by M. L Rose
“Shut up, Harry.”
“Tell me you’re not tempted.”
She was tempted, but she wouldn’t admit that to him. The man was beyond reproach. “Some of us have work to do, Harry. You, on the other hand, have too much time on your hands.”
“I just know about work-life balance. So should you, Arla.” His voice wasn’t jocular anymore.
“I’ve got a lead in the case.” She changed topic quickly. Before he could open his big mouth, she explained further, going into the details.
“So, what are you suggesting?”
“We check out the address of this Mark Dooley in Brixton.”
“The guy with a gun? We should take a firearms officer with us.”
“And risk getting into a firefight? All I want is surveillance, Harry. And there’s no time now to arrange a plain-clothes unit.”
“Forget it. Come to my place and have the wine instead. I’ve got a three-year-old Sancerre…”
“Harry! Are you listening to me?”
“I like it when you talk dirty.”
Arla face palmed her right cheek. “Jesus, Harry,” she groaned.
“This is getting better.”
“I just want to watch the house and have a look around. Are you coming or not?”
Harry sighed. “No. And you aren’t going either.”
“I am,” she said and hung up.
CHAPTER 25
While Arla strode out to the rear corridor, and then to the double doors that led to the carpool, a dark figure stole across an alley between two houses in Tooting Broadway. The figure stopped, and in the darkness, took a deep breath, smelling the diesel-streaked night air. The detective inspector’s house was right across, on Hoyle Road. Detective Arla Baker. The figure had been observing her closely. She was passionate about her job, and didn’t spend much time at home. Which gave rise to this opportunity. The figure walked calmly across the road. Hoyle Road didn’t have any CCTV. The road was deserted. The detective lived in the garden-floor apartment of the split-level Victorian house. The windows were dark, and the figure knew the place would be empty. After watching for five minutes, the figure approached the door and took out the Swiss Army knife. Using the credit card to slide across the door jamb, the figure used the hook from the knife inside the lock. Within a minute, it was inside, and no one had walked down the road behind it.
The figure took out the flashlight and shone it to the ground, cupping the mouth. Across the corridor, the bedroom door was ajar. The figure stepped in and smelled Arla Baker’s fragrance.
*****
Arla drove her Ford Fiesta through the broad avenue of Brixton High Street. She passed by the huge promenade of the old Morleys department store. In the 1920s Brixton was the centre of London’s new shopping malls, with three of the largest shopping centres in the country, Morleys being the largest. The bombing in the Second World War put an end to that, and Brixton never recovered from that decline. The first Afro-Caribbean wave of immigrants were lured to post-war London with the promise of new jobs in 1948, and most settled in Brixton and surrounding areas. The Brixton that Arla now drove through was still affectionately known as Little Jamaica, and most of the population were of Afro-Caribbean ethnicity.
Arla drove to Southern Street, a road off the long, narrow Coldharbour Lane. She parked her car a few doors down from number 17. According to the Land Registry, that was where the Dooley family lived, and Mark was the youngest son. Arla sat in her car for a while, then noticed a tall figure slouching up the road. A cigarette tip glowed near the man’s mouth. As the figure got nearer, Arla observed closely, finding the gait familiar. Then she smirked and shook her head.
The figure stopped on the pavement, and leaned over the passenger side window. There was a knock. Arla put the window down.
“Are you going to let me in, or what?” Harry asked. He took one last drag on his cigarette, then threw it away.
“What are you doing here?” Arla asked, keeping her voice even. She didn’t want Harry to think she was glad to see him.
He sat down, and took out a small lunch box from his jacket pocket, with a plastic spoon.
“Got you some food.”
Arla frowned. “What?”
“Remember the salad I made? Shame to let it go to waste. So I brought you some.”
Arla was touched. “You shouldn’t have.”
“When was the last time you ate? Bet you skipped lunch.”
Lunchtime had been the emotional roller coaster she had suffered at the Burroughs house. Of course she hadn’t had any lunch, and didn’t miss it either. Too much caffeine did that to her.
