by M. L Rose
Table of Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
THE FORGOTTEN MOTHER
ARLA BAKER BOOK 3
ML ROSE
Copyright © 2018 by ML Rose
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
permission in writing from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
*****
PRAISE FOR THE ARLA BAKER SERIES
A white knuckled ride that swept me away! Pure adrenaline pulses through this book, I couldn't believe it. - Goodreads reviewer
Utter, sheer, unbelievable entertainment. Arla Baker, you are here to stay!! - Amazon reviewer
A very assured and accomplished addition to the police procedural mystery genre. And that ending took my breath away! - Polly Hughes
Up there with the best of all crime writers – Angela Marsons, Lisa Regan, LJ Ross, all of them!
OMG, I couldn't put this book down! It grabs you from page one and just hooks you! - Joan Dixon
5 stars and more! It starts with a bang and just keeps getting better! So happy I found this author!! - Dennis Lutes
HAVE YOU READ THEM ALL?
The Lost Sister – Arla Baker Series 1 (Click here)
Did a serial killer take her lost sister? Secrets of the past reach out to claim Arla’s life. Can she save herself from this vicious killer?
The Keeper of Secrets – Arla Baker Series 2 (Click here)
A teenage girl is dead in the park. The killer leaves a note. Ask Detective Arla Baker what happened. This killer knows about Nicole, Arla’s lost sister. Now he’s coming for Arla.
PROLOGUE
Sixteen years ago
Near Nottingham
He winced as she pulled on his arm, tugging him forward.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered between pressed lips. He can tell she’s angry. Her jaw is clamped tight, and her nostrils are flaring.
The room is almost dark. The reading lamp on the table has a T-shirt draped over it, reducing the amount of light. The wardrobe in one corner casts a deep shadow over the bed. Posters on the wall curl at the edges, blank faces on them staring forward.
The boy is scared. He looks up at the angry face and stammers. “I…I heard you get out of bed, so I came to...to see.”
She shoves him back against the wall, letting go of his arm. Her tone is scathing, yet very low. “Why can’t you just mind your own business for a change, you stupid idiot!”
He says nothing, staring at the worn carpet on the floor. She closes the door softly, wishing for the umpteenth time her door had a lock. She walks over to the table, sits down, and resumes putting makeup on her face. She raises the T-shirt a little to make sure she can see herself in the pocket mirror.
The boy slides against the wall, moving forward. He’s in his night pyjamas, and the carpet feels cold under his feet, as does the rough wall against his hands.
“Where are you going?” he whispers. She doesn’t reply, busy with the foundation brush.
“Is it to that house?” he says. She stops and turns. Her eyes are like slits.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know, that house you went to last week from school.”
She leans forward, eyebrows knotted. “You followed me?”
He shrugs, then licks his lips. “I saw you getting into a car I hadn't seen before. So yeah, I followed.” He’s ten years old, and quick on his bike.
She closes her eyes for a second and shakes her head. She goes to say something, thinks better of it, then goes back to her make up. She works fast, then zips up her bag and puts it inside the shoulder bag. She picks up her high heels and chucks them inside the bag as well. She’s wearing trainers.
The boy can smell the cheap perfume on her. She leans over him, holding a finger up to his face.
“Say one word about this and you’re dead. Got that?”
He swallows. She’s hurt him before, but not like what his step-dad does to them both. She can be scary as well, especially when she’s like this. But he also knows she looks out for him, protects him when she can. He just wishes she was friendlier to him.
“You’re going there again, aren’t you?”
She grabs his flimsy night shirt and pushes him against the wall. Her knuckles hurt his chest.
“Ow,” he whimpers.
“It doesn’t matter where I’m going. You’re just a little kid. Keep your nose out of it. I’ll be back in the morning. And this time, I’ll look out for you. Do you hear me? If I see you anywhere on the road, I’m calling him.” She points to the room where their step dad is sleeping.
&n
bsp; He stares at her with big eyes. He knows she wouldn't dare give herself away by calling him. But he stays silent.
She lets go of him and turns the light off. In the pitch-black darkness, he watches as she squeezes between the table and window. She fiddles with the latch, then raises the window. She sits on the ledge, dangling her legs over the wall. Right below her is the flat roof of the kitchen.
