Ruthless Crimes

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  ‘Just check his pockets and get his backpack, will you, Phil? Then toss him over the fence into that nettle and bramble patch. It looks as though it hasn’t been disturbed for yonks. With a bit of luck, it might not be found for a week or more. It doesn’t look as though anyone ever comes up here. I really don’t want to get blood on my new upholstery.’

  Her companion did as she asked. The only indication of the recent drama were a few bloodstains on the ground, and they might well be washed away by morning if the rain continued.

  ‘I think we need to get moving,’ the woman said. ‘There’s a lot to do and we can’t afford to miss that Cherbourg ferry in the morning. Too much tidying up to do over there.’

  ‘What are we going to do about the Corinne Lanston angle, Charmaine?’ the man asked.

  She frowned. ‘It’s a bit of a problem, I must admit. A permanent disappearance might be in order. But I can’t help liking her approach to life, so it needs some thought. It might be an idea to close the whole operation down, Phil, and follow our dream at last. We’ve cleared more than a million in the past six months, and that’s after expenses.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ he said.

  Chapter 18: Tears

  Sunday morning

  ‘Where are we?’ Arshi said, rubbing her eyes.

  Kamal had been awake for a while, staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of everything that had happened. ‘We’re in England, staying with Uncle Saman and Aunt Jennie.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Arshi said. She suddenly sat up, wide-eyed. ‘I hope Mummy’s okay.’

  ‘She’s still in hospital, Arshi. That’s where she needs to be until she’s better.’ He climbed out of bed. ‘I’ll go and see who’s up. You stay here.’

  Kamal made his way to the door. He was wearing pyjamas that didn’t belong to him. Whose were they?

  He opened the door slowly but couldn’t stop the handle from squeaking. When he peered outside, he found himself looking at his cousin Soraya, sitting on the floor and looking up at him, a tentative smile on her face.

  ‘We’ve been waiting for you to wake up,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and tell the others. The bathroom’s along there but don’t be long. Breakfast’s nearly ready.’ She pointed to an open door at the end of the landing, and then skittered off downstairs.

  Kamal went into the bathroom, used the toilet and splashed some water on his face. He towelled himself dry then took a look in the mirror. Was that really him? The face staring back at him looked older and thinner than before. Maybe it was because he’d not really eaten much in days, just some grabbed bits and pieces when food was available. He took another look. Tousled hair, dark circles under the eyes and a serious look. Back at home he’d always been known as the laughing boy. Well, that boy was gone. The long journey and what he’d seen as they travelled had put an end to his laughter. He returned to the bedroom. Soraya was back, talking to Arshi.

  ‘Where is this?’ he asked.

  Soraya looked at him. ‘We live in Weymouth,’ she said. ‘It’s a seaside town with beaches and lovely gardens. I really like it.’

  Kamal didn’t know how to respond. It wasn’t often that he found himself tongue-tied but his brain didn’t seem able to think of anything sensible to say. It felt foggy and slow. He wished he could have met his cousin under better circumstances. His stomach chose that moment to produce a loud rumble that tailed off into a pronounced gurgle. He felt his face burning. Soraya didn’t laugh, though. She looked concerned.

  ‘You poor thing,’ she said. ‘I bet you didn’t eat much in hospital. Breakfast is still on the table, so don’t worry.’

  Kamal looked at her, embarrassed. ‘I need to get changed.’ He still had pyjamas on.

  She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry. We’re just in jeans and T-shirts. Saturday and Sunday aren’t school days here. But we have loads of homework. I’ll take Arshi along to the bathroom.’

  She smiled again and left. Kamal waited until the door closed behind her, stripped off his pyjamas and pulled on some clothes, obviously rescued from his backpack, that he found on his bed. They hung on him loosely now.

  He waited until the two girls returned and followed them downstairs. He could hear voices coming from behind a half-open door.

  * * *

  Soraya lived with her parents and two younger siblings, a sister and a baby brother. Her father, Roya’s brother, was the co-owner of a nearby restaurant. Her mother, Jenny, was the manager of a local garden centre. She had met and married her husband while he’d been on a student exchange programme many years earlier.

