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  THE LOST SISTER

  A DETECTIVE ARLA BAKER MYSTERY

  ARLA BAKER SERIES 1

  M.L ROSE

  THE LOST SISTER

  Copyright © 2018 by ML Rose

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

  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.

  *****

  Table of Contents

  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 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 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  WANT TO READ MORE?

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  CHAPTER 1

  February 1997

  Nicole ran. She didn’t know where she was going. It didn’t matter. Breath rasped inside her chest, air clawing out of her lungs in painful gasps.

  The thick grass rose to her knees, and she splashed into a frozen puddle. She muffled her shriek and clambered out, her shoes now blocks of ice. Her tights were soaked up to her knees.

  Fear burned inside her, making her legs move as fast as she could. The pain in her abdomen was like a spear, lancing into her hips. She muted her scream and bit her lips. Hot, saline drops forced their way out of her eyes. Her hands flew down to her abdomen, holding it, feeling it move. Her breath came in desperate gasps. She felt blood, warm and thick trickling down her thighs. Tall plants brushed against her legs. But she didn’t stop running.

  The moon slipped out from between clouds, a useless, deep yellow sickle. She saw little and heard nothing but the panting from her lips.

  Lights. In the distance, like fireflies dancing in the dark. Anywhere was better than the hell she had just left. A sob escaped her lips as she felt something twist inside her abdomen. The pain was now unbearable, almost forcing her to stop.

  A voice. Behind her, shouting her name. She stopped for a second, fetid air hot around her lips. She recognised the voice, and a cold slither of panic ran down her spine. If he caught up with her, she was as good as dead.

  Nicole shuddered, and ran faster. When she got closer to the lights, she realised it was a church. There was no one outside, only the lights glimmered faintly in the dark. She kept moving somehow. She got closer to the fence separating the grass from the church and collapsed against it.

  She heard the voice again, and saw a shape moving out from the darkness. Panic bulged inside her heart. She gripped her heavy abdomen, and heaved herself up, leaning against the fence. She turned, crashing through the fence gates, almost falling. She straightened and lurched towards the door. She pushed the door open and stood there, blood pouring down her head and pooling down her legs onto the floor. She heard the voice again, louder this time. He was right behind her.

  She wanted to keep running, but there was no escape. She was exhausted.

  Her knees crumpled, and she fainted.

  CHAPTER 2

  Charlene Atkins breathed in and out rapidly, trying to calm the incessant thudding of her heart. Her panicked breaths became vapour in the freezing night air, dissipating as rapidly as the warmth in her body. She shivered and stared at The Holy Communion Church.

  Why had she come? It was too late to beg for forgiveness. Her heart had hardened into a slab of stone long ago.

  No one could judge her, not even a God she didn’t believe in anymore. No one but herself – and that was the hardest part. The part she had to live with.

  The church stood shrouded in darkness, a tepid yellow light in the front illuminating the stone pillars outside the main door, and the empty, silent stone patio. A gust of wind blew gnarled yellow leaves onto the patio. They made a sound like bones being dragged across the hard ground. A round white moon rose behind the church steeple, its orb suspended in the clutches of a skeleton tree.

  It was time for him to speak. She walked forward, leaves crunching underneath her feet. She stopped short when she saw a shape separate itself from a large tree in front of her. Fear grabbed her throat in a vice-like grip, and she could barely breathe. Mesmerised, she watched the dark figure walk towards her in slow, measured steps. The heels of his boots made no sound on the ground.

  “Hello, Charlene.” The Keeper’s voice was low and measured.

  She stood her ground, resisting the impulse to turn and run as he came closer. He stopped three feet away.

  “Where is it?” he asked. His voice was harder, like steel. She recoiled at the question.

  “Not here.”

  She could see him smile in the dark, his lopsided grin like a psychotic joker. “Is it back in the house?”

  “First you need to tell me…” The words died in her mouth as he lunged for her. She pivoted on her feet and turned away. She went to run, but stumbled on her ankles, dropping to her knees. In a flash, the Keeper was above her, a black mass blanking out the cold light of the moon. He grabbed her hair and pulled it back viciously, making her cry out. He brought his lips closer to her face.

  “Tell me,” he whispered. She shook her head.

  The stinging blow to the side of her head rocked her vision. Red and yellow globules of pain burst inside her eyes. She cried out and slumped forward.

  “One last chance,” he whispered, his breathing calm and easy.

  “No.”

  A blow to the nose almost felled her, and she only stayed kneeling as he held her hair. Warm, metallic liquid poured down her nose, and she could taste it on her tongue. Her breath came in gasps, and she retched, spitting out a cracked tooth. She screamed in pain as he stood up suddenly, pulling her to standing by the hair. He drag
ged her with him, stepping off the narrow road into the softness of the grass.

