Shadows of the Past E-Book

ML Rose

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Arla Baker Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 323

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

DCI Arla Baker is back in a twisted, heart pounding mystery that will keep you up all night…

The skeleton of a woman is discovered in one of London’s canals. She was wrapped up in a tarpaulin, tied with stones, and then her body was left to sink in the dark waters of the canal…Today DCI Baker has to uncover the secrets of her terrible death…

But the more she investigates, the greater the dangers become. The missing woman was connected to one of London’s notorious gangsters, and this man had powerful connections.

The people who are drawn into this web of deceit want to keep the past buried – but Arla wants to discover the truth. She faces a vicious web of treachery and lies that sucks her into mortal danger.

As Arla peels back the secretive layers, she uncovers the work of a blood thirsty serial killer who is still hiding in the shadows today…

The killer is back on the streets, and this time, he is hunting for Arla…with her back to the wall, Arla has to fight back like never before…will she succeed?

If you like James Patterson, Harlan Coben, Patricia Cornwell, Michael Connelly, then discover the Arla Baker Series by ML Rose today!

Leseprobe

SHADOWS OF THE PAST

AN ARLA BAKER MYSTERY

BOOK 15

M.L. ROSE

Copyright © 2025 by M.L. Rose

All rights reserved.

The right of M.L. Rose to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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. Infringement of copyright by copying.

(1) The copying of the work is an act restricted by the copyright in every description of copyright work and references in this part to copying and copies shall be construed as follows.

(2) Copying in relation to a literary, dramatic, musical, or artistic work means reproducing the work in any material form.

This includes storing the work in any medium by electronic means.

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(4) Copying in relation to any description of work includes the making of copies that are transient or are incidental to some other use of the work.

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.

CHAPTER 1

Martin Keane had lived on the Regent's Canal for twelve years, but he'd never seen the water this low. The drought had transformed the familiar waterway into something alien – a deep groove of exposed brick and centuries of London muck. His narrowboat, The Borrowed Time, sat awkwardly in the shallow water, listing slightly to port.

The morning had dawned warm and bright, the kind of July day that already felt suffused with warmth. Martin stood on the towpath, surveying the debris that the receding water had revealed. Most of the canal's secrets were predictably mundane: shopping trolleys, bicycles, the usual urban detritus. But something about the way the morning light caught a patch of dark material under the footbridge made him pause.

He'd been meaning to clear some of the rubbish while the water was low enough to reach it. Environmental responsibility was part of the unofficial narrowboat owners' code, though most treated it more as a guideline than a rule. Martin took it seriously. He'd spent his career as a geography teacher before retiring; environmental consciousness was hard-wired into him now.

The material that had caught his eye was half-buried in the slick mud of the canal bed, about six feet from where he stood. It looked like tarpaulin, the heavy-duty kind used to cover boats and scaffolding in building sites. Probably another bit of rubbish to add to his collection. He grabbed his extending rubbish picker and wellies from The Borrowed Time's rear deck.

"Going treasure hunting?" Carol from the boat next door called out. She was on her deck with her morning coffee, wrapped in a flowery robe, equally flowery cardigan and slacks underneath.

"Someone has to clean up after the lovely citizens of London," Martin replied, pulling on his wellies. "Want to place bets on what I'll find? My money's on at least three phones and someone's lost house keys."

"Tenner says you find gold nuggets," Carol laughed, raising her coffee mug in a salute.

Martin carefully picked his way down the sloping canal bank. The drought had exposed about four feet of the usually submerged wall, creating a treacherous muddy slope. The mud sucked at his boots, releasing a ripe organic smell that made him wish he'd brought a mask.

The tarpaulin was more firmly wedged than he'd expected. He gave it an experimental tug with the litter picker, but it barely moved. Something heavy was keeping it in place. Martin crouched down, trying to get a better angle. The material was degraded, splitting apart in places. Through one of the larger tears, he could see something pale beneath.

It was smooth, pale yellow, almost shiny, as if it had been preserved carefully.

His mind cycled through several possibilities – a shop mannequin, a plastic garden statue, a large doll? But what would any of that be doing in a tarp covering, at the bottom of a canal?

