by M. L Rose
“Nothing apart from Paul,” Maya said. “And even that was meant to be a secret. You know, from her parents and others.”
“Others like who?”
“You know teachers, school.”
“So you have no idea if Maddy had another boyfriend in the school? Someone she kept in touch with regularly.”
Maddy chewed the gum again, a habit Arla had always found annoying. “Nope.”
Harry showed her the number of the PAYG phone. “Do you know this number?”
“Nope.”
Arla said, “Would you like to think about your answer before you reply? You didn’t even check it against the numbers on your phone.”
“I could, but it won’t show anything. Most of the numbers I call are in my head.”
Arla needed to say something to shake the teenager out of her bubble. She was acting tough, and there was no way Arla could tell her Maddy was dead. She tried something else.
“Maya, do your parents know you smoke cannabis?”
Maya stopped chewing her gum. “What do you mean?”
“You were besties with Maddy, and you knew he was going out with Paul. I’m guessing you helped them sell cannabis in the school. Isn’t that correct?”
Maya’s eyes swivelled around. “I don’t smoke cannabis. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“So you haven’t read the newspaper?”
Maya looked blank. Arla told her about the paper article, then said, “And Paul confessed to us as well about selling cannabis in the school. You must have known about that, right?”
Maya tried to act indifferent, but it wasn’t working anymore. Arla leaned over the table.
“This isn’t a game, Maya. Something really bad is happening here, and we will do anything to get to the person whose phone this is. Now, will you help us?”
Maya nodded. “Yes. Maddy was my best friend. But see, she kept things to herself as well. I swear to you, I know nothing about her having another boyfriend, or this number.”
Harry wrote the number down, ripped the paper off the notebook and pushed it towards her.
“Will you at least look at it, and then ask around?”
Maya took the piece of paper quickly. “Yes, and I’ll call you?”
“Good girl,” Arla said. “I gave you my card last time, have you still got it?”
“Yeah.”
Arla slipped her another one, and so did Harry.
“Call us immediately,” Arla said.
The interview with Imogen went along the same lines, but Imogen was more scared than Maya. Imogen didn’t have a clue about the number either.
As they left the school, Harry said, “This is starting to look like a shot in the dark.”
“Maybe. I have a feeling, though. Let’s see what happens.”
Arla looked at her watch. It was 3 pm. Harry noticed. “What do you want to do?”
She sighed. “I need to go somewhere. You don’t have to come with me. Or you could just drop me off.”
Harry shrugged and they walked towards the parked BMW.
The cemetery on Blackshaw Road, Tooting, is a long, sprawling space, taking up almost all of the one-kilometre-long road. Harry parked opposite and turned the engine off. Arla looked at his chestnut brown eyes, limpid pools of scrutiny in the pale sunlight. She wouldn’t mind if Harry came inside with her. After all, he knew all of it.
Harry said, “I guess you need some time by yourself.”
She couldn’t deny it. Insanity had besieged her world. From being stalked to a murder that she was being made to feel responsible for. A little space might soothe her mind. Arla nodded.
“I guess I do.”
He pointed opposite and Arla saw a working men’s café. “I’ll be having a skinny latte caramel mochaccino in there.”
“This is Tooting, Harry, not Chelsea.”
“Yeah, well, they have Starbucks in Tooting now. You go there yourself, remember?”
So she did. Maybe Tooting was becoming Chelsea, and she just didn’t know about it. Soon people like her would be pushed out of London, commuting from Kent or Sussex, while London became the exclusive province of bankers, footballers and Chinese millionaires.
But they could take her out of London, but would never take London out of her. She had been schooled there, gone to University College London to do her Criminology degree, then joined the Metropolitan Police Force. The Met, as it was known, had become her life. The dark secrets that littered the corners of this city, hidden in its diesel fumes, carried in the millions of lives behind those yellow windows in the evening, pretty like an LED display in the neon night, were what she lived for. Arla Baker didn’t know anything else.
“One Starbucks does not make it builders’ paradise, Harry.”
“We’ll see in ten years,” he said. “Right, I’ll get my designer coffee, and see you in…”
“Fifteen minutes.”
Arla walked through the arched double gates, watching the heavy boughs of summer lean over the graves, leaves kissing dead headstones. Dry grass crunched beneath her shoes, heat warming up her body. She removed her jacket and slung it over her arm, lifting her face up to the blinding rays. When she closed her eyes she saw red and black floating spots. It was quiet here, a hush that was strangely comforting.
Arla walked over to where her mother and sister lay. She hadn’t got them flowers in the last two weeks, she remembered with a stab of guilt. Neither had she sat by Nicole’s grave and had her chat, telling Nicole about how busy she was, how she had no time for a man, no time for loneliness, till she got lonely.
She used to have these conversations in her head for more than sixteen years. Now that Nicole was here, the ache of missing her was still present like a non-healing wound, but at least she knew her sister was here. Dead, but where Arla could keep an eye on her. It was better than not knowing.
Arla sat down on the bench opposite the twin graves, hearing the old wood creak. She put her coat down, then went on her knees, cleaning the leaves away from the headstone, touching the cold surface, warming up in the sun.
