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

by M. L Rose

Arla took the paper off him. A dread settled inside her as she read. As a young boy, Jonathan had a terrible life. He went from care home to foster home, never staying in one place for more than a year or two. But everywhere he went, his sister went with him. Arla found that touching. Had Sadie, the older sister, become Jonathan’s protector?

  A weight lodged in her throat. A black, leaden weight of a past she couldn't escape, and couldn't live with. She too, had lost a sibling once.

  And Jonathan had probably watched his sister being…

  It didn't bear thinking about. No wonder the boy had grown into a disturbed, twisted man. If he was their killer. Arla was getting an ominous feeling in her guts that she was right about this.

  The room was quiet, and she found knowing expressions in Lisa and Rob’s face when she looked up at them.

  “It’s him guv,” Lisa said softly. “I bet you it is.”

  “Gather everyone in the incident room. Now.”

  CHAPTER 82

  There was a franticness in the Incident Room that superseded the normal buzz. The whole station, and some detectives from Lambeth were present. All the chairs were occupied, and staff lined the walls at the back.

  It was Johnson who opened proceedings. His voice was grave, and it rumbled across the room.

  “We have a crisis. One of our own, DI Harry Mehta’s sister has been abducted. He has been notified by the kidnapper and we think,” he turned to Arla, who nodded back at him, “the kidnapper is the suspect in the killing of David Longworth and Stanley Mason.”

  Johnson told them briefly about what happened to Smita, and the messages Harry had received. He stood to one side and Arla took the stage.

  There was no photo of Jonathan Cross as yet, nor of Sadie. But his name and address were written in bold letters on the whiteboard.

  “This is the person of interest currently.” She told them the reason why. “I am leading the team going to his address and then his place of employment. I want a UK wide APB for this man. Please ensure we cover all major ports and harbours. Home Office is being made aware as we speak, and his passport is on its way. This guy has been in prison once for GBH. He might be armed. Approach with extreme caution.”

  Rob’s voice called out from the back of the room, where bodies stood alongside a bank of fax and printer machines. “Got the fax of his passport page.”

  Rob walked up the room, brushing against people. Face flushed but smiling, he brandished a page at Arla. She took it, and Rob attached a sheet to the whiteboard. It bore the faxed photo of Jonathan Cross’s face, zoomed in.

  Arla frowned at the photo. It looked familiar. Very familiar. The truth hit her like a blinding flash of lightning, a blazing white jolt of electricity suddenly rooting her to the spot. She staggered backwards, feeling the earth move beneath her feet.

  Rita was right behind her and Arla bumped into her. Arla didn't hear what she said. She couldn't stop staring at the photo. Thoughts tripped in her mind at the speed of light.

  The night she met Smita. Upstairs, after the interview with Tangye Gale. This man came in, sat down next to her, introduced himself as…Jonty

  Her ice-cold fingertips were numb, and the paper slipped from her hand, falling to the floor. She looked up to find the room was suddenly quiet, and every eye was fixed on her.

  Johnson stepped closer. “What’s the matter, Arla?”

  She had to swallow twice before she could speak. “I know this man. He works for…” she felt like smacking her head. Of course he works for a film studio. Of course he knows the Longworth family.

  “Pinewood studios,” Arla said breathlessly. “Send multiple armed units there and shut the place down.”

  She turned to Rob. “What’s his address?”

  “It’s in Wandsworth. Not far from HMP Wandsworth actually.”

  And right across the Common, and Bellevue Avenue, where the Longworth’s lived. He had probably done surveillance for many months on them, just hiking across the Common at night.

  It was falling into place. Many of the jigsaw pieces were still missing, but Arla knew getting hold of Jonathan was paramount now.

  But did he have Smita? Or was that someone else? Jonathan might have grabbed Smita, but another person was driving the van. Arla remembered the man who came to see Laura in Kent, just before her death. The same man, in the blue car, who came to her house as well.

  Arla pointed at Andy and Darren. “I want two units with me. We’re going to his house. Send more units to Pinewood Studios. I want his street on lockdown.”

  She said to Rob, “Take Lisa and go down to Kent.”

