The Keeper of Secrets: A stunning crime thriller with a twist you won't see coming (Detective Arla Baker Series Book 2)

by M. L Rose

  Arla sighed, her shoulders drooping. Harry stepped in from the sides. His voice was gentle. “Why don’t we sit down, Mrs Ofori? Would you like a glass of water? Tea or coffee?”

  Mrs Ofori nodded, and they scraped chairs back. Harry left to get some water.

  “It is so hard. All the kids there, they have no role models. Many of them join these stupid gangs and throw their lives away.” Mrs Ofori frowned. “And my son, he’s a god boy. OK, he might have made some wrong choices recently.” She looked at Arla entreatingly. “He needs help. He has such a bright future…” Her head lowered, her voice choking.

  Arla leaned forward and touched the woman’s hand. “I know. I think your son will get through this. But next time, please call me first. We could have resolved this much more easily.”

  Mrs Ofori sniffed and wiped her eyes with a brightly coloured hanky. “I’m sorry. I am working nights right now. It’s just shattering, you know? The labour ward at the hospital is so busy, we are overworked, not enough midwives or nurses…”

  Arla smiled ruefully. “Same here. I could use a team twice the size of what I am allowed. But there’s not enough policemen or women to go around.”

  The woman wiped her nose. “But it’s OK for some people to earn million-pound bonuses and live in five million-pound homes.”

  Yes, Arla thought to herself. But this was not the discussion she had time for right now. The door opened, and Harry’s lanky form filled the doorway. He handed glasses of water out for both of them. Arla accepted hers gratefully and downed it. Mirth appeared on Harry’s face when she caught his eyes. She frowned at him.

  “Can I see Paul now?” Mrs Ofori asked.

  “Yes, of course. Stay here, and we’ll bring him over,” Arla said.

  As they walked over to the holding cell, Harry asked, “You sure about letting him go?”

  Arla shook her head. “I can’t fit him in the picture, Harry. He has an alibi. He has no motive. He’s crapping himself being arrested.”

  “He did run away. What if he and Mark Dooley planned to kidnap Maddy, and were about to ask for ransom?”

  Arla stopped. Harry’s words had triggered something at the back of her brain. She touched her forehead. “The other person,” she whispered to herself.

  “The one Paul mentioned?”

  “Yes. My gut tells me Maddy was meeting him that night. But she didn’t want anyone to know. So she lied to her friends about meeting Paul.”

  “What did she tell her parents?”

  “That she would be back by 10. She left the pub at 8, right?”

  Harry nodded. Arla said, “That gives her enough time for a rendezvous with this mysterious stranger.”

  “Careful,” Harry warned. “Is this the line we are going down now?”

  “If she had been kidnapped, Harry, where is the ransom demand? It’s been nine days now. Ransom demands are quick, they don’t give parents or police time to get organised.”

  “True, that.”

  Arla said, “I want to interrogate Paul one more time. Can you inform his mother that she might have a wait on her hands? And we hold onto that idiot, Mark Dooley, for as long as we can. Let him stew in a cell. Teach him to be rude.”

  Arla asked Lisa to bring Paul to Room 1. He looked as nervous as before, and couldn’t shed any further light on who Maddy’s other contact might be. Arla felt frustrated. She didn’t even know if this person was a man or woman, boy or girl.

  “How do you know she was cheating on you?” Arla asked impatiently.

  “’Cos the way she spoke to him!” Paul frowned. “I overheard her. She said I miss you, too, can’t wait till tonight. Does that sound like a friend to you? Bitch was two-timing me.”

  Arla thought back to what Mark Dooley had said, and the explicit photos of Maddy she had found. Arla had no problems with it. The girl was six months away from being a legal adult: she could do what she wanted. But it was clear she had a hidden, alternative side that she carefully kept from her parents, and possibly her friends as well.

  Arla left Paul, and told Lisa to start the paperwork to let Paul go, with a verbal caution for evading interrogation.

  She went to the coffee machine and got herself a cappuccino. As she waited, her phone buzzed. Arla took it out of her trouser pocket to find a photo image on her screen. She picked up the cup of coffee at the same time as her screen went blank. She sipped on the coffee and reopened her screen.

