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

by M. L Rose

  Banerji said, “Well, whatever he’s trying to do, he’s succeeding.”

  Arla snapped back to the present. “He won’t succeed for long, if I have my way.”

  A voice from the rear said, “I am the SIO.” It was Beauregard. Without turning, Arla rolled her eyes at Banerji, who smiled.

  Arla brushed past Beauregard and out into the narrow corridor. She headed outside, Harry behind her. Her phone beeped. It was Johnson. There was a note of resignation in his voice.

  “We need to talk.”

  “I thought you might say that,” Arla said in a dry tone.

  CHAPTER 71

  Cherie Longworth looked out the window of her B&B, down at the courtyard. It was raining, drops pattering against the glass. It was strange being here. She felt enclosed, encapsulated, but she could hear the sounds of traffic. She didn't have a window that opened out on the street, and could only see the empty courtyard below, ringed by the four floors of the old building.

  Cherie was debating whether to go out. She had to buy some groceries. She also wanted to swing by the house. Her home, until recently. Now that Luke was behind bars, it might be OK to go back.

  Her mind wandered back to Inspector Arla’s questions. She didn't mean to be intrusive, but it was the nature of her job. Cherie thought back to the questions about Laura Douglas. It was weird, what the Inspector was digging for there.

  Cherie took one last look at the mirror. She had put some makeup on today. Not that she felt like it. But she had forced herself to, and now that she had, it did make her feel a little better. She had more colour in her cheeks, and the mascara helped hide the dark shadows in her eyes. She needed a trim as well; her hair was getting way past the shoulders.

  She took her handbag, making sure she had the mace spray the police had provided her with. The woman at the reception waved at her, asking where she was going.

  “Just some shopping, then I might head to the house.”

  “OK,” the woman said. “I’ll tell a uniformed unit to be there.”

  “It should be safe now,” Cherie said, her voice weakening. She didn't mind the police being there at all.

  “It’s no trouble,” the woman said. “What time will you be there? They’ll arrive before you.”

  “Maximum two hours,” Cherie said.

  The guard at the door nodded at her as she left. The air was cold, but it was also fresh. Distant cries of ball players in the Common reached her ears. Cherie decided not to drive, or wait for the bus. The skies were grey, but rain wasn’t forecast. Like most Londoners, Cherie never trusted the weatherman anyway. She had a small folded umbrella in her handbag. It was a couple of miles to the High Street, less than half an hour walk. She felt the exercise would do her good.

  Cherie glanced at her phone before she set off. She walked next to the green expanse of the Common, the bandstand visible in the distance. Come summer, the big brass band would play on Sundays, and the place would be full of people. She couldn't wait for summer. This winter was getting drearier with every passing day.

  An occasional car whished past her, but the mid-morning traffic was light. The smell of sodden earth and wet leaves carried to her, borne by a chilly, wintry breeze. Pedestrians were few in this part of the Common, green parkland surrounded her on both sides. She would have to walk for fifteen minutes at least before she came closer to the shops.

  A bird flew over her head, startling her with its sharp cawing. A raven. She watched it swoop over something on the grass. She avoided her eyes and kept walking. The sound of her heels was loud now. Echoing. The occasional passing car was now behind a screen of trees.

  She heard it faintly at first. A soft, almost slithering sound. But also tapping like footsteps in the distance. It came from behind her.

  Just another pedestrian like me, she thought.

  Cherie didn't look back. There was no point in getting paranoid. She exhaled and kept walking at her normal pace.

  But the sound grew louder. Very quickly, whoever it was, got closer. Cherie turned her head. It was a hooded figure, dressed in a black raincoat. From the shoulders, she knew it was a man.

  Fear lashed against her spine, turning her mouth dry. She quickened her pace. So did the man behind her. Sweat broke out on Cherie’s head. She looked around. The road ahead was a straight line with no cars on it. Trees covered both sides. In the distance, she could see the traffic of the High Street. It would take her longer than she had imagined.