He tugged harder, and the rattling material inside shifted, and then slid further down the bank.

Then breath caught in his chest, and he felt the sudden constriction of fear. His head jerked back as he tried to get a better look.

The curved shape, yellowed with age but unmistakable in its anatomical accuracy, was a human skull. The skull was still attached to the spine, and the ribs spread out from it, the rest of the skeleton hidden from view. It was human, there was no doubt.

He reminded himself to breathe, but his chest was tighter than when he had a heart attack, five years ago. His eyes closed, and he breathed deeply, slowly. He needed to stay in control. He straightened up carefully, mindful of disturbing nothing.

"Carol," he called, keeping his voice steady. "Could you bring me your phone? And you might want to call 999 while you're at it."

Carol must have heard something in his tone because she didn't ask questions. A moment later, she was picking her way down the bank, phone in hand like it was a weapon, and she was coming to save Martin.

She stood next to him, and her gasp, and the way her hand covered her mouth was proof enough she had seen what he had.

It was real. She turned her back to the tarp bag and its grisly contents, and Martin raised a hand to her shoulders. They stood like that for a while, mute in the sunshine.

“Give me the phone,” Martin rasped hoarsely.

"Police, please," he said, when connected to 999. "Yes, we've found something in the canal. Human remains, we think." Another pause. "Regent's Canal, just by the Prince Albert Bridge in Camden. Near the lock."

Martin stood guard over his discovery, watching the morning light strengthen. Dog walkers and joggers were starting to appear on the towpath. A few slowed down to look curiously at him and Carol, but most carried on with their routines, unaware of the canal’s gruesome secret.

CHAPTER 2

DCI Arla Baker was in the driver’s seat of her VW Golf, watching Nicole as the teenager examined herself in the mirror. Then she flipped up the sun cover and glanced at her mother.

“Bye mum. See you later.”

Arla couldn’t help but think how much Nicole had changed in the last three years. She was a completely different child from when she was ten. She was taller now, and when she wore jeans, she looked scarily mature. Like all parents, Arla was loving the transition, but a part of her pined for her little girl, the one who ran round the garden in her pigtails and pink frock.

She went to open the door to get out, but Nicole stopped her. “It’s alright, mum, you don’t have to.”

Arla sighed. Through the windscreen, she could see a gaggle of teenagers by the bus. The coach had its side compartment open, and luggage was getting loaded inside. Nicole was off on a school trip to Dorset. It was the end of June, and the last few days of school.

Nicole had been on school trips before, of course. This one was no different, but when Arla saw the teenage girls huddling together and giggling, she knew they would be up to mischief in the camp by the beach.

“Look after yourself, okay?”

Nicole appeared to resist the urge to roll her eyes. “I know, mum. You told me already.”

“I’m not going to tell you not to drink or smoke.” Arla looked down at her unpainted finger nails. “Like I said, that’s up to you. But you know what that does to the body.”

“All in good time, like Dad said last night. Right?” Nicole arched an eyebrow. And in that moment, she looked so much like Harry, Arla had to smile.

When Nicole was a baby, she looked just like Harry. A little, chubby, cute, brown baby with big eyes. And lots of spiky hair. So much that everyone commented how much hair the baby had. As Nicole had grown, her face was now more like Arla’s. Nicole had Arla’s brown eyes, and sharper nose.

“Yes, exactly. And don’t give in to peer pressure. Hold your own.”

“Lecture over?” Nicole grinned.

Arla swatted the teenager’s arm. “I barely said anything. Sure you don’t want me to help you with the bags?”

Nicole had a small backpack and a larger rucksack. “No,” she shook her head. Then she leaned over, and they hugged within the confines of the car.

Arla inhaled her daughter’s smell – the lavender of her shampoo, and the freshly washed clothes. She didn’t want to let Nicole go, and suppressed the little surge of emotion that tickled the back of her eyes.

“Bye darling. Take care. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Nicole sprang out of the car, and grabbed her stuff from the back seat. She waved at Arla, then walked over to her friends. One of them spread her arms and they embraced. They laughed and chatted, and Arla was reminded of the same time in her life.

