by M. L Rose
It was past midnight, and past their bedtime, as tomorrow was a working day. But one drink after work had led to a few more, as it frequently did in the Metropolitan Police Service, or Met, as it was called. While drinking together was common practice for the detectives, fraternising was a different issue. One that Arla was acutely aware of. Her higher rank and career ambitions made sleeping with Harry a potential time bomb.
But she had learnt to take happiness when it came her way. Life was a road and Arla was forever thumbing a ride. The car called happiness barely stopped for her. Now that it had, she was going to hitch a ride. Damn the rest.
Besides, she had worked with Harry a long time. He knew the rules better than anyone. And for what it was worth, she trusted him. She didn't know how far this was going to go, but she believed Harry wouldn't use this to push her into a corner.
Arla’s eyes were used to the dark. She could make out his Adam’s apple, bobbing up as he swallowed, then groaned softly. She kept up the gently rubbing with her thigh, feeling him respond. They had just made love, but clearly, it was time for some more.
A loud beeping sound came from the table next to her.
Arla sighed. It was her work phone.
“Ignore it,” said Harry. He lowered his hand and reached for her. Arla pushed it away.
“Come on,” he complained, sliding his warm, long finger down her belly. She fought with the urge to go with it, but the phone kept ringing.
“Harry, stop.” She rolled over, much to his annoyance. She grabbed the phone and put it to her ear.
“Detective Chief Inspector Baker.”
“Lambeth Switchboard connecting you to murder crime scene in Clapham. Do you copy?”
Instantly Arla was awake. She folded her knees and sat up in bed. With one hand she brushed her hair back.
“Yes, I do. Connect me please.”
A deep male voice came on the phone. “Constable Sergeant Jackson speaking.”
“Andy, this is DCI Baker.” She knew the uniformed sergeant from the Clapham Police Station, where they both worked.
“Hi Guv. Sorry to bother you so late at night.”
“Don’t worry about it. What’s going on?”
“Homicide. Victim lived opposite the Common, but on the Wandsworth side. White male in his late fifties. Killed in his own home, by someone who’s…”
Andy’s voice dried up and Arla felt a knot in her guts. “Who’s what?”
“You’d better come here and see for yourself, guv. It’s not a pretty sight, I’m afraid.”
Arla hung up and slid out of the bed. She turned the bedside lamp on and picked up her underwear from the floor. She put them in the laundry bin and took fresh ones out from the wardrobe. Harry was up on one elbow, eyes hooded.
“You should walk around like that more often.”
“Shut up Harry. Go back to sleep.”
“Sounded bad.”
“Think it is. Andy was flustered.”
“Want me to come?”
Arla got dressed, not answering. She didn't have to. Harry knew the drill. She was his boss, that was complication enough. She didn't need him to be there when all she wanted to do was focus on the job. He got that, and kept himself away, unless they were working a case together. Which was often.
She buttoned up her white shirt, then tucked it into the black trousers. She brushed her hair back hastily, then tied the black tangle into a ponytail. It would have to do. No time for makeup. She stuffed the warrant card and badge into her belt.
“It’s not your case, Harry. Not yet, anyway. I’ll be back soon.”
She glanced at him, aware he was sitting up with his back on the headboard. His chestnut brown eyes were melting soft, and his floppy hair fell over his forehead in a boyish way. The chiselled hard line of his jaw contrasted against the slight pout of his lower lips. Harry loved sulking when he didn't get his own way. Arla stifled a grin, and felt a warm rush in her heart, like the waves of a tropical sea.
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
Harry nodded, but looked unhappy. Arla went out into the corridor, got the keys of her Ford Mondeo, and locked the door shut gently.
From where she lived, Tooting Broadway, South London, Clapham, was four miles on a straight road. A road normally clogged with traffic and the endless rush of London’s colourful, diverse inhabitants. The myriad of twinkling neon shops flew past now as she pressed on the accelerator. The streets seemed naked without the perpetual throng of people. But night was also the time she loved. When she lay down, the faded, distant swell of traffic was like waves crashing on a beach, the sound lulling her to sleep.
