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

by ML Rose

  However, one thought speared through the jumble of her confusion. She had to protect Caroline more than anything else. She went to the front living room, and picked up her usual phone from the coffee table.

  She looked out of the bay windows. Beyond the front garden, the usual cars were parked. A couple of her neighbours strolled down the street. She didn't see any sign of Charlie, thankfully. She rang Caroline, and went back out into the garden. She sat down on one of the garden chairs and crossed her legs. Caroline answered, sounding cheerful.

  She might as well get this over and done with. But her voice was heavy, and words were frozen in her brain.

  "Darling, I need to tell you something about your father."

  The 21-year-old’s voice changed instantly. "What's happened?"

  "I'm afraid he’s dead," Caroline squeezed her eyes shut. “They found him in his bathroom. They don’t know how he died. But they’re looking into it. The police just left. I’m so sorry, darling.”

  “But mum what on earth…” Disbelief permeated every word Caroline uttered, then her words were lost.

  Then her voice was harsh. “Is this true, mum?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  Caroline wailed, then succumbed to tears. Her grief brought out new tears in Natalie's eyes. Her heart was enclosed in a dark shroud of grief, and she couldn't shake it off. She ached for her daughter, who had loved Stephen. Despite all his faults, Stephen had been a good father. That was one crumb of comfort.

  "I'm coming down," Caroline said. "I'll take the train down today."

  A wave of panic slithered down Natalie's spine. She sat bolt upright. "No. It's not safe… I mean, the police are involved, darling. Someone might have attacked him. I don't know the full details as yet. You stay up there, please. Maybe I should come up to see you?"

  "No," Caroline shouted, her voice defiant. "He's my father. How can I stay up here? Besides, I want to be with you as well."

  "Darling, I… Hello?"

  The line had gone dead. Natalie rang her daughter twice, but it went a voicemail. She slumped back on the garden chair, the sunrays like poisonous scars burning into her face.

  Did she just make a bad situation far, far worse?

  CHAPTER 22

  John Churchill lived in a residential street in Battersea, not far from Battersea Bridge. the terraced houses here were small, built in the 1960s as council houses, but later sold when Margaret Thatcher liberalised the housing market. They still fetched almost a million in today's market, which was astounding considering they were built for next to nothing with the post-war generation taxpayers’ money.

  The street was on the slope of a hill, that went down to the high street. From here, Arla could see Battersea Bridge, spanning a spindly, rickety arm across the muddy ribbon of the Thames. Across the river, stood the upmarket, uber expensive mansion terraces of Chelsea embankment. To her right, the compound of Chelsea Cross Hospital was shrouded in smog and haze, its clock tower rising up to meet the gloomy clouds that were scuttling in from the horizon.

  Harry knocked on the door, and they waited. From inside, they heard the shouts of excited children. Arla smiled to herself. Mrs Churchill must have her hands full. The door flung open, to reveal an attractive, petite woman, her brown hair in a ponytail, cheeks rosy with exertion. Her large, questioning eyes flickered from Harry to Arla. Both of them showed her their warrant cards.

  "We met your husband Mr Churchill at the hospital," Arla explained, and went on to give the reason for the visit. "Do you mind if we come in?"

  Mrs Churchill considered for a while. Arla looked at her closely. She was evidently busy, and a sheen of sweat was plastered across her forehead, and she had damp patches in the vest under her elbows. But her eyelids were hooded, and when she leaned forward, Arla got the whiff of alcohol breath.

  "Yes, why not?" Mrs Churchill held the door open, and they walked in.

  A boy, no more than seven years old, charged into the main hall, and skidded to a halt when he saw Harry and Arla. He had a dragon in one hand and a sword in the other, and he wore a knight’s helmet on his head.

  "Kill the dragon," he shrieked, and sliced the air with his grey plastic sword. "Kill, kill!"

  "Jonty, stop that," his mother admonished, moving him away. She glanced at Arla, who was smiling. "I'm sorry. He gets very excited."

  They passed a TV and lounge room on the right, followed by another room that led into an open plan kitchen and diner.

