lucky escape. What would Simon have done if she’d arrived to find him searching the place? She stared into his eyes. ‘You’re going down for Tubby’s murder, Simon.’

  ‘I wasn’t the one who strangled him.’ His tone was indifferent. ‘You won’t find my prints, or any prints, on the wire.’

  ‘The coroner’s report will show that Tubby died from a blow to the head. With his DNA on your ring, and no evidence that anyone else was involved, what conclusion do you think the jury will come to?’ She spoke softly. ‘Don’t think you’ll be hightailing it off to Torremolinos. When we meet with the magistrate, I’ll be requesting bail denied.’

  For the barest instant, a look of fear clouded his eyes. So that was it: he’d intended to jump bail. It didn’t surprise her. He knew what happened to coppers in prison.

  ‘And Max?’ she said. ‘Now that you’ve got Tubby’s death off your chest, don’t you want to tell us why you killed Max?’

  ‘Not guilty,’ he said emphatically. ‘You’ve no material evidence. And you also know, deep down, that I didn’t kill him. Where’s the motive? Have you forgotten everything you learnt from me, Von? Find the motive, and you find the murderer.’

  Doubt crept into her gut. There was sense in what he said. But she dismissed her suspicions: Hensbury was a proven killer. She could think of any number of reasons for him to murder Max. He could have arrived in time to see Max’s rent boy leave the house, then stolen upstairs and—

  ‘There’s nothing more I can give you, Von. Just the names.’ He picked up the pen. ‘You’ll be wanting the identity of the main man.’

  Her head shot up. ‘Mr Big?’

  ‘He’s the one who brings the stuff in from Pakistan. I thought I made that clear.’ His eyes moved over her face. ‘Ah, you thought I ran the whole operation. I’m flattered, but there’s someone above me. I’m loath to give him up, but my willingness to co-operate will help my case when it comes to trial.’

  She held her breath, reading upside down as he wrote the name.

  ‘Surprised?’

  ‘Where is he now?’ she said, unable to tear her eyes from the page.

  ‘Holed up in my villa. When I told him how close you were, he took off.’

  ‘When did you see him last?’

  ‘Early on Wednesday.’

  The day she’d gone to the storeroom to look through Max Quincey’s effects.

  ‘I saw you take the stairs to the basement, so I followed you.’ He shrugged. ‘Idle curiosity. I wanted to see what you were up to.’

  The man in the pinstripe. ‘And was your curiosity satisfied?’ she said.

  ‘I slipped past Terry, but I couldn’t find you. I left by the back door. I still have my
keys.’

  ‘I didn’t see your name in the register.’

  ‘I don’t sign the visitors’ book. I used to run Clerkenwell.’

  After a pause, she said, ‘Where’s your villa, Simon?’

  ‘I’ll give you the address, along with everything else.’ He continued to write, filling page after page. Finally, he put down the pen. ‘I may have missed the odd name, but you’ll find them all in my mobile.’

  She spoke into the machine. ‘Interview terminated at 11.22am.’ She gazed at Simon. ‘And to think I once looked up to you.’ She pushed her chair back.

  His words stopped her at the door. ‘You’ll never get beyond DCI, Von. The Met won’t forgive you for this.’

  His expression was hard to read, but she recognised hatred intermingled, possibly, with pity. He smiled, then, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘With the greatest respect, sir,’ she said, ‘no, actually, without any respect at all, I really don’t give a fuck.’

  Chapter 35

  The detectives pressed around her. ‘Who is it, ma’am?’ said Larry breathlessly. ‘Who’s Mr Big?’

  Before Von could speak, the door to the interview room opened, and the constable appeared with Hensbury and his solicitor.

  Hensbury paused. ‘The one thing I didn’t tell you, Von, is that neither Richard nor Max knew of each other’s involvement in the drug ring.’

  ‘I simply can’t believe that.’

  ‘Do you really think Richard would have assigned his best detective to his brother’s murder case, if he’d known Max was embroiled in the very drugs ring he set up himself?’ He shook his head. ‘No, Richard controlled the import from Pakistan and nothing else. I was the one who liaised with the distributors. I never told Richard who they were.’

