Taste of Blood

Chapter Four

Ellen Boon was wearing an odd mixture of clothing that included wrinkled stockings, fluffy slippers, a worn woollen pleated skirt, a cream blouse, knitted bolero and a grey, buttoned cardigan with big saggy pockets. At first, she was hesitant about allowing Jane and Stanley into the house, and even tried to close the door on them. Jane reassured her by smiling warmly and saying that they just needed to ask her a few questions, and that they were keen to find out if there was an update on her husband’s condition.

‘You can sit in here. We don’t use this room very often.’ Mrs Boon gestured for them to follow her down the dim, dark hallway.

The small sitting room had a worn, uncared-for feel about it. Even the curtains looked unwashed, hanging on odd rings from a wooden pole across the double window. The carpet was stained and threadbare in places, and there was a faded and yellowing fur rug in front of the fireplace. Numerous watercolour landscapes hung on the walls, some framed and on hooks, while others were simply Blu-Tacked to the faded wallpaper.

Ellen Boon sat on the edge of the sofa, placing an embroidered cushion behind her back.

‘So, how is Mr Boon doing?’ Jane asked gently.

‘He’s not come round yet... but he’s not attached to any life-support machines... just a few monitors.’

Jane thought Mrs Boon was probably only in her late forties, but she had a round, puffy face with eyes as faded as her furniture. Jane noticed that her hands were paint-stained and assumed she was the creator of the watercolours. She had big, square hands and thick fingers with short, dirty nails.

‘Has Mr Boon ever had any previous head injuries?’

‘What do you mean?’ Mrs Boon said, blinking.

‘Well, we need to find out if a previous injury might have contributed to his present condition. Did Mr Boon have any medical problems, mental issues or perhaps a previous fall...?’

‘No, he did not!’ Mrs Boon snapped, leaning forwards. ‘You’re just trying to prove that Mr Caplan isn’t responsible for what happened to my husband. Well, he was!’

Jane nodded sympathetically, hoping to calm her down. ‘Did your husband go to see Mr Caplan that afternoon with the intention of confronting him about the boundary situation between their property and the courtyard?’

Ellen shook her head. ‘I had no idea he was going to go over there. I was in my studio in the back garden.’

‘But you went into the Caplans’ garden almost immediately after the incident had occurred,’ Jane said.

‘Yes, because their dog was running loose around the courtyard, barking.’

‘So, you saw their dog, then what did you do?’ Stanley asked.

‘The gate was open, and I saw Martin lying on the ground. He appeared to be unconscious. Mrs Caplan came out and called an ambulance... then the police... then I was taken to the hospital.’

‘So, you didn’t witness the incident?’

‘No, I just told you that.’

Stanley glanced at Jane, and she continued.

‘Did you see Mr Caplan’s dog carrying a stick, or anything like that?’

‘No, he was running over to the house opposite theirs.’

‘Did you see Mr Caplan or hear what was being said?’

‘No, I told you, I was in my studio, and only heard the screams and shouts.’

‘Did you see an iron bar?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘Mr Caplan claims that your husband was threatening him with one.’

‘Then he is lying. I never saw one and I have never seen one in the house.’

‘Could I just see your studio, Mrs Boon, and then we will leave you in peace?’

Jane stood to indicate to Stanley she had heard enough.

They were led out of the room and down the corridor into a large kitchen. It was surprisingly modern, with a state-of-the-art fridge and freezer and a large cooker.

‘You have a lovely kitchen,’ Jane remarked, and looked at Stanley, who raised his eyebrows.

Mrs Boon did not respond and opened the backdoor, leading out into the garden.

The garden was small but well maintained, with numerous plants in large ceramic planters. At the end of the garden was an expensive-looking shed.

Mrs Boon swung the door open and gestured inside as she switched on the lights. It was full of picture frames and paint brushes, cutting tools and a worktop arrayed with small saws and rows of paint jars and glues.

‘It’s very impressive, Mrs Boon. I presume you’re the artist, and that was your work in the sitting room?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I only took it up a few years ago, but I find it therapeutic.’

‘Thank you so much,’ Jane said. Stanley was already heading back up the path towards the open kitchen door, and they were both thinking the same thing: there was no way Ellen Boon could have heard the assault from her studio. She was lying.

Alice Caplan had said that when the dog got out she called the ambulance, and that Ellen was already hysterically screaming beside her husband.