  Kamal was still in turmoil. He knew his father was dead, killed by a massive blow to his head as the upended boat fell on top of him. He knew his mother was in a coma in hospital, injured in the same incident. He knew that both his parents were being praised as heroes for their attempts to rescue those drowning children. Yet he felt cold and empty. All he wanted was his life to go back to the way it was before, to see his parents across the table, eating their own breakfasts as if nothing had happened. Instead, there were the concerned faces of two strangers, his aunt and uncle, looking awkward.

  ‘Try to eat something, you two,’ Aunt Jenny said. ‘You need to keep your strength up.’

  Kamal was ravenous but at the same time the thought of food made him feel sick. In the end he took a glass of fruit juice and a flatbread with some cheese. Gradually, the food began to make him feel better.

  ‘We think we should go back to the hospital to visit your mother,’ Uncle Saman said. ‘She was being kept sedated yesterday, but that might change today. It’s nearly midday so we’ll go this afternoon if you like.’

  ‘Yes, we want that, don’t we, Arshi?’

  His sister looked at him with big, solemn eyes. ‘I want to see Mummy. She needs a cuddle.’

  The hospital seemed quieter than the previous day. Some of their boat companions had been released and taken to accommodation elsewhere. Two police officers stood talking outside the ward entrance. One of them was the woman from the beach, the one who’d been to visit yesterday. Her face broke into a smile when she saw them approach.

  She bent down and opened her arms wide.

  ‘You’re Arshi,’ she said. ‘Come here.’

  Arshi took a tentative step forward and the policewoman picked her up. ‘I’m Sergeant Simons, but you can call me Rose. Just you two, mind. No one else.’ She held out her other hand to Kamal. ‘Let’s go and see your mum. She’s awake now.’

  She took them into a side room whose four beds were all occupied by people from the boat, three of them sitting up and talking. The fourth bed, in the corner by a window, was still curtained off. The children’s mother was lying partly propped up, her head bandaged and her eyes closed. Was she asleep? The policewoman gently deposited Arshi on the edge of the bed, and Roya’s eyes opened.

  A look of joy illuminated her face and, struggling to sit up, she opened her arms wide. Arshi wriggled up the bed close to her mother and kissed her damp cheeks. Kamal leant in and kissed her other cheek.

  * * *

  They were on their way out when two more women met them in the ward’s reception area. One was the detective from the previous day.

  ‘Hello, you two. Remember me from yesterday?’ She shook hands with the two adults. ‘Can I offer my condolences again on the tragic loss of Zaan? He was a real hero, and a great loss. We in the local police will do everything we can to support you and Roya through any difficulties that might arise. It’s good to know that you two are in safe hands and living with your aunt and uncle.’ She looked at the two adults. ‘I want to introduce you to Professor Alice Linklater. Alice is an expert on the legal position of refugees and asylum seekers.’

  Alice gave the children a smile and a wave, then turned to their uncle and aunt. ‘I’ve already met most of the other people who came across in that boat on Friday night. I’m not from the government. I work for a charity that helps people who’ve fled from oppressive regimes. I’m
willing to offer everyone advice and lend a helping hand where it might make a difference. In the case of Roya, Kamal and Arshi, nothing much will be done by the Asylum Intake Unit until Roya recovers and is out of hospital. Rose here told me that she’s pretty sure all three of them will be living with you for the foreseeable future. I’ll leave you with my contact details. Meanwhile, please be assured that you’ll have people on your side who can offer advice. I’ll be back in touch.’

  The two women left.

  ‘Is she really a detective?’ Kamal asked Rose. ‘Like in films and TV?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she answered. ‘Those people who brought you across committed a crime, but that isn’t the main point. People died, including your father. The boat people caused four deaths through their negligence, plus a whole lot of injuries. She’s the top detective in the county and she’s treating it as possible murder. She’ll get the people responsible. I often work for her on a case like this — me and my partner, George. You haven’t met him yet, but I’ll bring him to visit soon. He’s young and handsome, not like me. I’m old and crotchety.’

  ‘We like you,’ Arshi said.

  ‘And you’re a little sweetheart.’ Rose picked her up again and hugged her tight.

