DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  It had been a short conversation, but Charlotte had been pleased to hear their voices, aware that she could not return to the family home. She did not know why, but it was something serious; she was sure of that. Her parents had been pleasant, but distant; not once offering to come down and visit her, not that she wanted to see them, but it would have shown the love of parents for their child. Their child who had been lost for so many years, but had returned.

  It had been Beaty who helped her integrate into the town, and Charlotte grew to love her.

  She realised that the medication she carried with her was not needed, and she rarely took it. She threw it in a dustbin.

  It had been good with Beaty and the cat but it had ended, badly as always. The cat had strolled out into the lane at the front of the house. Charlotte had warned Beaty how dangerous it was.

  ‘Don’t worry, there’s no traffic. Felix will be alright.’

  The cat did not see the delivery van, or if he did, he was too slow. The driver had not seen the cat, not that he was looking, as he was running late.

  ‘You killed him,’ Charlotte shouted.

  ‘Not my fault,’ the driver bellowed back from the safety of the vehicle. Charlotte moved her hand to the bag she carried, realised it only contained the day’s groceries.

  The vehicle hurtled off and was out of sight within twenty seconds.

  Charlotte picked up the dead animal and carried it back to the house.

  ‘Felix, Felix, what’s happened?’ Beaty screamed.

  ‘A van hit him.’

  Beaty clutched her chest and fell forward. Charlotte phoned for an ambulance. It arrived too late.

  Charlotte buried the cat in the garden, put some flowers on the grave, made a small cross and left for the railway station. Her memories had come flooding back.

  She knew what she had to do.

  ***

  The Duke of York in Dering Street looked suitable. Charlotte took a seat close to the bar. A man soon joined her. He was a banker, or at least he said he was. Not that it concerned Charlotte as she had no need of his financial advice, no need of a mortgage, and besides, if she wanted a house, there was one up in Newcastle. At least, once she had removed its two inhabitants.

  ‘Can I buy you a drink? the banker asked. Charlotte had to admit that he was not a bad-looking man.

  ‘Vodka and Lime.’

  Charlotte knew that he was checking the goods on display. She had worn a thick coat and jeans to the pub but changed into a V-necked top and a short skirt on arrival. She knew that she looked cheap.

  Let him think I’m an easy lay, she thought.

  Dennis Goldman knew a sure bet when he saw one, and this woman was money in the bank. He could see that she wore no bra under the top. It had been a hard week in the city, what with the declining pound and the rise in interest rates. He had made the right call on shorting the pound earlier in the day; he knew that he was making the right call with the woman, especially as she was progressively moving closer to him.

  ‘Are you busy tonight?’ he asked the red-haired woman with the winning smile and the beautiful body.

  ‘I’m free. Do you have anything in mind?’

  ‘A meal and then my place,’ he said.

  If this one doesn’t come across, it’s still early enough in the evening to find another, he thought.

  ‘How about your place first?’

  Excellent, he thought.

  ‘Is it far?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘Five minutes in a taxi, ten if you walk.’

  ‘Then we walk,’ she said.

  Charlotte drank her vodka and lime; Dennis finished his beer. They left the pub holding hands. Dennis believed himself to be a lucky man, although attracting females came easily to him. He had the talk down to a fine art. Run through the first few sentences, ensure a result. No result, move on to the next.

  London was awash with beautiful women, and he was having the time of his life. He was making plenty of money, sleeping with more than his fair share of women.

  This one would be another to add to the tally, he thought.

  Dennis’s place reflected the man: confident, brash, and modern. It was on the second floor of a converted terrace house, and it commanded a good view over London. Charlotte had to admit that she liked the apartment, even liked the man, but Gregory Chalmers had been a smooth talker, and he had turned out bad.

  Besides, he brings me back here, no doubt to screw me and then dump me. I’m not the first one he’s brought up here, she thought.

  Dennis prepared some snacks, and brought a bottle of wine to the table in the sitting room; Charlotte continued to give the right signals.

  The bottle of wine consumed, they moved towards each other. Soon, they were naked and writhing on the carpet. Charlotte was on top, the ideal position for the finale.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ Dennis gasped.

  ‘You are suitable,’ Charlotte replied.

  ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Charlotte leant over to her bag. She put her hand in and withdrew the knife.

  ‘What’s that for?’ he asked.

  ‘You bastard. You think women are just here to satisfy your carnal lusts.’

  ‘What…’

  The knife entered his body easily, driven by the force of the palms of both hands pushing down. The man’s erection subsided as the blood drained out of his body.

  Charlotte, familiar with the act of death, removed the knife; she then drove it back down again, this time harder than before. The man beneath her did not move. She took another knife from her bag, a larger knife, razor-sharp, and slit his throat. The blood spurted out. She rubbed it over her bare breasts and placed her bloodied fingers to her mouth.

  ‘You taste great,’ she said.