“I don’t know what’s going on, Nicole,” she whispered. “I have this crazy case, and this girl, about your age, is now…” Arla felt a heavy weight squeeze the back of her throat, that familiar black shape rising up her neck to the back of her eyes. She blinked, determined not to cry.
“She’s now dead, but someone wants to get in touch with me. He left your earrings. Remember those?” Arla finished cleaning the top of Nicole’s grave, and swept the leaves into a pile. She took out a packet of tissues and shook one out. She dug them into the letters on the headstone, cleaning them.
“And then, on the girl’s body, I also found mum’s necklace. Can you believe that?” Arla spoke as she wiped down the back of the headstone. In her mind’s eye, she was doing up the buttons on Nicole’s dress, curling the plaits on her hair. She stood up after a while, and wiped her wet cheeks. Damn it. Nicole would laugh if she was here. Call her a big girl’s blouse.
“Wish you were here, Nic,” Arla said. Nicole had hated being called Nicky. It was always Nic for her.
“This person, who knows about you, who could it be? What are they trying to tell me?”
The silent headstone stared back at her, the letters and numbers engraved in black on white marble. It was weird that Nicole was in there somewhere. And not out here, standing next to her. Arla’s brow creased, the pain sprouting leaves, bearing poisoned fruits in the heat. Nicole would never be there again. She would have to live like this – God, live with this pain of not having her sister – for the rest of her life. It cut deeper than anything else, making her life seem worthless.
Yet, someone was trying to bring the past back to her again, in a bizarre, macabre fashion.
“I’ll find who it is, Nic. I swear to you I’ll find out, and when I do, I’ll make them tell me why.”
CHAPTER 43
Arla moved to the headstone next to Nicole’s. Her mother, Kath
erine Mendonca. Arla had mixed feelings for this grave. If anything, her mother’s life was more poignant. Arla knew little about her. The only woman in her earliest memories was her Nana Moon. And Nana telling her that her mummy had gone away. That was the night she remembered. She cried till Nicole came and slept with her.
The other memories were fleeting, vague. A flash of summer here, a few carols at Christmas. Memories of her father were much more robust. Shame they tarnished so much later on. All she remembered now was him being always drunk and arguing with Nicole. Arla shook her head, banishing the memories. They never left the box, and it was one of the reasons she stayed away from her dad. She blamed him for Nicole running away.
Arla cleaned her mother’s headstone as well, then sat back down on the bench. It was then she felt the presence. She turned to the left and saw the figure standing beneath a tree. Breath froze in her chest. A weird mix of concern and revulsion swept through her. A yucky, strange feeling, like picking up a piece of fruit she really wanted to eat, but was scared of the thorns that stuck out from it.
She turned her head away and felt the figure shuffle its way up to her. He walked across her vision like a slow shadow, then sat down next to her, exhaling.
He was silent for a while, staring at the gravestones.
“Hi, Arla,” Timothy Baker said.
Arla had no time for him. She wanted to get up and walk away. And she hated feeling that way. She wanted to feel different. But she couldn’t.
“What do you want, Dad?”
He didn’t reply till some time had passed. “Nothing. It’s good to see you.”
She sniffed. “You weren’t expecting to see me here today, were you? We come on different days for a reason.” She closed her eyes, hating the way her voice sounded.
“I wanted to see you, Arla. I care about you, and always will.” His old voice was hoarse, croaky from booze and too many cigarettes. Apparently, he had given up both. She wondered what he lived on now. Guilt, probably.
“Like you cared about Nicole.” The words had slipped out before she could stop them.
She watched from the corner of her eye as his head folded down over his chest. The corner of her lip shook. She wanted to reach out and touch him. She balled her fists instead, turning the knuckles white.
“I’m sorry.” The whimper came from deep within his chest. “I have to live with it as well, you know? I miss her, too.”
Arla clenched her jaws tight. “That won’t bring her back.”
Timothy shook his head, still bent. He mumbled something incoherent. Slowly he lifted his head. Arla felt the force of his attention as he turned his gaze upon her. She glanced at him. Timothy Baker had been handsome once. He had twinkling blue eyes, a shock of light brown hair that he used to wear long, hanging over his eyes. Arla used to swing from his strong arms, screaming happily under bright blue skies. It all changed after her mother left. The cloud of alcohol turned their days to rust.
Now deep lines criss-crossed his face like scars. His eye sockets were prominent, with a hollow, fractured look in his eyes. The thousand-yard stare of a man who has lost everything.
“You know.” His voice was like a coat being scraped across the pavement. “I feel so proud when I see you. To see what you have become.” He leaned forward to face her as Arla looked away.
“I just want you to know that, Arla.”
She didn’t say anything. What did he expect her to say?
Thanks, Dad. If it wasn’t for the foster family, I would have been sold to social care like Nicole, who ran away.
Arla gathered her coat up. “I have to go.”
“I need to tell you something,” he said. “I saw someone.”
Arla stopped and turned to face him. “What do you mean?”
“The person was standing on the street, looking at my window. It was late at night, and the street was empty. I get up at night and look out of the window when I can’t sleep.”
