Cross Your Heart: A London Crime Thriller (Detective Chief Inspector Arla Baker Series Book 14)

famous film actress has gone missing...She was abducted and no one knows where she is - DCI Arla Baker is called in to find her...

The deeper Arla digs the more disturbing the secrets become...a young woman's life was once destroyed by the film industry's most powerful movie producers, and she is now back for revenge? Or is someone else after the missing actress?

Her wealthy family are spoilt and corrupt and they all have secrets they would kill to protect...

Soon Arla knows there is more at stake here than she ever realised...

The heart stopping, mind bending 14th book in the Arla Baker Series will keep you turning the pages all night!!

CHAPTER 1


Judy Miller couldn’t open her eyes. An impossible weight lay on them, pressing down on her entire face. She opened her mouth to breathe, and her lips brushed against a coarse material. She snapped her mouth shut, and a surge of panic engulfed her. Now she knew what the pressure was, it was the same, movable rough film that covered her face.
She squirmed and gasped. Her throat was bone-dry, and she tried to swallow, then coughed. Her eyes blinked, then opened partially. The cloth over her face was now visible like she was looking through a grill pressed on her eyes. She could see faint light, and the vague outline of a window, and walls. Most of the room was in darkness. She swivelled her neck, taking in the space, fighting the terror surging in her veins. Sweat poured down her neck as her breath came in rapid, shallow jerks.
Where was she?
How did she get here?
She was lying on a flat, hard, narrow bed. Her fingers twitched, and she tried to move her hands. To her surprise and relief, her hands were free. She reached up to the covering on her face, and pulled it off. It took some time, it got entangled in her hair. She threw the horrible thing on the floor. Her feet seemed stuck together, but she could move them, too. A thin blanket covered her up to the chest. Like the mattress she lay on, it was threadbare. She pulled it off, slowly, almost dreading looking at the rest of her body. Relief washed over like a tidal wave. She wasn’t tied down, and her legs were free. Sitting up on the bed, she looked around. Her eyes were getting used to the dimness.

