The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Wendy and Larry, you’d better get down to Holland Park and see if you can trace the murdered man’s movements.’

  Chapter 14

  Charlotte Hamilton had seen the black police officer. She imagined seducing him, and then at the right moment sticking a knife into his black heart.

  She knew she had been right to stay hidden for three years; three glorious years where no questions had been asked, and everyone had been courteous and friendly, even invited her into their houses. She had not been fooled. They were no better than her parents who had deserted her, allowed her to be drugged and then electric-shocked, with the confusion and memory loss after. Sometimes she wondered about her parents: where they were, what they were doing, even wishing her stupid brother was still alive. But what if he was?

  He had only been an irritant to her, teasing her, breaking her dolls, getting between the love of her parents for her. She was glad she had killed him, even though she could have saved him. She remembered him squealing as he hung on to a branch protruding at the top of the quarry. How she had enjoyed pulling the branch away from him; how she had enjoyed watching him fall and fall and fall, and then hitting the ground with a thud. The sound had been music to her ears, and if she closed her eyes, the scene was still so clear.

  She had seen the sorrow in her parents’ eyes, especially her mother’s, that he was dead and she was still alive. They should have embraced her with the love they had shown to him, but what did they do? They threw her into that place full of crazies. Sure, she had to admit that it had not all been bad, but it was a home for the insane, and she was sane. The man who had tested her before admission had said she was exceptionally bright, yet she was locked up behind bars with people who drooled and talked nonsense and threw their food on the floor.

  She remembered the woman doctor, that Lake woman. She had told them to attach the electrodes to her scalp, and then told them to crank up the electricity. They had told her that it was good for her; something to do with dopamines and incorrect electrical paths in the brain. But she knew what it was; it was to punish her for being smarter than they were, for finding out how to beat the security and to climb over the fence. They had caught her once or twice, but she had done it many times.

  She wanted to leave there at eighteen, but she had stayed a year longer. She had used their hospital because she had nowhere to go, but once she figured it out, she had left. They had tried to stop her, to reason with her, but she had a woman in London who was going to look after her. All she had to do was to offer her body to any man that was willing to pay, and where was the problem in that? Hadn’t she given herself enough times to the local men in Newcastle, and what did they give her? Nothing, apart from a nasty rash. At least the hospital’s medicine chest had dealt with that.

  And then the men in that house in London with their breath smelling of beer, their bodies of sweat and lack of hygiene. They wanted to love her, to make love to her, but what did they really want? Just a quick screw, the opportunity to prod and poke her body, and once they were satisfied, they would leave her to clean up the mess. They were the same as all the other men. Gregory Chalmers had treated her well; she had loved him, but in the end he was only a bastard as well. And then there was Gloria’s boyfriend, tattooed and well-built. He thought he was something special until she had stuck the knife in him. The feel of his body beneath her as she rammed the knife in. The spurting blood covering her body. The look on his face as he realised that he was not there for love, only for death, his death. He had died for all men, although he was only one. Many men were deserving of death; she would ensure them that right.

  The club had been fun, although the man had not been. He had told her his name was Liam, and he had been ugly and small and unable to satisfy her; not that it mattered, as she had been pleased with the knife in his heart. She had read in the newspaper afterwards that he could have lived if she had not happened to put her knife in the right place. One day she would thank whoever had advised her on that. Graham Dyer had been her first after three years, and his death had been assured as she knifed him repeatedly; no point in a shoddy job. He had tried to paw her in the pub, and back in his house he had tried to love her. She had no need for love; no need for a man, other than to be the receiver of a violent death.

  She could see another murder, maybe the black police officer, but he would be smarter than her previous victims. And then there was that female detective inspector. She realised that women were not to blame for the troubles in the world, but for that woman, Sara Stanforth, she would make an exception. And what did a man have that a woman did not? She knew the answer to that question: the power to subjugate women, the power to put her into a lunatic asylum, the right to hit her, just because they had paid for her. And with Gregory Chalmers, the authority to profess love and then cast her off, no more than an old shoe, not even worthy of contempt.

  She had not wanted to harm Stephanie Chalmers. She had been a good woman with a bad husband: a husband that cheated on her, who did not love her, only himself. Charlotte wished it could have been different, that he could have loved her and she could have been with his children, but he had been no different. She had enjoyed carving a number onto his chest, although she had not carved another since.

  She knew that her mind played havoc with her thoughts, and that medication would make her see everything the same way as other people, but who was sane? Her or them?

  They were the mad people, not her. She knew that given the right environment, she could act as they did. It had been easy outside that club to masquerade as an innocent bystander. The photo she had taken had been shown around the world; she was famous, and she enjoyed the feeling. She would take another to show that woman police officer and that black man that she, Charlotte Hamilton, moved the streets of London with impunity. They would never find her, and she would remove more men from society. She needed to pass the message on for other women to join her cause.

  ***

  Isaac Cook’s parents maintained an album of their son. They had photos of him as a child, as a youth, his graduation from university, and especially his time as a police officer.