Traces of bitterness flowed with the memories. Her teenage years were difficult and lonely. No sister, no mother, and a barely present father. Nicole would have a very different life. Arla would make sure of it. She was eternally grateful that Harry had the same views as her.

With the customary forgetfulness of a teenager, Nicole didn’t even turn around as Arla turned the car around. She looked in the rear view, and saw Nicole watching her car. It was too late to wave, but Arla tried, and was thwarted by a big 4x4, driven fast by a mother who was clearly late. Arla grimaced and swerved.

She was on the main road when her radio chirped. She was the SIO for this week, and the respite was too good to last. She turned the black knob to the right.

“DCI Baker.”

“PC Martinez speaking. Morning guv. Human remains found in the Regent’s Canal, by Camden Lock. DI Botham there wants to speak to you.”

Camden was not in Arla’s jurisdiction, but she had gained quite a following for solving cold cases and using forensic anthropology.

“Patch him through.”

DI Botham’s warm voice came down the line. “Hi Arla, how are you?”

“Not bad, Terry. What have you got?”

“Looks like a skeleton, wrapped up in tarpaulin, with weights tied to the sides, to make it sink. Only the bones remain. Looks old. That’s all I can say for now.”

At least a decade old, if not older, Arla thought to herself. Terry cleared his throat. “Would you mind taking a look? I know you’re busy, but we’re scratching our heads.”

Arla didn’t have anything on her desk that needed immediate attention. That could change however. But this case intrigued her.

“No problem. Send me the location, I’ll pop over now. If I do accept the case, will I be SIO, and I can bring my own team?”

“Yes of course.”

Something in Terry Botham’s voice told Arla he was glad to wash his hands off it. She wondered why. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind.

“Alright. See you soon.”

CHAPTER 3

Arla pulled her car onto Prince Albert Road. Schools were still open, and she had to battle through the North London traffic. She heaved a sigh of relief as she got out of the car. Her phone chirped – it was Harry. He was on his way to the scene.

Arla picked her way past a cluster of uniformed officers. The morning air carried the ripe stench of exposed canal bed, centuries of decay rising from the waterway. She could see why the remains were discovered. The canal water had dropped dramatically, revealing about four feet of previously submerged wall. A stretch of dark material protruded from the mud near the footbridge, partially obscured by the shadow of a moored narrowboat. Two crime scene officers were setting up portable lights on the towpath.

She walked up to a uniformed sergeant, and showed her warrant card. His name badge said Parsons, and he nodded, and showed her the table where masks and shoe covers lay. Arla had her own sterile gloves, which she snapped on.

Scene of Crime had set up a white tent on the towpath. Blue and white crime scene tape stretched across the path, and two uniformed constables were speaking to a couple walking their dog. They were clearly not happy at being diverted. They trudged off, but Arla could see more inquisitive faces at either end of the crime scene. Both towpaths were cordoned off, and this section of the canal would now be closed for a few weeks. That would cause problems for the boats, who would have to find new routes.

Parsons was standing beside her. “Have we informed the Canals Trust?” Arla asked.

“Yes, guv. Canal traffic is getting redirected. The Lock will remain lowered until further notice. No rains now, so the water levels should stay low.”

“Famous last words.”

Parsons grinned and rubbed his ginger beard. “Just going by the weather forecast for July. Hope it doesn’t rain like last year.”

Nothing tarnished the British summer like the downpours, Arla knew. Her phone beeped again, and this time it was Dr Banerjee, veteran pathologist of the London Met. He was on his way. Arla was relieved. She didn’t want to work with a brand new pathologist, and they were so critical to the case. She had worked with Dr Banerjee for so long they were practically like family. And Dr B’s partner was Elaine Robinson, one of the country’s best forensic anthropology experts.

Arla walked up to a narrow shouldered, young PC who was interviewing an older man in mud-caked wellies. The narrowboat resident who'd made the discovery, presumably.

Arla showed her warrant card. “DCI Baker.”

“Hello, guv,” the young man, called PC Holmes, straightened. His eyes gazed at her anxiously.