A small window way up high on the wall allowed some meagre light in. The shutters were drawn, and she couldn’t reach up there. A smell assaulted her nostrils now, like cattle dung, and a deeper odour, like that of old animals. Judy had lived on a farm when she was younger. Her parents owned a farm in the Yorkshire Dales. Was she in an animal pen?
The room wasn’t big. The walls were built of rough stone, and she could see cattle troughs on the ground, and some hooks for buckets on the wall. She was right, this looked like an old sheep pen. Apart from the bed, the place was devoid of furniture. She could hear the wind whistling outside, piercing through the cracks of the stone wall. The ceiling above was lined with wooden logs, with tiles above them. Pinpoints of light were visible through the tiles.
Her shoes were still on her feet. Once she made sure she was alone in the room, Judy put her feet on the ground. She could see the door, it was old, heavy and definitely shut. The solitary, small window meant there wasn’t much light, and the dark stone walls didn’t help. Judy got to her feet, half expecting the door to creak open. She waited, but nothing happened. Was she being watched?
She craned her head and watched the angles in the ceiling. The red dot was clearly visible. And it wasn’t the only one. They were attached to the dark wooden rafters in the ceiling in four corners. The red dot of cameras, small and black, their lenses pointed down at her. Judy’s heart shrivelled, and ice-cold fear numbed her whole body. She was being watched. She felt violated. She sat down, wrapping her arms around her, and looking at the floor. Then she made her mind up. Whoever this sick bastard was, she wouldn’t let him win.
Judy stood, and took a careful step forward. Then she knelt on the floor, and looked under the bed. It was empty. A layer of dust lay on the stones, rising up in small puffs as she stepped on them. There was a jug of water next to the bed, with a glass. Judy held the jug up to the light. The water looked clean enough. But was it spiked? She was imprisoned here anyway, what did it matter?
Before she drank, she tiptoed to the door. She grabbed the big brass handle and pulled. It was firmly locked. She tried a few more times, but the massive door only creaked in its frame. She gave up, and ran to the jug of water. Her mouth was bone dry. Greedily, she drank, water splashing out of the corners of her mouth, wetting her neck and chest.
Then she collapsed against the bed. Her panic remained, bubbling under the surface. She forced herself to think. Her brain felt woolly, and she put a hand to her forehead. Tears spilled out of her eyes as she tried to make sense of what was happening. She dried her eyes, then patted her pockets. No phone. She looked under the pillow in the bed, and then lifted the thin, flimsy mattress. She sank back on the floor. The stones felt cold against her jeans.
She needed to think. Why was her mind such a mess? Had she been drugged? She just had zero recollection of how she got here.
Jeremy, her husband Jeremy. Alex, her son. The last two familiar faces she knew. When did she last see them? In fact, she didn’t know what date or time it was now. Judging by the faint light, it must be evening, or early morning. There was a chill in the air. It felt more like evening than morning, given how the light was fading.
She needed to call Jeremy. But how? Judy racked her brains. She last saw Jeremy… then she remembered. Like the glow of headlights, her memory returned with a sudden glare.
She went out to get petrol. She bought some groceries for the next day, then filled up the tank. Visions and snippets of light flew past her mind like a runaway train. She drove out of the service station, and then she stopped.
A car had pulled up, and the driver flagged her to stop. A young man with a face that reminded her of Alex. She stopped, against her better judgement. The road was well lit, and other cars zoomed down the dual carriageway. It should be all right, she told herself. Maybe the man just needed a set of jump leads to restart the engine. His car looked old.
He came forward, looking nervous, lit up by the headlights. He apologised and told her exactly what she thought the problem was. A flat battery. Judy went to open her door to get to her boot, where she had the jump leads.
Her spine tingled as the hairs stood up on her neck. That’s when it happened. She was pushed down to the ground, and something soft and pungent was pressed against her nose. She remembered fighting, but then it all went black.
Until now. Judy shook, her breath coming in gasps again. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop the shaking. Panic bulged in her chest, and she let out a hoarse, futile cry.
“Help. Help me. Someone, please help me.”
Only silence answered her. Judy’s head hung down, tears pouring down her cheeks. Outside the window, light slowly vanished from the sky, like a giant fist was curling around it, snuffing it out. A bird perched on the window, observing Judy for a while. Then the bird flew away, leaving Judy alone inside an abandoned farmyard. The farm was the solitary one in a large valley, hills crowding it on all sides. No one heard Judy, the famous actress, crying pitifully for a saviour.






















