Jack in the Box by Hania Allen Page B

‘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 gavea 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?’
    ‘It’s part of a line of questioning.’ Von nodded at the green book. ‘Perhaps you’d like to consult your diary.’
    ‘I don’t write that sort of thing down. I think I was here from about seven onwards. It may have been earlier. I can’t remember, exactly.’
    ‘Could someone have been in your office without your knowledge?’
    ‘Only Mrs Marks, but she’s away by four.’
    ‘What were you doing?’ said Steve.
    ‘If you must know, I was looking through the expenses for the Quincey Players’ summer tour.’
    ‘If I’ve understood you correctly, you had nothing to do with that tour,’ Von said.
    ‘I’m good with figures, and Maxie isn’t. He asked me to run my eye over them.’
    ‘Someone phoned Max Quincey from this office at 6.10pm on the night he was murdered.’
    A look of relief crossed her face. ‘Yes, that was me. I found a discrepancy in the accounts, and called Maxie. He came over and we went through them together.’
    ‘Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said sheepishly. ‘I forgot.’
    Steve’s voice was friendly. ‘A strange thing to forget, that you asked a man who has just been murdered to come over.’
    ‘You’ve been firing all these questions at me, I was confused. Maxie arrived, we looked at the ledger, and he left.’
    ‘And that would have been when?’ said Von.
    She frowned. ‘About 7.30pm. After he left I stayed and caught up on paperwork.’
    Von nodded at the ancient PC on the desk. ‘Did you use your computer?’
    ‘When I said paperwork, I meant paperwork. I’ve only just started