  She then removed herself from the dead man’s body and walked slowly to his shower. She washed all the blood off and shampooed her hair, careful to remove all traces of the red dye she had applied earlier in the day. She then dried herself, put on the top and jeans she had worn earlier. Before she left, she helped herself to some food from the refrigerator. She made a sandwich and walked towards the front door.

  She looked back at the man lying dead on the carpet as she passed. She admired the skill with which she had carved the number 6 on his chest.

  Bastard, she thought as she closed the front door behind her.

  ***

  In one part of London, a woman bathed in the glory of her fame; in another, a police officer was coming to terms with not being in control of the situation.

  Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook, the star of Homicide, a man slated for senior management, the protégé of Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Goddard, was floundering. He had met senior politicians, charmed them with his good manners. He had met and seduced many women, but now there was one woman who was oblivious to him. The one woman who could undermine his career if she was not stopped, and soon.

  She had murdered five, and according to her website, she had killed again. So far, the department had not received any information about another murder, but the website had shown a view from the apartment, and it was clearly London. The photo of a naked man covered in blood was too disturbing for most to see. The London Metropolitan Police had attempted to block the website; it had not been successful. Charlotte Hamilton was fast attaining cult status, with a loyal band of followers: deviants, sadists, and miscreants, not to mention the extreme feminists who saw all men as superfluous.

  Monday morning and it was the weekly meeting. Bridget, Wendy, and Larry were in attendance, as well as DI Sara Marshall and DS Sean O’Riordan.

  There had only been one subject to discuss, and Sara was still the person with the most intimate knowledge of the woman.

  Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard had joined them, at least for the first fifteen minutes. ‘It’s not looking good, is it?’ he said.

  ‘We are working on it, sir,’ Isaac r
eplied.

  ‘Without any tangible results. I can find out more information about the murders and this woman on the internet than from you. Doesn’t reflect well on this department, and now I have the commissioner of police on the phone asking what I’m doing, and what sort of people I have.’

  ‘He's unreasonable,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I know that, but he’s the commissioner. I can hardly tell him to go away and to let us get on with the policing, can I?’

  ‘We’re a good team, sir.’

  ‘That may be, but this Hamilton woman is better. Mind you, she does not have a commissioner to answer to, only her admiring public. How many followers on her website now?’

  ‘Over twenty-five thousand.’

  ‘She’s posted another death,’ Goddard said.

  ‘That is the subject of our discussion. So far, we have not received any confirmation of another murder.’

  ‘Apart from her website,’ Goddard said. This time she’s posted photos.’

  ‘She’s mentally sick,’ Sara said.

  ‘That’s damn obvious to anyone. Still smarter than anyone in this room.’

  It was Sara who spoke first after Richard Goddard had left. ‘Unfair comment.’

  ‘We go back a long way,’ Isaac said. ‘His bark's worse than his bite, and besides, he is correct.’

  ‘Have you seen the photos?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can we deduce where they were taken?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘It’s not easy. London, and not far from here. You can see the skyline in the background.’

  Chapter 16

  As Sara and Sean were about to leave the office and return to Twickenham, Isaac’s phone rang. He picked it up.

  ‘Hold on,’ Isaac shouted at them before returning to the phone.

  ‘Another body?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘34 Davies Street, Mayfair. Larry, Sara, you can come with me. We cannot have everyone at the murder scene. Gordon Windsor will go spare if we all come marching in. Sean, Wendy, get ready to conduct a door-to-door. Bridget, open another file.’

  Challis Street to Davies Street was no more than two miles. Traffic was heavy mid-morning. Isaac took the portable flashing light out from under his seat and secured it to the roof of his car. With the siren and the light, cars started to pull over to one side to let him through.

  ‘Dramatic,’ Gordon Windsor said on their arrival.

  ‘What floor?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Second. Good view, charming apartment, or at least it was.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ll see once you’ve kitted up.’

  Two uniforms were standing outside; the crime scene tape had already been rolled out. Due to the crowd that was building up, barriers were being erected on the other side of the street. As Isaac, Larry and Sara kitted up – gloves, foot protectors, and overalls – a television crew arrived. Barry Wiltshire, their lead crime reporter, saw Isaac and made a beeline for him. Isaac told one of the uniforms to deal with it. He did not have the time to indulge in idle speculation on the street, at least not before he had seen the body and the crime scene, and even then, he did not want to speak to Wiltshire who was an obnoxious toad of a man.

  Isaac and his team entered the front door of the building and climbed the two flights of stairs. Once inside the apartment, they followed the obvious route down the hallway. On the floor in the main room was the body of a man: as usual, naked and lying on his back.

  ‘Investment banker, or at least he was. Explains how he could afford this place,’ Gordon Windsor said. He had preceded them up the stairs and was standing close to the body.

  The white carpet that the body lay on was covered in blood, a lot of blood. Bloodied footprints could be seen on the polished floorboards around the perimeter of the carpet. Larry felt his stomach reacting, as did Sara. Isaac appeared unmoved by the scene.

  ‘That’s where she walked after killing him.’ Gordon Windsor had seen Sara looking at the footprints, trying to ascertain where they led to.

