by M. L Rose
“How am I supposed to know? Isn’t that your job?”
CHAPTER 44
Hardwicke remained his cool, placid self but raised a hand to stop Simpson from speaking further.
“My client has answered the question already.”
Harry put his elbows on the desk. “So, the murderer, or someone with intimate knowledge of the crime scene, took a photo of the deceased and just happened to send it you, Mr Simpson?”
Simpson hung his head and shook it. When he looked up his eyes were blazing with hatred. “If you say so, yes.”
“Why you?” Harry waved a hand in the air expansively. His long arm almost reached out across the table. “I mean, why not his wife? Why not anyone else but only you?”
Simpson sat there seething, staring at Harry like he wanted to hammer nails into his eyes.
Arla said, “You, who had an argument with him before you left his house, a week before he died. You, whom his wife accused of assaulting.”
“And also you,” Harry continued, “Who has received almost two hundred thousand pounds from him in total. The murderer decides to contact you after he kills David Longworth. Does that not strike you as odd?”
Hardwicke intervened again. “My client has replied and has nothing further to add.”
Arla said, “Tell us about your family, Mr Simpson.”
He was still seething and doing a poor job of hiding it. He chewed his words out slowly. “Divorced. No children.”
Harry said, “You said David was working with you on this new film project. Was it financed by your company?”
Hardwicke and Simpson had another heads down chat. Simpson said, “We had joint rights to the production.”
Arla butted in. “Joint profit-sharing rights?”
Simpson sucked a cheek, brows furrowed. He could see where this was going. “Yes.”
“Do you have other films where you share profits with David as well?”
Simpson said, “I don’t believe my business matters are relevant here.”
Arla picked up a pen and wrote in her notebook, speaking slowly as she wrote. “Right, so when this goes to court, I can confirm that you had no other film profits sharing with David…”
“I didn’t say that!” Simpson’s nostrils were flaring, his face turning red again.
Arla looked, feigning surprise. “Oh, so you did?”
Hardwicke intervened. “As my client said, his previous business deals are not relevant here.”
“Even if those deals were with the deceased? You don’t think the CPS will find that interesting?” Arla caught a shimmer of irritation pass over Hardwicke's face and stifled her grin.
She glanced back at Simpson, who was glaring at her. She raised an eyebrow.
Simpson spoke between clenched teeth. “We have been making films and TV productions for a long time. Longer than you knew the alphabet.”
Arla ignored the jibe. “So, we’re talking hundreds of productions, right?”
“Yes.”
“How many of them are still active?”
“About ten in current production.”
She sensed Harry stretch. He asked, “Did Luke ever work in any of these productions?”
Simpson shrugged. “Not as far as I know. I’m the producer, I can’t be on site all the time like the director is. If David wanted to give his son some experience he might have. Not sure.”
“So the answer is that Luke might be involved.”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you ever worked with Luke?”
Anger pulsed through Simpson’s features again. “No. How many times do I have to tell you?”
Arla took the names of the people who could alibi him on the night of the murder. The uniforms came in to take Simpson back to the holding bay. He would spend the night in custody and Hardwicke would arrange bail for him in the morning.
The office was deserted. Only the cleaners were present, moving trash out and hoovering. Arla slumped on a chair and put her feet up on Harry’s desk.
Harry sat down opposite her. “Do you think he’s guilty?”
“Depends on the motive.”
“Motive could be money related. Or business. With David out of the way, he gets all the film rights and other intellectual property. That could be worth a lot of money in the future.”
Arla nodded. “That makes sense. Glad I got that out of him.”
Harry smirked. “Yes, that was a nice move.” His eyes swept up and down her slowly. Arla felt a heat spread inside, warming her. She was tired and curling up in bed with Harry seemed like a good plan.
“Time to go,” she said.
Harry stood, keeping his eyes on her. She remained seated and he took a step closer. Arla grinned.
Harry said, “Shall I give you a lift?” He dropped his voice to a whisper and leaned over her. “And maybe something else later?”
Arla inhaled his scent deeply and wiggled her eyebrows. “You are so mysterious, DI Mehta. What did you have in mind?”
CHAPTER 45
The man watched the female detective and her lanky sidekick come out the rear entrance of Clapham Police Station. He had waited patiently for the last two hours, watching people come and go from the car park. He couldn't keep the engine on forever, smoke from the exhaust attracted attention. His breath made fumes inside the car and he folded his arms against his chest, trying to keep himself warm. But his persistence had paid off. He knew it would. He felt the certainty of it rising like a tide inside him, making him infallible, imperious. He would serve justice upon this world, open the eyes of the unseeing, dumb masses. No one would stop him.
Arla Baker. That was her name. He liked it. The two words rolled off his tongue easily. He didn't know the name of the tall, wide shouldered man who was with her. They walked separately and got into a black BMW. He watched the car come out and ducked as the headlights flashed. He let the BMW drive to the end of the road before he swung out quickly, headlights turned off.
He caught up with the BMW as it turned right on Clapham High Street. He let two cars in between them, then followed, switching his headlights on.
