The Forgotten Mother: A spine chilling crime thriller with a heart stopping twist (Detective Arla Baker Series Book 3)

by M. L Rose

  “Sure thing guv.”

  Arla strode down to where Cherie Longworth was just finishing her cup of tea. She didn't look up when Arla stopped in front of her. Arla squatted.

  “Mrs Longworth, have you got anywhere to stay for the night? Your house is a crime scene now, so we could help you look for alternative accommodation.”

  The woman lifted blank sea green eyes and Arla could see from her expression that she hadn't given this much thought. Cherie Longworth had been beautiful once, it was obvious. Despite the rings under her eyes, wild curls of blonde hair, and large, expressive eyes dulled with pain, there was a vivacity in her that shone through. Arla wondered what she was like fully dolled up, red carpet ready.

  “I haven’t...I don’t know.”

  “Any family around?”

  “My son. He lives in Wimbledon.”

  “Any chance of you being able to stay with him for a few days?”

  Cherie glanced at Arla then looked down again. That was answer enough. Arla gave her a few seconds, then said, “Maybe you could ask. See what happens. If not, there’s always a B&B where…”

  Arla stopped just in time. Where we put our witnesses just sounded crass. “...Just a B&B we know. You could stay there while things get sorted out.”

  Cherie nodded and sniffed into her handkerchief.

  “Now, please tell me where you were this evening before you came back home.”

  Cherie swallowed. “I went to see Jill, my girlfriend who lives in Dulwich. She’s going through a messy divorce.”

  Arla scribbled on her notepad. “So, your friend Jill can vouch for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you came home the door was open?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see anything unusual before you left to see Jill? Anything outside the house? Anything odd about your husband?”

  Cherie closed her eyes tight. Then she opened them and shook her head. “No. Can’t say I did.”

  “It can be difficult to think right now.” Arla stood. She beckoned towards Andy who strolled over.

  Arla asked, “Is family liaison on their way?”

  “Any minute now.”

  “Good. Check Cherie into a B&B or hotel, wherever she wants to go. Keep a uniform and patrol car outside the place for tonight. Make sure she’s safe. Got it?”

  “Yes guv.”

  One of the other uniformed constables came up to them. The name tag in white letters, sewn into his black chest rig, said Marlowe. His cheeks were red and nostrils flaring.

  “Found something interesting guv. You wanna see this.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Arla followed the constable down the road. The neighbourhood had woken up. More yellow lights in the tall, handsome windows. Arla saw two constables walk to the end of the row, mount the porch steps and ring the doorbell. She was glad they were doing it only in the houses that had lights on. It was an awful time to be woken up by two coppers at your door.

  Marlowe came to a stop and pointed at the ground. “Here, guv.”

  At first, Arla couldn’t figure out what she was looking at. She saw a collection of wires lying draped over the bushes at the side of the road. She followed their course up the wooden pole and it hit her.

  “What on earth?” she muttered to herself. She took a step closer to the wires. They were cables really, black and thicker than what they looked like from a distance. She bent down to take a closer look.

  “I wouldn't touch them, guv,” Marlowe’s voice rang out. “Could be live still.”

  Arla said, “Electric cables run underground. These are telephone or internet cables.” She looked up again. “Even they’re dug under these days. I think this was a small extension and cutting up the ground wasn’t worth it for the cable company.”

  Arla straightened. She tried to stifle a yawn and failed. The halogen lights cast a hazy, tepid orange glow from above, the light diffracted by swirling molecules of mist. Arla stared at the crowd of hunched trees opposite, dense, whispering secrets. She shivered. What was it about the Common at night? It gave her the creeps.

  She pointed at the pole on the other side, from where the cables had been cut. “Inform the cable company. It’s their property, they need to fix it. But send a team up there at first light.” The Met had access to fire engine platforms that could be raised up. Not the easiest of jobs for the forensic team but it was worth a try.

