The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3

by Phillip Strang

  ‘You can’t do that,’ she had said.

  ‘Unfortunately I must,’ was Bob’s reply. He had not wanted to say it, especially to Sara, but in the office, he was a policeman. At home, and out of hours, then he could be someone else. He regretted his actions after she had stormed out of the office, slamming the door hard.

  Bob had slept on the sofa that night. He did not even receive the benefit of a goodnight kiss.

  They had managed to eat breakfast together and to maintain a civil conversation before driving separately to the police station the next morning. Once in her office she finally forgave him, sorry that she had treated him so harshly when he had only been doing his job.

  Keith was up in Newcastle, probably drinking more than he should, attempting to find out who the missing woman was. Sean, from what she could see, was at a loose end. Otherwise, the office was buzzing as usual.

  ***

  Sara made two cups of coffee: one for her, the other for Bob, by way of a peace offering.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said when she placed it on his desk. She returned to her desk, planning to phone Keith. Apart from a brief call the day before, she had not heard from him. The key to the case seemed to lie in Newcastle, and Sara was anxious for news, any news, that would take them out of the current quandary. Until Ingrid Bentham made the next move, which could mean another murder, there was no way to move forward.

  Sean busied himself looking into cases of known psychotic killers. Their ability to kill at random or in an orchestrated pattern could change due to unexpected factors. He had wandered over to Sara’s office to discuss his findings when the phone call came through. Sara picked up the phone.

  ‘Egerton Road,’ she said to Sean. ‘There’s been a death.’

  Sean grabbed his jacket; Sara picked up her handbag and phone. Within ten minutes, Sean driving, they had arrived at the address. They had not needed the number; they knew exactly where they were heading.

  The road was blocked off, two uniforms on duty. Sara flashed her police badge. Sara and Sean parked twenty yards away from the apartment and walked the remaining distance.

  ‘I found him,’ Gloria said as soon as she saw them.

  ‘Does he have a name?’ Sara asked. For once, she felt pity for the woman. Gloria sat on the stairs leading up to the flat she had shared with Ingrid Bentham. It was a cold day, and she was not wearing a jacket. Sara removed hers and placed it around the shoulders of the distraught woman. Sara could see that she needed medical care, but first she and Sean had to check the murder scene.

  ‘Hold on,’ said a voice from behind. It was Stan Crosley. ‘Overalls, gloves, shoe protectors,’ he said.

  ‘I have some in the car,’ Sara said.

  ‘Your car is down the road, and you were just about to check out the crime scene, so don’t give me that nonsense.’

  ‘Apologies.’

  ‘Accepted, but I’m in charge now. What do we have here?’

  Sara sat down next to the distraught woman. ‘Gloria, what’s his name?’

  ‘Brad.’

  ‘Does he have a surname?’

  ‘Howard.’

  ‘Have you known him long?’

  ‘For a couple of years. We used to meet up occasionally. He fancied Ingrid, I know that, and look what she’s done.’

  A uniformed policewoman came and took care of Gloria, escorting her away from the building. Sara reminded her not to take her far, as she needed to question Gloria at the crime scene.

  Stan Crosley led the way into the flat. ‘It’s a pigsty,’ he said.

  Sara could only agree. She could see that no attempt at housekeeping had been made since her last visit, the only difference being the increased height of the pile of unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink. ‘How can anyone live like this?’ she said.

  Sean ignored the condition of the room.

  ‘Get behind me,’ Crosley said. ‘I don’t want your hobnail boots destroying the evidence.’

  Sean could have said that they were not hobnailed, and his shoes had cost him plenty, but did not respond to Crosley.

  In the small corridor separating the main room from the two bedrooms at the rear there were footprints. ‘Probably the woman outside. I’ll check later. She must have stepped in some blood,’ Crosley said.

  ‘She had blood on her dress,’ Sara said.

  ‘Find her something else to wear. I’ll need forensics to check it out. Are you sure she’s not responsible?’

