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

by M. L Rose

  Arla didn't have to tell the assembled detectives that serial killers often went quiet for a few years, then embarked on a killing spree. But they were far off still. One kill didn't a serial killer make, unless there were cold cases.

  From the blank look on everyone's face she guessed no one knew. “Make that a priority. I want reports on my desk if there are similar cold cases.”

  Harry said, “The son. His name’s Lucas Longworth. Followed in his father’s footsteps and is a film director himself. Does some TV shows, tried his hand at films but not worked out. Going to see him this evening.”

  Arla said, “When I spoke to his mother, she seemed reluctant to stay with his family. Might be something there to look into.”

  Harry made a note. Lisa Moran peeked out from behind him. “I called Emily, the family liaison. She will bring Cherie Longworth over at eleven am.”

  “Thanks.” Arla said. “I want the victim’s telephone logs, laptop data, his social calendar, everything. Has the wife signed those off?”

  Rob Pickering cleared his throat. “She will do when she arrives here, guv.”

  “Thank you Rob. I want a door to door on every house in that row, with a statement from each. Ditto within a five-mile radius. I know it’s the Common area, but someone must have seen something.”

  The door opened and the tall form of Johnson strode in. “As you were, DCI Baker,” he said gruffly. Arla cleared her throat.

  “Telephone cables were cut too. Not sure why, but we have to assume that our perp had a role in this.”

  Andy put his hand up. “BT Openreach got in touch this morning guv. They’re sending a team down. Myself and a SOCO will piggy back with them.”

  “Good. Make sure we get prints from the poles and run them through IDENT1. Any word from SOCO yet?”

  Harry said, “Only a very brief preliminary report. No prints were found. The place was squeaky clean. They’re still running tests on the carpet and the body.”

  A knot tightened inside Arla’s guts. Only a professional would leave a scene that big without any clues.

  “No prints on the body? Hair or DNA?”

  “None that they found boss.” Harry said. Arla suppressed a smile. She felt thrilled when Harry called her boss.

  “In fact, the body was wiped down with Betadine, a surgical spirit.”

  “That’s important,” Arla raised a finger. “I don’t know why, but it’s a specialist chemical used in a hospital, right? Let’s make a note of that.” Arla wrote it down in her notebook swiftly.

  “Anything else?” she asked Harry and Lisa.

  “Nope.”

  “Then get busy. Call me when Cherie arrives. Rob, I want a file on her. On my desk before she gets here please. We’ll meet back late afternoon.”

  Johnson raised his voice as chairs were scraped back. “Before you go. David Longworth had connections. One government minister has already called about him, and more might follow. Clear the deck for this, people. We need to catch a killer.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The studio was busy. The glow in the middle of the floor was offset by dark corners that hugged the huge converted warehouse floor. A cluster of bodies thronged the stage and huge lights trained down upon the three actors in the middle of the stage.

  The man known as Jonty stepped up in front of a camera with a clapper board.

  “The Eternal Nameless, Act 2, Scene 1, Take 3.” He slapped the board shut and there was a pregnant pause as the actors were still, the workers seemed to hold their collective breath. Only the hum of machinery filled the silence. The director’s voice suddenly rang out.

  “Lights, camera, action!”

  The camera started rolling. The actress put one hand on her hip and said, “Is this what you call arriving fashionably late?”

  One of the actors responded, but Jonty had already moved backwards silently. He found watching the scene as it unfolded excruciating, terrifying. Movies always did that to him. When he sat and watched the screen, it seemed the characters came alive and spoke directly to him. True, watching the movie being made kind of spoiled the glamour of it all. But the skin and bones of it were fascinating as well. The circus performers who worked as stuntmen. The actresses and their hundreds of outfits. The mobile makeup parlours. Jonty had worked in various studios and he was fascinated with all of them. Now, in Pinewood, he had found his home.

