by ML Rose
CHAPTER 65
Harry pressed the doorbell of Sandra Pitt's house and waited. The caretaker answered and ushered them inside the magnificent hallway. The door at the end of the hallway opened and Rochelle appeared, clutching Emmanuel's hand. She saw Arla and Harry and lifted Emmanuel into her arms. She held Emmanuel tightly, as if she was afraid they might take him away.
Emmanuel observed them calmly, and he seemed a different boy to the one Arla had seen running around in this house. She smiled reassuringly, feeling sorry for him. Emmanuel looked up at Harry, and his eyes widened. He whispered something in Rochelle's ear, and she nodded.
She said, "Emmanuel just said thank you. He said you're the policeman who took him away from the bad man."
"You're welcome." Harry grinned. "I'm glad he’s back safe."
Arla said, "Shall we sit down? Is your mother here?"
Rochelle nodded. "Yes, she is waiting for you." She put Emmanuel down. He grabbed his mother’s vest and stayed close to her. Rochelle’s face shook with emotion, eyes bright with unshed tears. She hugged Arla, who wasn’t expecting it.
“Thank you so much. You brought my son back.”
Rochelle released Arla, then hugged Harry as well. He raised his eyebrows at Arla, who smiled.
Rochelle led the way, and they followed her to the end of the hallway, and into an opulent drawing room, with Victorian furniture and large oil paintings hanging in gilded frames. Sandra Pitt turned from one of the windows and walked up to them. Her cheeks were sunken, her face pale and haggard. She shook Arla's hand and asked them to sit down.
"Thank you for getting Emmanuel back. I've heard about what happened. I cannot imagine the ordeal that you've been through,"
"No problem at all."
"Has Charles confessed to the murders?" Rochelle asked.
"Not yet," Arla said, exchanging a look with Harry. Harry shook out some papers from the envelope he extracted from his coat pocket. He handed them to Rochelle and Sandra. Rochelle whispered in Emanuel's ear, and he ran outside. Rochelle shut the door and sat back down. She looked through the papers, a deep scowl settling on her face. She held up a sheet, frowning at Arla.
"This is a paternity test for Charles and my son. What's the meaning of this?"
Arla told her what Charlie had explained. Rochelle's eyes bulged in shock.
But Arla wasn't looking at her. Her eyes were fixed on Sandra, who had remained standing. She turned to stare out the window. Arla asked her to sit down. Sandra didn't move.
Rochelle had caught the strange interaction between the two women. She was frowning, staring in her mother's direction.
Arla said, "Sandra, do you want to tell your daughter, or shall I?"
Sandra ignored them, staring out the window.
Arla said, "We went to the private antenatal wing of Chelsea Cross Hospital, where Emmanuel was born. Irene was also admitted to the same wing. The staff there still remember the special relationship between you and Stephen Vaughan. Particularly the nurses and midwives at the labour ward. One of the nurses saw you kissing. When I showed them your photo, they recognised you."
Arla stood and walked over so Sandra had no choice but to face her. "Stephen Vaughan was your lover. You asked him to swap the babies, didn't you?"
Sandra didn't reply. Arla said, "Mrs Farquharson, Dr Vaughan’s secretary, observed you and Stephen going for walks. Hand in hand. You weren't going to see Stephen just for your gynaecological problems. Isn't that correct?"
Arla turned so she was facing Rochelle, who was listening with her mouth open.
Arla continued. "Natalie, his ex-wife was also the midwife who helped Stephen switch the babies. She couldn’t live with the guilt any more. She had divorced Steven already – for his numerous infidelities, and also for the baby switch. But when she learnt about the affair between Stephen and John Churchill's wife, it was the last straw."
"So, Natalie looked up Charlie, and told him. They also started a relationship together. When Stephen learned of this, he told you. That's when you realised the game was up. You had to kill Stephen. There was no other way."
