DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

‘It must be tough for them,’ Sara said. She remembered the brief conversation with Fiona Hamilton, the sadness in the woman’s voice.

  ‘Tough for any parent. Remember, five days and those in the office upstairs will be baying for my blood and yours. I’ve trusted you with this case, and so far, what do you have? Just a name. Where is this woman, what is her next move? Who is her next victim? Have you considered this?’

  ‘Impossible to ascertain who the next victim will be.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘One lover and then the lover of her flatmate.’ Sara realised that her DCI was placing her under pressure for her benefit. After the praise of the detective superintendent, she had to admit that she had lost some focus. Bob was sharpening her up; she would deal with him later.

  ‘So far, it’s been people that she knows, and male.’

  ‘Apart from Stephanie Chalmers, although we believe that was not intended. The woman walked in and found Ingrid with blood on her hands, as well as a knife. And Gregory Chalmers’ death appears to be unpremeditated.’

  ‘Brad Howard?’

  ‘Premeditated. She calculated his death.’

  ‘Why not kill Gloria?’

  ‘We believe that she targets males.’

  ‘At present. I suggest you tighten your operation. You have a full department here, and Keith will be back later in the day. I advise you to find this woman before there are any more deaths.’ Bob walked away, only looking back to mouth ‘Sorry.’ He knew he had been a bastard, but it had only been to make her focus.

  Fired up, she called in Sean. ‘What do you have?’

  ‘Not a lot. I can find clear evidence that she continued with her medication for a couple of years, but nothing after that.’

  ‘Change of name?’

  ‘Unlikely. No doctor would issue antipsychotic medication without a full medical history, and then he would probably check back with the primary physician.’

  ‘Gladys Lake?’

  ‘She told Keith that she had not seen her since the day she left the hospital.’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Where did she get the additional medication?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘That gives us five years. Discounting the three years at college in London, we have two years unaccounted for. Where was she?’ Sara asked.

  ‘We’d better find out. There is an address for Charlotte Hamilton in London that Gladys Lake supplied. Supposedly, she had prescribed her medication the day she left. We should go there,’ Sean said.

  Chapter 10

  Muswell Hill, five miles north of the centre of London, had recently been voted one of the five most desirable places to live in London. It was clear that the judging committee had not seen the address where Sara and Sean pulled up in Sean’s car, a blue Ford Fiesta.

  It was Charlotte Hamilton’s first known address in London and not a welcoming sight. The terrace house looked to be run-down, which was incongruous given that every other house in the street was neat and tidy with fresh paint.

  Sara got out of the car and knocked on the front door of the terrace house. ‘What do you want?’ called out a deep-voiced woman, her speech interspersed by coughing.

  ‘Detective Inspector Sara Stanforth and Detective Constable O’Riordan. We have a few questions.’

  ‘Very well.’

  The woman, still coughing, opened the door, the security chain in place. ‘We can talk here,’ she said.

  ‘Inside would be better,’ Sara said.

  ‘I don’t like strangers.’

  ‘We’re here on official business. It is either in your house or down at the police station.’ Sara knew what was behind the door. Sean, still naïve in many ways, did not.

  ‘I’ll get my coat.’

  The door closed again. Two minutes later it reopened and the woman came out, a cigarette hanging from her mouth. ‘I need to be back within the hour.’

  ‘I can’t promise you that,’ Sara said.

  ‘What’s inside the house?’ Sean whispered to Sara.

  ‘This is where Charlotte Hamilton came to after leaving Newcastle. Somewhere she could earn some easy money; a place that paid in cash and did not ask too many questions.’

  Sean understood.

  Sara phoned a fellow police officer at the nearest police station. He agreed to them using an office there.

  ‘Your name?’ Sara asked in the quietness of the room, although it would have been better described as a broom cupboard, having just enough space for a table and chairs. All three had taken a coffee from the machine outside; the drink tasted of cardboard, the same as the cup. Sara and Sean took theirs black; the woman added milk and sugar.