  Chapter 19: Celebration

  Monday morning

  By eight o’clock the glasses of bubbly were out on a tabletop, along with several dishes of nibbles and a plate of bacon sandwiches from the staff canteen, accompanied by a label stating, ‘for Sergeant Rose Simons only.’

  ‘It’s that pesky Sylvia in the canteen,’ Rose grumbled. ‘I mean, look at how many she’s made. I suppose she thinks she’s being funny.’

  ‘So, can I have one, Rose?’ Barry asked, stretching out his hand.

  ‘Get away from them,’ she hissed. ‘I need to test them first, just to check they meet the quality guidelines. Give me a mo.’

  Rae Gregson arrived, to be greeted by a round of applause.

  ‘I might have guessed,’ Rae said. ‘I had a feeling Barry was up to something. Thanks, boss.’

  Sophie proposed a toast. ‘To Detective Sergeant Rae Gregson, newly promoted and newly clad by the look of it. That is a new outfit, isn’t it, Rae?’

  ‘Yes, well, I’ve got to spend all this extra cash on something, haven’t I? I thought I’d go for the businesslike look this time.’ She twirled around, showing off her blue skirt suit and red shoes. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Well, I’m jealous, I can tell you that.’ Rose held up her bacon sandwich. ‘Maybe I’ll start to diet right now so I can fit into something like that.’ She hesitated. ‘Then again, maybe not right now.’ She finished her sandwich and reached for another. ‘They’re okay, Barry. Could have done with a splash more ketchup, but let’s not be picky.’

  ‘Where’s George? I thought he’d be here,’ Tommy Carter asked. His voice sounded a little too loud.

  Everyone in the room seemed to freeze. Barry’s glass of bubbly stopped halfway to his mouth, Rose’s sandwich halted mid-air. Sophie broke the silence. ‘He’s on his way back from a weekend in Oxford, visiting Jade. It’s alright, you lot. I’m fully aware of their relationship. What do you take me for? Some old-fashioned matriarch? Believe me, she’s far better behaved than I was at her age. And George is a great young man, as you all know.’ She looked at the clock. ‘Five more minutes, everyone, then it’s down to work.’

  * * *

  Sophie and Barry visited Karen Brody in the Special Branch suite at police headquarters.

  ‘Have you got anywhere with that photo identification?’ Sophie asked.

  Karen shook her head. ‘Sadly, no. The image of the man was clear enough to put it through the face recognition system, but he’s obviously not on any security database. But only part of the woman’s face was visible. Sorry.’

  Sophie sighed. ‘That’ll teach me to get my hopes up too soon.’

  Barry viewed it differently. ‘It’s not that bad. It just confirms that these two aren’t on the suspected terrorist list, but would we have expected them to be? In my mind they’re probably just a pair of criminals, out to make a fast buck. They’re white, middle-aged and don’t fit the threat profile. My guess is that, if we do find them, it’ll be in our normal police databases. Cold-blooded killers like those two don’t just appear out of the blue. They always have previous. And, let’s face it, a woman as ruthless as her is pretty rare.’

  ‘Do you think she killed the chap on the train too, and not just the woman in the refuge?’ Karen asked.

  ‘It’s a good bet. Same knife, in all likelihood. Same method. Different outcome, though. Something went wrong and the victim staggered off to die in the train. So maybe she’s not as efficient as we think.’ He turned to Sophie. ‘Ma’am, maybe we need to start looking for similar crimes elsewhere. Whichever one of them it was, the man or the woman, they were used to handling a knife. And women who use knives with that degree of expertise are pretty thin on the ground. Should we put Rae onto it?’

  ‘Yes. Now we’ve got an image to work with, however poor, it gives us something to go on.’

  ‘I thought you had a name to work with,’ Karen said.

  ‘Just the one she used at the women’s hostel, Charmaine Cookson. It’s false, of course. Nice name, though . . .’ Sophie stopped talking.

  ‘What is it, ma’am?’ Barry said.

  She frowned. ‘It’s just a thought, Barry. Rae traced the few real Charmaine Cooksons, and it clearly wasn’t any of them. But why would she have chosen that name in particular? Was it just pulled out of a hat, as it were, or could there have been a reason? It’s something I’ve never thought about before — the reason why someone chooses a certain false name above any other. What if there’s some unconscious force at work? Some association?’

