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

by M. L Rose

Emily was a new member of staff. She had joined the force after university graduation last year. Arla watched her close the door, not moving her eyes away.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Harry muttered.

  “What?”

  They walked off, heading to the rear car park, Arla assumed because Harry wanted a smoke. She liked this easy feeling, of knowing each other’s moods and thoughts without having to spell anything out.

  Harry studied her after he lit his cigarette. He didn’t offer her one and she was glad, despite knowing she would love one.

  She looked away from him, at the almost perpetual rain clouds that seemed to hang over the city these days. Miserable, wet, cold. As English as fish and chips. And maybe she was becoming a bit Mutt and Jeff. That was Cockney slang for deaf. She wasn’t hearing the signals blinking on and off in the streets, in the tortuous, dark corridors of her mind. Dealing with the devious meant listening to her own self. She got that; twisted and weary souls looking to hurt themselves over and over again. Whose silent screams broke glass, slashed wrists. She was good at that, hearing their moans, sorting out the angles. But she was missing this. Did Cherie have a point? Could it be someone in her team?

  Emily?

  Darren, the uniformed PC? He was also new.

  How about Larry, the detective sergeant from Liverpool? No one knew much about him.

  “Don’t overthink it,” Harry said softly.

  “Someone leaked my name to the media.”

  “Could be one of the neighbours. Remember that Mrs Parker?”

  Arla did. It made a lot of sense too. But then why did she have this uneasy feeling, like being forced to walk with a stone in her shoe? Something wasn’t right. It was close enough to touch, but she couldn’t see it. Maybe it was there, surrounding her like a fog, and every time she reached out, she was going right through it. Delicate, diaphanous, a miasma of her mind.

  Because Cherie was right. How did the killer know so much?

  “You think she has a point?” Arla asked Harry, wheels slowly turning in her head. Mentally, he was a reflection of her. When she tried to shine a light into darkness, it bounced off Harry like a mirror, brightening everything.

  “How far do you roll that ball, Arla? Who do you keep an eye on?”

  “But she does have a point.”

  “She does,” Harry conceded. “But I don’t think that’s the only explanation. Maybe Justin is right, this is a team we are dealing with. They’re keeping us under surveillance.”

  The click sound in her skull was so loud she almost heard it. “We have CCTV all around the station, right?”

  “Yes?”

  “So we can search for anyone who keeps an eye on the car park. A car that’s always there, for example.”

  Harry nodded. “Good idea. Worth a try.”

  He flung his cigarette away and they walked back. Arla was glad to get back into the warmth. She said, “Maybe he’s in contact with someone on the inside, telling him when we go out.”

  Harry’s head was bent so low his chin was almost touching his chest. “Yes. He can’t be sitting outside all day, freezing his bollocks off.”

  Rita came up to them as they entered the office. “CCTV from outside Stanley Mason’s apartment is ready.”

  “Have you been through it?”

  “Yup.”

  They gathered around Rita’s table. She pulled up four images on her screen. She pointed at the time stamp.

  “If the time of death was afternoon, then we need to check the morning as well as night before. He might have got in, then hid himself.”

  “Good thinking,” Arla said. “He tortured the victim, so we know he was there for a while.”

  The video played, and the top box showed a moving figure. It was night time, close to midnight. They could only see its back. The grainy image was lit momentarily by a passing car.

  “Stop,” Arla said. “Do we have views from the opposite direction.”

  “Yes,” Rita said. She clicked on her keyboard, and this time they had the person facing them.

  “Zoom in,” Arla said, leaning forward. She squinted. The pixels became larger, disfiguring the close up. But one thing was clearly visible. The face was covered with a black mask. Holes were cut for the eyes, nose and mouth, but the rest of the face was hidden. It looked hideous and Arla shivered. Not a sight she wanted to come across at night.

  Rita said, “I’ve sent it for facial recognition. It came up blank, but it’s not like we have much to work with.”

  Harry said, “He also knew where the cameras were. He hid his face from them.”

