by M. L Rose
Arla put the folder in her office, locked the door and waved goodbye. The others were leaving too. All of them drove, Arla was the only one who took the tube back home. Mainly because it was five easy stops, and the line dropped her off near her doorstep.
“Good night guv,” John Sandford, the tall black desk duty sergeant said.
“Have a good one John.”
Arla wrapped the scarf around her neck and pulled the hoodie of her coat over her head. The cold was biting but at least it was dry. Lights gleamed in the windows of the council block apartments that surrounded the station. Arla walked quickly, her heels clicking in the dark. The street was almost deserted. It did give her the creeps sometimes, but she wanted the walk to clear her head.
Harry didn’t like her wandering around alone. She got that and found his protectiveness sweet. At the thought of him, a knife twisted inside her. Where was it going? Nowhere it seemed. Like every other relationship in her life. She and men were like ships in a stormy night. She might see their lights, but they stayed out of reach. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was them. Whatever. It didn't surprise her no relationship lasted long enough for it to become meaningful.
She lost Nicole when she was twelve. Her mother at birth. A father she never forgave, and hardly ever saw.
Why would it be any different with a random man?
She couldn't deny the instant connection she had felt with Harry when he had first joined the station, five years ago now. Her heartbeat surged every time he looked at her with those huge brown eyes. So perfectly shaped. A man shouldn’t have eyes so pretty. When he spoke, the angle of his jaw and the fullness of his lips commanded her attention, so she had to make a conscious effort to listen to what he was saying.
And from day one, she thought he felt the same about her. It was that passing look, the transient lingering, the feel of his eyes on her back. Like all female police detectives, she took good care to dress unflatteringly. It was only today she wore heels, because both her flats had a split in the right sole. But she also took care of herself with running, swimming and yoga, whenever she could. No, she didn't imagine the look in Harry’s eyes, the first time they met. She had never felt that way about any other man.
And now…
A pressure caught at her throat then, and the power of it was almost a physical wave, stopping her in her tracks. It was the denial of hope, when it came to her broken heart. Did she even dare let a candle burn for it? Could she?
Emotion strangled her chest, settling like a black weight in her body. Harry wouldn't be any different, would he? Like Nicole, her mother and her father, he would go away too, one day. When he realised what she was really like, he would. Her heart was made of iron, not soft flesh.
It was so easy now. When she was with him, alone, it felt like the sun was on her face. She was floating down a summer lake in a boat, Harry rowing. Her fingertips tracing the cool water. It seemed nothing bad would happen. The skies would be blue forever.
But she knew life wasn’t like that. And she didn’t understand people who chased happiness like it was a dream, a chimera that would magically transform their wintry, grey days to one of perpetual sunlight and laughter. Because Arla had never had the courage for a dream like that. For her, life would always be a scarred, ruinous battlefield, where grief always won.
And yet, the happiness she felt with Harry was unlike anything she had experienced before.
Arla stopped. The wrought iron railing of a house was next to her and she leaned against it. A sob erupted deep inside her, not of tears, but of bitterness, confusion. It came out like a guttural, choking sound, the same choke hold with which she strangled her happiness before it disappointed her yet again.
This was why she never showed her heart to anyone. Get her guard down. But with Harry it was like second nature. It was like seeing with a new pair of eyes. Into a new world. A world where…what? Anything was possible?
Arla leaned forward, wishing she could slide down and sit on the pavement. She felt strength seeping from her limbs, fading out into the merciless cold of the ionic, dark night.
Too late, she heard the footsteps. Approaching fast. Arla wiped her face and stood up quickly. She was foolish to have these thoughts. And even more stupid on these streets, where muggings were common.
A fearsome sight greeted her eyes. A big figure was swooping down on her, arms outstretched like the wings of a condor.
CHAPTER 34
Arla flinched, lowering her head and spinning backwards. Her right hand dived inside her handbag to get hold of the mace spray.