  ‘So, what are you saying?’

  ‘There’s only a couple of them. They might be worth a visit. I know it seems like grasping at straws, but you know me. When I’ve got a bee in my bonnet about something, I need to follow it through. I can’t help wondering if she might have known someone with that name. And if she did, they might remember her too. It’s what I’ve always said, Barry. Every interaction leaves a trace.’

  * * *

  Rae found three Charmaine Cooksons living in the south of England. One was an eighteen-year-old hair stylist from Swindon. Another was a widow in her late seventies in Basingstoke and the last was a wheelchair-bound thirty-year-old in Exeter, disabled since early childhood.

  ‘I don’t think it’s any of them, ma’am. I spoke to them all briefly, and none of them could understand why I’d contacted them. None have phoned me back, even though I left them my contact details. There is a loophole, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What if Cookson was a maiden name? If she’s married, she’d probably have a different surname now. Do you want me to do a check with births, deaths and marriages? It might not take long.’

  Sophie sighed. ‘Why not? We seem to have reached grasping at straws time, certainly where tracing this couple is concerned.’ She stopped. ‘I shouldn’t sound so negative, should I? We’re making some progress with the security unit aspect, and Tommy’s sorted the lad Barry saw on his bike. He’s been helpful in filling in some of the gaps about Bunting.’

  After Sophie left, Rae spent the next hour checking through census and registrar records, looking for the name Charmaine Cookson. The same three individuals appeared but they were now joined by a fourth. The birth records showed a Charmain Cookson born in Poole in 1982. An entry in the marriage register showed that she’d married in 2005 and was now recorded as Charmaine Biggs. A subsequent check of the electoral roll showed a Charmaine Biggs living in Poole. Rae went to pay this Charmaine a visit.

  Rae drove east from Winfrith to Poole in bright sunshine. As she approached the town centre, the quiet country roads became busy dual carriageways, the traffic congested. She finally drew up outside a neat, well-maintained house on a relatively new estate on the northe
rn outskirts of town. The small front garden was bright with autumn blooms. A tall freckle-faced woman with pale ginger hair answered the door.

  ‘Would you be able to give me a few minutes, Mrs Biggs?’ Rae began. ‘I just have a few questions for you, but they are important.’

  ‘I’m intrigued,’ Charmaine said. ‘Come on in.’

  Rae gave her the bare bones of their problem — that a woman using the name Charmaine Cookson had committed a serious crime. Rae was now trying to trace everyone with that name, so as to eliminate them from their enquiries. She didn’t elaborate further. Charmaine had a strong alibi for the time of Louise’s murder at the refuge in Southampton. She did much of her work as a magazine editor from home, but she’d been at the publication offices in London all day on the Tuesday in question, although she had taken her usual hour-long lunch break. Rae decided to broaden the questioning.

  ‘There is another line of thought, Charmaine. We’re pretty sure now that she used a false name, and it’s entirely possible that she chose the name at random. But there’s also a possibility that she picked it for a reason. Do you know of anyone who bears a grudge against you?’

  Charmaine shook her head. The question seemed to upset her. ‘No. I try to get on with most people. I really do my best to get to know my work colleagues. And as for our neighbours, they’re a nice lot of people.’

  ‘Let me switch focus a bit. She didn’t use the surname Biggs. It was Cookson. Can you think back to the years before you were married? Was there anyone then who you fell out with? Even as a teenager?’

  Charmaine took a sip of water and sat thinking. All at once she seemed to freeze.

  ‘Surely not,’ she murmured. ‘It couldn’t go back that far, could it?’

  ‘You’ll need to explain, Charmaine.’

  ‘There was a girl . . . I was sixteen. I started seeing this new boy. He was supposedly a real catch. What I didn’t realise was that he already had a girlfriend. She didn’t go to my school and I think she may have been a year or two older than me. Anyway, she came looking for me after school one day. She pushed me back against a wall and said she’d kill me if I went out with him again. I was terrified. It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before, or since. She pulled out a knife and said, I’ll use this on you, pretty Charmaine Cookson. I’ll cut your eyes out and slit your throat. Those were her exact words. I’ve never forgotten them. She knew my name.’