Sleep she wouldn't be getting tonight. The frequent traffic lights kept stopping her, and after the second one, she decided to put the siren on. Legally, she could jump the lights, but that wasn’t enough warning for the occasional pedestrian, often drunk, swaying across the road.
Wind roared in her ears as she drove, the harsh cold evaporating the last dregs of slumber in her mind. The address was on her sat nav, and she slowed down as she entered the exclusive road. A beautiful row of terraced mansions sat opposite the dense canopies of the Common. The road was in Clapham, but the common they looked over belonged to Wandsworth, the adjoining borough. Across the trees, opposite millionaire's row, lay the hallowed halls of HMP Wandsworth. Arla made a mental note of checking if there had been any breakouts.
The flashing blue light reflected off the black mass of the trees. Arla screeched to a stop and jumped out of the car. She caught sight of Sergeant Andy Jackson, who strolled over to her. His thumbs were hooked inside the straps of his chest rig, and his face was ashen.
CHAPTER 4
“Scenes of crime arrived?” Arla asked as she strode towards the house. The front door was open. She didn't bother asking Andy what it was like inside. She could guess and was steeling herself for the worst.
“On their way, guv. By the way, the wife’s over there.”
Arla stopped. Andy said, “She discovered the body. Called 999.” Andy pointed towards the open door of an ambulance, where a paramedic had wrapped a blanket around the shoulders of a blonde woman.
“Thanks Andy.” Arla walked over to the woman. The paramedic was kneeling in front of the blanketed figure, and they both looked up as Arla approached.
“DCI Baker,” Arla said, flashing her warrant card and badge. The woman was late forties to early fifties, Arla guessed, with dark rings below her eyes, and smudged mascara from tears. A pretty face, and in one corner of her mind, the woman vaguely reminded her of someone. Arla pushed it to one side. She softened her tone.
“I’m sorry about what happened, Mrs Longworth.” Arla had taken the name of the victim from Andy already. She knelt to face the woman. Her sea green eyes gazed at Arla directly, then she lowered them.
“I know you’ve given a statement. I’m going to take a look inside and maybe we can have a little chat after?”
A uniformed officer appeared, holding a cup of steaming tea. Cherie Longworth reached for it gratefully. Arla nodded at the constable, then walked to the porch. She was handed white overalls, gloves and shoe covers. Fibre floor plates that looked like duckboard had been laid on the floor and up the stairs. Arla ducked underneath the white and blue police tape and stepped carefully on the floor plates. She hated them. Once, instead of the usual flats, she had worn shoes with small heels, and the darn thing had slipped underneath her. Harry caught her as she fell, but she heard no end of it later on at the pub.
Arla composed herself and climbed up the stairs. The boards squeaked, and she balanced herself without touching the bannister. A uniform was waiting at the landing. The wide hallway was large enough for an elephant to walk through. Mini chandeliers hung from the walls, adorned with original art canvases. At one end, to her left, a door was open, and another uniform was standing outside. His face looked positively green, she decided. Some of it was due to the stench that was afflicting her nostrils. She knew what it was. No,
not the smell of money. The victim must have emptied his bowels at some point. It was a grim thought.
Arla pressed her lips together. One bright spot tonight, she mused, perhaps the only one, was that she could survey the scene without scenes of crime officers (SOCOs) or forensic guys being there. An almost virgin crime scene. Arla smiled at the uniformed constable, who looked like he was going to throw up any minute.
“Go downstairs. Get some fresh air,” she said.
“Yes guv.” The man bolted, relief obvious on his face.
Arla looked inside the room and her insides contorted into a sudden spasm. She was no stranger to dead, mutilated bodies. But this shook her to the core. It wasn’t just the dead body, with guts spilling out to the floor. Or the pool of blood at his feet, turning black already. Nor the ghastly swollen face, turgid and purple, tongue protruding.