  Rob frowned, “Sure you don’t need me here?”

  “Don’t argue,” Arla snapped. “Go to the address where Laura and David were staying before she died. It’s near Shorncliffe, right?”

  “I think so, but…”

  “Take photos of everyone—David, Cherie, Luke, Simpson, Jonathan—and see if the locals can identify anyone. Go to the pub where Luke used to drink; ask about him. Any information you can get on the driver of that blue car is important. Got it?”

  “Yes guv,” Lisa and Rob said in unison.

  Darren and Andy had run out already to get the cars ready. Johnson grabbed Arla. “Take an SFO with you. If this guy is armed…”

  “Sir, believe me, there is no time to wait any more.” Arla ran out the door, and to the rear parking lot. She was in the squad car, sitting next to Andy. He put the siren on and tore out, leading another four squad cars in a convoy behind him.

  CHAPTER 83

  “Harry?” Arla said, when Andy cut the siren so she could speak.

  “Arla,” he sounded relieved to hear her voice, but she could detect the tiredness. “What’s going on?”

  Arla told him quickly. Harry’s tone picked up. “So it was him! He knew Smita all this time. I’m coming over.”

  “What’s happening with the van?”

  “We followed the CCTV footage into the woods of Acton Town. The van was left there. There’s no CCTV in the woods, so we lost them. My guess is they changed cars.”

  “Clever,” Arla swore under her breath. “Keep it together Harry.”

  “I know. I need to see you.”

  His voice was hoarse, frank, strong. She felt it too, despite her mind running into knots and her panic over Smita, she wanted Harry next to her. But they both had a job to do.

  “Harry, make sure you get all the CCTV footage you need. Have they looked for a blue car, like the one Luke described?”

  Harry was quiet. “No. Damn it, I should’ve thought of that.”

  “Do that now, Harry. Don’t rush. Andy and Darren are here with me.”

  Harry started to protest, but she made him see reason. He hung up. The cars cut through traffic and after an interminable twenty minutes, they had arrived at their destination. As soon as Arla stepped out she could hear the dull roar of the helicopter overhead.

  This part of Wandsworth had seen better days. It was a complex of council blocks, with some terraced, two bed houses on the streets adjoining it. Number twenty, the dilapidated terraced house they wanted, had boarded windows on the ground floor.

  “Sure this is the right address?” Arla whispered to Andy. They were both flat against the wall, peeking around the corner at the house. It was in the corner, an end of terrace building. The upper floor bay windows had curtains drawn. Arla guessed it was divided into small apartments.

  “That’s what we have, guv.”

  Another unit, led by Darren, arrived opposite them. Arla raised a hand, then lowered it. A uniformed officer, with a battering ram, ran towards the house, flanked by two of his colleagues. Arla ran behind them. The door snapped open easily, and the officers charged in.

  “Police!”

  Two uniformed officers peeled off into the ground floor, and Arla ran upstairs, behind Darren. The narrow staircase only allowed single file movement. The carpet on the floor was threadbare, floorboards creaking under their boots. The place had a smel
l of damp and something else that Arla couldn’t identify; a nasty, rotten odour.

  Darren crouched at the landing, Arla behind him. The sounds of the officers trampling around downstairs was heavy, but the upstairs remained quiet. Arla could see three doors after the landing. One was half open and showed a bathroom and the other two were shut.

  She patted Darren on the back and he went right, she did a left. She rapped on the door and shouted. There was no response. She tried the handle; the door was locked. Behind her, she heard a splintering crash as Darren kicked in one door. Arla turned into the bathroom. Mould grew on the corners of the sink, and between the grouting of tiles. The mirror was hazy with yellow spots. She could barely see her own face.

  She put on her gloves and slid open the glass cabinet. Inside, she found a used toothbrush and a razor. She took out a plastic bag and put them inside. The bath tub was bare, rust claiming the tap and shower nozzle.

  Darren appeared behind her. “Found the bedroom, guv.”