Sandra didn't move a muscle. She kept staring out the window. Arla said, "Those blue plants in your office are Wolf's Blaine, aren't they? Also known as nights shadow, or Monk's shade. Poisonous aconite plants. That’s why you keep them covered in glass. How long have you had them for, Sandra?"
Rochelle stood, and so did Harry. Rochelle raised her voice. "Mum, is this true?"
Arla said, "There's fingerprints on the bottle of carrot juice that Natalie drank from. Just minutes before she died, at the barn. It's not just Natalie's fingerprints, but also yours. Isn't that correct, Sandra?"
Arla took a couple of steps away. "It took me awhile to figure this out. The blonde woman who came to Stevens house the night of the murder was puzzling. Then I realised. You simply had a blonde wig, didn't you?"
Sandra screwed her eyes shut, and took a deep breath. Rochelle stood in front of her mother. "Mum, what's going on? Why don't you say anything?"
Sandra touched her forehead, and kept her eyes closed. Rochelle leaned forward and touched her mother's arm.
"Tell them they're wrong. This is all ridiculous, right?" She turned to Arla and raised her voice. "Emmanuel is my son!"
Arla said, "Yes, and now with Charlie in custody, and waiting to be sentenced, for a few years, you and your husband will be his parents. But you are not his biological parents. I'm sorry, Rochelle. The proof is right there in front of you." Arla pointed to the piece of paper bearing the paternity test.
Harry said, "Your real baby died shortly after birth, Rochelle. That's when the babies were switched. Your mother asked Stephen to do it."
A crimson wave had spread across Rochelle's face. Unshed tears glistened in her eyes. Harry took her by the arm and gently lowered her into a chair.
"Charlie did assault Stephen, but it was outside the house. It was you who came to see him, and slipped the poison in his food." Arla stood in front of Sandra, and lowered her face to the older woman's. "How did you poison him, Sandra? Was it as you had dinner? You brought him some food?"
Sandra lifted burning eyes to Arla's face. Her teeth clenched. "No comment."
"What you didn't know," Arla said softly, "Was that Charlie was observing you from the house opposite Stevens. He took photos of you. Also of me, when I turned up at the murder scene the next day."
The rage faded from Sandra's face. Her eyebrows rose briefly, then her pupils contracted. Arla smiled. "Yes, that's right. He still has the photos. And yes, we can use it as evidence."
Sandra was breathing heavily now, her face white as a sheet.
Harry spoke up. “Plants have genes as well. Professor Corrigan can prove the plants in your room are the same ones used to make the poison found in the victim’s intestines.”
Arla said, "Sandra Pitt, I am arresting you for the murder of Stephen Vaughan and Natalie Chapman."
For the first time, Sandra moved. She turned from the window and looked at Arla and Harry.
“What would you have done if you were me, Inspector? My daughter couldn’t conceive. She was sliding into depression. What would you do, as a parent?”
Arla shook her head slowly. “There was nothing a parent could do.”
A ghost of a smile twitched on Sandra’s lips, then vanished. “That’s where you’re wrong. There’s always something one can do. Yes, I asked Steven to switch the babies. Yes, he asked Natalie to help him make the change. Was it wrong? Perhaps. But think of the life Emmanuel will have as my grandson.”
She waved her hand in a circle. “All of this will one day be his. Now compare it to the life Emmanuel would have as Charlie’s son.”
Arla stepped forward. “Think of having your daughter taken away from you. That’s what you did to Irene and Charlie. Would you like that if it happened to you?”
Sandra blinked, and her face fell.
CHAPTER 66
The buzzing of the alarm woke Arla
up.
Her slumber had been deep, and the shrill cacophony of the alarm was most unwelcome. She reached out a hand to slap it into silence, and managed to topple a couple of things from the bedside table to the floor.
Her head felt heavy. A few memories came back to her. The drinking last night at the pub, to celebrate the end of the case. Harry and herself had staggered back home at midnight. Rita was staying over, and was sleeping with Nicole in the next room.
