by M. L Rose
Smita averted her eyes in the glare of the light. Arla flashed it around the room. A chain hung from a wooden beam, with a platform below it. Arla turned to look behind her, but a hand suddenly reached out and pulled her inside. Arla skidded on the floor, lost her balance and fell.
The door was kicked shut. A light came on, bathing the room in a yellow glow. Arla blinked. Smita was moving behind her, making muffled sounds. Arla looked up at the shape that loomed above her.
She stared at the figure till the shock hit her like a bullet train. Her insides smashed into a trillion pieces, fragmenting into the cold and silence. She couldn't look away, numbness claiming her body.
“Hello Arla,” the figure said.
CHAPTER 86
Lisa slammed the door of the maroon BMW. Rita got out of the other side. The wind off the English Channel whipped their hair back, the cold, salty air refreshing. Lisa had long hair, and she reached in her pocket for a hair tie.
“Great view,” Rita said, shivering. “Wish it was warmer though.”
“That’s why Rob stayed back. Nicer in the office.”
They had parked in the visitor’s zone at the top of a section of white cliffs. Below them, the wind raised flecks of white on the blue expanse of the Channel. France was a dim outline on the horizon. The wind had scoured the blue sky clear of clouds, and visibility was excellent. But it was freezing, too.
“Let’s go,” Lisa said. The large country pub was a hundred meters away, to their left. It was a two-story country house that had been converted. Rita had got the name while on the phone with Luke. Both Luke and Simpson were out on bail and cooperating with police.
The two women hurried along, close to each other in the wind. They were glad to reach The Eagle’s Nest. Rita pulled the old oak door open and they stepped inside into warmth and light. They took their coats off and opened another glass panelled door through which the bar was visible. It was past midday and some punters were having lunch.
The ancient wooden beam ceiling bars hung low, but the floor was spacious. A ruddy faced, white bearded barman stood with his hands resting on the counter.
“Hello ladies,” he said in a strong Kentish accent. “What can I do fer yer?”
“Oh hello,” Rita said, “we called earlier. We’ve come about the lady who disappeared off the cliffs two years ago, Laura Longworth.” Both she and Lisa held up their warrant cards.
The barman squinted. “Well I guessed you was outsiders the minute you walked in, like.”
“Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Sure, let’s sit down here. Carl, can you manage the bar for me, lad?” An acne faced teenager came around the corner.
“My names Tony, by the way,” the bartender said. “I own the place.” They sat down at a side table, next to the window with splendid views of the Channel.
Lisa took out a photo of Laura Longworth. Luke had provided them with a family album, and it contained several photos of Laura on holiday.
“Do you recognize her?” Lisa asked.
Tony picked up the photo and looked closely. He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Ah, yes, I do like. Everyone here does. Sad day for this place.”
“What happened?”
“A walker saw her body on the beach. She fell of the cliff. But you know that already, don’cher?” He peered at them under bushy eyebrows.
Rita asked, “Did she come here often?”
“Yes, she did like. This is the biggest pub in the village, so it is. All of `em come here for a drink.”
“So she came the day she died, or before?”
Tony narrowed his eyes. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“It’s a police investigation so we can’t comment on that. Anything you tell us can be of great importance. So please think. It will make a big difference.”
Tony pursed his lips then ran his hands through his long beard. He stared out the window for a while. He turned away and shouted across the room to a table nearby.
“James, our kid, come here a minute, will ya.”
A younger man, by no means a kid, rose from the table he was drinking at. His three companions looked at them. James ambled over, dressed in sheepskin leather coat and muddy wellington boots. He was clearly a farmer.
Tony showed him the photo of Laura. “Remember her? Lass who fell of the cliff, two years ago.”
James frowned. He studied the photo and raised his eyes slowly to examine Rita and Lisa.
Tony said, “These be police women. Came to check on some stuff about the lass.”
When James spoke, his voice had the same twang as Tony. “Yes, I remember. She used to sit there,” he pointed to an isolated table for two, hidden around a corner. “With her friend. They only came for holidays, twice a year.”
Lisa asked, “What did her friend look like?”
“Can’t remember that well. She always kept a cap on her head and sunglasses on. Sat with her back to everyone else.”
“Her friend was a woman?”
“Yes.”
Rita and Lisa glanced at each other. Rita asked, “Can you describe this woman to us?”
James shrugged. “Only saw her back, like. She always wore dark clothes. Walked in and walked out quickly.”
Lisa said, “How did they come here?”
Tony said, “I saw her,” he pointed at Laura’s photo, “walking. But sometimes they came in a blue car.”
Lisa leaned forward, a sudden tightness gripping her inside. “A blue car?”
James spoke. “Yeah, I remember too. That was the last time I saw them, like. Both of them came out of the blue car in the car park. Her friend drove.”
Lisa’s heart was beating loudly. “Do you have CCTV in the car park?”
Tony nodded. “Aye, that we do, like. It’s digital and records 24/7. Got all me films, going back five years, so I have.”
Lisa stood. “Can you show them to me? Please? Right now.”
