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

by M. L Rose

  And if that person happened to be the son of a minister’s close friend?

  Johnson said, “No one is trying to protect anyone here, Arla. Our job is to catch the person who committed this crime, and everyone is open to suspicion right now. Speaking of which, what did you say about Michael Simpson?”

  Arla shook her head slowly. Harry leaned forward and his face was averted from Johnson. She saw the warning flash in Harry’s eyes and the NO his lips formed silently.

  Arla checked herself. Johnson’s sudden change of topic made her angry, and she was about to retort. She nodded at Harry, who moved back in his seat. He cleared his throat.

  “We are keeping all avenues open, sir.” Harry glanced at Johnson, then at Nixon. “And Simpson has just come to our attention, thanks to the hard work of our colleagues. We will follow up on him, but if you know anything about Luke Longworth, then it will help our investigation.”

  Harry left it at that, and a silenced formed in the vacuum. Arla breathed deeply, forcing herself to stay calm. Inside, anger roiled like a stormy ocean. Johnson was playing his usual politics, saving his face, obeying his masters. Arla wanted to lash out, get to the truth. That was her way. Headstrong, emotional, always direct.

  And always in trouble.

  Johnson said, “There is no other information about the suspects, DI Mehta. And DCI Baker.” Arla looked up as her name was mentioned pointedly.

  “I am sure the issue with Luke Longworth will get sorted out by tomorrow when he’s had a chance to sleep on it. You have a tangible opening with the victim’s bank statements and the new lead, what’s his name…?”

  “Michael Simpson,” Harry said.

  “Proceed in that direction. And keep me updated.” The tone of Johnson’s voice meant they were dismissed.

  Arla rose. One last time, she locked eyes with Johnson. He met her gaze, then looked away. Melville, the psychologist rose and came towards them.

  “I believe you need me to do some profiling for you?”

  “Yes,” Arla said tonelessly. She glared at Nixon who smiled back at her. With Harry and Melville in tow, she turned and left the room.

  CHAPTER 27

  Arla walked into her office and shut the door. She was fuming.

  “Fuck!” she shouted and kicked the chair. It skidded on the floor and banged against the table. She slammed one fist against another.

  Harry opened the door and stepped in. He locked the door and in two strides reached out to grab her hand. Arla tried to wriggle free but his grip was like iron.

  “Calm down,” he whispered. “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Even Harry’s voice was weary. “There’s always an angle in these cases, Arla. You know that. That’s why Johnson’s had ants in his pants from day one.”

  Arla didn't reply. She jerked her hand free, opened the door and strode out. Heads lifted as she stalked out of the open plan office.

  She went out the back entrance and into the car park. Fleet cars lined the bays. Needle like council apartment blocks pushed up into the air around her. She took a deep breath, it smelt of diesel and damp, inner city London’s fetid lungs exhaling its noxious fumes. The grey clouds hung lower today, hovering just above the rooftops, close enough to touch. Arla thought about the brown Lego shapes of houses stretching all over this city of teeming millions. Millions of lies and heartbreaks, tarnished dreams mingling with the diesel fumes and her breath.

  And she was a part of it, her own fractal, disjointed life, walking among these lost souls, each in their own bubble of pain and rejection. She thought of her dad, and how both of them repulsed each other, despite having no other family.

  Briefly, for no reason, she saw Nicole’s face. Happy, smiling in the sunshine laughter two decades ago. And suddenly she was on the verge of tears. Arla blinked and stepped out into the hard-black tarmac of the parking lot. She shook her head, wishing of all things, for a cigarette.

  A black BMW, similar to what Harry drove, came in through the barrier. A woman and a man, both CID Inspectors, came out of the car. Arla knew them both and she returned their greeting. When she was alone, Arla had this overwhelming urge to walk away. To simply get across the barrier and keep walking till she got lost in this crappy city’s maze of loneliness.

