‘Not really,’ Sara said. ‘We know she’s in London somewhere.’
‘Apart from picking her up on camera at King’s Cross, she’s not been seen since,’ Isaac said.
‘She could hardly go back to Newcastle,’ Sean said. ‘Rory Hewitt and his team would have apprehended her if she had.’
‘Are you joking?’ Larry said. ‘Why should they have any more luck than us? Besides, she updated on social media that she was coming to London.’
‘And we trust her to be truthful?’ Isaac interjected.
‘She has unfinished business,’ Sara reminded the team.
‘Gladys Lake?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you, sir,’ Wendy reminded Isaac.
Isaac, usually a mild-mannered man, was becoming frustrated. Apart from Larry consuming the biscuits, he couldn’t see what they were achieving. Charlotte Hamilton continued to intrigue the media, although she had not killed for some time, and each time police ineptitude was implied, and on more than one occasion referred to overtly. His name had been mentioned more times than he appreciated, and whereas he had achieved some degree of celebrity, and someone had once said that any publicity was good, it didn’t ring true in his case. He had become accustomed to reading accolades about himself, receiving phone calls from Richard Goddard congratulating him on excellent policing, even from the commissioner, the head of the Met, on one occasion. But now every phone call from a superior asked the same questions: when will there be an arrest, what are you doing to find this woman? Isaac realised there was one question being asked amongst his superiors: Is DCI Cook up to the task or should he be relieved of command?
He felt sure that Goddard would protect him; after all, he had ensured that Isaac was on the promotion ladder, and he had protected him well enough in the past. However, his DCS was a political animal, and he was not going to allow his career to be hindered by defending the indefensible.
***
Charlotte Hamilton, safely ensconced in her room at the flea-bitten accommodation she had found, sat on her bed. Her mood was ebullient, even if her life was in tatters.
She quietly sang a song: stupid Duncan up at the quarry, along came a sister and gave him a push. Although now she had another verse: the black policeman thought he was smart until I stuck a knife in his heart.
The melodious singing was interrupted by the sound of a jackhammer on the road outside. She looked around the room. It wasn’t much for someone who had close to ten thousand pounds in her backpack.
A night in a good hotel will do me good, she thought. Maybe the hotel where the Lake bitch is staying. So much easier to deal with her if I am close.
She opened her bag and took out the clothes she needed: an old woollen skirt she had purchased in a charity shop, a blue jumper, some sensible black shoes, a brunette wig. She changed, applied makeup to age her face, and walked out of the door.
‘The bastard can wait for his money,’ she said under her breath. She still owed for two nights’ accommodation, but she had no intention of coming back to pay. It was a five-minute walk to the train, although she made it in four. As the train rattled towards its final destination, she looked round the carriage. If only they knew who was on the train, she thought.
Virtually everyone was looking at their smartphones; some had iPads, but only one person had a newspaper. Even from where she was sitting, she could see a reference to her on the front page, as well as a picture of two men at a press conference. She recognised one, his black complexion unmistakable. A woman to one side of her looked at her for a while and looked away. Maybe the woman recognised her, she thought, but discounted it. Charlotte knew her ability to disguise herself was excellent, and that she would have no problems checking into Gladys Lake’s hotel.
Thirty minutes later, Charlotte left the train at King’s Cross and walked down Euston Road, heading for the hotel, and the woman who remained her main focus. An attentive receptionist at the St Pancras Renaissance Hotel signed her in, although she had used a false name and address. She paid in advance with cash and asked for the minibar to be emptied. Even so, she had taken a step back when she saw Inspector Sara Marshall sitting in the foyer drinking coffee. Charlotte felt for the knife in her pocket, resisting the urge to move closer and to insert it into the police officer’s chest, as she realised that her carefully constructed plan would then be in shreds. She had already decided: first Gladys Lake, followed by Isaac Cook, followed by Sara Marshall. To Charlotte, in need of a friend, a shoulder to cry on, someone to love, Sara Marshall would have been ideal, but she was the enemy. She was someone who should understand her desire for vengeance on men, but probably would not.
Charlotte’s mind swirled with impossible thoughts: a happy family, Isaac Cook, even Gloria, her former flatmate, and even Gregory Chalmers whom she had killed so long ago. If only he had loved her, she would have looked after him and his children, but knew it could not have been. She recognised that her earlier ebullience had been tinged with sadness and regret.
‘Room 334,’ a voice snapped her back to reality. She realised that she had been daydreaming. She hoped it wasn’t noticeable, as the receptionist said nothing, and she could see that Sara Marshall was still sipping her coffee, talking to someone on her phone. Otherwise, the foyer of the hotel was quiet. Dispensing with anyone to show her to the room, Charlotte pressed the button of the lift. The room she had booked was as elegant as her previous accommodation had been flea-bitten. Appreciating the luxury, she took a lingering bath. Her mood tempered in the warm water, and for a moment, sanity reigned; the anger that she had felt had abated. Realising that her life had come full course and that there was no going back, she drew herself out of the bath, dried herself on the towel hanging behind the door and lay down on the bed.
