by ML Rose
“That would be great, thank you. Is it possible for us to take another look upstairs before we leave?”
Jeremy hesitated for a few seconds, then nodded. “I need to check where my wife is,” he said quietly.
“We do not wish to disturb her. I just want to have a look at the nursery and the bathroom before we leave.”
“Becky said that you suspect the intruder came in through the bathroom?”
“That’s just a suggestion at this stage, Mr Stone. We don’t know for sure and things will become clearer in due course of time.”
Harry took down the details of the remote CCTV provider, and they followed Jeremy. The kitchen door was open but Arla couldn’t see anyone inside. The house was silent as they climbed the massive staircase. They reached the first landing and Arla stopped. The staircase divided into its left and right section here. She knew the nursery room lay on the right. She turned to Jeremy.
“Would you mind if we checked the Wi-Fi and router in your study? It would be good to take down the serial number and make, to make sure it wasn’t tampered with.”
Jeremy blinked at them for a few seconds, shifting on his feet. Then he shrugged. “I can’t see why not. But I very much doubt anyone’s been inside—” He stopped abruptly and touched the back of his scalp. “Oh, I see.”
“If an intruder did enter this morning, they could have gone into your study while you were down in the kitchen,” Arla said softly.
Jeremy climbed up the shorter left staircase and spoke to them over his shoulder. “It wouldn’t give them much time. Don’t think I was in the kitchen for any more than ten minutes.”
Arla paused for breath on the upper landing. When she walked again, she noted the rooms with shut doors. The corridor curved around and they stopped in front of a room. Jeremy held the door open for them.
The room was large, with windows facing the front garden and street. A large mahogany table held two computer screens, a laptop, and a desktop computer. Papers were strewn over the desk and on a wall hung whiteboard lists scrawled with a blue marker pen. Stacks of film industry magazines lay on the floor.
“Apologies for the mess,” Jeremy stated, striding to the desk. He knelt against the wall and Harry followed suit. He wrote down the name and make of the broadband router, then did the same with the laptop and desktop computer. Then he looked around the four corners of the ceiling.
“You don’t have CCTV in any of the rooms, do you?”
“No, we don’t. It’s only in the hallways, and outside.”
They thanked him, then followed him into the hall as he led the way back to the nursery room. Arla stopped in front of the bathroom and she followed Harry when he stepped inside. It was cold, she noted with satisfaction, as the window was still open. Jeremy pointed to it and rubbed his shoulders. “When can we shut that window?”
“If we can get the forensic officers to come in today, then we can shut it as soon as they have taken samples of the boot print.”
“In that case, the sooner the better.”
Harry walked over to the window and took another look.
Arla walked out and noted the nursery door had been shut. With a gloved hand, she depressed the door handle and walked in. The room was blazing hot and the window was closed.
Her brows lowered as annoyance flashed across her face. “Who shut that window?”
Behind them, a female voice said, “I did.”
Arla turned, along with the two men. Rebecca Stone was standing there, still in her dressing gown. She leaned forward slightly and her arms were crossed on her chest, like she was holding herself. She hadn’t brushed her hair and still wore bathroom slippers.
“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t stand leaving it open.” She shivered, although it was warm.
Arla softened her tone. “That’s all right. We will come back to take a look here again. I thought you were resting.”
“I heard you coming. I was trying to rest, but it’s not easy.”
Arla nodded at her, then gestured towards Harry. He shook hands with Jeremy and they walked down the stairs.
CHAPTER 16
As Harry turned the wheel of the BMW, a drizzle started. That silvery, almost soundless rain that drowsed across the concrete blocks and tarmac of this crowded furnace called London, smothering its secrets, hushing its million voices.
Arla watched the huge mansions slip past, and then bare-boned woods took over both sides of the road, the trees wearing a melting crown of white snow.
“Not what he seems, is he?” Harry remarked.
Arla tore her gaze from the window and watched Harry’s unusual stubble for a few seconds. Unusual for a man whose cheeks were normally smooth enough for flies to slip on. She grinned as she thought of the changes fatherhood would bring to Harry. He glanced at her.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“About Jeremy Stone?” She batted her eyelashes. “I could say the same thing about you.”
He frowned, staring at the luminous crimson brake lights of the car in front. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s what sleep deprivation does to you. And baby hasn’t even arrived yet.”
They had deliberately kept the gender unknown. During the latest ultrasound scan, Arla had asked the sonographer to not tell them. Harry said he didn’t mind either way, but she suspected he wanted a boy. For her, it didn’t matter. It really didn’t, and she just wanted the day to arrive.
With an effort she turned her mind to the case at hand.
“Yes, Jeremy is interesting,” she conceded. “On first impression he looked like a character from Revenge of the Nerds. But he’s sharp as a flint. And, for obvious reasons, more in control than his wife.”
“Is he a suspect?”
“Everyone is, at this stage. He was alone for most of the morning, and the only person who was on the upper floor with the baby when it happened. Rebecca was downstairs.”
“But he didn’t come in through the bathroom window and leave via the nursery.” It was a statement from Harry, not a question.
