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

by ML Rose

  One of the uniformed sergeants came in, his cheeks ruby red, forehead shining with sweat. “Guv, there’s been a development. A member of the public called. He’s seen the e-fit image of the bearded man with Rhys Mason’s face. He’s a landlord in Tooting, and he rented a room to a man matching it.”

  Arla smacked her palm down on the table in excitement, and tried to stand. A spasm of discomfort rippled across her belly, and she sat back down heavily. Without missing a beat, Harry took over.

  “Send four uniformed units there now. Block off Tooting High Street at both ends. Has MPAS 2 been dispatched?” MPAS stood for Metropolitan Police Air Support Unit, the division that commanded the helicopters used by the London Met.

  The sergeant nodded. “Yes, guv. I’ll pass the message on to Darren Stevens.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Harry said. “Meet you at the back.” He glanced at Arla. “Is that okay?”

  She nodded, then pursed her lips and stomped her foot on the carpet in frustration. She felt a corresponding kick in her tummy and rubbed her distended abdomen with a rueful smile. “It’s not like I can get very far.”

  “No, it’s best if you stay here. Let me know of any developments.”

  “Harry,” she called out as he rushed off. He swivelled his wide shoulders around at the door, his head almost touching the top of the doorframe. His eyebrows rose in a silent question.

  “Be careful,” Arla whispered.

  CHAPTER 47

  Rebecca could hear Rhys’s voice as he paced the factory floor, speaking on the phone. She strained to hear, but the words were muffled.

  She had heard the key turning the lock when he left. The window in this office wasn’t big enough for her to squeeze through, and it faced the inside. The most she could do, even if she broke through it, was end up on the warehouse floor, where Rhys would see her. Not that she could even try, with her hands still tied behind her back. She heard Rhys’s voice fading, along with his footsteps. He had left the light on and she rose, getting close to the window. The blinds were drawn and she couldn’t see much from the sides. The corrugated sheets of steel that made up the walls of the warehouse were visible in the distance. Some old machinery, rusting and disused, lay dumped in the corner. The back door was open, letting in daylight. She couldn’t see nor hear Rhys.

  She sat down by the damaged chair, focusing on the rusty screw sticking out the top of the broken leg. Using her feet, Rebecca pushed the leg against the wall.

  She squatted in an ungraceful fashion in front of the chair leg. Gingerly, she put her tied hands on the screw and pressed hard, gasping sharply when she shifted too far and the screw hit her skin. She stifled a cry of pain when she felt the warm trickle of blood roll down her hand.

  Soon, she was able to begin an up-and-down motion against the screw, ripping at the cloth tying her hands. It was tough going. She knelt on the floor and took a rest. It was still silent outside the room.

  She couldn’t hear Rhys, but that did not mean he wasn’t by the door, listening out for her. She moved to the door and squinted down the keyhole with one eye. As expected, the key obstructed her vision. She looked down the edges of the blind, but she couldn’t see him.

  Well, she had to take her chances. Already when she pulled, she could feel her hands getting looser.

  She squatted over the chair leg and started again. The sharp tip punctured and scarred her skin, but she gnashed her teeth and carried on. Finally, she could wrench one hand free, then both. She rubbed her hands, then pressed the cloth over the bleeding points. Pressure was the best way to stop bleeding, she knew. To her relief, it worked. That meant she hadn’t perforated the important radial artery at the wrist. She put the chair back to its original position, and with grim satisfaction, picked up the fallen chair leg. She considered her possibilities.

  *****

  When the key turned in the lock, Rebecca was sitting in the position where Rhys had left her. His calm and controlled eyes swept around the whole room, then came to rest on her face. Her hands were tied behind her back and her head rested against the wall. She let out a soft moan.

  “My hands hurt, Rhys. They’re numb. Can you please let them loose? Like you said, I can’t escape. There’s nowhere for me to go.”

  Rhys stared at her impassively. He shut the door and stepped inside. He crouched in front of her, his expression a curious mixture of suspicion and a hint of softness.

