The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3

by Phillip Strang

  Not before me, Richard Goddard thought.

  ‘He’s a good officer.’ Goddard leapt to Isaac’s defence.

  ‘Good or bad makes no difference. Sure, he has a few runs on the board: dealt with that Marjorie Frobisher case, found out who had killed a man thirty years ago, and wrapped up the death of the future Lord Penrith, but apart from that… What is it with this Charlotte Hamilton? Does he fancy her?’

  The DCS knew that if Isaac survived, he would have to settle down. Aspersions about his performance based on his fraternising with members of the opposite sex were counterproductive.

  ‘That’s a scurrilous remark, sir.’

  ‘Don’t get smart with me. You're only here because you were friendly with the previous commissioner and because you suck up to the politicians. The prime minister may see something special in you. I don’t.’

  Goddard knew that his defence of his DCI had placed him in a tenuous position. The previous commissioner had mentored him, but he was now sitting in the House of Lords and unable to protect him.

  He had spent years focussing on the chance to become the commissioner of police, but the DCS realised that his efforts were yet again being thwarted, and this time by a man of little charm and no humour. Goddard knew that Isaac needed to get results, but so far he had achieved none.

  Charlotte Hamilton was thumbing her nose at whoever she wanted. Her identity was well known. Her full medical history was available and had been carefully analysed, looking for patterns that would indicate where she would strike next. And now she was in Newcastle, although so far no one had been killed.

  Goddard left the commissioner’s office in a worse mood than when he had arrived. As much as he disliked the commissioner, and thought him to be a pompous bore, he was right in one aspect: Isaac was not providing results.

  ***

  The Hamiltons were not pleased when Rory Hewitt arrived. He parked his car to one side of the entrance and knocked on the door.

  Charles Hamilton opened it. Rory looked in, saw that their previous well-presented house had been replaced by a run-down farm cottage.

  It was evident to Rory that the Hamiltons had let themselves go. Charles Hamilton wore an old pair of jeans, dirty from what Rory could see, and a shirt that was fraying at the collar.

  ‘My wife’s in bed,’ he said.

  ‘Ill?’

  ‘Severe depression. It’s as if she has given up.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Rory said. He could only imagine the anguish they were going through. He had heard about Fiona Hamilton’s attempted suicide, but nothing more since then.

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  Rory moved down the hallway to the kitchen. In the sink, there were dirty dishes.

  ‘Sorry about the mess. We don’t do much these days.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘You’re not here for a social visit, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We heard about the last murder. It was her, wasn’t it?’

  ‘In the north of London?’

  ‘High Barnet.’

  ‘Yes, it was her.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’ Charles Hamilton asked. Rory could see the lines on his face, the downcast eyes. His wife may have been suffering from depression, but it was evident that Charles Hamilton was not well either.

  ‘Charlotte has been seen in Newcastle.’

  ‘My God. Has she killed anyone?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You suspect she will come here?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘If she comes, we will not stop her.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Our deaths would be no worse than what we are suffering now.’

  Rory understood Charles Hamilton’s sentiment.

  ***

  Charlotte did not know why she had spoken to Gladys Lake. She had not intended to confront the woman in the graveyard, but she had been there, and it had seemed ideal. No need for a ritual, she had thought, only a knife to the heart and then to the throat. It appeared to be a perfect opportunity: an isolated graveyard, drizzling rain. If she had only killed her, she would not have had to run away. There was a freshly-dug grave; she had wanted to throw the woman in there, but then that couple with that stupid dog peeing everywhere had interrupted her. How she hated them. How she hated that dog.

  Dr Lake had deserved to die; it was her duty to rid the world of a woman who took pleasure in the torture of those that she professed to care for.

  Charlotte remembered running away from the graveyard, her panic overwhelming her. Now was not the time to get caught. She still had to see her parents one more time; she was sure of that, but she had no address. The Lake woman would have known; maybe that was why she had not killed her. She would have told her as the knife slid into her.

  Yes, that was it, she thought.

  She knew that her mind was not as sharp as it had been. Why, when she had killed those men, had she felt nothing, yet with failure she felt guilt? She did not know, and it worried her. Her thoughts were muddled, as were her plans.

  She had to leave her accommodation over the pub in the centre of town; find somewhere remote, lie low. She needed her parents. They would look after her, and if they did not, then she knew what to do.

  And what of the publican? He had agreed to her price, even though she had plenty of money. That miserable penny-pinching man in High Barnet had had over ten thousand pounds hidden under his bed yet he wanted her to pay on time, and then he had rejected her body.

  She would have paid him with that, but he was too stupid to appreciate the offer. Many men had used her; most had paid, some had not, some had died, yet he rejected her, even after she had shown him some of the wares. He had been interested, she knew it. The publican in Newcastle had had no such problems. He had appreciated her ten minutes after showing her the room, even neglecting the patrons downstairs waiting for their pints.

  ***

  Isaac avoided the confrontation with Richard Goddard; he and Sara Marshall were on the train to Newcastle. It was only three hours from King’s Cross; they would arrive by late afternoon.