After almost an hour of going through all the image files on Tony’s old laptop, and two cups of coffee, Lisa and Rita found their images. Their heads were almost touching as they focused on the screen.
The roll played and they saw the car drive in and park. The driver stepped out. It was a woman with light coloured hair, baseball cap pulled low, and large sunglasses covering her face. She kept her face down, making any view impossible. Laura was easily recognizable when the camera zoomed in. Her hair was straggly, darker, and her pasty face was lifted up in the air.
Rita wrote down the registration number of the car, and rang Rob immediately. He got back within ten minutes.
“The car is off the road and unlicensed, according to the DVLA. But I did get the previous owners name and address. It’s registered to Gus Percival. He now lives in Salford, up north.”
Rita had Rob on loudspeaker, and she looked at Lisa, scowling. “Who is Gus Percival?”
Rob said, “Cherie Longworth’s ex-husband. His name’s on my screen. I called him to check Cherie’s background.”
Lisa was scowling too. “What on earth was his car doing here? And who is that woman with Laura?”
“I don’t know,” Rob said. “But I think asking Gus is a good idea.”
Lisa took his number down and rang him. Mr Percival answered on the third ring. “Who is this?” he asked in a cautious voice.
Lisa introduced herself and explained the situation. There was silence on the other end. Lisa said, “Mr Percival?”
He coughed. “Sorry, I have no idea why my car would be there. In fact, I gave that car to my ex-wife before we divorced. She kept it.”
A sudden hollow feeling echoed around Lisa’s heart. A cold hand wrapped around her ribs, squeezing tight. She cleared her throat, mouth dry.
“Mr. Percival. Please do me a favour. Can I send you a photo? I need to show you something. It’s very urgent.”
“OK.”
Lisa hung up and turned to Rita, her eyes frantic. “Do you have the ph
otos of Cherie Longworth on your phone?”
Rita nodded. Lisa said, “Send them to Gus Percival and see if he can ID her. I guess Rob never did this at the beginning.”
Rita sent the photos and Lisa rang to confirm that he received them. He called back almost instantly.
He sounded bewildered. “That woman is not my ex-wife. Whose photo did you just send me?”
Lisa’s mouth was open, but she could barely take a breath in. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I am. I lived with Cherie for ten years. That photo you just sent me is not Cherie.”
CHAPTER 87
Harry was frowning at the screen. There was a number of blue cars on the CCTV cameras, and any one of them could be the one he wanted. He passed a weary hand over his eyes. This wasn’t helping. He grabbed his phone, wondering why Arla hadn't called him back yet.
His phone rang then, but it wasn’t Arla. Lisa’s breathless voice came on the phone. “Guv, is that you?”
“Yes. What is it?”
In jerky, fast sentences, Lisa told him what happened in Kent. Harry stood abruptly. “So Cherie is using a fake identity? What happened to Gus Percival’s real ex-wife?”
“No one knows.” Lisa paused, and Harry knew she was thinking the same as he.
“Well, if Cherie took her identity, and no one heard from the ex-wife again…” Harry left his sentence dangling.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Lisa finished.
Harry rubbed his forehead, a headache pulsing inside. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
He paced the CCTV room of Acton station, his mind frantic. “Where’s Arla?”
“Don’t know guv. She didn't call you? Last I heard she was headed out to that Jonathan Cross’s house.”
“Yes, I know that” Harry said impatiently. “OK, I’m coming back to the station. Did Arla pull the unit that was keeping watch on Cherie’s place?”
“Yes, guv.”
“I’m getting a bad feeling about this. Call all the uniformed units that went to the Cross house. Find out what’s happening. Prepare the incident room.”
Harry hung up and thanked the two other detectives in the room. He ran out into the car park and screeched out into traffic, turning his siren on.
The incident room was empty when he came back. Rob hurried over to him from his desk.
“You heard about Cherie, guv?
“Yes, where are Lisa and Rita?”
“Still on their way back from Kent.”
“Any news from Darren or Andy?”
“Yes. Andy says he saw DCI Baker get into a cab and go off somewhere. Says she got a call from someone and went outside the house to take it. She left right after she finished the call.”
“Where? Where did she go?” Harry’s voice was thick with tension and he advanced on Rob. Rob stepped back, worried.
“Don’t know guv. Andy didn't say.”
The knot of unease deep inside Harry’s guts was spreading like a poisonous flower. Nausea rose up in his mouth. He gripped the back of a chair, thinking hard and fast.
Rob said, “There is one thing to report. Cyber Crime came back with the rest of Stanley’s emails. We got hold of Laura Longworth’s emails as well.”
Harry was listening with only half a mind. “So?”
“So this CX guy, who was sending hate mail to Stanley, was hiding his IP address as he was using the dark web.”
“Get to the point,” Harry growled.
“Well, he slipped up. Using the dark web, he could hide his IP address, unless he accessed a website that needs Flash, or uses JavaScript. He did that, to buy some diazepam. As soon as he did so, that website placed tracing cookies on his IP address. These cookies can breach the dark web.”
Harry turned to face Rob. “So we know his IP address now? That means we can use WebCrawler to get the GPS location of the IP address. Right?”