  Rebecca said, “Please, Rhys. I also need to pee. If you don’t free my hands, I can’t do anything.”

  He continued to stare at her in an unnerving fashion, then his eyes slid down to her chest and then lower down. A light gleamed in his eyes as his lips parted open. Her eyes closed as he reached out a large hand and cupped her breasts, his hands moving over her chest. She averted her face, kept her eyes closed, and breathed heavily. Rhys withdrew his hand slowly and when she looked at him, his eyes were glassy and unfocused. They were alive with lust, and she knew that look.

  “Do you want me, baby?” she purred. “Free my hands. Let me touch you.”

  His eyes widened a fraction, slipping down to her lips. He leaned forward, stretching his hand out. Rebecca’s left hand shot forward, gripping Rhys’s outstretched arm. In her right hand she was holding the chair leg like a spear, the rusty screw its pointed tip. She plunged the chair leg with savage force into Rhys’s face, aiming for his left eye. She hit the target perfectly.

  Her hand jarred from the impact but she gripped the chair leg tightly. There was a horrible squelching sound, a spurt of blood that arced upwards as the screw drove home. Rhys screamed in agony. He slammed back on the floor, and Rebecca jumped on top of him. She pushed the screw in as far as she could, grunting with effort. Sweat blinded her eyes. Rhys howled like a wounded animal and bucked, throwing her off. She rolled off him and ran to the door. He hadn’t locked it. She ran down the short set of stairs, hearing him scream behind her.

  CHAPTER 48

  Rebecca tripped on the stairs and sprawled on the factory floor. She hadn’t realised how weak her legs had become. She picked herself up, then ran across the warehouse. She was heading for the door, which, ominously, was shut. As she reached it, with a sinking heart she realised the door was locked. She pulled at it, making it rattle. But it wouldn’t open. She heard a sound behind her and turned. Rhys stood at the door of the office. His left hand was clasped over the eye, blood streaming down his hand.

  “You bitch!” he bellowed. He clambered down the three stairs and she ran across the floor, to the door at the opposite end. This door was next to a huge rolling gate, which could be moved up and down to let large vehicles in and out of the warehouse. Desperately, she looked for a lever or switch to operate the gate. If there was one, she couldn’t see it.

  She got to the door before he could. To her dismay, a shiny new padlock hung on this one as well. She screamed in frustration and kicked the door. It didn’t budge.

  “Like I said, nowhere to go,” a mocking voice said behind her.

  She whirled around, holding the chair leg up like a weapon. She stabbed it towards him but he dodged the blow easily. They circled around. He moved his hand down from his left eye. It was a ghastly sight, the eye swollen and red, turning black with blood congealed around it and pouring down his left cheek. But he moved easily, with the grace of a boxer, on the balls of his feet. She knew he was in good shape.

  “I shut all the doors so we could have some time together,” Rhys continued in his mocking voice. She swiped the chair leg at him and missed again. She noticed he was coming closer, completely unafraid.

  “Don’t come near me,” she snarled. Rivulets of sweat rolled down her head, blinding her eyes, but she blinked them away, ignoring the salty sting.

  “Yeah? And what will you do?” He smiled.

  In one swift motion he reached for her and she cried out, jabbing the chair leg into his arm. It pierced through the full-sleeve shirt he was wearing, the screw embedding itself in his right forearm. He
bellowed again in pain and fury.

  She tried to wrench the chair leg out, but he had hold of it now. He ripped it from her and flung it away. She launched herself at him, a burst of rage igniting inside her. This bastard had destroyed her child. Her life. He would pay. She wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  Her hands scratched at his face and then closed around his good eye. She ripped at it, digging her nails in. He screamed and a hand closed around her throat, pushing her back. The grip around her throat tightened and she couldn’t breathe. She lifted one knee and smashed it into his groin. The connection was good, and he grunted in pain, leaning forward. The grip on her throat loosened, and she pushed him away.