  She fell to her knees again and scratched his hands at her hair. The blow that landed on her stomach made her double up and gag. Mucus trailed from her open mouth, seeping into the hoary winter grass. He dragged her deeper into the darkness of Clapham Common.

  The trees seemed to hunch closer, hushed in silent witness. The moon broke free from the bony barnacles of branches, and rose up into the black, muted sky.

  CHAPTER 3

  Detective Chief Inspector Arla Baker thanked the Uber cab driver and jumped out of the Toyota Prius. She hurried up the steps of the brown-brick building of Clapham Police Station. The building was four floors high, wide and squat. Grilled, white-framed windows lined the ground floor. A blue sign above the main door said “London Met” in white letters.

  She swung the double doors open, checking her watch. She was more than half an hour late, damn it.

  She recognised the desk sergeant on duty. John Sandford was a tall, wide-shouldered black man with closely cropped, wiry hair. His eyebrows rose when he saw Arla. She noticed his eyes run over her. She was glad she had worn her regular office clothes – black trousers, flat, black shoes, white blouse shirt and long, black jacket. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair was tied back in a ponytail. Her boss had mentioned this to be an informal meeting, but she had a feeling it would be anything but.

  “Hi, John,” she read from his name badge.

  “Hello, guvnor. You back now?”

  Arla cringed at the question. Did everyone know about her? She decided to take it in her stride and shrugged casually.

  “Not sure yet. Is the boss waiting for me?”

  “Yup, he phoned five minutes ago.” John reached down and pressed the buzzer below his desk. Arla walked around the desk, and pushed the blacked-out, bulletproof, glass-panelled steel door that led inside the station. She thanked John and disappeared inside.

  She strode down the busy corridor, nodding at a few colleagues. She noticed the uneasy look on their faces, hidden behind the blank greeting. A sense of foreboding rose inside her like black exhaust fumes. She fought it down with an effort.

  Outside Detective Chief Superintendent Wayne Johnson’s room, she knocked and heard the gruff voice calling her in immediately.

  “You’re late,” he said, as soon as she stepped inside.

  “Good morning to you, too, sir,” Arla said in a steady voice.

  They stared at each other for a few seconds. Johnson’s hair was going white at the edges. He was tall, with a sharp nose and sculpted jawlines that still preserved a handsome face in his early fifties. His flat, dark eyes bore into Arla’s with frank irritation, then looked away.

  The glass cover on the table reflected the dull daylight spilling in from the windows at the back. A glass cabinet behind him held the DCS’s framed achievement awards, a couple of photos of him shaking hands with the Commissioner and other dignitaries. They were flanked by photos of his wife and teenage daughter.

  Johnson was wearing his uniform. His black and white cap, peaked edge shining, lay on the desk.

  “I have to give a statement,” he said tersely. That explained the uniform. She remained standing, not having been asked to sit down.

  “Sorry for being late, sir. Bloody police van held up the traffic.”

  Johnson snorted at her joke, and the tension dissipated from his shoulders somewhat.

  “Can’t keep blaming others for our mistakes, DCI Baker,” he said.

  Arla clamped her jaws at the reprimand. She knew what he meant, and it hurt deeper for all the right reasons. “No, sir,” she said.

  “Are you all sorted now?” Johnson asked.

  Arla bristled but kept her face impassive. “If by that you mean it’s not going to happen again, then yes. Sir.”

  Jonson sighed, and his shoulders sagged a little. Lethargy lined the corners of his eyes. “Come on, Arla. I can’t keep standing up for you. You assaulted a man.”

  “A man with a criminal record and known child abuser. Yes, I did. He didn’t get a conviction because there wasn’t evidence, but we all know what the truth is. Don’t we, sir?”

  Johnson jabbed a finger in her direction. “You’re a damn good cop, Arla, but you’re on thin ice. You punched him outside the court, in front of multiple witnesses. What do you think the press made of that?”

  Arla flapped her hands and grimaced. “Jeez, sir. I said I’m sorry.”

  “And are you?”

  Their eyes locked on each other, neither giving an inch. Arla looked away. “Yes I am, sir.”

  “Then act like you meant it.” Johnson grunted. His face lost its hostility for a few seconds.

  “Look, Arla, I know after what you’ve been through, hating these guys come naturally. But…”

  Arla stepped backwards and raised her voice. “Will that be all, sir?” She wouldn’t look Johnson in the eye.