  As her brain registered what she was seeing, her mouth opened in shock. Her pulse surged, heartbeats exploding against her ribs. She felt dizzy, air compacted inside her lungs like a brick, unable to breathe.

  Waves of nausea hit her like a tsunami. The cup fell from her hands, landing on the floor with a splash, splattering against her trousers. Arla reeled backwards, stumbling against the vending machine, her knees buckling.

  CHAPTER 36

  “Sweet Jesus,” Johnson whispered as he stared at Arla’s phone.

  The whole team had gathered in Arla’s office downstairs. Johnson was sitting in Arla’s chair, while she stood, her face the colour of the white wall. Harry stood next to her, his grim face cast in stone. Lisa, Rob and James stood with identical expressions.

  The photo showed a girl’s body and face. It was mottled grey, eyes open wide and staring. It was Maddy and she was obviously dead. The clothes on her body were a short, pink dress and high heels, the dress in which she disappeared. The photo was taken in a park, and the body was placed near the roots of a tree.

  “Where is this?” Johnson asked.

  Harry answered. “Forensics have had a look at it, and it looks like Brockwell Park. Maybe near where she was last seen. Two squad cars are on their way to check.”

  Johnson said, “And this is your phone?”

  Arla cleared her throat. “Yes, sir.” There was a feeling of unreality about this. Her words and actions were projected through a vapour, a mist-like aura that surrounded everything she did and said. Her head felt woolly, hazy.

  “Have we traced the number?”

  Harry had taken over from her effortlessly. “Pay-as-you-go. Not been used before, and not on our records. This was not the same number that Maddy had called several times on 2nd June.”

  “Any more data on the phone?”

  “I have to say the technical guys did wonders to get this info so quickly,” Harry said. His voice dropped. “We have the IMEI number, and the call was from a local mast.”

  Johnson looked up, frowning. “How local?”

  Harry swallowed before answering. “Our mast, sir.”

  Mobile phone signals were sent remotely to the nearest cellphone mast, and a string of these cellular masts bounced the message around till it got to the phone it was intended for. Each police station in London had their own mast to make communication easier for the forces. Any caller within a five hundred-metre radius could also use their mast.

  The phone on Arla’s desk started to ring. Johnson reached out a hand and answered. He listened for a while, then hung up.

  His voice was grim. “They found the body in the same location where she was abducted from. Initial appearances are consistent with Maddy Burroughs. Uniform have secured the area.”

  Arla closed her eyes, then exhaled. It was still difficult to speak. But she had to push against the fog that was surrounding her, hemming her in. It was the only way to get through it.

  “Tell them we are on our way, sir,” she said to Johnson.

  She didn’t say a word as Harry drove, and ignored the several concerned looks he gave her. Lisa and Rob sat in the back. As the car turned into the cul-de-sac, Arla saw blue and white tape being strung from the base of a tree around the corner. White-suited SOC guys were on the scene, getting changed by their van. The white tent was already being erected over where the body lay.

  Grey plastic, sterile duckboards had been laid on the grass. Arla stared at them, and then at the pub at the end of the street. It stood lonely and forlorn at this time of the day, only th
e black sign sticking out from its yellow-fronted exterior. The sign said ‘Wrangler’s Arms’ in white letters, with an image of two sailors playing tug of war with a coiled rope.

  Arla thought back to the night Maddy disappeared. What had happened that night, where she was standing now? A drunken Maddy had stepped out, and then approached by a stranger. Or had it been someone she had known? Most homicides were committed by an individual known to the victim. This person had assaulted her, and dragged her over the grass. Then it got murky. Was she put into a car and driven off? Or as Harry suggested, she was taken across the park? Arla thought it was unlikely. Maddy’s phone’s signal had been picked up on the M23, and it had to be inside a car. Was Maddy inside the car when that happened?