  They headed back. Arla was glad to see the curly haired, chubby Family Liaison Officer, Emily Harman step out of a car. She waved at Arla who nodded back, then indicated the still, seated figure of Cherie Longworth. Arla left them to talk and went back inside the house. Banerji and Parmentier, with another SOC officer had put the body down on the floor. Arla looked at the face. It was still bloated, but less mauve now. Instead, it was turning a shade paler.

  Parmentier handed her a surgical mask similar to what he was wearing. Arla tied it around her nose and stepped up till she was peeking over Banerji’s shoulder.

  “Anything to report?”

  “Yes,” Banerji said without turning. He pointed to the head. “Evidence of blunt trauma to the parietal section of the scalp. Hard to kill someone by hitting in that place though. Skull is at its thickest. But there is a depression in the bone, so it was a hard blow. Might have killed him before the strangulation.”

  Arla couldn't help a surge of triumph. “So, he hit him then dragged him upstairs?”

  Banerji turned and adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses. His face looked so much like Colombo, including his mannerisms, she tried not to grin.

  “What makes you say he was dragged upstairs?”

  She told him about the marks on the carpet.

  “Interesting,” Banerji mused. Parmentier said, “I’ve taken samples from the carpet already. If there’s anything we’ll know tomorrow.”

  Arla asked, “Any signs of sexual assault?”

  Banerji said, “Nothing in the anal passage. No signs of trauma there either. There are smudges on the neck which I’m sure are from being throttled.”

  “Yeah, but sure he wore gloves. Time of death?”

  “Ambient temperature right now is less than 18℃, according to my thermometer. But I’m guessing it was warmer indoors when he died. Regardless, I don’t think it had too much of an effect. His eyelids and jaw show signs of early rigor mortis, and as you know…”

  “Rigor mortis starts in the smaller muscles then moves to the bigger ones. Yes, I know doc.”

  Banerji grinned. “Good girl. Going by the advanced state of mortis in the jaw, eyelids, neck and the early stages in the hands, I would say about six hours. The colour on his cheeks, and abdomen, the livor mortis, backs that up.”

  Arla checked her watch. “It’s almost two in the morning. So that makes it 20:00 hours last night.”

  Banerji said, “He wasn’t fat, nor was he thin. Thin bodies lose heat quicker. His rectal temperature is now actually 17℃, so very close to ambient.”

  “Are you confident of the time of death?”

  “I need to put all the numbers into the spreadsheet tomorrow and see if it gives me a more precise time. But between 19:00 to 21:00 definitely.”

  “Thanks Doc. See you tomorrow?”

  Banerji stood up slowly, putting his hands on his knees. He grimaced. “Don’t get old, Arla. Tomorrow? No way. I have two drug overdoses and you know how long toxicology takes to come back. The poor families are waiting for closure and it’s actually the Met who have kept the cases open. I wanted to give a cause of death and close the investigation.”

  Arla sighed. “Doc, do you know who this guy is?”

  Banerji’s eyes were guarded. “David Longworth. What about him?”

  Arla told him and Banerji whistled. “Right, I see the urgency now. You’re worried about a media circus, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I can’t make promises, Arla. What we need is funding for another pathologist. When will that arrive?”

  She shr
ugged. It was something she had raised time and again with her boss. Another pathologist or medical examiner would speed up a lot of investigations. But that discussion was for another time.

  Banerji shook his head. “I’ll try, but don’t hold your breath.”

  CHAPTER 8

  When her alarm went off for the second time, Arla didn't even hear it. Luckily, Harry had left the bedside light on. The combination of the glare as she turned her head and the infernal noise finally woke her up. She slapped on the red dial. It didn't stop so she chucked it against the wall - that didn't work either.

  Nothing worse than an alarm that doesn’t turn off in the morning. Arla groaned, then flung the duvet off her body. She picked the alarm up and managed to shut it off. She stumbled to the bathroom. The light sneaking in past the curtains was stronger than the zero-watt, feeble early morning rays. It was past eight am. Arla hated early mornings. Almost two decades of waking up early hadn't changed that notion.