  Rita played the video again. The figure stood still in front of Stanley’s door for a while, then let himself in.

  “There were cars passing by. Get their reg numbers, track the owners down. They might have noticed something.”

  “Ok, guv,” Rita said, scribbling on her notebook. Lisa had joined them as well.

  Arla said to her, “I want a sign outside and at each end of the road. We need more members of the public to come forward.”

  “What time did he leave?”

  “I can’t tell. No one in a mask left at any time of the day. That makes sense, because if anyone saw him in broad daylight, they’d remember it for sure.”

  Arla sat down on an empty chair and put an elbow on the table, cupping her chin. “Bring up the afternoon rolls. Go through them slowly.”

  Four of them huddled around the screen as Rita played them. Arla rubbed her eyes after a while. It was tedious watching the parade of people as the rush on the streets swelled. Several people came and went from the building, it was divided into several apartments, like most of the old Victorian houses on the main road.

  Rob appeared with coffee and doughnuts, biting into one happily. As did Lisa and Rita. Arla looked at one, then averted her eyes. She could do without the temptation. Only coffee for her.

  “Hold on,” Harry said. His long index finger was touching the screen as he hunched over Rita’s head. “Back up two screens. Yes, there. Freeze it. Zoom in.”

  “This frame?” Rita asked. “It shows an old man and a lady with a pram.”

  “I want the old man.”

  The image showed a man stooped over almost double, leaning on a walking stick. He wore a big coat, and a peaked farmer’s cap pulled low over his face. He also wore sunglasses covering his eyes.

  “Go back one frame.”

  Now the screen showed the old man emerging from the same building. He was unsteady on his feet, using the walking stick heavily. His face was effectively hidden. Once he faced the camera, Rita froze the frame again.

  “Look at his shoes,” Harry said.

  Arla squinted. While the old man’s clothes were shabby, the black, rubber soled trainers looked brand new.

  “Those are running shoes,” Arla said.

  “Not what an old man would be wearing. It doesn’t match the rest of his gear. And why is he wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day?”

  Arla nodded. “You think he’s our man? It makes sense to disguise himself as an old man. If he bumped into anyone from the other apartments, they wouldn’t notice anything different.”

  “Zoom into his hands,” Harry said. The flesh on his hands was bare. No rings or tattoos. Harry said, “See how tight the skin is. That’s not the wrinkled hands of some old guy.”

  Arla said, “He’s a master of disguise, right? Not easy to copy the look, posture and walk of an old man.”

  They sat around, eating doughnuts and sipping coffee. Arla said, “Anything more from Stanley Mason’s emails or bank account?”

  Lisa went to her desk and called from there. “Yes, Cyber Crime managed to break into the rest of his emails. He had three email accounts. I’ll have a report ready for you soon.

  Arla took a generous sip of her coffee. “Right, two things. I want this photo circulated to every London station.” She pointed to the fake old man on the screen. “Put it up on every internal website. Ask other London
stations, and all over UK, for crimes with similar MO. We need to widen our net.”

  The team were scribbling madly, while Harry was leaning back, hands crossed behind his head, eyes closed.

  Arla said, “Number two. I want a TV Crimewatch appeal for Cherie’s attack. We have a statement off the guy who saved her, but others would have noted something. A TV appeal will help.”

  “I’ll call Media Relations now. Do we need clearance from Johnson?”

  “I’ll get it, don’t worry,” Arla said. “I have to see him anyway. Is he here today?”

  Rob said, “I don’t think so. He’s doing interviews in Victoria.”

  “OK, I’ll call him. But start the ball rolling with the TV appeal please. It’s important.”

  Harry opened his eyes. “I can get an actress for you, no problem.” He winked as Arla smiled.

  “You do that Harry. Now, as I am the SIO,” Arla rose from her seat. “I want to interview Luke Longworth myself.”

  CHAPTER 75

  Arla was waiting in the interview room when Harry and a uniformed PC arrived with Luke. The PC took the handcuffs off Luke. Luke sat down, and Harry beckoned at Arla to come outside.

