Taste of Blood

Chapter Eight

Jane woke with a start, hearing the front door bang shut. She looked at her alarm clock. It was after twelve. Eddie came up the stairs and into the bedroom and gave a comical grimace.

‘Sorry, I had stuff in my arms and kicked the door closed. Did I wake you?’

‘Obviously! Is everything all right?’ Jane turned on her bedside lamp.

‘Yes. I was at my parents’, as we missed having dinner there this week. Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘No thanks; actually, if you’re having one then I will.’

‘Right, won’t be long. Are you picking up radio signals with those things in your hair? I told you that Dad would know all about that Clarendon Court, didn’t I?’

Before Jane could answer he had disappeared, banging his way down the stairs. She sighed, annoyed at being woken up, but also because she didn’t like him discussing her work with his father. She took the rollers out and reached over to her bedside table to put them into the bag she used for her brushes and combs.

Eddie returned with two mugs of tea, handing her one and placing his on his bedside table, before getting undressed and putting on his pyjamas.

‘You know, I did tell you not to mention what case I am working on, Eddie. I know it’s your dad, but at the same time it’s unethical.’

Eddie pulled back the duvet and got into bed beside her, then reached for his mug of tea.

‘Yeah, but it’s not as if he’s going to blab about it to anyone. I told you that more than likely he had done work at Clarendon Court because I remember going there one time myself, a long time ago. They built two new houses, and Dad worked on them both; he also did some electrical work at the old manor house, the big property. He said that the bloke was foreign, and he had to send him three chasing invoices because he was late paying. Eventually he had to go round and bang on their door.’

‘Well, he probably wouldn’t recognise the house,’ Jane said.

Eddie nodded. ‘Apparently it was really run-down. There was a fire, and a lot of people suspected it was a bit of a torch job.’

‘Yes, I was told about the fire by the new owners.’

‘I bet they got it for a good price, with all that damage. I never went inside, but I remember the courtyard was a mudbath with the new properties being built alongside it; they had cement mixers and heavy digging equipment that made a real mess. I think there was quite a lot of ill-feeling going on in the neighbourhood, and Dad said the whole courtyard belonged to the big manor house, but they were doing nothing about all the potholes.’

‘Well, it’s all tarmacked now,’ Jane said, ‘and for some reason the whole driveway is owned by the people that live in number 10.’

Eddie nodded. ‘Dad also told me about their daughter.’

‘What about her?’

‘She died... very young. He didn’t know much about it... it was just before he stopped working there.’

‘Was she ill?’

‘No idea. I just know that it was all everyone was talking about. Dad said she was a pretty little thing. Next time he comes over you should ask him about it. Mum started talking about the announcement in the papers today, about Prince Andrew getting engaged. She’ll be there for the wedding. She was at Charles and Diana’s, standing outside Buck House for hours; she’s collected all those mugs, even got one from the Coronation.’

Jane yawned as Eddie finished his tea and turned off his bedside light.

‘I’m out early tomorrow. I’ve got someone interested in buying my flat,’ he said.

‘You didn’t tell me. Have you got it on with an estate agent?’

‘No, it’s a friend of one of the guys at work who’s looking for a place. Thought I might as well test the water. But if he offers me a good price, I’ll take it.’

Jane wasn’t sure what to say. They had not discussed the wedding plans, or that Eddie was interested in selling her house and looking for another property to move into. All he had said was they should perhaps buy something and pool their cash and look at a larger property that needed refurbishing. The thought of all the disturbance of moving and living with the dust and workmen again was not something she relished. She chewed her bottom lip, knowing this was probably the right time to bring it up, but she was just too tired. She turned her bedside light off and closed her eyes.

Eddie had left by the time Jane woke up, reaching for her alarm clock to stop it ringing. She arrived at the station early and had breakfast in the canteen. Stanley joined her with a full fry-up and three rounds of toast.

‘Morning. What do you think about Prince Andrew’s bride-to-be then? Apparently she has no title, but her father runs a polo stable so they can’t be short of a bob or two.’

‘I caught it on the news this morning; she looks very pretty,’ Jane said, sipping her coffee.

‘Same colour hair as my wife; well, near enough. She tints it, to be honest.’

DC Burrows was passing their table, his overflowing breakfast tray on a par with Stanley’s.

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Please do,’ Jane said, as he plonked his tray down on their table.

‘Can I ask you something... do you prefer to be called William or Bill?’ Jane asked.

