The Vanishing Child: A gripping crime thriller with a climax you won't see coming (Detective Arla Baker Series Book 9)

by ML Rose

  She pointed to the left side of Dr Vaughan’s head.

  "Do you think he was struck by anything on that side?"

  "Nothing more than this floor. I can't see any focal swelling that would point towards a fracture. There is blood in the ear as well, and it's possible his head just slammed down here –

  Arla held up a hand and interrupted him. "Or his head was slammed against a hard object, and then placed here."

  "Yes, that’s possible. A heavy blunt object. But it’s possible it wasn't a weapon. He was hit against something."

  Dr Banerjee rose to his feet, his knees creaking. He put a hand on his waist as he straightened to his full height. He was still shorter than Arla.

  "I won't know much more till I take him back to the morgue, and open him up. I'll also send off for toxicology but you know that takes a couple of weeks to come back."

  "Time of death?"

  "Rigor mortis hasn't started in the large muscle groups as yet. And his body temperature is only 6° below ambient. I wouldn't say any more than 12 hours ago, at the very most."

  Arla glanced at her watch. It was 1 o'clock in the afternoon. That gave at time of death of around 1 o'clock in the morning.

  Someone called Arla's name from downstairs. She heard Harry's voice, and came out on the landing. Harry had been listening to her exchange with Dr Banerjee in silence. He had his back to her now, leaning over the banisters as he spoke to a uniformed constable at the door. Then he straightened.

  "Someone here to see the doctor. Claims to be his secretary."

  CHAPTER 6

  Charlie observed from the window opposite Dr Vaughan's house.

  He was at an angle of about thirty degrees, which still allowed him a good view of the front of the house.

  He had rented this house for the last three months, and paid for it in cash. He didn't sign a contract, and his Pakistani landlord was more than happy to accept the hundred pounds a day short-term let. It was from here that Charlie had observed Dr Vaughan's daily routine, building a picture of his life. Getting ready for his big day. Day zero was yesterday, but Charlie didn't want to leave the place. He wanted to see the fruits of his labour. He wanted Dr Vaughan to suffer, even in the afterlife. But more importantly, he wanted to see who visited Dr Vaughan, and what the police did.

  Charlie was on a bunk bed, a couple of metres away from the window. His binoculars were trained on the house, and also on the comings and goings of the police. He didn't need the binoculars, but he wanted to make sure he recognised the faces of any visitors.

  When the female police officer arrived, he made sure he got a good look at her face. There was something about her. She was dressed elegantly, dark trousers and a white blouse under a brown summer coat. From the way she stopped and spoke to people, it was clear she was the person in charge. She was also the first person to drawback the curtains of Stephen's bedroom. Charlie had shrunk back rapidly.

  The woman seemed to stare directly at him for a few seconds. There was an intensity in her gaze, a sharpness that cut through the space and glass separating them. His heart was in his mouth, but he couldn't look away. She was an attractive woman, even though her face was lean, with the cheekbones jutting out a little, and the lips quite thin. It was her eyes that held him captive. Dark, vivacious, volatile. She scanned up and down the road, and he felt she was memorising everything she saw. Then she turned away, and Charlie breathed a sigh of relief.

  For some reason, her face also triggered a memory. Then he remembered where he'd seen her. She was the detective who had exposed a former paedophile ring of powerful people. Those men were brought to justice, and this woman became famous. What was the name again? Baker something, he was sure.

  He took his phone out and did a Google search for Detective Baker. He went to images, and he saw her immediately on a number of photos. They were all newspaper clippings, and he read the first one. Detective Chief Inspector Arla Baker. Charlie smiled to himself. Now, he had a worthy adversary. It would be fun playing with her. He was sure she thought the world of herself. Women in power tended to be like that, according to Charlie. It went to their heads. Being the boss, and telling everyone what to do. His finger brushed the photo on his screen.

  "Nice to meet you, Inspector Baker," he whispered.

  A flicker of movement on the road caught his eye. A blue Ford Escort pulled up. The registration number was from 2007, and the car had seen better days. An elderly woman was driving, and Charlie zoomed in with his binoculars. She had white hair up to her shoulders. She had make-up on and was dressed for work.

