by ML Rose
Through the window Sandra could see her adorable grandson Emmanuel playing football in the garden. One of the male carers was his opponent. Emmanuel kicked the ball into the goal and ran round with his hands raised in celebration. Sandra smiled. That gorgeous boy made everything worthwhile. The smile froze on her face when she heard the knock on the door.
The couple she had seen outside were ushered in. The door shut behind them with a soft click. The woman was a good height, and she had sunken cheeks, and an angular but attractive face. Her dark eyes were fixed on Sandra's face. Her jet-black hair was done up in a ponytail and everything in her appearance suggested she was the woman in charge. She stepped forward and showed Sandra a Metropolitan Police Force warrant card. It had a six-digit warrant number, her name and rank.
"Detective Chief Inspector Arla Baker," the woman said, but Sandra had noted it already from the warrant card. The man introduced himself as Detective Inspector Harry Mehta.
Sandra took her seat in her high-backed red leather chair, which had her initials imprinted on the head.
The cops took the seat opposite her. Sandra could see them staring round, taking in the details of the walls stacked with books from floor to ceiling, the paintings and the rugs on the floor.
Arla Baker’s eyes came to rest on Sandra's face. Sandra had the distinct impression that Inspector Baker was taking her time on purpose. She didn't know if it was designed to make her nervous, but the tactic wouldn’t work. She was made of sterner stuff.
She smiled and cleared her throat. "How can I help, Inspector Baker?"
"I'm afraid Dr Stephen Vaughan, the gynaecologist, has died. He was found collapsed in the upper floor bathroom of his house. We are investigating the cause of his death."
Sandra's mouth opened in shock. She had trouble speaking, and her throat was suddenly dry, heavy. She tried to swallow, and almost choked. She picked up the glass of water on her desk and drained half of it. She wiped her mouth and took a few seconds to compose herself.
"What?" She whispered. "But Dr Vaughan was in good shape. He was well."
Arla nodded, her face not betraying any emotion. "Yes, he was. As I said, we are investigating into every aspect of the case. It has come to our attention that you visited his private practice in Clapham several times over the last few weeks. Is that correct?"
Sandra's forehead cleared as realisation sunk in. So, that's why they were here. Well, she would tell them the truth.
"Yes. I had a gynaecological problem that I had to see him about."
Arla’s eyes didn't leave Sandra's. "I know your health matters are personal, but this is a police investigation and your cooperation would be appreciated. And any information you tell us remains confidential. What sort of gynaecological problem did you have?"
"I had postmenopausal bleeding. I was concerned, hence went to see him. Apparently, it is a sign of uterine, or womb, cancer."
Arla blinked, and her jaws relaxed. "I'm sorry to hear that. What conclusion did Dr Vaughan reach?"
"He did a number of tests. One of them was an endometrial biopsy, which is a sample of tissue from the womb. He could do this at his office. I didn't need to be put to sleep."
Arla had taken out a black notebook and she was writing on it. Sandra glanced at the male detective, who was staring at her. He was a handsome man, she noted. His black hair was raised but gelled back smartly. His skin was light brown, and they matched the colour of his chestnut eyes. She liked the sharp cut of his suit as well, quite unlike that of any other policeman she had met. He smiled at her briefly and it was easy to smile back.
Arla cleared her throat. "So, what was the final diagnosis?"
"Luckily, it wasn't cancer. They actually don't know what it is, but I need to have a scan every six months to ensure the lining of my womb isn't getting too thick. If it is, then I'll need another biopsy."
Sandra frowned. She leaned back in her chair and shook her head. "I can't believe this. What could possibly have happened?"
Silence greeted her question. She looked up to see both detectives staring at her intently. Sandra realised she had asked a rhetorical question, and a premature one. No one had the answer as yet. She flexed her jaws. The news had hit her like a sledge hammer, and she was upset. She needed to get a grip.
The pause lengthened, and Sandra could feel the silence weigh on her. She hadn’t expected this. Her brain was searching, and coming up with brick walls and dead ends. She couldn’t think of anyone who would want to kill him.
