Her Silent Obsession: An addictive and gripping crime thriller (Detective Arla Baker Series Book 6)

by ML Rose

  “I did hear the missus scream. I was in the kitchen, making breakfast. She kept on screaming, so I went up the stairs. She was in the nursery room.” The woman stopped, looking to the ground, her tone faltering. Arla noticed her accent was polished, middle class. No trace of cockney twang.

  “Carry on,” Harry said.

  They were still standing by the door in the hallway. The light was dim and they were speaking in hushed voices. No one had seen the figure slowly come down the stairs.

  “Edna!” A female voice rang out. Miss Mildred startled, and Arla whipped her neck to the left. A woman was standing there, dressed in a red bathrobe. She stared at them for a few seconds, then came down the last few stairs. She walked towards them with measured steps.

  She was in bathroom slippers, and she didn’t need heels. Arla was five feet ten herself and the woman stared directly over her head, towards Harry. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair was straggly, and makeup was absent from her face. She clutched the belt of her bathrobe, and Arla noticed her fingernails were well manicured but not polished.

  She looked pale and withdrawn, dark shadows underneath her eyes, eyelids puffy. None of that detracted attention from the large, shapely eyes, the buttonlike nose, and the high, naturally sculpted cheekbones. No trace of lines on her marble-smooth forehead. Botoxed to high heaven, maybe, but even in this current state, her inner radiance was unmistakable. Her face stirred Arla’s memory. The golden letters RS were sewn on the left breast of the bathrobe.

  The woman’s eyes swept down to the bulge in Arla’s belly. Her lower lip trembled and some of the tightness in her jaw slacked. So did her shoulders, and when her eyes met Arla’s, her cheeks were touched with crimson.

  Arla asked, “Are you Rebecca Stone?”

  The woman cleared her throat. “Yes. Please come this way. Edna, coffee,” she added dismissively.

  Edna—Miss Mildred—nodded and hurried towards the kitchen. Rebecca led them to a room on the left, one of the rooms facing the Common. Rebecca circled around the rectangular table in the middle of the large room, and Arla immediately wondered if Rebecca was the shadow she had seen from the car.

  Harry shut the door behind them. Rebecca turned swiftly when she heard the latch click. Her earlier composure crumbled like old plaster falling off a wall.

  She had the haunted, wide-eyed gaze of a woman driven to the brink of desperation. She gasped heavily and grabbed Arla’s shoulders with hands that were surprisingly strong. Arla stumbled backwards, taken aback by this sudden change. She reminded herself that this woman was an actress, after all.

  “Where’s my baby?” Rebecca asked, her voice breaking. She repeated her question, her sea green eyes boring into Arla’s. Then tears filled her eyes, rolled down her cheeks. Her head lowered, resting on Arla’s chest, and her body shook with sobs. Harry gently separated them, and guided Rebecca into a chair.

  Arla pulled out a packet of tissues and handed one to Rebecca. Her head was still lowered, but she accepted the tissue, then dabbed at her eyes. Arla felt a cold hollow where her heart had been, a chill slowly settling into the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t imagine the terrifying anguish this poor woman was going through. She was no longer a well-known actress and socialite living in a glamorous house. She was a woman whose baby had been snatched. Those few words conjured up a nightmarish hell so dark and absolute it offered no semblance of hope. Arla leaned over and gripped Rebecca’s hand on the table.

  “I’m so sorry. We’ll do all we can to help you, I promise.” She paused and, after an awkward moment, decided to remove her hand. It wasn’t like she knew this woman, and her police instincts told her this was a crime scene and everyone was a suspect until proven innocent.

  “Tell us what happened,” she said.

  Rebecca wiped her cheeks and sniffed. Her voice was tremulous.

  “I didn’t sleep well last night. Reggie kept waking up.” Her throat closed and tears rolled down at the mention of her son’s name. Arla gave her two seconds, glancing up at Harry. He stood there like a statue, his face sad and gaunt.

  She knew he felt the same way as she did. But more importantly, from the nod he gave her, she knew he was on the same page with Rebecca’s response.

