The lost sister, p.17
The Lost Sister, page 17
“Mr Bromsgrove,” Arla called out. Her voice was low in the general commotion. She raised her voice. He ignored her and turned away, showing her his wide back. Arla surged forward, pushing people away. She grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back.
“Mr Bromsgrove!” she shouted at his astounded, red face as he turned around. She held up her badge. “DCI Baker, we need to have another chat.”
There was a sudden quiet in the middle of the room. The bubbling voices around them died down. Arla ignored it. She focused on the perspiring Bromsgrove. The flesh on his neck spilled out over the edge of his white shirt collar. His cheeks were heavy, sagging. Wet beads glistened on his forehead. He glared at her with undisguised hostility.
“I told you last time, Inspector, I have nothing to say.”
“Detective Chief Inspector, actually, Mr Bromsgrove,” Arla said calmly, noting his infuriated expression. “We need to question you regarding another murder in the area.”
There was an audible murmur from the group around her. Bromsgrove’s face turned a deep shade of mauve. With an effort, he checked his anger.
“I have nothing to add, Miss Baker, as I informed you last time.”
Arla noticed that he knew her name. It made her uneasy. “This is for a new line of enquiry, regarding a new victim.”
He was seething. “Please see my secretary and make an appointment to come to the office.”
“I’m afraid it cannot wait, Mr Bromsgrove. Do you know someone called Chris Crichton?”
Bromsgrove paled visibly. He swallowed and, despite the battery of eyes now focused on him, raised his voice at Arla. “I cannot comment on these matters at the moment, Miss Baker. Like I said, please make an..”
“Are you denying that you knew Mr Crichton?” Arla persisted. She could feel the bodies pressed together tightly around her, eagerly listening to the exchange.
Bromsgrove softened his stance. “Miss Baker, I can answer your questions later. As you can see, I am not at liberty to do so now.” He made to move away, but Arla called out to him.
“You went to the same college and published papers together, didn’t you?”
The murmur of voices around them grew stronger. Men and women looked at them and spoke in hushed tones. Bromsgrove’s mask slipped, and he lost his cool. He stepped up to Arla, his face working.
“Harassing an MP isn’t the correct way to conduct an investigation, Miss Baker. I suggest you remove yourself from the premises, before I call security.” He stormed off, elbowing his way past the crowd. This time, Arla didn’t chase him.
Like a punctured balloon, the bubbly atmosphere in the auditorium had deflated. Instead of the chorus of voices, whispers made the rounds. Bromsgrove strode to a stall at the far end and shook hands with a group of men in suits. Harry leaned close to Arla.
“Reckon it’s time to go, boss. You got what you came here for.”
Arla nodded. She had indeed. Bromsgrove was hiding behind a mountain of denials and smoke, and he couldn’t hide for long. He must be doing it for a reason, and Arla couldn’t think of anything but buying himself time. Well, she wouldn’t be giving it to him.
Eyes and whispers followed them as she followed Harry’s lanky frame out of the room.
CHAPTER 47
Light faded fast from the ochre and gold sky over the dense clump of green trees on Clapham Common. It was barely 4pm, and the fuzzy orange glow from street lights already cast conical shapes mid-air. The tangled knot of traffic seemed to grow as darkness claimed London’s streets, headlights glowing like an army of feral creatures on the prowl.
Arla held her coat tight around herself, face numb from the biting wind. She had decided to walk from the station today, partly because she needed space to think and partly because she wanted the exercise. She was beginning to regret the decision now. The invariable whispering drizzle had started, light enough to be thwarted by her hooded jacket, but a nefarious partner to the biting cold. Thoughts came and went from her mind like the passing traffic.
Who had Charlene Atkins been?
How was she connected to the other two victims?
