Taste of Blood

Chapter Nine

Stanley had left the station an hour or so after Jane. He had been making calls to various dog-handling branches of the Met, enquiring about what happened when officers retired and took on their canine partner as a ‘live at home’ pet. He was surprised by just how many retiring officers took their dogs with them.

The man he was going to see, Officer Donaldson, had an exemplary record with the Met, serving for over twenty-five years. There was not one complaint or misdemeanour recorded against him. His dog, Hutch, had been with Donaldson for seven years and had been assigned to him when he was two years old.

Stanley parked his car in a narrow lane lined with small semi-detached properties on either side.

Donaldson’s house clearly needed some exterior painting, and the steps leading to the front door were strewn with dead leaves, rubbish and empty milk bottles. Taped across the letterbox was a laminated card that read NO JUNK MAIL, and when Stanley pressed the doorbell it did not ring. He knocked, waited, then knocked again. There was the sound of a dog barking, so he stood for another minute, stepping back from the door to look up at the house.

The barking persisted, then stopped. He caught sight of a curtain moving and peered into the window, but couldn’t see anyone. He tapped on the glass.

‘Mr Donaldson? I need to have a chat with you. I’m DI Stanley, from Bromley station. Sir, could you open the door, please? I’m sure you don’t want this to be passed onto uniforms coming with an arrest warrant. I just need to talk to you. There’s no one else with me.’

The curtain moved again and the window opened a fraction.

‘Do you want to see my ID, sir?’

Stanley took out his wallet and held his ID close to the open window. The window closed and Stanley let out a frustrated sigh, but then he heard the front door being opened.

Eric Donaldson looked worn out. He had thinning grey hair, several days of stubble and his eyes were red-rimmed. He wore frayed pyjama bottoms and slippers, with a thick knitted sweater that was unravelling at the cuffs.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Come on through, I’ve got the kettle on. Do you want a cuppa?’

‘I certainly do. Is Hutch in there?’

‘He’s in his cage.’

The kitchen looked as if it had been caught in a time warp. It had old-fashioned, yellowing wallpaper, a dirty tiled floor and green-painted kitchen cabinets. There was an old fridge covered in stickers next to a greasy gas stove. The sink was stacked with dirty dishes and pans, and there were bags of dog biscuits and tinned dog food scattered over the kitchen units.

Stanley nervously glanced towards the rear of the kitchen as Hutch gave a menacing growl, peering through the mesh of his cage. He was an enormous German shepherd and his big, black-tipped ears were pointing up as his eyes shone like amber.

‘My God, he’s a big fella,’ Stanley said, keeping his distance as he sat down at a small table with a half-eaten bowl of soggy cornflakes on it.

‘Quiet! You’ll get your cuppa in a minute.’

At first Stanley thought Donaldson was talking to him, but then watched as he filled a teapot and got a dog bowl out of the sink. He then rinsed two mugs out and took a carton of milk from the fridge.

‘They used to deliver... do you want sugar?’

‘No, thanks.’

Donaldson then poured some milk into the dog bowl and added some tea. He carried the bowl over to the cage, opened the latch and put it inside. Hutch immediately started slurping hungrily.

‘Old routine we had, cuppa each morning before we went on duty. Now, you pour, and I’ll get a biscuit.’

‘No thanks, just the tea is fine,’ Stanley replied.

‘The biscuit’s for him, not you.’

Hutch gobbled down his proferred dog biscuit, and Stanley poured the tea as Donaldson came and sat down.

‘Sir, do you want to tell me about the three accusations against Hutch? I have the police reports, but I’d like to hear it from you.’

‘All you need to know is that without a command from me he wouldn’t make a move against anyone.’

By admitting that Hutch obeyed his commands, it meant that Donaldson had given instructions to the dog to attack. Stanley nodded, then decided on a different approach, trying to get Donaldson’s confidence.

‘I’m about to retire myself, you know.’

Donaldson nodded. ‘Always been attached to Bromley?’

‘Good God no, I’ve been around the houses. I did a stint with the Sweeney and worked undercover, but I have two kids and a mortgage, and to be honest I was tired out.’

‘My wife left me a year before I retired,’ Donaldson said. ‘She’d been having an affair with a good friend of mine — it was a real kick in the teeth. To be honest, I don’t know what hurt me the most, her wanting a divorce or that someone I’d worked alongside for years was a lying, two-faced bastard. She got the house, and I moved in here with my old mum. But she died a year later.’

‘Did she get along with Hutch?’

‘Course she did, he’s a big old softy... and I liked the fact that he was here if I had to go out... she felt safe with him.’

Stanley nodded and drained his mug of tea.

‘We’re going to have to discuss why I’m here, sir, the destruction order on Hutch. Before I came here, I had a chat with a few stations where there are dog handlers, and I also talked to the training centre and...’