They were in the kitchen about to leave when Stanley turned to Mrs Boon with a forced smile.

‘You’ve been very helpful, Mrs Boon. But there is just one more thing I’d like to ask you.’

Mrs Boon shrugged.

‘I don’t quite understand why your husband was so obsessed about the planning permission being granted? You don’t own the courtyard, and it doesn’t appear to have anything to do with your property. Is there some kind of personal reason behind his interest?’

Mrs Boon pursed her lips but said nothing. Stanley dropped his caring facade and continued in a more forthright tone.

‘I’ve read the letters he personally delivered to Mr Caplan, accusing him of lying regarding the damage done by various parked vehicles knocking into his gates — but what business is that of your husband’s?’

‘We have permission from Mr Larsson to allow five members of my painting circle to park in the courtyard every other Thursday,’ Mrs Boon said. ‘They are very respectable people and have never damaged any of the fencing or gates.’

‘So, if Mr or Mrs Caplan wanted to drive into their property, as they have right of way, they couldn’t unless the members of your painting circle moved their vehicles?’

‘That never happened,’ Mrs Boon said flatly.

‘But was this matter a bone of contention between your husband and Mr Caplan?’ Stanley persisted.

‘You will have to ask Martin. I am not aware of any letters he has written, and now I would like you to leave. This is making me feel very unwell.’

Jane was already opening the door, as Stanley gave a sigh of impatience and walked past her.

Ellen Boon shut the front door firmly behind them, then went straight into the kitchen and picked up the phone, dialling quickly.

‘I have had two police officers here asking me questions over and over again,’ she said as soon as the phone was answered. ‘I am at my wits’ end because I don’t know what they want me to say to them.’

She stood with the phone to her ear for a few moments, then replaced the receiver and hurried into the hall. Halfway up the stairs she looked out through a small side window and could see Jane and Stanley standing by the front door of the Larssons’ property.

Stanley pressed the doorbell again.

‘Her lies about not knowing what her husband was up to were pretty obvious. I think it’s all down to envy. I mean, you only have to look at how dingy their house is in comparison to the Caplans’.’

‘Well,’ Jane said, ‘it was a very expensive-looking kitchen, so they have some money. And the studio-cum-shed must have cost a fair bit.’

Edward Larsson opened the door and Jane produced her ID.

‘I am Detective Inspector Jane Tennison and this is...’

Larsson interrupted her, nodding towards Stanley. ‘Yes, we’ve already met. What do you want?’

‘I have only recently joined the investigation, Mr Larsson, and I would like to ask you a few questions, if it’s not inconvenient.’

Mr Larsson was exceptionally thin, with a pinched face, greying hair and prominent ears. He turned back and called for his wife. Stanley gave Jane a quick grimace.

‘I suppose you’d better come in. My wife is cooking lunch, so it is not really that convenient. I thought I had already answered all your questions regarding poor Mr Boon’s situation.’

He stood back and gestured to an open door off the hall.

Jane followed Stanley into the room There was an elegant three-piece suite of matching velvet chairs and a sofa, and a fake-coal electric fire. Two large, silver-framed, colour photographs were positioned at each end of the mantelpiece, one of a very pretty young blonde girl in pigtails, the other what looked like the same girl as a teenager.

Jane and Stanley sat side by side on the sofa. Mr Larsson hovered by the door as his wife, wearing a white cotton apron, came into the room. She glanced at Stanley with a smile.

‘I think we’ve met before. I am Patricia Larsson.’ She looked at Jane. ‘And you are?’

‘Detective Inspector Jane Tennison. We are sorry to interrupt your lunch preparations. I am sure we won’t take up too much of your time.’

Patricia Larsson was an attractive woman with short blonde hair. She was stylishly dressed in a straight skirt with a pink blouse under the apron and seemed to be going out of her way to be pleasant.

Stanley kicked off the questioning, pulling out his notebook from his jacket pocket.

‘When I interviewed your husband after the incident, he said that you were both at home, and only became aware of what had happened when you heard Mrs Boon screaming?’

‘Yes. Obviously, I came out to comfort her as she was very distressed; in fact, I drove her to the hospital when the ambulance took Martin, as she doesn’t drive.’

‘Did you notice that Buster, the Caplans’ puppy, was out?’

‘No, I didn’t actually see him until Mr Caplan brought him back into the garden.’