  He slipped out into the darkness and walked down a hallway towards the exit door. He came out into the sunny, but cold day and stretched. The tepid warmth felt good on his face. He crossed the road, one of many in the huge complex of Pinewood studios, the largest TV and film studio in the UK. He was headed for the cement and glass building that housed the management, where his boss had asked to see him.

  Jonty knocked on the door that said Darren Finch, General Manager. Darren was the manager of Block 4, where Jonty worked. He entered and stood in front of the large desk. Darren was in his thirties, unmarried, and by all accounts, a womaniser. There wasn’t any dearth of wannabe actresses who arrived in Pinewood Studios, lured in by so called talent scouts. True, Darren didn't commission any films, but he was close to the producers who relied on him for studio space.

  He looked up as Jonty stopped in front of him and murmured a greeting. His fingers flew over his keyboard. “You’ve had two weeks of sick leave now, Jonty. Have you got a doctor’s certificate?”

  Jonty produced one he had received from his GP. He had learnt that his doctor was sympathetic to his claims of depression. Getting a sick note wasn’t difficult.

  Darren read the note with a look of distaste on his face. “Depression?” he said eventually, curling his upper lip. “Every time I see you, you’re happy as Larry.”

  Jonty made a sorry face. “It affects me sometimes.”

  “Are you on medications?”

  “Yes.” That was true. He had found the tablets helped, and he intended to continue with them.

  Darren opened the drawer and shoved the sick note inside. “Ok, fine. But it will come off your pay.”

  Jonty stiffened, but kept his face impassive. “You told me if I had a sick note…”

  “I know what I said,” Darren interrupted, raising his voice. “But things have changed. Not running a charity here. Can’t make allowances for you when unauthorised leave is deducted from everyone else’s pay.”

  Jonty stood still for a while. A pressure that began in his chest slowly spread down his limbs, filling him with a tingling sensation. He felt light and airy, and hot blood danced in his veins.

  “OK.” he said. He turned on his heels and left, but didn't miss the word Darren muttered under his breath.

  “Weirdo.”

  Jonty didn't pause. He shut the door with a click. His eyes fell on the woman sat on the bench outside. She was dressed to the nines, in a coat that fell to her waist. A short skirt suit hugged her body and she wore high heels over her leggings. But what drew Jonty’s eyes were her face. Her eyes were almond shaped and slate grey. She was beautiful, but in a vulnerable sort of way.

  Innocent, Jonty thought to himself. That’s what she is. Innocent.

  The door opened and Darren emerged. He saw the woman and smiled widely. Then his eyes fell on Jonty.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Just leaving.”

  Darren scowled at him and ushered the woman inside. Jonty walked down the deserted hallway, till he got to the elevators. He stopped and looked back. He went over to the staircase and looked down. No one coming up. Jonty went back into the hallway, crouched and ran like a hare till he reached Darren’s room. He put his ears to the door. The sound of panting and gasps came from inside. A man’s voice groaned.

  Jonty sagged against the door. Bile rose in his mouth and blood surged into his face. Waves of nausea hit him, and a burst of colours exploded against his skull. Images from another life surged into his mind then receded like an ocean’s restless current. A scream rose inside his throat and he rammed his fist insi
de his mouth, biting on it till he tasted metallic blood.

  He wanted to leave, but the compulsion inside him wouldn't let him. He listened with morbid fascination as Darren’s voice became louder and louder. When it was done, Jonty picked himself up slowly. He felt sick, he felt alive. It was always this way.

  CHAPTER 11

  Darren Finch put the key in the lock of his ground floor apartment in Uxbridge. It was past eleven pm, and he was shattered, but in a good way. The new girl had proved insatiable. After the couch in his office, he had taken her back to the hotel room and had spent another busy two hours. That, coupled with the gram of cocaine he had snorted, had kept him in a good mood the whole night. Now he needed some sleep.