“No. I doubt he had the time. But he could have let the intruder in by opening the bathroom window.”
Harry indicated and turned left, finding a rare break in the traffic. The engine growled as the BMW leapt forward.
“Why would he kidnap his own son? There’s no motive.”
“True. But did you see the way he acted when Rebecca came up? I didn’t like it.”
“He was cold and distant, yes. But we haven’t seen them interact much. This is a stressful time for them. People can act strange.”
The BMW was crawling along Clapham High Street, cars stuck to each other like the bumpers and fenders possessed magnetic fields. Harry turned the flashing blue lights on and beeped on his horn. A couple of the cars swerved away, opening up some space.
“I still don’t buy his excuse for the run. Why take the time to get changed into running gear? Why not just put on snow boots and go out?”
Harry got through the phalanx of barricading cars and finally entered the winding inner-city roads that led to Clapham Police Station. The scanner at the rear gates read the registration number of the BMW and the steel humps dropped down with a thunk. The gates slid open and he drove in.
He parked right outside the covered sliding doors, where a couple of detective sergeants and uniformed officers stood, smoking.
“Hello guv,” one of the detective sergeants said to Arla as she went in. Arla nodded, her mind on other matters. Harry caught up with her at the coffee machine. She picked up the mocha that spluttered out of the nozzle and sniffed it dubiously. Smelled close enough, but the taste, she knew from previous experience, was another issue entirely. Harry got a black Americano, because, Arla told him, he needed to watch his weight.
“Look who’s talking,” he smirked, then his chestnut browns swirled with warm affection. Her eyes slipped down to his fulsome lips. No man, she had long thought, should have lips as nice as Har
ry’s. Sudden desire pooled low in her belly and her lips parted. She looked away from him swiftly, taking a deep breath. Her hormones were running riot again.
They walked past notices stuck on wall boards, bearing photos of wanted criminals, graphs and pie charts of crime rates in south London.
“Call Parmentier and put him through. Then get the others in my room,” Arla said as they walked into the open-plan detectives’ office. Harry gave her a mock salute and sat down heavily at his desk, reaching for the phone to call Derek Parmentier, the head of SOC.
Arla entered her office and closed the door. The stack of papers to the right of her desktop had grown in size and she groaned audibly. She called Johnson, who answered on the first ring, like he had been waiting for her.
“Arla, is that you?” Johnson’s low, deep rumble floated down the line.
“Yes sir, it is. We went back, as you know. I got a statement off Jeremy Stone. But more importantly, he has agreed to Scene of Crime attending the premises.”
“He has?” Johnson sounded surprised.
“Yes. Can I now log a PCN, and make this into a formal police inquiry?” Arla knew that when she activated the normal channels, she would have more manpower at her disposal. She could ask a squad of uniforms to comb the area around Rebecca’s house.
“No,” Johnson said firmly, quashing her hopes. “Not yet, in any case. This is still an informal missing persons inquiry.”
Irritation surged in Arla’s veins. “A missing baby is not the same as a missing person, sir. We are treating this as a crime, and it’s a waste of time and resources if we do not elevate this to serious crime status.”
Johnson was silent for a few seconds, breathing heavily down the line. “I spoke to Mr Cummings, the crime commissioner. As you know, he’s close friends with Grant Stone. The Stone family want as much discretion as possible.”
Arla tried to keep her voice down and failed. “I need a bigger team, sir. We need statements from both sides of the family and past acquaintances. Right now, we are progressing at a snail’s pace. This is a Mickey Mouse operation—”
“Arla.” Johnson raised his voice a notch. It was a clear warning for her to shut up. She knew she should bite that hot-tempered tongue of hers, but the words slipped out before she could stop them.
“We can’t keep doing favours for important people, sir. The crime commissioner is a member of the public, just like anyone else. I have to tick a hundred boxes every day to make sure we get regulatory approval for our cases, but for these people we have to bend over backwards? If the IPCC ever got wind of this—” She cut herself short, realising her error.
The Independent Police Complaints Commission (IPCC) investigated complaints about the police from members of the public as well as whistle-blowers.
Arla squeezed her eyes shut. Her nails drummed on the table and frustration fumed inside, suffocating her throat. She stood and looked out the window at the rain-swept car park. She didn’t want to be a part of this. She wanted to do things by the book, using the normal channels. But she also knew that, with her maternity leave approaching, there were people like Justin Beauregard waiting in the wings to take her place.
She had spoken her mind, foolishly. If she did tell the IPCC about this, they would launch a full investigation. No one wanted that. At the same time, she was sick and tired of doing Johnson’s dirty work for him.
“Arla, I would advise you to consider what you’re saying very carefully,” Johnson said in a quiet voice. He paused, and the silence lengthened between them.
She knew diplomacy wasn’t her forte. She was headstrong, emotional. But as she had risen up the ranks, becoming the chief detective over five stations, she had learned to control her nature, even if it meant turning a blind eye to matters like this.
Still, she could only be herself. She couldn’t be a sycophant of the assistant commissioners, obeying their whims because she wanted to get in the boardroom one day herself. It was a delicate balancing act.