Donaldson kicked back his chair and Hutch stood up in his cage, startled by the noise. He pushed his nose through the mesh.

‘Lie down, that’s a good boy. Inspector, you should go. He’s not going to be taken from me unless it’s over my dead body, do you understand?’

‘Hear me out, sir, please. There’s good rehabilitation kennels that can take him, and there’s also a charitable foundation made up of ex-dog handlers...’

‘You got five seconds to leave my house before I let Hutch out.’

Stanley held his hands up. ‘Come on, there’s no need to threaten me.’

‘He’s all I’ve got, it’s just him and me. All I am asking is to be left alone.’

‘Mr Donaldson — Eric — if I walk out, you know there’ll be repercussions. I’m here to try and find a solution so he doesn’t have to be destroyed. I won’t be taking Hutch, but if you would consider the rehabilitation kennels, I could talk to someone there for you. Or you could talk to them.’

Donaldson shook his head, turning to look at Hutch.

‘He’s old, in dog years he’s in his eighties. He’s got arthritis in his hips, and no bloody rehabilitation foundation would take care of him. I pay for his medication, and I don’t want any charitable aid, either for him or for me.’

Stanley gritted his teeth, beginning to lose patience. He pulled out the notes he had made from his calls that morning.

‘Listen to me, Eric. Look over these and talk to the people I spoke to because I think you need help.’

Donaldson picked up the papers and tore them in two. He was physically shaking as he threw them across the table. He then turned towards the cage as Hutch began to growl.

‘I’m going to let him out; go on, you get out.’

Stanley stood up and backed away from the table towards the door. Donaldson picked up a dog lead and wrapped it round the knuckles on his right hand. Stanley raised his arms, moving further towards the hall as the cage was opened and Hutch started to growl, baring his teeth.

‘I’m fucking out of here. You keep that dog away from me.’

Donaldson laughed as he clipped the leash onto Hutch’s collar and the massive dog lurched forwards. Stanley moved down the hall and opened the front door.

The door slammed shut behind him and Stanley walked quickly back to his car. He took a while to calm himself down, angry at being subjected to such humiliation. He was also infuriated that he’d been given the task of dealing with the Donaldson situation in the first place.

Jane was not as angry as Stanley, but she still felt her trip to the care home had been a total waste of her time. She was finally replacing all the documents in the folder when there was a light knock on the door and Miss Martinez came in with a tray of coffee and biscuits.

‘I’m sorry this has taken so long, but we had a delivery and Miss Brandon is arranging for one of our residents to have guests for lunch. She will be with you in a moment.’

‘Thank you, but I am just about to leave.’

‘Oh, well, let me go and find her for you.’

Before Jane could say there was no need, Miss Brandon appeared and Jane had to wait as she wrote a note for DCI Hutton, putting it in a sealed envelope before handing it to Jane.

‘Thank you so much for your time,’ she said with a smile. ‘Let me walk you out.’

By the time Jane got to her car she had decided that she would go home early. There was no urgent need to make an official report as it had all apparently been sorted, and if she was questioned, she would just say that it had taken hours of her time to go through all the documents.

Not far from the care home, Jane passed a bus stop and noticed Miss Martinez waiting. Jane pulled up, lowered her window and asked if she could give her a lift. Miss Martinez bent down towards the window.

‘That is very kind of you, I don’t want to put you to any trouble, but I missed my usual bus as I usually only do half-mornings.’

Jane leaned across the passenger seat to open the door. Miss Martinez got into the car, thanking Jane and telling her where she needed to go, saying that she hoped it was not too far out of her way.

‘I must say I was very impressed with the facilities at the care home,’ Jane said, making conversation. ‘Have you worked there long?’

‘Yes, a few years, but just part-time because I’m not trained as a carer. I run the arts department and organise the events. We have lots of trips out from the home to the local theatre and exhibitions; we have a small coach and a driver. I think the residents really benefit from these excursions as it breaks up the monotony. We also have a very nice lady who comes in and does their hair and manicures.’

Jane continued to drive as directed, making left and right turns. Miss Martinez pointed out where she usually got off the bus.

‘You could drop me here if you like. I live just along that road, by the shops.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ Jane said. ‘Tell me, how did you get on with Mrs Sinclair, the lady that caused all the problems?’

‘Oh dear, she really was a difficult lady. I felt so sorry for Lena as she is such a dedicated and caring young woman. We all felt very bad for her. At one time or another we had all been subjected to Mrs Sinclair’s irrational behaviour, and she was constantly making accusations about the staff. A lot of the residents suffer from dementia, but she could be really vicious and physically abusive — nothing satisfied her. We were told that she had suffered a nervous breakdown when her husband began divorce proceedings; apparently he was having a relationship with a nurse he’d hired to take care of her.’

