The Nail Collector: A London Crime Thriller (Detective Chief Inspector Arla Baker Series Book 4)

The heart pounding 4th book in the best selling Detective Arla Baker Series!

How do you catch a killer already behind bars?

Ten years ago Arla Baker put the vicious serial killer dubbed the Nail Collector behind bars. He killed women and collected their nails - hence the name.

Today a vicious killer has surfaced, and his method of killing is exactly the same...is this a copy cat killer?

It has to be, because the original Nail Collector is still behind bars.

Reality becomes distorted for DCI Arla Baker as she searches desperately for this new killer who is terrorizing London...

PROLOGUE


Debbie Jones couldn’t keep her eyes off her date for the evening. His dark blue eyes were fixed on her face, and she kept watching his sexy mouth move as he chewed the last morsel of food, then swallowed. A large hand reached for the glass of red wine. Lights in the restaurant were lowered, throwing soft shades of yellow, and the soft chink of cutlery sounded occasionally.

“So, where were we?” he asked. He lowered the glass from his lips, and his tongue flicked out to lick wine off his lips. Debbie swallowed, a sudden heat rushing low in her belly.
Her right hand fluttered up to touch her collarbone.
“Sorry,” he smiled. “You asked me what I did before I became a lawyer.”
He had a nice smile too. Full, sensual lips, white teeth. He was attentive and interested in her. When he picked her up from her apartment, he had brought a bouquet of roses. When was the last time a man had brought her flowers? She couldn’t even remember.
Debbie cleared her throat. “Yes.”
“Well,” he said, “Just college and a law degree. Usual stuff.”

*****

Dinner concluded, they strolled out into the warm night. The restaurant was on the borders of Clapham Common. The red and yellow ribbon of traffic on the A3 glowed like LED lights in the distance, sound muted by trees and grass. Velvety dark night lay like a glimmering shroud over the Common, its colours deepening from indigo to a clot of blackness that claimed the trees. The trees were still visible in the moonlight, still and hushed, as if drowsy from the day’s heat. It was sticky and hot, the kind of summer night that presses against the skin, makes sweat trickle down the back of necks.

When his hand touched hers, she didn't move it away. Gently, his warm fingers enveloped hers, and she held his hand. It seemed natural, on a night like this. A fat moon bounced over the trees, so low it could almost be touched. It shone like a silver plate, which served to show the scars on its face that much clearer.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He murmured.
“Yes,” Debbie said. She noticed they were headed into the dark breast of the Common, where no lights were visible.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Not there,” he said, pulling on her hand slightly. She moved to see where his hand was pointing. A row of lights at the end of a path illuminated what seemed like a car park.
“My car’s parked there. Shall I give you a lift home?”
Debbie let out a breath of relief. Going into the dark belly of the Common with a man she had met twice was risky, even if she really liked him.
“That would be lovely, thanks.”

Once the car stopped in front of her apartment, she asked the question which had been playing on her mind the whole journey.
“Will you come up for some coffee?”
“Only if it’s okay with you,” he said graciously.
“Of course,” Debbie smiled.

They rode up in the elevator, Debbie conscious of the heat of his body. She could reach out and touch him. But she wouldn’t. She didn’t want to show how desperate she was. She hadn’t been with a man for almost a year. She wanted those big hands on her body, her lips on that wicked mouth of his. She remembered that he had asked who she lived with. Alone, she had answered truthfully.

She opened the door, and switched the light on. He came in behind her, fast, his body bumping into hers. She turned, surprised, but his hand came down to clamp over her mouth. He pressed her body against his, kicking the door shut with his heel.
The hand gripped her mouth like an iron vice. Debbie felt herself spin, then cried out as her back hit the wall. A blow slapped against her face, and her vision rocked as pain exploded inside her skull. She opened her mouth to scream but his hand clamped over her mouth again, and he hit her in the stomach. The blow was like being pierced by a spear, and she fell to her knees. Her eyes were blurred, nausea rose in waves into her mouth, and she retched bile on the carpet.
He dragged her by the hair, into the dark lounge as her legs kicked the floor weakly, and in vain.

His knee sank on her chest, and she looked up, terrified, at the black shadow of his form looming over her like a demon, risen from her darkest nightmares.

“Now it’s time to make both of us famous,” he whispered. A metallic glint caught her eye. A knife had appeared in his right hand like magic. She tried to scream again, but pain blossomed in her head as his fist slammed into the side of her face.
“Go on, fight,” he panted. “I like a challenge.”


CHAPTER 1

Detective Chief Inspector Arla Baker threw her warrant card on the table and took off her cardigan. She wiped sweat off her brow and flopped down on the office chair. It was too hot to be outside. Her eyes closed in the comforting coolness of the air conditioner. They snapped open when her door opened. The lanky, wide shouldered form of Detective Inspector Harry Mehta leaned against the door frame.
His eyebrows raised, lips opened without speaking as he stared down at her. His milky coffee coloured cheeks were shaven so smooth flies would slip on them. Even in this weather, he had a tie and waistcoat on. Harry was the only copper she knew who dressed like a banker.
“I knew it,” he drawled slowly, staring at her. “I’m too hot to handle. Wearing you out.”
Arla sighed and leaned her neck back on the chair, staring at the ceiling. She knew his banter was exaggerated, a smoke screen he hid behind. But that didn't stop him from being infuriating. She wanted to slap him across the face. In fact, slapping a different part of her body was exactly what Harry had done last night. Her cheeks coloured at the memory. She swung her legs down and massaged her forehead.
“Get me a coffee,” she mumbled. Anything to get rid of the big oaf. More trouble than he was worth, sometimes.
“What’s the magic word?”
“I’ll give you two. Fuck off.”
Harry angled his head. “Now there’s two words I like to hear. I like the first one more, but the second...”
She jerked her head up. “Shut your face,” she hissed, frowning. Her eyes darted past him, to the detectives open plan office where desks were arranged in rows. The nearest figure was far enough to not eavesdrop on their conversation. But still. It would be the ultimate nightmare. Harry knew it too. He straightened, filling up the doorway.
“I think you need something cooler. A Frappucino maybe?”
She nodded. He turned and stalked down the office without a word. She watched his easy, loping gait, perfected by decades of growing up in south London. Appearances were deceptive though. Harry was the toughest cop she knew.
Lisa Moran appeared in Harry’s place. Arla narrowed her eyes. Her Detective Sergeant had always been close to her, and she wondered if Lisa suspected. If Lisa did, she did well to keep it to herself.
“How did it go?” Lisa asked. Her chestnut locks framed her pale cheeks.
“Bloody great. All the Albanians had run off. But the warehouse was full of weapons.” Arla’s wing, the SCU or Serious Crime Unit, had been tracking an Albanian gang who had settled in London. Plenty of Eastern European criminals had arrived in the capital lately, trafficking everything from cocaine to women.
“SFU should have a field day,” Lisa said. Specialist Firearms Unit.
“Yes,but we still need to catch Gorshkin.” The leader of Albanian Mafia was hiding in London at the moment, and it was in his honour that the weapons were being stored. The police were tipped off, which resulted in the dawn raid by SCU and SFU.

There was movement behind Lisa, and the corpulent form of Robert Pickering appeared, a sergeant in the SCU, and with whom Arla had worked closely. Despite the coolness, Robert had a sheen of sweat on his brow. He breathed heavily, eyes widened a fraction more than normal.
Arla had worked with him long enough to know the signs. She half rose from her seat.
“What is it, Robert?”
Robert huffed and took a deep breath before he spoke. “There’s a body, guv. Dead woman. Out in the Common.”