by ML Rose
Table of Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
HER SILENT OBSESSION
ARLA BAKER BOOK 6
M.L. ROSE
HER SILENT OBSESSION
Copyright © 2020 by M.L. Rose
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
permission in writing from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
*****
HAVE YOU READ THE REST OF THE ARLA BAKER SERIES?
The Lost Sister
The Keeper of Secrets
The Forgotten Mother
The Nail Collector
The Last Girl
Her Silent Obsession
CHAPTER 1
The figure watched the woman pushing the pram. His name was Rhys Mason, and he was safely hidden behind a tree, crouching so far low his face was only a few centimetres above the frozen grass of Clapham Common.
Snow was piled up heavy on the sides of the path that snaked into the woods. Rhys had watched the woman for several weeks now. Mother and baby liked to go for a walk in the morning, if the sun was up. It was cold but sunny, melting snow trickling into the gutters by the road, the branches of bare trees lined with a white dusting of snow, as if carefully arranged by invisible hands in the wintry silence of the night. The sky was leaden grey, but the portent of Christmas was in the air, a brief punctuation of light in the closing darkness of December.
Rhys watched the woman stop and stare intently inside the pram. The hood of the pram was up. The woman reached inside, as if she was touching her baby. Her baby, Rhys thought with a sudden jolt in the blood.
The mother straightened and appeared to say a few words to the baby safely ensconced in the warmth of the pram. The flicker of a smile crossed her pretty face. For TV serial watchers and Instagram followers, an instantly recognisable face.
Mother and baby came off the path and onto the sidewalk. A car stopped at the traffic lights, and the woman waved her thanks to the driver before crossing the road. The lights changed and the car moved on. On this road of expensive detached houses overlooking the dense woods of the Common, cars were not frequent. Which, Rhys thought, was perfect.
The woman came up to the shoulder-high gates of a house and pressed a buzzer. The iron grill gates swung open.
Mother and baby went inside the house and the door shut. Rhys waited for another five minutes. Then he rose and shook off the flakes of snow stuck to his body. The house had a wide footprint. Four large bay windows watched the iron pillars that enclosed the front garden and sides. Rhys knew there was a side gate, which was an entrance for the housekeeper. He pulled the fur-lined white hood of his parka jacket tighter around the face. Dark glasses allowed no visibility of the eyes. The side gate was open, because the housekeeper had driven off an hour ago to do some shopping. Again, this was a routine Rhys had meticulously observed over the last several weeks.
Rhys slipped to the side of the house and came to the housekeeper’s entrance. The door was unlocked. He slipped inside and crouched on the floor. The narrow hallway of the housekeeper’s apartment was dark. Listening for sounds but hearing none, Rhys moved forward stealthily. The bedroom was empty, as were the tiny kitchen and bathroom. Finally, Rhys came to the back door, which opened out into the common garden. Rhys stared out at the huge garden, wondering why one family needed this much space. He didn’t step out into the snow-covered expanse. Instead, Rhys arched his neck upwards and located the first-floor windows. One of the windows was ajar; judging from its size, it was a bathroom. There was a back porch with a flat roof just below the window. Easy access. Rhys smiled.
CHAPTER 2
Rebecca Stone was tired. As joyous as the arrival of the new baby had been, the delivery had been traumatic to say the least. She had lost more than a litre of blood and had to stay in hospital for a week.
She had needed a blood transfusion, and despite still being on iron tablets, she got tired easily and woke up every morning feeling dizzy.
Rebecca turned on the baby monitor in the kitchen, as was her habit. She turned on the coffee machine. When she walked in the Common it was with slow, measured steps because that was all her body allowed. But it did make her feel better to get some fresh air, despite the freezing cold. Initially, she had been apprehensive about taking baby Reggie out in this weather. But her mother, Christine, was right: Reggie actually liked it. He fell asleep even before she got to the woods, and the moments of peace she got were precious.
Rebecca stood with a cup of coffee in her hand, staring out at the garden, blanketed with a carpet of snow. Small pawmarks crossed the pristine white ground a few metres from the porch. She smiled at the thought of the solitary fox in the backyard, scavenging for tidbits.
The dizziness began as a humming behind her eyes and slowly escalated louder, almost blurring her vision. She sat down quickly, leaning back against the sofa. The light-headedness subsided. Dr Mansfield had said it would be like this for at least two weeks. Well, ten days later, she didn’t feel any better.
Rebecca went out into the wide hallway, crossed it, and came to one of the four large rooms that faced Clapham Common. Thick red velvet curtains had been gathered and tied at the corners by the housekeeper. Rebecca stood at an angle, looking out the window.
Her mind wasn’t playing tricks. Yes, she was tired and irritable, but she hadn’t missed the man who had stared at her when she went out walking with the pram.