‘When you were with Mrs Boon did you notice a long stick, or some kind of iron bar, close to where Mr Boon was lying?’

‘I doubt I would have noticed, there was so much happening.’

‘Did you see anything like that, Mr Larsson?’

‘No, I was with the ambulance driver directing them into the garden.’

Jane nodded and turned to Mrs Larsson again.

‘Could you take me through exactly what you did after Mr Boon was taken to hospital?’

‘Well, I was comforting poor Ellen. She was wearing slippers and didn’t want to go with her husband until she had changed her footwear. So I said I would drive her there as soon as she was ready. She went back into their house while I went to collect the car keys. She came out after a few moments and I drove her to the hospital. I waited some time with her in the A&E department before poor Martin was taken into intensive care. I got her a cup of tea and about an hour later I left her there and returned home.’

Jane smiled. ‘Thank you.’

Stanley flicked back through the pages in his notebook then tapped a page with his pencil.

‘I have looked over the Land Registry plans for this area and there doesn’t appear to be any reason why Mr Boon would be so against the Caplans’ application. As far as I can determine, the matter does not have any connection to his property.’

Jane noticed the way Mrs Larsson’s mouth tightened as she gave her husband a sidelong look.

‘I believe he was concerned about his fence bordering on their rear garden.’

‘But the plans are only for a wall and electric gates,’ Stanley said.

Mr Larsson frowned. ‘I am not privy to his objections.’

‘But you own the courtyard, isn’t that correct?’ Stanley persisted. He snapped his notebook shut. ‘So I can only presume that you allowed or encouraged Mr Boon to object on your behalf?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Mrs Larsson said, clasping her hands together, while her husband just stood with head bowed. ‘If you have nothing further to ask, then I would appreciate it if you left.’

It was obvious who was the dominant one in their marriage, Jane thought to herself.

Stanley stood up, carrying on as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘Can I ask what business you are in, Mr Larsson?’

‘He is a retired accountant, and he helps me in my antiques business,’ Mrs Larsson said quickly. ‘My company buys and sells for clients worldwide. Edward, please show the officers out... I think we have given them enough of our time.’

Mrs Larsson walked out as her husband gestured for Jane and Stanley to leave the room. Jane stood up and waited for Stanley to pass her before stopping in front of Mr Larsson.

‘I noticed in the hall you have two of Mrs Boon’s landscape paintings, and you also allow her art group to park in your courtyard. You must be very good friends.’

‘Well, we do encourage her artistic interests,’ he said blandly.

‘Very generous. How long have you owned the courtyard?’ Jane asked.

Before he could answer, Mrs Larsson reappeared.

‘I don’t think it is any of your business, but if you must know it used to be partly gravelled and became a mudbath when it rained. We bought the land almost five years ago and paid for it to be tarmacked. We obviously had to grant right of way to all the neighbours. I also tend to the areas of garden that border the courtyard.’

‘Thank you.’ Jane joined Stanley who was standing by her car.

‘She’s a bloody witch,’ he muttered.

‘I agree. So they apparently bought the land ten years ago. I need to check the dates because it would have been before the Caplans purchased their property. I don’t know if you noticed, but they had two of Ellen Boon’s framed paintings hanging in the hall. So much for her antiques sideline; you wouldn’t get ten pence for them in a car boot sale.’

Jane drove out into the narrow lane that ran from the courtyard into the main road. The lane looked as if it had been re-tarmacked in sections like a patchwork quilt. Massive fir trees surrounded the lane, along with a single ancient oak tree. Jane pulled up outside the front entrance of the Caplans’ house, where Stanley’s car was parked next to a dark-blue Range Rover.

‘It’s certainly a substantial property,’ she said admiringly. There were two life-size, stone Great Danes either side of the elegant porch and the front door was like something from a castle, with heavy studs and an iron knocker.

Stanley looked at the house. ‘Yes, the climbing ivy and the lattice windows make it look very nice.’ Stanley opened the passenger door.

‘See you back at the station. I might get a bite to eat. I’m starving. I doubt if anything else will have required our expert attention, but that’s the way I prefer it, easy life, home by five thirty and feet up.’

Jane drove off, thinking about this new Stanley. He had been a great undercover officer, totally fearless and always spoiling for a fight with his superiors. Yet now he was looking forward to retiring and getting his pension.

She sighed, feeling depressed. It seemed as if her request for a transfer from the Met’s West End section to a local station might not have been a wise career move after all.