  Harry always left before her if he stayed the night. She did the same if she stayed at his. They had been seeing each other for the last 6 months. She was still finding out about Harry. They had been good friends before they started dating. But intimacy was slowly bringing them closer. She didn't know where this was headed, but she was grateful to lay her head somewhere at night. Besides, Harry, infuriating as he was, happened to be quite adept in bed. The thought brought warmth to her cheeks as she stared in the mirror.

  Arla finished getting ready and left. The journey to work took less than twenty minutes, one of the reasons why she lived in Tooting Broadway. Like most of London, this working-class enclave was becoming expensive. A Starbucks and other coffee shops had opened up, displacing the greasy cafes and old Irish pubs. Arla walked past the yummy mummies with prams, feeding their babies organic mash from plastic spoons. Their husbands worked in the city, and their pay packets meant government employees like Arla would soon find the rent here unaffordable.

  Arla dodged the old bum who was at his usual spot outside the tube stop and joined the regular parade of commuters. It was refreshing to get off the train and walk down to the station. She should have taken a cab really, but the walk helped her to think about the case.

  Who would murder a famous director like that? How did the killer know when David Longworth would be home alone?

  A lot about this case didn't fit. Arla sprang up the steps and walked in through the double doors. The desk sergeant was a tall, wide shouldered black man called Toby. He nodded at Arla and reached underneath the counter for the buzzer. The heavy bullet proof metal doors swung open.

  “Boss wants you,” Toby said as Arla went past.

  She stopped. If Wayne Johnson, her ambitious boss, had left instructions already, it wasn’t good news.

  Toby said, “His room. Told me to tell you as soon as.”

  “Thanks Toby.”

  Arla sauntered into the green lino floored corridor. A couple of the detectives walked past her and they exchanged greetings. Arla glanced inside the open floor office space. Her room was still shut, at the extreme left end. She caught sight of the blonde curls of Detective Constable Lisa Moran, staring at her screen. Harry’s jacket was draped on his chair but the man himself was absent.

  Arla went up the stairs to the third floor. This floor had carpets, designated as one of the admin departments of the South London Command Zone. Framed photos of commissioners and politicians hung on the wall. It was fitting that Detective Superintendent Wayne Johnson would have his office up here. After all, his promotion to commander was all but assured. The ink was merely drying on the contract. Johnson was a slick office player, fully aware that who you know is much more important than what you know.

  Arla knew the man well, having worked with him on and off since she had been a DC and him a DI. Deep inside, his heart was in the right place, but that didn't mean she trusted him.

  The brown oak door held his name and title. Word was out that a new name badge and uniform was being tailored currently. A commander rank meant Johnson was one of the big boys in the London Met. Arla knew she had to step carefully. Her own career had stuck as DCI for more than five years now. If Johnson was moving up, with her high prosecution to case ratio, so should she. After all, she had solved far more complex cases than Johnson ever had in his career.

  Arla knocked and a loud voice told her to enter. Wayne Johnson was in uniform, and his elbows rested on the immaculate mahogany table. It was clear he was waiting for her. Another man was sitting opposite him and Arla caught her breath when she realised who it was.

  Harry.

  “Sit down, DCI Baker.” Johnson’s voice was cold. His grey eyes followed Arla as she sat down next to Harry. Her questioning look at him was answered with Harry slanting his eyes towards Johnson.

  The DS said, “You must be wondering why I called you both to my office.”

  “Thought crossed my mind sir,” Arla said. “Is it to do with last night’s case?”

  Johnson leaned back in his chair. “Yes, it is. DI Mehta doesn’t know anything about the case as yet. I want you to be the SIO, and he can report to you.”

  Arla nodded. That much she had expected. But from Johnson’s manner, she knew there was something else.

  He asked, “Do you know who David Longworth was?”

  “Well known film director. Did those popular rom coms in the nineties.”

  “Hmm yes. And as you know, his death will stir up a lot of public interest. Has anyone told the media yet?”

  Arla shook her head. “I informed the staff on duty last night sir. If the media gets to know, I’ll know it’s one of them.”