  Panic consumed her. She looked behind again, and he was getting dangerously close. She could make out his face, pale and gaunt. His eyes were hidden by the hood. Cherie broke into a run. Breath rasped inside her chest, and her pulse surged when she realised the man was running as well.

  She reached inside her handbag and pulled out the mace spray. He was very close now, and Cherie opened her mouth to scream. No sound came out, her throat was bone dry.

  In a flash, he was upon her. He seemed to know that she held a spray in her right hand. He grabbed her from behind, pinning her against him. His right hand clamped down on her wrist and he squeezed a pressure point till she screamed and let go. The spray clattered on the pavement

  He clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged her into the trees. Cherie was in her fifties, but she wasn’t unfit. Yoga and running kept her reasonably supple. She gagged, but managed to bite down on the hand while she kicked with her back leg, aiming for his shin. She hit bone and heard him grunt.

  He flung her to the soft earth with savage force, and was then upon her. He straddled her chest. Pain exploded in her head as she fell, and the pressure on her back was terrible. He grabbed her throat and pulled back. Tears ran down her eyes and she tried to scream again, but he was holding her neck tight. His face lowered to hers.

  “Before you die, tell me what the police woman told you. Arla Baker.” He whispered.

  Cherie couldn't speak, and he relaxed the grip on her neck. She sucked air in and started to cough. He pressed down harder on her back.

  “Tell me what she said!”

  “Nothing. Nothing!”

  “Don’t lie to me. I know she came to see you at the hotel.”

  His voice was low, hoarse, but Cherie felt she had heard it before. There was a sound on the road, and then the sudden loud beep of a horn. A car had stopped by the side of the road. A man got out of the car, beeping his horn again.

  “Hey, you!” a male voice shouted.

  The pressure on Cherie’s throat lessened abruptly. A weight lifted from her back and then the man jumped over her, running away. Cherie got to her knees. She saw a flash of black as the figure faded between the trees, moving fast.

  “Are you OK?” Cherie turned to see a middle-aged man, wearing a builder’s orange high visibility vest, staring at her with concern.

  She wiped the snot and tears from her face. “Please call the police,” she said.

  CHAPTER 72

  Lisa, Rita and Rob were sitting opposite Arla in her office. Harry was leaning against the shut door.

  Arla asked, “What did you find out about Stanley Mason?”

  Lisa opened her file. “He was a judge at Woolwich Crown Court for the last thirty years. Originally from Middlesbrough, moved down here for university, then got married. Divorced after fifteen years of marriage. No children.”

  “As a retired judge he should be on a good pension. Why was he living in a one bedroom apartment?” Rob asked.

  “Haven’t been through all his bank statements, but the last three months show regular payments to Bet-to-win.com.”

  “An online gambling company,” Rob said.

  “Yes. He moved roughly one grand there every month. Nothing came back though. Bet to win haven’t got in touch with me as yet.”

  “So he wasted his money on gambling,” Arla said. “Does anything tie him to David Longworth? I mean, we are assuming here that this is the same killer. It feels the same to me.”

  Lisa shrugged. “Not on the surface, guv. It’s not lik
e David had any prior convictions or a police record. Stanley Mason was a loner. Haven’t been through his emails, his laptop is still with SOCO. I’ll check if he sent any emails to David or Luke.”

  “Or Simpson. What about his mobile phone?”

  “Either he didn't have one, or the killer took it.”

  “Hmm,” Arla said. “Must’ve been a loner. Was the apartment in his name?”

  “Yes. No other assets in his name, I checked with land registry.”

  “What about his ex-wife?”

  “She’s been informed. She lives in Wales now, by the sea in Pembrokeshire, in a retirement village.”

  “He must have some friends somewhere. Keep looking. I want his whole employment history—in particular a record of all the cases he was involved in. I mean every one. The killer seemed to bear a grudge against him. Destroyed all his vases, tortured him for ages. I want to know why.”

  Harry blew out his cheeks. “That’s a lot of work, boss. Can I remind you that you’re not the SIO anymore?” His eyes twinkled with mischief.