  If she had carried on with the fortitude she displayed in the hallway, Arla’s sixth sense would be ringing loudly by now. Instead, Rebecca had broken down and asked for help, which any woman in her situation would do.

  “When Reggie doesn’t sleep well at night, I take him for a walk. In the pram, obviously. That’s what we did this morning.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “To the Common. We followed the path to the bandstand, then came back.”

  The bandstand was a familiar place for Arla, for a dark and gruesome reason. A black shadow reared up from the crevices of her mind, but she stifled it with an effort.

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “No. I don’t . . . I don’t think so, anyway.”

  Arla didn’t miss the hesitation. “Are you sure?”

  Rebecca swallowed and stared down at her hands. “I mean, I was focused on Reggie and walking carefully, so I wasn’t looking out for anyone.” She paused and Arla waited.

  “Do you always follow the same route?”

  Rebecca nodded.

  “What time did you go out?”

  “Seven-thirty this morning.”

  Arla wrote the time down in the black diary she had opened up on the table. “And what time did you get back home?”

  “I would say eight-thirty. Or thereabouts. I only remember looking at the clock when I put Reggie in the nursery and came downstairs to the kitchen.”

  Arla was watching Rebecca, and noticed the edges of her mouth tighten up, compressing her nose and lips.

  “Anything else?”

  Rebecca didn’t answer; she was still staring into the middle distance. “Rebecca?” Arla asked.

  The woman turned her eyes to Arla. The green depths were flat, shallow. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

  Arla nodded in sympathy. “I know this is hard for you. But the more detail you can give us now, the easier it will be for us to help you.”

  “After I made my coffee, I was . . . I was standing here.” She pointed to the curtains.

  “Doing what?

  “Looking out the window.”

  Arla looked at Harry and she saw the spark igniting in his chestnut brown eyes. Harry leaned over slightly. “You were in this room? In front of this window?” He turned to stare at the long expanse of the bay window.

  “Yes. And I . . . I thought I saw someone. Standing to one side, on the left. He was opposite our house, near the Common. Then he walked off very quickly.”

  Arla narrowed her eyes. “Do you think he was watching your house? Was he standing directly opposite?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “No. Like I said, he was standing to one side. That was to not make it obvious. Because I’ve seen him before.”

  Harry asked, “Is that why you were looking out the window?”

  Rebecca nodded. The knot of muscles on Arla’s forehead cleared and she sat back in the chair. She gripped her black pen tightly, and paused over the notebook. “Can you describe this person?”

  Rebecca blinked. “He was tall, but not excessively. About six feet. He wore a white winter coat with a fur-lined hood.”

  “Where else have you seen him before?”

  “At the bus stop. He was waiting there, and I was walking past with the pram.”

  Arla was scribbling away in her notebook. “When was this?” Harry asked.

  “A few days ago. In the morning.” Rebecca gripped her forehead with long, white fingers. “I can’t remember the exact day, sorry. It’ll come to me later.”

  “Don’t worry,” Arla said, trying to hide the bubble of excitement blooming inside her. It was rare indeed to get a positive lead so early in the case.

  “Did this man ever try to approach you?” Harry asked.

  Rebe
cca shook her head. “No. He always covered his face when I looked in his direction.”

  “Did he remind you of anyone?” Arla pressed. “Someone you knew before you met your husband, for instance. Or someone from work.”

  Rebecca bit down on her full, pink lower lip. Her hands twisted on her lap as she stared at them. “No. Can’t say he did.”

  “Okay. What happened after that?”

  “I went upstairs to check on Reggie. The window was open, and it faces the garden. His cot was empty.” Her lower lip trembled again and her eyes closed.

  “You’re doing very well, Rebecca. This must be very difficult for you. But please carry on.”

  Rebecca didn’t open her eyes. “I looked out the window. I saw nothing but snow in the woods. Nothing.” Her eyes opened and she stared ahead with dead, dull eyes. Her face was blank and she breathed heavily.