She shrugged and reached for the lunch box. It tasted divine. She devoured the whole box, then put the spoon inside and handed it back to Harry.
He put it back in his pocket without further comment.
“Thanks,” Arla said, trying her best not to look at him. She had needed that.
“No problem. Any sign of our man?”
“I don’t know what he looks like, but there’s no sign of anyone.”
“Lights on downstairs,” Harry observed. It was a typical London residential street, terraced houses stuck onto each other like postage stamps, lives and deaths shared across two flimsy rows of bricks, stretching across the oceans, from one end of the world to the other.
“Did Trident not send you the case file?” Harry asked.
“Apparently I need clearance from a superior rank for transfer of files.”
Harry shook his head. “All this bloody box-ticking. Gets us nowhere. Let’s hope we don’t get the wrong guy.”
Arla didn’t answer. She watched the light in the downstairs window of number 17 go off. The house was now sunk in darkness. The street light created pools of yellow halogen light on the ground below. She watched and waited, feeling Harry sitting still, doing the same.
She almost missed the shadow that walked in from behind. It was almost upon them, on the other side of the street. She watched the shape in her wing-view mirror.
“We got something,” she whispered to Harry.
The shadow walked up to number 17. It was a man, and he was wearing a hoodie, his features hidden. His trainers were white. The man stood at the doorway, and took a key out from his pocket. He turned the key and went inside.
Harry was sifting through Google Maps. “There’s another row of houses at the back. I can go around…”
Arla knew he wanted to avoid the mistake of last time, when Paul had escaped. But there were only two of them.
“No,” she said. “One of us has to stay in the front when the other goes inside. He could come out the front as well.”
“OK,” Harry said, “I’m going in, and that’s not up for discussion. You stay here, and radio for backup.”
He opened the door and sidled out, shutting the door softly. Arla stayed in the car, and pulled out her radio. She called for a uniform unit, asking for Wadsworth who she knew was on duty. She wanted to call Sandford, who was keeping watch on Paul’s house in Clapham, but couldn’t risk missing Paul in the process.
She watched Harry pause at the doorway, then turn the handle and go in. She frowned. Had the door been unlocked, or did Harry pick it? She got out of the car quickly, feeling for the flashlight in her pocket. Her fingers closed around the cold, metallic surface as she crossed the road.
She arrived before number 17 just in time. The front door burst open, and a man ran out, heading straight for her. He saw her and stopped. He jumped over the brick fence, heading for the road. Arla shouted for him to stop, and ran after him. The man was quick, but he had to jump over the fence. He landed on the road when Arla flew at him, tackling him like a rugby player, grabbing him by the midriff. Momentum was on her side, and they slammed against the brick fence.
Arla felt a surge of pain as her hand hit the bricks, and a grunt from the man as his body bounced against the wall. The man fought her, trying to escape from her grip. He reached up and punched Arla. She moved her hea
d away at the last minute, and the blow hit her shoulder, pushing her back. The man kicked with his leg, catching Arla in the belly, and pain blossomed inside, but she didn’t fall over. Her hand pulled out the metallic Maglite, and she raised it high and brought it down as hard as she could. She hit the side of his head, above the ear, and she heard a curse of pain. She hit him again, and his face slumped down to the ground, dazed.
Arla whipped off the handcuffs from her belt and grabbed his hand. She turned him over, ignoring the pain in her belly and wanting to vomit. She wanted to read him the Miranda rights, but she didn’t know his name, and the nausea was almost gagging her. She finished cuffing him, then sank back against the wall, breathing heavily, sweat drenching her body.
She heard shouts and cursing, and two bodies staggered out from the house into the street.
“Be quiet!” a voice boomed. It was Harry. He tussled the man he had cuffed down to the ground, then looked at Arla.
“You OK?” he panted.
“Not bad,” she gasped. “Who is he?”
“Don’t know his name yet, because he won’t give it to me. Him and his friend were too busy counting up money when I got to them.”