Harry asked, “Can you think of a reason?”
Sandra lowered her eyebrows. “Not sure what you mean, Inspector.”
“A reason why Dr Vaughan died in this manner. We are exploring all avenues, including that his death was not due to natural causes.”
“Please explain.”
Arla and Harry exchanged a glance, and Arla took over. “There is evidence that Dr Vaughan was in a struggle prior to his death.”
A horrible, sinking feeling gathered force in Sandra’s chest. She was silent, and realised the detectives were staring at her. She sat up in her chair and cleared her throat.
“Struggle with who?” She asked, and felt foolish immediately. If they knew, they wouldn’t be here.
“We don’t know as yet. Where were you last night between 9 and midnight?”
“At home. I was here in the office, actually, catching up on some paperwork.”
Arla nodded, scribbling on her notebook. “And presumably, your family and staff can confirm that?”
“Of course.”
“Did you know Dr Vaughan socially?”
Sandra shook her head. She was careful to keep her expression neutral, and maintain eye contact with the detectives.
Arla asked, “Why did you see him as a patient?”
Sandra didn’t waste time in answering. "A friend of mine had her fibroids treated by him. She was happy, and he had a good reputation, so I decided to see him."
Arla wrote something in her diary, then left it open on her lap. One of her fingers ran up and down the length of the pen slowly. She asked, "How long did you know Stephen for?"
A furrow of concern gathered in Sandra’s mind. Why had the detective deliberately changed to first name? Again, she kept her face blank.
“Dr Vaughan, you mean? I didn’t know him before I saw him at the Clapham chambers.”
"So, before this occasion, you had never met him?"
Sandra smiled. "No."
"Did anyone else attend the clinics with you?"
"My daughter came with me once. That was the day I had the biopsy. Dr Vaughan said someone else should drive me back, hence she came. Plus, she was worried about me."
Arla asked her daughter's name, and wrote it down in her diary. "We would like to speak to your daughter as well. Did she know Stephen from before? I mean, had she seen him for a problem?"
Sandra shook her head. She was bothered by Arla using the first name again, but she wouldn’t show it.
"No." She glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry, Detectives, but I need to draft a letter, and it has to be revised by the Home Secretary's office, then sent to the press office for distribution to the media. It’s important the letter is done by this afternoon, so its contents hit the headlines tomorrow morning.”
She didn’t like the way Arla Baker looked at her. Impassive, but a flash in the eyes told her the detective doubted her intention. Sandra forced another smile on her face.
“I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Arla smiled back politely. “Thank you for speaking to us. If you think of anything else, however trivial…” she left her sentence unfinished and slid a card across the table.
Sandra glanced at the card, but didn’t pick it up.
“Of course, no problem.” She stood, indicating the interview was over. “Did you wish to speak to my daughter?”
“Yes please.”
CHAPTER 27
Arla and Harry waited outside the closed door of Sandr
a Pitt's office. The landing was spacious, with a broad staircase coming up from the ground floor. Dark mahogany parquet flooring covered the landing, matching the floor of Sandra's office.
The walls were covered in vintage artwork wallpaper, with framed paintings by old masters hanging at regular intervals. Arla thought she’d stepped inside an art gallery.
Rochelle came down the staircase, heels clicking on the marble steps. A little boy followed at her heels, wearing a Superman outfit. He streaked across the landing with both arms held in front of him.
"Emmanuel, stop," Rochelle said, but Emmanuel didn't listen. He was pretending to fly, and he came to a halt at Harry's feet. He looked up at Harry, and a sense of wonder crossed his little face. He pointed up, and turned to his mother. "He's a giant. Like Jack and the Beanstalk!"
Arla couldn't help but laugh, and Rochelle was embarrassed. She grabbed Emmanuel's hand and held him by her side. "I'm so sorry. He gets easily excited."
Harry said, "I've been called many things before. But never a giant or a Beanstalk."
