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

by M. L Rose

  Harry appeared to one side. “Stop it,” he said.

  Arla glared at him. “Fuck off.”

  “Arla,” Harry swallowed and came forward. “Will you just listen?”

  “Listen to what?”

  Harry wiped rain water off his face. “She’s my sister.”

  Arla reeled backwards, head spinning. Her mouth fell open. Embarrassment flooded to every fibre of her being. She turned her back to them and covered her face in both hands. She felt a presence, and Harry was putting his arm around her. She buried her head in his chest. Good old Harry. Would she have been so charitable if it had been the other way around?

  “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled.

  “Guess it looked odd, me chatting to her.”

  “No. It’s not you. It’s me.” Her voice was small, and her head was still buried in his chest. His coat was damp with rain. Her words were muffled, but she sensed Harry could hear them. He could reach her where no one did. For that, she was thankful. He tugged her head back gently, and she lifted her face up to him. His lips were cool and inviting. She opened her mouth and his tongue slid in softly, exploring her. Electric sparks shimmered down her spine.

  “Ahem, lovebirds,” a woman’s voice next to them called out. “It’s raining, cold and everyone’s watching you snog. Do you mind?”

  Harry detached with a smile. “Arla, this is my smart mouth sister, Smita. Sis, this is Arla.”

  Smita was pretty. Arla smiled sheepishly as they shook hands. “Guess I owe you an apology,” Arla said.

  “No. I can see how it would look dodgy.”

  “I shouldn’t have flown off the handle like that.”

  Smita leaned closer. “Our reactions are always stronger when we care more.”

  Arla stared at her. It was a deep statement to make, especially when they had just met. She wondered how much Harry had told Smita about her.

  “Let’s go inside,” Harry said. They walked back in, the bouncers giving Arla a funny stare. They went upstairs again, and Arla looked around for Tangye. She couldn't find her. Harry went to get drinks while they sat down.

  “Shall we start again?” Smita asked.

  Arla was suddenly tired, and she wanted a drink. Now that she had talked to Tangye Jones, officially she wasn’t on duty anymore. She smiled tiredly at Smita.

  “From the beginning. By the way, what film inauguration is this?”

  “It’s a thriller called Dark Dawn. Production company is based in Pinewood Studios.”

  “And you have a role in it?”

  She smiled. “My role is small. A support one, to the lead role. Tangye Gale is playing it. You met her, didn’t you? Harry said.”

  “Yes. What role is she playing?”

  “A police detective.”

  They looked at each other, then both burst out laughing. The earlier awkwardness had melted away. Arla threw her head back and slapped her knee, mirth bubbling inside her. It felt good to find something funny.

  Smita said, “Oh look there’s two friends of mine.” She waved at a young couple who had just walked up the steps and were standing near the landing. The woman waved back and started towards them.

  Smita introduced them. “Arla, these are my friends Emma and Jonty.”

  Arla stood to join the rest. Jonty was closest to her, and she found herself looking at a pair of intense blue eyes. She shook the warm, if slightly moist hand.

  “Hi,” the young man said. “Nice to meet you.”

  CHAPTER 69

  Jonty couldn’t believe his eyes. From the landing, he had seen her in profile. The shock of recognition made his face rigid and breath froze in his lungs. If he ever needed a sign that Arla Baker’s destiny lay in his hands, this was it.

  Jonty had told Emma he was going home from the funeral. He would pick her up later. But Jonty didn't go home. He waited in an alleyway opposite Arla’s apartment in Tooting Broadway. He itched with impatience to see her. When she didn't appear, he wanted to get inside the apartment. It wouldn't be hard. He had seen the security camera outside, it was child’s play to remove it from the wall. He could cut the electric cables to take out the alarm inside.

  But he did nothing. Instead he waited. Standing in that dark, wet alley, rain whispering against his ears, visions of what he would do to Arla Baker filled his mind. He played them out like a movie. He would take her while she slept. Put her in the car. Take her to his secret hideout. Strip her naked while she was tied down. Then he would teach her how to be pure.