"Partial skeletal remains, ma'am, as you know. Mr. Martin Keane here spotted something suspicious while clearing debris from the exposed canal bed. Called it in at 9:15."

Arla nodded. She glanced at Mr Keane and PC Holmes. "Has anyone approached the remains?"

"No, ma'am. Mr. Keane says he only touched the material with his rubbish picker, backed off as soon as he realized what it was."

Arla turned her attention to the narrowboat owner. She took out her well-thumbed black leather notebook, and pen. Despite her senior rank, she knew there was no excuse to ignore the basics. Besides, the person who found the body was always a suspect.

"Talk me through exactly what happened, Mr. Keane."

“I thought I saw something dark and unusually shaped over there,” the older man pointed with a hand. “So I went to look.” He told Arla what happened.

Arla didn’t think Mr Keane was lying. He had lived his life, and she thought he had seen the worst of it. Retirement in a houseboat might well be his way of a peaceful existence.

“Why did you want to clean the canal?”

Mr Keane’s bushy eyebrows rose. “No specific reason. We live here, right? The canal’s like our home. If I moved in the future, I’d like the path to be clearer. That’s all it was.”

Arla was thoughtful. “In the recent days or weeks, have you seen anyone on the towpath acting strangely?”

Mr Keane ran a hand across his balding scalp. “Nothing that springs to mind. We do keep an eye, as you can imagine. For our own safety.”

A woman appeared on the houseboat behind. Arla saw her flowery cardigan, and matching trousers, and the make-up laden face, peering over Mr Keane’s shoulders expectantly. He turned, sensing her.

“Ah, this here’s Carol.”

Carol shuffled forward eagerly. From her inquisitive expression, Arla could tell she was dying to know more. She repeated her question. Carol thought, then shook her head.

“Just the usual dog walkers, pedestrians. People jog down here as well. Some take the short cut to the tube stop on the Lock. Usual traffic, really.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why? Do you suspect anyone of this?” She nodded towards the white forensic tent.

Arla suppressed her smile. This was a big event in Carol’s life. “Too early for suspects,” Arla said. “But if you think of anything, please let us know.” She turned to Mr Keane.

“The water level’s not been this low in ages, has it?”

“Not since the nineties, and I wasn’t even in the canals then. I hope you don’t find any more surprises.”

Arla sighed. “Neither do I.”

She gave the couple her card, and they promised to call if they remembered anything else.

Arla walked up to PC Holmes, who was fidgeting by the white forensic tent.

"I want detailed photographs of the entire exposed area," Arla instructed Holmes.

"Anything that could've been submerged at the same time as our remains. And get uniform to start door-to-door with the other boat residents. Someone might remember something relevant from back when the water was higher."

“Yes, guv, of course.” Holmes snapped to attention, and literally ran across the towpath to his sergeant.

The tent flap lifted, and the familiar figure of Henk Parmentier emerged. Arla was surprised the scene of crime officer had got here so early.

“Early bird gets the worm, eh?” Parmentier had a rueful smile on his face.

“How did you get here so quickly?”

“I was in central London, actually. Took the tube up here. DI Botham said I had clearance from you to start using their stuff.” He held up both hands and waved them. “Ta daa. Here I am.”

“Well, get yourself busy then. Got your wellies?”

Parmentier pointed at her flats, and then lifted his white space suit. Arla saw the wellies.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Parmentier sighed. “Are you going down there?”

Arla peeked under the bridge. The rusty posts were green with slime. The smell was strong enough to wake up the dead.

“No thanks. Get the remains up here. Dr Banerjee is on his way. I’ll have a look with him.”

Parmentier did a mock salute which made Arla grin. He began his careful descent to the canal bed, two crime scene officers following with their equipment.

Arla watched as they began the meticulous process of documenting the scene. The tarpaulin was heavily degraded, but its edges disappeared into the mud in a way that suggested deliberate wrapping rather than random debris. Arla could see the stones that were tied to the ends of the tarpaulin. She got closer for a better look.