  Arla felt drained, shaken. She couldn’t think anymore.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Harry said. Then she felt his arm on her back, long, heavy. Without thinking, she leaned into him. He smelled of the familiar aftershave and faint cigarette smoke. A transient cocoon of comfort, and she wanted to stay there for longer. She knew it, and didn’t make herself suppress it like she normally did. Layers had been stripped off her, and for some reason, she felt exposed, threatened. Harry being there made it easier to deal with.

  Moments later, she separated. She was at work, and she was the senior officer. Briskly, she stepped on the plastic boards, making her way to ground zero, as she liked to call it.

  The technicians erecting the white tent smiled at her, and she tried to make her lips move. It wasn’t successful. The uniformed sergeant made her sign the visitors’ log with her rank, time and signature. Inside, a partition blocked an immediate view of the grisly scene. She walked around it to find the pathologist crouched over the body, wearing the white uniform and gloves.

  Dr Banerjee looked up with his thick glasses. His lips parted in a smile when he saw Arla. Dr Banerjee was an old veteran of the London Met, and long-time conspirator with Arla. They had worked scores of cases together, and the older man looked upon Arla with almost paternal fondness.

  “Ah, the intrepid detective approaches,” he said.

  “Hi, Doctor,” Arla said tonelessly. She rustled up a smile: it felt like someone was manually stretching her lips to either side. Banerjee stood up and shuffled over, his gait reminding Arla of Detective Columbo in the TV series.

  “Are you well, my dear?” he enquired, peeling his gloves off.

  He knew her well enough to discern her discomfort, Arla knew. But she wasn’t in the mood for a chat. Not that she could chat to anyone save her close team about what had happened.

  “Any ID on her?”

  “Yes,” Banerjee said gravely. “A student ID. It says she’s 21, and a student of Roehampton University, but from what I gather that’s a fake one.”

  Arla nodded. The name and photo on the ID wouldn’t be a fake.

  Banerjee asked, “Is it true that she is the US diplomat’s daughter?”

  Arla nodded in silence. She could see the bluish glaze now spreading up from the neck of the dead body, combining with the mottled grey. Maddy’s head was turned to the left, and the lifeless eyes were staring at the ground.

  “Time of death?” Arla asked.

  “She’s thin, so she would have lost heat quickly. Rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet, so less than twelve hours. I haven’t taken the rectal temperature, but in this heat, body temperature would fall very slowly.”

  “Have you checked her?”

  “Nope, was just getting started. On visual inspection alone, no sign of trauma or laceration. No ligature or hand marks on her throat, so she didn’t asphyxiate.”

  Arla frowned. “How did she die, then?”

  “I don’t know right now. Maybe poisoning? We need to send blood and tissue for toxicology.”

  “Can I have a look?”

  “As long as you follow protocol, yes.” Banerjee smiled, but Arla didn’t respond. The mirth faded from the pathologist’s lips as Arla moved past him, and crouched down by the body. The ground was hard and dry, and the smell of the body, decomposing fast in the present heat, hit her nostrils as she bent over it. The neck was untouched, but Arla could see some scrape marks at the frontal hairline, like someone had pulled her hair back. She was tempted, as always, to reach out and close the eyes. Her gaze moved down the body, at the soiled and dirty pink dress. It clung tightly to her body, accentuating the breasts and the bones of her hips.

  “Where was the ID?” Arla asked Banerjee.

  “Around her neck.”

  Arla’s glance fell on the pockets at the side of the dress. The dress had one on each side. On the right, the side closest to her, Arla could detect a bulge. She looked at the pocket on the left. A white piece of paper was sticking out from it. She craned her neck back again, and told Banerjee what she had found. Both Harry and the pathologist shuffled forward, intrigued.

  “Can I remove it?” Arla asked the SOCO technician crouched opposite, collecting samples from the ground.

  “No, wait,” he said. His ID badge named him as Tom Lindquist.

  Tom pulled out a pair of plastic tongs from his bag, and picked up the piece of paper, putting it on a slide. With the tong, he smoothed the paper on the slide, which would later be looked at under the microscope.

  “It’s a phone number, written out by hand.”

  “Can you read it out to us?”