“All I’m saying, sir, is that I need more resources. You know that better than I do.” She paused, knowing her words would hit home.
Allocating resources to a case in these times of budget cuts was done with great care. It was probably one of the reasons, she reflected, that Johnson wasn’t giving her much leeway.
“No formal inquiry. Do what you can, and send me a report by the end of today. Then I will decide. I should also remind you that Deputy Assistant Commissioner Deakins is taking an interest in this case. Please don’t let us down.” Johnson hung up.
Arla stared at the receiver for a few seconds, her heart sinking. She put the phone back on its cradle slowly, wincing when she heard the soft click. That was all she needed.
Nick Deakins was no fan of hers, and she had sparred with him on multiple cases over the years. Old memories returned as she stared out the window at the forest of council estates that surrounded the station.
A police van rolled up to the rear gates, then came inside. A squad of uniformed officers emerged from the van and stretched, some of them pulling out cigarettes to smoke.
She stared at them enviously. At the beginning of her career she had been a uniformed officer for two years, before going down the detective training route. She had no worries then, no one to keep happy, no responsibilities. Unconsciously, her hand went to her bump and slid down its smooth, rotund expanse. A smile lit up her face as she felt baby kick, then her jaw hardened.
It sounded strange, but what she did now didn’t just affect her anymore. It also concerned the life growing inside her, a baby who would one day blossom into a human being.
What sort of a world would she leave behind for her child?
A world free of evil was too much to ask for. But free of corruption where she worked? That could be achieved. And she could stamp out as much evil as she could.
She loved her job too much to give it up. And yet, she would have to balance motherhood with it. This thought had occupied her mind a lot recently. She looked to the future with hope and trepidation. At least initially, her job would lose out. She didn’t mind that. She couldn’t wait for motherhood to begin. But she also knew that after one year, she would have to return to work close to full time, in order to pay back her generous maternity leave.
She sat down, took out her diary, and jotted down, in bullet points, what the rest of the day’s plan of action was. She stared gloomily at the stack of papers piled on her desk. It was Wednesday and she had four more days before she could hand over the duty SIO cases. She picked up the phone and rang Johnson.
“Sir, it’s me. I’m the duty SIO for the rest of the week, but I need to concentrate on this case. Could you please hand over the on-call role for the rest of this week to Justin?”
Johnson was silent for a while as he considered her request. “Very well. I will inform him.” He hung up. Arla grinned and punched the air with her fist. It was a small victory, but it made her feel good. If Justin wanted to step into her shoes, let him take the stress off her shoulders right now.
Her phone rang again, and it was Harry. “Got Parmentier on the line. Shall I put him through?”
“Yes please. Thanks, Harry.”
Many years ago, Parmentier had gravitated down south from Lincolnshire in North England, and he still retained his northern accent. “Hello, is that the queen of the serious crime unit?”
“It is, and I hope you’re kneeling on the floor.”
“I would, but I’m at a crime scene and might disturb evidence. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’ve got a special case for you—and I mean, just you.”
“I’m at the scene of a robbery, Arla. Next up is a house that was used as a drug den. I’m spread thin, and there’s work coming out of my ears.”
“This takes priority, and I have orders from the top. And I repeat, it’s for your ears only.”
“Hang on, let me go outside.” There was a pause as Parmentier spoke to someone and Arla waited. “Okay, I�
��m back. Don’t tell me you found a dead body in Johnson’s house?”
Arla laughed at that. Parmentier, like many others in the department, enjoyed a joke at their boss’s expense.
“It’s not far off. The case itself is quite distressing.” She told Parmentier in detail about Rebecca and the missing baby.
“I know you can’t do this alone, Derek. But please don’t take any more than one member of staff. Someone senior, whom you trust. My team are sworn to secrecy and from now on, so are you.”
“So, where do I upload my findings?”
“For now, you don’t upload anything. Report back to me.”
“Hang on,” Parmentier argued. “You said there was a boot print on the bathroom windowsill, right? I need to get our forensic gait analyst involved. Mary Atkins. She will want to know what’s going on. What do I tell her?”
Arla blew out a frustrated sigh. “Just take all the prints and collect any samples you find at the site. I’m not telling you how to do your job, but take photos, get an aerial drone feed as well. Let’s hold back showing the prints to Mary.”
“Only Mary can access the boot-print database.”
“I know that, Derek. For now, please report back to me personally. We will have a better idea of what to do when I have your preliminary report first thing tomorrow morning.”
Parmentier yelped like a teenager. “First thing tomorrow morning? Is that a joke?”
Arla grinned. “Does the queen ever joke? I’m serious. I wanted to send the human DNA samples to the lab before five this evening. Send it as an urgent and we should get a result tomorrow. Put down my name and rank as authorisation.”
“I better get a knighthood for this,” Parmentier grumbled. “Why is this not a formal investigation?”
Arla pressed on her eyeballs gently and slid her fingers down the sides, rubbing them. She wondered how many times she would have to deflect an answer to the same question.
“Please, Derek, do this for me. It’s important.”