  “Who did you call for help?” Harry asked in a little voice. The woman didn’t glance at Harry. She didn’t move at all.

  “Edna came upstairs. My husband came out of his room. I’m not sure what happened after that. Think my husband called his uncle, who called the police.”

  Arla asked, “You didn’t call the police yourself?”

  Rebecca’s swollen eyelids fluttered and her attention snapped back to Arla. “I wanted to. But I also didn’t want the whole world to know. You know what the media are like.”

  “I understand.” Arla closed her notebook. “Can you please take us upstairs?”

  CHAPTER 7

  The first floor had a balcony that circled the entire perimeter. Halfway up the staircase there was a landing, then the staircase divided into right and left. Rebecca went up the left staircase and farther down the wide hallway. She came to a door that had the words ‘Reginald Stone’ written on it in blue wooden letters, stuck on to the wood. She opened it, then stood in silence for a while, like she was afraid to go inside.

  When she stepped in, Arla and Harry followed. The first thing Arla noticed was that the window had been closed. It was a shutter window, done in the Victorian sash window style. The shutters were open and folded on either side and there was a small net curtain attached to the lower sash. The room was large; the walls were painted blue, with white clouds painted on the ceiling. It was a large room, and the crib stood to one side, against the wall opposite the window. Built-in wardrobes occupied the space behind the cot.

  “Who closed the window?” Arla asked. Rebecca shook her head.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe my husband.”

  Harry asked, “Where is your husband?”

  “He’s gone for his morning run. He goes every morning at this time, when he’s at home.”

  Arla and Harry looked at each other. What sort of a husband went running at a time like this? Arla turned her attention back to Rebecca, who had caught the glance between the two detectives.

  “Jeremy always goes for a run at this time. He asked me if I was okay, and I said yes.” Her tone was defensive. Arla stared at her for a while, then decided to change the topic for now.

  “Was your son always in this room?”

  “Sometimes he slept with us in the bedroom as well. We have a cot there, too.”

  “I don’t wish to pry, Mrs Stone. But, as you know, this is a crime scene now. We do need to have a look at all the rooms.”

  Rebecca stared at Arla for a few seconds, her face impassive. Then she shrugged. “Sure. Anything that helps you.”

  Harry was standing by the window. Without touching the windowsill he bent lower and gazed out at the garden. Arla joined him. Neither the window frame nor the sill showed any chipped paint, scratches, or any other signs of tampering. The shutters and the frame were painted white. Arla’s practised eyes ran all over the frame, looking closely for smudges of fingerprints. She found nothing. She turned back to the grief-stricken mother.

  “You always kept this window shut, when Reggie was in the room?”

  Rebecca nodded. “Yes.”

  “And like all windows, they can’t be opened from outside?”

  A frown spread on Rebecca’s face. “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure they don’t open from outside.”

  Arla ran her tongue over her lower teeth. “Did you lock the window?”

  Rebecca shook her head, her eyes widening. Arla held out her hand, softening her voice. “No, please don’t worry. I wouldn’t expect you to lock the window when you were in the house.”

  Continuing, she asked, “Are you sure the window was completely shut when you left the room?”

  Rebecca pursed her lips together, deep in thought. “Yes, I am sure. This room is always warm, as you can tell. I don’t want it to get stuffy so I do keep the door open.”

  Arla nodded. “That makes sense.”

  Rebecca leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. Her face was suddenly bone white, eyelids fluttering. Harry crossed the space between them in two steps, grabbing her arm. “Do you need to sit down?”

  Harry pulled up a chair and Rebecca sat down heavily. She rested her forehead on her palm, her spine sagging.

  “Would you like some water?” Harry asked. Rebecca shook her head.

  “No. I’m anaemic from the blood loss during the delivery. That’s why I feel dizzy sometimes.”

  They gave her a few seconds. Harry asked, “Were any of the other windows on this floor open?” Rebecca raised her head, leaning against the wall. She didn’t answer.

  Harry said, “It’s a big house, I get that. I’m only interested in the windows that open to the back. Take the bathroom, for instance. Could that window have been open this morning?”