Rochelle shook her head, and Arla couldn’t stop laughing. “That’s your new name,” she told a bemused Harry. “Beanstalk.”
“I prefer giant,” he grumbled.
Emmanuel peeked from behind his mother's legs, then stared at Harry, fascinated. His mouth was open, eyes wide.
"I'm sorry to make you wait," Rochelle said. "I understand you wish to speak to me."
"No need to apologise," Arla said. "Can we please talk in private?"
Rochelle led the way, and Emmanuel broke free from his mother's hand, and ran down the hallway, his little cape flying behind him.
She held open the door of a sitting room, and they entered. This room was carpeted, and tastefully furnished with Victorian style, old fashioned sofas and tables. Arla and Harry took a seat opposite Emmanuel and Rochelle. The boy turned to his mother and pulled at her jeans.
"Will he play?" He pointed to Harry.
Rochelle shushed him. "You can't play with him. He's a policeman."
Emmanuel's mouth fell open. His eyes became round like saucers. "Wow. A real policeman?"
"Yes, a real policeman. If you don't behave, he can arrest you."
Harry raised a hand. "No, I won't. What's his name?" Rochelle told him.
He gestured to the boy. "Emmanuel, come here. Give me high five and a fist bump."
Emmanuel giggled, and ran over to Harry. Arla watched their interaction with interest. Harry had always been good with Nicole, and now she could really see with him with a boy.
Briefly, an unwanted thought darkened her mind. Despite their happy relationship, and Nicole's arrival, she wanted to be married. But every time she mentioned marriage, Harry had found a way to postpone it.
Their lives were so busy that thus far, marriage had never become a reality. But Arla still held hope. She didn't doubt Harry’s commitment. And yet…She glanced down at her feet, aware she needed to break this chain of thought. She had work to do.
Rochelle said, "Emmanuel, have you seen what's hiding under that table?" She directed him to the grand table at the end of the room, with several drawers and a space under which he could crawl. Emmanuel set off to explore.
Arla wrote down Rochelle's full name, and date of birth. "I assume Pitt is your maiden name. What's your married name?"
"Kidd. My husband's name is Tarquin Kidd."
"Did you know Stephen Vaughan?"
Rochelle shook her head, and her blonde locks moved. "No."
Her nails were painted shiny purple, and the leg hugging jeans she wore showed off her shapely legs and waist to perfection. Arla was envious. With work and motherhood, she had little time to exercise. Rochelle obviously did, and watched her diet. She looked healthy and glamorous.
The fact that she was blonde was also interesting in relation to the woman who had visited the victim last night.
Harry said, "Your mother had been visiting Dr Vaughan for the past few weeks. I understand that you went with her on a couple of occasions."
"Once, when she had the biopsy, so I could drive her back. And the second time was when she received the result of the biopsy. I was there in case it was bad news. Luckily it wasn't."
"And apart from this, you have never been in contact with Stephen Vaughan before"
Rochelle blinked, and turned to the right, where Emmanuel made a sound from under the table. She checked on her son quickly, then turned back to Harry. "No."
"Did you know his ex-wife, Natalie Chapman? Or their daughter, Caroline?"
Rochelle frowned. "No, I didn't."
Rochelle mentioned that she saw Stephen Vaughan last Wednesday, when she attended the clinic with her mother. After that, she hadn't seen him.
Arla and Harry rose, and Arla shook hands with Rochelle. Harry turned to Emmanuel and said goodbye. Emmanuel came out from under the table, and ran up to his mother. He studied Harry for a few seconds and asked Harry once again if he was a real policeman. Harry nodded, and waved goodbye, but not before he promised Emmanuel he would return in a very fast police car, with blue lights on top.
CHAPTER 28
Charlie pulled the black hooded top further across his face. He had large dark sunglasses on, and his face was barely visible.
He was parked opposite Natalie Chapman's house, a few doors down. He had watched Detective Chief Inspector Arla Baker and her tall male partner come and go. He had rung Natalie as soon as they left. In order for his plan to succeed, Charlie had to keep up with the intimidation.
