She had just sent an email to Henri Dutoit in Cherbourg when her mobile phone rang. She glanced at the caller display.
‘Hello, Paul.’
She listened, her eyes growing wide.
‘The train’s about halfway there, so I’ll be with you in an hour or so,’ she said. ‘Can you get a car over to Waterloo to meet me? It would save a bit of time.’
She ended the call and turned back to her laptop, hammering out an email, marked ‘top priority’ and ‘confidential,’ to Barry and Jack Dunning in Hampshire.
Ken Burke, the Junior Immigration Minister, has gone missing. His wife lives in their constituency home in Yorkshire and was unable to contact him at his London flat this morning. Neither could Yauvani Anand. His mobile’s not being answered. The local squad got into his flat and found no evidence of him arriving home last night. According to the cleaner, his bed looked as though it hadn’t been slept in. He was last seen heading away from Whitehall in a taxi, late yesterday evening. They’re trying to trace the taxi driver now.
* * *
Yauvani Anand was frustrated and angry. As far as the public, the press and the party were concerned, she and Ken Burke were as one, united in their political stance, centred as it was on maintaining strong homeland security and keeping immigration levels low. In reality, she despised him. He was a revolting individual, and she really didn’t know how much longer she could stomach being his PPS. It wasn’t just that he was having an affair, it was that he was also deceiving his mistress — whoever she was — by carrying on with a string of tarts. Maybe the shadowy mistress figure knew what he was like and conveniently turned a blind eye. One thing was for certain, Burke’s wife was unlikely to be aware of what her husband got up to in the capital. She was a stiff, cold, matronly figure with a condescending manner and an air of entitled superiority — a racist snob, in other words. Yauvani often wondered which of them she disliked most, Ken or his wife.
This time Ken had gone too far. Yauvani had always managed to contact him before when he’d been late in for work. He had a secret mobile phone whose number he had given her several years before, along with an instruction to only call it in an emergency. But this morning he wasn’t even answering that one. Where was the man? They were due to hold an important lunchtime meeting with a delegation from the Greek embassy, and they hadn’t had their usual pre-meeting brief with their advisors. He’d get fired if this kind of behaviour went on, regardless of how convenient it was for the present prime minister to have someone like ‘Mad’ Ken Burke holding this particular hot potato of a job.
In the end, she contacted the government security chief to report that the minister seemed to be completely out of contact, not answering any number she’d tried. He told her to leave it with him, saying he was sure the minister would quickly be found once the security staff got moving. His manner was, as usual, patronising. Yauvani wondered how he’d ever got himself appointed. He was as oily as a squeezed olive and not a great deal more insightful. He promised to phone her back with an update, but an hour passed during which she heard nothing, so she decided to bite the bullet and phone Paul Baker at the Met. At least he’d get something done.
He called her back within the hour. Burke had been seen by one of his officers during the previous evening. The minister had got out of a taxi outside Corinne Lanston’s home and entered the building. An hour later he’d left. It was raining hard and his coat collar was turned up and his usual trilby hat was pulled down over his forehead. He’d hurried to a taxi that was waiting outside.
Yauvani was perplexed. This couldn’t be right. Surely, it wasn’t possible that her old friend was the secret woman in Burke’s life? How could her taste in men have sunk so low? Corinne had standards or, leastways, that’s what Yauvani had always believed. God, the thought of it! Fastidious Corinne having sex with that lump of lard. It was hard to stomach.
She phoned Corinne’s numbers, both landline and mobile, but to no avail. This was worrying. Corinne had only just escaped from a week-long incarceration in a cold, dank cottage in the back of beyond. What if she’d come to further harm? Yauvani got straight back on the phone to Paul Baker. He seemed to know what he was doing, which made a pleasant change from the seemingly inept security people employed by the department itself. None of them appeared to have a clue.
* * *
The hastily arranged meeting took place in Yauvani’s office. Present were the two Met officers, Sophie and Yauvani herself.