  “Shut up Harry.” She turned to the rest of the team. “Look, keep this to ourselves for now. Justin will have his own agenda. But that record of cases is a must. Look out for anything unusual. A case he dealt with that left angry relatives, for instance. Or a criminal he put behind bars who’s now free.”

  “But how does that tie in with David Longworth?” Rob asked.

  Arla shrugged. “I don’t know. But we need to find out, before this lunatic strikes again.”

  She glanced at Harry, who nodded and opened the door. Arla said, “We’re going up to meet the boss. Let me know the minute you have something.”

  They filed out, and Arla and Harry went up the staircase to Johnson’s office.

  “Come in,” a muffled voice said when Arla knocked. Johnson was sat in his usual seat, with Justin Beauregard opposite him. Justin avoided looking at Arla as she walked in.

  “Sit down,” Johnson said gruffly. He put his huge paws on the table and stood. Folding his arms behind his back, he stared out the window behind him. It looked out into the rear parking lot, a grey wash out in the rain.

  “I’ve looked at the preliminary case report of the latest murder. MO is similar. Is that correct?”

  “Yes sir,” Arla said, allowing a note of satisfaction to creep into her voice.

  “And approximate time of death is in the afternoon. When you apprehended Luke Longworth?”

  “Correct sir.”

  Johnson turned around, hands still clasped behind his back. He was almost as tall as the window.

  “So we know the murderer couldn't have been Luke.”

  Justin said, “Unless there’s more than one culprit.”

  “With exactly the same MO?” Arla scoffed. “And where exactly did this new murderer come from? Thin air?”

  Justin’s face turned red. He went to say something, but Johnson shut him up with a wave of his hand.

  “Enough. The real issue is that we have not yet guaranteed the safety of the Secretary of State.” After a pause, he continued. “We have to err on the side of caution and accept the killer might still be out there. And that it might not be Luke.”

  Harry said, “CCTV images of Simpson and Luke arriving at the hotel have been obtained, sir. They came separately.”

  Justin said, “But there’s no conclusive images of them leaving. Sir, there’s still a chance that Luke is our man.”

  Johnson shook his head. “Luke is of interest, no doubt. But in the light of this new murder, we have to assume the killer is still on the loose.”

  “Not just on the loose sir,” Arla said. “He tortured this poor old man. Deliberately broke all his possessions. I think he’s becoming more sadistic.”

  Harry said quietly, “I wonder who’s next?”

  The question hung in the air, suspended in the silent thoughts of each detective in the room.

  Johnson asked, “Are you sure there’s nothing to bind the judge to David Longworth?”

  “We’re looking for it actively. Nothing as yet.”

  Johnson cleared his throat. “Under the circumstances, DCI Baker is reinstated to her post. She is also taking over as SIO.” He looked meaningfully from Arla to Justin. “Is that understood?”

  The anger was obvious on Justin’s face, but he was a detective over and above all else. Jaw clenched, he nodded in silence.

  “I want you two to work together. Bury the hatchet.”

  Both of them murmured in agreement. Johnson’s desk phone rang. He frowned, staring at it. Arla knew he would have told switchboard not to disturb his meeting. Johnson reached over and plucked the old-fashioned receiver from its cradle. It looked ridiculously small in his hands.

  As he listened, his brows lowered further till they met in the middle. He said, “Is she alright? Oh, I see.” He hung up.

  He faced Arla, and she felt a sudden knot of apprehension tighten in her chest. Johnson said, “It’s Cherie. She’s just been assaulted. They took her to hospital and now she’s downstairs.”

  CHAPTER 73

  The waiting room for families was less bare than the interview rooms. Two potted plants rested on the windows, and some posters about knife crimes and community help hung on the walls. Cherie was sitting on the leather sofa, head bent and knees together, when Arla walked in. She looked up and Arla saw the fright in her eyes. Her own heart contracted in sympathy. No one deserved what Cherie was having to endure.

