by M. L Rose
“SOC found blood and clothes fibre at the site where she went missing, before the dead body appeared. Any DNA traces?”
Lisa shook her head. “Nothing on the databases, guv. Of course that only means our perp hasn’t been caught, yet.”
Arla nodded. She was frustratingly short of leads here. Aware that everyone’s eyes were fixed on her, she turned back to the whiteboard. Maddy’s face when she was alive stared back at her with a sultry pout, posing in her pink dress. Next to it was a close-up of her face, blue and mottled with death.
A thought struck Arla. She swung back to Lisa. “What about the necklace we found on Maddy’s body? The one that belonged to… Katherine Mendonca. Is that a replica as well?”
Rob raised his hand. “Prof Hodgson hasn’t got back to me about it as yet, guv. By the way, she wants to speak to you as well about something. Could you please give her a call back?”
Arla nodded, wondering absent-mindedly what Prof Hodgson had to tell her that she couldn’t tell Rob. She looked at her watch. It was almost 18.00. So much had happened in the last few hours. One shock after the other. What was left to come?
She thought of Banerjee, in the morgue with the body. She turned to Lisa. Poor Lisa was having to do more running around now that James was in hospital.
“Could you please ring Banerjee, and tell him that I want a report by later tonight? We can’t wait till tomorrow morning.”
Lisa raised her eyebrows, but shrugged and left. Arla asked the team, “What happened with the door-to-door in a two-mile radius from where the body was found? And the Crimestoppers poster of Maddy? Any call-ins?”
John Sandford said, “A few calls came through. The usual pranksters. We think the body was left there early in the morning, just before dawn. Not many revellers in the park then, guv. Sorry.”
“Not your fault, John, thanks for trying.”
Apart from the design company in Nottingham, not much to go on as yet. She wanted to speak to the Burroughses again, and ask the wife if she had seen the recent school videos of Maddy.
“Skull-shaped ring,” she said to herself.
“What?” Harry asked.
“Maddy had a ring with a skull on it. She wore it on her left middle finger. That’s what her mother said,” she told the team. “Can we ask the SOC team to see if they find anything nearby?”
“I will, guv,” said Rob.
CHAPTER 47
Cindy was wearing blue overalls, with a peaked blue cap she kept pulled low over her face. She concentrated on pushing the broom along the pavement, brushing up stray leaves. During her work at Lambeth Council, she had paid a cleaner a hundred pounds to claim her uniform as lost. Cindy wore the spare uniform now. It was a great way for her to get close to the police station, and keep an eye on things. The two detectives walked close past her, so close she could have tripped them up using her broom. That would be nice, she smirked, seeing the female detective sprawled on the floor.
They walked up the road, Arla Baker walking faster than the tall male detective. She saw them stop beneath a tree, and smoke. She leaned forward suddenly, and they were hugging. Cindy narrowed her eyes. She stayed behind a bus stop, and watched them. They disengaged after a while, but slowly. This wasn’t a normal hug that colleagues gave each other occasionally. This was more tender, and Cindy breathed faster. Was something going on between them? Had she missed something? She had been to Arla’s house once, and she needed to increase the frequency of her visits.
The man spoke to her, and Arla seemed to listen with rapt attention. Cindy became angry. She curled her lips, thinking of Gary being close to her. She missed him. He could make her feel good, he always had. Now this bitch was able to have a life and be with her man, but Cindy had to carry on, planning her operation.
It wasn’t fair.
It’s not her who should be suffering, it was Arla Baker!
Cindy turned away, on the verge of losing it. She was gripping the broom hard. She had a brief vision of the broom being a knife, and she could charge them, tearing Arla Baker to pieces with her knife…
No. She had to stop. Visions were no good for her, when she couldn’t control her mind she got into trouble. That’s when the sleepless nights came, and the need for the medications. Cindy had to see her doctor at some stage, but she didn’t have the need or the time. Psychiatrists didn’t know the half of it. They liked to act arrogant, as if they knew, really knew, what she had been through.