‘When was the last time you saw the minister?’ Steve Lamb asked Yauvani.
‘Late yesterday afternoon,’ she replied. ‘I tidied everything away as usual, then popped my head into his office to say goodbye when I left. There were no debates in the House that either of us needed to attend, so we’d decided to get away at a reasonable time for once. I went home. I assumed he was planning to do the same.’
‘As we’ve already told you, he took a taxi from here to Corinne’s flat, stayed there for about an hour, and then left. We have someone watching her flat for security reasons, and the minister’s arrival and departure were logged,’ Steve said.
‘That’s another thing. She isn’t answering her phone. I’m getting worried about her.’
‘She must be okay,’ Steve said. ‘Apart from the minister, no one else arrived or left.’
Sophie was also worried. ‘I wonder if we should get across there. This is far too strange for my liking.’
‘I agree,’ Yauvani said. ‘It would set part of my mind to rest at least. I have a key to her flat, in case of emergencies.’
They drew up outside Corinne’s apartment block within fifteen minutes and used Yauvani’s key to get in. They took the lift to the first-floor apartment and Yauvani unlocked the door.
‘Corinne?’ she called.
There was no answer. The lobby had been cleaned since Sophie had last visited just after Corinne’s abduction, as had the lounge. Sophie was uneasy. She glanced at Steve Lamb and saw that he too was frowning.
‘Best if you stay here,’ he told Yauvani and Paul Baker.
He and Sophie walked slowly through the flat, checking each of the rooms, one after the other. The master bedroom was at the end of the hall, the heavy drapes across the window still closed, leaving the room in darkness. Someone was lying in the bed, covered with a white quilt, head resting on a pillow.
Ken Burke lay staring at the ceiling, lifeless, his mouth open, his face a greyish white and his lips blue.
‘A heart attack?’ Sophie said. ‘What do you think?’
‘Looks like it. But let’s not be hasty. You know as well as me that these things can be staged.’
Turning away, she noticed the small, neatly folded pile of clothes on a chair, along with his suit jacket hanging on the back. His shoes, trousers, overcoat and trademark trilby hat were nowhere to be seen.
* * *
It was early afternoon before the distraught Yauvani Anand was able to speak coherently. She sat with the detectives in a small but comfortable meeting room at New Scotland Yard. The Metropolitan Police Commissioner herself had spent five minutes with them before departing for an emergency meeting at Downing Street accompanied by Paul Baker.
‘Corinne’s the key to this, Yauvani,’ Sophie said. ‘You need to tell us everything you know about her, and all your suspicions. Please be honest with us. That’s the only way we’ll get to the bottom of what’s been going on.’
Yauvani took a sip of water. ‘I always knew he was having an affair with someone, but I never for a moment thought it could be Corinne.’
‘Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he called on her for a different reason,’ Steve said.
‘No, you’re wrong. It all makes sense now.’ She looked across at the two detectives and grimaced. ‘He was a disgusting pig, you know. Everyone thinks we were close but on a personal level I despised him. I always have. Bottom line, he was a petty racist who had no morals whatsoever. But in politics we have to pretend to get along with all kinds in or
der for the system to function, so that’s what I did.’
‘What about Ms Lanston? You told us before that you’ve been friendly with her since you were at university together,’ Sophie said.
Yauvani looked as if she’d aged a decade in a single day. ‘Yes. We shared a flat. But I knew her before that. We went to the same school. I can’t comprehend this. I thought I knew her, possibly better than anyone else.’
Sophie frowned. ‘Where did you both go to school?’
Yauvani tugged at the hem of her skirt. ‘A boarding school in Surrey — Egremont Manor. It’s in Epsom. We both arrived when we were fourteen and were made to feel like outsiders for a while by the rest of the girls in our year, so we naturally paired up together and remained good friends until we were in our mid-teens. We drifted apart in the sixth form because we did different subjects at A level. I did sciences and she did history, Latin and English. We both ended up going to UCL, so we got together again and shared a flat for a year.’
