She took another sip of tea. ‘She helped Phil take his clothes off, then crouched down and sucked him off. I’d never seen a real hard-on, not in the flesh, as it were, and I’d never even imagined such a thing as oral sex. I’d seen diagrams of normal sex in biology lessons, and I’d felt something when I’d snogged a couple of boys, but nothing remotely like that. Then they were at it, on the grass, with her on top. I remember coming out of a sort of trance when Roger tried to paw at my breasts. I shoved him away and ran back to the centre.’ She took another gulp of tea and stared at the floor.
‘Are you okay?’ Steve asked.
‘Yeah, of course,’ she replied, and shook her head. ‘I was just so naïve back then.’
‘Did Corinne say anything about it afterwards?’ Sophie asked.
‘I tried to stay away from her. It had come as a shock to me and I needed time to process what I’d seen. But she sought me out, pushed me up against a wall and threatened to harm me if I told anybody. We stayed away from each other for the rest of our time there.’
Sophie was on edge. ‘What exactly did she threaten?’
‘I can’t remember. I know I was scared. I really wasn’t going to tell anyone but back at school in September, someone asked how my Dorset break had gone. I suddenly started crying. I couldn’t stop myself. I suppose it was all the pent-up emotion. I told her a bit of what had happened, which was enough for the gossip to start. Corinne came looking for me, and that’s when the fight started. I’ve stayed well clear of her ever since.’
* * *
Sophie was on the train back to Dorset when her mobile phone rang. It was Yauvani.
‘I told you about the local teenagers when we were in Dorset, at the school’s outward-bound centre.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Well, I think one of the girls was Charmaine. And I think her surname could have been Cookson.’
‘That’s very helpful. So that means the two of them knew each other.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. But this Charmaine, there was talk that she got involved with what was going on. I can’t remember all of it. It was so long ago.’
‘Okay, Ms Anand. I’d appreciate it if you kept trying to remember. Let me know, please, if anything else occurs to you.’
‘Sure. And call me Yauvani. Ms Anand sounds a bit too formal. My close friends call me YoYo.’
She closed the call. Sophie sat looking out of the window, thinking. There had been more to this relationship than Charmaine Biggs had admitted. Would it be worth ploughing through the rest of her diaries? None of this solved the immediate problem, though. Where was Corinne now and what was she up to? And why hadn’t the Biggs couple turned up yet? They’d notified every police force along the south coast, along with the Channel Islands and Cherbourg in France. They hadn’t heard a word. She called Rae with a long list of instructions for her and Tommy. Every single item relating to the backgrounds of both Corinne Lanston and Charmaine Biggs was to be researched and logged — family histories, educational backgrounds. Hobbies, interests, holiday breaks, finances. Something, somewhere, would yield the one snippet of information they needed to slot the pieces of the puzzle into place.
Chapter 37: Charmaine
Thursday morning
Charmaine Cookson frowned, took off her reading glasses and laid them on a table beside her chair. The newspapers always seemed full of bad news and tragic stories these days, but she could usually wave them aside with a flick of her wrist. What were they to her? Tales of tragic events in distant places, bad things that happened to people she’d never met and probably wouldn’t want to. Uncouth people who drank too much, shouted too much and had the morals of sewer rats. They probably got what they deserved.
Nevertheless, the article she’d just read was deeply troubling. It seemed to involve Corinne and some immigration scandal she’d got herself mixed up in. That girl had always been trouble, from the moment she’d first set eyes on her. Sullen, self-centred, devious. And far too clever. Charmaine still yearned for the days when girls of good stock were tutored at home, learning about those things deemed important for well brought up ladies to know. Poetry, music, art, embroidery. Latin, Greek history. How to oversee a large household, along with the staff that kept it ticking over. But what had they taught in that so-called school that Neil had sent her to? Science and mathematics. Equality. Really! Politics and all the other tedious ‘social’ subjects that seemed to be all the rage in modern society. Even sex education. In lesson time too.
She sat back and closed her eyes. Why had she ever married that toad of a man, Neil Lanston? It was the biggest mistake of her life. What a blessing when he died of some strange tropical disease, probably picked up from some harlot in a Middle Eastern brothel. The only good thing that had come out of their marriage was the money she’d inherited. Six long years of indulging him and his squalid fantasies had paid off. She, Charmaine, might have had the breeding but he had the money. And, in her opinion, he’d left far too much of it to Corinne. If Charmaine had got her way, that spoiled brat would have inherited nothing but a few worthless Lanston family heirlooms. The money would have all come to her and she wouldn’t be stuck in a second-rate residential home like this.
The newspaper had slipped to the floor and she couldn’t reach it from where she sat. Luckily one of the servants was just passing, helping another elderly, sickly resident to a seat. Charmaine tried to attract his attention, but he was looking the other way.
‘Pick it up,’ she barked angrily, pointing to the dropped item. ‘I say there, pick it up for me.’
The staff member came across and deposited the newspaper on her table. ‘A little courtesy wouldn’t go amiss, Charmaine. We’re not servants, you know.’ He smiled at her, his teeth very white in that dark face.