Arla rubbed her eyes, and looked at the flashing red numbers again. It was 7:30 AM. She tried to sit up. Immediately, she succumbed to a wave of nausea and clutched her head. She wasn't used to drinking much anymore. But last night everyone had been in a good mood. Everyone, she remembered, apart from Harry. He had been unusually quiet, and had shared a couple of long conversations with Rob, and then with Commander Johnson, who turned up briefly to say hello.
Arla was surprised that Harry wasn't on the bed. It was too early for him to leave. She flicked the light switch on. Harry had left a note on the table.
"Have to go to work. New case. See you soon."
Arla groaned, and leaned her head against the headboard. Her phone buzzed, and she ignored it. When it kept buzzing, she lifted it to find Johnson's number. A premonition came over her. Johnson calling at this time of the morning could only be bad news. She cleared her throat.
"Hello?"
"Arla? Get down to the station right now. There's been a new development in the Sandra Pitt case that you need to be aware of. It's urgent."
Johnson hung up. Arla stared at the phone, her brows furrowing. Her mild nausea was suddenly stronger, churning in her guts. Charles was still in custody. She hoped nothing had happened to him.
She got dressed quickly, and left a note for Rita. She wanted to walk to the tube station, but with every step, her headache worsened. She bought a couple of painkillers from the corner shop and chugged it down with some water. She took a cab, and sipped on a coffee during the ride. The desk sergeant buzzed her in, and also informed her that Johnson was waiting at the office.
Arla rushed inside the open plan detective's office and came to an abrupt halt.
The office was empty. Not a soul was present. A printing machine churned out paper in one corner. A fax machine beeped. But all the desks were devoid of human beings. It was like walking into a ghost town.
At the far end, her door was shut. Stepping tentatively, Arla walked down the office floor, her head whipping from side to side. It made her dizzy, and she stopped, keeping her head still. She wondered what on earth was going on. In the pit of her stomach, she had a sinking feeling.
Had everyone been evacuated due to an emergency? Or was it something else? Had she misread the location? She checked her phone again but there wasn’t a new text or call.
She put the key in the lock of her office door, then went in.
As soon as she opened the door, a huge chorus of voices boomed at her. "Surprise!"
Everyone was there. From her team, to Harry, Johnson and as many uniformed officers and detectives as could fit into her office. People were packed like sardines, a few even standing on the chairs. In the middle of the floor stood Harry. His eyes were shining, and his face was lit up with a smile. The smile faltered when he saw her.
In front of everyone, Harry went down on one knee. A hush descended on the room.
Arla thought her heart would explode from her chest. As if in slow motion, she saw Harry reach inside his pocket and take out a blue velvet box.
He opened it to reveal a brilliant diamond ring. It sparkled and shone in the light coming in through the window. There was a sharp, collective intake of breath at the sight of the diamond. Then silence reigned again.
Harry said, "Arla Baker, will you make me the happiest man in the world and marry me?"
Arla had forgotten how to breathe. She didn't know what to say. She opened her mouth and her lips moved, but she couldn’t utter a single word.
Instead, she burst into tears. She was exhausted, hung over, and now this! She wiped her eyes, and finally found her voice.
"Yes. Yes, I will."
Harry stood; his eyes wet. He strode forward and opened up those endless arms. Arla dissolved into his embrace; her head comforted against his chest. Wild clapping and shouts of congratulations erupted from the assembled audience.
Arla sniffed, pulling out a tissue from her pocket. "Is this what you were doing when I couldn't find you?"
"Yes. It takes time to find a good engagement ring, you know?"
Arla tried to speak, but a sob choked her words. Harry kissed the top of her head and gripped her harder.
"Don't let me go, Harry," she whispered into his chest. She didn’t mean for him to hear it, but somehow, he did.
"Don't worry Mrs Mehta, I won't," he said.
THE END
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CHAPTER 1
Pete Matson sucked on his cigarette, inhaling the smoke with the dust that flew around the building site. Pete had taken off his hardhat, and turned his face up to the sunlight. It was nice being out here, A relief from digging around in the old basement.
