The Vanishing Child: A gripping crime thriller with a climax you won't see coming (Detective Arla Baker Series Book 9)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 1
THE VANISHING CHILD
ARLA BAKER SERIES
BOOK 9
ML ROSE
For the fathers without their children.
For BS, who taught me how to live again. My rainfall in the desert.
For MF, who taught me to be strong.
The Vanishing Child
Copyright © 2021 by M.L.Rose
All rights reserved.
The right of ML Rose to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
CHAPTER 1
Darkness came slowly in the summer. It gathered around the edges of the horizon, accumulating strength. Then it rose like a giant shroud, strangling the last rays of light in its suffocating grip. Night fell swiftly, without warning. Lights appeared in the mansion block of houses opposite the expanse of Clapham Common.
The man called Charlie focused his binoculars, and moved it to infra-red mode. He was well hidden in the undergrowth, the shrubs rising over his head. The ground was hard, but nice enough to lie on. He had lain in the same spot four days, coming in the afternoon and leaving in the evening. That's when Dr Vaughan held his Chambers in that house. The doctor worked in the hospital in the morning, then arrived here to do his private consultations. Charlie had tracked Dr Vaughan for the last few weeks. He knew where Dr Vaughan lived, what time he went to work, and even when he went to bed.
The curtains were drawn, and Charlie knew he wouldn't be able to see through them. He was facing the back of Clapham High Street, where some medical professionals formed their offices. There area was separated from the busy clamour of the high Street, and as it faced the common, it was also private. To the left, lay the exclusive residential streets which held some of the most expensive houses in south-west London.
The front door opened, and a woman appeared. She was silhouetted in the light inside the building. She adjusted the strap on her handbag, and shut the door. She descended the staircase and got into a convertible BMW. Charlie watched her driveway and put her down as number three. Dr Vaughan’s clinic was busy, and a variety of people had come and gone through the day. Now, only two remained. It was past 9 PM, and Charlie knew the doctor would be tired, and eager to get back home.
The other two patients left in quick succession. Charlie stiffened when he saw the secretary. She appeared on the doorway and had a look round to ensure no post had arrived. Charlie knew it was time to move. Dr Vaughan would be dictating his clinic letters now, and he had 10, maybe 15 minutes before both Dr and secretary left via the rear parking lot.
Charlie was dressed in a black nylon outfit. It was his running gear, and he had several of them. A black hood went over his head, and he wore a breathable mask. The small, 10L backpack on his shoulders contained everything he needed. A bottle of water and some biscuits. Two knives, a length of nylon rope, a lighter and his infrared binoculars. Silent as a ghost, he rose, then ran across the deserted road. Streetlights were placed at regular intervals, but there was no CCTV. Charlie had done his homework. There would be CCTV inside the parking lot, but he was well disguised.
He ran down the side of the building and stood under the 3 m boundary wall. He took out the nylon rope and made a noose at one end. He looped it over the wall, and it slid back towards him. At the top, the noose snagged against one of the spiked pillars. Charlie pulled on the rope and it tightened.
He was more than 6 feet tall, and weighed about a hundred and fifty pounds. But he knew the rope would take his weight. It had been tested before. He placed the flat of his running shoes against the wall, and climbed rapidly. He swung over the wall, got the rope free, then jumped onto the other side. He crouched behind a car, knowing his movements would have been caught by the four cameras placed in different directions. He wrapped up the rope and thrust it into his backpack.
After a short while, he saw the secretary emerge. She got into her little Nissan Micra and drove off. The brand-new Maserati Coupe belonged to the doctor. It was one of three cars still left. The other two, Charlie knew from his surveillance, belonged to the cleaner and caretaker. They were busy inside the other rooms in the rest of the building. About an hour after all the professionals had left the building, the cleaners did as well.
Charlie's eyes lit up as he saw Dr Vaughan emerged from the rear door. The d
octor was in his 60s, but looked after himself. He was tall and trim. He was dressed in an expensive suit. He carried his leather briefcase and strode out into the yard, moving with his shoulders stooped.
Charlie moved so that he was crouching on the other side of the Maserati. When the car beeped open, he tensed. The doctor got into the car, and Charlie gave him a couple of seconds to get comfortable. Then he opened the passenger door and was inside, staring at the wide, frightened eyes of Dr Vaughan.