Arla knew her father lived in a block of flats next to Balham train station. “What did they look like?”
“I couldn’t tell their features. It was one person. He or she was dressed in black, and wore a hoodie over their heads. They stood in the shadow of a shop’s awning, but were definitely looking up at the flat.”
“They might have been looking for someone else.”
“No. They did it for several nights. Then I saw them in the street. The same man. He followed me.”
“What?” A sense of dread trembled through Arla. She sat down on the bench. “You sure he followed you?”
“Yes. He did it a few times. Making it obvious. Only…”
“Only what?”
“His body shape was odd. He was short and chubby like a kid. And the shoes he wore… Odd. They were pumps with heels on them.”
Arla raised her eyebrows. “It could be a woman, then.”
Her dad nodded. “I think so. Then I found this.” Her dad took something out from his pocket. Arla stared at it. It was the same purple earring that Nicole had. The one left in the steel box at her home.
Her voice shook, a numbness flowing into the tips of her fingers. “Where did you get that?”
“It was left for me on the dining table.”
“You mean…”
“Nothing else was taken. The flat was undisturbed. Just the earring was left on the table. I think I recognise it. Didn’t this belong to your sister, or to you?”
“To both of us, yes.” Arla’s brain was whirling around in loops, like a washing machine in a never-ending spin. She felt dizzy.
“How often do you leave the house, Dad?”
“Not much. I do my shopping, then in the afternoon go to the library. Twice a week I meet with the bridge club and play cards in the community hall.”
“This person was watching you, to establish your pattern. Then they broke into your flat and left the earring.”
“But why?”
Arla didn’t reply. She was deep in thought, leaning forward on her elbows, staring at the ground. She straightened abruptly.
“Dad, it’s not safe for you to live there anymore.”
Timothy stood up, too, much slower, his joints creaking. “What?”
“You need to move.”
He shook his head. “You think it’s that easy to move? Besides, I’m an old man. When you get to my age, not much scares you. I’m not moving anywhere.”
“But Dad…”
“No, Arla. I am not moving. If they want to come for me, let them come.”
He lifted his faded blue eyes and they locked with Arla’s. She saw an emptiness in them, but also a flat, barren determination. She knew he wouldn’t budge. That much, she knew, she shared with her dad.
He walked past her, then shuffled down the path, his walking stick making a sound as it hit the ground.
Arla watched him go, then clenched her jaws. Her nostrils flared in anger.
Her conflicted emotions about her father didn’t mask one obvious truth. He was the only family member she had left. This had been personal all along. Now it was hitting closer to home.
CHAPTER 44
Harry was back in the seat by the time Arla came back. He tapped his watch.
“Yeah, sorry,” Arla said. “Met up with someone there.”
Harry started the engine. “Who?”
“My dad.” She lapsed into silence, grateful that Harry didn’t probe. They were close to Clapham when she opened up.
“Someone left the same earring on my dad’s dining table.”
Harry took his eyes off the road, but the car maintained a straight line. “The same as your sister’s?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get them?”
“Yes. But I think my dad’s prints will be all over them.”
“The lab can still dust for others.”
They drove in silence for a while, and Harry opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by his phone buzzing. It went from the Bluetooth into the car’s radio speakers.<
br />
“Hello?” Harry said.
There was a hiss of static, then Lisa’s voice came on the line. “Guv, where are you?” There was a hint of panic in her voice and it got Arla’s attention immediately.
“What’s the matter?” she snapped before Harry could reply.
“James is in hospital. He chased after a man who threw down a parcel for you at the carpool, then took off on his bike. James was parking his car: he saw the man and chased.”
“Shit!” Arla fumed. “Is James OK?”
“I don’t know. We called an ambulance for him. He caught up with the guy, then grappled with him. He knocked James out.”
“Which hospital?” Arla asked.
“Charing Cross, guv.” She looked at Harry, whose mouth was set in a tight line. He nodded in silence.
“See you there in fifteen,” Arla said. Harry thumbed the dashboard and turned the siren on.
The traffic parted reluctantly, and Harry ducked and weaved, showing off his driving skills that would normally exasperate Arla, but on this occasion she was grateful. He parked in the ambulance yard and kept his lights on. At the main reception in A/E Arla showed her badge, and an Asian doctor took them to the cubicle where James was. He was lying flat on the bed, a saline drip snaking its way into his body above the elbow.
Arla felt a surge of guilt. He was a young, impressionable lad, and thought he was doing the right thing.
The lights were dimmed in the room, and James had his eyes closed, breathing softly.
Arla asked the doctor softly, “Can I talk to him?”
The doctor nodded. “He’s had a mild sedative, but that was over an hour ago. He was a bit agitated when he arrived, but some painkillers soon sorted that. He kept going on about the parcel.” He turned to look at Arla. “Whatever that means.”
Arla clenched her jaws and went forward to the bed. She touched James’ arm. There was a bruise on the left of his face, a black left eye, and a bandage around his head.
“You can wake him up,” the doctor said from behind. Arla shook his arm gently, and James opened his eyes. He seemed groggy, then he sharpened as he recognised Arla. He tried to lift his head, but Arla pressed on his shoulder.