  ‘I run a clean house,’ the woman said. Sara judged her to be in her fifties. Her face was blotchy from too little sun, not hard to achieve given the weather of the last few months, but this woman appeared to have had no sun for several years.

  Sara went through the formalities before asking her name again.

  ‘Mavis Williams.’

  ‘Your age?’

  ‘Fifty-eight. What’s this all about?’ The woman shifted uncomfortably in her seat, gasping for breath. Even on the trip in the back of Sean’s car she had been desperate to light up, and now in the confines of the small office she was desperate to put another cigarette in her mouth. She fiddled with the packet, took out a cigarette, put it to her lips, returned it to the packet.

  ‘We are looking for someone,’ Sara said.

  ‘Not one of my girls. They’re all legal.’

  ‘That is not our concern. If you’re running a brothel, that is for the local police. We are from Homicide.’

  ‘No one’s been killed in my house.’

  ‘Five years ago, a woman used your address. We believe she maintained that address for a further two years.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We know her as Charlotte Hamilton. Does the name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Most of my girls use fictitious names.’

  ‘This woman was blonde. She would have been nineteen when she first used your address.’

  ‘I don’t employ anyone under twenty-one. Saves hassles with the police.’

  ‘And your neighbours?’

  ‘What do I care about them.’

  ‘The woman, as I said, was blonde,’ Sara continued. ‘She was average height, slim and attractive. She would have spoken with a northern accent, from Newcastle.’

  ‘Oh, her.’

  ‘What do you remember about this woman?’

  ‘She called herself Charlie. Unusual name, but not the silliest that I’ve heard. I’ve had my fair share of Blossom, Cherry, Honey, even had one who wanted to be called Buxom.’

  ‘Miss Williams,’ Sean said, ‘what can you tell us about Charlie?’

  ‘She was beautiful, I’ll grant you that. She looked virginal the first day I saw her.’

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘How the hell would I know, although I charged extra on account of her supposed virginity. Men, they’re all the same. Want to be the first, even in a whorehouse. At least thirty men took her virginity.’

  ‘Did she have any inhibitions when she entered your place?’ Sara asked.

  ‘None that I could see. She took to it like a fish to water.’

  ‘Do you know where she is now?’

  ‘No idea, and I don’t want to know.’ Mavis Williams fidgeted again. ‘I need a cigarette.’

  ‘Not in here,’ Sean replied.

  ‘I’m gasping.’

  ‘We still have further questions.’

  ‘Not until I’ve had a cigarette.’

  It was evident to Sara that the woman had information that could be vital. She had to give in to the woman’s demand. Sean and Sara took the opportunity to have another cup of cardboard coffee.

  Returning to the interview room, Mavis Williams exhaled the remains of her cigarette smoke over the two police officers. Sean stood up and moved to the window. He opened it to let out the offe
nsive smell.

  ‘Can’t give them up,’ she said. ‘They’ll kill me, I know that. Anyway, we’ve all got to die eventually.’

  Sara had to agree with the ‘eventually’ but not due to inhaling nicotine. Bob Marshall had appreciated the occasional cigarette; she had soon put a stop to that luxury.

  ‘How long did Charlie stay with you?’ Sara asked. She had shown a picture to Mavis Williams to confirm that Charlotte Hamilton and Charlie were one and the same; they were.

  ‘Two years, on and off.’

  ‘On and off?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Mainly on. She rented a room from me in the back of the house. If she wasn’t servicing the men at the front of the house, she was there.’

  ‘Did she like the work?’

  ‘Screwing drunks and foul-smelling men with hygiene issues for money? What do you think?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘A lot of the women are spaced out on heroin or whatever, but she wasn’t.’

  ‘So why?’

  ‘She said she needed the money. I never asked why. It’s always best to maintain a distant relationship with the women I employ.’

  ‘Over the two years, any unusual behaviour on her part?’

