by ML Rose
There was another knock on the door and Harry entered.
Johnson said, “I called Detective Inspector Mehta.”
Harry leaned his never-ending shoulders against the door jamb, crossing his arms across his wide chest and one ankle over the other. Johnson half-turned in his seat and glared at him.
“Sit down, Harry.”
Harry’s forehead muscles contracted but he knew better than to argue with the big boss. Commander Johnson, as he liked to be called nowadays, was a straight-talking, no-nonsense man, unless it came to buttering up his superiors.
Harry sat down promptly, raising his eyebrows at Arla.
Johnson asked, “Are you on Instagram?”
“I am, actually,” Arla said, narrowing her eyes at him. “Why is that important?”
Johnson took out his phone, scrolled to a page, then slid it across the table to Arla. Harry got up from his seat and leaned over the table. Arla angled the camera so that he could see.
The Instagram account appeared to be that of a celebrity called Rebecca Stone. Arla couldn’t remember where she had seen Rebecca before, but for some reason the bronze-skinned, long-legged, chestnut-haired beauty looked familiar.
She frowned, scrolling down the list of images showing Rebecca applying her makeup, educating her fans about how to pose for the perfect selfie, even having dermal filler injected into her upper lip. More recent photos saw her posing with a new-born baby in the comfort of her home. Then it hit her. She lowered the phone and jerked her head straight, to find Johnson looking at her expectantly.
“Chelsea Town Life?” Arla said, referring to a popular night-time TV drama. She was no expert on it, having caught only a couple of episodes. But the stars of the show had received numerous awards and their faces were plastered across glossy magazines.
“Yup, that’s right. Her name is Britney Kemp in the show. Real name is Rebecca Stone.”
Arla already had a sinking feeling in her stomach. “Did something happen to her?”
Johnson’s cheeks seemed to sag lower, and his grey eyes dulled. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Rebecca Stone’s baby disappeared this morning.”
There was silence for a few seconds. The sinking feeling was clutching at Arla’s heart, pulling it down. “Her baby?” she whispered.
Harry turned to face Johnson. “Nothing’s been reported. We asked the duty sergeant.”
Johnson settled back further in his chair, which wasn’t easy, given his ample bulk. The chair creaked alarmingly. Johnson rubbed his cheek and glanced from Harry to Arla.
Arla’s stomach was tightening into a knot, not a pleasant sensation given her current condition. She could guess what was on Johnson’s mind, and she came out with it.
“Did the family call you?”
The corners of Johnson’s lips turned downwards as his bushy eyebrows met in the middle. “She’s married to Jeremy Stone. He’s a film producer and also the nephew of Grant Stone.”
Harry startled, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Pop star Grant Stone?”
Arla’s jaw was hanging open and she snapped it shut. “Wow. Really?”
“Jeremy Stone is Grant‘s only nephew.” Johnson shifted in his seat, then flexed his neck once. His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed. “Grant Stone knows Mr Cummings, who’s the Member of Parliament in our area. It’s Mr Cummings who called me this morning.”
Arla nodded, not surprised by the information. The famous and wealthy always had political connections. Wealthy backers were useful to politicians but famous ones came in even more handy when the time was right. Like election time.
“Let me guess,” Arla said. “Mr Cummings requested you to keep it hush-hush, not to file a police criminal notice.”
Johnson passed a hand over his face. “Along those lines.”
He raised his eyebrows at Arla and went silent. Arla narrowed her eyes as a sense of unease crinkled at the corners of her mind. She knew Johnson well. He was sitting very still, shoulders slumped, observing her closely. After all these years of working with him she could read his body language perfectly. Johnson was hiding something.
She didn’t waste any time. “What else, sir? We might as well know now.”
Johnson pressed his lips together, then blew out his cheeks.
“Mr Cummings is also the new crime commissioner at the Council.”
Arla crinkled her nose, as if she was trying to get a whiff of something fishy. She knew that the Council was essentially the local government. But the majority of funding for the police came directly from the state.
“Since when does the Council have a crime commissioner?” Harry asked, glancing at her. They had worked so long together she often thought Harry could read her mind.
“Since the special levy was introduced.”
The knot of muscles on Harry’s forehead cleared. “Ah, you mean that 30 per cent of our funding that comes from local councils. Mr Cummings is in charge of that?”
Johnson nodded.” But that’s obviously beside the point,” he said hurriedly, noting the scepticism on Arla’s face. “The important thing is we have a missing baby.”
“So, the fact that Mr Cummings called you up himself is beside the point, is it?” Arla asked, raising her eyebrows. She watched impassively as Johnson’s jaws hardened and his nostrils flared.
Arla had a glum satisfaction that her hunch had been correct. Johnson’s dog-eared tactic of kissing politically important butt cheeks was becoming depressingly familiar. She waited, braced for the worst.
“Of course it is.”
Harry asked, “And I guess you want answers before the media get wind of this, right?”
“Yes,” Johnson snapped. “We’re dealing with class-A celebrities here. Can you imagine what’ll happen if social media gets hold of this?”