But she was too late. The figure was over her now, and she felt his hands descend upon her, grabbing her by the shoulder. Arla kicked, hitting the shin bone of her attacker. He yelped and went down.
“Arla, stop!”
She did, thunderstruck. She knew that voice all too well. He was on one knee, rubbing the shin of his left leg. He turned his face up, frowning. Arla knelt by him.
“Harry, I’m so sorry.”
Harry grunted and stood, hobbling on one foot before testing them both gingerly. He sighed. “Guess it’s my fault for creeping up on you like that. I saw you practically sliding to the ground though.”
“You followed me?”
He hesitated. In the hazy glow of the streetlight, his eyes retained their glint. “I was going home but then…I guess I just wanted to speak to you about today.”
Arla could read the intensity in his expression and it sparked fear inside her. Harry wasn’t going to let go of this easily.
“About what?” she asked, feeling foolish even as she did so. Harry didn't speak for several seconds.
Arla looked away. “I’m tired Harry, I need to go home.” It was the truth. She glanced at him, noting the fixed way his eyes bore into hers. “I’m going. Bye.”
She started to walk and felt him behind her. They walked along in silence for a while, but Arla stopped after a while, feeling the pressure.
“What do you want, Harry?”
“Just to walk you home. Nothing else.”
In moments like these she realised what he meant to her. Because he wasn’t lying. She could tell from the way the tension had gone from his shoulders, and the slightly sheepish smirk on his lips. He only did that, looking like a big buffoon of an overgrown boy, when he was being honest. Something fluttered inside her heart, like a butterfly rapping its wings against a closed door.
He just wanted to be there. Why?
She knew why, and her heart spoke the answer to her in a voice like whispering spring rain.
Because you want him to.
She couldn't deny it. She didn't have any answers for him and truth be told, didn't want to speak to him either. She had nothing to explain to anyone. In the end, no one can explain what lies deepest in our souls, what makes us what we are. Words do not suffice. But she knew she felt better just having him here.
Arla swallowed hard, looking at the ground. She avoided his eyes, nodded and resumed walking. Harry walked alongside, not saying a word, but the silence wasn’t a solid cloud between them anymore, it was comfortable.
They got to the twinkling lights and shining bars of Clapham High Street, dodged the revellers and boarded the tube. She caught his eyes several times on the train, standing next to one another. Harry always had to bend his neck on the tube, and she used to joke it made him look like a unicorn in a suit. She remembered those days and smiled. He smiled back, as if he knew what she was thinking.
They reached the door of her ground floor apartment. Arla took her keys out and bit her lower lip. Harry was hanging back. She knew he wouldn't ask to come in.
She turned around. His face was in the dark shadow of the streetlamp behind him. Arla went to say something, but her voice faltered.
“Harry, I…”
He stood there, unmoving, but she could feel the tension in him again. He was rigid, straight, and his chest rose and fell with deep breaths.
“I…” Damn it woman, speak, she
admonished herself.
Harry moved forward like the wind that comes with a thunderstorm. He swept her up in his arms and she felt his cool lips press down on her. She felt electric sparks shoot down her spine and she opened her mouth, giving in to the sensation. Her feet felt like they were off the ground, floating.
When they surfaced for air, Harry lowered his arms slowly. They stared at each other for a while, a dark, silent promise passing between them. Arla had never known what it was like to stare at a man till she met Harry. She could do it for ages, seeing every emotion reflected in his curious, open gaze. His hands came up to cup her face. He bent down to kiss her again, and it was more gentle now, softer, exploring.
He let go finally, then stepped back. Arla was glad the wall was right behind her, because she wasn’t sure her knees would remain steady.
His face was half lit now, the other lost in shadows. “I am here, Arla.” His voice was gruff, like he had to claw it up from deep inside. “If you need me.”
He turned and left. She watched till he walked to the end of the street, not looking back once. He turned left for the tube station, and she couldn't see him anymore.