Charlie thrust the muzzle of his gun against the doctor’s ribs, pressing it till it hurt.
"If you want to live, do as I tell you," Charlie whispered.
CHAPTER 2
The water fountain spurted up, drenching the screaming children underneath it. Nicole Mehta, Arla’s daughter, clapped her hands in glee and splashed her feet in the puddle. The wet play area was about 6 x 10 m, and consisted of a number of invisible fountains under the ground.
Every few seconds a jet of water streamed up from under the ground, much to the delight of the assembled children wearing their swimsuits. Nicole wore a green and blue one-piece which she also used to swimming. She was four years old now, and in her first year of school.
The parents were gathered at the sides, with their sleeves and trousers rolled up. Arla walked in bare feet, moving quickly to avoid the water in case the Jets started again. She grabbed hold of Nicole's slippery hand.
"You need to have some food. You skipped lunch, right?"
Nicole squirmed and tugged her hand free. "I'm not hungry. I want to play."
Arla was faced with a conundrum. If she grabbed Nicole, then her clothes would be wet. She had a half day off, but she would be wearing the same top and blouse when she went into work later on. After the play session, and lunch, she would drive Nicole to Rita, her mother-in-law's house. And then, disappointingly, it was back to work. Back to facing the crime spree that had picked up a notch in the summer heat.
"You can play," Arla promised. "But eat something first."
Little Nicole arched her eyebrows. "Chocolates?"
"No," Arla said firmly. It was always tempting to give into Nicole's demands. As Arla was a working mother, she wanted to give her daughter everything she wanted when they were together. But lines had to be drawn, and there was no point in Nicole developing bad habits for the future.
"What happens when we don't eat?" Arla said, bringing her face close to Nicole's. The little one shook her head, aware this was a lecture, and that she wouldn't be getting her chocolate. She dug her toes in the ground and swivelled from side to side. Arla smiled. Nicole couldn't help being cute, even when she was angry.
"Okay, you can have some chocolate after food. How about that?"
Nicole shrugged, but there was a sparkle in her eye. The rumble beneath their feet started again, and the children started squealing in anticipation. The jets of water would burst forth any minute, and Arla couldn't afford to get wet. She pulled on Nicole's hand with some urgency, and luckily, her daughter didn't fight this time. They just made it to the edge of the circular fountain play area when the jets erupted, rising to Arla's waist level. The shrieks of excited, ecstatic children filled the air.
Arla wrapped Nicole in a towel, and used a separate towel to dry her hair. She put Nicole on her lap and opened the lunchbox. Nicole held her chicken and bacon sandwich, then bit into it. Much to Arla's relief, she munched on it, evidently hungry.
A beeping noise came from Arla's pant pocket, and she cursed inaudibly. It was from the right-side pocket, where she carried her work phone. She ignored it, but after a few seconds the beep came again, and then a third time. Sighing, she shifted to put Nicole on the mat and took a phone out. She had three texts from switchboard, asking for a call back. Arla shook her head, and turned her face up to the sunlight. The sun really did bring out criminals from the woodwork, like insects in the heat. She was also the senior investigating officer on duty for the week. She had to answer the call.
Switchboard put her through to her trusted detective Sergeant, Rob Pickering.
"Sorry to disturb, guv" Rob's voice was apologetic. "We have an IC1 male found dead in his home. We have a positive ID. A doctor Stephen Vaughan. Lived in Clapham." IC1 was the international classification code for Caucasians.
Arla patted Nicole on the back, and then stood. Her daughter wouldn't understand anything, but she didn't like to talk about work in front of her.
"Why call us? Was the death suspicious?"
"It was unexpected. He was found slumped in the bathroom. He was discovered by the cleaner."
Arla frowned, glancing down at Nicole to make sure she was still eating. "He lived alone?
"Yes."
"How did the cleaner get in?"
"The front door was open. Which is unusual, because it's normally locked. The doctor used to let the cleaner in."
Arla knelt on the mat and handed Nicole a carton of blackcurrant juice. She cradled the phone against her ear and shoulder, using both hands to put the straw inside the carton, then handed it to Nicole.
"I'm busy right now. I'll call you back in 10 minutes. Please send me the address. I could meet you at the crime scene in an hour's time."