He was clean-shaven, in his mid-thirties, and wore a heavy jacket with a hood. The hood was always over his head but she managed to get a good look at his face. As soon as their eyes met, he had looked away. There was a bus
stop about one hundred metres from her house. Given how pervasive London’s bus routes were, even an exclusive address like hers wasn’t immune to the groaning machines.
Rebecca was sure she’d seen the man get on a bus one day. Which meant he didn’t drive. She found it odd that a solitary man would be walking around here on his own. Not many people came out to Clapham Common in the winter. It was a desolate, frozen wasteland. Sometimes, she saw joggers cutting their way through the park. But mostly, it was only her and Reggie in the pram. That was why she chose the routes she did—so she had some peace and isolation.
Jeremy, her husband, was trying his best but he didn’t really understand. Neither did her mother, however hard she tried. Christine had never had a difficult pregnancy, so Rebecca couldn’t really blame her. Thank God Reggie was well. He had emerged perfectly formed and healthy. He was going to be fine, and that thought kept her going.
Rebecca looked carefully out the window, crossing to the other side and making sure she watched both sides of the road. Her heart leapt into her mouth. A vice-like grip squeezed her throat and nausea lurched in her stomach.
There he was.
That same man, wearing the white hooded jacket. He was standing at an angle to the house, but Rebecca could see him. He turned slightly to stare at the window and she pressed deeper into the shadows.
He couldn’t see her, but that piercing gaze was too direct, violating. Rebecca’s heart hammered against her ribs, her pulse surging to a crescendo as her back hit the wall. She couldn’t see the man anymore. Her fists were claws, close to pulling down the curtains. She heard the pelmets creak and let go, fearful of tearing the curtains down. She gripped her forehead and found it covered in sweat. Her breaths came short, rapid.
Then suddenly, he moved. He almost ran down the road till he was out of sight.
A faint but distinctly uneasy sensation forced its way into the back of her mind like the scream of a train whistle inside a tunnel. She blinked rapidly, then ran out of the room, up the giant staircase that rose straight to the first floor. She was gasping when she opened the door of the nursery room, where Reggie’s cot stood against the wall, away from the window.
Rebecca came to a standstill. Her vision was frozen, arrested by the sight of the open window. It was raised high enough for a man to duck in and out of. The net curtain fluttered in the breeze. Her head snapped towards the cot. She ran to it. The cot was empty.
Baby Reggie was gone.
Rebecca’s mouth opened but no sound came from her throat. Grunting like an animal, she lurched to the window and forced her head out into the frigid air. The garden, and the woods at the back, met her eyes. She spun back into the room, eyes bulging, whole body shaking like she had been electrocuted by a live wire. She ran to the cot again, forcing herself to see the emptiness inside. Her hands became fists and when her mouth opened this time, she screamed.
CHAPTER 3
Detective Chief Inspector Arla Baker stopped at the bottom of the flight of cement stairs that rose up to the double gates of Clapham Common Police Station. She put a hand on the gleaming steel rail and took a few seconds to compose herself. As her pregnancy had progressed, so had the shortness of breath on minimal exertion. She had only walked from the car park to the front gate and already her lungs were heaving.
Unconsciously, her hand rose to touch her abdomen. With an effort she put her hand down by her side. It had become a reflex to pass her hand over her belly whenever she was tired or stressed. It was almost as if she wanted to check with baby if he or she was okay, and hopefully not feeling any of her tiredness.
“Give me your hand,” came Detective Inspector Harry Mehta’s voice from above her. Harry’s tall, gangly form was further accentuated by his position on the stairs.
His eyebrows were wrinkled like his forehead muscles, meeting in the middle. His chocolate brown eyes swelled with concern. But most noticeably of all, the preternaturally smooth-cheeked, self-confessed Eliot Ness of Clapham Police Station had stubble on his cheeks. He had been up the last two nights helping Arla get from the bathroom back to bed because she had a vomiting bug. Arla tried to make light of how much he fussed over her, but it left her with a glowing warmth inside. Even if it made the handsome devil look scruffier than usual.
She frowned at him and swatted his hand away. “I’m pregnant, Harry, not disabled. At this rate, you’ll be getting me a stair lift soon.”
The corners of Harry’s full lips bent downwards. Even at that angle his mouth looked sexy. Despite all the aches and troubles of pregnancy so far, she had to admit their sex life had attained a new level of heat in the last seven to eight months. Heat that coloured her cheeks now as she gazed at him.
Quickly, she averted her eyes and started climbing the stairs, one at a time.
They walked together as the double doors slid open, Harry slowing his pace for her. He said, “On the bright side, if you’re going down the hill you could just roll down like a ball.”