  Now, as he stared at her, those visions flooded his imagination once again. He wasn’t dreaming this. It was actually happening. He had debated, for a fraction of a second, to run down the stairs. Avoid seeing Arla. But curiosity had won out. She had never seen him before. There was no need for her to be suspicious. Excitement churned in his guts and sweat broke out on his scalp.

  Before he knew it, he was next to her. Shaking her hand.

  Act normal. Remember she’s trained to look out for unusual behaviour.

  Arla nodded at him and they sat down. Smita and Emma started chatting and Jonty was silent, acutely aware of the vision of his dreams sitting right next to him. He sneaked a look at her. She was dressed in her usual attire; a black business suit. Why was she here? He ran scenarios through his mind. No, it wasn’t because of him. It couldn't be. Simpson was in custody. Could it be due to that? Yes, that made more sense. Simpson was an executive producer of the film Dark Dawn. She was following up a lead, chatting to people who might have known Simpson.

  She looked tired as well, Jonty thought. God, how well he could comfort her. Once she did his bidding, of course. Once she was purified. Another man had touched her, that big oaf of a police inspector who hung around with her all the time. Jonty wondered if he was here. Probably. Unless of course, he thought with growing heat inside his belly, she had come alone. In which case, he could get it over and done with tonight. He could follow her back and…

  “So, what do you do?”

  Jonty glanced to his left. Arla was speaking to him. He looked into her eyes, the swirling brown depths almost mesmerising him. He liked her voice too, clear, direct. Shivers ran down his spine. God, he wanted to get his hands on her.

  Jonty shrugged, trying hard to be casual. “I’m a lighting director. Without the right lights, you can’t have a film.” He smiled.

  She cracked a grin as well, but he could see through it. A different gleam came into her eyes. “Did you know Mike Simpson, the producer?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t say I did.”

  “How about David Longworth?”

  Jonty frowned. “He died, didn’t he? Read it in the papers.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you want to know?” Jonty asked carefully. He needed to watch his step here. He noticed that neither Smita nor Arla had as yet disclosed that Arla was a cop. That made him uneasy. But he also understood she was doing her job.

  “Oh, just asking.”

  Jonty nodded and thought about his next question. Then he asked, “So what do you do?”

  He saw the hesitation in her face and almost smiled to himself. Now that he was in control he was starting to enjoy it. He could play with her.

  Soon, you will be mine.

  “I’m a police officer,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Oh?” he made a face. “Am I in trouble?”

  “No,” she laughed, and her guard fell. Jonty’s mouth opened as she caught the first pure glimpse of his prey. Arla Baker being her normal self. His heart thudded against his ribs. He would remember this moment. This laugh.

  “Just here about something else,” she said after, being evasive.

  “Oh, I see.” He dearly wanted to ask her so much. He wanted to know how the case was going. How hard she was working. What colour her bras and knickers were? Matching?

  He thought of her in underwear only, and he could feel an erection stir in his pants. He inhaled deeply. Her scent was invigorating, he would never forget it.
Her aroma made his erection stronger. Jonty looked down, flexing his jaw. He had to get back into control.

  “I’ll just nip to the loo,” he smiled at Arla, then at the other two ladies.

  In the bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror. He took deep breaths and splashed water in his face. He was so close he could touch her. Feel her. He couldn't wait any more. It had to be soon.

  When he came back, Arla had gone.

  CHAPTER 70

  Arla didn't sleep well that night. Harry had a few drinks, and he was out like a light after they made love. Correction, he was always out like a light after they made love. While she remained awake, skin tingling.

  Only tonight, the thoughts that filled her mind were far from pleasant. She saw Simpson’s red, leathery face, eyes hooded, cheeks sagging; an old pervert whose image made her want to vomit. She thought of Luke, probably awake like her, his soul twisted and scarred. Scarred enough to commit murder? Had she got this all wrong?

  In the early hours of the morning, she fell into a fitful sleep. Harry woke her as he was leaving. Arla felt groggy, the few drinks she had last night enough to give her a light hangover. She got ready and once out in the cold air, felt better. She was in the office by 9 am.

