Free Jack in the Box by Hania Allen Page A

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 estimatehow 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 shitewin 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