Cindy started scrubbing with the broom again as the detectives walked back, passing within five feet of her.
She followed them at leisure, knowing they wouldn’t go far, as they weren’t in a car. They went inside the police station.
Cindy made her mind up. She left the broom behind the shed of a derelict single-storey house, where she had found it. She walked to Clapham Common tube station. Within ten minutes she was in Tooting. She got to Hoyle Road, and walked past number 35, Arla Baker’s address. She walked backwards and forwards till she found what she was looking for. An alley between two houses, opposite number 35. She looked carefully at the houses on either side of the alley. One had lights on, the other dark. Like every other house in the neighbourhood, this one was divided into a ground- and upper-floor maisonette. As Cindy watched, lights came on in the ground-floor bay windows. Hurriedly, she moved on.
Cindy thought as she walked. She could keep an eye on the front of Arla’s ground-floor apartment, but what about the back? The bedroom and the kitchen faced the small garden. Cindy walked around the block, taking a left at the next road and doing a full circle till she came to the row of houses that stood opposite. She took an approximation of where Arla’s apartment was in relation to these houses.
She found one with not only the upstairs maisonette lights off, but also the front windows boarded. Her heart raced. A discarded house. She waited ten minutes to make sure the pedestrians were minding their own business. Casually, she loped up the black iron staircase that looked like a fire escape. Armed with her two sliding knives, she was inside within one minute. The place smelled musty and old. She stood listening for a while, and letting her eyes get used to the dark.
Then she switched her flashlight on, keeping the beam pointed to the floor. The place had been cleaned out. Her footsteps creaked on the bare floorboards. Gaps on them gaped like broken teeth, showing the rafters underneath. A mouse scurried in the corner, past the skirting board. Confident the place was empty, Cindy marched to the rear. There was a bathroom at the back, and a bedroom next to it. The window was boarded up partially with slats of timber that had been screwed in. Working with her screwdriver, it was painstaking work taking the slats off, but thankfully there were only a handful. When she looked out of the window, she was greeted with a sight that filled her with happiness. She looked upon the rear façade of the houses on Hoyle Road. She counted the numbers down, and got to 35. The upper-floor maisonette had lights on, but the ground floor was dark. Arla was at work. Cindy could still make out the kitchen and the rear bedroom window.
Cindy smiled. An ideal place for her to sit and wait for Arla Baker to come home.
CHAPTER 48
Lisa came back as the meeting in the incident room was coming to an end.
“Sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t get through to Banerjee. He said he could get some prelim reports for you in an hour’s time. But the blood reports would take two or three days at least.”
Arla nodded. “Thanks for trying. We might still head down to the morgue. Banerjee will have something for us.”
Arla finished some last questions with the team, then left with Harry.
Evening was deepening with mauve shadows dragged across the horizon like a shroud. Headlights glowed like eyes of a giant centipede, its metallic legs crawling over a river of black asphalt. Diesel fumes and neon lights coloured the electric night a pulsating cobalt and red. Arla put the window down to feel the warm breeze, saline with sweat, on her tepid forehead. Voices from a dozen different nationalit
ies floated in from the pavement. The pot was melting, overflowing, a rich concoction of hopes, dreams and tragedies.
Harry was silent as they drove through the tortuous streets of Brixton into Denmark Hill, where King’s College Hospital, one of the largest teaching hospitals in England, was situated. They parked in the visitors’ car park, and walked past the massive sprawl of Accident and Emergency to the mortuary. It was well signposted. They took the elevator to the basement level two. When they knocked on the door, they were buzzed in after they were seen in the camera overhead.
Banerjee, looking less like Columbo and more like Quincy now with his surgical gown and cap on, called out to them from a steel gurney he was leaning over.
“Get dressed, my lovelies. She’s right here, you made it in time.”
Arla and Harry put on their gowns without bothering to change their shoes. Banerjee’s Chinese postgraduate medical student, Xinxin, helped them with a smile on her pretty, cherubic face.