  ‘For security?’

  ‘Partly. But there was another reason. You may find this difficult to believe, but each of them admired the other. Max was always talking respectfully of Richard’s career in the Met. And Richard was proud that his brother ran a successful touring company. He helped him set up the Players and kept an eye on it to ensure it was doing well. It was to be Max’s pension.’

  She thought back to the conversations she’d had about Max with the Chief Super. In an odd way, I was proud of him. He was, after all, leading exactly the sort of life he’d always wanted, doing what he loved.

  Hensbury’s mouth twisted into a faint smile. ‘I’d hoped their mutual respect might continue. Unfortunately, Richard’s bubble is about to burst.’

  And in more ways than one. She nodded to the constable, who led Hensbury away. The solicitor inclined his head respectfully and left.

  ‘The Chief Super?’ said Larry, shock on his face. ‘Mr Big?’

  ‘Not only that,’ she said gravely, ‘but half the drugs squad are implicated.’ She raised her voice. ‘We need to move quickly, everyone. Get the arrest warrants prepared, then find the magistrate. Someone send Forensics over to Hensbury’s lockup garage. And alert the authorities in Spain.’

  Zoë looked up as they hurried into the incident room. ‘Ma’am, Dr Mittelberg rang to say she’ll be here by noon, traffic allowing.’

  Larry grinned. ‘You’ve missed the show, Zo.’

  ‘I take it we’ve made our collar, then?’ she said eagerly.

  ‘We’ve made our collar,’ said Von. ‘The others’ll bring you up to speed. But first, you all need to get typing.’ She caught Zoë’s eye.

  ‘Nothing, ma’am. If he’s sighted, I’ll be the first to know.’

  She knew they were too late. Kenny had done a bunk. She’d have to alert Interpol. He’d be travelling under an alias, with Georgie. Mr and Mrs. From her office she called his mobile one last time, but was put through to voicemail. She tried her landline, in case he was lying low at her flat, but the number rang out and her answer machine clicked in. She’d have to leave it for now. There were more pressing things that required her attention.

  She sat in her office, head in her hands, thinking not of what she’d just done, broken a thirty-year-old drugs ring involving senior officers of the Met, but of Max Quincey. She’d told Simon she’d be charging him with Max’s murder. His words gnawed at her. You also know, deep down, that I didn’t kill him. Yet, Simon was the only piece left on the board.

  Danni would be here soon. She’d take her to lunch, and then they’d interview Chrissie again, they still needed her to confirm she’d been in Max’s room. Von rotated her shoulders, feeling the stiffness in her neck. Jesus, but she was tired. Although she’d got Max’s killer, she’d failed to find the killer of the rent boys. She’d promised Manny she’d bring his attacker to justice, and she’d failed. She knew the case would continue to eat away at her. And worse was still to come. She’d have to face the press, the Chief Super’s superior officer, and God knows who else. The Met won’t forgive you for this. She’d acted with bravado in front of Simon, as though having right on her side was enough. But that wasn’t true. In the space of a few days, her life had turned upside down. She’d lost Kenny and, most likely, would soon lose her job. The simple fact of her having produced the greatest triumph of her career had still to sink in.

  The brown package was lying on the desk. She peeled away the tape. It was Max Quincey’s doll, sent back by Sir Bernard. It would have to be deposited in stores until Simon’s trial. Protocol required a second officer to check it.

  In the incident room, she found Zoë staring over Larry’s shoulder at the computer. ‘Officers from the Met, ma’am,’ the girl said, wide-eyed. ‘Many of them retired.’

  ‘Pity they weren’t brought to justice before they drew their pensions.’ She handed her the package. ‘Can you double-check everything’s here before I sign off?’

  Zoë slipped on her gloves. As she placed the Jack in the Box on the desk, it fell over and the doll sprang out with its cry of: ‘Jack-jack! Jack-jack!’

  Von flinched. ‘If I never hear that sound again, it’ll be too soon.’