“Yes guv. And what’s more—the diazepam he bought was being sent to Laura Longworth’s address. We know because Cyber Crime tracked down the supplier and checked their records.”
Harry’s eyes widened. “So it was CX who was responsible for Laura’s diazepam addiction?”
“He sent her emails under a different account. As SadieX.”
“SadieX,” Harry echoed. “That’s the name of Jonathan’s sister. The one who was killed. So, CX must be Jonathan, right?”
Rob nodded, still eyeing Harry warily as Harry’s long frame hung over him, intent on every word.
“Get the geolocation of the IP address.”
Harry pulled out his phone and called Andy. “Andy, its DI Mehta.”
There was static on the line and Harry could tell Andy was driving. “Yes guv.”
“Did you check the reg number of the Uber that DCI Baker took?”
Andy faltered. “Uh, no. But it was a green Toyota Prius. I remember it being P reg, with VH the last two letters.”
“Access the CCTV cameras in that area,” Harry said urgently. “I’m putting out an APB for that car. Can’t be that many matching cars, and it must have GPS on, if it’s an Uber.”
“I’ll get on the case now. GPS tracking might be our best bet. What’s going on guv?”
Harry gripped the phone tightly. “Something very bad. Arla has gone to my sister, I think. This bastard wants them both. If you get the GPS signal of this Uber, get in touch with me ASAP.”
“Roger that,” Andy said.
He turned to look for Rob but couldn't find him. Two detectives walked in, and Justin Beauregard was one of them. Justin stopped when he saw the frantic look on Harry’s face.
“What’s going on?”
“Arla is missing, probably chasing after the real killer in the Longworth case. Have you seen Rob?”
“He was outside, heading into Cyber Crime’s lab.”
“Thanks,” Harry started for the door.
“Listen,” Justin called back. “Shall I get some uniformed units ready for dispatch to wherever you think Arla might be?”
Harry turned, relief etched on his face. “Thanks Justin, that’s just what I need. Stand by for the location.”
Harry sprinted down the corridor, and up the stairs onto the first floor. Most of the tech work was outsourced to third party labs, but Clapham station had a small department that looked into phone and social media accounts. A row of analysts were staring at their screens inside the room. Harry spotted Rob in one corner and hurried over.
Rob’s eyes were wide. He patted the analyst, a young bearded man on the back, and straightened as Harry approached.
“Got it guv,” he showed Harry a piece of paper. “The geolocation of the IP address from where that bastard CX was sending his hate mail.”
Harry grabbed the paper from Rob’s hand. His forehead creased. “Brent Reservoir?”
“Up in North London, near Brent’s Cross. Here look,” Rob pointed at the analyst’s screen.
Harry peered at the Google map images. A huge water reservoir was surrounded by what looked like farm land. A green dot was pulsating in the middle of a wooded region, next to the water.
“You sure this is it?” Harry asked.
The analyst nodded. “It’s there alright. There’s no other laptop being used in the location.”
Harry bunched his fist and swallowed. “Call air support and get as many mobile units as we have.”
He ran for the door, Rob puffing after him.
CHAPTER 88
The light from the naked yellow bulb was strong. It fell on the face of the figure standing over Arla, and another light at the other end of the room illuminated it further. There was no doubt.
Arla put her palms on the floor and scuttled back, her hands touching something soft. She heard a whimper and knew it was Smita. Arla wrapped her fingers around Smita’s leg and gave a reassuring squeeze. She stared in disbelief at the figure.
“Cherie.” Arla found her voice at last. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, then opened them again. Like a domino chain, pi
eces of the puzzle were falling into place. But areas of darkness still remained.
Cherie’s blonde hair fell around her face. Her eyes were hard, stony. The normally beautiful face was set in tight lines, thin lips pressed tightly together.
“What are you doing here?” Arla asked.
Cherie stared at her in silence for a while longer, ignoring Smita. Then she spoke in a calm and unruffled voice.
“Remember the first time we met? Outside our house, the night I found David.”
She continued. “I knew all about you, of course. But I didn’t know that you would come to the scene that early. It was a stroke of luck. You see, detective, you and I are very similar.”
Arla’s brows met. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You lost your sister when you were eleven. Isn’t that correct?”
An iron first tightened around Arla’s chest, and air squeezed painfully out of her lungs. “How...how do you know that?”
“I know James Fraser, the Secretary of State. My son can hack into his emails. Sending an official request to the London Met wasn’t exactly difficult.”
Arla’s head reeled with a twin blast of shock. She focused on the second one. “Your son?”
A creak on the wooden floor came from behind her. Arla turned quickly. A pair of legs appeared, the upper body still in the shadows. Then the man stepped into the light. He smiled.
Arla gasped. It was the man she had known as Jonty. Behind her, she could feel Smita squirming again. She made loud sounds against her gag, and Jonty strode forward swiftly. He grabbed Smita by the hair and slapped her hard.
“No!” Arla shouted, kicking Jonty in the shins. He grunted, let go of Smita, and bent down to grip Arla around the neck. He was immensely strong. Arla wasn’t weak, and she fought valiantly, but his fingers were like iron pincers, crushing her windpipe.