The stones were tied with nylon ropes. The knots were not great, and she wasn’t surprised they had come loose with time and water flows. The canals didn’t have any currents, the locks made sure of that.

The tarpaulin was a large sheet, and the body, Arla could see now, had been placed inside, then wrapped around. This was a crude, hasty job, not the work of professionals. The real dealers would have cut the body into pieces, to begin with. Much easier to dispose of. This body was whole, and the skeleton was well preserved. If someone didn’t want this person to be found ever again, they didn’t do a great job.

The sun had fully risen now, but this section of canal remained stubbornly shadowed by the surrounding buildings. Parmentier and his team worked with steady precision, gradually exposing more of the remains. The tarpaulin had preserved certain areas better than others.

When the full skeleton was exposed, Parmentier and his helpers were assisted by two of the constables. They wrapped the skeleton in a body bag, and bought it up to the towpath. From there, it was carried inside the white tent.

Arla followed them inside. Parmentier lowered his mask. Sweat budded on his forehead.

“Found a silver necklace with pendant on the neck,” he said. He extracted a specimen bag from his pocket. Arla held it up with a glove hand, against the halogen lights inside the tent.

It was a thick silver chain, but water had rusted the metal. The pendant bore two letters inside a heart shaped silver clutch – RM.

The victim’s initials, perhaps?

Arla looked at the skeleton. She noted the flecks of cloth attached to parts of the bones, and the worn out, degraded shoes. Nothing but bits of black leather, stuck to the bones. The skeleton was small, no more than five feet five to seven inches, Arla thought. The skull size was not the same as a man’s – it was smaller. So were the fingers and toes. From her rudimentary knowledge of forensic anthropology, she suspected this was a female.

She crouched by the skull, and ran a hand along the bone fissures that were present in every human skull. These were solid, and Dr B had once told her that was a guide to the age. Teenagers up to the age of fifteen didn’t have solid, or fused, skull fissures, to allow the brain to grow.

This woman was an adult. Her jaw bones did not jut out, and again, were finely formed, like her hand and feet. Arla couldn’t guess her age, but the race might well be Caucasian, or mixed.

There was a rustle at the tent entrance, and the short, bearlike figure of Dr Banerjee appear. He was dressed in his usual crumpled suit, and he had a black suitcase in his right hand. He took off his black framed glasses. His sharp, dark eyes swept over the scene, smiled at Parmentier, and then rested on Arla. Warmth lit up his face.

“Don’t need me anymore, do you?” Dr Banerjee said, stepping inside. Arla was genuinely pleased to see him. The old man was like a father figure to her.

“Go on then,” Dr Banerjee smiled, putting down his briefcase. “What have you found?”

“IC1 female, deceased many years ago,” Arla said. “Skull sutures fused so she was an adult. Female due to her skeletal structure, pelvic brim diameter, and skull size. Also, small hands and feet. Unlikely to be a male, and not a child.”

Dr Banerjee didn’t blink. “Cause of death?”

“Hard to know. No visible fractures so far, but I haven’t taken a close look.”

Dr Banerjee glanced up and down the skeleton. Arla knew his canny eyes would miss nothing, but most importantly, he knew what he might be missing.

“We need an MRI scan of the bones, a skeletal survey. We also need to examine the rear of each bone, starting with the skull.”

“That’s why I’ll never replace you,” Arla grinned. She stepped over to him, and resisted the urge to give him a hug. She put her apron on, and Dr Banerjee did the same. They knelt by the skeleton, and Parmentier helped them gently turn the bones.

“Just the rear of the skull,” Dr Banerjee said, stopping them. He took a look, and then shone his torch near the base of the skull.

“Shallow depression on the right. And a very narrow crack, likely a stress fracture that has grown bigger with time,” he said. Arla was on her knees, and bent forward to have a look.

“Yes, I see it. Blunt force trauma?”

“Yes. Either a blow to the head, or she fell and hit something pretty hard to cause a stress fracture.”

“Could it be the case of death?”

“Hard to know in the absence of flesh injuries. But yes, possible.”

Dr Banerjee rose with a grimace. His knees popped loudly. He grunted and moved around to the middle of the skeleton. Arla let him work.