She curled her lip. Who did he think he was, talking to her like that? She was about to say exactly what she thought but restrained herself at the last moment. They had all the power now. Not just here, in this residential home, but in society at large. The great unwashed. The common muck with their piercings, tattoos, unacceptable hair colours and the ridiculous clothes they insisted on wearing. She counted for nothing, even though her money was helping to pay the wages of every staff member in the place. She’d been warned several times to rein in her tongue. What did that mean? That she couldn’t speak her mind? Ridiculous. But she’d noticed how her portion size at dinner was smaller after one of her altercations with the staff. Not that she wanted big helpings of the muck they served, but she expected to receive what was hers by right, even if she couldn’t eat it all.
‘Thank you,’ she said, through gritted teeth.
‘You’re very welcome, Charmaine,’ he said with another broad smile.
That was another thing. Why were they always so cheerful? They had no right to be. Obedience, that’s what was needed. Not smiles.
‘Someone’s coming to see you later this morning, from Dorset police. What have you been up to, Charmaine? Have you been naughty again and not told us?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped. ‘What did this person say?’
‘No explanation.’ He shrugged. ‘We’re all agog in the office.’
She opened the newspaper and pretended to read until he went away.
* * *
A staff member showed Rae into a small private sitting room, where she was introduced to a small, wizened woman sitting in an armchair by the window, gazing out across the garden. There wasn’t much colour left in the flower beds, just a few late-flowering roses and struggling dahlias that hadn’t yet been cut down.
Rae held out her hand, which the elderly resident ignored. The manager had advised her that Miss Cookson was one of their more ‘difficult’ residents, but no further explanation had been offered. Rae sensed herself being scrutinised closely as she sat down.
‘I’m grateful that you could see me, Miss Cookson. We’re in the middle of an important investigation and it’s possible you may be able to he
lp. I’m Detective Sergeant Rae Gregson.’
Charmaine merely looked at her.
‘I need to ask you if you have ever known someone called Corinne Lanston.’
Charmaine nodded slightly. Was that wariness in her eyes?
‘Is that a yes? It would be helpful if you could give clear, definitive answers to my questions, please.’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you mind explaining the context?’ Rae was picking her words carefully. She had the feeling that Corinne was not a welcome topic.
‘She was my step-daughter.’
Rae was puzzled. ‘She was your step-daughter? I don’t fully understand why you said was.’
Charmaine gave an exasperated and dramatic sigh. ‘If you must be so pedantic, then she is my step-daughter. But I haven’t seen her for many years.’
Rae hadn’t expected to hear this. She’d only come to Basingstoke because Sophie had decided to follow up on the Hampshire lead provided by Yauvani Anand. Rae had remembered that one of the Charmaine Cooksons she had discovered weeks before was a resident in a Basingstoke care home. Neither of them had thought there was much chance of discovering a link. But now this. It needed careful handling.
‘I take it you don’t get on with her?’
Charmaine curled her lip. ‘That, Detective Sergeant, is something of an understatement. I’m sure it didn’t take much detecting on your part to pick up on it.’ Charmaine sipped at a glass of water that had been left on the table. ‘Lazy devils. I asked for a slice of lemon in it.’
‘Did she feel the same way about you?’
‘Hah,’ Charmaine snapped. ‘She certainly did, and more so. She never failed to stick the proverbial dagger in my ribs at every possible opportunity and then twist it. She was devious and nasty. Her behaviour was utterly loathsome. We didn’t know what to do with her, so we sent her away to boarding school. I’m glad to say that after that, I don’t think I ever saw her again. We went abroad for some years because of her father’s occupation. He worked for the diplomatic service.’
‘You say “her father” rather than “my husband.” Why’s that?’
Charmaine fixed her with a piercing glare. ‘Observant little thing, aren’t you? On second thoughts, maybe not so little. What are you, about five nine? Five ten? That’s part of the problem. Women aren’t delicate anymore. She wasn’t. She hurtled around our house like a demented goat.’
‘That’s as may be, but you haven’t answered my question.’
Charmaine sighed. ‘Because he turned out to be almost as loathsome as the girl. Maybe more so. I was at my wits’ end. But he very conveniently died, and I could wave a permanent goodbye to them both.’
‘And you changed your name back to Cookson?’
She curled her lip. ‘Yes, right away. I could then try to forget about that whole disastrous marriage.’
‘Has Corinne ever tried to get in touch with you?’
‘Thankfully not. If I thought that was likely to happen, I’d ask for an extra lock on my door. And maybe an armed guard outside it.’
Rae glanced at the newspaper lying open on the table. There on the page was the photo of Corinne.
‘But you’re reading about her in the press. You know that she’s gone missing again, for the second time in a few weeks.’
Charmaine snorted. ‘She won’t be up to any good, you mark my words. And if by some peculiar chance someone has abducted her, they’ll most likely regret it within a few hours and will want to do away with her. I probably would.’
Rae decided to change tack. ‘As far as we’re aware, she never married.’