  Footsteps sounded behind her. She turned to see Harry walking towards her. He stopped, keeping a safe distance, aware of the space, invisible yet congealed and dense, that lay between them. Arla couldn't explain it either. She didn't want this distance, but like the rain, it was suddenly there.

  “They’re waiting for you inside. The video’s ready.” Harry’s voice was quiet.

  They stared at each other for a while, saying nothing. Then Arla nodded. “I’m coming.”

  Harry’s face was chiselled, inscrutable. But he took a step forward, if only to lower his voice. “Arla, just let it go.”

  “It’s not what you think, Harry.” She shook her head. “Just leave me alone. Tell the others I’m coming.”

  Harry sighed and nodded. Something chipped off a corner of her heart as she saw him turn and walk back, his head almost brushing the top of the double doors.

  She didn't tarry long. It was cold, and the chill was settling into her bones. When she got back into the office, Melville and the others were sitting around Lisa’s desk.

  Lisa said, “The recording of you and Harry interviewing Cherie Longworth.” She chose the camera that showed only Cherie, and zoomed in. They watched in silence for a while.

  Rob went to get some coffee. He returned with a tray and Arla clutched her mug gratefully. This wasn’t from the vending machine, this was Rob’s own stash from the kitchen. Arla breathed in the fumes deeply.

  When they finished, Melville leaned back and scratched his beard. “Do you know the facial muscle that’s hardest to hide if you’re lying?”

  “The neck muscles,” Harry said.

  “That’s a big group, but yes. Problem is many women can hide their neck effectively with long hair. So several studies were conducted, from videos like these, and one muscle was the standout.”

  Melville paused, to make sure he had a captive audience. Then he lifted his right index finger and pointed to between his eyebrows. “The Botox muscle.”

  “What?” Lisa frowned.

  “Several muscles of the face get very low dose botulinum toxin or Botox injections. But the frown line muscle gets the highest dose. It’s called the glabellar and is actually a thick, tough muscle. Hence we get that “11” line between our brows after decades of frowning.”

  Arla said, “So what do you see in the video?”

  “She has a Botox smooth forehead. I mean, I have no ways of knowing of course, if she had Botox injections or not. But having stared at faces for so many years, it’s obvious to me.”

  “And that would be hiding what exactly?”

  “Well, even if she was lying, the glabellar would be contracting ever so slightly. Most liars can be exposed that way. Even poker players cannot hide involuntary movements, no matter how hard they try.”

  Harry yawned. “That’s fascinating, but where does it leave us?”

  “In her case? It’s clear she’s uncomfortable. She breaks eye contact, shifts in her seat, and her legs move below the desk. So do her shoulders.”

  Arla said, “But that makes sense. There was a lot she hadn't told us, and it came out when we visited her at home. She told us all about her step son, and her husband’s ex-wife.”

  Melville said, “Correct. She was hiding information, which is not the same as lying. Frankly, I don’t believe she was lying. I see genuine grief and shock in her face. I also expect her to divulge more information if you go to see her again. She feels safer in her home environment.”

  Arla looked at Harry, who nodded. Putting a security detail outside Cherie’s house was the right idea.

  There was a commotion behind them. Andy Jackson barged his way past several surprised detectives. His face was
red, and he was breathing heavily. He addressed Arla.

  “Guv, I’ve just had a report from Darren at the crime scene. Mrs Longworth has just been burgled. Someone broke in and stole some of her husband’s stuff.”

  CHAPTER 28

  At times like these, Arla wished she could call in the helicopter. But Harry had the siren on, and the traffic parted for him like he was a prophet standing in front of the Red Sea with a tablet in his hand.

  It was pitch-black dark now, and although the rain had relented, the cold was biting. Bellevue Avenue wasn’t far, and they reached it within fifteen minutes. The media vans were lying in wait, and Arla could make out their vague shapes parked opposite the house. As soon as their car was spotted, flashlights strobed the air. Photographers had this knack of identifying an unmarked CID car.

  Arla was up the steps first and rapped on the heavy door. The drawn, pale face of Cherie Longworth opened it after she had verified their identity. The media was going crazy behind them now, flashes illuminating the house like lightning. Cherie stood to one side as Arla stepped in quickly.