  ‘We are confident that she’s not,’ Sean said.

  CSE Crosley entered the far bedroom. ‘Whoever she is, she’s a bloody savage,’ he said. So far, Sara and Sean had not seen the body. ‘Watch your step. You can see the blood on the floor. Keep to one side of it.’

  Sara followed Crosley, almost felt as if she wanted to throw up, an acidic taste in her mouth. She looked away and regained her composure.

  Sean came in and saw Brad Howard lying on his back in Ingrid’s room. He was naked. In his chest there was a thin knife, its handle protruding.

  ‘Straight in the heart,’ Stan Crosley said. ‘Mid-coitus.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sean asked.

  ‘What I just said. A few more checks to confirm, but it seems conclusive. He was engaged in sexual intercourse when the knife was inserted.’

  ‘Ingrid Bentham?’ Sara asked.

  ‘It looks as though it is. Fingerprints and DNA will confirm. She’s a nasty one if it’s her,’ Crosley said.

  ‘Nasty and malevolent. Evil.’

  Sean shuddered at the thought of what had happened in that room; Sara remained impassive, surveying the scene.

  ‘If you two are finished gawking, I’ve got a job to do,’ Crosley said.

  ‘We’re finished.’ Sean was feeling unwell. He had seen Gregory Chalmers, as well as his wife. On that occasion, he had vomited on some flowers in the back garden; this time, he would not vomit, but he needed a hot drink. The policewoman outside with Gloria had organised a flask of coffee from a café not far away. Sean took a plastic cup and helped himself to a drink. Gloria was sitting in the back of an ambulance; a mild sedative had been administered to her.

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘Unfortunately, he is,’ Sara replied. ‘Were you close?’

  ‘Sort of, but he fancied Ingrid.’

  ‘Had she slept with him before?’

  ‘Saint Ingrid of the perpetual virginity?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Never. She never had a man over, and then she kills the first one that she invites in.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘It was because of me. That’s why Brad is dead.’

  ‘What are you not telling us?’

  ‘She phoned me last night.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Sara asked.

  ‘She wanted the ring; the one you took. She said it was important to her, and if I had stolen it, or given it to the police, then…’

  ‘She threatened you?’

  ‘Yes, I was scared.’

  ‘But you stayed here in the apartment knowing what she is capable of?’

  ‘I’ve nowhere to go, and besides, this is my home, or it was.’

  ‘Then why Brad?’

  ‘Revenge, I suppose. I told her that the police had found the ring, and they were keeping it as evidence. I wasn’t lying.’

  ‘She didn’t believe you?’

  ‘Not at all, but then I do lie occasionally. She knew me well enough.’

  ‘You were not here last night,’ Sean asked.

  ‘I stayed with a friend.’

  ‘Male?’

  ‘Female. I only came back today to pick up some clothes. That’s when I found him.’

  ‘Did you know that Brad was coming over?’

  ‘No, but if Ingrid had phoned him, he would have come.’

  Stan Crosley came out from the apartment for a break. He was carrying a change of clothes for Gloria. He saw Sean and Sara by the ambulance. ‘A word, if you don’t mind,’
he said.

  ‘Sure, what is it?’ Sara asked.

  ‘Did you take a look at the wall behind the door?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve got a photo here on my phone.’

  Sean and Sara looked at the display as Crosley held it up to them. There was a large sheet of paper secured with tape. On it, written in blood, Murder is only a number. Below it was the number 3.

  ‘She’s playing with us,’ Sara said. ‘What kind of woman can behave like this?’

  ‘One that is crazy; one that will kill again,’ Sean said.

  Chapter 8

  A door-to-door investigation, conducted in the vicinity of Gloria and Ingrid’s apartment, had proved negative. The night before the discovery of the body it had been raining and miserable, and very few people had been out on the street. One woman believed she had seen a man heading up to the apartment, but she had been vague in her recollection of events and certainly had not seen a woman.