  With Charlotte Hamilton in Newcastle, and the train and bus stations being monitored, they thought there was a good chance of apprehending her. The woman was making mistakes, too many mistakes, and Isaac knew it was only a matter of time. Whether it would be soon enough to maintain his credibility, even his position on the promotion ladder, was too early to know.

  Rory Hewitt met them on arrival. Sara had spoken to him before, but this was the first time meeting him in person.

  ‘Good to see you, Sara.’

  ‘And you,’ Sara replied.

  ‘I’ve booked you into the Marriott,’ Rory said. Isaac thought it was outside the department’s budget, but accepted graciously.

  ‘I’ve scheduled an appointment with Gladys Lake.’

  ‘Then let’s go. We can check in later,’ Isaac said. He was anxious to get on and to try and apprehend Charlotte Hamilton. He knew how it worked. If he came back with the woman in custody, then his career was back on track, as was Sara’s. If he did not, then he knew the consequence of that as well. However their visit to Newcastle turned out, it was a crucial turning point in the investigation.

  A twenty-minute drive and they arrived at Dr Lake’s cottage. A uniform stood outside. Inside, Gladys Lake was relaxed. She was sitting in a chair by the window, a cat on her lap. A policewoman, assigned to stay at the cottage for the next few days, opened the door on their arrival.

  ‘I’m fine now,’ Gladys Lake said in answer to Isaac’s question. She turned to Sara. ‘Good to meet you after so many years,’ she said.

  ‘And you, although it’s not the best way to meet.’

  ‘Do you believe that she intended to kill me?’ Dr Lake asked.

  ‘You’re an educated woman. It would be wrong to lie to you,’ Isaac said. He had taken a seat on the other side of the small room. An imitation log fire burned
in the corner. The cat had left its owner and moved over to him. Isaac was not a great lover of cats, having had asthma as a child that was in part exacerbated by cat fur. This time, he did not push the cat away.

  ‘If those people had not come into the graveyard, she would have killed me.’

  ‘It’s probable,’ Isaac said. ‘You will need to be careful for a few days.’

  ‘I have my patients.’

  ‘We have assigned a policewoman to you. She will accompany you at all times. Also, another officer will be outside this house.’

  Isaac asked the standard questions: mental state, what is she likely to do next, where will she be?

  Dr Lake concurred with Grace Nelson’s conclusions. If Charlotte Hamilton was in Newcastle, she probably had unfinished business. She had failed to kill her, but there were others that she bore a grudge against.

  The three police officers left the cottage, the cat clawing Isaac’s trousers as he stood up. Sara gave Dr Lake a hug.

  Rory started his car and headed out of the city. The night was drawing in, and all three would have preferred to be warm and snug, a view that was echoed by a large number of the Newcastle police who were on high alert. A known serial killer was in the city and roaming free.

  Teams of police officers were checking all the hotels, guest houses, and pubs throughout the city, and showing the photo of a woman with blonde hair and then dark hair. For every ten people they asked, one would say that they had seen her. Closer questioning revealed yet again that Charlotte Hamilton’s features suited the generic norm, and they were false sightings.

  The publican at the Bridge Hotel sat down on learning that the woman who had slept upstairs was a serial killer. He did not admit that he was one of her followers on her website.

  ‘She was here. Not that she looked anything like your photos.’

  ‘Why do you recognise her, then?’ the young police sergeant asked.

  ‘There is a small scar just above her left eyebrow.’

  The policeman studied the photo. He could see the publican was correct. ‘Good eyesight,’ he said.

  The publican failed to reveal that he had seen it the first night he had slept with the woman.

  Chapter 20

  Wendy and Larry, still back in London, traced Charlotte Hamilton’s former flatmate. Gloria was in Hammersmith, happily married and with a child.

  ‘You are aware of your former flatmate’s reappearance,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Will she find me?’ The child bounced up and down on the woman’s lap.

  ‘After three years?’

  ‘She’s mad, isn’t she?’

  ‘Psychotic, paranoid schizophrenic,’ Larry said. Sara Marshall’s files had shown that Gloria had been promiscuous. From what he could see, the woman in front of him was subdued, caring and devoted to her husband, Asuko, whom she had met in Lagos.

  ‘She was always strange,’ Gloria said.

  ‘Our records indicate that you said she was normal.’

  ‘Three years ago, I may have said that, but now…’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Her goddamn virginity.’

  ‘You are aware of her history?’

  ‘Who isn’t. I sometimes check out her website.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ghoulish, I suppose. She killed Brad Howard, and then put the photos on the internet. What sort of person does that? She’s certifiable.’

  ‘She probably is,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Is there anything else that may help us in our enquiries?’ Larry asked.

  ‘I told DI Stanforth all I knew. Will she find me?’

  ‘At present, she’s not in London. That is of two hours ago, but she could return at any time.’

  Gloria shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Asuko, her husband, took the baby and left the room.

  ‘Once, when she was not in the flat, I looked in her room.’

  ‘To see what you could steal?’ Wendy said. She had read Gloria’s file before knocking on her door.

  ‘I was mixed up then.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘A drawing. There were three people. A child and two adults. There was a big cross through the child. What does it mean?’