  “I’ll catch up with Darren,” Harry indicated the squad car on the kerb, with the uniformed constable leaning against it. He looked a little embarrassed, Arla thought, that the burglary had happened on his watch. Harry would reassure him, she knew.

  “OK,” she nodded. Cherie shut the door and walked down the hallway, then up the stairs.

  Arla said, “I’m sorry about this. It didn’t come from us, I promise you.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cherie said. “It had to happen sooner or later. I’m not a total stranger to cameras, you see.”

  “Sure, but this is different. These guys will throw questions at you, follow you around. The key thing is not rise to the bait.”

  “I know.”

  “The bathroom window was open,” Cherie explained, “And he got in through there. I had been for some shopping. When I came upstairs, I could feel a draught. It was coming from the bathroom window. I must have left it open, which was silly of me. And then I saw the bedroom.”

  “Your bedroom?”

  “Not the master one. David had a bedroom next to the study and it has a connecting door. He slept in there sometimes when he came home late.”

  Cherie opened the bathroom door. The window at the back was large enough for a man to crawl through. It was open and through it Arla could see the grass of the well mown lawn, lit up by garden lights. Beyond it, lights glowed in another row of mansions.

  “There’s a path at the back that cuts between the next block of houses,” Cherie said.

  Arla walked over and checked the window sill. The scratch marks on the paint were clear, and she knew there would be others visible to SOCO. She fumed inside. It was just damning that this happened so soon, and while they had a unit outside. The burglar, whoever he was, must have known about the security and hence chose the back.

  Arla looked at the bathroom floor and saw the footprints. She knelt. Two full size boot prints were visible and that was good. Would it match the partial print that had kicked the front door open?

  She hoped so.

  Arla stood and said, “Show me the study please. Guess I missed the connecting door.”

  Cherie made a weak effort at a smile and failed. “It’s meant to be a concealed door, same colour as the walls and no handles. It pushes open.” She walked to the study and they entered.

  The room looked very different now. Bright light flooded in from the tall Georgian windows. The furniture remained the same, but the room looked bigger and strangely bare. It had been swept clean by SOC, Arla knew that. But she suspected Cherie had it cleaned after that herself. She decided to ask Cherie.

  The woman nodded. “It just felt…dirty, you know?” She shivered. “I got a cleaning company and literally sterilised it.” Cherie moved to the wall next to the desk and her hand pressed against a light switch. A panel next to the light swung open, revealing the door.

  They went inside the bedroom, which was of similar size to the study. A double bed was in the middle, with two large bedside tables, and another desk at the end. All the drawers were open, and papers lay strewn across the floor. The bedsheets and even mattress were pulled up. The carpet was lifted from the corners, and one section was cut to roll it down the middle.

  “Jesus,” Arla said. She looked at Cherie, who was leaning against the wall. She was shaking and tears glistened in her eyes. Arla went to her swiftly. She led her out to the corridor.

  “Let’s go downstairs and talk,” Arla said. Cherie sniffed and dabbed at her eyes, averting her face from Arla.

  In the kitchen, Arla sat her down and offered to make a drink. Cherie pointed to where the fridge was, and the coffee. Arla took the milk out while the coffee beans were ground. When it was done, she brought the two cups to the counter.

  “Thanks,” Cherie said.

  Arla took a sip of the coffee. “Scenes of crime will take a closer look upstairs. But was there anything missing?”

  Cherie took her time. “David used to keep a diary. In fact, he had several diaries from when he was younger. All of them are missing.”

  “You know where he kept them?”

  “Yes, he made no secret of it. A lot of them were journals that he would incorporate into his memoirs one day, he said. I was thinking of doing that now, you know. He had a lot to leave behind, in creative terms.”

  “I get that,” Arla said. “But I don’t understand what a burglar would want with them. Is there anything else missing?”

  Cherie shook her head. Arla asked, “If this burglar was after David’s personal possessions, who do you think it might be?”