When she awoke it was dark outside; she had been asleep for at least eight hours. Charlotte looked at the clock; it was 9 p.m. She dressed, careful to maintain her disguise, and left the room, unsure as to where she was going, although a good meal was first on her list of things to do.
As she left the hotel, she noticed her nemesis talking to someone she recognised: the police officer who worked with Sara Marshall, although she could not remember his name. Careful to give them only a sideways glance, she walked out of the front door and down the street. Feeling better after a pizza, she strolled around the area for some time, looking in shop windows, idly speculating on what could be. She saw couples walking arm in arm, elderly people hobbling down the street, even a baby in a pram being pushed by its mother. Charlotte daydreamed yet again about what her life could have been without her stupid brother, her uncaring parents, men who had wronged her, men who had used her body.
A car beeping its horn soon brought her back to reality as she walked out in the middle of the traffic, not looking where she was going. She knew that her mind was playing tricks when it was a time to be rational. There was a plan to execute, and she needed maximum focus, she knew that.
Charlotte returned to the hotel, noticing that Gladys Lake was not to be seen. She thought that it would be easy to knock on her door and to kill her there and then, but she needed to deal with others first. If she could not kill Isaac Cook, she could at least humiliate him again; that sounded fun to her. In her bag, she carried tablets that would calm her down, allow her to think clearly, but she knew that they would take away the anger, bring the regret for what she had done. She flushed them down the toilet.
***
Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Goddard was feeling the heat. A summons to the office of the Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police was not what he wanted, especially as his relationship with the current commissioner was less than ideal.
A plain-talking man who Goddard kept his distance from if he could, the commissioner was in no mood to mince words. ‘What the hell are you doing, DCS?’
Goddard had no defence, although he needed to put on a good show. The previous commissioner, a friend as well as his boss, would have been
sympathetic, offering to give assistance and advice, but the new commissioner was a blunt man who spoke his mind, sometimes too freely. He was in no mood to accord the DCS standing in front of him any words of encouragement.
‘We believe she’s in London.’
‘For Christ’s sake, there’s how many people in London? Eight, ten million? What chance do you have?’
‘We’re following up on all leads, conducting door-to-door, checking surveillance cameras.’
‘That’s just verbiage, and you know it. Admit it, you haven’t a clue where the mad woman is.’
‘Her ability to vanish is remarkable.’
‘And you and your team’s ability to display extreme incompetence is outstanding. Maybe I should bring in some people from my previous command to show you how to run an investigation.’
‘That’s not necessary, sir. My people are all competent and working hard to bring this case to a conclusion.’
‘How many people dead now, eight or nine?’
‘Six officially, sir.’
‘What do you mean by officially?’
‘Her brother’s death is still recorded as accidental, and besides, she would have been a minor then.’
‘Cook. What are you doing with him?’
‘He’s still the senior investigating officer.’
‘Any more photos of him wrapped around the main suspect?’
‘None.’
‘You’re a bloody fool to keep him in that position. I’ve been looking through his records: excellent policeman, but he has a habit of making a fool of himself,’ the commissioner said.
‘As you say, an excellent policeman who occasionally makes an error of judgement.’
‘Occasionally! You should have put him on restricted duties after that photo, brought someone else in.’
‘I realise that, sir.’
The DCS sensed a lessening in the commissioner’s venom, although he was premature in his assessment.
‘If there’is no breakthrough, then you and your team will be out. I need not add that your career and that of your star DCI will be down the drain.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t underestimate my resolve. The previous commissioner and your political friends will not be able to save you if I decide to act. Is that clear?’
‘Clear, sir.’
‘Good. Now leave and get on with it.’
Richard Goddard, with the exalted title of detective chief superintendent, left the room like an errant schoolboy summoned to the teacher’s office for a dressing down. He was not in the best temper when he left. He needed someone on whom to take out his frustration; Isaac seemed the best person for that.
Chapter 26
‘Isaac, I’ve received a right bollocking from the commissioner.’ It was unusual for the DCS to use bad language, a clear indication that his visit was not social. Isaac braced himself for what was to come.
‘It’s to be expected, sir,’ Isaac replied to Goddard’s opening comment, after the DCS had firmly closed Isaac’s office door behind him.
‘Just because you’re stuffing around, I’m forced to allow the commissioner to take it out on me. I may resent the man, but he’s still our boss.’
‘Under the circumstances, the team is working well,’ Isaac said.
‘What is it with this woman? It’s not as if you don’t know who the guilty person is.’
‘Agreed, sir, but she blends in easily.’
‘We know that already, but what are you doing to find her?’
‘Sergeant Gladstone and Larry Hill are out in the field looking for her, conducting door-to-doors. Inspector Marshall and Sergeant O’Riordan are checking out old haunts, previous murder locations.’
‘The woman is hardly likely to do that; but then again, she and the commissioner may be right, this department under your tutelage is incompetent.’
‘I resent that, sir.’
