Taste of Blood

Chapter Thirty-One

The alarm woke Jane at five thirty. She had slept deeply from the moment her head hit the pillow. Arriving at the station at seven, she had made an urgent call to Miss Phillips on her home number, to organise the delivery of the X-rays from Berlin on the first flight. Miss Phillips was clearly not happy to be woken, but took down the details and said she would get on it. Jane told her to contact Meryl if there were any language problems.

After a quick breakfast in the canteen, Jane checked over the reports from the previous evening’s surveillance teams. There had been no visitors to either property and no one had left. But the forensic teams had already arrived to first begin the search of the Larssons’ rear garden and patio, and to then move on to the Boons’ paved back garden. The forensic tent remained in position as two other teams were still checking the area. Jane had also suggested it remain in situ so the officers could have coffee or tea inside rather than impose on the various property owners’ generosity. She also liked the fact that it must appear threatening to the suspects who were under surveillance.

Stanley had already ordered the fingerprints to be taken from the guitar case and the guitar, as well as photographs. He had also arranged to have photographs taken of the four watercolour paintings. All these items were marked urgent. The sections of rope removed from Martin Boon’s shed, along with the hemp sacking, had all been delivered to the laboratory to be tested alongside the hemp sack the head had been in. Jane also asked a favour, calling her CSI friend Paul Lawrence to see if he could oversee the tests.

‘Glad to do it,’ he said. ‘I also got a call from the pathologist, about doing DNA tests on the victim’s remains. He explained the condition, and I said I would see what I could do, but it might take some time. I would also require a DNA sample from a relative.’

‘I could easily get a swab from his mother,’ Jane said. ‘But we have his dental records coming in, so hopefully we will be able to make an identification in the morning.’

DCI Hutton had asked Jane for a press release, as a local reporter had already contacted the station. Jane firmly said it would be premature to release the news about the discovery of the head, but they could say they were investigating a recent spate of burglaries.

Hutton agreed. She had also approved the cost of a courier from Berlin, and arranged a police car to take possession of the package at Heathrow and deliver the package to the forensic odontologist. Mr Chadra was also on standby.

The teams working on both rear gardens had by mid-morning found no evidence of a burial. However, they were now lifting sections of the patio in the Larssons’. It was heavy work, removing the paving stones one by one and replacing them after testing the soil beneath.

DC Burrows reported the disappointing news back to Jane as she stood by the incident board marking up the progress of the investigation. By now she had been given the news that the X-rays had arrived from Berlin and were with the forensic odontologist who was examining the teeth. She had been pacing back and forth as the calls came in, and everyone in the incident room was equally on edge. Every time the door opened, heads turned expectantly.

The guitar and case had been tested for fingerprints. They had discovered two clear sets on both the instrument and the case. Stanley also had the photographs of the guitar and case for Jane to show Angelica Martinez. Jane chewed her lip. ‘I should be the one to show her these, but there is so much coming in. I’m waiting on the dental X-rays, and the sacking is being tested at the lab.’

‘Do you want me to go and show them to her?’ Stanley asked.

Jane looked at her watch. It was already one thirty.

‘Better still, why don’t we send a car and bring her in?’ he suggested.

‘OK, but use the quiet room.’ Jane hurried to her desk and checked through her notebook to give Stanley the address of the care home. She looked over to Meryl.

‘Meryl, can you give me a minute?’

DC Burrows opened the door and raised a hand.

‘Gov, they want you out at the courtyard. I’ve got a car on standby.’

Jane grabbed her bag and jacket off the back of her chair and hurried out. By the time they reached the car park, the patrol car was drawing up. Stanley came hurtling out after them.

‘They just radioed in from Clarendon Court. They’ve dug up something under the paving stones at the Larssons’ place.’

The blue light went on as the patrol car drove out. When they pulled up and they drove in through the courtyard, Martin Boon was standing with arms folded outside his front door. As Jane got out of the car, he started shouting abuse. Stanley promptly crossed over to warn him to go indoors and remain there.

‘It’s disgusting. I’m going to complain to my MP. You have no right to keep that tent up. We are being treated as prisoners and I want an explanation.’

Eventually Mr Boon turned on his heel and went back into his house, slamming the front door behind him. Stanley then had to contend with Mr Larsson, who was equally angry, demanding that whoever was in charge should explain it all to his wife. She was refusing to allow any further invasions of their property.

Stanley persuaded him to go indoors, then followed Jane into the forensics tent. A forensics officer was waiting, wearing work overalls and Wellington boots from digging up the Larssons’ patio.

‘Right, what’s going on?’ Jane asked.

‘The woman went crazy. She just threw herself at me. I had to call for back-up. They are refusing to allow us to continue.’

‘What did you find?’

‘It’s still there. I mean, there was nothing to indicate to us exactly what it was, so we backed off, but Grant is still there.’

Jane shook her head and turned to Stanley. Considering what they were investigating, the behaviour of both the Larssons and Mr Boon was ridiculous. None of them appeared to have understood the seriousness of the police investigation. It was as if they were in total denial.

‘They’re certainly putting on a good performance,’ Stanley said.

‘OK, let’s go and see what they’ve found,’ Jane said as they walked out of the tent. They had to ease past the car parked in the driveway, using a small gate that led into the Larssons’ rear garden. At the rear of the house was a paved patio. Wicker chairs and a glass-topped table had been removed and stacked to one side. The patio had already been worked on, with a row of square paving stones propped against a low wall, and beyond that was a small square of immaculate grass edged with flowering plants and rose bushes.

As Jane and Stanley approached Grant, the forensic officer, Mrs Larsson came to stand by the open French doors. She looked distressed, her face red and blotchy. She was holding a wad of tissues which she waved at them. ‘They can’t take it; I refuse to allow them to take it. I know the law. I want them off my property.’