Charmaine glared at her. ‘Are you telling me or asking me? I’ll assume the latter. No, she never married. Well, not as far as I’m aware. Who would want to marry someone like her? She always has to be in control and make it obvious. We all do, but women need to go about it with a measure of subtlety. Aim for the long-term gain even if it means short-term loss. Be gently manipulative.’
‘And you’re not aware that she’s ever had children?’
Charmaine almost exploded with contempt. ‘What? And go through the perils of pregnancy? Never.’
Rae was beginning to grow angry. What a nasty individual. ‘But you’ve not had children of your own, have you?’
‘No, but that’s because I can’t, not because I wouldn’t. It’s very different, as you should know.’ She paused. ‘Do you know?’
‘I am painfully aware of my inability to bear children,’ Rae admitted, ‘but my partner and I are happy to consider adoption.’
‘Well, I never would. Bring up some other woman’s brat? You must be joking.’
Rae scanned her notes. Had she missed anything? ‘One last question. Have you any idea where Corinne might be? Did she have any favourite places?’
‘Why would I know? I have had no contact with her for twenty years. She always liked Dorset. But then the school informed us of the grubby things she got up to down there. Maybe she’s gone back, like a rat to a sewer.’ She sneered.
Rae recognised that the comment was deliberate, aimed at her. What an unpleasant, vicious woman Charmaine Cookson was. Just the type that would make you happy to drag their name through the mud, given half a chance. She stood up and left.
* * *
Phil drew up in the car park of the residential home and switched off the engine. His fellow occupant was about to open the car door but spotted a figure she vaguely recognised descending the front steps. It was one of those detectives from Dorset. What was she doing here? She put a hand on Phil’s arm before he could open his door.
‘Wait.’
They watched the detective make her way to a parked vehicle and drive away.
‘I need to think. They must be further ahead than I thought they’d be. Scrap this. Let’s get away. We’ll have to come up with a plan B.’
‘You’re the boss, Charmaine,’ Phil said. ‘Anyway, I told you this might be a mistake. It could have been dangerous and messy.’
She turned on him. ‘I do the thinking, Phil. Not you. Not now, not ever. Just remember that. God, I hate these other bloody Charmaines. Two bits of scum, that’s what they are.’ She paused, looking unseeing around the car park. ‘I’ve made a decision, Phil. It’s time to tie up all the loose ends and cash in. Everything’s ready for us in the Caribbean and the weather looks to be set fair for the crossing. Are you okay with that?’
‘It’s what we always planned, isn’t it?’
* * *
Rae Gregson had joined Dorset’s Violent Crime Unit three years earlier, a recruit with a mixed-up private life and deep-rooted insecurities. Her new work environment had provided her with exactly the stability she had needed. Her personality and self-confidence had blossomed, and she’d repaid the confidence her bosses, Sophie Allen and Barry Marsh, had shown in her by constantly striving to improve her skills as a detective. She observed carefully and thought deeply, and it was no different now, as she walked out of the main entrance of the care home. As she descended the steps to the car park, she noted immediately the large, dark-coloured BMW parked in a deserted area at the far end. She stopped to extract her sunglasses from her shoulder bag and used those few seconds to take another look. Dark tinted windows. Possibly two shadowy figures inside. Rae went to her own car, got in, started the engine and drove out into the tree-lined avenue, but after a hundred yards she turned back into the entrance driveway and pulled up by the side of a large delivery van. Hidden by the van, she had a clear view of the BMW through the bushes, just as it started to move away. She followed at a safe distance.
The BMW threaded through the busy roads on the southern edge of Basingstoke, heading towards the main junction with the M3. As it waited to filter onto the motorway, Rae took the opportunity to edge closer. She’d been right. There looked to be two people in the vehicle, a man driving and a fair-haired woman in the passenger seat.
The lights changed and the vehicle accelerated away onto the westbound lane of the M3, he
ading towards . . . where, exactly? Dorset? Rae decided to follow. She radioed back to the incident room, asking Tommy to trace the vehicle’s registration and inform Barry. All went well until they reached a junction just west of Basingstoke. The left lane led due west towards Salisbury and Exeter. The BMW, however, had opted for one of the lanes on the right, as if the driver intended to remain on the M3, heading south-west, past Winchester and Southampton towards south Dorset — and maybe Weymouth? That would make sense. Rae edged closer. But she lost them when an elderly lady in a small car realised that she was in the wrong lane and pulled across in front of Rae who was forced to brake and move into the fast lane to avoid a collision. At the very last second, the BMW veered left into the inside lane and took the spur leading to the A303. It was too late for Rae to follow. She cursed loudly. She was stuck on the M3 for another twelve miles until the next junction at Winchester.
Her radio crackled into life and she heard Tommy’s voice.
‘It’s a hire car,’ he reported. ‘From a company called Oak Hire, a small business in Kingston upon Thames.’
‘Get onto the local Hampshire and Wiltshire traffic cops, Tommy, and be quick about it. They’re on the A303 heading west. We need to pick them up again before they get too far.’ But it might already be too late. Someone who was being cautious was likely to move off the dual carriageway as soon as possible and take one of the many alternative routes to the West Country.
Ruthless Crimes Page 23