  They had recorded every press conference where he had spoken. They even had one of him with the prime minister, although Isaac was not sure that they would want a copy of the short video that had just appeared on Facebook. So far, Isaac could see that it had had over three thousand views, and that number was certain to rise.

  Charlotte Hamilton had a Facebook account, and although it had been blocked a couple of times, it resurfaced soon enough with a different name. Those interested in her career always seemed to find it.

  The video of Isaac leaving Graham Dyer’s house with Sara Marshall had been clear enough, even if the camera, a smartphone, had been located on the other side of the road. It had been a cold day, and most people on the street had a hat on or a hooded jacket, which would have been the ideal disguise for Charlotte Hamilton.

  Isaac checked the woman’s Facebook account. Now she had fifteen thousand two hundred followers. Isaac knew that the world was full of idiots, but liking the Facebook page of a serial killer seemed macabre. He assumed that all mass murderers enjoyed their infamy, and it no doubt encouraged them to cause more misery. Next time a video of a slaying would be hard to stop. Facebook may put a block on a video portraying graphic violence, but there were other websites, and they would not be so scrupulous.

  ‘How are you going to handle this case, Isaac?’ DCS Goddard had asked on his arrival at the Homicide office.

  ‘We need to find the woman.’

  ‘Why do you think you will succeed? The other police station had three years, and they couldn’t find her.’

  ‘We’re better, sir.’

  ‘You may well be, but this woman is smart; smart enough to video you.’

  ‘Unfortunate, sir.’

  ‘Downright embarrassing. My best police officer videoed by a serial killer, and you never spotted her.’

  ‘I was
with DI Sara Marshall, and she never spotted her either.’

  ‘That’s the second time on film for her. Any more and she’ll need to join the actors’ union, Equity.’

  ‘I don’t think she would appreciate that, sir.’

  ‘You must have a plan.’

  ‘Not a lot to go with. We are checking on Graham Dyer’s movements, attempting to find out when and where he met Charlotte Hamilton. Apart from that, we are at a loose end. The woman disappears, reappears and disappears again.

  ‘Then find out where.’

  ‘Not so easy. She blends in seamlessly into the city. Apart from her predilection to murder, she’s just an average citizen.’

  ‘That may be, but I don’t want any more deaths. Understood!’

  ‘Understood, sir.’

  DCS Goddard left, and Bridget came into the office. ‘Bit hard on you, sir,’ she said.

  ‘He’s right.’

  Isaac was the best police officer in the department, but even he could not see the way forward. A murderer invariably gives themselves away eventually, but Charlotte Hamilton did not see herself as a murderer.

  Back in Twickenham Sara was going over old notes. She had phoned Charlotte’s father’s mobile, told them to watch out for their daughter, although they had seen the news and assumed it was her. She also called Dr Gladys Lake to let her know that Charlotte had resurfaced.

  Rory Hewitt, still working, although looking forward to his retirement, stationed some uniforms to watch the hospital.

  Bob Marshall, Sara’s husband and DCI, was concerned for his wife. She was now the mother of a one-year-old, and she should be spending time with him. Murder always burned the hours, and a child needs more than a couple of hours of exhausted attention from its mother each day.

  Sara, eager to prove her mettle after her unceremonious dumping by her husband on the orders of Detective Superintendent Rowsome, intended to make amends, to show both of them that she was as good as any man, and certainly better than the man who had replaced her.

  He had had less success than her, and he had left soon enough: tail between his legs, but his reputation not tinged by failure.

  Hers had been, she knew that, and while she still held the rank of detective inspector, the two words had not been split by ‘chief’. She knew that may not be possible without a Master’s degree, and in the past the department would have paid for her studies, but for two years they had been refusing. Budgetary constraints, the official explanation; unofficially, a black mark against the candidate.

  ***

  DS Wendy Gladstone and DI Larry Hill visited Holland Park, positioning themselves where the video of their DCI and DI Sara Marshall had been taken. They knocked on a few doors close by; nobody remembered anyone specifically, although more than one person had been videoing the scene.

  Graham Dyer owned an antique shop not far away. It was closed when they arrived, not unexpected considering that the owner was now in Pathology, and would be undergoing a detailed autopsy. He had been in his fifties, well liked locally, and led an active social life. Wendy and Larry visited some local establishments – clubs, pubs, cafés.

  It appeared that he had visited most of them at one time or another, had been married and would take the occasional woman home with him. So far, nobody remembered the woman from the night of the murder, although he had been in one of the pubs earlier in the day.

  An attractive female would not be noticeable, both Wendy and Larry agreed, in an area that boasted more than its fair share of beautiful women.

  ‘The perfect disguise,’ Wendy said, although, as she freely admitted, she would not have gone unnoticed. It had been some months since her husband had passed away, but she still missed him. She had joined a gym, taken up yoga, even quit smoking for a couple of weeks, but she was back on them again, although not as heavily as before.

  Isaac Cook, their DCI, continued to have female trouble. Sue Smith, the latest in a long line of suitable women, had gone overseas, and he was alone again; not that he liked it, but there was not much he could do about it.

  Wendy knew he could always find someone for a casual fling, but he had admitted to her on a couple of occasions that he wanted to settle down.