‘What was Corinne like at school?’ Sophie asked.
‘Hard-working. Like me, I suppose. And she was rather lonely. Her mother died when she was young and her father was a diplomat, based abroad. He remarried and didn’t want much to do with her, so she was at a bit of a loss during the holidays. Although there may have been a wilder side to her, but only out of school.’
‘You’ll need to explain,’ Sophie said.
‘The school owned a small outward-bound centre in Dorset, near Lyme Regis.’
Sophie felt a shiver run down her spine. Was this it, the link she’d been looking for? She waited.
‘Each class spent a week or two there every year. We were meant to be totally involved in the activities of the centre, but Corinne managed to slip out late in the evenings and met up with a couple of local teenagers. I always thought it was pretty innocent — at first anyway.’
‘At first?’ Sophie repeated.
‘Well, it was difficult to know exactly what was going on. You see, we all went home for the holidays, but Corinne and a few others spent some of that time down in Dorset. I heard rumours, but I didn’t really believe them.’
‘I need to know, Yauvani. You’re aware that I’m investigating some strange events in that area. I realise the importance of maintaining loyalty to close friends, but this could be important.’
Yauvani glanced nervously at Steve Lamb. ‘When we started back in September, some of the other girls gossiped about what Corinne’d got up to with some of the local boys. Apparently, there was one boy in particular that she was keen on. As I said, I didn’t believe them at first, but the next time we went as a class, she took me with her one evening when she slipped out. I suppose I was feeling adventurous. Anyway, this group of local teenagers was hanging around outside the fence and we went for a walk through the woods. Nothing much happened. They only snogged, but she kept glancing at me. I got the feeling that they might have gone a lot further if I hadn’t been there.’ She was looking pensive.
‘Can you remember his name?’
‘No. But one of the other girls might. Sally Abercrombie was a year older than us, so we didn’t mix much at school, but she went to the holiday camps with Corinne. I think it was her who spread the gossip when term started again. They fell out over it and Corinne nearly got expelled for fighting.’
Sophie became aware of Steve Lamb listening with renewed concentration. Had the name Sally Abercrombie meant something to him?
‘And Corinne was there at the centre most summers? What, from July through to early September?’ she asked.
‘Well for some of the time. She was meant to be a volunteer worker, helping out around the place. In the summer break they ran courses for local disadvantaged youngsters. Corinne was keen on sailing and helped to train some of the local teenagers. I think that’s when she might have met this boy. The alternative was to visit an ageing great aunt who lived in the Midlands.’
‘Do you know if she ever became close to her father? After he retired perhaps?’
Yauvani shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think he came back to Britain for long. I think he may have died soon after returning from abroad, but I can’t be sure.’
‘Where did they live?’
‘I think it was Hampshire somewhere.’
Sophie thought for a while. ‘Yauvani, does the name Charmaine mean anything to you? Charmaine Cookson?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Look, what do you think happened last night?’
Steve answered. ‘We don’t know for sure. But one explanation is that Mr Burke arrived at the flat because of some arrangement they’d made. Our observer was keeping an eye on the place from a car across the road and spotted him arriving. He’s adamant that someone closely resembling Mr Burke left an hour later. But it was raining heavily so visibility was poor, and the taxi was waiting right outside the door. It looks as though the person he saw could well have been Ms Lanston wearing his trousers, shoes, coat and hat. From that point on,’ he shrugged, ‘we’re still investigating.’
Sophie stood up. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m concerned about the safety of a group of migrants back in Dorset. There’s something going on that hasn’t completely played out yet.’
‘That name you mentioned,’ Yauvani said. ‘Charmaine? It’s familiar somehow, but from a long time ago. I’ll need to think about it.’
‘Please let me know the moment you remember. It’s very important. I have someone with that name back in Dorset, and she might be at risk,’ Sophie said.
