Jack in the Box Read Online Free PDF Page B

think you want to know this.’ He hesitated. ‘Max Quincey was Harrower’s prime suspect. The word prime is unnecessary here, he was his only suspect. The Chief Super’s brother,’ he added.
    ‘Forget about that,’ she snapped. ‘It’s not relevant to the investigation.’
    ‘Sorry, boss.’
    ‘Was Quincey charged?’ she said quietly, regretting her outburst.
    ‘His prints were taken, but there was no match for any found at the crime scenes. So, no, he wasn’t charged. Also, Manny was played a recording of Quincey’s voice, and didn’t recognise it.’
    ‘That’s not always reliable. Anything else in the file?’
    ‘Interview transcriptions, and newspaper cuttings.’
    ‘Let’s have a butcher’s.’ She flicked through the cuttings. ‘I can understand now how I heard about this in the States. The whole world and his dog were covering this case.’ She tapped a piece of yellowing newsprint. ‘There’s even an article by Kenny. He interviewed Quincey. Says here that Quincey was the play’s director.’
    ‘I thought you said he was an actor.’
    ‘That’s how he began, but he was director in 1985. And he was directing the production that opens next week.’ She closed the file. ‘We need to move quickly, Steve. If the rent boys’ killer has started killing again, we can’t assume that Max Quincey will be the only victim. Set up a team meeting for later this afternoon. If we can drag Danni away from her students, better still.’
    ‘And now, boss? The landlady?’
    ‘The landlady.’
    The photo of Manny Newman had fallen to the floor. She reached for it and smoothed it flat on the desk, gazing at the uncertain smile and warm eyes, full of expression. Slowly, she ran a finger over the suntanned cheeks with their bloom of youth. Without a word, she replaced the photograph in the file.

    The door opened a crack and a suspicious eye stared out.
    Von smiled. If she could put the landlady at her ease, the interview was likely to be productive. ‘Mrs Deacon?’ she said. ‘We met this morning. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Valenti, and this is Detective Inspector English.’
    The door opened wider. ‘That’s as may be, but I need to see some identification.’ The woman spoke in a strong East-End accent.
    Von had seen this behaviour before from members of the public who felt it their duty to give the police a hard time. She studied the openly hostile face, and held up her card, nodding to Steve to do the same.
    The woman peered myopically, taking her time reading the print and scrutinising the photographs. ‘My brother ain’t here,’ she said finally.
    ‘It’s you we’ve come to see, Mrs Deacon.’
    ‘Very well.’ She ran a hand lightly over her lacquered bronzehair, built up in a beehive. ‘Better come in then.’
    It was now afternoon, but she was still dressed in her nightgown, a pink flannelette, reaching to her ankles, creased but spotless. Over it was a knee-length blue chenille dressing gown which she clutched at the neck nervously. Her hands were distorted with arthritis.
    The sitting room smelt of oil-fired central heating and Johnson’s polish. The five occasional tables were covered in linen cloths so long that, not only did they drop to the ground, they were arranged in tasteful folds over the carpet. A glass cabinet packed full of miniature teapots stood against the wall. In front of it was the sofa, upholstered in a shiny dark material, with shinier darker patches on the arms. Every inch of space on the walls was covered with reproductions of Hogarth’s engravings: the rest of ‘A Harlot’s Progress’, and others which Von couldn’t identify.
    Mrs Deacon motioned to the armchairs. ‘You may as well sit down. Would you like some tea?’ she added in a voice that encouraged the answer, no.
    ‘We’ve just had lunch,’ said Steve. ‘But thank you.’
    ‘Mrs Deacon, I expect you know why we’re here,’ said Von.
    Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes. She fumbled in