The loud groan of a ground breaking pneumatic drill shook the earth under his feet. The pillar he was leaning against started to shake. It was an unpleasant feeling and he stood straighter, cursing. He walked down to the opening of the building, where some other builders were smoking.
An old terraced building was being torn down, making way for a new collection of flats. It was decrepit, and hadn't been used for years. The stuff they had found so far in the tall four-storey building was amazing. Newspapers from the 1930s. Moth eaten skirts and jackets from a bygone era.
Pete had shaken off the dust from a couple of newspapers. It was interesting to read about news coverage during the war. It was easy to forget, now, the reign of terror London had gone through during the Blitz. The faded front-page photo showed the collapsed buildings, and the people gathered around it. He shook his head. If there was a war now, the entire city would be vaporised in seconds. That was progress, right?
Pete's friend, Luke was squatting on his haunches, cigarette dangling from his lips. He glanced up at Pete. "Couldn't stand the noise, right?" Like Pete, Luke had noise cancelling earphones slung around his neck. Pete squatted next to his friend. He took a lung full of smoke, then exhaled. He was trying to give up smoking, but not succeeding. At least it stopped the gambling. One Vice at a time.
"I better get hundred and twenty a day for this," Peter grumbled. He was quite skilled now, in basement and foundation work. His company specialised in it, and Pete had worked with them for three years. Luke joined last year, and the two had struck up a friendship.
"Better you than me. I'm getting ninety."
"That's standard for a day labourer. But the gaffers left me in charge, and I should really get one fifty a day at least. They're paying my taxes and pension, so I'll settle for one hundred twenty."
They chatted for a while longer, then put out their cigarettes and went inside. Although terraced, these buildings were large. They were designed as apartments, and each floor was big enough to house a family of four. At the back there was large grounds which was shared by the entire row of terraced houses. No one had a particular garden, but this house, for some reason had its own section of land fenced in.
Peter grimaced, then put his ear protection on. Through the large glass window at the rear, he could see the lawns. Most of it was well maintained, and a new the people who lived here had money. He wondered why this building had become derelict. It stood like a rotten tooth in an otherwise well-maintained shining set of dentures.
He went down the stairs to the basement. The basement had always been present as a living area, but the dereliction here was even worse. Damp covered every wall, and rotten furniture lay over rotten floorboards.
The entire floor had to be removed, because it was a hazard to walk
on it. New foundations had been laid where subsidence was discovered. That was the reason for the drilling, and it was driving Pete insane. One of the guys came up to him, asking to go on break. Pete allowed it, but that meant he had to go on the drill cabin.
He swung inside, and shifted the levers. He switched the engine on and with a growl, it came to life. He moved the arms, and the drill lowered into the ground ahead of him. Bright halogen lights lit up every inch of the floor. At the rear, light shone through the entrance into the garden upstairs.
A couple of men were fixing the staircase. Pete concentrated on lowering the huge drill bit into the ground. Then he pressed the red button, and the machine started. He kept a close eye on the ground as the drill worked. They had dug down to one metre already. And soon they would have to use shovels, because they didn't want to disturb the neighbouring buildings’ foundations.
The packed dark earth was uniform in colour. But something else caught Pete's eye. He frowned at it, then shook his head. Yellow halogen lights were on above his head, but he couldn't make out the foreign object. He switched off the drill, then moved it out of the way. Taking his torch and shovel, he hopped down into the hole.
He shown the torchlight at the round, light coloured object. It seemed like a brass pot in an excavation site. He got excited. Buried treasure wasn't uncommon in London. Many people had hidden their family's wealth during the Blitz. Also, old Roman ruins were often discovered while excavating the foundations of buildings.
Pete called a couple of guys, and they joined him with shovels. Pete warned them to be careful, and they worked around the object, slowly exposing it.
As the object came into view, Pete stopped. It was too small to be a pot. A guy who was working about a metre to his left called out to him. The guy had a shocked expression on his face. He pointed to the ground. Pete looked, and his heart was suddenly in his mouth, his breathing laboured.