  Each number was like a knife wound to Arla’s stomach. It was her number. Not the phone she carried at work, but her personal number. Where the photo had been sent in the first place. Her head fell back on her chest. She felt a warm hand squeeze her right shoulder, and without looking up, she knew it was Harry.

  “There’s something else in this pocket,” Arla said when she had recovered. She got up and moved away to let Tom take her place. Tom reached inside the pocket with his tongs, seized something. It was a necklace on a chain. He pulled it out, and the pendant dangled from the chain.

  It was a gold cross, held against a distinctive blue and white square. The chain was silver.

  As Arla stared at it, a pressure grew inside her head. A raging horror spread in her bones, making them numb, frozen. Her insides felt hollow, like she had been punched so many times in the gut her organs were macerated to liquid. She stumbled backwards, falling against Harry, who caught her as she fell.

  CHAPTER 37

  Cindy parked her car outside the dilapidated terraced house in Brookstone Road, a run-down corner of Lambeth. She checked the email on her screen to ensure she had the right address. As she did, a text message buzzed on her phone.

  Gary: Is it all done?

  Excited, Cindy replied immediately.

  Yes. No one saw me, I made sure.

  Gary: What time did you do it?

  Cindy: About five in the morning. Then sent the photo almost five hours later.

  Gary: Good. They’ll have found the body by now.

  Cindy: When are we meeting?

  Gary: It’s getting interesting now, we have to be careful.

  Cindy tried to hide her disappointment. Gary meant everything to her, and when they had set off down this road, she had followed him without question. That meant to listen to him now, even though she was dying to see him.

  Cindy: I wish I could see you.

  After a pause, the words pinged back.

  Gary: Me, too.

  Gary: Don’t worry, we are near the end.

  Cindy: Then we can be free.

  Gary: Exactly. We will make sure we have justice.

  Cindy: There is no justice in this world. But I know what you mean.

  Gary: What are you doing now?

  Cindy: On my job. Seeing a family.

  Gary: You have to be careful with that. Any slip-up can alert the cops.

  Cindy: I know that. Don’t worry.

  Gary: Just looking out for you. X

  Cindy: I know. X

  Cindy put the phone in her handbag and got out. Cars went up and down the street, and at the top of Brookstone Road
they joined Brixton Water Lane. Cindy knocked on the door. After a while, a rough voice answered.

  “Who is it?”

  “Lambeth Housing Officer. Here to inspect your premises.”

  The door opened and was left ajar. Darkness loomed beyond it, despite it being a bright day. Wallpaper was peeling off the walls, scattered on the floor. Cindy’s boots crunched on something, and she lifted her feet to see a small glass vial, reduced to dust. The familiar stench of decay and sickness made the air thick like smoke.

  Through the narrow corridor she walked into the lounge. A man was sprawled on the sofa, watching TV. He didn’t look up as Cindy entered. Images of a holiday channel flickered on the TV. The man’s eyes were half-closed, his cheeks sunken, eyes colourless, dry orbs retracted deep into the bony sockets. In the middle of the room, a toddler played with some plastic toys. The baby turned around as he sensed Cindy. He stood up on his chubby legs and sucked his thumb. He couldn’t have been more than two and a half, Cindy reckoned. After staring at Cindy for a while, he flopped back on his bum, and went back to his toys.

  Cindy went to the next room along. It was a bedroom, and a woman lay on it. She had passed out. Next to her, on the bedside table, smoke still lifted from a long glass tube, broadened at the base, with a small aperture covered by silver foil. It was a bong pipe, used for smoking crack.

  Another drug user’s den. The father looked like he had just injected, and the mother was enjoying her high from a snowball – injecting heroin, then smoking crack. Neither of them deserved to be parents. Cindy’s lips twisted in hate. She searched the rest of the property. The kitchen looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. Microwaved meal wrappers littered the floor.

  Cindy went back to the living room, where the man was still staring at the TV. This time he looked up at Cindy.

  She said, “Do you have any other children?”

  “No,” the man mumbled. He pointed to the baby, who was still playing on the stained carpet. “’S not mine.”