  Rebecca glanced at him. “Maybe. My husband opens it after he’s had a shower.”

  “How far is the bathroom?” Harry asked.

  “Just to the right, next door.”

  Rebecca rose and as she stepped towards the door, Edna appeared. She bore a tray with three cups of coffee. “Coffee with milk, no sugar,” she said. “I’m sorry, I should have asked how you like it, but I didn’t want to disturb.”

  Arla and Harry politely declined, thanking both Edna and their hostess. They stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked the giant staircase. Rebecca led them to the bathroom and opened the door. The walls of the bathroom were made of pure stone, creating a stunning effect that made it seem as if they were stepping into a cave.

  The floor was crafted of polished chintz tiles, their black surface reflecting the spotlights flashing from the ceiling. The double shower was to the right, wide enough to fit a single bed in. There was also a Jacuzzi, a toilet, and a double sink with two sets of taps.

  The mirror above the sinks took up an entire wall and Arla could see her whole length reflected in it. A compliment hovered on the tip of her tongue, but professional etiquette dictated that she keep it to herself. The window that faced the back was above the toilet and Harry strode over to it. The window was indeed open and a draft of frigid air was coming through it. Instantly, Arla’s senses were on alert.

  “Has this bathroom been used this morning?”

  “Our bedrooms are en-suite, so we don’t use this bathroom very often. But yes, my husband did use it this morning. I saw him coming out.”

  “Does he always leave the window open this wide?”

  Rebecca shrugged. Harry gestured to her and Arla shuffled closer. Harry took out a pen and pointed it at the open windowsill. A boot print was clearly visible. Arla tried to fight down the nuclear-powered butterflies flapping their wings in her stomach. Not only did they have a suspect, now they also had a method of entry. Which only left a route of exit. The abductor would be carrying a baby, so the exit route was just as important as the entry.

  She cautioned her mind, pulling on her neurons like a kite-flyer in high wind. She had a habit of getting excited with new evidence, but something was wrong here. Something she couldn’t put a finger on, and it scratched away insistently at the back of her head.

  “Take photos. I want Scene of Crime down here as
soon as possible.” She turned to Rebecca. “The bathroom and Reggie’s room are not to be entered anymore. There will be evidence here we need to collect.”

  Rebecca nodded, observing them. “Who is ‘we’?”

  Arla stared at her for a few seconds, reminded of Johnson’s orders. No SOC. No Forensics, or anyone else. Harry cleared his throat, and she glanced at him.

  “Mrs Stone, I know you have suffered an unimaginable trauma,” Harry said, his voice warm and low, solicitous. There was even a baritone timbre to it, Arla noted with amusement.

  “But without specialist, highly trained forensics officers, we might never catch the person who took your son.”

  Rebecca frowned, then squeezed her eyes shut. A wave of indecision spasmed across her face as her nostrils flared and her lips downturned. Then she shook her head.

  “Please, no,” she whispered. “Word will spread. The press know where I live. You can’t imagine what they’ll do to me.”

  Arla said, “I can imagine. Believe me, we know how intrusive the media can be. Especially the legions of reporters who live on social media.”

  She stopped. Explaining the nuances of a complex case like this to Rebecca would take time, and not be useful at all. Arla was riven with conflict, but had no choice. Not involving SOC was like tying her hands behind her back. There was the wider implication of what kind of mess she was stepping into—and what this wealthy, influential family could do if she got things wrong. Or didn’t get results. Rich people had a need to blame someone when things went wrong. Quite literally, she was helping Johnson out on a personal request.

  Was that a correct, legal use of police resources?

  Her attention was wrenched away by a soft, imploring voice.

  “Please,” Rebecca said. “Just do the best you can.”

  Arla held eyes with Rebecca for a few seconds, then nodded curtly. She walked past her, out of the bathroom.

  She strode into Reggie’s room and went over to the window. Without touching the window she tried to make out what lay directly beneath. Breath caught in her chest. She could see the parapet of a flat roof. How hadn’t she noticed that before?