  The kitchen lay to the rear of the house, and on the large floor two little girls were sitting and drawing with crayons. They didn't even look up while Jonty ran around them, brandishing his sword and slaying mythical beasts.

  The place had the usual happy mess that three children would make. Pages of crayon artwork filled the floor, along with toys. One of the girls looked up as Arla walked past, and stared, open mouthed. Arla smiled and waved back. The girl became very shy and went back to her drawing.

  Mrs Churchill had walked to the dining table at the rear of the room. Arla noticed her moving a bottle of rum from the table. She slid it behind the breadbasket on the kitchen counter, and turned round quickly. Arla averted her eyes.

  "Please sit down. My name is Imogen."

  "Thank you, Imogen. We won't take up too much of your time. We want to know if your husband was here last night."

  Imogen shrugged. "He does a lot of on calls, and he comes and goes. That's his office, down there." She pointed behind her.

  At the back of the well-tended lawn, there was a log cabin. "I did see the lights on in the evening, so he must have been in."

  "So, you didn't actually see him?"

  Imogen smiled, and waved her hand. "Things can be quite crazy here, as you can see. Until the children are in bed, I'm busy. John comes home late from work, and he does evening shifts sometimes."

  "He said he was at home between 6:30 and 10 PM last night."

  "Yes," Imogen said, looking less sure of herself now. "I'm sure he was."

  A tingle of doubt ticked inside Arla's mind. She wasn't sure why Imogen was being evasive. "I'm sorry to press the point here. But did you see your husband when he came back from work yesterday evening?"

  Imogen nodded. "Yes, I heard the front door go, and then heard his voice. He was here."

  "What time was that?"

  "I went for my bath, so I think about 6.20 PM."

  Arla and Harry glanced at each other. Arla asked, "apart from you and your husband, was there any other adults in the house?"

  "No. That's why I only have my bath after John returns home."

  "And after your bath, did you see your husband?"

  "After the bath, I came down to fix dinner. No, I didn't see him. But he was in his office, and these doors were open," she pointed to the bi-folding doors behind the table. "The children also said he's gone to his office."

  Arla nodded. "So, you fixed dinner and fed the children?" Imogen nodded.

  Arla wondered why John didn’t help her with the children, or preparing dinner.

  "And when did you see your husband after that? Did he not join you for dinner?"

  Imogen's eyes flickered to the table. "Apart from the weekends, we often don't eat together, as he comes late. Yesterday he was here early, but then I think he was busy with some paperwork in the office."

  Arla pursed her lips together. She was getting the impression Imogen wasn't happy with John. She wasn't criticising him directly, but Arla wasn't getting the impression of a happy family life.

  Harry asked, "At what point after dinner did you see your husband?"

  "Ah, I was busy putting the children in bed."

  Harry frowned. "Are you saying you didn't see your husband for the rest of the evening?"

  "He went out. He was eating dinner at the table, and I saw him then. After that, I heard the door shut."

  Arla leaned forward. "So he left the house? What time was this?"

  "The children were in bed. I think about 8:30 – 9PM.
"

  "And when was he back?"

  "Oh, I was in bed."

  Arla was getting more alert by the second. She gripped her pen tightly as it hovered over the page of her black notebook.

  “What time was that?”

  “Not sure, really. I go to bed early. By 10pm. Or could be later. Not sure.”

  Harry glanced at Arla, and she knew exactly what he was thinking. Time to question John Churchill again.

  “Thank you,” Arla said, shutting her notebook. “By the way, did you know Dr Stephen Vaughan, John’s colleague at the hospital?”

  She hadn’t expected the bloom of crimson that suddenly surfaced on Imogen’s cheeks. Imogen seemed at a loss for words. She rose, turning her back, obviously trying to hide her sudden embarrassment.

  Harry frowned at Arla, whose eyebrows were lowered. She asked, “Imogen?”

  The woman turned from the kitchen counter. “Not really, I didn’t. Now if you don’t mind, I need to bathe the children.”

  CHAPTER 23

  "Both husband and wife were evasive," Harry remarked, as he held the steering wheel in his large fist. He drove skilfully down the backroads, using his knowledge of the local area. "They're hiding something."