  “They’re well scared of you, guv,” Harry deadpanned. Arla shot him a look, but he was staring at Johnson.

  “Good. We need to move fast on this one. You know how it is with these media types, news will spread fast. The last thing we want is reporters camped outside.”

  Putting you in the spotlight, just before your blessed promotion, Arla thought to herself.

  “Thought you would like all the attention, sir.” It came out before she could stop herself. She bit her lip. Harry lowered his head very fast, hiding the grin that split across his lips.

  Johnson’s nostrils flared, quivered. A patch of red moved from the tip of his nose to his upper cheeks.

  “Shut up, Arla,” he said, his voice very quiet. His piercing gaze held Arla captive when she looked up. “Don’t make this hard on yourself.”

  “I’m sorry sir. Came out the wrong way.”

  Johnson put his large paws on the table and lifted himself off his high back leather chair. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared out at the grimy buildings, drowsing in the cold mist and rain.

  “Longworth was high up in the chain at the BBC. He was a non-executive member of the Board. I’ve had a phone call from the Secretary of State already, who appears to be a personal friend. Cherie Longworth called him last night.”

  Bloody hell, that’s all we need, Arla thought.

  “Needless to say,” Johnson continued. “Longworth was well connected. He was a big donor to the Conservative Party as well. Along with his distinguished career in Hollywood and here at home, we can expect a great deal of interest in this case. I need to know,” Johnson turned around and stepped forward. He fixed his eyes like a laser on Arla. “That you are capable of solving this case, Arla. This is a biggie. Not many coppers get one like this in a lifetime. This could make or break you. Do you understand?”

  Arla stared back at him. She was being put to test. That was obvious. But what did Johnson mean by make or break? He was aware of her career ambitions, she made no secret of it.

  Arla had never been the shy type. Quite the opposite. Her bluntness, and fiery temper, had incurred the wrath of many a senior police officer, all of them men.

  “Could you clarify what you mean by make or break sir?”

  “I mean every senior police detective dreams of a case like this. Provided they can bring the perp to
justice of course. If you can, great. If not, you will forever be known as the copper who didn't catch Longworth’s killer.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The incident room was full. Harry was next to the whiteboard, where David Longworth and his wife and son’s photos were arranged in a line. The victim was in the middle.

  Lisa Moran and Rob Pickering, Detective Constable and Sergeant respectively were standing next to Harry, partially hidden by Harry’s long frame. Arla nodded at them, noting that Harry barely glanced at her. It had become their routine while at work. No one knew, hence acting as normal as possible was paramount.

  Arla faced the rows of detectives and uniformed police officers. The hubbub of voices softened.

  “Right people, you know who the victim was by now, I’m sure. I don’t have to remind you this is being kept from the media for as long as we can, and the boss just informed me, no loose tongues. Word will spread anyway, neighbours talk etc, but we keep it schtum.”

  She looked around the room and met their eyes. Several heads nodded. She caught the eyes of Andy Jackson. He looked bright and sparky, despite the late night she knew he had. She gave him an encouraging smile.

  Arla told them about the manner of death and that they were still waiting to hear back from Banerji.

  “While we wait, we work with what we have. Any news of the wife?”

  “Yes guv,” Harry cleared his throat. “She spent the night in the Clapham Premier Inn. She will stay there as well for the time being. Her story checks out. She does have a friend called Jill Hunter in Dulwich Village and I called her this morning. Left a voice mail.”

  “That’s good for the alibi. So, the wife, Cherie, left home at just after seven, and came back close to midnight. Long time to have a chat with a friend?”

  “Unless they went out to dinner etc,” Harry said. “But she was driving so wouldn't have drunk too much.”

  “Good point. See if we can cover all bases on the wife. Until we can, she remains in the picture.” Arla took a sip of her coffee. “My problem is, the sicko who did this is good. He wants to make a statement. He made the study look like a film set. Has anyone come across a killer with the same MO? I’m talking about cases anywhere in the country, or a cold one.”