  They huddled in the doorway and Harry whispered, “I told Smita and she will get us an actress matching Cherie’s description. Informed Media Relations. They’re happy they don’t have to hunt for an actress. Hopefully we can shoot later this afternoon.”

  “Good,” Arla said. “Where’s the lawyer?”

  “Should be here any minute.”

  Footsteps rang down the corridor, and the suave, erect figure of Jeremy Hardcastle became visible, striding towards them.

  They headed back inside, after perfunctory greetings. Arla despised the arrogant lawyer.

  Luke was staring at them with tired but inquisitive eyes. He was a sallow cheeked, pasty faced young man. A shock of brown hair fell over his forehead, and a strong jaw outlined his face. In his blue eyes, angles of his cheekbones, Arla could detect a strong resemblance with James Fraser.

  She introduced herself and the others for the camera. “You must be wondering why we called you back,” Arla said to Luke.

  “I should get bail later today. So you’d better ask me everything you want to, now,” Luke said.

  “When did you find out who your real father was?” Arla asked.

  Luke looked caught out by the question. He had a whispered conversation with his lawyer. “As I said before, it was when I was a teenager.”

  “And I guess you never looked at David Longworth in the same light? I mean, it must’ve been a shock to know he wasn’t your dad.”

  Hardcastle intervened. “Where are you going with this line of questioning?”

  “Just asking. Your client’s been charged already.”

  “In that case, there’s nothing new to add.”

  Luke intervened. “No, it’s OK.” He looked at Arla, and she detected a frank appraisal in them.

  “You’re right,” Luke said. “It was a shock. It would be for anyone, right?”

  “Yes,” Arla said, slightly surprised by his honesty.

  “But I didn't kill him.” He held Arla’s gaze. “I didn’t like him, but here’s the weird thing. He gave my mother and me a home. He cared for us. And until I found out, I did treat him like a father.”

  “And he treated you like a son.”

  A strange expression flitted across Luke’s face. A collision between rage and regret. His eyebrows twisted in pain. Emotions Arla knew well.

  “Yes,” his voice was hoarse suddenly. “He did.”

  “You loved him Luke, didn't you? Even though you didn't like that fact…”

  “That he wasn’t my real dad?” He interrupted her. “Yes.”

  “But you did hate James Fraser. Your real dad.”

  Luke curled his lips. “He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He sacrificed me for a political career.”

  “So you decided to sacrifice him,” the words slipped out of Arla’s mouth before she could stop herself.

  Hardcastle stirred. “That is provocation, DCI Baker. My client has nothing to say.”

  Arla shrugged. She knew that beneath Luke’s calm exterior lay a deeply disturbed soul. She had to bring Simpson up. It would open a can of worms, but she had no more time. Luke would be granted bail soon. She had to do this. Not for this case, but to put men like Simpson behind bars.

  She lowered her voice. “When did Mike Simpson first try to seduce you?”

  She might as well have reached out and slapped him across the face. He lowered his face and Arla could sense him twisting his fingers.

  Hardcastle said, “My client doesn’t have to answer that. It has nothing to do with this case,” he added pompously.

  Arla glared at him. “It will be when I bring historic child abuse cases against Mike Simpson.”

  Hardcastle narrowed his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but Luke spoke over him. His head was still bent low and he stared down at his hands.

  “I was fifteen.” His voice was soft, croaky, like he was dragging it up from deep within him. “I had come back from football practice. I had an en suite bathroom and I didn't always lock the door.”

  There was no sound save their breathing. Every eye was focused on Luke, who remained downcast.

  “He opened the door and stood there, watching me shower. I didn't see him at first. Only when I turned around. I reached for a towel. He said he wanted to congratulate me on winning the match.” Luke swallowed and paused. His nostrils flared.

  “This became a pattern. Whenever he came to the house, he was upstairs in my room. Watching me shower.”

  “Didn’t your mother notice?”