CHAPTER 35
17 years ago
The boy was terrified. He could hear his stepfather on the rampage outside. The boy knew he was drunk and looking for the slightest excuse to give him a beating. The boy was tired of the beatings. It would start with a cuff around the head and when he told him to stop, progress to the leather belt. His wife tried to stop him, but she was drunk half the time as well.
“Who left the TV on?” the man shouted, his voice booming against the walls of the narrow terraced house.
There was a crashing sound and the TV went off. The boy could hear the woman saying something. Her voice was weak though, and he knew she was passed out on the sofa. She wouldn’t raise a finger if that brute came after him.
That’s why he was now hidden inside the wardrobe in the woman’s bedroom upstairs. He heard the woman shout something in a drowsy voice, and the sounds of an argument.
Then footsteps rattled the stairs. The whole floor shook with the weight of his feet. He was a big, fat bastard and the boy hated him. Hated his red, sweaty face and his rancid alcohol breath.
“Where are you?” the man shouted.
The boy shrank backwards on the wardrobe floor, tucking his legs inside him. He was underneath the woman’s dresses, and it had saved him before, as although the man had opened the wardrobe, he hadn't bothered to part the dresses.
The light in the bedroom turned on. The boy heard his heavy breathing, like a bull snorting. Fear clutched his heart in a vice like grip. A sliver of light came in, and he could see the man’s bulk passing. Then he stopped, turned back and flung open the wardrobe doors.
The boy shrunk backwards but there was nowhere to go. He started to mumble a prayer he had learnt in school. The man muttered something under his breath. Alcohol fumes filled the air. The dresses parted suddenly, and a splash of light flooded the inside of the wardrobe.
“There you are!” the man roared. A ham like fist reached out and grabbed the boy’s hair.
“No!” he screamed. He kicked and fought but it was no use. He also knew it only made things worse, but he didn't know what else to do. The man picked him up like a rag doll and hurled him against the wall. He cried out as his spine cracked against the sideboard and he slumped to the floor.
The man reached for him again when the doorbell went. It was a loud sound, and the man stopped. It sounded again, and a fist hammered the door.
“Mary!” the man shouted. “Mary. Open the door you bitch.” His words were slurred, and he wiped saliva from the corner of his lips.
The doorbell went again, with the loud hammering. The man swore and stomped down the stairs. The boy crept up to the bedroom doorway. He heard the door open and a voice speaking. He went to the landing, then carefully, went down two steps. He leaned over till he could see who was there.
A figure in black barged in suddenly, a motion so quick it caught the man by surprise. He stumbled back and fell. The boy saw a sharp object appear like magic in the figure’s hand. It glittered in the light as it rose high in the air. The boy recognised a knife with a long, serrated blade.
The knife came down on the man’s neck with a squelch. He screamed but the sound was clogged by blood. The figure straddled him now and kept stabbing him till he was still. Then it got up calmly and shut the door. The figure vanished from sight and the boy heard steps walking up and down the lounge.
Frightened, but curious, the boy shuffled down another two stairs. Blood was pouring out from his stepfather’s neck and chest wounds. The boy felt no remorse. The figure came back into view. The black jacket was covered in dark blood. The knife was held in the right hand, dripping blood into the threadbare carpet.
He looked up and their eyes met. The boy felt no fear, but a shiver passed through him, like the wind rattling skeleton branches in the winter.
Many years later, when he was a man, he would remember the calmness in those eyes as they held his.
Slowly, the figure started to climb the stairs. The boy backed up, then held the bannisters so tight his knuckles went white. He heard footsteps around the two small bedrooms and then the bathroom. He heard the tap run.
The figure came out. The knife wasn’t visible anymore.
“Come with me,” the figure said. The voice was surprisingly mellow and warm. A hand reached forward and touched his cheek. The boy didn't shrink away.