After fifteen minutes, the BMW turned into a street in Tooting Broadway, not far from the tube stop. He went past that road, took the next right, right again, and he was at the bottom of the road the BMW had turned into. He turned his headlights off. The BMW was parking. He parked as well and got out of the car. He pulled the hoodie of his coat well over his head, disguising himself.
He could see the female detective and her partner get out of the car. They stood close together. The man stopped walking and pressed himself against the shadow of a doorway. Arla Baker was leaning against the man. As he watched, the man lowered his head and they kissed.
Pulse surged inside him. He opened his mouth and breathed rapidly.
The whore. He had her marked for himself and now she was…Excitement was replaced by sudden, explosive anger. He had plans for Arla Baker. He would make her a symbol of his operation, his crusade to set the world right. But for that, she had to be pure. And now, she was debasing herself by mixing with another man.
Inside the coat pockets, his hands clenched tight. He would show her. Show them both.
The couple crossed the street, bodies glued to each other. He detached himself from the wall and walked towards them slowly. He didn't want to get too close. but also wanted to make sure he knew the address.
He speeded up as they went in, light from the hallway casting a conical shadow on the dark street. Number 72. He walked past it, memorising the entrance, the sash bay window facing the street on the ground floor. A Victorian terrace, probably a split-level apartment, he thought. His mind turned to what they were doing inside. He imagined touching her warm, naked skin, and a feral need grew inside him, stirring his loins. He bared his teeth.
I’m coming for what’s mine.
He turned on his heels and walked back to his car quickly. He would deal with Arla Baker soon. very soon. But first, he
had other tasks. He drove back to Clapham, and over the Common to the long street where rows of houses sat facing the dark expanse of the now invisible greenery. He got out of his car, locked it and walked to the large terraced property he had been watching for several weeks now. Once a splendid manor for the wealthy gentry of Clapham, it was now divided into several apartments. He was interested in the ground floor. Lights were off, but he knew the old man who lived there was inside.
He had visited the old man, dressed as a postman. Started to chat with him and didn't see any alarm keypads on the wall. He felt a sense of exhilaration delivering the letters he had written with his own hand, directly to the old man. He remembered how the old hands shook as he read the name on the envelope.
He paused and looked around him. The road was deserted, only the tepid glow from halogen lamps lighting up the frigid, desolate night. He took out a keychain and screwdriver. Within a minute, the lock slid off the latch and he was inside.
The hallway was submerged in darkness. The light of a circuit box gleamed below the staircase. He tiptoed in, stopping as the creak of a floorboard gave him away. There was no sound apart from the faint hum of snoring. The old man was sleeping, and he could tell by the direction of the snoring the bedroom was one door down.
He let himself inside the bedroom and waited. His eyes were used to the dark. The red digital keypad of a clock rested on the table next to the bed. On the bed there was a shape huddled under a blanket.
For a brief second, he allowed himself the luxury of thinking the shape was Arla Baker. He was in her bedroom and she was his for the taking. Sleeping, defenceless. He shuddered with anticipation.
Closing his eyes, he came back to the present. He took the hammer out from his backpack. Then he approached the bed slowly.
CHAPTER 46
It was Nicole. Odd, how her face hadn't changed over the years.
It was a rainy, dark night but she stood under a streetlight, and Arla could see her face clearly. Nicole stood no more than ten feet away. Rain water coursed down her face like incessant tears. Wet hair clung to her neck and she shivered. Arla couldn't tear her eyes off her sister. After all these years, she had found her.
“Here,” Arla gasped, throwing her arms open. “Nicole, come here.”
Her sister stared back at her, a lost, helpless look on that normally cocky, self-assured face. “Arla,” she whispered. “Is it you?”
“Yes. It’s me.” Arla stepped forward. A brisk wind creaked the corners of her broken heart. Nicole was so close to touch, after all these years.
Then she saw him. A long, hooded dark figure. He loomed out of the darkness suddenly, behind the lamp post. His face was invisible. He was behind Nicole and she hadn't seen him.
“Nicole!” Arla shouted. “Come here, quickly.”
Her sister’s eyes widened. A sudden cloud of blackness poured out from the figure behind Nicole. It blew out into the rainy, windy night like a shroud, hiding Nicole from view.
“No!” Arla screamed. She ran full tilt towards the shadow. “No…”
Arla’s eyes flew open. She was sitting upright in bed, breathing heavily. Her alarm was beeping, a faint sound to her right. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder and turned to see Harry. He was fully dressed, in stark contrast to her nakedness.
“Same dream again?” Harry asked gently.
Arla brushed his hand off her shoulder. She wiped sweat from her brow and tried to control her thudding heart. God, she hated that dream. Hated it.
She came off the bed and grabbed the dressing gown hanging from the back of the door. As she went into the bathroom, she heard the front door click shut. Harry was leaving for work. That was planned, as they made it a point never to arrive together.
In the cold light of day, her mind slipped out of slumber. She stepped inside a hot shower and got ready quickly. Today was going to be busy.