Arla had thought of this already. Never mind Rebecca Stone—her husband’s uncle, Grant Stone, was one of the biggest rock stars in the UK. He’d also made it big in America, after splitting from the boy band that had made him famous. He was the Rod Stewart of the streaming generation, his songs downloaded more than Madonna’s. His name and face were instantly recognisable.
She tapped Johnson’s phone, which still lay on her desk, and thought aloud.
“Rebecca’s stopped making posts for the last week. Which makes sense as she has a new baby.”
She pursed her lips together. She would be in the same position in six to seven weeks’ time. A wave of incredulity hovered over her like a rain cloud. It was sheer coincidence this case had just landed in her lap. A sense of dread snaked up her spine, making her shiver. She certainly didn’t want her new-born to be abducted. Her heart twisted as she thought of Rebecca Stone and what the poor woman must be going through. She closed her eyes briefly, focusing.
“What time was the missing baby noticed?”
“At eight forty-five this morning.”
Harry lifted his hand and made a show of looking at his watch. Arla shook her head. That Rolex Submariner was his pride and joy. Typical man.
“It’s ten o’clock now. That was quick.”
“Apparently, the husband, Jeremy, heard his wife’s screams. He wanted to call the police, but she was afraid of the publicity. So he called his famous uncle to see if he had any contacts.”
“Do we know anything else?”
“Rebecca had come back from a walk in Clapham Common, with the baby. She put the baby upstairs, but when she went up to check, he wasn’t there.”
“How long was she away from the baby?”
Johnson shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s why we need a statement.”
“So, famous rock star calls his friend Mr Cummings, who calls you?” Arla said, leaning back in her chair.
“Yes,” Johnson said shortly.
“And because you want to keep Mr Cummings happy, I guess we need to get cracking immediately.” The words slipped out of Arla’s mouth before she could stop them.
Johnson’s spade-l
ike hands became fists and the knuckles turned white. He raised his voice.
“Arla!”
They stared at each other for a few seconds, neither backing down. Then Johnson blinked and lowered his head.
“Just get on with it. I need some answers by tomorrow.” He stood slowly, joints popping. His eyes softened as he looked down at her.
It was Arla’s turn to look away, because she knew he would ask about her health. Despite all the fire and brimstone that surrounded their professional relationship, Johnson was also the one who had known her the longest. He knew about Nicole, and her parents. His concern for her welfare was genuine.
“I don’t want to put you under stress,” Johnson said, his voice now a couple of octaves lower. “Are you sure you can handle this?”
“If I couldn’t, then I wouldn’t be here, sir,” Arla said. She stood to emphasise the point, but also to relieve the pain she got in her back from sitting for long periods. There was a rolling in her gut, and a smile crossed her face as she felt her baby kick inside. She rested a hand on her bump.
She found Harry staring at her intently, and when their eyes met, his face dissolved into a knowing smile. Harry couldn’t get enough of putting his ear to her tummy or trying to feel some of the baby’s movements. He was eager to become a dad.
Johnson observed them quietly for a while. “I had just started my first DI job when my eldest daughter, Kiara, was born,” he said. “It’s a tough time, but also the most memorable.”
He smiled encouragingly. Arla couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Johnson smile. The tense lines around his mouth dissolved and, for a few moments, he looked like a completely different person.
“Thank you, sir,” Arla said. She meant it. Harry muttered the same.
Johnson shrugged. “To be honest, I expected nothing less of you. But I know how you get when you’re on a case. Just make sure you look after both of you.” He indicated her bump.
He smiled again and for some stupid reason, Arla felt terribly emotional. Sudden saline drops bulged at the back of her eyes and she swallowed hard, blinking furiously. She turned her back to Johnson, looking out the window.
Harry straightened. “I’ll send a report to your desk first thing tomorrow, sir.”
Johnson nodded. Arla cleared her throat. “I need permission to see the victim’s family, take a statement, and have a look around the crime scene. We have to get SOCO down there as well.”
Johnson shook his head. “For now, this stays between the three of us.”
“But sir, that’s impossible. If we want to take fingerprints, hair or skin samples—”
“I know what you mean, Arla, but please don’t involve SOCO till you clear it with me. Keep it between us. Got it?”
Arla knew she wouldn’t win this argument. “As you wish, sir.”
Johnson held out his phone and Harry scribbled down the address and phone number they needed. When Johnson left, Arla shook her head at Harry.
“Can’t believe I have to search for a missing baby before mine’s even born.”
CHAPTER 5
Arla waited at the rear entrance of the police station, covered by the portico. A light drizzle had started. Harry strode out briskly in the rain, heading for the unmarked black BMW in the carpool. He walked with his shoulders hunched forward, hands thrust into his pockets. Arla knew he was itching for a smoke but over the last week he’d been good. He’d stuck to only three cigarettes a day, which was a huge improvement. Harry could finish a pack of twenty every day, easily.