  ‘Twenty packets,’ Zoë said, removing the sachets of heroin from the yellow wrapping. ‘All present and correct.’ She handed Von the sheet to sign. She spread the yellow paper out on the desk. ‘This is one of the Garrimont’s programmes.’

  Von glanced up from writing. ‘Jack in the Box?’

  ‘It’s the programme from 1985.’

  ‘We were looking for that at one time,’ Steve said, tapping at the keyboard. ‘Can’t remember why, I’ve reused that area of memory.’

  ‘It was to do with the timings.’ Von studied the incident wall. The times of the play’s exits and entrances were still there, interleaved with those of the boys’ attacks. ‘We made the assumption that in 1985 the start and end times were the same as now.’

  Zoë laid the old programme and a copy of the current programme side by side. ‘The times are identical. An 8.00pm start, one interval between 9.00pm and 9.20pm, and the play finished at 11.00pm.’

  Von peered over her shoulder. ‘So what did Michael Gillanders look like fifteen years ago?’

  ‘Alas, no photographs, ma’am.’ She looked from one programme to the other. ‘That’s odd. The 1985 programme has a man delivering the doll to the wife. He’s down as a postman. But the current play lists a postwoman.’ She was frowning. ‘Must be a misprint, because it was a girl in 1985, too. Probably Joanne or Joanna.’

  ‘What do you mean, probably?’ Von said slowly.

  ‘She’s down as Jo. Maybe short for Josephine?’ She looked up. ‘Okay, why are you all staring at me like that?’

  ‘Jo can also be a boy’s name, short for Jon, or Jonathan,’ Von said. ‘It’s both a boy’s name and a girl’s. Like Jools.’ Her heart was beating wildly. ‘What’s the surname?’

  ‘Moudry. Jo Moudry.’

  He had some small bit part in Jack in the Box. Simon’s words.

  Her mind was reeling. Jesus, what a fool she was. She’d been too busy wringing a confession from him to appreciate the implication of his statement. She spun r
ound and scrutinised the cast’s timings, including those for the postwoman. But in 1985, the postwoman had been a postman.

  ‘What does it mean, ma’am?’

  ‘It means that, in 1985, there was another male character who had the opportunity to kill the rent boys. We concluded it could only have been the detective’s assistant, because of the timings.’ She pushed her hands through her hair. ‘Jo Moudry was on at 8.01pm and off at 8.07pm. The next time he was on stage was for curtain call.’

  ‘But, ma’am, how can you be sure this Jo Moudry is a man? Surely it’s a misprint that the billing is for a postman.’

  ‘A lot’s been happening while you’ve been away, Zoë. The boys will take great delight in bringing you up to speed.’

  She sank into the nearest chair and pressed her hands into her eyes. Jo Moudry had been having sex with Max Quincey in 1985. As a woman in a man’s body, he’d wanted sex with a man. He knew Max’s boys, passed heroin to them. Had he also had sex with them? And with Manny Newman? Could he have killed Gilly, Charlo, and Liam?

  The door opened and Danni swept in. She was dressed in butter-soft leather boots and a tweed suit which would have cost Von three months’ salary.

  ‘You look terrible, Chief Inspector,’ she said, staring at Von. ‘And what the hell happened to your neck?’

  ‘Let’s skip the pleasantries, Danni. I’m about to interview Chrissie Horowitz.’

  ‘Again?’ She sighed in mock irritation. ‘Is this why you dragged me down here?’

  ‘Come on, you know you prefer being amongst the low-lifes than at your dad’s place with those nobs.’

  ‘Point taken. So, what’s been happening?’

  ‘Are you ready for this?’

  Danni said nothing as Von gave her an abridged version of the events of the last few days.

  ‘So, you see,’ Von said, ‘we’ve come full circle. We’re back with Chrissie Horowitz.’

  Danni was silent for a while. ‘Can I sit in this time?’

  Chapter 36

  Chrissie Horowitz was sitting in the interview room with her brief. She seemed distracted by Danni’s presence, fidgeting and throwing her murderous glances. Finally, she turned her body so she didn’t have to look at her.

 

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