  She turned and fled. Next to the office, she had seen a metal staircase that went up to a grilled walkway that ran along the perimeter of the warehouse, near the roof. It was high up, and she used her long legs to take three steps at a time. She could see Rhys hobbling down the floor, coming up to the staircase. She looked around in desperation. The walkway didn’t lead to anywhere. It went around all the way, but was punctuated by several staircases at regular intervals that came down to the warehouse floor.

  “You can run, my darling, but you can’t hide,” Rhys called out in a high-pitched voice, then broke out into laughter.

  CHAPTER 49

  The MPAS 2 helicopter flew low overhead, the staccato beats of its rotor making the shop windowpanes vibrate.

  On the traffic-jammed Tooting High Street, both drivers and pedestrians looked up at the red-and-white-striped aircraft making low circles overhead. Drivers had alighted from their cars, as they couldn’t get through. Uniformed officers were trying to placate a number of disgruntled drivers, who gesticulated wildly, angry at being held up.

  Tooting High Street was a major artery that led into Balham, Clapham, and the rest of southwest London. Backroads existed, but they, too, got jammed up frequently. Squad cars, blue lights rotating, blocked both ends of the high street, bringing the busy road to a standstill.

  Harry’s black BMW was let through, but he couldn’t get very far. He lifted the car on the kerb, beeping and scattering some pedestrians. This being Tooting, the erstwhile denizens did not take kindly to an unmarked police car disturbing them so rudely.

  Fists shook at Harry, followed by fluent curses in Caribbean patois accents. Harry brushed through the throng, not bothering to reply or flash his warrant card. He was a South London boy, born and bred. These people were justifiably angry and always voluble, but ultimately harmless.

  He saw Darren waving at him across the road, in front of a butcher shop. He ran across the road, eyes darting up, down, and sideways.

  “This is the building, guv. The landlord owns the butcher shop and the whole building. He’s here.” Darren pointed. Harry saw a small, squat Pakistani man, with a beard and skullcap, standing nervously behind Darren. Harry showed the man his warrant card and gave his name and rank.

  “I’m Mr Iqbal,” the landlord said. “All of this is for the man who hired the top room?”

  Harry nodded. “He’s a very dangerous man. He’s an expert with explosives, and he worked in the army.” He took the e-fit photo of Rhys and showed it to Mr Iqbal again for good measure. “Are you sure this is him?”

  Mr Iqbal’s eyes widened with fear as he nodded. “Yes, I told your officers already.”

  “Have you been upstairs?”

  “No, the room is locked. I don’t know when he left.”

  Harry nodded. He shifted his attention to Darren. “Did the Armed Forces unit arrive?”

  “On their way, guv.”

  “There’s no time to lose. If he’s up there, then Rebecca could be as well. We are endangering her life by waiting. Let’s go up to have a look.”

  Darren called up three members of his team, and with Harry at the lead they entered the building through the side door next to the butcher’s. A narrow hallway led to a rickety flight of stairs that broadened into a wider landing. Darren’s radio squawked.

  Harry whispered, “Turn it off. He knows something is up, but best not to give him any warning.”

  They reached the top floor, and Harry told them to wait at the landing below. He went up the last flight of stairs by himself.

  A white wooden door faced him across the landing. He knelt by it and then looked in through the keyhole. He could see drawn curtains and the outline of a table in the dim light. He knelt down and peered through the gap between the door and carpet. Apart from table legs, he couldn’t see a great deal. The room seemed empty, or its occupant was being very quiet.

  Knocking wouldn’t help. He tried the handle. Locked, as expected. He pushed on the door and felt something give, and heard a soft click.

  Damn.

  He stepped back swiftly, scanning around the door. He found nothing. But something was wrong. He knew he shouldn’t have tried to open the door.

  Harry’s mouth opened and he breathed hard. He raised his voice, directing his words to the officers gathered on the landing below him. “Get out of here, now!”

  He detected an odour. It was sharp and acrid, and it assaulted his nostrils. His brows furrowed as he inhaled. How did he know that smell? Then the memory hit him and his eyes widened.

  When Arla painted her nails.