  Brad Howard’s body, once Crosley and his team had completed their investigation at the murder scene, had been removed and taken to Pathology. An autopsy would be conducted, although the cause of death was not in any doubt. Whether he had been stabbed mid-coitus, as the crime scene examiner had said, would need to be determined.

  For a woman who had been dedicated to chastity, Ingrid Bentham had indeed come a long way. The assumption with Gregory Chalmers had been that it was misguided love, coupled with paranoia, and a lack of the drugs needed to moderate her condition. But now, with Gloria and her sometime boyfriend, there seemed to be another element, even more disturbing.

  Ingrid Bentham had apparently discovered the joy of killing, although it may have always been there, and now it was number 3. Sara wondered how long before number 4, and where and whom?

  And what was the significance of the ring?

  Sara and Sean wondered how the woman was able to appear and disappear at will. London was awash with street cameras, yet none had picked her up.

  Stephanie Chalmers had left the hospital and moved in with her sister. The house where her husband had died was firmly locked up. His widow had no intention of ever entering the house again, which seemed illogical to Sara, as it was a beautiful home, but she supposed painful memories are always hard to deal with.

  It had been the same with Sara when her parents had died five years before. They had been returning from a holiday when their car slid off an icy road, plunging them into a freezing river. According to the doctor, they would not have known what happened, but it gave Sara sleepless nights for months afterwards.

  ***

  ‘We had better find this woman before anyone else is killed,’ Rory said to Keith. Both men were nursing sore heads from the previous night.

  So far, they had only drawn blanks. There were no murders attributed to minors, certainly not females, but the team back in London felt, as did Keith, that the number 1 was significant. If Ingrid Bentham had committed a murder as an adult, she would still be in prison, or at least a secure hospital for the criminally insane.

  And her fingerprints would have been easily traceable, which concerned everyone. It was assumed that even if there was only a suspicion of wrongdoing as a child, her fingerprints would be on record, but in fact that was subject to the discretion of the department handling the case and the local legal jurisdiction.

  Rory thought that there should always be a fingerprint record, but he was aware that there had been a period when the rights of the child, innocent or otherwise, had been paramount. Pure foolishness, he thought, but the rules were the rules.

  ‘What do you reckon? Think carefully,’ Keith said. He was getting edgy, wanting to get back to London. There was another murder. Keith assumed it was the man he had seen in Gloria’s bedroom that night. He wanted to be involved, and Newcastle was even colder than London.

  At least in London, he reasoned, there was always a warm fire in his favourite pub, although he wasn’t much of a drinker nowadays, apart from special occasions such as the night before. He had been in his younger days, but now the bladder could not take the punishment, and the hangovers, mild and quickly dealt with in his youth, played havoc with the migraines that he had become prone to. He knew that his body had seen better days, but apart from the occasional moan, he did not complain.

  ‘There was a case some years ago. A young boy, nine years old if my memory is correct. He died under suspicious circumstances,’ Rory said.

  ‘Suspicious, what do you mean?’ Keith asked.

  ‘There was an old quarry out near where he lived. He was found at the bottom of it. His death was recorded as death by misadventure, but…’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘The marks at the top showed scuff marks, as if there had been a tussle of some sort.’

  ‘Who was involved with the investigation?’

  ‘I was, but it was some years ago.’ It concerned Rory that it had slipped his mind. His mother had suffered from dementia; he hoped he was not starting to suffer the same condition.

  ‘How many?’ Keith asked.

  ‘Thirteen, maybe fourteen.’

  ‘It’s around the right time. Do you still have your notebook?’

  Rory fumbled around in a filing cabinet that was close to his desk. ‘Here it is,’ he said.

  ‘12 December, 2004. Duncan Hamilton, aged nine, discovered at the bottom of Titmarsh quarry, no suspicious circumstances.’

  ‘You said it was suspicious,’ Keith reminded him.