  Arla stared out the window which was up, and the air conditioning hummed.

  "The ex-wife fits the description of the woman who went to Dr Vaughan’s house last night." Arla was thinking aloud. "It's time to start taking DNA swabs from the suspects. Has scene of crime been?"

  "Yes," Harry indicated left, and took a corner at 40 mph without breaking a sweat. "Parmentier sent me a text."

  "Okay good." She picked up a phone and rang Dr Banerjee.

  "Well, if it isn't my favourite detective," the elderly pathologist said.

  "The one and only," Arla grinned. "Have you got to the victim yet?"

  "In fact, I was just about to ring you. Would you like to come down to the morgue?"

  "I've not had lunch yet, so can't think of a better time," Arla said dryly. She glanced at Harry, and from his wink, she knew he had heard the conversation, as she was on loudspeaker.

  "See you in one hour, doc." She hung up.

  Harry looked at her questioningly. "It's not going to take us one hour to get to the morgue."

  "I know. I want to swing by Chelsea Cross Hospital once again. See if we can speak to John Churchill."

  Harry nodded, and changed direction. He crossed Battersea Bridge, and went up Chelsea Embankment, into the large compound of the hospital. This time, Harry showed his warrant card at the security gate, and they parked inside. Sunlight winked at them from the chrome and glass façade that fronted the main entrance. Behind it, the centuries old building had been renovated into new, gleaming corridors.

  "Good old national health service," Harry remarked. "Not a bad use of taxpayers money."

  "Yes, but I wish they taxed us a little less," Arla grinned. Now that she was a higher rate taxpayer, she was feeling the pinch. But she had to agree with Harry. It was nice having universal healthcare, free for everyone.

  They entered the obstetrics and gynaecology department, and one of the secretaries informed them that all the consultants were busy. That made sense, because Arla hadn't been able to get hold of anyone on their way here. Maureen Lawson was operating, and John Churchill and others were in the outpatient’s clinic.

  Arla asked, "Where are the gynaecology wards?"

  The short, plump secretary whose name badge said Gemma smoothed down her hair, coughed and took a sip of her water before answering. "There's the maternity suite, where we have the Labour wards, and antenatal wing. All the obstetrics is carried out there. The gynaecology wards are surgical wards, and they’re upstairs, in this building."

  "Where's the maternity suite?"

  Gemma leaned back in her chair and pointed out the window. Across a small concrete road, there was yet another glass and chrome two-storey building, and the large Maternity sign was visible on the second floor.

  "There it is. But it's mainly staffed by nurses and midwives. The gynaecologists only attend if there is a problem in the labour ward."

  "And the outpatients wing is downstairs?"

  Yes, at the back."

  "Which clinic is Mr Churchill in today?"

  "Let me have a look for you.” Gemma’s finger clicked on the keyboard, and she gazed at the screen. “In clinic C, as far as I can see. Miss Lawson is in clinic A."

  Arla thanked Gemma and they walked back to the elevators. Harry asked, "Are we heading for Clinic C?"

  Arla shook her head. "It might be heaving. Let's go and chat with some of the nurses first. They should be in the wards upstairs."

  The gates of the wards were shut, and Harry had to press a calling bell. A clerk led them in, and they asked for the nurse in charge. They waited in a tiny, box like sitting room, with orange wall paper. There was no furniture apart from two stiff old armchairs, and a coffee table whose laminated top was covered in scratches. From the window, they could see the rest of the hospital complex.

  Arla's phone rang, and it was Lisa's number. She answered. "Guv, I've got some interesting news."

  “Go on.”

  "Mrs Farquharson just called. She said she remembered something about the last couple of weeks. Apparently, one of Dr Vaughan’s colleagues had come to visit him. Someone called Mr Churchill?"

  Arla felt a tingle of anticipation. "As it happens, we just spoke to his wife, and we’re at his hospital now."

  "Right. Mrs Farquharson said Dr Vaughan and Mr Churchill had an argument. He came to the Clapham clinic after the last patient had left. She was packing things away, and she could hear them shouting. Then the door slammed, and she saw Mr Churchill come out into the hallway. He looked angry, and wouldn't speak to her."