  In his drug addled state, he didn't notice the figure, dressed entirely in black with a black ski mask over its face, lying in the grass, behind the hedges. As soon as the key turned in the lock and the door opened, the figure sprang up. It rammed into Darren, bundling him inside the apartment. Jonty shut the door and put a hand over Darren’s mouth. He brought the perspiring man’s frightened eyes closer to his. He liked to see them close up before he killed them.

  Two hefty blows to the face almost felled Darren. He wasn’t light, and fought back, but Jonty overpowered him. He dragged Darren’s body into the living room and left the unconscious figure on the carpet floor. He stood on a chair and took the light fitting off the cable from the ceiling. He pulled on the wire. It was strong. Jonty slid the backpack off his shoulders. He took out a black belt and tied it around Darren’s neck. He tightened it till the veins stood out on Darren’s forehead. As breathing became harder, Darren started recovering consciousness.

  Jonty put a knee on his chest, pushed down and pulled the belt tighter. His biceps bulged underneath the black nylon. Breath rasped against the ski mask. Darren came to, lifted his hands and tried to grab Jonty’s face. It was no use. With a soft crack, the windpipe popped. Darren’s eyes widened till they became fixed and dilated.

  Jonty worked swiftly. He lifted Darren onto the chair and hung him from the cable. He left the chair in place. He took out a piece of white paper from his backpack and scribbled on it with a felt tipped pen, writing in large letters.

  “AS YOU SOW, SO YOU REAP.”

  He stuck the paper on Darren’s chest, then spent the next thirty minutes cleaning all the surfaces and making sure he left no trace of himself. He watched the dead man hanging from the ceiling.

  A light, tingling feeling was coursing through his body. He felt elated, alive. His life had meaning today. He wanted every day to be the same.

  Jonty breathed heavily as an overwhelming feeling of power came over him. His fists came up, bunched tight. He felt strong, invincible. He swallowed, trying to control his breathing. He watched the street outside for a while, then went out the door, shutting it with a soft click.

  CHAPTER 12

  The interview room at the station was designed to be stark, bare. The same green lino floor continued, and the metal chairs were screwed to the floor, same as the table. Arla and Harry were sat inside already when Cherie Longworth was shown in. She sat down slowly, her eyes moving from Arla to Harry.

  Arla noticed she wore no makeup. Her hair, frizzly last night, was now tied back in a ponytail. The black rings under her eyes remained, pronounced if anything. Swollen eyelids suggested further lack of sleep. Arla couldn't blame her. Her blue jacket was spotted with rain and crumpled. Arla felt a twinge of sympathy, but once again, her large eyes, sharp nose and high cheekbones held her attention. Even in grief-stricken times, her features were remarkable.

  Cherie said, “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “No,” Arla said quickly, feeling bad that she hadn't been briefed already. Harry would get it in the neck later. “This is a formal statement and will be taped and recorded. However, you are not under suspicion, and not being arrested. Therefore, a lawyer is not necessary. However, if you want to have one, then no problem, we can get one for you.”

  She sidled a glance to Harry, who nodded. Cherie considered for a while, then sighed.

  “Guess it can’t get much worse than this anyway. Come on, let’s get it over and done with.”

  Harry pressed play on the audio and DVD recorder. “Mrs Cherie Longworth present at interview conducted at Clapham Police Station on 18th November 2017 at 10:30 hours. DI Harry Mehta and DCI Arla Baker present.”

  As Harry read, Arla noted Cherie turned her face upwards to look at the camera.

  Arla asked, “Mrs Longworth, could you please state your full name and relationship to the deceased, for the record.”

  When she had done, Arla continued. “Please tell where you were between 19:00 and 21:00 last night, 17th November.”

  Arla wanted to give the woman a smile of encouragement but resisted. This was a murder investigation, and she had to treat all witnesses equally.

  “Like I told you, with my friend Jill Hunter, in Dulwich Village.”

  “You didn't go anywhere else?”

  “No.”