  A domino of rapid thoughts cascaded down his brain, culminating in the bright flash of the forensic report of the explosive device. TATP. The nail polish chemical used to make the bomb.

  Before Harry could move, the explosion ripped across the walls, bursting out of the windows. The walls caved in, showering bricks and debris at Harry, as the impact of the explosion picked him clean off his feet and hurled him down the stairs. He braced for impact by crossing his arms around his head, but he was flipped around, and the back of his skull smashed against the wall. A screaming spasm of agony tore across his brain. He fell on the staircase as debris rained down on him, and the world turned black.

  *****

  Arla drummed her fingers on the desk. She was used to being in the field, and it was frustrating sitting here. She had last heard from Harry just as he arrived in Tooting. She assumed he was now checking out the apartment, and that she would hear from him again soon. She looked up as both Parmentier and John, the cybercrimes officer, walked in.

  Parmentier said, “I heard back from the company that makes the plastic bags the baby was found in.”

  “Refresh, right?” Arla asked.

  “Yes. They make these bags to store meat that is delivered to supermarkets. They have a location for the barcode that was on the bag. It’s in southwest London.”

  “Excellent. Do we have an address?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m sending an officer down there now to get a list of their distribution clients. Anything else? Did Mary Atkins come up with anything?”

  Parmentier snapped his fingers. “Yes, Mary has uncovered something important. She’s upstairs and will come down soon.” He turned to look at John, who shuffled forward.

  “You know that account that’s been trolling Rebecca Stone on social media? The Final Countdown?” John asked nervously. “You asked me to track down the IP address, and I told you it’s a VPN.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Arla said impatiently. “Have you got anything new?”

  “Yes, I do.” John took out his phone and scrolled down to a photo of a woman hanging from the ceiling by a rope fixed to her neck. Arla looked at the photo carefully, but the woman’s face wasn’t clearly visible.

  John said, “This photo was posted from that account a couple of days ago. Same IP address.”

  “So what?”

  “Any digital photo, when sent, bears the GPS location of the phone that was used to take the photo. But only if location services is turned on.” John pointed at the screen. “When this photo was taken, location services was turned on. Therefore, it gives us a GPS location.”

  Arla breathed faster, feeling her pulse surge. “Where is it?”

  “I looked it
up. It’s a warehouse inside an old industrial estate on the outskirts of Hounslow. Less than five minutes’ drive from Heathrow Airport.”

  Arla stood up slowly, hearing her heart hammering against her ribs.

  “Send two units out there now. That could be where Rhys is hiding, with Rebecca. He’s taken out all this cash to get himself a quick flight out of the country with one of his false identities.”

  She reached for her phone, intending to call Harry and divert him to the site. Instead, the red phone on the desk gave out a shrill ring. Arla picked it up.

  “DCI Baker? This is Darren Stevens.” Darren’s breathing was short and rapid, his words forced.

  Fear clutched Arla’s guts. She knew Darren was at the site with Harry. “Yes, it’s me. What’s going on?”

  “The room was booby-trapped, guv. There’s been another explosion, and the top floor is destroyed. A couple of the pedestrians were injured. Paramedics are on site.”

  Arla felt a cold sheet of terror descend upon her, freezing the words in her brain. Why wasn’t Harry calling her? Why Darren?

  After a few seconds, she croaked out, “Where’s Harry?”

  Darren’s voice broke. “I’m sorry, guv. He was hurt in the explosion. He’s still unconscious, and taken to hospital.”

  The receiver dropped from Arla’s hand as the world fractured and splintered before her eyes. She slumped back on the chair.

  CHAPTER 50

  Rebecca ran down the metal grill walkway, high above the warehouse floor. She was long-limbed, and had worked hard to get rid of the pregnancy weight. Her strength served her well now. Fear had morphed into rage, an all-consuming, quivering fury that made her want to destroy Rhys. She wished she had a weapon, but she found nothing. The walkway was narrow, only wide enough for two men side by side. It reached the warehouse floor by a number of zigzagging staircases.