He shrugged. ‘Don’t mind either. So, another day of waiting. That surgeon has the power, you know. If he induced the coma he could get him out of it and save us a lot of time hanging around.’

Jane nodded. ‘I was told that the Larssons’ daughter died very young. Do you know anything about it?’

Both men shook their heads as they demolished their breakfasts.

‘Maybe that’s why they are such a pain in the arse,’ Stanley said.

‘Do we know exactly when the Larssons bought the courtyard?’ Jane asked.

‘I reckon it’s in my notes somewhere,’ Stanley said. ‘I think the Hoffmans were so broke they sold off anything they could to make a few quid. When the Caplans bought the big house they didn’t have ownership of the courtyard, which is why they had so much trouble from Mr Boon about building their bloody wall and gates.’

Jane gathered her coffee cup, saucer and plate and stood up.

‘I’ll see you downstairs. Bill, can you do a check on what happened to the Larssons’ daughter, just out of interest?’

Stanley carried his tray to the dirty dishes stack and headed out, leaving Bill finishing his breakfast, shaking his head over what he considered a time-waste of a case that wouldn’t go away.

There was a meeting in the boardroom scheduled for nine thirty, and Jane was at her desk checking over reports when Bill came to stand beside her.

‘Georgina Larsson died of sepsis. Apparently, she had an abortion, but the details are very sketchy. No charges were ever brought against anybody.’

‘How old was she?’

‘Fifteen, almost sixteen. Rumours are that she paid cash to some back-street bastard, so it was some time before the medical issues were diagnosed and then it was too late to save her.’

‘Where did you get this information from?’

‘A mate of mine at the local newspaper did a bit of digging. He found out about the abortion, but his editor told him to forget it as they didn’t want any legal comeback from her family.’

‘Did he find out who the father was?’

‘No, but she was underage, so the lid was put on it.’

‘Interesting...’ Jane said, jotting down some notes.

‘It sort of makes sense why that woman is so unpleasant; her only daughter, and just a teenager.’

‘We’re wanted,’ Stanley said from across the room, gesturing to DCI Hutton’s closed office door.

DCI Hutton was sitting at her desk reading The Times as Jane, Stanley and Burrows trooped in. She folded the newspaper and put it down on her desk.

‘Lot of news coverage of the forthcoming royal wedding... It’ll be a nightmare for the Met. Anyway, down to business. As you know, while we wait for Martin Boon to hopefully recover, there have been no formal charges, so while there’s no update on his condition we are basically at a standstill. So, I have decided, until something happens, to put this case on the back burner. I will be assigning you other, more urgent cases, but perhaps I can ask you, Jane, to keep a watchful eye on Mr Boon and if anything changes then we will return to the investigation.’

Hutton leaned back in her chair and smiled.

‘Any questions?’

All three of them simply shrugged their shoulders.

‘Right then, you’ll be getting new case files later this morning.’

Stanley went back to his desk and Jane finished her last report and filed it. It was only to be expected, but she was still a bit annoyed, as the Boon case was starting to show signs of getting interesting.

DCI Hutton handed over their new files just after eleven. And as they flicked through them, it quickly became clear that the cases would not, by any stretch of the imagination, be challenging to investigate.

DC Burrows was standing by the incident board with a notepad checking on the case he had been assigned to oversee. There had been a spate of robberies at a local petrol station and two young teenage boys had been identified as the culprits. They had filled their car with petrol and driven off, not once but three times. Their vehicle registrations had been forwarded to the station.

Burrows approached Stanley and told him that the boys worked for a local taxi company run by one of their fathers. Two of them had suspended licences. Warrants had already been issued for their arrest, and it would be down to Burrows to bring them in for questioning.

‘The report’s gone to the desk sergeant; he said he’s going to decide if it’s a nothing deal so the uniforms can sort it.’

‘Should be an eventful day then,’ Stanley said, not really paying that much attention. He noticed that Jane was packing her briefcase and pushed his chair back to face her.

‘You off then?’

‘You got anything of interest?’ she asked, joining him.

‘Depends. The boss said it was appropriate to my experience, but to my knowledge I’ve never had any dealings with retired dog handlers. This one left the Met with his highly trained but injured canine, Hutch. It’s down to me to get him to release the dog because he’s become vicious.’

‘You are joking?’

‘Nope... apparently Hutch has attacked three people and we have an order for him to be removed to the dog pound; bloody dog section have asked the boss to look into it due to the old boy being ex-Met, and he’s so far refused to let them into his house.’