He grinned wryly to himself. Natalie was a passionate woman, as he had discovered. It was one of the reasons why Charlie liked older women. They were often lonely, and wanted a lover who could give them the satisfaction they craved. Natalie had kept herself in shape, and the thought of her naked body writhing beneath him made his manhood stiffen. His mouth opened as he breathed heavily, and his hand snaked down to between his legs. He massaged his erection, tempted to walk over, and knock on the door. He knew she couldn't resist his charms.
"I've never had so many orgasms in my life," she had whispered to him as they lay together one hot, balmy night, their bodies entangled on sweat soaked sheets.
"Get ready for more," he had whispered back.
Natalie excited him, but she had to be kept on the leash. She was the means to an end, and the end was in sight. His eyes flickered above the houses, to where darker clouds were beginning to ring around the blue sky. What a convoluted, strange trip his life had become. When he first got together with Natalie, he had never imagined they would find so much in common. Especially their mutual distaste of Rochelle Pitt, and her mother Sandra.
Rochelle.
Even the name made Charlie's heart beat faster, and poured inky black poison over his memories. He had given Rochelle everything, and all he got back was a slap in the face. For a while, he thought she was the only one who understood him. And then, just like that, she betrayed him. And that mother of hers… Charlie gnashed his teeth together. Like mother, like daughter.
If Rochelle had agreed to stay with him, he wouldn't have gone down this path. But not only did she leave, she took away from him his only chance at happiness. She made his life a misery, and Charlie would never forget that.
Yes, it was strange how life came full circle. How connections were formed between different people, and fate lead to the logical conclusion.
Charlie glanced at the watch, and straightened. It was 3 o'clock, and time to move. He reversed the car, then sped down the road, driving quickly past Natalie's house in case she was watching. He changed his car often, and Natalie hadn't seen this rental Audi. Charlie drove down to the river, and crossed Prince Albert Bridge, reaching Sloane Square within half an hour. He stopped outside the gates of Emmanuel’s school.
He sat in the car, watching the parents drive up in their fancy cars. Several chauffeured Bentley and rolls Royce's drove up to the school gates. The mothers, in their pink designer cashmere sweaters, and figure-hugging tight tro
users and high heels stepped out to queue by the school gates.
Charlie watched the spectacle and shook his head. He craned his neck, as he still hadn't found the figure he was looking for. Then she saw her, walking rapidly down the road.
Rochelle Pitt.
He wondered if she’d just come from the hairdresser. Her blonde hair was like her halo around her head, resting nicely on her shoulders. She wore a white blouse, with pale cream tapering trousers that ended above the ankle. She had sensible sneakers on her feet, and from her shoulder hung an expensive looking Coco Chanel clutch bag.
She looked stunning as usual. Her perfect figure was a dress size 8, and although he couldn't see her face behind the large sunglasses, he knew without a doubt it was her.
The familiar pangs of regret and rage jostled inside his heart, colliding till it became a frenzy. His hands became fists and he dug them in to his legs, trying to get control. His whole body went rigid as Rochelle went past the car, just a few feet away. He could have leaned out the window and touched her. Grabbed her. Pulled her over to him, into the backseat of the car, and then driven off.
He gasped, sweat appearing on his forehead. His heart cannon balled against his ribs, and drummed against his ears.
He watched Rochelle walk up to the gaggle of mothers, and start speaking to one of them. Soon another joined, and the women exchanged stories, and laughed at a joke.
Then the school gets opened, and a teacher came out. She said a child's name, and then the child was allowed to go out to his or her mother.
Charlie took his glasses off. He shifted the hood away from his face. Emmanuel appeared. He had curly brown hair, and wide, innocent blue eyes. He ran out of the gates, and into the open arms of Rochelle.
Emmanuel jumped on his mother's lap, and put his little arms tightly against her neck. His eyes wandered down the road, and Charlie felt Emmanuel was looking directly at him. Charlie gave him a little wave, and the boy waved back.