  He put his large, bear-like paws on the table and lifted himself up to his imposing height of six feet four. “Come with me,” he said brusquely. He clamped the cap on his head, positioning it correctly, and walked out of the door. He spoke as he walked, expecting Arla to keep up.

  “A body was found on the Common last night. On the blooming bandstand, of all places. Throat sliced.”

  Arla walked quickly to match his step as he thundered down the corridor. His voice remained soft.

  “Media haven’t got to it yet. But it won’t remain secret for long, given the prominent location. We need an ID, and a quick investigation.” Johnson got to the Incident Room and paused, resting his hands on the door handle.

  “Ready?” he asked Arla. She looked at him, flabbergasted. Ready for what?

  “Who’s the Senior Investigating Officer in the case, sir?” Arla asked, aware of her heart’s staccato beat against her ribs.

  “You are, DCI Baker,” Johnson said and walked into the hubbub of the room, leaving the door open. Arla stood at the entrance, her mouth open.

  CHAPTER 4

  Arla let out a long sigh and squared her shoulders. She tried to rub off the shocked expression on her face, but her insides were tangled up in a tight knot. It didn’t help that the voices died down as she walked in.

  She took in their eyes, unflinching. They felt like darts on her body, but she didn’t care. She had done nothing wrong. They could judge her all they liked. Her eyes fell on the blonde curls of Detective Constable Lisa Moran. The chubby-faced twenty-eight-year-old smiled at her, and Arla nodded back, her face impassive. Towering above Lisa was the lanky, well-dressed frame of Detective Inspector Harry Mehta. His eyes burned with inquisitiveness, then his lips twitched. She twitched hers back, feeling a little life flow into her veins. Harry would have a joke for this occasion, later on. She really didn’t want to hear it.

  Around thirty faces looked expectantly as DCS Johnson walked in front of the blank screen.

  He raised his voice and told them what he had just said to Arla.

  “Now, like you, I can see the headlines already. Make no mistake, this will sell inches on tabloid columns. Everyone likes a murder mystery with their morning coffee. But we don’t need any more headlines.”

  Johnson continued hurriedly. “DCI Baker will be the SIO. Give her all your support.” All eyes turned to her again, and she stared back. This time, she saw grudging acceptance, mixed with the blank stares of the career detectives.

  Johnson nodded to the crowd curtly and walked over to her. “I want a progress report by this evening. ID and list of suspects. Got it?”

  “This evening, sir?” Arla asked, matching his low whisper. She hoped her voice conveyed the incredulity she felt.

  “Yes.”

  He turned and left the room. Arla strode to the top of the room, struggling for composure. She didn’t know what was eating Johnson. He was known to be a hard taskmaster, but he had never had ants in his pants this big.

  She faced the detectives and uniformed officers with her back to t
he screen.

  “Right, I want DI Harry and DC Lisa to come with me to the crime scene. We’ll be back in three to four hours.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “So we meet here at 14.00 for a full debrief, hopefully with SOCO in attendance.” Arla knew from previous experience that scene of crime officers would probably be at the site already, gathering evidence.

  The gathering broke up and filtered out through the gaps in the partition wall into their offices. Arla saw the conspicuous, gangly frame of Harry ambling in her direction. His brown cheeks were smooth-shaven, and black hair was gelled back from his forehead. The stench of aftershave assaulted her nostrils. His well-pressed navy-blue suit and tie went well with the white shirt. Smooth Harry, they called him. Girly Harry, she called him, because he paid more attention to his clothes than a woman did.

  “Well, well,” Harry said, his chestnut-brown eyes dancing. “The prodigal daughter returns.”

  She ignored him and turned to Lisa, saying hello.

  “Let’s get going, then,” Arla said. She glanced at Harry. “You got the car?”

  He stretched out a long arm. “Your carriage awaits, guv.”

  “Save it for later, Harry,” she said, walking away from him. As soon as they came outside the rear entrance of the station, the cold wind knifed through them. Late-November leaves skittered along the ground, and desolate trees creaked in the wind.

  They watched as Harry drove the unmarked BMW CID car over. Arla got in the front, Lisa in the back.

  The first drops of rain arrived as the car left the station barriers. Arla could feel Harry’s eyes on her. She looked out of the window.

  “How’s it going?” he asked eventually.

  “Fine.” He said nothing for a while. She didn’t mean to be rude, but she wasn’t in the mood.

  “Did the DCS drop you in it?” Harry was referring to her sudden appointment as the SIO for this case.

  She sighed. “Looked like that, did it?”

  She could feel him smile without looking at him. They had never been an item, and probably never would be. But Harry came the closest to understanding her out of everyone she worked with.