Miss Martinez gave a little shrug of her shoulders. ‘I shouldn’t gossip but I think most of the staff got to hear about it, with her husband being such an important benefactor. I think Miss Brandon tolerated much more than she would have done before it all became impossible, because of who Mrs Sinclair was married to...’

‘It must cost a considerable amount to be a resident,’ Jane said, very aware that Miss Brandon hadn’t mentioned the fact that their big charitable donor was having a relationship with the nurse employed to care for Mrs Sinclair.

‘Oh, yes. It is very costly, and then there are all the extras. If you just pull over by the newsagent, I live in the flat above.’

Jane parked directly opposite the small row of shops. Next to the newsagent was a little alley with steps going up to the floor above. Miss Martinez got out.

‘Could I offer you a coffee? I also have lovely fresh pastries made every day.’

‘Thanks, that’s very kind of you, but I should be getting back to work.’

Jane watched Miss Martinez wave to someone inside the newsagent and approach the alley. Jane was about to drive off when she noticed the sign above the shop: HOLLOW LANE NEWSAGENT. She frowned, trying to recall why it was familiar. She reached over to the back seat for her handbag. Tucked inside amongst various receipts was the note from Alice Caplan with Mrs Hoffman’s address: Flat A, 91 Hollow Lane, Orpington.

Jane could hardly believe it. Was Miss Martinez actually Mrs Hoffman? She decided there was only one way to find out.

By the time she had crossed the road and entered the alley there was no sign of Miss Martinez. The stone steps led up to a small stone patio area in front of a blue-painted door with ‘Flat A’ printed in white. There was a small potted plant beside the door, and an old-fashioned bicycle leaned against the low wall surrounding the patio.

Jane rang the bell and waited only a moment before it was opened by Miss Martinez, with a look of surprise.

‘I hope you don’t mind, but I just had a sort of memory jolt. I was actually given your address by Alice Caplan. She and her husband live in the Old Manor House in Clarendon Court.’

Miss Martinez nodded. ‘I used to live there with my husband... a long time ago. I am divorced now.’

‘What a coincidence. Would you mind if I came in and asked you a few questions? It’s nothing of any concern, it’s just that I am working on an investigation involving Mr Caplan.’

‘Yes, of course, do come in. I have to tell you that I only met Mrs Caplan once or twice as my husband dealt with selling the property.’

Jane was ushered into a narrow, cluttered hallway and Miss Martinez showed her into a bright, colourful lounge with easy chairs. Woven Mexican rugs covered the white-painted floorboards and vivid oil paintings covered the walls.

‘Please, do sit down and I’ll make some coffee. And I brought back some fresh pastries this morning.’

‘That’s very kind of you, I really do appreciate you agreeing to talk to me.’

Miss Martinez laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

‘To be honest, I don’t have many visitors. Please make yourself comfortable.’

Jane put her handbag on the arm of one of the chairs and looked around the room. There was a hand-painted chest with rows of photographs in ornate silver frames, including a wedding photograph of Miss Martinez in a patterned, embroidered, long dress with a very tall chiselled blond-haired man in a velvet suit. She was holding the hand of a small boy who looked about six or seven years old. Engraved on the frame was: WEDDING, MEXICO CITY, 1970. There were several other photographs of the young boy at various ages, but none of the tall blond man. In one, the boy appeared to be a teenager, with shoulder-length dark hair and beautiful almond-shaped eyes. Jane thought he had a sweet and gentle smile.

Miss Martinez returned with a tray and two bone-china cups, a silver coffee pot and pastries arranged on a delicate floral-patterned plate.

‘It won’t be long. I make good coffee, but let me warn you it is very strong, but so good!’

She placed the tray down on a small, carved, Indian table and sat down.

‘I was looking at your lovely photographs. Is that your son?’ Jane asked.

‘Yes, my husband adopted him when we married. We left Mexico to live in Berlin, then London, where Victor — my husband, now ex-husband — is living. Martinez is my maiden name.’

‘I should explain why I wanted to talk to you,’ Jane said. ‘I’m investigating an incident involving David Caplan and a neighbour from Clarendon Court, Martin Boon.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t really be of much assistance to you. Victor and I lived at Clarendon Court, but I only recall meeting Mr Caplan on a few occasions. Though my husband had some arguments with Mr Boon regarding planning permission, I think. He was also not on very good terms with another neighbour, Mr Larsson.’

Jane nodded. ‘It seems that the same neighbours have a similar relationship with David Caplan.’

Miss Martinez got up to pour the coffee. Jane briefly explained about the investigation, but Miss Martinez showed no reaction.

‘We’re waiting to find out if Mr Boon recovers, so we can get his side of things,’ Jane added.