She ticked off the things she needed to do in her mind. Simpson had to be interviewed again before he left. She knew she couldn't keep him if he was granted bail. Harry had a search warrant for Luke Simpson’s house, and she didn't even need it to get inside under the circumstances. There was now a police case against Luke, for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. Johnson couldn't stop her now.
She also needed to speak to Cherie. Luke had used a new number, so they could put a trace on it. Luke had to be found. There was no time to lose.
By the time Arla got to the station, it was nine am. The incident room was buzzing when she walked in.
Arla took her place next to Harry, Lisa and the rest of the team. She raised her voice. The room was packed to the brim today. News of Mike Simpson’s arrest had obviously made the rounds already.
“OK, listen up. We have a suspect in custody, and he is charged, for now.” Arla looked around the room and caught the eyes of Justin Beauregard. He didn’t seem happy but then again, he never did.
“For now,” Arla said, “We are keeping the charge active, but it might change. We need a tight case, and not something the CPS will laugh out of court. So far, Simpson had the means and the motive. He also had a photo of the deceased taken just after the murder, on his phone.”
Voices and murmurs grew louder in the room. Arla spoke above the din. “He says someone sent it to him. It’s true but that doesn’t make him any less of a suspect.”
Beauregard shouted to make his voice heard “Yeah, but doesn't make him guilty though does it?”
Arla held his eyes. “You got a case against anyone else for this murder, Justin?”
“That’s your job, D.C.I Baker.” He paused at each letter and Arla bit back her retort. She knew he was egging her on, wanting her to lose her temper in front of everyone. Instead she smiled sweetly at him.
“Yes, it is my job.”
He grimaced and turned away.
Arla continued. “And we are making progress. First thing today, we raid another suspects house.” She gestured at Andy Jackson, who hurried up from his seat. “Get an armed team ready,” Arla whispered. “Luke Longworth’s house but keep that to yourself.”
Andy went off to assemble the team. Lisa cleared her throat and Arla turned to her.
Lisa said, “I'm going to speak to another witness on Mike Simpson’s alibi list. But the woman I spoke to on the phone confirmed that Simpson was at this party on the 17th November. She works in his office. It was a work party.”
Arla’s heart sank. If Simpson had a line of alibis for that evening, they might as well retract their charge now. But she was determined not to let Simpson off the hook so easily. He still had a motive - the millions in cash if he became the sole owner of the film profit rights he shared with David Longworth.
Besides, she wouldn't put it past Simpson to have a few paid alibis just to cover his tracks.
“Make an appointment for me to see one of them,” Arla said. “And see if we can get some down to the station as well.”
“For Luke Longworth, we have a match with the boot print, which more or less confirms he did the burglary for David’s personal possessions. We don’t have his DNA samples as yet and that’s hampering our progress. We know he is trying to make contact with Cherie, the wife and God knows what he’s planning for her. So it’s time we got hold of him.”
The meeting broke up without Arla specifying further how she was going to get hold of Luke. Harry was outside already, and Andy was getting a van ready with a specialist firearms officer, or SFO, on board. He saw Arla and gave her a thumbs up. Arla returned the gesture and ran to the black BMW waiting for her.
CHAPTER 47
The volume on the radio was turned on full. Arla twirled the black knob anti-clockwise to reduce the sound.
“Are you receiving, Andy? This is base.”
“Yes guv, loud and clear.” Static crackled over Andy Jackson’s voice.
“This is a densely packed residential area. I want the place on lockdown over a two square mile area. If he’s inside, I don’t want him escaping down a
ny of the side streets. Over.”
“That will be difficult guv. We only have two cars with us. Over.”
“Get them to drop the team off and then take positions.” Arla snapped. “Do the best you can.”
Harry swerved through traffic and eventually put the siren on. Their CID car didn't have flashing lights, but the ear-splitting sound was obvious enough. Harry raced through and then cut the siren as they got closer. Arla’s phone beeped. It was Rita.
“Guv, I have something interesting. You know the phone number that Luke used to contact Cherie last night?”
“Yes, what about it?”
“I got the phone log. One number was called on it repeatedly the whole of last week. A number that’s on our records. Mike Simpson’s phone.”
A ripple of tension spread across Arla’s scalp. Simpson had admitted to having Luke’s number. But he had not contacted Luke in the last several months. Could it be because Luke had used this number instead?
Arla clutched the phone tighter. “Rita, can you check if this number was used to send Simpson the murder photo?”
“I need to run a search against Simpson’s phone log, guv.”
“That’s fine, I’ll hold.”
Harry said, “Less than three minutes ETA.”
Arla nodded and picked at her nails. She stopped herself. She had done her nails three weeks ago. No point in destroying them just because she was tense. Silently, she willed Rita to hurry up.
Finally, Rita’s voice came back on the line. “There’s no match this time, guv. The number has called Simpson’s phone several times, but a different number sent the photo.”
Arla felt deflated. Still, Luke could have more than one number. “Fine. Make sure we get the phone log for that number as well, OK?”
“The phone that sent Simpson the photo? It’s out of action. I think it’s been destroyed. I found the IMEI number, and as cell phones transmit a signal five days after being switched off, I might still find something. Waiting to hear back from the phone company.”