‘Maybe you do, but I’m tired of taking flak from his holiness in his ivory tower at Scotland Yard. He instructed me once before to put you on restricted duties, even to suspend you, but I didn’t. And now it’s on my record that I acted against advice. If she kills again, the commissioner will have me on restricted duties along with you, and I do not intend to allow that to happen. He wants to bring in someone else to run this investigation; someone from his previous command, although what good that will do, coming in cold to the case, is unclear.’
‘Understood.’
Goddard, after venting his spleen on Isaac, felt his frustration at the meeting with the commissioner subside. He took a seat. Bridget, outside, noticing the mellowing atmosphere in Isaac’s office and regarding it as safe to enter, came in with a cup of tea for each of the two men.
‘Isaac, what can be done?’ Goddard said calmly after Bridget had left.
‘You’re right, DCS. It should be easy. All we have to do now is to protect the living and to find one woman.’
‘So why can’t you find her?’
‘She just has an uncanny ability. She always disguises herself, and she’s not using bank or credit cards.’
‘She must have money then.’
‘The last man she killed had money hidden under his bed.’
‘She stole it?’
‘It’s the only explanation. The man’s ex-wife turned up at the crime scene soon after the body had been discovered. We used her for a positive ID later. Anyway, she was convinced that he had stashed his money somewhere. Called him a miserable old skinflint.’
‘You checked?’
‘Of course, sir. Found some money, but not much.’
‘The commissioner’s receiving flak over this woman.’
‘You don’t care much for him, sir?’
‘Not the issue, is it?’
***
Since the incident with the photo in Newcastle the investigation had been progressing satisfactorily, and thankfully there had been no further deaths. Standard policing was being followed, and the paperwork, always too much, was up to date and in line with regulations. The new commissioner regarded the process as important, and while Isaac did not enjoy that side of his job, he had to reluctantly admit that it was necessary. Get a smart lawyer for the defence and any shoddy paperwork would soon be relegated to the rubbish bin as inadmissible evidence.
It had happened a few times in the past, even to Isaac, and nothing irked more than to see a guilty person walk free, thumbing their nose at the police. Isaac did not intend for that to happen this time. He was still smarting from the embarrassing photo, and the woman was already thumbing her nose, and she was not even in custody.
Admittedly, she was not doing it as much as in the past, as the woman’s attempts to use social media had mostly been curtailed. Each time she posted, it was from another location. It had been possible to trace the locations, and they were always internet cafés, spread throughout the country. Her last post had been close in to London.
Wendy and Larry, hot on the trail, had missed Charlotte by no more than two hours at the last internet café. The man behind the counter had been surly when questioned, claiming that he had seen no one suspicious. Questioned further, he admitted he had seen a woman matching the woman in the photo that Larry showed him. The café, no more than twenty miles from London, had provided further proof that Charlotte was close by, although the only witness was vague and could hardly be regarded as reliable.
***
Charlotte reclined on her bed at the hotel. She was not sure what to do next. The key players were all in position, but how to execute her plan concerned her. She knew that when she made her first move, she would become more visible.
There she was in plain view, and no one had seen her, not Gladys Lake nor Sara Marshall. She had not seen DCI Cook yet, but she was determined to obtain one more photo.
The first time in Newcastle, with a frivolous group of women, the DCI had been easy to corner. She could see even then that he was attracted to women, even to her, judging by the way he grip
ped her around the waist when the photo had been taken. She fantasised over him, yet knew it was not possible. Tired of staring at the television and daydreaming, she left the hotel; it was the end-of-day rush hour, and the city was milling with people.
She thought about leaving the city, to get maybe twenty to thirty miles out from the centre and find somewhere to use the internet. She walked up Euston Road as far as the entrance to the London Underground. Flashing her Oyster Card at the ticket barrier she looked for the next train.
As she descended on the escalator, safely ensconced in the melee of people, she looked to the right. Ascending on the other side was Sara Marshall. Unable to resist, Charlotte looked across at her. Even as well disguised as she was, there was no way the police inspector would not recognise her. Immediately Sara started pushing her way up past the people, attempting to flash her badge and to shout ‘Police’.
Equally alarmed, Charlotte pushed her way down and jumped into a train that was about to pull out, its destination unknown and unimportant.
Sara was now at the top of the escalator and on speed dial to Isaac and the team. Not waiting for a reply, she hurtled down the escalator in an attempt to catch up with Charlotte, her pulse racing at the realisation of who she had just seen. Isaac, on the other line, was unable to speak to Sara, but was able to register the noise and the activity on her end of the phone.
He quickly fired up the team, using another phone on a group call. ‘Sara’s in trouble.’
Sean O’Riordan answered first. ‘She was heading over to meet me at Gladys Lake’s hotel.’
‘Wendy, Larry, get over there now,’ Isaac said.
‘We’re on our way,’ Larry’s reply.
Thirty seconds later, Sara’s voice was heard. ‘Charlotte Hamilton, I’ve just seen her. St Pancras Underground.’
‘Where is she now?’ Isaac asked.
‘No idea. By the time I could get down the escalator, she had jumped on a train and left. Probably the Victoria line, heading south.’
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3 Page 80