She went outside, and saw the tall, wide shouldered, lanky figure of Harry Mehta, speaking to the uniformed sergeant, on the other side of the towpath. She was Mrs Mehta, of course, officially. But at work, like many professional women, she had kept her maiden name. She would be DCI Baker until she retired. Harry, she knew, didn’t mind.

He sensed her, and his head turned. Then he walked over.

CHAPTER 4

Harry stood on the bridge and tried to look down, but his height meant he had to bend very low. He stood, touching his back.

“Bad back?” Arla said. “Happens when you get old.”

“Excuse me?” Harry frowned. “I’m only three years older than you.”

“That’s why I don’t have back pain,” Arla grinned. Harry rolled his eyes. They walked down to the tow path, and the mood turned sombre as Harry crouched to look under the bridge. Arla noticed Martin Keane and Carol Bainham sat on their deckchairs on Mr Keane’s houseboat, watching them.

“That’s where the tarp got stuck?” Harry pointed at the area under the bridge that was now circled with crime scene tape.

“Yes. It’s been there a while. Years maybe. The water level going down revealed it.”

“Proper job?”

“Nope. Bunch of amateurs if you ask me. Rolled the body in the tarp, tied stones to the sides and chucked it in the canal.”

“CCTV?”

Harry stood slowly, and his practiced eyes looked up and down the lights of the towpath. “There,” his long arm pointed to the right, across the bridge. “At least one camera that I can see. But we don’t know when this happened.”

“Yes. Most CCTV’s were put in place in the early 2000’s. Depends when this crime took place.”

Harry’s chestnut brown eyes focused on her. “You said amateurs. Did they leave a murder weapon?”

“No, but they forgot to take a necklace off her. I think they checked her pockets though, we can’t find any other ID.”

“Anything from Missing Persons Database?”

“Are you giving me orders now? I’m the SIO, remember?”

Harry shifted closer, and she averted her face when she saw the glint in his eyes. His voice lowered to a whisper. “You might be, but you were quite happy under me last night.”

Arla snapped her jaws tight and stalked away. If she could reach his face she’d love to slap him. Knowing Harry, he might enjoy that too much.

Parmentier emerged from the tent, and came over when he saw Harry. One of the forensic officers was lowering a camera with a light attached, at the end of a stick. A so-called water camera, to see beneath the murky canal waters. That, Arla knew, would provide valuable information about the rest of the remains, or any other ID from the body. The divers would come later, and do a more thorough search.

Arla waved at the uniformed sergeant Parsons, who came over, with PC Holmes, and two more uniformed constables. Parmentier stood next to her, with Harry.

"Right," Arla addressed her team. "I want the scene documented and cleared before we lose the light this evening. Sergeant Parsons, coordinate with diving support – as soon as the remains are recovered, I want a detailed search of the surrounding bed. PC Holmes, get me everything you can on the bridge repairs from the past three decades – materials used, contractors, dates of work."

Parsons said, “The Canal Trust said they would send that information over. I will forward it to you ASAP.”

“Good. I also want to know when those CCTV cameras were placed, and regardless of when the crime was committed, I want images analysed over the last four weeks. If this was the work of a serial killer, for instance, they often come back to their scene of crime to check their victims. Lets make sure we don’t miss any weird people looking under the bridge.”

The uniformed staff all nodded. Arla turned to Parmentier. “I want metallurgical analysis of the chain and pendant please.” She glanced at Harry. “I’ve informed my team to look at Missing Persons over the last twenty years, in this region. If we hear anything, we will update you.”

Arla paused. Her gaze was fixed on Parsons now. “This will be a joint South and North Command operation. My team from the Lambeth HQ will liaise with Camden HQ. I trust there won’t be any problems.”

Parsons cleared his throat, aware he was being put on the spot. “No. Our guv, DI Botham spoke to us about it already. We will give full cooperation to your team.”

They dispersed, and Harry gave her the phone. It was Lisa Moran, her erstwhile detective sergeant in Clapham.