‘Would you please go inside, Mrs Larsson,’ Jane said, as politely as she could.

‘No, I will not. You cannot allow them to take it. Get out! I want you all out!’

Stanley stepped in front of Jane as it looked as if Mrs Larsson was about to lash out, and then Mr Larsson appeared behind his wife.

‘Take your wife inside, Mr Larsson. We have warrants to search your premises which you have been made aware of, so please, let’s just do this quietly. Take her inside now.’

She struggled for a moment and then burst into tears, sobbing inconsolably as her husband gently drew her inside and closed the patio doors.

‘It’s Grant, isn’t it?’ Jane asked.

‘Yes, ma’am. We had only just lifted the paving stone, and were starting to dig beneath, when she came out screaming blue murder. Some kind of metal object is just visible.’

Jane and Stanley could see a small section of what looked like a brass container. Jane gave him the nod to keep using a small, pointed trowel to dig around and loosen the earth. He gradually cleared enough to use his gloved hands to ease it further out.

‘My God, it’s a bloody urn,’ Stanley said.

Jane crouched down as Grant wiped the earth away.

‘I think it must contain her daughter’s ashes. Just put it to one side for a minute,’ Jane said as she straightened up.

‘So this is why she was so hysterical,’ Stanley said.

‘But there was no cross, or indication something like this was buried,’ Grant said apologetically.

‘You weren’t to know,’ Jane said. ‘Have you uncovered anything else?’

‘No, we checked all along the adjoining wall. The flower-beds are not deep enough to bury anything substantial, and we’ve not checked over the grass, but there doesn’t appear to be any uneven sections so we just started on the patio.’

Jane turned to look back towards the French windows. A wooden trellis covered most of the wall at the back of the property. Thick ivy had threaded itself between the trellis, apart from a centre section; the wood in this area was a slightly different colour, and the ivy not as dense.

‘What do you want to do about the urn?’ Stanley asked, taking Jane aside.

‘I need to go into their house. I think the best move would be for you to go to their front door and apologise for the distress. Hand the urn over and let Grant carry on here, specifically on the patio sections closest to the house.’

Stanley picked up the urn, seeing Jane heading to the French windows.

‘You just going to walk in?’

‘Why not? We have a search warrant, and I want to check something out.’

Stanley carried the urn, leaving the way he and Jane had come in, easing past the parked car before going to the front door. He rang the bell and waited. Mr Larsson opened the door, his face taught with anger, as his wife came to stand behind him.

‘I understand how upsetting this must be for you,’ Stanley said, ‘and obviously we regret what has occurred, but you must be aware we are investigating a serious crime and to date you have not been very cooperative.’

Mrs Larsson moved forwards as if to challenge him, but her husband blocked her with his arm. ‘We have had no option, Detective, but to be subjected to what feels like harassment, and we have never been told why we have been virtual prisoners in our own home. We cannot help but be aware of the officers’ presence, day and night. Plus we have had personal items removed, our home searched... so this was the last straw...’

Jane could hear their conversation as she walked quietly up the stairs, pausing a moment to get her bearings before heading towards what she calculated must be the bedroom overlooking the patio. She eased open the door and stepped inside. The bedroom was tastefully decorated, with pale-blue ribboned wallpaper perfectly matching the ice-blue paintwork. Muslin curtains framed the window overlooking the patio below.

The carpet seemed new as she left her footprints in the pile, crossing first to the window and then back alongside the little bed. On the dressing table was a silver-backed mirror and brushes, and embroidered on a white satin cloth was the name Georgina. The only item that seemed out of place was a small leather-bound volume of Byron’s poetry. Opening the flyleaf, in small, neat handwriting, Jane saw Georgina’s name. She sniffed and held the book closer. It had a faint smell of flowers. The drawers were empty, and the wardrobe had only a row of satin coat hangers inside. It was as if it had never been occupied, a sterile room without a single photograph or picture, but from the book of Byron’s poems Jane now knew that it was definitely Georgina who wrote on Sebastian’s bedroom wall.

Heading back downstairs, not caring if they found out she had been in their daughter’s bedroom, Jane walked towards the front door. She paused, seeing the kitchen door was open. The Larssons had their backs turned as they emptied the contents of the urn into the pedal bin.

Jane hurried out to Stanley who was standing by the patrol car, with the uniformed driver waiting. Stanley opened the passenger door, got into the seat beside the driver as Jane got in the back, then he leaned over the seat towards her. She was physically shaking.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I will be. I just have to get back to the station.’

‘On our way,’ he said, gesturing to the driver. He was wise enough not to ask her what the matter was, as he watched the way she fought to gain control, her hands clenched tightly together. Whatever she had seen at the Larssons’, he would have to wait to find out; right now, she was like a dangerous, coiled spring, with a dark, angry expression. Not until they drove into the station did he turn around to face her, but she already had the passenger door open. He watched her straightening up, back in control, striding ahead of him. By the time he caught up with her she had already punched in the code to open the security entrance. As the door closed behind him, he saw her disappearing down the corridor.

DC Burrows met Stanley as he was about to enter the incident room, carrying the guitar in its case. ‘What was the emergency at the Larssons’ place?’

‘Forensics dug up the urn with their daughter’s ashes.’

‘Shit. She just told me to bring this to the quiet room. Miss Martinez is with Meryl, been here for fifteen minutes. She told me to wait outside the room until she could take it from me.’

‘We get anything on the dental match?’

‘Not yet.’

‘What about Paul Lawrence at the lab?’

‘Nothing yet. I’d better give her this. Is she all right? She looked a bit uptight.’

Stanley nodded, not wanting to be drawn into a discussion. She didn’t just look uptight, he thought. She was furious.