Jane shook her head, smiling.

‘So, a man with your vast experience is handed this “very dangerous” assignment, and Burrows is off to arrest three teenagers.’

‘Yeah, but they’re probably not threatening anyone entering their property with a shotgun.’

‘What?’

‘OK, maybe he’s not got a shotgun but he’s refusing to allow anyone to enter... so he needs to be talked into seeing sense. At the same time, he has to be shown some respect as he was a good officer, apparently. Anyway, what have you got? Big armed robbery?’

Jane rolled her eyes. ‘I’m going to interview a care home worker who has been accused of abuse and threatening behaviour towards one of the elderly residents. Apparently officers have already questioned her and taken statements, but Hutton felt that a more experienced DI should now act on behalf of the patient.’

Stanley burst out laughing as Jane walked off, shaking her head.

Jane was still feeling tetchy as she drove to the care home in Orpington. Again, she questioned her decision to be seconded to Bromley instead of a station nearer the West End, one that would have a strong CID team and more likely to be investigating more serious crimes.

The Winston Care Home was situated in a quiet residential street. The wrought-iron gates were closed and there was an intercom set into the brick column beside it. Jane had to get out of her car to press the button. Hutton had told her that they were expecting her, but she had to wait a long time before a distorted voice answered and told her that someone would come to open the gate.

An elderly man wearing baggy trousers and a thick sweater with a green overall came and peered through.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Tennison. I have an appointment,’ Jane said, showing her ID.

‘These gates are not in a lot of use; visitors usually go round the back. But I’ll let you in — just drive right round to the entrance.’

Jane got back into her car and waited as the old boy heaved the gates open and stood waiting for her to drive past. He was wearing an old cloth cap which he tapped with a finger. Jane mouthed ‘thank you’ through the window as she drove down the narrow driveway.

The entrance to the large Victorian building, which at one time had probably been a grand family home, was flanked by imposing stone pillars and had a heavy mahogany door.

Before Jane could press the bell, she heard an inner door being opened, and a tall, well-built woman in a smart tweed suit swung open the right side of the front door.

‘Detective Tennison, I’m sorry you weren’t given proper directions; the old gates are rarely used now. We have our main entrance at the rear of the house. I’m Deidre Brandon, director of the Winston Care Home.’

Jane stepped inside.

Jane followed Miss Brandon down the corridor to a small but tidy office, with just a desk and office chair, plus two old-fashioned leather armchairs.

Jane watched as Brandon carefully selected some papers from a pile on the desk, placing them into a large manila envelope.

‘We have six private suites, with ensuite bathrooms. The residents can bring in their own furniture if they prefer. The other twenty-four rooms are all located in the new annexe section, which also houses the nursing staff and medical department. We have a dining room, but if a resident wants to dine in their room, we can accommodate their wishes. However, we prefer everyone to dine together to help them make friends.’

Jane frowned. Brandon appeared to be pitching the home to her, as if she was there enquiring about residential care for an elderly relative.

‘I know why you’re here, of course. In actual fact, I called the station to give DCI Hutton an update on the situation, but I was told you had already left. I’m sorry if it has been a wasted journey. I was told to give you all the details so you can make out a report and the matter can be dealt with officially.’

Jane was taken aback, but remained silent as Miss Brandon opened a drawer and pulled out an open envelope.

‘Firstly, let me explain the details of the accusations made by a resident against a very trusted member of my staff. The resident, Adele Sinclair, has only been with us for seven months. She was diagnosed as suffering from progressive dementia. At first she appeared to be settling in well, but within a short time she began creating a lot of disturbance. She continually insisted that a taxi was arriving to take her home and was often found in the reception area with an overnight bag packed. When she was returned to her room, she would become abusive and angry. She had a number of visits from her personal doctor, who prescribed medication to calm her down. Unfortunately, she then began to refuse to take any of her prescriptions, refused to eat, and would not allow anyone to wash her. On several occasions she managed to leave her room during the night and was found using the telephones in the staff offices.’

Jane shifted in her seat, crossing her legs. She made no attempt to interrupt as Miss Brandon continued.

‘It all spiralled out of our control when Mrs Sinclair managed to contact a local press reporter and the next minute we had a journalist here, along with a photographer. By this time, she had been a resident for six months and we had to put up with a daily onslaught of dreadful behaviour. Lena Kelly was accused of being abusive and physically attacking her, apparently forcing her to have cold baths and refusing to serve her any food.’