  "When did this happen?"

  "Last Thursday. One week ago."

  "Did she hear what they were arguing about?"

  "No. She tried to, but she says her hearing isn't what it used to be. Plus, the walls are thick in that old building. Despite that, she could hear the voices, so I'm guessing they must have been having a huge argument."

  "How very interesting indeed," Arla tapped one foot on the floor. "Did she see Mr Churchill any other time?"

  "She can't remember. But she will come down to the station and give an official statement."

  Arla hung up, then told Harry. His eyebrows came together in the centre of his forehead.

  "This seems to be more then professional rivalry, right? After all, if I hate someone at work, I don't go around after work and have a slagging match with them."

  A sudden thought struck Arla as she stared at Harry's face. She frowned, and bit her lower lip. Harry leaned closer, and she could smell his cologne.

  He whispered in her ear. "I bet you they go way back. Something in the past. That's why Dr Vaughan made life difficult for him."

  The door to the small sitting room opened, and a nurse in blue uniform walked in. Her name badge said Matron Gillespie. She had heavy mascara on in her eyes, designed to disguise the wrinkles. The skin on her neck had succumbed to gravity and there was a film of sweat on her forehead. She seemed tired, and stressed.

  "Can I help you?" The nurse asked in a sharp voice. Harry and Arla flashed their warranty cards. The woman frowned.

  "Is this about Mr Vaughan's death?"

  "I'm afraid it is," Arla said. "Did you know him?"

  The nurse cocked her head to one side. Her experienced, canny eyes examined Arla from top to bottom. "Of course. I've been here longer than most, and he was a permanent fixture. Even after his retirement, he kept popping down."

  "Would you please mind having a seat?" Harry asked. "We would like to ask you a few questions." The woman glanced at Harry, then nodded. She sat down facing them.

  "How well did you know Mr Vaughan?"

  Matron Gillespie took her time to answer. Her large grey eyes rested on Arla's face. She had been pretty once, Arla could tell. Her cheeks now sagged under
the influence of sunlight and age, but she still had voluptuous lips and despite the uniform, there was a glamorous air about her. Her auburn hair was done up nicely, cascading down to her shoulders.

  "Oh, we knew each other well." She smiled meaningfully at Arla.

  Arla didn't waste any time. "Did you ever have a relationship with him?"

  "Oh dear. You’ve heard about him then, have you?"

  Arla nodded. Gillespie said, "No, I didn't as a matter of fact. But it wasn't for his lack of trying. Truth be told, Stephen tried it on with every woman. Nurses, midwives, doctors, anyone female who took his fancy."

  "He must have had quite a reputation," Arla said. "And made some enemies in the process." She held matron Gillespie's eyes.

  "I'm not sure what you're trying to say, Detective….

  “Baker.”

  “Right, Detective Baker.” She shrugged. “Not sure if you’re trying to put words in my mouth. What do you want, really?”

  “Just the truth,” Arla said. She changed direction. "He didn't get on well with John Churchill, did he?"

  There was a knowing look in Matron Gillespie's eyes, and Arla knew she was on the cusp of something. The older woman's chin lifted, and she settled back in her chair. She was choosing her words, Arla could tell. She gave her time.

  "I don't think he did, no."

  "Any reason why?" Arla said, holding her eyes. "It was more than professional rivalry, wasn't it?"

  Matron Gillespie swallowed, and spread her hands, then looked down at her nails. Harry spoke, his voice soft.

  "You won't get into any trouble for speaking to us. And everything you tell us is fully confidential."

  Arla asked, "What happened between the two of them?"

  Matron Gillespie sighed, and rubbed both hands on her thighs. "What always happened when Stephen came into contact with pretty women. I take it you've seen John's wife?"

  Arla narrowed her eyes. Mrs Churchill's reaction came to mind. "Yes, we've spoken to her."

  "Stephen slept with her. We know about it, because one of the nurses found them kissing in the outpatient’s clinic room, downstairs." She paused, and stared at Arla.