“Hello guv,” Lisa’s cheery voice came through. “Got your message and looked into missing persons. A twenty five year old woman called Rachel Matthews was reported missing, in Angel, in October 1998. That’s not far from Regent’s Canal according to the map.”

A clutch of excitement gripped Arla’s spine. “Yes, that’s right. And the victim has a necklace with the initials RM. Chances are this is her.”

“I’m digging into her records. She should have dental and DNA samples. Her mother reported her missing after she didn’t call for three weeks. So did one of her friends. Do you want me to ring up the friend and see who else knew her?”

“No, lets wait till we get DNA confirmation. Good work, Lisa. We might have a positive ID. Start preparing a time line from the date of her disappearance.”

“On it, guv.”

Arla told Harry the news. He nodded. “With any luck, we could get the dental records later today.”

“And we can inform her poor parents.” Arla shook her head. Her heart was heavy. She couldn’t imagine the trauma of not knowing, the deep anguish that had tormented the family all these years. She hoped that she could at least give them some closure.

They went inside the tent, which was a tighter squeeze now with all of them in it. Dr Banerjee listened with close attention.

“I’ll prioritise this,” he said. “Give me a couple of hours after I get back.” He pointed at the skeleton.

“I didn’t find any other injuries. No trauma to the bones, but if there was on the flesh, we’ll never know. It seems the cause of death could well be that contusion in the rear occiput of the scalp. Enough force to cause a cerebral bleed, I think.”

“But not enough to split her skull bone apart,” Arla said. “Do you think she fell?”

“Or she was hit. Either of the two.”

He pointed at the feet. “The leather from the shoe fragments might give us some clues. Not all shoes are made of the same leather.” He indicated the pelvic bones.

“With a pair of tweezers I got some cloth fragments. Might be her underwear. Once the MRI scan is done we might find more cloth or other fragments on the bones.”

“Thanks, doc.”

Dr Banerjee smiled, and went back to his work. Arla went outside with Harry. He looked at Martin and Carol, still sitting out.

“Did they find the body?”

“Yes.”

“Any other witnesses, of any sort?”

“Not so far. Let’s see what the door to door and CCTV shows.”

Arla looked around her. The canal itself was a kind of witness, wasn’t it? The slick of water on the canal bed looked back at her as if with a baleful, secretive eye. It had lain there since the Victorian times, and held secrets deep within its dark bosom. If it hadn’t been for the drought this skeleton wouldn’t have been revealed.

She paused by Mr. Keane's boat. The name painted on his narrowboat's stern caught her eye: The Borrowed Time.

How appropriate, she thought. Time had just run out for someone's carefully buried past. The victim, Rachel Mathews. Arla cautioned herself. She didn’t know for sure if the skeleton belonged to Rachel. But something in her gut told her she had found Rachel. Still, she had to wait for the DNA confirmation. And if this was Rachel – then she had a family, loved ones, who had waited decades for closure. Not knowing was always the worst part. It hounded detectives as well, pervaded their dreams at night.

Arla’s jaws flexed in determination. She would bring justice for Rachel, and her family.

CHAPTER 5

It was late afternoon by the time Arla and Harry drove back to Clapham. Harry stopped the car at Angelo’s café and picked up the best croissants and coffee south west London had to offer – in Harry’s opinion. He picked up enough for the team, and then drove back to the nick.

Detective Sergeants Lisa Moran and Robert Pickering were at their desks and they waved at Arla and Harry. DS Ros May was also at her desk, a few metres away. She was engrossed on her laptop and didn’t see them. Rob got her attention, and she walked over.

Rob rubbed his hands together, his eyes gleaming as Harry put the bag of croissants on his table.

“Thanks, guv.”

“Have a quick bite, then join me in my room,” Arla said. She nodded at Harry, who went to his desk, and sat down.

Arla went to her room at the rear of the open plan detective’s office. It was a small space, enough for a desk and four chairs. Although Arla’s jurisdiction ran to four police stations in south west London, she didn’t get the plush offices her boss, Wayne Johnson had, on the top floor.

At least the sun was out. Arla stepped on the creaking floorboards, covered by the fading green, thin carpet that had lain there before she started at the Clapham Station, twelve years ago now. She flung open the curtains, and warm sunlight cascaded in, the beams blinding her.