  He watched as she twisted around in the driver seat, looking apprehensive. Then she got out slowly. Quite clearly, her attention was directed at the police and Dr Vaughan’s house. Charlie narrowed his eyes. She looked familiar for some reason.

  The woman approached the house with hesitant steps. A uniformed constable stepped up to her, and they spoke. Then they approached the front door way together. Charlie's mind was churning.

  Who was she? He had seen her before, and he cursed himself for not recognising her. He took out his camera, and fitted the zoom lens on. He jumped off the bunkbed, and squatted below the windowsill. Raising his head a fraction, he snapped off a number of photos of the car and the woman.

  The lanky, big male detective appeared at the doorway. The constable explained something to him, pointing at the elderly woman. He saw the male detective smiled at her. Envy and nausea curdled inside Charlie's guts. He didn't like authority figures, especially when they tried to act nice. He could see from the male detective’s clothes and appearance that he fancied himself a little. How he would enjoy taking him down a peg or two.

  After a while, the elderly woman was allowed in. Charlie took out his phone and went to the album marked Vaughan’s work. He flicked through the photos of the private practice in Clapham, and also the hospital. He stopped at a photo of an elderly woman parking her car at the rear entrance of the Clapham clinic, and then entering through the back. Bingo. It was Dr Vaughan’s secretary.

  Charlie's fingers curled into a fist. Rage blossomed in his heart again, then settled in waves of anger. He should have taken care of her already. It was a mistake, and Charlie didn't like making mistakes.

  He squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds and breathed deeply. He needed to stay in control. Life had taught him that. He was an emotional man, and emotions made him lose control. True, the strength of his emotions also spurred him on the path that he had planned for himself. So far, everything was going to plan. But he should have foreseen that Dr Vaughan’s secretary might come to check on him if he didn't turn up for his clinic.

  Charlie felt no regret for what he had done. The doctor had it coming. However, he wished there was another way. Sometimes, life didn't offer any options. There was only one path, and he knew fate had ordained him to take the bitter, lonely road.

  It was the road to redemption.

  To salvation.

  No one would help him. This path stretched like a thin, dusty line into the horizon. He was the only traveller.

  A black, heavy weight lodged against the back of his throat. He swallowed but the weight wouldn't budge. The pressure grew behind his eyes, and he blinked away saline moisture. He touched the photo inside the left breast pocket of his shirt. She was there, close to his heart. He would be meeting her soon, in the afterlife.

  He breathed heavily again, long slow breaths. It calmed him. He had come this far, now there was no going back.

  One job was done, but his work was only getting started.

  Charlie turned around, and picked up his binoculars.

  CHAPTER 7

  Arla came down the stairs, and walked into the open plan kitchen and dining area at the back. An elderly woman was seated at the table, and Harry was speaking to her in hushed tones. He straightened when he saw Arla.

  "This is Mrs Farquharson. She is, or was Dr Vaughan’s secretary for the private clinics. Dr Vaughan also had an NHS secretary for t
he hospital. And yes, she knows how we can contact the NHS secretary."

  Arla thanked him silently with a smile, and took a seat opposite Mrs Farquharson. She was in her mid to late sixties. Her white hair was getting sparse at the top, but came down to her shoulders. She was obviously distressed. She had kept her glasses on, but her eyes were red rimmed, and she dabbed at them with a tissue. The tip of her nose was red, and she sniffed.

  "I'm sorry about what happened, Mrs Farquharson," Arla said, and introduced herself, showing her warrant card.

  Mrs Farquharson stared at it blankly, then switched her gaze to Arla's face. She had that thousand-yard stare that people often get after receiving shocking news. Arla knew her mind would be all over the place now, scrambling to find any notion of normality. She didn't blame her, and felt sorry for the woman.

  "I know this is a difficult time. But anything you can tell us about Dr Vaughan will be of great help to us. And it will be treated in utmost confidence."