When the figure reached down to hold his hand, he didn’t resist. They stood up and stepped over the dead man. From the lounge, the boy could hear his useless step mother snoring.
“Where are we going?” the boy asked.
“Somewhere nicer than here,” the figure said.
CHAPTER 35
Arla was at work early the next morning. There was frost on the ground, and the sunlight was bright, crisp as she jogged up the steps to the station. Sandford was still there, looking bleary eyed. He yawned and raised his hand in greeting.
“Morning John,” Arla said. “Go home. That’s an order. I’ll tell your boss.”
Sandford grinned. “Still got half hour left guv. I’ll make it.”
“Good for you.”
Arla was buzzed in through the bullet proof sliding doors. It was 07:00, and the office was empty. She went into her office, took out the folder with the phone log and sat down, sipping her coffee.
She saw similar numbers recurring in the pages and started to circle them. One number stood out. Longworth had called this number four times on the day he died. Arla opened her laptop and clicked on the case file. All the numbers of interest were stored there with the names of the suspects.
The number belonged to Mike Simpson. Arla searched for Luke’s number on the log. She had to look back one week, but she found it. After midnight, the week before he died, David had rung his son. The call duration was less than a minute which meant his son probably didn't answer.
The other recurring number, apart from Cherie’s, belonged to James Spencer. The Secretary of State. At least once or twice a week, David rang the cabinet minister. It seemed strange to Arla. What would a prominent filmmaker want from a politician? Or were they just good friends who had stayed in touch?
She detected a pattern with Luke as well. David was in the habit of calling his son after midnight it seemed, at least once every two weeks. Each time, his son didn't answer.
Arla sank back in her seat, thinking. Luke Longworth had his demons, that was for sure. David tried to keep in touch with him, it seemed. But Luke refused. Why did he hate the old man so much?
And did he hate his father enough to kill him?
Arla’s mind went back to the recent burglary. Cherie was a brave woman to continue to live in the house, but she did have police guarding both the front and back 24/7. In fact, Arla mused, it would be cheaper to relocate Cherie back to the B&B.
The burglar came back for
David’s personal possessions. Stuff the police hadn't got their hands on yet. The thief must have wanted them kept secret. Was there something in David’s past that they should know about?
His PNC record was clean. Could he have had a different name in the past? Many criminals used that as an effective means to keep their records hidden. Thinking of David’s past made Mike Simpson come into focus. Arla ground her teeth. The man sounded like a creep from what Cherie had said. Goodness knew how many young aspiring actresses he had subjected to the “casting couch.”
Arla frowned. Mike was friends with David, right till the end. Did something lurk in their youth? Some old, cold case?
Arla wrote down Mike Simpson and circled it with her pen. Then she put an arrow next to it and wrote David’s name. She connected both the arrows to Luke’s name. Each of the three names were surrounded by a circle and she stared at the triangle, thinking.
“What are you hiding? Why don’t you tell me?” she whispered softly. Her fingertips brushed the paper. The past hid so many secrets. It made Arla who she was, and she felt in her bones these men also hid something terrifying. An event that had transformed their lives. Like Nicole’s disappearance had transformed Arla’s.
She opened up her laptop and searched for Simpson’s production company. She found it in two hits. There could only be one Michael Simpson who owned the huge Liquid Dream Media Group in Soho. The offices occupied a seven-story corner block in Piccadilly, one of the most expensive addresses in London, and the world. Even the website was a sprawling affair. Arla put the address in her phone, with the phone numbers.
Then she rang Mike Simpson’s number. It went to answer phone as she expected. There was a knock on her door. Then a voice asked, “Guv?” It was Harry.
Arla put the pen down and asked him to come in. Harry entered and shut the door. He was wearing his long grey overcoat still, and he smelt of his woodsmoke aftershave. It was a nice, comforting odour. He had come straight to her office, without stopping at his own desk. He leaned against the door, hands folded behind his back.