Arla got to her feet, and turned over the man she had cuffed. He was lighter than she thought he would be. She flashed the light on his face, and recognised him after a beat. He was young, barely a man. There was an ugly bruise on his right forehead where the Maglite had hit him, and he still looked dazed.
It was Paul Ofori.
CHAPTER 26
Arla heard the footsteps and looked up. Several people had come out of their houses, and more were coming up the street. She looked behind Harry and saw similar movement. A crowd was gathering.
“Did you call for backup?” Harry grunted as he pulled up his man.
Arla looked around her wildly, chest heaving. “Yeah, but they might be the last thing we want.”
With an effort, she pulled Paul to his feet. “Move, Harry,” she ordered.
He had started already, but the inquisitive crowd was now hemming them in.
“Make way!” Harry shouted. “This is the police!”
A murmur arose from the crowd, which wasn’t very thick, Arla noticed. But the longer they waited, the worse it would become. Arla wondered if either of the men had a chance to use their phones. She hadn’t even searched Paul. She leaned him against the fence, and quickly patted him down. Then she turned around with him. Harry had moved ahead and he was closer to her car. She knew that Harry had driven down as well, and she got the impression he would leave his car here. As Arla stepped onto the road, a Rastafarian man stepped forward.
“Where you takin ’im, mon? ’E’s only a boy!” The man was angry. His shout created another murmur from the crowd.
With one arm, Arla steadied Paul, and with the other hand she whipped out her badge. She held it up in the air for all to see, especially for the man who was now standing a couple of feet away from her.
She shouted her name and ID. “This man is under arrest. Now stand back, and let us do our job.”
“What’s he under arrest for?” someone shouted from her left. Arla had no time for this. She pushed Paul along with her, then looked up in alarm as a group of men stood in her way.
“You need to move,” Arla said, trying to shove past them.
“Just tell us what he is under arrest for? He’s a kid: why don’t you arrest some of the real criminals out there?” a woman shouted from somewhere, and another murmur rose from the crowd, a dangerous hubbub of dissent.
Arla gritted her teeth and pushed and shoved her way through. A shout rang out from in front of her – in a voice that she recognised – and relief ran through her. It was Harry.
The crowd parted to an extent as Harry’s long frame pushed its way through. But it also created its own problems. Some of the assembled took exception to a man pushing them around. The Rastafarian man raised his voice again.
“You think we all criminals, mon? Our children, dem criminal, too?”
“Fucking pigs!” someone shouted at the back. Harry pushed his way to Arla and gave her a hand. He grabbed Paul at the waist and took him off Arla.
The crowd was denser now, and the chanting was spreading. “Fucking pigs! Fucking pigs!”
“Pig dem! Pig dem!” a chorus answered back.
“Leave our boys alone!”
Arla was sweating profusely. Her heart thudded in her mouth. A sea of bodies was now pressing close to them: hands reached out and touched her hair and face. Blindly, she pushed on, holding onto Harry’s coat. Someone grabbed the back of her shirt, and she shrugged it off, but another hand pulled at her belt. She kicked out, and heard someone swear.
A blare of sirens suddenly pierced the melee, and flashing blue lights lit up the entire street. The squad cars drove right up towards the crowd, dispersing it to an extent. The cars screeched to a stop, and Arla saw uniform officers peel out. John Sandford, the black sergeant, was the first one to reach them.
“Take the prisoner,” Harry said, thrusting Paul towards John. He reached behind and grabbed Arla’s hand.
Arla shouted at the uniforms. “Get out of here, meet back at the nick!”
Somehow, Harry managed to get her back to the car. The other guy was still handcuffed in the back seat, but he was awake. He was on his back, trying to kick the window. The car was shaking with his blows.
“Oi!” Harry roared and beeped the car open, then chucked the keys to Arla. “Drive,” he said, then ran and opened the back door, and piled inside. Arla saw him grab hold of the man and pull him up to sitting. By then, Arla was in the driver’s seat and the engine had revved to life.