  Lisa bustled up to her as soon as she walked in. Her eyes were flashing. “Guv, you won’t believe this.”

  “What?”

  “An old man was found dead in his own bed in Clapham last night. Head was smashed in by a heavy, blunt object, according to SOCO who attended.”

  Excitement gripped Arla. “Blunt object, like a hammer?”

  “Yup, hammer is the word SOCO used too. And spotlights were left focused on the body, the walls were freshly painted red, the room was staged up like a theatre screen.”

  “Same MO,” Arla said softly. “Luke wasn’t released last night?”

  “Nope, and neither was Simpson.”

  Arla looked at Lisa and nodded slowly. The grin on Lisa’s face was catching. Arla couldn't help herself.

  “You were right, guv,” Lisa beamed. The smile didn't last long. “The killer’s still out there.”

  “Where’s Harry?” Arla had glanced over at his empty table.

  “He’s speaking to Darren, who went over to the hotel this morning to verify Simpson and Luke’s alibi.”

  The uniforms shared a different office. Arla thanked Lisa and walked down the corridor, stopping to get herself a cup of rancid coffee from the drinks machine. She spotted Harry with his hands on a table, leaning forward. Darren and another uniformed sergeant were speaking to him. He straightened as Arla approached.

  “Their stories check out. We have a copy of the CCTV as well, just need to check it.”

  “Excellent,” Arla smiled. “Good work guys.” She turned to Harry. “You heard of the new murder?”

  “Yes. Justin’s there now, checking the place out.”

  Arla crinkled her nose. “I want to be there.”

  They walked back to her office, and Arla perched herself on Lisa’s desk. “Tell me about this guy. Is he in the film industry as well?”

  “No,” Lisa said, her eyes still on the laptop screen. “He’s a retired judge, as it happens. Lived alone, divorced, no children. No family as far as we can see. He owned the apartment he lived in.”

  “Method of entry?”

  “Break in. Wasn’t hard. No alarm and the door was old.”

  “Let’s pull up CCTV images. There must be some of the killer. He’s getting bold now. What was the victim’s name?”

  “Stanley Mason. 79 years old.”

  “Pull up his medical records and employment files. Nothing on IDENT1 or the PNC websites?”

  “No guv, nothing. He was a judge after all.”

  “Means nothing,” Arla said, getting off Lisa’s table. “Come on,” she said to Harry. “I wasn’t joking when I said I want to be on site.”

  Harry sighed. “Guv, Justin said…”

  “I don’t care what he said. He might be the SIO, but I knew this might happen. Now let’s get going.”

  The building was a terraced mansion block overlooking Clapham Common. Squad cars were directing traffic and the jam was building up. Harry parked on a side road and they walked the rest on foot.

  Arla signed her name at the entrance, covered by a white forensic tent. She put the shoe cover and gloves on. Through a narrow corridor whose walls were covered in peeling paint, they stepped through a door into an apartment. The place was blazing with lights the SOCO had set up.

  Arla saw Justin Beauregard first. His face changed when he saw Arla. “What are you doing here?” He glanced at Harry. “I told you to stay at the station.”

  Harry shrugged. “She wanted to come guv, what could I do?”

  Arla said, “This is what I said might happen, Justin. The killer’s still out there. Therefore, I think I have every right to be here.”

  Beauregard frowned. “I’m the SIO.”

  “I still have the higher rank. You might be an acting DCI, but you haven’t replaced me. To be honest, what the hell is an acting DCI anyway? Either you are one or you’re not.”

  Beauregard’s face turned red. He spluttered. Arla stepped up to him. She took out her phone and placed it on his chest. “You want to call Johnson? Cry like a little girl? Go right ahead.”

  She stepped past him, but not before she heard the snort of laughter from Harry. The bedroom was lit up with garish bright light from the SOCO headlamps. Parmentier was hunched over the body and a bored looking Banerji was standing next to him, shoulders stooped. His face brightened when he saw Arla.