  ‘At first, she was agreeable, but with time she became irritable, sometimes irrational. The reason she left eventually.’

  ‘We need to know the details.’

  ‘One of her clients, a particularly unpleasant character, I think he was Polish, or maybe Hungarian. I never asked, never cared, as long as his money was good.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He wanted Charlie, although I had seen her earlier on and she was in a strange mood. I knew this man was a bit kinky. He liked a bit of violence, nothing serious, just a bit of slapping.’

  ‘You allow that?’ Sara asked.

  ‘That’s between the client and the woman.’

  ‘Charlie went with this man?’

  ‘She was always ready for another man. Most of the women spend their money on hard drugs, but not Charlie. She saved all her money, and after two years she must have had plenty. I pay well, and the men give generous tips.’

  ‘What happened to the client?’

  ‘From what I can gather, he starts getting a bit violent, and then Charlie snaps. She becomes aggressive, beating the man with whatever she can find. She had a small mirror in her handbag; she breaks the glass and comes at him with the sharp fragments. The man dashes out of the room stark naked. Charlie is in hot pursuit, screaming at him. It took three of us to calm her down.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘We cleaned up the man and then gave him one of the other women for free. He was not that badly hurt, although he could have been.’

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘I gave her one hour to pack her belongings and leave.’

  ‘What can you tell us about her after that?’

  ‘Nothing. I never saw her again, and that’s the honest truth.’

  ***

  ‘Next time, I’ll take the train,’ Keith said on his return to the police station in London. It was apparent to Sara that he had not been home for a shower first.

  She felt that she should tell him to go home first and clean himself up, but she desisted. He was a grown man, old enough to be her father, and she had grown uncommonly fond of him: almost like a warm blanket or a child’s favourite toy.

  Sure, his appearance could be disarming, and his humour was questionable, acerbic at times, but within that shell of a man she recognised a decent and honest person; a person aiming to make a difference. She had little time for the lazy and inept, and with Keith Greenstreet, she recognised a kindred soul.

  Life had taken its toll on him, and he looked older in the office that day than any other in the past.

  ‘Apart from a six- to nine-month period, we have accounted for Charlotte Hamilton’s movements,’ Sara said.

  ‘It’s not over,’ Keith said. ‘This woman is lethal.’

  ‘And we’ve no idea where she is.’

  ‘And we never will. Her movements are unpredictable, and every time she moves, she changes her identity. She could be one block from here, and we would never know. We could even walk past her in the street.’

  ‘Your thoughts, Keith. Where to from here?’

  ‘Keep looking.’

  ‘It’s not much of a strategy,’ Sara admitted.

  ‘I agree, but what else is there. We know of all known addresses that she has used. We are aware of her ability to conceal herself and her willingness to sell herself without guilt, and then we have a woman who is intellectually bright.’

  ‘Brighter than us, and no longer on medication.’

  ‘That’s a fair assumption,’ Keith said.

  ‘She’s going to kill again,’ Sara said. ‘And soon.’

  Chapter 11

  Liam Fogarty could not believe his luck. Not only had he been rewarded with a promotion at work, but here he was with a beautiful woman.

  He knew that with a bulbous forehead and a receding chin that he hid with a goatee beard he was not the most attractive of men. He realised that it was the reason he had never been successful with women. In his early teens, there had been the occasional female, equally as drunk as he had been, and each had seen beauty in the other. The inevitable result: a casual attempt at lovemaking in the back of a car, or more likely lying on the cold grass in the local park, had been the limit of his sexual experience.

  It had been two years since his last woman, discounting the one he paid for every month or so.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked the woman who was obviously interested in him, judging by the way she looked at him and the suggestive moves she was making.

  ‘Looking for you.’ The woman realised it was a stupid line, but then the man looked silly to her. She had not known that he was smarter than he looked, smart enough to have obtained a degree in Economics, but then that was not why she needed him.