The three of them left the meeting room. Yauvani went on ahead, phone in hand, calling for a taxi.
Sophie turned to Steve. ‘Well? Are you going to tell me about this Sally?’
He smiled. ‘Yeah, of course. It was a bit of a shock to hear her name. She’s my sister-in-law, as a matter of fact. She runs a therapy business not a million miles away from here. She’s sort of new age, if you get my meaning. I’ve always got on well with her, but my wife is a bit less enamoured of her approach to life. It’s a bit too freewheeling for her. Shall we visit for a quick word?’
* * *
Steve took Sophie to a tiny shop in a neat mews off a side street near Victoria Station. Sally Abercrombie sold perfumes, herbal skin products, candles and ethnic clothing, and also took bookings for massage therapies and ‘mystic analysis’ sessions, according to the sign outside the door.
‘What’s mystic analysis?’ Sophie asked as she and Steve ducked inside the low door.
‘Haven’t a clue,’ he replied. ‘I asked her once but couldn’t really follow her explanation. Something about hidden dimensions and soul travel, I think.’ He shrugged.
As they closed the door, a head popped up from behind the counter. The woman who bounded out to give Steve a hug and a kiss wasn’t the earth mother type that Sophie expected. She wore a tight leopard print top that showed off an ample cleavage and skinny jeans. Her fair hair was pulled back into a tight bun, which suited her open, cheerful face.
‘Well, look who the cat’s brought in,’ she said, laughing. ‘Who’s this, a new lover-girl?’
‘Sadly not,’ Steve replied. ‘We’re here on a case. This is Superintendent Sophie Allen from Dorset. We don’t have much time, Sally, so I’ll get straight to the point. Do you remember Corinne Lanston from your school days?’
Sally stood back in surprise. ‘Whoa. Her. I shouldn’t be surprised really, should I? She’s been in the press recently, what with her disappearing and then reappearing. Yeah, I remember her. Did well, didn’t she, considering what a nasty piece of work she was.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Completely two-faced, a goody two shoes at school, and an utter slut out of it.’
‘You ended up in some kind of altercation with her, is that right?’ Steve asked.
‘Well, you could say that. It was more like a fight, a really nasty one too. I’d had a few before, with other girls, but she was something else. I ended up needing stitches. The school was going to expe
l her but, to be fair, it was me yacking about her behaviour that probably started it. The school brokered some kind of deal with our parents, and it all got hushed up. Bad publicity, you see. Private schools are terrified of it.’
‘Can you tell us about the background to it, Sally?’ Sophie said. ‘We understand that something happened at the school’s outward-bound centre in Dorset.’
Sally’s eyes widened. She raised her eyebrows. ‘Do you want the pretty version the school got, or the full uncensored story? That one comes with a health warning, by the way.’
Steve sighed dramatically. ‘That’s the one, Sally, sad to say.’
‘I was afraid of that. I’ll need to close up for a while, so we’re not disturbed, and put the kettle on. Let’s find some seats.’
Once they were seated, mugs in hand, Sally began.
‘Every year each class spent a week at the centre. It could be a bit boring and I liked boys, so in the evenings me and three others from my class used to sneak out for an hour or so for a bit of snogging and the like. Some of the local lads used to hang around at the back, where there was a bit of rickety fencing that we could climb over. That was during our usual class visits to the centre. Then one summer my parents went abroad, and they had to find something to keep me occupied here. So, I went back to the centre for a few weeks. We were meant to be helping to run events for local disadvantaged youngsters. That’s when I met Corinne. She was in the year below me, so we’d never really run into each other before, but at the centre we both helped out with the sailing group. She was really good at it. We got chatting and I found out that she too used to escape over the same bit of loose fencing. We arranged to go out together one evening. I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for. I’m not sure I would have gone if I had.’
RUTHLESS CRIMES a totally captivating crime mystery (Detective Sophie Allen Book 9) Page 22