Arla looked at the lifeless, cold body of Maddy, and looked away. She wasn’t any stranger to dead bodies. It was part of the job. But that didn’t mean she had to enjoy it. This case was hitting closer to home than she had imagined, and it was making her more sensitive. She forced herself to listen to Banerjee as he talked.
The old pathologist’s eyes travelled down the Y-incision he had made to open up the ribs, then carried on down to slice the abdomen open.
“Let’s start at the top,” Banerjee said. “Hair fibres have been pulled off, and there is a haematoma on her scalp, which indicates some scalp trauma. Nothing heavy, just from pulling and maybe a punch or two. It definitely didn’t kill her.”
“Nothing in the eyes or oral cavity. Teeth are all intact. So is the tongue.” He lifted up one wrist. “Ligature marks on both wrists and ankles. She was tied up, and the depth of the marks shows they were not just to restrain, but to imprison her.”
He continued. “Oh, and these.” He pointed to some bruise marks across the ribs and flank. They were flat and broad, and stood up in angry, broad welts.
“What are they?” Arla asked.
Banerjee seemed to ponder. “Well, they were made by something pressing down on her for prolonged periods. For my money, I would say restraining belts, like you see in a straitjacket.”
Harry said, “To tie her down on a bed?”
“Yes,” Banerjee said. “Many moons ago, I was a psychiatry resident as a junior doctor. Whenever a patient became boisterous, he was sedated and then clamped down with big belts on the bed. Those methods are prehistoric now that we have much quicker-acting sedatives, but the old brute method can be used.”
He lifted a hand before Arla opened her mouth. “Before you say anything else, I would add that the rest of her is surprisingly pristine. No trauma, no sexual abuse.”
“You sure?” Arla asked.
“As sure as I am she’s dead.”
Arla frowned. “How did she die, then? No trauma or strangulation…”
Banerjee intercepted her. “Actually I told you a lie. There is one type of trauma.” He grinned. “But only because someone doesn’t know how to give injections. The poor girl had multiple intramuscular injections on her arms, in the shoulder region. Left her with loads of bruises.”
“Injections of what?”
“Million-dollar question. But I am pretty sure they were meant to sedate her.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because intramuscular injections are crude and quick. The chemical gathers in the muscle and slowly diffuses. I took a little sample and sent it to the lab. It came back as a benzodiazepine. Like Valium. In high enough doses, they will flatten a human being. Too high a dose, and it causes breathing to arrest. The process can be speeded up by putting potassium chloride into the mix, which can cause the heart to stop. Total cardiorespiratory arrest.”
“Is that how she died?” Arla asked.
“Her muscles show a huge amount of flaccid paralysis, and delayed rigor mortis. I would say yes. But toxicology reports will prove it.”
Harry said, “A lot of Valium and that potassium stuff: isn’t that what they put into a lethal injection? Many American states dole out the death sentence that way.”
“Yes,” Banerjee said. “But they add an anaesthetic as well.”
Arla was thinking. “So if we could find out where they got the chemicals from…”
Banerjee shook his head. “You can try, but unfortunately these days with the dark web it’s all too easy to get hold of drugs. If you have the right software to access that part of the internet, then you can get hold of anything.”
“Hold on,” Arla said. “I know from the cyber security guys this is about downloading the Tor software browser, then using it to access the dark web.”
“Even if you do, there will be hundreds of sites these drugs could have been brought from,” Banerjee said.
“I know. But the drugs had to be posted to a UK address, and if we can find that address, then…”
Harry said, “That sounds good in practice but in reality it will be a needle in a haystack.” He caught the determined look in Arla’s hazel eyes. Then he sighed. “Alright, I’ll get in touch with the Cybercrime Unit.”
Arla gave him a smile and turned back to Banerjee. “Anything else?”
“Yes. There are signs of sexual activity. They seem to be consensual as there are no bruises or laceration in the genital areas. I have isolated some sperm from the vaginal vault. Sperms are dead of course, they only live for 72 hours, which means the sexual intercourse was earlier. But the DNA is isolated and is being put through the national database as we speak.”