  The response was very quick. Cherie’s hands were clasped underneath the table, where Arla couldn't see. But she was trained to observe the small things. Often it was the neck that gave suspects away. After a lie, the neck muscles could stretch, often the suspect swallowed. They also blinked more, whether they held eye contact or not.

  Arla let the silence run for a while, as she stared back. Cherie shifted her upper body slightly, another giveaway, and there it was, the swallow. Arla dropped her stare and made a point to deliberately write something in her notebook slowly.

  Was Cherie hiding something, or was she just nervous to be in a police station? Her file had shown no previous convictions.

  When Arla looked back up, Cherie had her mouth open like she wanted to say something. Arla raised her eyebrows.

  “I meant to say, we, I mean Jill and I, did go out to eat somewhere. But that was all.”

  “I see. So you did go somewhere else.”

  “We went out to a restaurant called Zizzi’s on Dulwich High Street. It’s a chain. Just for food. I was driving, so I only had one drink.”

  That made more sense, Arla thought. She wrote Zizzi down in her notebook and circled it.

  “So what time did you get back home?”

  “After half eleven, I think. Can’t remember the exact time.”

  “You spent a long time with your friend.”

  Cherie shrugged. “Like I said, she’s going through a bad time. We’ve been friends for a long time.”

  “What was your maiden name before you got married?”

  Arla’s sudden change of subject had meant to startle, and from the expression on Cherie’s face, achieved precisely that.

  “Uh, Reeves.”

  “And how long had you been married for?”

  Cherie paused for a few seconds, longer than what a woman needed to think of an answer to a question she should know well.

  “1 year.”

  “Were you married before?”

  “Yes.”

  When Arla merely stared back at her, Cherie got the drift. “Oh, my previous marriage lasted almost eight years. Before that, I was single.”

  Arla did some quick mental maths. That meant Cherie had been single almost till her forties.

  “Who were you married to before?”

  “Gus Percival.” She smiled wanly. “He was also a film director, as it happens.”

  Harry leaned forward. “Were you in the same line of work?”

  Cherie nodded. “Yes. I was an actress. Mostly small parts in TV serials and a few advertisements. Never hit the big screen.”

  Harry continued. “Is that how you and David met?”

  “Yes. It was at a film inaugural party organised by a common friend.”

  Arla asked, “Was the marriage going well?”

  Cherie shrugged. “Same as every marriage. We had our ups and downs. But more ups than downs, definitely. We hadn't been married for long.”

  An inscrutable lo
ok flashed across her face, a spasm of pain. It was tough for her, but she was holding it together. Arla lowered her voice and wondered where the hell her son was.

  “I understand this is a difficult time for you. But anything you can tell us will be of help, I can assure you.”

  Arla glanced at Harry, who took over. “How long have you lived at that house, Mrs Longworth?”

  She sniffed. “Ten years. Before that I lived in Wandsworth, with my ex-husband.”

  “Do you have the address?”

  Cherie told Harry, who made a record. “Did you have any children with your ex-husband?”

  “No.”

  Arla stared back at Cherie, who reached for the glass of water in front of her and took a sip. Arla asked, “Hope you don’t mind me asking, but what caused the marriage to dissolve?”

  Cherie sighed. “What causes any break up? We decided that we didn't love each other anymore. Hence we went our own ways.”

  There was silence for a while. Arla made a note of the ex-husband’s name and circled it.

  “Where is your son today?” Harry asked.

  She paused again, dropped her eyes and seemed to search for an answer. “I did tell him last night. Left a message on his phone and texted. He called me this morning, but I was on my way here so missed the call.”

  You had time to ring the Secretary of State but not your own son? Arla thought to herself.

  CHAPTER 13

  Lucas Longworth, or Luke, as he preferred to be called, stared out the window. Wind and rain kept up a soft drumming against the pane, drops arriving and sliding down the glass endlessly. The houses opposite were smudged by the rain, low bellied, iron grey clouds gathering force in the sky, like phalanxes of an army determined to stage a watery onslaught.