Arla crossed the junction of Clapham North and walked down the bar and restaurant-filled High Street. Music pulsed from one of the double-storeyed nightclubs as she walked past. She dodged the crowds but kept her eyes open as she walked. She was going past the Sainsbury’s when she noticed a dark-haired man leaning against the entrance, staring at her. They both looked away at the same time, but she couldn’t shake off the feeling she had seen him somewhere before. As she went past him, he slipped off the entrance and followed her.
Arla’s sixth sense started ringing. She could feel his presence behind him. A disturbing thought tingled the back of her mind. A dark-haired man had also been spotted outside Charlene Atkins’ house. Her pulse quickened. Inside the coat pockets her fingers squeezed into fists. Suddenly, she dived into a newspaper kiosk and snatched up a newspaper. She looked over the edge of the paper and caught the dark-haired man just in time as he lowered his head and snuck behind a family of four. He wasn’t tall, about her height of 5’ 9”. He wore a dark overcoat that came down to his knees.
Arla clenched her teeth and waited. There was a bus stop between them, and a red double-decker screeched to a stop. A cloud of passengers descended, and she couldn’t see the man anymore. She cursed and moved forward, smacking the unfolded paper back on top of its pile. People moved to board the bus, and she caught sight of the man, darting on-board from the back gate.
Arla shoved people aside and charged through the crowd. Angry shouts followed her. The back doors closed before she could get to them. She grabbed the rubber gaskets and tried to pry open the door. She saw a man’s feet running up the stairs, vanishing from view. The front doors shuddered close and the bus began to move.
“Stop, police!” Arla shouted, but the bus had left the kerb already. She ran to the front and waved at the driver, but he was busy navigating traffic. With a curse, she noted down the registration number. She phoned the station and gave them the bus number and reg then stood staring at the red behemoth as it drove away, belching out exhaust fumes.
Arla shook her head then resumed walking. The neon craze faded, and the light grew dimmer. The looming mansions of Clapham Park Road began, old buildings built for wealthy Victorian merchants. All were preserved in a pristine state. All but one.
The squat, ugly structure stood between two well-restored, tall, terraced buildings. Arla came to a stop outside it. She was drawn to it for some reason, but she couldn’t fathom why. The boarded windows had weeds growing out of them. Suspended in time, it was also sunk in the darkness between the orange penumbra of two street lamps. The crumbling red-brick façade stared out at the expanse of the Common. The wide, once stout wooden front door was covered in mould and scars. The tall triangle of the roof was still intact, with holes at frequent intervals. That told her the building wasn’t set on fire. The roof would have collapsed, and the black smudges outside the windows were also missing.
No, someone had locked up the secrets in this place and thrown away the key. She wondered why the building hadn’t changed hands. Surely a new owner would be keen to exploit the über-high land prices in this part of London? Arla wasn’t into property: she never had the money to buy herself an apartment within a short commuting distance. But she knew this place, if renovated, would cost several million pounds.
A cold gust of wind blew a smattering of rain on her face. Like a skull with hollow eyes, the derelict building gazed back at her. She shivered and moved on. After a brisk, ten-minute walk, she turned left and crossed into the road for Cedarbrook Care Home. As she walked she reminded herself to talk to the old Rastafarian who used to sleep in that building. There must be a side entrance that she couldn’t see.
As she approached the care home, her breath quickened when she saw a squad car outside. The engine was off, and she couldn’t see anyone inside. She walked fast and ran up the stairs. Loretta looked up as she walked in. She said two uniformed officers had arrived and wanted to speak to Tara. An ominous feeling surged inside Arla.
She went through the locked door and entered the common room. It was empty, save the two uniformed officers at the far end. They were sitting at the table, with a frightened Tara opposite them. Arla approached them quickly. One of the uniforms turned and saw Arla. She nudged the man who was with her.
“What’s going on here?” Arla asked, slightly out of breath. Both the uniforms stood up. One was a sergeant, the other a constable. Arla had seen them both at the station, but she didn’t know them. They introduced themselves as PC Stinson and Sergeant Broad.