“Better not stand in my way, then,” she retorted, “or I’ll knock you over.”
A big, slow grin filled Harry’s face. It was so infectious she could feel the tug at the corners of her own lips. He leaned over her, no longer smelling of his expensive aftershave, but the mingled smell of bedsheets and clothes, a strange homely odour that she was starting to enjoy.
“Hey, it was me who knocked you up, remember? So, you can’t really—”
Her jaws snapped together as her dark eyes blazed at him. “Shut up, Harry,” she hissed. She glanced to her left where the front counter was being manned by Robinson, the duty sergeant. He was paying them no attention, his head lowered over a book on the table.
Ignoring the warmth fanning her face, Arla left Harry and strolled to the desk. Robinson looked up as she approached. He was a broad-shouldered Afro-Caribbean man, his curly black hair glinting under the bright halogen lights overhead. Curiosity sparked in his features.
“You here already, guv? Heard you weren’t well and not coming in till later.”
Arla waved a hand in the air. “Nah, I’m fine. How was the night?”
Robinson shrugged. “Usual. A few drunks, a few drug dealers. No dead bodies—not yet, anyway.”
Arla grinned and rapped her knuckles on the wooden counter. “Let’s hope it stays that way as well.”
“Take it easy, guv.”
“I’m good, as you can see. But thanks.”
She walked towards the bulletproof glass doors that led to the inside of the station. Harry pressed his fob key on the digital keypad and followed her.
“You know what bugs me?” she asked Harry as they walked down the corridor. Uniformed police officers and plainclothes detectives came in and out of offices. They nodded at Arla and she greeted them back.
Harry asked, “What?” He glanced down at her, a wary look on his face.
“Men assume we become delicate when pregnant. Nothing could be further from the truth. I need to be as strong as ten men in order to produce another body from my own.” Her chin lifted and her nostrils flared as she stared at Harry, waiting for his response. Harry merely shrugged.
“If you say so.”
Patently, that was not the right answer. Arla crinkled her nose and her eyebrows lowered.
“Even you can do better than that, Harry,” she said as they walked into the open-plan detectives’ office. Several heads lifted as the couple entered. Officers of various grades were starting to drift in. Lisa Moran, Arla’s trusted detective sergeant, rose from her desk and approached them. Lisa was a freckle-faced blonde with her hair always tied back in a ponytail. Her cherub cheeks were rosier than normal as she flashed Arla a bright smile. Her eyes snaked to Arla’s bump.
“How are you feeling?” Lisa asked. She had a five-year-old boy herself.
Arla rolled her eyes. “I’m fine, okay? Don’t worry, I’m not ready to drop just yet. Still another seven weeks to go.”
“Six,” Harry corrected.
“Whatever.
” Arla waved at Rob Pickering, her other erstwhile detective sergeant, and Roslyn May, a new sergeant who had joined them from the Gloucestershire Constabulary. Then she strode towards her office, Harry and Lisa trailing behind her.
Arla adjusted the framed photo on her desk, setting it next to the laptop. The photo showed Arla when she was eleven and her sister Nicole, aged sixteen. Nicole had a possessive arm around Arla’s shoulder, both of them lit up by a forgotten summer sun, an eternal glow encased within the frame of the photo. An image, and memory, that remained constant in Arla’s life.
Arla fired up the laptop and went through the emails. Harry excused himself and went to his desk, just outside her room.
Ever since she had become DCI, Arla received emails from the six police stations under her command. Today was no different. In addition, she was the duty senior investigating officer for the week. The duty SIO took responsibility for new serious crimes, including homicides.
She spent the next half an hour responding to the emails and arranging meetings. With rising rank came increasing bureaucracy and she hated it now more than ever. Box-ticking and paper-pushing had never been her style, but she had to do it. The phone on the table rang and she snatched it up without checking the number.
“Yes?” she asked in a sharp voice.
The ominous rumble of her boss, Commander Wayne Johnson, came down the line. “It’s me.”
Instantly, Arla was attentive. Johnson wouldn’t call her if it wasn’t something important.
“Just wanted to check you were in,” Johnson said, then paused. “How are you feeling?”
“Well enough to be at my desk, sir. But thank you for asking.”
Johnson made a guttural noise in his throat, which generally conveyed agreement. “See you in a jiffy.”
CHAPTER 4
In five minutes there was a knock on Arla’s door, then Johnson poked his head in. He was a bear of a man, standing taller than everyone else in the building. His slate grey eyes were sharp and quick and his shaven cheeks had started to sag now that he was in his late fifties. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, which meant no planned visits to HQ up in central London, or media interviews. He glanced at Arla, said hello, then sat down opposite her in a chair that creaked noisily.