She drove out and zoomed down the road, blaring the horn as a couple of men blocked her way. They scattered, but not before they threw something at the windscreen. The missile landed with a heavy clunk on the windscreen, and Arla winced. She ducked and the car swerved wildly. The windscreen had spider’s web cracks that spread rapidly. Arla tried desperately to get control of the car, but the back-end fishtailed out, and slammed into a parked car. A back window shattered on impact, showering shards of glass on Harry.
“Shit!” Arla shouted. She spun the wheel and slammed on the gas. The tyres spun on asphalt, letting off a screeching sound. With a jolt, the car came off, and Arla had to rotate the wheel again to stay in control. She zoomed down the road, scattering people as she rushed. She could hear more sirens in the background. She took a hard left as she got to Brixton High Street, and raced down the road towards Clapham.
“You OK?!” she yelled at Harry. Wind whipped past her ear, and she could hear the roar in the back of the car.
“Fine, just drive,” Harry shouted back. In the rear-view mirror she could see he had the man pinned down.
She set her jaw and concentrated on the road.
CHAPTER 27
Arla stumbled back into her flat, exhaustion making every movement an effort. Paul Ofori was in lock-up for the night with the other man who had confessed to being Mark Dooley. The night staff would take a statement from them, and have it ready for Arla in the morning.
As she turned the light on in the hallway, the first thing she noticed was the heat. The flat was positively baking. Had she left the thermostat on? It was attached to the wall on the hallway, so she walked over to it. It was on. How could she have been so careless? She tried to think, but in her current state of mind, nothing appeared with clarity. The mirror was opposite her, and she caught her face in it as she turned the thermostat down to 16 degrees. Her face was deathly pale, black hair strands poking out everywhere, sticking to her sweaty forehead. Make-up had bled from her eyes. She looked a complete mess, and felt like one, too.
Her eyes fell on the digital keypad of the alarm on the wall, and her eyes narrowed. Why hadn’t it gone off when she came in? Had she forgotten to set it? She jabbed some buttons, but the screen remained blank. Arla sighed. The fuse must have gone.
The apartment was still boiling. S
he opened the door to the living room, and from the darkness another cloud of heat wafted out. She stepped inside. It was pitch black, and she stumbled around, fingers groping on the wall. It felt like a sauna inside. Rivulets of sweat poured silently down her forehead and the nape of her neck. She wiped her face, and finally found the switch. The room was suddenly bathed in a yellow glow. Arla blinked several times. This room faced the street, and was her study and living area. Her desk with the laptop on it stood by the bay window. The curtains were drawn, as she had left them. The brown leather sofa set and TV, the two criminology textbooks she had left by the laptop, and the magazine on the coffee table were all undisturbed. Arla wasn’t especially house-proud: the relative neatness in this room stemmed from the fact that most of her “living” was done in the bedroom.
“Solitary living” was a better phrase to describe it, she thought to herself with a lonely sigh, as she parted the curtain to open the casement window, which had a side panel with a handle. She pressed on the handle and it turned easily. Arla frowned. She normally locked these before she… In fact she never opened them, as they faced the street. Her brows tightened and the corners of her eyes flickered.
Ask DCI Arla Baker where Maddy is.
The message left at the Burroughs’ residence.
Arla snapped around on her heels. The hallway light was still on. The silence was almost total, and she knew where the creaky floorboards were under the carpet, so she tiptoed around to avoid them. From the coffee table she picked up the brass candleholder. A strange weapon, but it was all she had currently. She padded out into the hallway, then stared at the darkness of the kitchen. The front half was illuminated, and she could see the legs of her dining table and the chairs. The door at the other end, which led to her small, ten-foot garden, was closed. Or was it? Would it be open when she tried to open it?
Arla suppressed the fear that was gnawing away at the back of her mind. She breathed open-mouthed, trying to control her surging pulse rate. The bedroom door was ajar. With one foot she prodded it open, then shrank back against the cleaning cabinet. A triangle of light opened onto the black carpet. No sound came from within, save her heart beating so loudly she could swear it was audible to anyone listening.