In an apologetic tone, Sergeant Broad said, “We had information, guv, that one of the victims in your case used to attend this care home as a voluntary helper.”
Arla looked at them, stunned. She hadn’t done her report yet, and these guys were not present in the incident room, or part of her team. How did they know?
In a dangerously low voice, she said, “I am the SIO in that case. Who gave you authority to come here?”
The uniforms looked at each other. Sergeant Broad said, “DCS Johnson, guv. Said we didn’t have to clear it with you. I did ask.”
Arla clenched her jaws then relaxed them. What the hell was Johnson playing at? She glanced at Tara, who looked pale and drawn. It wouldn’t be her, she knew that. As for the uniforms, they were just following orders, taking a statement.
She let out a frustrated sigh. “OK. Why are you questioning the girl?”
“We were told she spoke to the victim.”
“Who told you that?”
Broad shrugged and said, “The lady at the front.” Loretta.
Arla thought quickly. She said, “I’ll take over the statement. Please go back to the station. I’ll see you there.”
The two uniforms looked at each other. Arla didn’t like the look on their faces. They looked apologetic, but there was something else, too.
Broad cleared his throat and in a nervous voice said, “I’m sorry, guv, but we were told to-
“Leave the statement to me.” Arla’s voice was like a whiplash. “That’s an order, Sergeant Broad.”
The beefy man swallowed and stepped back. “But guv, the DCS said…”
Arla’s eyes bore into his. “Don’t worry about the DCS. I will take it up with him. Nothing will happen to you. Don’t worry.”
They looked at each other again. Arla softened her voice. “Like I said, I’ll see you back at the station. Tonight.”
They murmured goodbyes and shuffled away. Arla looked at Tara. The girl was standing, and despite her height, she looked small and vulnerable. Arla felt an urge to give her a hug. She moved forward and took her hand. It was cold and trembling. Tara snatched it away. She lifted her chin.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing. They just wanted to talk.”
“Shall we sit down?”
Colour had returned to her cheeks, and she was angry now. “This is all your fault.”
Arla held up her hands. “Now hold on, Tara.”
“Don’t Tara me!” the girl shouted. “You act like you wanna be my bestie and hold my hand, then you go and dob me to the coppers. Because you are one! I know your type.” She turned to move away.
Arla grabbed her arm. “Tara, please.”
She shook her arm free. “Let go or I’ll complain about you.” She had a crafty glint in her eyes.
Arla stepped back, a despair suffocating her inside. This was going wrong. All wrong. Tara ran to the door, stepped out and vanished into the street.
CHAPTER 48
Arla fought the urge to run after Tara. It wouldn’t do any good. She could catch up, but the teenager wouldn’t talk to her. Tara’s attitude was troubling Arla deeply. Anger was a constant among these forsaken souls. They used it as a shield against the cruelty life had inflicted upon them. And often that anger was subverted into something more dangerous. A desire to seek vengeance. That led them down a deep, dark vortex of crime and drugs. Arla had seen it with her own eyes. She didn’t want Tara to disappear down that slippery slope.
Arla rubbed her eyes and walked down the steps of the care home. Loretta had gone home, and she would have to question her later. A yawn escaped her lips and an aching exhaustion was resounding in her bones. She desperately needed her bed, but she had other things to do first.
She hailed down a cab and went back to the station. She wanted to type up the flimsy statement before the uniforms had a chance. The offices were dark now, but a light gleamed over a table across the glass partition of the incident room. It was Harry. He leaned his head back and stretched his long arms upward, yawning. She smiled. Nice to see she wasn’t the only one who was shattered.
She walked across the dark expanse of the room and through the partition. She leaned against the table, crossing her arms. Harry had a day’s stubble on his cheek, and his coffee skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones. He considered her with interest.
Arla said, “Working overtime, Detective Inspector?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Harry said. “Thought you went home.”
“I was going to.” Hesitantly, she told Harry what had happened. His face creased into a frown. Arla said quickly, “Keep this to yourself.”