  The woman looked at the man. She was not excited at what she saw, although he looked pliable and fit for purpose.

  ‘Do you want to dance?’ Liam asked. He was well plastered, on his fifth pint, and his mates were egging him on. He was in need of a visit to the Gents, but that would have to wait. He knew his mates would have been over in an instant to grab the woman. He took another drink, Dutch courage to him. Sober, he recognised his inadequacies; drunk, his persona changed, as the balance between gregarious and fast asleep in a drunken stupor was only separated by a short time span. Even now, he wanted to sit down and sleep it off, but not with this woman closing in on him. He believed he was Adonis reincarnated; even Paris stealing Helen away from Menelaus and taking her back to Troy.

  ‘Give her one for us,’ Liam’s drunken friends shouted above the noise of the club. He looked at them with a smirk. He was the lucky bastard, and they could go to Hell.

  The woman grabbed him firmly and pulled him towards the dance floor. He almost tripped as she dragged him to the centre, away from his jeering mates.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Liam slurred, attempting to focus. He was desperate to stagger out and to relieve his bladder, but he held on. He regretted that he had drunk so much; concerned that he would not be able to perform. The woman was giving him the right signals. He knew he was on to a sure thing.

  ‘Does it matter?’ the woman replied when he pressed yet again for her name.

  ‘I suppose not,’ Liam said. He had been deprived of a woman who had shown interest in him for too long, other than the women who feigned interest as long as he paid, but this one, she was gorgeous.

  He swayed as he spoke; he wanted desperately to sober up, but the woman continued to prime him with alcohol, even taking a drink from another drunk on the dance floor who was close to collapse. The drunk had attempted to complain but the woman had just leant over towards him and given him a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. The drunk could see the beauty in the woman, although the woman he had been fondling o
n the dance floor was not too happy and stormed off. The drunk tried momentarily to cut in on Liam. The woman pushed him away, as had Liam. No bastard is taking this woman from me, he thought.

  The woman moved in closer at his sign of bravado. She was holding him tight, her breasts pressing hard against his chest, her legs close to being entwined around his. They danced, they kissed, and all the time Liam Fogarty could feel the need of the woman. He could see the beauty in the woman, but not the venom in her eyes, the searing hatred that coursed through her veins. He could not realise that the woman was working on him, bringing him to a crescendo.

  ***

  The club where Liam and his woman were dancing was not far from London. It was heaving that night. The music was loud and getting louder, the drinks were flowing, and the noise was overpowering. A residential estate close by had tried to have the noise moderated a few months earlier. They had formed a residents’ committee to make a submission to the local council. They wanted a noise abatement order as the first step, a closure of the club to follow.

  A heated meeting in the council offices had come to nothing. A formal notice had been sent to the club. Its owner, Sam Goldsmith, a shrewd businessman who had made his money to the east of London with clubs and discos, legal or otherwise, knew more about local councils than the local residents, led by a busybody by the name of Betty Arkwright, did. She had the law on her side, and a write-up in the local newspaper had garnered widespread support for her and her residents’ committee.

  Sam Goldsmith, impervious to the man in the street as long as he could afford his extravagant lifestyle and his two mistresses, cared little for the Arkwright woman and her sanctimonious group of narrow-minded residents. The more they complained, the more he would bribe, by way of cash and trips overseas. The local residents’ committee had no chance just by waving a copy of the Environmental Protection Act 1990 at the council.

  Goldsmith knew that more music, the longer trading hours, the increased patronage could only mean one thing: more money for him and the greedy councillors, their snouts in the trough.

  ***

  It was Liam Fogarty’s first time in the club: a celebration with his friends, and he was paying. Not that he minded, as they were good friends he had known since his schooldays. They were still struggling to make their mark, but there he was, regional manager for a multinational bank. It had been hard-won, a lot of sweat and tears, a lot of study and sleepless nights, a lot of time without a woman. However, tonight was his night.