  ‘You are aware of her brother?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She killed him when she was ten,’ Wendy said.

  ‘And she was my flatmate?’

  ‘Yes. What do you intend to do?’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to Asuko. We’re going back to Nigeria. Until she is in jail or dead, we’ll stay there.’

  ‘Have a good trip,’ Larry said.

  ***

  By the time Isaac, Sara, and Rory reached the farm cottage it was dark. The only light inside the cottage came from the front room.

  Rory knocked on the door; the first time, a gentle tap of the metal door knocker; the second time more vigorously. The sound of footsteps could be heard.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Hewitt. I’m here with two other police officers.’

  The door opened to reveal Charles Hamilton holding a shotgun.

  ‘You’d better give me that, Mr Hamilton,’ Rory said.

  ‘It’s licensed; it’s staying with me.’

  ‘Where is your wife?’

  ‘She’s upstairs. We are taking turns to guard the cottage.’

  ‘You would shoot your own daughter?’ Sara asked.

  ‘We have heard about Gladys Lake.’

  ‘Dr Lake has suffered no injuries,’ Rory said. ‘Can we come in?’

  ‘If you must,’ Charles Hamilton said, dropping the shotgun to his side. He shouted upstairs. ‘It’s the police. You can come down.’

  A few minutes later, Fiona Hamilton descended the stairs wearing an old dressing gown. She had red slippers on her feet, and her hair was bedraggled. She did not speak on entering the room and took a seat in the corner. The expression on her face was vacant.

  ‘My wife is not well,’ Charles Hamilton said. ‘It’s all been too much for her.’

  Sara looked at the woman; she could only feel pity.

  ‘Mr Hamilton, we are concerned that your daughter will come here,’ Isaac said. He had found a wooden chair and was sitting on it.

  ‘Our daughter died many years ago,’ Hamilton said. His wife sat motionless, only moving to wipe her eyes with a handkerchief. Sara moved over near and put her arm around the woman. It was evident that she had not been eating properly as she was skin and bones underneath the dressing gown.

  ‘Mr Hamilton, are you seriously willing to shoot your daughter?’ Rory asked.

  ‘She would have killed Dr Lake. Why would she not kill us, although we have no life now.’

  Isaac found it difficult to concentrate: the chair was uncomfortable and the room was cold. ‘Has she contacted you?’ he asked.

  ‘Not for many years.’

  ‘Does she know where you live?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s unlikely.’

  ‘The local police are keeping a watch on the cottage,’ Rory said.

  ‘Then tell them to leave. She will follow them,’ Hamilton said.

  ‘I’m taking Mrs Hamilton upstairs,’ Sara said.

  Sara left, leaving the three men together. ‘My wife refuses to eat. She just drinks tea and nibbles the occasional biscuit.’

  ‘How about you?’ Rory asked.

  ‘I do what I can, nothing more.’

  Sara returned five minutes later. ‘She’s asleep.’

  ‘What is the problem with your wife?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Broken heart, although they call it depression. I suffer the same condition, but I remain resilient for my wife.’

  ***

  Although it was late, the three police officers managed to organise some food at the Marriott. They had checked in: Isaac was on the first floor, Sara on the third.

  Sara spent thirty minutes talking to her husband, checking on their son, before joining the two men. A party was in fu
ll swing in the bar next door.

  Unable to talk about anything else, the three of them went over the case so far. Sara expressed her sorrow for the Hamiltons. Isaac asked about Charlotte, as Rory had seen the woman when she had been ten. He sang the song he had heard her singing, or at least a rendition of it, as he was tone-deaf.

  Isaac phoned Wendy and Larry. Wendy was still in the office with Bridget; Larry had left for the day.

  ‘I’ve upgraded the security for Dr Lake and the Hamiltons,’ Rory said.

  ‘Can she find the Hamiltons?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Unlikely.’

  The three, exhausted after a strenuous day, then said little more other than pleasantries unrelated to the case. Sara drank a glass of the house white, Rory a beer, and Isaac kept to orange juice.

  The party next door was starting to get louder, not that the three minded. The day had been depressing, as had the last few weeks. It was good to see people enjoying themselves. Isaac rose to pay a visit to the toilet. As he moved through the throng at the party, a woman came up to him. ‘Take a group photo for us, please.’ Isaac obliged the group, young females out celebrating.

  ‘And one with you.’

  Isaac stood in the middle, his arm around two of the women. It was not possible to see very clearly as the light in the bar was subdued. The flash of the camera lit up the room briefly.

  After the photos had been taken, Isaac received an obligatory kiss on the cheek and continued to the toilet.

  ‘Who were they?’ Sara asked on his return.

  ‘No idea. Just some women out having fun. My God, it was her!’

  Isaac rushed back to the party. He looked for the two women; he found one easily.

  ‘Your friend?’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Yes, the other woman in the photo,’ Isaac asked. Rory phoned for backup.

  ‘No idea. She just made herself welcome. Started paying for the drinks, as well.’

  Two police cars arrived, road blocks were set up, people in the street waylaid. It was to no avail. The woman had disappeared.