“I will. What worries me is the intel they had. Only a handful of us in the incident room knew about this.”
“It would’ve been in my report, if I had the chance to write it,” Arla said in a resigned voice. She flopped on a chair and massaged her temples. Alcohol. That was what she needed. A bottle of wine. Alone.
“I’ve been thinking about Chris Crichton and Bromsgrove,” Harry said.
“And?”
“When we accosted Bromsgrove, he clearly knew something. It makes sense to speak to former colleagues during their college years, or admin staff.”
Arla nodded. It was nice to hear her own suspicions spelt out. “Admin staff from 1981 might well have retired by now. Maybe even the professors.”
A thought struck her. “Most universities have a newspaper, right? Maybe we can check copies of that between 1981 and 1984 to see if something happened at St John’s during that time. Or in Oxford in general.”
Harry’s eyes gleamed. “Good idea. But a lot of work.”
“We have three bodies, no motive, and hardly any suspects. I reckon we need to work harder.” Arla looked around. “What time did the team clock off?”
Harry’s voice was gentle but firm. “Give them a break. They were here till well after 6.”
Arla stood up. “I hear you. But we need to speed things up. I suggest we look at the yearbook of Crichton and Bromsgrove’s grad year and call the men on it one by one.”
Harry said, “And Lisa can go through the newspapers.”
Arla nodded. “Any news from the pond dredge?”
He pursed his lips. “Nothing as yet. Toby said they had finished everything tonight. I’ll get his full report tomorrow.”
“What about Crichton’s brother? Is he back from Spain?”
“Tomorrow, I believe,” Harry said. “He knows that we’re coming to see him.”
Harry snapped his fingers. “Whoa. Thanks for the reminder.” He pulled out a notepad. “We also have the number of his boss.”
“Great. Tell his boss we are coming in tomorrow morning, and let’s see the brother in the evening.”
“Yes, boss.” Harry’s eyes glinted. Arla looked at him and rolled her eyes.
She walked towards her office to type up the statement and submit it on the online London Met platform. When she came out, Harry was stretched out between a chair and a table, legs crossed on the table top. He grinned at her. She frowned at him.
“What the hell are you still doing here?”
“Stalking you.”
She suddenly remembered the dark-haired man at Clapham High Street and her face clouded over. She walked past Harry briskly. “Go home.”
“Need a lift to the station?”
She was at the door and called back to him. “No thanks.”
The desk sergeant, Andy, waved at her, and she waved back. The cold air turned her breath into fumes, and she considered the dark, serpentine, inner-city streets in front of her. A shiver passed through her. She turned and went back inside, just as Harry was coming out.
“I need a lift,” she said.
CHAPTER 49
Arla’s face was bathed in a green and red glow from the dashboard as Harry drove. They went past the Common, the dredging machine now silent. She could still make out its black hulk not far away from the church. She leaned back against the seat, weary. It would be nice to let Harry drive her all the way back. She knew he wouldn’t mind. Her mind latched onto something she had forgotten.
“Did Lisa find out about the VHS recorder?”
Harry whistled. “Yes, she did. She was going to tell you at the meeting tomorrow morning, but I might as well say it now. She has a list of shops that sold that model number. She rang all of them. About twenty in the South-East. All of them closed bar one, in Soho. It’s been there for donkey’s years, tucked in some small alley near Chinatown. And most of that model sold in London. It was only around for a few months before they pulled production, as smaller recorders flooded the market.”
“Are any of the other dealers in London?”
“Two more, but they’ve both shut.”
“Good. Let’s hope this is the place that sold it. We can ask the owner for records. When was that model active, again?”
“1986. For six months, I can’t remember the exact period off the top of my head. Computerised records had started, it’s just whether the shop was using them.”
“If they were an authorised dealer of Panasonic, chances are they were. We take the model with us, and not leave the shop till we have the buyer’s details.”