  “He always said we were having man talks. I had grown distant from David by then. I knew Mum liked Mike. She thought he was good a man that she trusted was my friend.”

  “Then what happened?” Fear caught Arla’s voice.

  “It progressed to him touching me in the shower. I…” his chest heaved. Eyes screwed shut, then opened. “I responded. He was good at it. When it was over, he told me this was our secret. No one can know.”

  Air seemed to be sucked out of the room. Words dropped like bombshells from Luke’s mouth, fracturing the silence.

  “So, it carried on. He bought me gifts. Made me feel special. We started meeting up in hotels after school. I told mum I was staying with friends.”

  Arla closed her eyes. Dark fingers were clawing inside her throat, dredging up the remains of the past she desperately wanted to forget.

  “Did you ever try to stop it?” she asked.

  “I didn't know what to do. Because he was nice to me, I sort of went along with it. After a few years, he began to lose interest. I remember being angry about that. Feeling lost and weird. I...” Luke broke off, shaking his head.

  He lifted his head. His eyes were dull, blank. He stared at Arla. “But he came back into my life. Again, it was the same. Buying me gifts, wining and dining. I was older and was living as a gay man by then. I didn't like him coming back, but I guess I fell for him again.”

  Arla brows were furrowed tightly. “I’m sorry, Luke, for what you had to go through.”

  “I’ve never told anyone this.”

  “I know,” Arla said simply. A moment passed between her and Luke, then he narrowed his eyes.

  Arla cleared her throat. “What you’ve told us now lays the groundwork to bring Simpson to justice. I promise you he will never touch a vulnerable boy or girl again.” She rose, more to hide the storm of pent up frustration and grief inside her than anything else. “We’ll take a minute’s break Luke, then come back.”

  Harry spoke on the recorder as Arla left the room. She literally ran into the bathroom. When she emerged, she was more composed. Nothing would take the past away, and Luke’s experience had been like the sliding of a gravestone. The ghosts had returned. But she had to keep them at bay. There was work to do.

  They re-grouped in the interview
room. Luke was sipping from a glass of water and walking around the room. Hardcastle was sitting, typing on a laptop.

  When they were ready, Arla asked, “We want to know about your mother’s death, Luke.”

  He stiffened. His expression, softer than before, was suddenly guarded. “What about it?”

  “Tell us what happened.”

  “I was in the pub watching a football match. Spurs were playing, my team. Mum and David were in the lodge.”

  “How was your mother at the time?”

  He thought for a while before answering. “She was quieter. Not her usual self.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. She went out a lot, to see a friend.”

  A bulb flickered to light in the recess of Arla’s mind. Simpson had mentioned a friend as well. “What friend?”

  “I don’t know. But I saw a car come to pick her up.”

  Excitement gripped Arla. “When was this? While you were in Kent on holiday?”

  “Yes. In fact, I remember now.” He stared at Arla, and she saw clarity in his eyes. “It was the morning she died. This car pulled up outside. I was smoking outside the window. David was in the back. I saw Mum come out and get in the car. Then it drove away, with her inside. She came back an hour or so later, I think.”

  “What sort of car? Think Luke, this is important.”

  He screwed his eyes shut. “Something blue. A common make. A Vauxhall, or Ford maybe. Not sure.”

  “But it was blue?”

  “Yes. I didn't notice the reg number.”

  “Who was driving it? Did you see them?”

  Luke shook his head, still frowning. “No. Think it was a man in the driver’s seat. Not sure.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Sorry, can’t recall.”

  “Did you tell the police this, at the time?”

  Luke looked at her then. “No, I didn’t. I didn't think it was important. She was meeting up with this bloke a lot those days. Guess he drove to Kent to see her.”

  “How did you know it was him she was seeing?”

  “I don’t,” Luke confessed. “But I know that she went out to meet a friend regularly. She told me when I asked her. But then she would clam up. I assumed it was one of her girlfriends so never pushed it. Come to think of it, I did see that blue car near our house once. I didn't live there anymore. But once I came to visit, and the car drove off.”