  ‘I’ve just read you the first entry. Later on, we found the scuff marks at the top of the quarry. It was a hell of a drop; the poor kid would have been dead on impact with the ground below.

  ‘14 December, 2004. Interviewed Charles and Fiona Hamilton, parents of the deceased. One other child, Charlotte, not present.’

  ‘Not the most enjoyable part of policing,’ Keith said.

  ‘Not at all, but it comes with the job description.’

  ‘Do you remember what they said?’

  ‘In my notes. “Parents distraught. Fiona Hamilton heavily sedated on doctor’s advice. Broached the subject of a possible fight or altercation at the quarry. Charles Hamilton was furious and stormed out of the interview.”’

  ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘His reaction was understandable. There they were, coming to terms with their son’s death, and I’m there, casting doubt as to whether it was an accident. Even so, his storming out seemed to be an overreaction.’

  ‘You persevered?’

  ‘Had to. If he had been pushed, then it was murder.’

  ‘15 December, 2004.’ Rory Hewitt referred back to his notes again.

  ‘“Charles Hamilton stated that his son, as well as the other children in the neighbourhood, often went up to the quarry, although they, or at least his son, had been warned not to.”’

  ‘Tell a child, especially a boy, and they will want to go,’ Keith said. He remembered his youth. There was a fast-flowing river near his parents’ house. They had warned him about the dangers, but the chance to catch a few fish always drew him there. He remembered that he had almost drowned once as he was attempting to manhandle a fish onto the bank. He didn’t tell his parents, but he never went fishing there again.

  ‘Exactly, and we were willing to accept the fact that maybe they were playing there, and he had slipped. Ready to accept that the scuff marks were as a result of Duncan attempting to hold on, or someone trying to prevent him falling.’

  ‘It didn’t end there, did it?’ Keith said.

  ‘I thought it had. Pursuing other children, possibly raising a case against them for the accidental death of a minor, would have tainted them for life. Young boys do stupid things, believing in their infallibility; most survive, although Duncan Hamilton did not. Maybe they were daring each other to look over the edge. Who knows?’

  ‘What happened to change your mind about the case?’

  ‘It’s in my notes. “17 December, 2004. Travelled to the Hamiltons’ hous
e to interview. Charlotte Hamilton, the elder child, was in the front garden.”’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She was singing a song.’

  ‘And the song is significant?’

  ‘I wrote it in my notes. “Stupid Duncan up at the quarry, along came a sister and gave him a push.” It was eerie.’

  ‘Did you question her?’

  ‘She would not speak. Psychological problems according to her parents.’

  ‘Did you tell the parents about their daughter’s singing?’

  ‘Yes. This time Charles Hamilton sat mute; his wife spoke for both of them.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Fiona Hamilton stated that her daughter had an imaginative mind and to take no notice.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘What could I do? There was no proof, no witnesses, and no assistance from the Hamilton family.’

  ‘How old was Charlotte?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘But you always suspected?’

  ‘The song gave me the creeps. It sounded like a theme song out of a horror movie, yet it came from the mouth of a child.’

  ‘What happened to Charlotte Hamilton after that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. The inquest was a formality. I made a statement, purely the facts, and the death was recorded as accidental. Both of the parents were present, although they did not speak, at least to me.’

  ‘The daughter?’

  ‘She was not there.’

  ***

  ‘We need to interview the Hamiltons,’ Keith said. It was a murder enquiry, and if Ingrid Bentham and Charlotte Hamilton were one and the same person, the inconvenience to the Hamiltons was of minor concern.

  ‘Understood.’

  Keith made the phone call. ‘Detective Inspector Keith Greenstreet. I need to question you about your daughter, Charlotte.’

  The voice at the end of the phone, female and initially friendly, went quiet. A masculine voice took over. ‘She is not here.’

  ‘Then where is she?’ Keith asked.

  ‘We have not seen our daughter for some years. We have no idea where she is.’