It was the painstaking way the killer had set the scene up. The camera light lit up the body in a sickening glare. Green and red filters on the lights made the body glow in a weird, grisly manner. The curtains had been neatly pulled to either side, framing the body against the long window like it was some sort of painting on a psychotic canvas. The hanging figure cast long shadows against the walls, courtesy of the lights.
Arla turned away, momentarily revolted. The constable at the landing was standing discreetly to one side, perhaps he saw her hesitate at the doorway. Arla was glad she wasn’t being observed. She exhaled, then turned and went inside. The smell was horrid. She edged past the body and lifted the window latch. She opened the window pane a fraction only, not wanting rain drops, if they arrived, to tarnish the crime scene.
The cold air was refreshing. Ignoring the body, Arla stared at the floor and walls. Had the victim put up a fight? He wasn’t the biggest of men, although it was difficult to judge his height as he was strung up. She stared at the chair and table in the room. Photos of smiling men and women were on the wall, a glamorous woman with pouting lips having signed one with her name. Her face was familiar from both TV and the big screen. For a study, the room wasn’t small, easily twelve by fourteen feet, Arla calculated.
Two sofas were arranged on either side of the body, and a chaise longue was pulled to one side. Arla guessed it must have been by the window.
Why had the victim not struggled? Had he been subdued already? Or was he in the study working when the killer surprised him? Even then, he would have resisted, surely.
There was a sound from downstairs that got her attention.
CHAPTER 5
“SOCO are here, guv.” Andy shouted from downstairs.
Arla walked out to the door, balancing on the boards. “Send them in,” she shouted back.
She transferred her gaze back to the floor. Something about this scene was odd. Yes, it was clearly staged for maximum impact. But she was missing a lot, and it was gnawing at the back of her mind. She knelt by the doorway. The carpet was a deep shag pile, light cream coloured. She found a small area that was ruffled and looked closer. It was sticking up, and she wondered why. She looked down the hallway. Another small area caught her attention. She hadn't seen this on the way up. She was going to observe closer, when the slightly stooped and silver haired figure of Dr Banerji, the forensic pathologist, appeared on the landing.
“Hi Doc,” Arla said. Inwards, she was relieved it was him, and not some other random pathologist doing the night shift. Banerji was in his sixties, but like her, he obviously had no life apart from attending to those from whom life had departed. Well, someone had to do it.
The older man’s lips split into a genuine smile. “Well if it isn’t my favourite detective. Something told me you’d be here.”
“Don’t tell me. Pathologist’s intuition.”
Banerji strode his way nonchalantly across the boards that Arla found hard to navigate. “Something like that.” He leaned over to give Arla a peck on the cheek. His smooth cheeks reeked of aftershave. His grey Marks & Spencer suit was rumpled, but his tired eyes had a glint in them.
“Are you OK?” he asked Arla. The two were friends, having worked on numerous cases together over the last decade. Banerji was one of the few people in her close group of friends who knew all about Arla, and her dysfunctional family. And about Nicole, her sister.
“At work, so can’t be too bad.”
He lifted a finger. “I was joking earlier. There is a time for play, and a time for work. Hope you’re taking time to play.”
Arla studied him. There was nothing sly to suggest a double entendre to his words. As far as Arla knew, no one was aware of her tryst with Harry. She wanted to keep it that way.
“I am,” she said. “Victim’s in there. Fifty-eight years old, died in a horrible way as you will see. I’ll leave you to it for a while, shall I?”
Banerji nodded. He came to a halt in the study doorway. “Good grief!”
“Exactly what I thought,” Arla said drily. She headed down the hallway and crouched near the staircase on the landing. Another tuft of the deep pile carpet was raised. She knelt closer to it and looked down the carpet with her cheeks almost touching it.
Now she could see it. A line that stretched from the all the way to the study. Not one. Two lines on the carpet, and both were smoothed down deliberately. But two spots were missed. It could only be the imprint of two feet. Like a body being dragged across the carpet, held up by the armpits. Maybe that’s what happened. The killer knocked Mr Longworth unconscious...where? downstairs? then dragged him up the stairs.