  Cherie stared at Arla, and Arla knew they were both thinking of the same answer. She raised her eyebrows and Cherie looked back at her coffee.

  “It’s possible that Luke did this. I remember once when they had an argument.”

  “About what?”

  “Luke wanted to read David’s journals. David refused, naturally. This happened in his study and the door was closed. I could hear loud voices and then Luke came out, shouting.”

  “What was he saying?”

  “Something about David not hiding it. I don’t know what he meant. When I asked David, he didn't want to talk about it.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Almost a year ago. I had just moved in. Luke never visited after that.”

  A thought struck Arla, and she wondered if Harry had already asked this. “Did Luke have keys to the house?”

  “No. I did ask David.” A shadow passed over Cherie’s face. She blinked several times. “You don’t think it was Luke who…”

  “At this stage the investigation is wide open. It’s too early to cast blame on anyone. But Luke is a person of interest in the investigation, and we do want to speak to him without delay. Has he been in touch?”

  “He sent me that text saying he would come over. That’s it.”

  Arla changed the topic. “Do you know someone called Michael Simpson?”

  She hadn't expected the look of sudden anger that swept across Cherie’s striking features.

  CHAPTER 29

  “Mike Simpson?” Cherie hissed, her cheeks turning crimson, for the first time. Her brows were knotted together. “The Mike Simpson that David knew? How do you know about him?”

  Her sudden animation caught Arla off guard. “You don’t like him?”

  Cherie shook her head, looking away from Arla. She looked like she had just swallowed something vile. “Are we talking about the same Mike Simpson here? The film producer.”

  Arla nodded. “I think so. A lot of money was transferred from your husband’s account to Mr Simpsons.”

  Anger was replaced by shock. Cherie’s mouth fell open. “Really?”

  “You didn’t know about this?”

  “I wasn’t privy to David’s accounts. I mean, we had a joint account, of course. But I know he had a separate bank account as well.”

  “I see,”
Arla said slowly. “From his laptop we located a UK bank account. In addition he had an account with you?”

  “That’s right.”

  Which sounded normal to Arla. But she wondered how many accounts David had.

  “Simpson came to visit David in the last two weeks, right?”

  “Yes,” Cherie nodded. “They met occasionally as they worked on projects together.” She looked at up at Arla. “How did you know that he was here in the last two weeks?”

  “One of your neighbours.”

  “Bet you it was Mrs Parker. Old gossip bag.” Cherie took a sip of her coffee. Arla tried to gauge her attitude. The manner in which Cherie had reacted when she mentioned Mike Simpson’s name was more than a passing annoyance.

  “Why do you hate Simpson?” Arla asked simply. She was aware that Cherie was still a suspect, like everyone else. She was being informal with her for the time being, but soon she might have to take her back to the station. But Melville’s words hung around in Arla’s mind like smoke. Cherie would talk more in an atmosphere she was comfortable in, like her home.

  Cherie grimaced ruefully. “I guess I made that obvious, didn't I?”

  Arla waited. Cherie sighed. “He was just...smarmy. Creepy. He tried to come on to me, more than once. I told David about it the last time he was here. I said I didn't want him back in the house.”

  “What did he do?”

  Cherie clamped down on her jaws, hard. “It’s what men like Simpson are used to doing. Any woman who’s an actress or used to be one, in my case, is fair game to them.”

  A cold numbness spread in Arla’s veins. “Tell me what he did,” she said very quietly.

  A fire blazed in Cherie’s eyes, but her lips trembled. “Oh, I’m not some 20-year-old looking for a role to star in, you know? Not easy to impress any more. But that bastard, he…” She swallowed heavily. “To cut a long story short, he was waiting for me one night he came here. David was in his study. I came out of the loo downstairs and got the shock of my life. He was right outside. He literally pushed me inside and shut the door. Forced me against the wall. Said David owed him money, and he would take it...” her voice trailed off, and a tear escaped her eye, rolling down her cheek.