"Roger that guv. I'm texting you the address now."
CHAPTER 3
Arla drove through the back streets of Clapham. These were residential streets, with rows of terraced houses. Each dwelling was well maintained, the majority owned by professionals. They were not the grand mansions which ringed the Common like a row of mini castles. These homes were smaller, built in the late Victorian ages, and were still pretty.
She parked outside number 52, behind a squad car. A uniformed officer was standing guard outside the house. He tipped his head towards Arla. Arla nodded back, and walked through the open door. She put on her gloves.
The entrance lobby was just wide enough for two people to walk side-by-side. It led to a staircase going upstairs, and a lounge room to the left. At the back, the space opened up to a kitchen and dining room that had been converted to open plan with a rear extension. It was the same design in all the terraced properties in London. It was difficult to build new houses, due to England's archaic planning permission laws. Hence, almost every terraced family home had a rear extension and a loft conversion.
The kitchen and dining area was elegantly done, with marble effect tiled flooring, black granite kitchen worktops and glossy white cabinets. Outside the kitchen island, there was a spacious area with the dining table that led to by folding glass doors that opened up into a green lawn. The lawn was about 50 feet, she guessed. It was reasonably well maintained, but the hedges needed trimming, as did the grass. Arla heard a sound behind her, and turned. Rob and Lisa, two of her trusted detective sergeants, stood facing her.
Rob was sweating, his collar tight as usual against the folds of soft flesh at his neck. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Lisa Moran, the other DS, grinned. Her blonde hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. Her chubby, cherub cheeks dimpled, and she had a mass of freckles on her nose.
"Sorry to spoil your day, guv," Lisa said. "Hope you enjoyed the morning, anyway."
"Yes, I did."
She explained what she'd been doing with Nicole, and how Nicole didn't want to leave the play area. Luckily, she also loved spending time with her grandmother, where she knew she could watch TV and eat anything she wanted. Basically, be spoilt rotten. Arla was thankful that Rita lived close by.
"And now here I am," Arla sighed. "Tell me what you got."
Rob repeated what he said earlier. Arla listened, her eyes skimming the bookshelves, and the two framed photos. In one of them, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair stood between two women. The younger woman was a teenager, and she wore braces. The other woman appeared almost the same age as the man.
The older woman must be his wife or sister, Arla reasoned, and the other his daughter.
Rob finished speaking, and Arla pointed to the framed photo. "Is this the victim?"
> Rob came forward and squinted up. It was Lisa who spoke. "Yes guv, that's him. And that's his family. He lived alone, and we’re trying to locate the wife and daughter."
Arla went up the stairs, followed by the two detective sergeants. The light green, paisley patterned carpet was soft on her shoes. She was careful not to touch anything.
Photographs of the same woman and a little girl at various ages lined the wall. At the upstairs landing, Arla took a few seconds to stare at a photo of the adult daughter, at her university graduation. She was definitely the teenager in the photo downstairs.
Dr Vaughan and his wife flanked the smiling young woman. University of Cambridge, the caption read, 2005.
The uniformed officer on the landing inclined his head, indicating where the body lay. Arla stepped inside the beige grey tiled bathroom. There was a walk-in shower in one corner, and on the floor a body lay sprawled. He lay face down, and fully clothed, Arla noted. There was no sign of blood on his white shirt, or on the scalp. His white hair had receded from the scalp and he was mostly bald.
She stepped closer, and knelt. She could only see one eye, and it was open, staring blankly to the ground. The cheeks were mottled grey now, and she suspected rigor mortis had already claimed the smaller muscles. It would be several hours before the larger muscle groups succumbed to the characteristic stiffness. Which, in her non-medical head, meant death couldn't have been more than 12 hours ago. However, she hadn't checked the rest of the body. His watch was on the left wrist. She stood, looking at the rest of the bathroom.
She sensed Rob and Lisa at the doorway. Without looking at them, she took out a pencil torch light from her breast pocket. "Is scene of crime and Dr Banerjee on their way?"
“Yes, guv,” Lisa said.
She angled her head. "And why do we not think this is a heart attack? There could be a perfectly reasonable answer to his sudden death."
Rob coughed into his fist. "I was concerned about the appearance of the neck, guv."