In which case...her thoughts were broken by the sound of more footsteps. The long, thin face of Gus Parmentier, the head SOCO came into view.
“You like it stylish, don’t you, DCI Baker?”
“What time do you call this?” Arla shot back. “Thought I was taking over your job for a while there.”
Gus shrugged, a briefcase hanging from each hand. “I had DNA to extract from a dead body. So I almost DNA’d. As in Did Not Attend.” He gave an impish smile and Arla rolled her eyes.
“Well you’re here now so get started.” Arla said. She pointed at the carpet with her pen. “This area might have been touched by the perp’s hand. Sure, he was wearing gloves, but some hair might have fallen off him.”
Gus bent down to her level. He was in his mid-forties, two kids in late school years and he was going bald.
He pointed to his scalp and said, “You know what they say, Arla. Hair today, gone tomorrow.”
“With that sense of humour you should work for the BBC.”
Arla stood and stared at the carpet on the stairs with renewed interest.
CHAPTER 6
Arla stopped at each stair, stooping over the carpet. Her bum kept brushing against the wall. The carpet didn't extend the entire length of the stairs, and dark wood was visible for about six inches before it hit the bannisters.
She imagined the killer dragging the body up the stairs, sweating with the effort. Was Longworth dead already? Banerji would have a time of death. The temperature in the house was comfortable, and the door being open had made it colder, ideal for stalling the body’s decomposition. Arla walked down to the spacious landing, stepping to one side for another SOCO. In the spacious hallway, she checked the wall carefully. She was looking for anything unusual, out of place. It was so subtle she almost missed it. A graze on the wall. It was to the left of the front door as she walked in. Arla glanced at the door. She retraced her steps when she came in.
Open the door, step inside...and shoved against the wall? The mark was at more or less the right spot. But it could be due to anything. It might have been there for years. There was nothing to suggest a fight or tussle here. Arla opened the door and the freezing cold air rushed in, numbing her face. She went out on the porch and checked the door. She saw a mark near the bottom right corner. It was the top half of a shoe mark.
Excitement clutched at her guts. She turned and spotted Andy Jackson with a notebook, writing something, stood in front of the shivering Mrs Longworth.
“Andy!” she called him over. When he came up the stairs, she pointed at the mark. He squatted and stared at it.
“Kicked by a boot,” Andy said.
“The print is only partial,” Arla said. “But maybe we can send it to the database?” There was a national police boot-print database. It was surprisingly useful.
Andy grimaced. “We can try, guv.”
Arla stood. The flashing blue lights from one of the patrol cars was lighting up the houses in a garish blue halo. It caught her in the eyes. “Turn that thing off, for God’s sake,” she said. “Have you taken a statement?”
“Halfway there.”
“I’ll do the rest.”
Andy called her as Arla turned away. He said, “By the way, guv. You know who the deceased was right?”
Arla stopped and turned. Stupendous wealth lived next to simple working-class masses in her area of London. Actually, the whole of London was like that. Drab grey cement council block apartments would suddenly give to wide lawns of white brick glamour and splendour.
The name of the deceased had been circulating in Arla’s mind ever since she heard it. It sounded vaguely familiar.
“No,” she said. “Who is he?”
“Famous film director. You know, he did films like The Last Train and Goodbye my Valentine. Back in the nineties.”
Back in the nineties. Gosh that made her feel old. The nineties wasn’t that long ago, was it? But the memory hit her. Those films had been raging hits, about the time when Four Weddings and a Funeral type films were doing the round.
“He did shows on Broadway as well, and in the West End. Just googled him. Got his photo there and everything.”
“Great,” Arla said, shaking her head. Her eyes swivelled from side to side. In at least one house, she saw the curtains parted. It dropped when she stared at the dark window.
“Do me a favour, Andy. When you’re done with the print, please tell the uniforms to do a door to door and request the neighbours not to ring the tabloids. This will hit the fan anyway, but the longer we can keep the media out of it the better.”