  "Which means you won’t get into any trouble," Harry chimed in. Arla nodded; her attention focused on Mrs Farquharson.

  The secretary took some time to answer. "I didn't hear back from him after I called. He was late for the morning clinic, and two patients were waiting. It's very unlike him, as he normally gets to the clinic at least half an hour before it starts."

  "Which clinic is this?" Arla asked, scribbling on her black notebook.

  "The one on Grandholme Road, opposite Clapham common."

  "Where were his other private clinics?"

  "He also attended Prince Edward Hospital in Paddington. He had retired from his NHS practice, but he still held an honorary consultant role."

  Arla knew honorary meant he didn't have to turn up to work, unless called for emergencies. It also meant he didn't get paid for the role. She had learnt about the ways of the NHS, or the National Health Service, from Dr Banerjee.

  "Which hospital?"

  "The Chelsea Cross hospital."

  "Did he attend the hospital?"

  Mrs Farquharson sniffed, and wiped her nose. "Yes, he did. Although he was honorary, he did two clinics every week. He also did a day case list once a month. His NHS secretary, Brenda Wallace, will be able to give you more details.

  "Thank you. On which days did Dr Vaughan do the Clapham clinic?"

  "Thursday and Fridays. He did one last night."

  Today was Friday, Arla noted. "So, he did the clinic last night, and he was due in today morning?"

  "Yes."

  "So, you saw him last evening? At what time?"

  "I get to the clinic for 6:15. He comes in about 6:30. The clinic goes on from 7 till 9:30 PM. Generally, we’re all done by 10 PM."

  "Did anything happen last night? Did he seem stressed or anxious? Or disturbed for any reason?"

  Mrs Farquharson thought for a while, then she shook her head. Her red rimmed blue eyes looked at Arla directly. "No. He was his usual self."

  Harry cleared his throat. "Did he have any difficult patients? Anyone who raised the voice during the consultation, that you might have heard? Or any patient or their family member who were aggressive?"

  Mrs Farquharson shook her head. "No. As you can imagine, private patients are more relaxed. It's not as stressful as the NHS. They have a long consultation time of at least half an hour. They don't have to wait. Also, they can ring him any time they want. All his private patients were well behaved."

  Arla said, "Sorry to ask you this, but was his specialism obstetrics and gynaecology?"

  "Yes. He was a gynaecologist."

  "How long did he have his private clinics for?"

  “For the last ten years. He started off at the Princess Edward hospitals private chambers. When he had plenty of private patients in south-west London, he decided to open an office here."

  "How did you get the job, if you don't mind me asking?"

  Mrs Farquharson adjusted her glasses, and reached for the water that Harry had thoughtfully placed on the table. She took a sip and composed herself before continuing. Arla was sitting back, giving the woman time, and observing her.

  "I used to be a secretary at a doctor's surgery for almost 20 years. I had retired, but when this part-time job came up, I thought I'd apply. He took my interview, and I got the job."

  "When was that? And was that the first time you met Dr Vaughan?"

  Mrs Farquharson sighed, then nodded. Her forehead creased as the corners of her lips sagged downwards. "Yes, that was five years ago. I can't believe this has happened. Who did this?" She looked up at Arla, then to Harry. "Who?"

  Arla said, "We cannot comment on an ongoing investigation. But anything you tell us now is very helpful, I can assure you."

  Harry asked, "Do you have a list of patients who attended the private clinic?"

  "Yes, it's all online. We have an appointment schedule thing that we use. I can print out a list for you, if you want. Or just send an email," she shrugged. She was shocked, but slowly, her composure was coming back, Arla saw. She decided to press a little further.

  "So, before five years, you didn't know Stephen Vaughan?"

  The woman blinked and her face changed slightly. "No. Why do you ask?"

  "No reason," Arla kept her voice soft and polite. "Was he a good employer?"

  Mrs Farquharson nodded. "Very good. My grandson got leukaemia a couple of years ago. He’s fine now. Stephen got him admitted into a private cancer hospital and paid half the fees. It was very kind of him."