He can feel the cold air rushing into the room, freezing his body. She’s wearing a heavy coat, and tights over her skirt. She balances herself one last time, then jumps off the ledge.
He shuffles forward. The cold is biting, turning his face numb. The silvery wash from a half moon shows the girl running across the small roof, then lowering herself to the garden. She climbs over the waist high fence, then starts to walk.
He makes his mind up in a second. He scurries into his room next door. He pulls on his socks and trainers, trousers and a hooded top; then puts on his coat. He can hear the snoring of his obnoxious step dad. Too much booze and he snores louder than usual. But at least it means he’s passed out. When he’s asleep, he can’t touch him, or his sister.
The boy jumps down to the flat roof and races across it. He’s much faster than his sister. He grabs his bike from the shed and hauls it over the fence. Yellow haze from the street lamps show his sister’s figure, getting smaller as she walks rapidly. He gives himself another ten seconds, then starts pedalling his bike.
CHAPTER 1
The man lay very still, his face hidden by a ski mask. Only his eyelids blinked. The grass around him was brittle with frost. He was watching the row of houses opposite him, his attention focused on the middle residence. Light scattered around the drawn curtains of the Georgian windows. The house was terraced but large, typical of the Edwardian terrace mansions built in the nineteenth century. They were never cheap and now sold for several millions.
Jonty was his name. J to his friends, of whom he didn't have many. Jonty wore Lycra running gear from head to toe, and a tight, black ski jacket, the same colour as his mask. Precision gloves, allowing full movement of his fingers, covered his hands. He was glad of them. His hands would have frozen by now. His running shoes were black too, and gripped well.
A full moon floated in the sky like a round, silver balloon. Clouds around it were touched by a blue fire, suffusing them with bright, otherworldly shades. The forest Jonty lay in was quiet. Occasionally a squirrel rushed in the undergrowth. His ears were attuned to the silence of winter, a dead calm that claimed the movement of the grass and leaves. But he was anything but calm. His heart thrummed against his ribs, breath fluttered against the nylon material of the ski mask.
Tonight was his night.
He had watched and waited for the last two months. He knew what the owners of the house did most evenings. In particular, their pattern on a Thursday evening. He glanced at the green dial of his watch. Seven pm. Any minute now.
The front door opened, throwing a shaft of light on the landing. Four stairs led down to ground level. A woman emerged, wearing a green coat and scarf. The security lights didn't come on, which made him smile.
Jonty watched the woman get into a BMW convertible and drive off. The lights remained on inside the house. He knew who was inside. Without making a sound, Jonty stood. He tightened the straps of his backpack, then set off at a brisk jog.
Even the city that never slept seemed quieter, holding its breath. Only one car passed him by as he ran, invisible in the dark cloak of night. He got to the edge of the forest and leaned against a tree. Above him stretched electric cables. He could see them swing across the road to a wooden post, from where several lines originated. Each of those cables ended in a house, supplying telephone and internet traffic.
Jonty grabbed the lowest branch and heaved himself up the tree. He was incredibly fit, he ran two marathons a year. Within five minutes, he was near the top. He rested his back against the main trunk and removed the bolt cutter strapped to his waist.
He uncoiled a harness, looped it around his waist, then tied it to a sturdy branch to take his weight in case he fell. He leaned forward, the bolt cutter’s sharp jaws open. He could reach the cables from here. With several snips, he cut the cables, watching them fall to the ground.
He kept an eye on the road. It was a quiet one by South London standards, but if the falling wires hit a passing car he was in trouble. They didn't. The tension in the cables whiplashed them to the black asphalt, emitting small sparks of electricity. Then they moved to the edges of the road, dragged by the recoil. Silence returned to millionaire’s row.
Jonty climbed down the tree slowly. Rushing down a slope or tree was dangerous, he knew, being an avid rock climber. Once his feet touched ground, he was as fast as a hare. He crossed the road where the streetlamps didn't shine. Keeping to the shadows, he came up to the house. The large, thick red door faced him.
He rang the brass doorbell. After a while, he heard sounds from inside. His heart rate quickened. He took off the ski mask and patted his hair down. He pressed himself closer to the door, so his face blocked the view from the eye hole on the door.