  Arla went with him. A naked bulb lit the room up in a yellow glow. Papers and folders were dumped on the floor. On the wall, Arla saw photos with posters. Darren went to the curtains and flung them apart to get some light into the room. Arla went to the wall next to the bed, heart thumping in her mouth.

  She saw photos of David Longworth cut out of newspapers and printed from the internet. In several of the photos, his eyes were gouged out. Black marks were smudged on them too, and she recognized them as cigarette burns. She looked closer, some were old blood stains.

  Below David, photos of Stanley Mason were stuck on with Blu Tack. They had received similar treatment.

  Her breath wavered as she got to the last row. There was an old image of her, a newspaper cut out from last year. Arla knelt, getting closer. Her mouth was bone dry. Her image had not been tarnished like the others. Instead, four letters, drawn in blood were written next to it.

  MINE.

  Arla stood, shaking like a leaf in a storm wind. She turned to Darren. Words didn't come easily.

  “Get SOCO here. We need evidence from this place analysed ASAP.”

  Her phone began to ring. Harry, she thought. But the screen showed no number. He might be calling from the Acton station.

  She answered. “Harry?”

  “Hello? Hello? Help me, please.” The high-pitched voice of a scared woman came on. Arla stood rooted to the spot. Then she recognized who it was.

  “Smita? Is that you?” Arla whispered, her pulse surging.

  “Now you know she’s alive,” a male voice came on the line. “Hello, Arla Baker. How are you?”

  CHAPTER 84

  Arla couldn’t breathe. Her chest was rock solid, like her lungs had turned to concrete. She couldn't speak either, words frozen deep in her brain.

  “Hello?” the male voice said, sounding almost cheerful.

  Arla made a grunting sound, like a wounded animal. She finally found her voice. “Who are you?”

  “By now you must know the answer to that question. I’m guessing you know where I live, and are even there as we speak. Am I correct?”

  “What do you want?”

  “You.” He paused. Arla shivered again, like she was naked in a Siberian wind.

  He said, “Just listen. I want you to come on your own to this address. Bring anyone with you, and the girl dies. And there will be worse to follow. Get into your car and I will give further instructions. Do you understand?”

  Arla cupped the receiver with her palm, averting her face. She breathed heavily, twice. She needed to get back control.

  She said, “I come, and you kill us both. Job done for you. Let the girl go first. Then I’ll go wherever you want me to. I promise.”

  He gave a short laugh. “You think you can bargain with me? I know what your promises mean. I’m not that stupid. We’re running out of time. What will it be?”

  “I told you,” Arla clenched her teeth.

  “OK. I was going to hold back my trump card, but I guess there’s no point.” The sound of a scuffle came, and a woman cried out. Arla thought her heart would stop beating. Scraping, shuffle, then another voice came on the line.

  “Speak,” a male voice said roughly. “Speak!”

  There was silence for a while, then a scared woman spoke. “Hello?”

  “Who’s this?” Arla said, desperately trying to recognize the familiarity.

  “Cherie. Is that Arla?”

  Arla sank down to her knees, like she had been punched in the gut. Her vision dimmed.

  “Cherie, is that you?”

  “Yes. Arla, they grabbed me on the way to Jill’s house. Help…help me please.”

  Jill Hunter was her friend in Dulwich. Arla opened her mouth to speak, but the phone was snatched off Cherie.

  “I’ve got all the aces, detective. Go to your car, now. It’s time we met again.”

  “Jonathan?” Arla croaked. “Jonathan Cross?”

  There was silence on the other line for a few seconds. Then he said, “In an hour, I start torturing them. The young girl first. Your choice.”

  Then the line went dead.

  CHAPTER 85

  Arla was on the ground floor. She stepped outside the house, her gait unsteady. She steadied herself by leaning against the wall. A uniformed officer nodded at her as he went inside, Arla stared at him unseeingly. Her hands were bunched tightly inside her trouser pockets.

  What should she do?

  Alerting Harry wouldn’t be the right thing. He’d probably get there before she did. There was no telling what this mad man would do. This was a massive, sick game for him. His desire to show who’s the boss. His twisted, depraved need for revenge.

