The Forgotten Mother: A London Crime Thriller (Detective Chief Inspector Arla Baker Series Book 3)

They took her children.

They left her for dead.

Now she's back for revenge.

When a famous film director is found brutally killed in his home, DCI Arla Baker is called in to investigate. The more she looks into the case, the deeper the secrets become, and soon Arla knows there are dangerous men who would like to keep those secrets buried forever.

When a retired judge with connections to a well known film actress is murdered in the same manner, Arla knows she is up against a blood thirsty killer who will not stop.

Will she be able to stop him before he strikes again?

CHAPTER 1

The man lay very still, his face hidden by a ski mask. Only his eyelids blinked. The grass around him was brittle with frost. He was watching the row of houses opposite him, his attention focused on the middle residence. Light scattered around the drawn curtains of the Georgian windows. The house was terraced but large, typical of the Edwardian terrace mansions built in the nineteenth century. They were never cheap and now sold for several millions.
Jonty was his name. J to his friends, of whom he didn't have many. Jonty wore lycra running gear from head to toe, and a tight, black ski jacket, the same colour as his mask. Precision gloves, allowing full movements of his fingers, covered his hands. He was glad of them. His hands would have frozen by now. His running shoes were black too, and gripped well.
A full moon floated in the sky like a round, silver balloon. Clouds around it were touched by a blue fire, suffusing them with bright, otherworldly shades. The forest Jonty lay in was quiet. Occasionally a squirrel rushed in the undergrowth. His ears were attuned to the silence of winter, a dead calm that claimed the movement of grass, leaves. But he was anything but calm. His heart thrummed against his ribs, breath fluttered against the nylon material of the ski mask.
Tonight was his night.
He had watched and waited for the last two months. He knew what the owners of the house did most evenings. In particular, their pattern on a Thursday evening. He glanced at the green dial of his watch. Seven pm. Any minute now.
The front door opened, throwing a shaft of light on the landing. Four stairs led down to ground level. A woman emerged, wearing a green coat and scarf. The security lights didn't come on, which made him smile.
Jonty watched the woman get into a BMW convertible and drive off. The lights remained on inside the house. He knew who was inside. Without making a sound, Jonty stood. He tightened the straps of his backpack, then set off at a brisk jog.
Even the city that never slept seemed quieter, holding its breath. Only one car passed him by as he ran, invisible in the dark cloak of night. He got to the edge of the forest and leaned against a tree. Above him stretched electric cables. He could see them swing across the road to a wooden post, from where several lines originated. Each of those cables ended in a house, supplying telephone and internet traffic.
Jonty grabbed the lowest branch and heaved himself up on the tree. He was incredibly fit, he ran two marathons a year. With five minutes, he was near the top. He rested his back against the main trunk and removed the bolt cutter strapped to his waist.
He uncoiled a harness and looped it around his waist, then tied to a sturdy branch, to take his weight in case he fell. Then he leaned forward, the bolt cutter’s sharp jaws open. He could reach the cables from here. With several snips, he cut the cables, watching them fall to the ground.
He kept an eye on the road. It was a quiet one by South London standards, but if the falling wires hit a passing car he was in trouble. They didn't. The tension in the cables whiplashed them to the black asphalt, emitting small sparks of electricity. Then they moved to the edges of the road, dragged by the recoil. Silence returned to millionaire’s row.
Jonty climbed down the tree slowly. Rushing down a slope or tree was dangerous, he knew, being an avid rock climber. Once his feet touched ground, he was fast as a hare. He crossed the road where the streetlamps didn't shine. Keeping to the shadows, he came up to the house. The large, thick red door faced him.
He rang the brass doorbell. After a while, he heard sounds from inside. His heart rate quickened. He took off the ski mask and patted his hair down. He pressed himself closer to the door, so his face blocked the view from the eye hole on the door.
“Who is it?” A muffled voice came from inside.
“Sky TV. Are you having a telephone and internet outage currently?”
The voice said something, then there was a rattle of chains. The door opened. A man stood there, wearing a dressing gown and sandals. He wore glasses, and was in his late fifties. He stared at Jonty in confusion.
“Who…”
He didn't finish the question. Jonty kicked the door hard. The man stumbled backwards, falling against the wall. Jonty was inside in a flash, and without turning around, shut the door with the heel of his shoe.