  ‘Did she shower?’ Sara asked.

  ‘Helped herself to the food in the refrigerator too. I would estimate she spent thirty minutes here after she had killed him.’

  ‘Identity of the deceased?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Dennis Goldman. Apparently a whiz kid with stocks and shares.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘There’s a certificate on the wall from his bank.’

  Sara’s phone rang, and she excused herself from the conversation. Once outside the apartment, she spoke. ‘Sara Marshall.’

  ‘Is it?’ an enquiring voice asked. Sara recognised it instantly.

  ‘Dr Lake. We are here now. It is almost certainly Charlotte.’

  ‘She phoned me ten minutes ago,’ Gladys Lake said.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She sang a song.’

  ‘What song? Do you remember?’

  ‘I will never forget it as long as I live. Oh, what fun, I slit his throat. Who will be next? Will it be you?’

  Sara felt a shiver down her spine. ‘You’ll need twenty-four-hour protection.’

  ‘With Charlotte? What’s the point?’ Gladys Lake said.

  ‘She has only killed men, so far. We have no reason to believe she is targeting you.’

  ‘That may be, but I am scared.’

  ‘Then leave. Go overseas, take an extended vacation until we apprehend her.’

  ‘I will consider that option.’

  The phone line went dead. Sara called DI Rory Hewitt in Newcastle. ‘I’ve just had Dr Lake on the phone,’ she said.

  ‘She called me five minutes ago. We have assigned immediate protection for her.’

  Sara returned to the murder scene and told Isaac about her conversation with Gladys Lake. Gordon Windsor was checking on the condition of the body. ‘She did not intend him to live. Very thorough,’ he said.

  ‘Was he alive when she cut his throat?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Probably not, although his blood would still have been pumping.’

  ‘Friday night?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Judging by the putrefaction, the gases emitting from the body, the defecation, I would agree with that possibility. Why Friday night?’

  ‘That was the date given by his murderer.’

  ‘You realise she enjoys this?’ Windsor said.

  ‘She’s already threatened someone else,’ Isaac said. He checked Charlotte Hamilton’s website. It kept being blocked, only to reappear on another server. She now had eighty-four thousand followers.

  ***

  Wendy and Sean were outside when the other members of the team left the murder scene. They were busy organising a door-to-door. Each person assigned to the task had been given a list of questions to ask: did you see anything suspicious, did you know Dennis Goldman, did you see him with a female on Friday night between the hours of 8 p.m. and midnight, and so on.

  Wendy and Sean had been given a phone number and address of Dennis Goldman’s place of work; they were heading over there.

  Sara called Charlotte Hamilton’s parents. ‘Have you heard from your daughter?’

  Charles Hamilton answered the phone. ‘My wife is not well enough to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Sara said. She felt for Charlotte Hamilton’s parents. According to Keith Greenstreet, who had met them some years previously, they were decent people who, because of their daughter, the most savage serial killer in England for many years, were now pariahs in society. They were unable to go out of their house, and if they did, then it was to a distant location, hoping they would not be recognised, to purchase the household provisions and then return as quickly as possible to the sanctity of their remote location.

  ‘Is it her?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘My wife has suffered a breakdown; attempted suicide.’

  ‘Will she recover?’ Sara asked.

  ‘Her body may. We are broken
people,’ Charles Hamilton said.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Find our daughter before she kills again.’

  ***

  In an internet café on the northern outskirts of London sat a woman. It was the evening of the previous day, way past 9 p.m. and the café was due to close in fifteen minutes.

  Long enough, the woman thought. She had become used to run-down internet facilities with their dodgy screens, keyboards with keys that stuck, especially the most used ones, and cursors that jerked their way across the screen.

  A permanent connection was not possible at the bedsit she rented, and a mobile modem would not have had the capacity for the photos she was loading. She was a lonely figure in that café, but she was happy.

  She was famous all over the world, her followers a testament to that fact. Each day, in all the newspapers in London, there would be an article on her latest murder, and always a photo of the black police officer.

  Her intellect told her that she was taking risks. An internet connection could be checked, even the café where she was now, but she did not care.

  She knew that one day all those mad people who saw her as crazy would put her in prison, but it was them, not her, who deserved to be in prison. If they were going to catch her, and she knew they would, then she would lead them on a merry chase first.

  She would make the black police officer pay. They said his name was Isaac Cook: she would remember that name. And there, yet again, was that woman, that Sara Stanforth, although now they were reporting her as Sara Marshall. The woman had a husband; what joy to put a knife into him, to watch her suffer.

  Maybe she would kill them both. The thought made her smile and then to laugh. The owner of the internet café, a small man with a strong accent, looked at her as she laughed. His interest waned after ten seconds, and he went back to the comic that he had been reading.

  He had a motley collection of patrons coming into his café, paying five pounds for a coffee and thirty minutes’ free internet, even though the connection was slow. Not that it seemed to concern the woman, a short-haired brunette, her face partially concealed by a large scarf.