CHAPTER 2


“It’s just very unusual for her,” the man said. “She’s been gone for two days now. No phone calls, texts, nothing on social media.”
Detective Chief Inspector Arla Baker looked at the man carefully. His posture was easy, relaxed. He sat in a chair opposite her in one of the interview rooms of Clapham Police Station in South West London.
Jeremy Miller’s dark hair was cut short, and it was hardly present on the top, but thicker on the sides. He had a pair of intelligent, searching grey eyes, which were offset by a rather prominent and bulbous nose. The nose spoiled the symmetry of his face, which was otherwise attractive. Arla guessed his age to be late fifties, and he had kept himself in shape. His grey eyes were settled on Arla’s.
“Mr Miller, is there any reason why your wife would disappear like this?”
Jeremy Miller shook his head. “No reason at all. We have a happy marriage. We have two children, both grown-up. My son is at home currently, for a few days. Our daughter is married and lives outside London.”
“At the time of your wife’s disappearance, who was present at the house?” Arla asked.
Mr Miller pondered the question. “She left shortly after dinner, she said she had to run some errands, fill the car up with petrol, things like that. It was close to 9 PM. My son was upstairs, in his room. We have two dogs as well. There was no one else in the house.”
“And she didn’t come back that night?”
Mr Miller shook his head. Arla asked, “Did you see anyone around the house before she left? Maybe a car that you haven’t seen before, or someone walking past the house? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“We live in a quiet place, and the neighbours all know each other. We’ve been there for the last fifteen years. I didn’t see anything unusual.”
Arla scribbled on her pad, then stared at the paper. Her trusted Detective Sergeant Lisa Moran had interviewed Mr Miller already, and Arla knew who he was. He ran his own film production company, and his wife was none other than Judy Miller, an actress whose films used to gross hundreds of millions at the box office. She was getting past her heyday, but was still an easily recognisable face in TV and films. The family lived in Surrey, down the A3, in a town called Claygate. It wasn’t an area normally under Arla’s jurisdiction, but Surrey Police had asked Arla to take the case due to the Miller family’s links in London.
Like everyone else, Arla knew of Judy Miller, but didn’t know who her husband was. Until today, that is. Unusually for a famous actress, Judy had kept her married name. Arla decided to ask the question.
“Your wife’s stage name is the same as her real name?”
Mr Miller nodded. “Yes, it is. Many actors have stage names, but Judith didn’t.”
“And she kept her married name on stage?”
Mr Miller seemed surprised. “Yes,” he said slowly. “That does happen.”
Arla wasn’t so sure, but she let it go. “You had a good relationship with your wife, you said. How long have you been married?”
Mr Miller allowed himself a little smile. “Twenty-five years and counting.” He lost his mirth. “Judy’s like my right arm. She’s never done this before. It’s been two days of sheer hell. I kept hoping she would turn up.”
He bit down on his lower lip, trying to control his emotions. His face became downcast.
Arla said, “Who did you ring? Or where did you search for her?”
“When she didn’t come that night, my son and I went out to look for her. In fact, that’s what we’ve been doing for the last two days.” His nostrils flared as his jaws clamped tight. “But that Friday night, we went to the petrol station she normally went to, then looked in the supermarket, and a couple of the pubs. Rang her friends, but she wasn’t with them.”
He took a sip of water, then continued. “Didn’t sleep well that night, as you can imagine. Drove to her mother’s house in Sonning Common, near Reading. She wasn’t there, and her mother was as surprised as us.”
“Please give us her mother’s address in case we need to make enquiries.”
“Of course. I cast the net wider then, ringing up colleagues and friends in London, parts of Surrey, even Birmingham and Manchester. No one’s seen her.”
“What about her car?”
“No sign of that either. It was a black Volvo XC90. 2022 plates.” He glanced at Arla. “That Saturday, I wanted to call you guys up. But my friends told me the cops would only tell me to wait for longer as most missing people come home eventually.”
“That’s right,” Arla nodded. “I know it is incredibly distressing for the families of missing persons, but most of them do return within three days. Ninety-nine per cent, in fact, return within one week.”
Or are found dead, she thought in silence. There was no point in stressing the poor man out even further.
“However,” Arla continued, “you don’t have to wait for a day, you can call the missing persons hotline any time you want to.” She looked down at her notes. “You informed the Police on Sunday morning, is that right?”
“Two nights without sleep, I couldn’t deal with it anymore. I keep thinking the worst.” The tip of Mr Miller’s bulbous nose became red and quivered. He took another sip of water and shut his eyes.
Arla watched him. If he was lying, then this act was worthy of a BAFTA. Maybe even an Oscar. Then again, Mr Miller was a film producer, and his wife was famous. He must know a thing or two about acting.
Over twenty years as a detective, she had learnt to listen to her internal alarm bell. It was silent. Mr Miller was in trouble, and seemed like a genuinely grieving husband. Besides, if he had abducted his wife, it would be incredibly stupid to come forward and announce the fact.
An open mind, Arla reminded herself. In the early stages of an investigation, treat everyone as a potential suspect.