  Arla tapped a notebook with her pen, and felt Harry's eyes on her. When she looked at him his eyes held hers, and she knew what he was thinking. Dr Vaughan didn't look like an exceptionally wealthy man. He was comfortable, but judging by his house, great wealth had eluded him. Despite that, he was clearly generous.

  "If you don't mind me asking," Arla said, "Was it a considerable amount of money he gave for your grandson?"

  "Yes, a substantial amount. Look, I don't want to discuss this in detail right now. It doesn't seem appropriate."

  Arla raised a hand and shook her head gently. "Yes of course, I'm sorry. I was just trying to get an insight into his character, that's all."

  A spasm of sorrow rippled across Mrs Farquharson's features. Her shoulders drooped as the tip of her nose turned red again, and she struggled visibly to hold her emotions in check. A teardrop budded at the corner of her eye.

  "He was a very good man. Generous to a fault, always paid me a bonus. Looked after his own family as well. Talked to me about his daughter."

  Arla was scribbling rapidly on a notebook. "Can you please tell me his daughter has name? And the wife's, if you know it."

  "Daughter’s name was Caroline. She is also a doctor, training up in Newcastle. He is very proud, sorry was, very proud of her."

  "Did he have a good relationship with his daughter?"

  "Yes, he did." The elderly woman squeezed her eyes shut, and took her glasses off. She massaged the corners of her eyes, then held the bridge of the nose with two fingers. Her head sagged onto her chest.

  "What was his wife's name?"

  Mrs Farquharson raised her head, and her features hardened. She didn't look at Arla for long, but the sudden glint in her eye was unmistakable. "Ex-wife, you mean."

  Arla waited.

  "Natalie." Mrs Farquharson said the name like it was a dirty word.

  "Do you know how long they were divorced for?"

  "When I met him, he was going through the divorce."

  "Did he speak to you about it?" Arla held the elderly woman's gaze. The black pupils at the centre of the blue eyes constricted.

  "I didn't know him very well at the time. But he mentioned it in passing."

  "And did he talk about it later?" Arla coaxed. There was something here, she felt. If Dr Vaughan was a single man, then it might be natural for him to confide to his secretary.

  Mrs Farquharson shook her head. "Again, only in passing. The divorce cost him a great deal of money. He didn't go into details, but…" Her voice trailed
off.

  "But?"

  Mrs Farquharson's blue eyes hardened, and she flicked them in Arla's direction. "He wasn't on good terms with his ex-wife, but I guess that's natural. However, he loved his daughter. He showed me photos of her at university, and also when she was a baby." A warm, genuine smile appeared on her face, like a ray of sun poking through dark clouds. Arla smiled back.

  "Thank you very much. If you have his ex-wife and daughter’s contact details, I would be grateful if we could please have it. Just saves us having to look for it. But if you don't, it's not a problem."

  A frowned flitted across the elderly woman's creased forehead, and spread through the deep lines of her cheeks. She was lost for a few seconds, staring at nothing, before she glanced at Arla again.

  Mrs Farquharson shook her head slowly. "No, I don't," she whispered.

  “Does the name Kiki ring any bells for you?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you. If you remember or think of anything unusual about the last few days, please give me a call.”

  Arla slid her card across the table. Mrs Farquharson stared at it for a few seconds, then picked it up.

  CHAPTER 8

  Harry showed Mrs Farquharson out. Arla remained seated at the table for a few seconds, staring at her note pad.

  She circled Dr Vaughan’s daughters and ex-wife's name and put question marks next to them.

  Before she got up from the table, she noticed a small dark shape on the blue tablecloth. It was easy to miss as it was almost the same colour of the cloth. She peered close, and realised it was a piece of meat. She put her the gloves on and touched the morsel of food.

  It came away wet in her fingers. It was some sort of sauce, and sniffing it gave her a savoury, meaty smell. Lamb with mint sauce? Maybe.

  She checked the rest of the tabletop carefully. Someone had eaten at this table last night. She looked carefully, and found dark stains on the cloth, but it was impossible to tell how old they were. She knelt, and sniffed. She found the minty smell again.