Miss Brandon sighed and shook her head.

‘Any accusations against a care home facility have to be taken seriously, and obviously legal advice was taken.’

‘Surely her family could have intervened?’ Jane said, becoming impatient with Miss Brandon’s lengthy explanation.

‘I am just coming to that. It was rather complicated. Adele Sinclair was married to Charles Sinclair, a multimillionaire investment banker. He is one of our main benefactors and his charitable donations have been, and still are, extensive. I agreed to care for his wife after he personally approached me. To be perfectly honest, perhaps I am to blame for allowing the situation to have gone on for so long, due to our relationship with Mr Sinclair.’

‘That’s understandable,’ Jane said, relieved that at last she was being told the full story.

‘Mr Sinclair obviously had to be told, and he very quickly handled the situation and confided in us about his wife’s mental state before her diagnosis. He had previously hired a private nurse — well, several actually. In all, he had hired four nurses, all of whom had been physically threatened by his wife, who had to be restrained. She also made many verbal accusations against them.’

‘Why were you not made aware of Mrs Sinclair’s previous mental state?’

‘Well, we had her medical history, but Mr Sinclair told me personally that he felt that a lot of his wife’s state of mind was connected with the fact that he was divorcing her.’

‘Ah,’ Jane said, as Miss Brandon passed her the envelope.

‘That is a copy of the letter from Mr Sinclair’s lawyers. I have here all the correspondence between ourselves and the legal team we engaged, Mrs Sinclair’s medical history, Miss Kelly’s CV and a statement reflecting her shock at the accusations. Obviously, until we know the facts, we had to suspend her with full pay. These are copies, but if you wish to see the originals, I will of course allow you to do so.’

As Miss Brandon handed over the documents there was a light tap on the door. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Miss Martinez. I am sorry to interrupt.’

The door opened and Jane saw a petite woman wearing a long, floral dress with a Victorian-style pinafore and large pockets. She had two thick, greying plaits coiled round her head, with a pencil sticking out from one of them.

‘I am so sorry to interrupt you, Miss Brandon, but Mr Baker has called asking about the upright piano. He said it really needed to be tuned before his next visit.’

‘Oh gosh, yes, I’m sorry, I completely forgot. Come in. I have the tuner’s contact details and I meant to arrange an appointment. Detective Tennison, this is Angelica Martinez, who helps with the arts and crafts sessions, and with Mr Baker who comes in once a week and does a little musical routine.’

Miss Martinez stood shyly by the open door. Although obviously middle-aged, she had a childlike presence with her hand stuffed into her apron pocket.

‘Now then, I know I had it a couple of days ago when you first asked me... is he bringing his pianist with him as usual?’

‘Yes, Miss Brandon.’

‘Ah, here it is. I’m sorry, please do call him and see if he can come and tune the piano before Mr Baker’s little event.’

Miss Brandon handed over a slip of paper.

Miss Martinez smiled. ‘Thank you so much. Just one more little request regarding Prince Andrew’s wedding. I know it’s a long way off, but I was wondering if we could perhaps start making some bunting and little flags? We can make it a special occasion like we did for Prince Charles and Lady Di’s wedding.’

‘As you said, it is still a long way off yet...’

‘Yes, but it takes a long time to make these things, and the residents do enjoy doing that very much.’

‘Yes, I understand. Thank you, Miss Martinez.’

Miss Brandon couldn’t wait to usher the woman out and raised an eyebrow as she closed the door.

‘We have a number of very kind helpers; we do try our hardest to bring the boredom level down. Now, let me bring you a cup of coffee while you take your time reading through all the correspondence.’

Jane chewed her bottom lip. The last thing she felt like doing was wading through the whole pile, but she doubted that Miss Brandon would allow the documents to be taken from her office, despite the fact that they were copies.

‘Thank you. White, no sugar, please. And if I should need to take any of these documents away, would you be able to print them out for me?’

‘Let me ask our lawyer. As I said earlier, we have signed a privacy agreement.’

‘I’m sure I won’t need to take anything, but just in case.’

Jane couldn’t wait to be left alone. Once Miss Brandon had gone, she went to sit in Miss Brandon’s desk chair. She tipped out the mound of correspondence, much of which was stapled together with little notes attached. She spread everything out so that she could read it all in chronological order, suspecting it was going to take her at least an hour.