It was strange to think how Harry was changing. On top of the two-day stubble on his cheeks, his shirt was creased. Arla smiled to herself. She wasn’t sure if she was changing too. She was excited, elated, apprehensive—all at the same time. Obviously, her body was changing dramatically. But her mind was still functioning the same way.
She had been hot on the case of a human trafficking ring that worked from Syria to London. The entire operation had taken six months. Although she wasn’t able to go out in the field much, she had worked hard at the office, coordinating the various forces involved.
She wasn’t sure if she was changing as a person. But Harry had remarked that she was quieter, less frantic. She did feel more at peace—a calmness that was comforting, like waking up from a deep, nourishing sleep.
She smiled and walked out into the drizzle as Harry pulled up in the BMW. He hopped out and went around to adjust the passenger seat. Arla sat down, taking her time. Apart from the back pain, getting in and out of the car was what she found most arduous.
The tyres crunched gravel as the rain whispered against the windowpanes. The filamentous, concrete forest of council estates surrounded them as Harry weaved the car through the winding back roads of Clapham. Snow was stacked to one side on the pavement, turning to grey and black mush on the road. Pencil-coloured clouds scuttled between the square windows on high-rise buildings, reaching down long, morose fingers of rain that whispered against the grimy walls, sliding down like rusty teardrops from black barbed-wire fences that surrounded school playgrounds. London, the city of nebulous clouds and evaporating dreams, where millions gathered their little lives, hopes, and loves, and laid them out like so many diamond studs in an inky night sky.
*****
It didn’t take them long to get through the constant knot of South London traffic and head for Baskerville Road, the exclusive address where some of South London’s most eye-catching Victorian mansions were situated. From desperate poverty to opulent wealth in the twinkling of an eye.
Arla watched the imposing detached building from the car. There were two large bay windows on each side of the massive dark-brown wooden door. She detected movement at the far left window. Someone was watching.
“Who’s at home?” she asked Harry.
“Rebecca Stone and her husband. They have a housekeeper as well, and I requested for her to be present. No one else, as far as I know.”
“How long have they lived here for?”
“For the last two years. Before that they lived in her husband’s central London apartment.”
“What about her family?”
“Her mother visits frequently. She has a sister as well, who lives in London. Married with kids. Not sure how close she is to her sister.”
“Look into the mother’s background, and the sister as well. I want to interview them both as soon as possible.”
Harry nodded in silence. Then he scratched the stubble on his chin. “What are you thinking?”
Arla had spent some time on the phone before she left, speaking to a senior officer in charge of child sex abuse offenders.
“No CSA offender has been seen in this area recently. Which means we have a new person.” She shrugged. “Of course, not all offenders report to their key workers on time.”
Arla opened the door and went through the usual struggle of hauling herself out. Harry stood watching, his mouth pinched and tight, eyebrows lowered.
“I’m okay, Harry, don’t worry,” she said, slamming the door shut.
“You don’t look okay,” Harry murmured. “Should just let me help you.”
They walked around the car, Arla stepping carefully on the road. Cars weren’t that frequent here, and the snow had hardened to black ice. She grasped Harry’s elbow when it was offered and together, they made their slow way onto the pavement.
Harry pressed the doorbell and a small, wizened lady opened the massive mahogany doors with some effort. Arla showed her warrant card and the elderly lady stared at it for longer than necessary.
When she spoke, her tone was brisk, her dark blue eyes sharp.
“Detective Chief Inspector Baker, are you expected?”
Harry spoke as he had made the call. “The call was made to Grant Stone, who conveyed the message to Jeremy, Mrs Stone’s husband. Mrs Stone wasn’t picking up the phone up, hence I spoke to Grant. I believe we are expected.”
“I see. Do come in.”
CHAPTER 6
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br /> The hallway they stepped into was wide enough to park two trucks side by side. The floor was made of dark parquet-style wood. A huge, stunning Persian rug in red, white, and gold occupied the centre. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, directly above a glossy, varnished round table that held a giant cactus plant.
Modern art hung on walls which bore a kind of silvery, granulated wallpaper that made Arla want to touch their rough texture. It was a home right out of the glossy celebrity magazines, but the design added a touch of originality. Directly in front of them a massive central staircase went straight up to a landing, then divided into left and right as it rose to the first floor.
The carpeted stairway could easily fit a group of ladies trailing the long hems of their ball gowns. On the ground floor, behind the staircase lay double doors on each side. The doors on the right were partially open and Arla could see an open-plan kitchen. The lights were on, allowing a glimpse of the concertina doors at the back of the kitchen that led to a snow-covered garden.
Arla asked, “Are you the housekeeper?”
The elderly lady nodded in silence, her eyes watchful.
“What’s your name?”
The woman paused before answering. “Miss Mildred.”
“Are you aware of what happened this morning, Miss Mildred?”
She watched them, her eyes flicking from Arla to Harry.
Harry spoke in a soft, reassuring voice. “No one is suspecting you of anything, Miss Mildred. You know we are here for a reason. We just want to know the full details of what happened.”
The elderly woman appeared to relax. Harry did have that effect on women, Arla mused. He called himself a natural charmer. She called him a puppy dog.