Experience couldn’t be taught, but it was the greatest teacher. She knew appearances could be deceptive, and only time revealed the truth.
“I must ask you again, Mr Miller. Is there any reason why your wife would do this?”
The older man opened his eyes, and the grey cloud in them lifted as the clarity of her words hit through. His forehead knotted together.
“None whatsoever. Like I said, this is most unusual. We were a happy family. Our children are grown, but they visit. We have no troubles. Judy is famous, as you know. We live by the river in Claygate because it’s quiet, and she doesn’t get bothered by fans.”
Arla thought of something. “Your wife must get fan mail, and so on?”
“Yes, but all of it goes to the address on her website, which is her agent’s office in London. No one knows where we live, as far as I know, anyway.”
“No reporters?” Arla raised an eyebrow. “You must know how persistent they can be.”
Mr Miller grimaced. “Don’t even talk about them. We had to take a couple of papers to court over rubbish regarding Judy’s so-called affair, and our marriage.” He waved a hand like he was swatting a fly. “This was many years ago. We’ve always had a happy marriage. The world of showbiz is a crazy, often stupid, world. It’s all about appearances, as you must know. Many so-called stars live sad, lonely lives in private. Judy and I clung on to each other for sanity, and it worked for us.”
Arla nodded. “So Judy’s agent didn’t receive anything threatening or abusive from a fan recently?”
“She gets a lot of mail, and online comments on her social media accounts. Nothing that’s been of concern, lately.”
“And Judy herself has seemed fine to you?”
Mr Miller nodded. “Absolutely.”
“I need a list of her friends, whom she saw regularly. I also need to know her leisure activities. Was she in a gym, or golf club, anything like that?”
“A female gym instructor came to our home, once a week. She was a member of our golf club. Judy wasn’t a keen golfer.”
“What about hobbies?”
“She liked reading. She played the piano and sang. She actually does the odd Christmas Panto, and also appears in the West End theatres. She went running a few times every week. Had a keto diet. She looked younger than she was.”
“Did she have specific running routes? Or did you go with her?”
Mr Miller shrugged. “We did sometimes. But mostly she went on her own. There’s hills at the back of our house, and she went up there.”
Arla thought for a while. “Did she wear a tracking watch, like a Fitbit, when she went on her runs?”
Mr Miller frowned. “Yes, she did. I don’t know where it is, though. That’s the thing, I can’t find her phone, as she took it, obviously. But weirdly, I can’t find her iPad either. She used it all the time.”
“I hope you don’t mind if we take a look around the house?”
“Of course not.”
Arla was scribbling, and she underlined the word friends, then looked up.
“Did she have any close friends? Maybe one person she met frequently, or talked to on the phone.”
The older man tapped a finger on his lip. “She had a couple. Not sure how often she met them.”
“Any names?”
“Julia Burgess and her husband came to our place a few times. We’ve known them for years, as our sons went to the same school.”
“How old is your son now?”
“Twenty-five, so I’m talking a good few years.”
“Anyone else?”
Mr Miller downturned his lips. “A couple of others, I think. Old friends, like Meredith. Coupland is her last name. She used to be a TV actress, now runs a yoga retreat in the Cotswolds.”
“Did Judy stay in touch with Meredith?”
“I think so. Look, I don’t know exactly which friends my wife was close to. We had common friends, obviously. I can go through a list with you. Sorry, my brain’s a bit frazzled right now.”
“No problem.” Arla smiled briefly in sympathy. “I was going to ask you for a picture but then thought we have plenty. However, a recent, and without make-up photo would be best for our purposes.”
Mr Miller took out his phone, and scrolled through some images. He gave the phone to Arla, who looked at it closely. Judy was easily identified, with her trademark red hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones, and the famous pout. She was clearly posing for the camera, despite not having any make-up on, and standing on a hill in her running gear.

Behind her, the rolling countryside stretched to the horizon. It was a selfie, and Arla wondered where she had put the camera to get a full body image. Must have placed it on a rock, and taken the photo via the time lapse method. Judy was in good shape, Arla noted with a little envy. She rarely had time for exercise, and the bottles of wine she had once a week were adding to her waistline. She needed to get back to a healthier lifestyle.
“Judy did that often,” Mr Miller said, clearly referring to the picture. “It was good for her publicity and so on. She leaned the camera against something solid, and took several photos. If you swipe left you can see more.”
Arla did so, and found Judy in several poses, against different countryside and hill backgrounds. She handed the phone back to Mr Miller, glad she had a good look at them. It was also reassuring that he allowed her to look through his phone.
“I’m giving you my work number, please send me a few of those photos. We will choose one for our work. And before you say anything, no one will say a word to the media. I can guarantee there will be no leaks from our end. But we have to speak to her friends, and one of them might speak to the media. I’m afraid that’s beyond our control.”
“I understand.” Mr Miller’s face darkened like the sun swallowed by clouds. “I actually don’t care about the media circus that much. I just want her back.”