  Her phone rang again. She answered. Before he could speak she said, “Jonathan, listen to me. I’m sorry about what happened to Sadie. I really am. But this will not bring her back.”

  Silence.

  “Jonathan, I promise you the men who hurt her will be punished.”

  “I punished them already.”

  “Your statement said there were two men. Is the other one Simpson?”

  Silence for a while again. Then he said, “Yes. And call me Jonty, since we’re getting to know each other.”

  “Simpson is already being charged. This time, he will not escape.”

  “You seem to think I actually care about what you can do.” He snarled suddenly, rage erupting in his voice. “When it’s your pathetic system that failed my sister in the first place! Your rubbish, crap investigation. It’s people like you who are to blame. Not Simpson. He’s just the symptom. You’re the disease.”

  He breathed heavily on the phone. “I’m going to cut the girl’s little finger off and send you a photo. Are you ready?”

  “No, wait,” Arla spoke rapidly. “Tell me the address. I’m coming, now.”

  He gave her the address. “I’m waiting.”

  Arla put her GPS on and searched the address. Andy called from behind her. “Guv, you alright?”

  She turned to him quickly, putting the phone away. “Yes, I am. Listen, I just have to go for a meeting. See you back at the station.”

  Andy was looking at her strangely. Arla crossed the road and ran down the street. She called an Uber and waited impatiently for it to arrive. Luckily, it came in five minutes.

  After an interminable wait, she arrived at her destination. The driver turned off the road into the dirt track. He looked at Arla in the rear-view mirror.

  “You sure you want me to go here, Miss?”

  “Yes, and stop.”

  There was a wooden fence going around the perimeter of a huge nature reserve. Arla paid the cab driver and watched him as he did a U-turn and went down the dirt track. Dust rose under the wheels and soon the car had vanished from view. Arla walked up the road to a long, waist level farmer’s gate. The latch was on, but she climbed over it easily. She shivered, thankful for her overcoat.

  She walked ahead, shoes squelching in the muddy track. The woods started in the distance. To h
er left lay the vast expanse of a nature reserve, fields undulating to a lake in the middle. It was cold and grey, but it wasn’t raining and she could see quite far. But the beauty of the view was the last thing on her mind.

  After fifteen minutes of fast walking, she was out of breath, but the woods loomed closer. The dense darkness inside was foreboding. Arla kept walking till she was inside the bank of trees. It was suddenly much darker. The smell of wet earth and pines was overpowering. The ground was softer under her feet. She found a path that snaked in between the woods, just like Jonty had said she would. Walking was a bit easier now.

  After another ten minutes, she saw a small opening in the trees. As she got closer a glint caught her eye; it was light reflecting off a pond. Next to the pond the outline of a hut appeared. It had a rusty, corrugated iron roof. The windows were shut, it appeared deserted. The hut faced the pond. She approached it from behind and came up to its side. The window facing her didn't have any light peeking through.

  Arla walked around slowly, heart thumping wildly in her mouth. The balcony had four rickety wooden steps. She put her feet on the first one, eyes on the shut door. The steps creaked loudly as she climbed them, puncturing the almost complete silence. A bird swooped down from the trees, making her lurch her eyes upward. She stopped and silence flowed back.

  Arla walked up on the balcony and stared at the door. It, like the rest of the hut, had seen better days. She saw nothing but trees all around her. When she pushed the door, the moss on it wet her fingers. It fell open with a horrendous creak.

  Darkness inside, encapsulating, like a tomb. The air was dank, wet. Arla took her torch out and flashed it inside. The beam cut through the blackness. Dust motes danced in the light. She saw some garden utensils at the back of the room. But the place was empty.

  “Hello? Jonathan?”

  No answer. Arla walked in, jaws clenched, knuckles white around the torch. An old table and chair stood in one corner, facing a window that looked out at the pond.

  There was a door at the back. It opened when she pushed it. This time, the light beam fell on a female figure tied to a chair. The chair was placed in the centre of the room. it was Smita. Her mouth was gagged with cloth, and ropes tied her arms, feet and body. Her clothes were torn and there was an ugly bruise under the left eye. Blood had dried on her forehead, crusting over her eyes.