  ***

  Isaac was pleased to be busy again, although troubled that a known murderer was walking the streets. The woman could be anywhere, he realised. With his other murder cases, it had been a case of sifting through the clues, interviewing people, aiming to solve the crime and to pinpoint the murderer, but with Charlotte Hamilton, none of this was needed.

  The woman had been identified, the prosecution case was ready, and there was no question of her guilt. To Isaac, what he could see was a missing person’s investigation, and the person in question was calculating and able to strike at will. She was a phantom whose appearances signalled another death, but where would she next appear?

  Not only had she videoed him leaving Graham Dyer’s house with Sara Marshall, but she was also videoing locations around London, including a distant view of the apartment block where Isaac lived. Her notoriety continued to gain momentum as she placed them on social media.

  It was a world obsessed with celebrity, whether it was vacuous and worthless, talented or talentless, and it cared little that the person they sought out, even worshipped, was a psychotic murderer.

  Some websites had been set up around the world by admirers, their hosting servers located in countries that did not enforce censorship, other than on their own people.

  The copycat killings continued to occur: an unfaithful husband in North Carolina, a drunk homeless man in Alaska, even a male immigrant from Africa in Birmingham. And always a number had been painted on the man or on a wall, either in his own blood or with a felt pen.

  None of the women involved in the copycats was as smart as Charlotte Hamilton, as they had all been caught and charged.

  Isaac Cook, tall, black and intelligent, pondered the way forward. He had met Sara Marshall on a couple of occasions to discuss tactics, and to see if they could pre-empt the next murder, but both knew that Charlotte Hamilton did not commit murder by the book.

  So far, she had killed five: the first, her brother, then a lover, followed by a flatmate’s boyfriend. Her last murder, three years previously, had been chosen for no other reason than he had been male, and he had been willing to accompany her out to a toilet at the back of a club.

  Then three years of nothing, only to return and kill Graham Dyer.

  Sara Marshall thought that she could disappear again, but Isaac’s instincts were more attuned. He knew she would strike again and soon.

  Even he could see that the woman had a fixation on him, but why? He had seen her picture, even the video of the children’s party at the Chalmers’ house, and he had to admit she was beautiful. She had been twenty-four then; she would be twenty-seven now, and if she did not kill men, would be the sort of woman that he liked, her pale skin offsetting his shiny black.

  ‘Larry, what’s the plan?’ Isaac asked. Both men were sitting in Isaac’s office. There seemed little point in being out on the street looking for the woman.

  ‘We can just follow up on leads.’

  ‘Do we have any?’

  ‘According to Sara Marshall, the woman stays within certain areas. The three murders, three years ago, were centred around Richmond and Twickenham. Now, she is close to us, here in Challis Street. There is every reason to believe that her next murder will be within four to five miles of this location.’

  ‘Do you realise how many clubs, pubs, places of entertainment there are?’

  ‘More than we can hope to cover.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Isaac said. ‘We’re being forced to wait for her to make the next move. Her increasing baiting of us indicates a change in her modus operandi. In the past, she has been a silent killer, driven by her neuroses, her belief that she was providing a service, but now she appears to want the adulation as well.’

  ‘Plenty of sick people out there,’ L
arry said.

  Wendy Gladstone had come into the office, bringing a cup of coffee with her. ‘What do you reckon?’ she asked Isaac.

  ‘The best we can do is to issue a warning to the general public.’

  ‘The male public according to profiling,’ Wendy corrected Isaac.

  ‘As you say, the male public.’

  ‘Vague,’ Larry said.

  ‘Any better ideas?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Not really, but what are they looking out for? A woman of twenty-seven, hair colour unknown, clothing unknown.’

  ‘Miss Average,’ Wendy said.

  Chapter 15

  A woman walked along Oxford Street, one of the busiest shopping locations in Europe. She drew no glances from the other people on the street. It was a warmer day than the previous four, but it was still cool. She wore a dark coat and jeans.

  The day was drawing to a close, and it was becoming dark. She realised that she had been walking for hours, and had been deep in thought. She knew that life had given her a purpose, and she felt a degree of contentment.

  For some years, she had been lost, unsure how to proceed. Integrating into a small country town had been easy. She had arrived there three years before. All that she owned or needed she carried in one suitcase and a backpack.

  The old lady who opened the door at her accommodation had been pleasant and had welcomed her in with a cup of tea. Charlotte Hamilton knew that it was old-fashioned hospitality and that the woman meant well.

  Dr Gladys Lake had meant well, but then she allowed them to torture her; Mavis Williams had meant well, but she expected her to let men use her body; Stephanie Chalmers had meant well, but her husband had used her.

  She hoped that Beatrice Castle meant well, or…

  ‘Call me Beaty, everyone else does,’ the old lady said.

  ‘Call me Cathy.’

  A cat had climbed up on to Charlotte Hamilton’s lap. It purred. Charlotte felt calm. She had had a cat as a child, but her brother had teased it, and then one day it had been run over by a car. She remembered her mother picking it up and placing it in a hole in the ground, next to the roses. ‘It’s the best place for him,’ she had said.