‘Victor might be able to give you more information. I had so little to do with any of the neighbours, as we were going through a difficult time, both emotionally and financially. Victor bought the property with the intention of turning it into flats. It was a very large house, and we bought it for a good price as it was in a very bad state. I don’t think anything had been done for thirty years or more, so the electrics and the plumbing all needed replacing. Victor had grandiose plans, but he had not taken proper legal advice about converting the property. It was sort of a last effort on his part to make us financially secure. He had previously had a number of failed business ventures, and was depending on two friends who were interested in part-financing the conversion. But when the planning applications were denied his friends pulled out.’

‘I imagine that the fire must have created even more problems?’

‘Yes, it was dreadful. Victor did have some insurance, but we had no alternative but to sell. By this time I had decided that I had had enough; my first husband, my son’s father, died of cancer and left me a substantial legacy, but Victor mishandled it, so we ended up bankrupt.’

‘Was it at this time that Victor arranged to sell the courtyard to the Larssons?’

‘I believe so; he was trying to raise money and we never used the courtyard ourselves, other than for deliveries. It was really in a very bad state: it was full of potholes and when it rained it got very muddy.’

Jane noticed that for the first time Miss Martinez seemed ill at ease. She kept straightening her skirt, then plucking at the material.

‘The courtyard appears to be a continuing problem area for Mr Caplan, with the same neighbours refusing to allow anyone to park their cars on it.’

‘Again, I can’t recall exactly when, or for how much, Victor sold the courtyard to the Larssons, but he put the house on the market shortly afterwards.’

Miss Martinez still seemed nervous. She opened a small leather box and took out a cigarette.

‘Do you mind?’

Jane shook her head. Miss Martinez’s hand was shaking as she lit her cigarette. She showed the silver lighter to Jane.

‘My first husband owned tin mines and made many beautiful things. We lived in Monterey, a very beautiful seaside town. He was originally from Ethiopia. My son, Sebastian, looks so like him; he has the same eyes.’

Her own eyes were full of tears as she spoke.

‘Victor did not really get along with my son when he became a teenager. Sebastian was a musician; he was so talented. Victor was angry because he left school at sixteen. And Sebastian knew Victor was squandering my inheritance, and ultimately his inheritance. Then...’

Miss Martinez went to sit back in her chair and gave deep sighs as she tried to control her tears.

‘I don’t really know what happened, but the Larssons’ daughter would sometimes come to the house. She was infatuated with Sebastian. The truth was that many girls would dote on him. But it all ended badly. They were both underage, and she got pregnant.’

‘I know their daughter died,’ Jane said quietly.

‘Yes, so Sebastian left. I gave him money to travel to Mexico. The house was sold, we got divorced and Victor returned to Berlin.’

‘Is your son still living in Mexico?’

‘I don’t know. Just before we moved out from Clarendon Court, I received a postcard saying that he was living in Mexico City, but he would be coming home to see me.’

Jane looked puzzled. ‘Wasn’t that a long time ago?’

‘Yes, I have never seen him again. I used to go to the old house just to make sure that when I changed addresses he would know where to find me. I would have gone back to Mexico, but there was always so little money. I was so afraid that if I did, he might go back to Clarendon Court, and we would miss each other.’

Jane glanced at her watch and knew it was time she left. She stood up as Miss Martinez opened a drawer of a hand-painted dresser and took out a card.

‘To be honest I needed help, emotionally, because I was waiting for him to find me. I had therapy because I was very depressed, I was so desperate for my son to make contact. After I got the job at the care home and moved here, one of the staff told me about this wonderful woman. She is a medium, and she has truthfully given me real hope. Not only hope but encouragement that I am doing the right thing, and that my son will find me. I think she is a very special woman with extraordinary insights and intuition. She gave me reason to stay here, as she told me he is close.’

Miss Martinez passed the card to Jane, pressing it into her hand.

‘She knew that my son was the light of my life. She told me he was close, even at the old house. So even though I am still waiting, she gives me such comfort.’

After the odd turn the conversation had taken, Jane was eager to leave. ‘Thank you for talking to me, but I’ve already taken up too much of your time.’ Opening the front door, Jane turned back to thank her again and accidentally knocked against the bicycle. She propped it back up as Miss Martinez quickly came to help her.

In the basket of the bicycle was a black bicycle pump. Miss Martinez picked it up and showed Jane that the attachment to connect the pump to the tyre needed to be replaced.

‘My friend in the newsagent is trying to find me one, but it’s so old I may have to buy a new one.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘I don’t think I have been much help to you, but you know where I am if you need to contact me again.’

Jane unlocked her car, tossing her handbag onto the passenger seat. She tossed the medium’s card onto the seat next to her handbag.

She suddenly remembered that it was Friday and that she would be having dinner with her parents. And more importantly, she would have the weekend off.