“Good,” Arla said, her spirits lifting, but shadowed by darker thoughts. They had DNA samples from the cheek swabs of Paul Ofori, Mark Duggan and Maddy’s parents. She expected to find Paul’s DNA sample, or even Mark’s. The other didn’t bear thinking about, and she wondered if she would have to widen her net of DNA swabs from Maddy’s contacts.
Momentarily, her mind was cast back to the vivacious, smart, confident girl in the photos, dressed to the nines. The dead body on the slab before her was utterly alien, divorced from that warm image full of life and promise.
But Maddy had a dark side, too. She liked pushing boundaries, checking limits. She wouldn’t be the first intelligent person to do so, but she had paid for it with her life.
And that wasn’t fair. Something tightened inside Arla’s chest. Nicole had been smart, too. She used to coach Arla before her exams. Nicole sailed through hers with minimal work, and Arla was the plodder, envious of her elder sister.
“Arla?” Banerjee said.
She blinked and swung her head back to Banerjee, to find that both he and Harry were looking at her with concerned faces.
“What is it, my dear?” Banerjee knew her well enough to ask that question.
Why does so much of this case remind me of my own life? Arla thought to herself in silence.
Aloud, she deflected. “Time we headed back. Thanks for this. Will you let us know about the toxicology, and if you find anything else?”
Banerjee studied her for a while. “Yes. Look after yourself, Arla.”
CHAPTER 49
It was almost 9 pm by the time they left the morgue and headed back. “Shall I drop you home?” Harry asked.
“I can take the tube,” Arla said, her voice neutral. She knew something had passed between her and Harry. She didn’t want to admit it, but knew there had always been a ripple, an undercurrent of attraction. Like a silent river it had flowed between them. They had stood on either bank, opposite each other, watching, waiting. It was summer, and the waters were warm.
“Too stuffy,” Harry said. “The Met has given you a carriage and a driver. Might as well use it.”
“Chauffeur, you mean. Doff your cap to me next time.”
“You just want to see me in a uniform.”
“In your dreams,” Arla smirked.
“Yes,” Harry said, his voice suddenly
serious. “That’s right.”
She was aware that he was glancing at her. She looked out of the open window as a flock of birds weaved and ducked between the trees on the Common.
Without further ado, Harry took the straight road down towards Balham that carried on towards Tooting.
Arla said, “If someone came into my house, we should see something on CCTV, right? Not on my road, as there are no cameras, but on the High Street.”
“The problem was the lack of cameras on your street, remember? Tooting High Street is busy. There’s a tube stop, pubs, bus stops, and a load of restaurants.”
Arla nodded. They had had this conversation already. Tooting was South London’s curry mile. Rows of Indian restaurants, curry houses all of them, ran from Tooting to Balham. Easy for someone to get lost in the crowd.
I just want to know who you are, Arla thought to herself.
Harry found a parking space three doors down from her ground-floor Victorian conversion. Arla stopped at the porch before she went in. No signs of break-in, but there hadn’t been any last time either.
“I’ll be off, then,” Harry said. He took an imaginary cap from his head and did a mock bow.
“In recognition of your efforts, I shall reward you with a glass of wine,” Arla said. She turned the key and opened the door. The alarm cable hadn’t been fixed as yet: she didn’t have the time. Her fingers brushed the wall for the light switch. She stepped inside, followed by Harry.
Arla stiffened immediately. She could hear a voice, and it took her a few seconds to locate it. Harry shut the door and the voice became clearer. Fear tightened like a razor ball in her guts. She listened and realised it sounded like the TV in the living room. Her panicked eyes met Harry’s. He put a finger to his lips and she nodded.
Was there someone in the living room, watching TV? That was absurd. But you could never tell…
Arla flattened herself against the wall, and inched over to the door frame. The door was open, and she could see inside the living room. It was dark, apart from the glow of the TV, casting an eerie light inside the room. Arla switched the light on. The room was empty. She stepped inside, looked at the windows and beneath the table.