“Who is it?” A muffled voice came from inside.
“Sky TV. Are you having a telephone and internet outage currently?”
The voice said something, then there was a rattle of chains. The door opened. A man stood there, wearing a dressing gown and sandals. He wore glasses and was in his late fifties. He stared at Jonty in confusion.
“Who…”
He didn't finish the question. Jonty kicked the door hard. The man stumbled backwards, falling against the wall. Jonty was inside in a flash, and without turning around, shut the door with the heel of his shoe.
CHAPTER 2
Cherie Longworth shut the door of her BMW convertible and beeped the car shut. Her heels crunched the pavement as she walked briskly up to her house. The lights were still on, which meant her husband was at home. She had spent a few hours with a girlfriend who was going through a messy divorce. David, her husband, stayed at home on weekday evenings, looking through scripts.
Cherie went up the steps to the porch and stopped short. The heavy front door was open. Not wide, but a crack, a narrow opening that most people wouldn't notice. But Cherie knew. The light in the hallway was off, but the windows spilled light into the frozen evening outside. The darkness in the hallway was ominous.
Cherie could feel her heart thumping loudly. She swallowed and strained her eyes.
“David?” she called. “Are you there?”
Silence. Cherie looked behind her. Across the road, lay the expanse of Clapham Common. It looked lovely in the summer, but now it was dark and foreboding. The tall trees hunched together like a beast of prey. Ready to lunge at her. Cherie shivered. It had been David’s idea to live here. She had never liked it, for precisely this kind of reason. Had the house been burgled?
“David?”
Cherie called out again. Not a sound came from inside. Cherie grabbed her phone. She was getting ready to dial 999 when she suddenly felt a little foolish. There could be a simple explanation. David could just have popped to the neighbours. They were friends with the Patels, who lived two doors down. Or maybe he had meant to pop outside then forgotten something in his study.
The six-bedroom house was massive, more than enough for her and David. She could get lost inside, and David’s study was on the top floor. Yes, that must be it, she thought. David couldn't hear her.
Gingerly, Cherie pushed the door. It fell open on smooth hinges. She called out his name again as she stepped inside the dark hallway. Her fingers groped for the light switch. When the LED spotlights came on, they made her blink. She crossed to the right and peered inside the living room. The lights were on, but the room was empty. The room on the right was similar.
The staircase stood to the left against the wall. Straight ahead lay a smaller hallway and beyond it, the kitchen and dining room. She heard the sound as she got closer to the stairs. Muted voices. She listened hard, tryi
ng to quell the rising beat of her heart. It sounded like the TV was on somewhere. Maybe in David’s study, as that was at the rear?
A light was on upstairs, but at the back of the property. The three bedrooms at the front, including the master bedroom , were sunk in darkness. Cherie stepped up, then stopped and looked at the kitchen. She had shut the front door already, should she check the rest of the ground floor? For some reason, she didn't feel like doing it by herself. A sharp knife from the kitchen drawer on the other hand… But what would she do with a knife? Stab an intruder?
She held her phone still, thumb poised over the green ring button. She climbed the stairs. Mouth dry, chest heaving, she reached the landing, then the upper floor hallway. The sound of the TV was louder now. It came from the study. The door was shut, and light seeped out from underneath.
Cherie frowned. Fear dissolved, replaced by irritation. What on earth was David up to? This was ridiculous. Locking himself up in his room, leaving the front door open…
She flicked on the lights in the upper floor and stormed towards the study. She yanked the door open, poised to give David a piece of her mind.
She froze. Two camera lights, the type used in David’s studio, were placed on the floor. The beams illuminated a ghastly sight. David was hanging by the neck from the steel curtain pole. A belt was wrapped around his throat. His tongue hung out from his swollen face, rapidly turning purple. He was naked. His bowels had been sliced open, and the contents of his gut streamed out to the floor.
It took Cherie’s brain a few seconds to process the scene. Then she gave a strangled cry and fell onto the floor outside, vomiting.
CHAPTER 3
It was cold out, but warm within. Arla Baker snuggled up to Inspector Harry Mehta’s warm body, her right arm around his wide chest. Her knee was draped across his torso, and she moved it up and down gently.
“Yes,” Harry said. “Right there.”