  “Well if it isn’t the saviour! Welcome DCI Baker.”

  “DCI is ok but not saviour, doc.”

  Banerji rolled his eyes. “You’re saving me. I’m getting back pain standing here.”

  “What does it look like?”

  Banerji repeated what Lisa said. But he looked troubled. “Anything else?” Arla asked, lowering her voice.

  His brows were lowered. “There’s signs of a struggle. Victim has fingerprints on the neck and small lacerations caused by nails on his neck and chest. Also on the hands.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “He was strangled but he fought back. The attacker subdued him eventually. He didn't have to kill him with the hammer blow.”

  Arla understood. “He was dead already or close to dying.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sick bastard had to leave his calling card behind by bashing his head in.” Arla grimaced.

  She asked, “Time of death?”

  “It’s 9:30 now. I reckon more than twenty hours. Body is much colder than the ambient temp of 18 degrees. Rigor mortis has spread to the larger muscles.”

  Arla pondered. That meant before yesterday evening. When she was at the pub with Harry and Smita. She looked at Banerji.

  “That makes it what time? Roughly?”

  “Afternoon, I’d say. Early afternoon, say between 2 and 3.”

  When Luke was already behind bars. Arla nodded. That made sense. CCTV would also be useful in excluding Luke being there the night before. Even if the time of death changed to earlier, there was no way Luke could have murdered this old man earlier in the morning, and then escaped to his hideout in Kensington High Street.

  “The time of death won’t be early in the morning? Say around ten o’ clock?” She asked Banerji.

  He shook his head. “No. The body would show signs of decomposing then. Definitely afternoon. I can get you a more precise time later.”

  Parmentier got up from his kneeling position. “You want to have a look at this.” He pointed at the bed.

  Arla stepped onto one of the plastic duckboards gingerly. The man’s legs were in view. Her breath caught. Cuts were marked all over them, both shallow and deep. Blood had seeped out and congealed on the bedsheets. The cuts formed a pattern, like the shape of a Christmas tree, moving up his legs into the groin.

  Arla shook her head. “Jeez.”

&
nbsp; Parmentier said, “He went to town on this poor man, didn't he?”

  Banerji added in a grim voice, “He took his time. This must have taken a couple of hours at least.”

  Arla moved up towards the rest of the body. Black marks littered the chest and abdomen, with more cuts.

  She asked Banerji, “Cigarette burns?”

  “Yes.”

  Arla turned away from the macabre sight. It wasn’t often a dead body disturbed her. It was the cold-hearted way this man had been tortured that made her feel sick.

  Parmentier said, “He also destroyed the few belongings the old man possessed.”

  Arla went to where Parmentier was standing. Broken pieces of china littered the floor. With a gloved hand, she picked up one of the pieces, then the others, squatting on the floor.

  “Bag all of them. It looks like a china vase. I wonder what the value was.”

  Banerji took one of the white pieces with blue engraving on it. “My mother in law used to collect these things. She didn’t have any Ming dynasty vases, but I saw some Song and Tang era ones at her place. To my inexperienced eye, these look valuable.”

  Arla said, “Well, you might be the only expert we have right now. But let’s get it checked, Parmentier.”

  “Sure. Nicer than looking for crumbs of DNA.”

  “If they were valuable, this gets interesting,” Arla said. “Almost like he bore a grudge against this guy.”

  She looked around at the red paint on the wall. It smelled fresh. It was just dabs of colour, flung on the wall with haphazard brush strokes. She struggled to find a pattern. They seemed like wild, angry lashings of red against a white wall.

  The focus lights on the body were turned off now, but they hadn't been removed from their original position. They stood on long tripods, their black heads angling down at the body in the bed. She looked at the curtains above the bed, they were parted like a theatre screen, gathered at the sides. The curtains had also been painted red.

  “It’s like he’s an artist, and this is his canvas,” Arla thought aloud. She was reminded of looking inside David Longworth’s study, that weird feeling of being a member of the audience, staring at a macabre stage of death.