  Harry shut the door softly and sat down behind the desk. Arla came to the sofa, next to Cherie. Cherie’s eyes were fixed on the floor, lips pressed. She didn't cry. She didn't move.

  “I’m sorry,” Arla said. She held Cherie’s hand. It was cold and stiff. Cherie moved her hand away.

  She said, “I thought we had the...the...killer.” She closed her eyes, like the word took a lot of effort to pronounce.

  “I know this is hard for you,” Arla said.

  Cherie looked up at Arla then, eyes blazing. “You don’t know anything. Do you have any idea what it feels like to come home and see your husband dead?”

  “Mrs Longworth…”

  “Don’t call me that.” Her tone was sharp, stinging. “I hate being reminded of what a failure I was. David kept so many secrets from me. I didn’t even know that his son…” her voice trailed off as her eyes took on a faraway gaze. She blinked, then became downcast again.

  “Tell me what happened,” Arla said gently.

  “Why?” Cherie said bitterly. “What good will it do? You’ll never catch him. He knows everything.”

  Arla exchanged a look with Harry. He was frowning. Arla said, “What do you mean?”

  “He knows you came to see me at theB&B. He even knows your name.”

  Arla sat back, stunned. Cherie continued. “You know what I think?” She glanced from Harry to Arla. “I think he works here. Or he knows you.” Her expression became pained, eyes moist. “He’s keeping an eye on me. Following me around everywhere. And all this time, you guys haven’t done a thing. Not a thing!” Her voice rose at the end.

  “Cherie, that’s not true.” Arla reached out to touch her but she shrank back on the sofa. Arla made a fist and withdrew her hand. This was not going the way she wanted, but what Cherie had just told her had significant potential. Arla’s mind was in turmoil.

  “What else did he ask you?”

  Cherie sniffed. “That’s all. He wanted to know what you told me.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Luckily the car arrived. He escaped. There wasn’t any time for me to say anything.”

  Cherie turned to Arla again. Her eyes were wide with fear. The tip of her nose was red.

  “Can’t you see? He’s always one step ahead of you. He broke into the house because he knew there was no one at the back. Now he knows who you are, and what time you come to see me. He knows where I’m staying. How can that be? He must know what you’re planning.”

  Cherie looked wildly around the room. S
he pointed at Harry. “For all I know, it could be him. Or someone else in your office. Someone…”

  “Now, Cherie,” Arla said firmly. It was the first time she had used Cherie’s first name and it got the woman’s attention. “I can guarantee you it’s not Harry. Or any of the men who work for me.”

  Cherie sniffed, staring at Arla. Her fists were bunched tight on her lap, knuckles white.

  “Really? Then how does he know where you’re going? Where I live?”

  “Cherie, I…”

  “You’ll only realize when I’m dead. You know that?” Cherie’s face dissolved into abject misery. Her lips trembled, nostrils flared, cheeks sagged. Her head sank down on her laps. “I’m going to die.” This time she couldn't hold back. Huge sobs wracked her body. She shook as the tears flowed out of her.

  Arla got closer and rested her arm on Cherie’s back. She murmured in her ear. “You’re not going to die, Cherie. Do you hear me? I swear on my life. If necessary, I’ll come and stand guard over you myself. You’re not going to die.”

  She looked up at Harry. He moved his head laterally, twice, slowly. His eyes were burning with intensity. She felt the same burn deep within her soul.

  Whoever this killer was, he was now crossing lines he should leave alone. It was time to catch him. By any means necessary.

  CHAPTER 74

  Arla was leaning against the wall outside the family room. Harry was next to her. Emily Harman, the family liaison officer, hurried down the corridor towards them.

  “I just heard,” Emily said. “Is she in a bad way, guv?”

  “Yup. Look after her.”

  “I will,” Emily promised. “Are we moving her to a new safe house?”

  Arla nodded. “She stays here for a couple of hours while we sort things out. No one knows about the new safe house, OK? Even I don’t know the location yet. Keep it that way.”

  “‘Course guv,” Emily smiled and went in.