One of the photos on her table lay on its side, and she adjusted it straight. It was her father and sister, on either side of Arla. Nicole, the sister who vanished when Arla was eleven, and whose disappearance left an endless chasm in Arla’s soul. No, it would never get filled.

Next to it, was the framed photo of Harry, herself, and her daughter, Nicole, posing on a beach in Greece. Nicole was brown like her father, with frizzy black hair, and making a face at the camera. It always made Arla smile, wonder at how her little baby was now getting to her shoulder height.

She opened her laptop, and saw she had an email from Dr Banerjee. He had already got the dental record confirmation, but DNA results wouldn’t be back till tomorrow. It wasn’t necessary. Dental records showed the victim to be Rachel Mathews, and her ID matched the missing persons database.

Arla opened up the database on her screen. She was used to this – before she found her sister, she used to check this almost daily. She clicked on the correct Rachel Mathews, and the photo appeared on her screen.

Rachel was an attractive blonde woman, and her youthful looks twisted Arla’s heart with sorrow. So young…such a waste of a promising life. She read the journal of her disappearance.

Rachel was first reported missing by her mother, and one of her friends. The date of the report was 22nd October 1998.

Her mother was Sarah Mathews, and the friend was called Julia Slater. Sarah called the police after she didn’t hear from her daughter for three weeks, and when she visited the flat where Rachel lived, no one opened the door. The friend, Julia, had reported her missing on the same day as Sarah. Presumably, Arla thought, Sarah had enquired with Rachel’s friends first, if she had their numbers.

There was a knock on the door, and Harry entered with Lisa, Rob, and Ros. They sat down in front of her desk, while Harry remained by the closed door leaning against it with arms folded across his chest.

“So we know for certain now,” Arla began, “That the victim indeed is Rachel Mathews. What have you found out about her?”

Lisa cleared her throat, and tucked a loose, red strand behind her ear. “Rachel was a twenty-five-year-old publishing assistant at a publisher called Thames House. They published commercial genre books in romance, crime and mystery. She was last seen at work a week before she disappeared. Witness statements from the office mention she had taken time off for health reasons. Her medical records show a history of depression, and she was seeing a counsellor, and her GP had started her on antidepressants. She had been on them for two years.”

“What about her neighbours? Did they not see her in that last week? And her close friends?”

“Yes. The neighbours saw her carrying food into her flat. She lived on the top floor of a converted terraced house in Angel, Islington, in North London. The neighbours report her as a quiet person who smiled, said hello, but kept her life private. No man was seen entering her flat. She was caught on CCTV going in and out of her street. Islington had CCTV those days – mainly in the high street, but Rachel lived close to Angel tube stop.”

Harry interjected. “London wide CCTV started after 1993, right? With that child abduction case, Jamie Bulger.”

“Yes,” Lisa said. “But it wasn’t really widespread till the early 2000’s. So many parts of London’s residential areas still didn’t have CCTV coverage. Regardless, there are CCTV footages of Rachel near the tube stop, and on her street.”

Rob had his portable tablet in his hands, and he spoke up. “The footage is on HOLMES, and I’ve got it here. They mainly show Rachel in public spaces like the tube station, and the High Street. There’s a couple where she met up with two other women. One of them is identified as Julia Slater, the woman who also reported Rachel as missing the same day as her mother did. The other is Melissa Carrington, then a trainee solicitor, and now a well-known family law barrister.”

Arla said, “So Rachel was good friends with Julia and Melissa?”

“Yes. They were seen together on CCTV twice, and Melissa was also interviewed. Both her friends saw her ten days ago, caught on CCTV. They had another friend, Kate Turner. All three women were interviewed, none were treated as suspects. They exchanged text messages, and spoke on the phone with Rachel – these show up on her phone’s call log. The texts and calls were normal communications – about holidays, when to meet up, what to wear, and so on.”

“Good work,” Harry said from behind. Arla looked up at him. Harry said, “So, these three friends are still around, right? And we can catch up with them?”