Chapter 13
Part 2
Three years later
Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook knew immediately on entering the crime scene the one person who could help him. He had read the case files of Charlotte Hamilton, and it was clear who had the most knowledge about her.
The murderous woman had become notorious some years previously, even revered by deluded fools around the world. In the USA, there were plenty of women who felt that their lives had been destroyed by men. There had even been a couple of copycat killers, who after murdering their spouse or ex-boyfriend with a knife if they had one, a gun if they did not, would paint a number on the man or else on the wall.
Somehow, these people, in their anger, would justify their actions by citing Charlotte Hamilton. They were wrong, of course. The gutter press and social media had elevated Charlotte Hamilton’s star way above where it should have been.
There was nothing admirable about this woman, no attempt on her part to right the wrongs wrought against women by men, no ideological stance, and no act of retribution. Charlotte Hamilton had clearly been defined by the authorities as a psychotic killer suffering from paranoid schizophrenia. However, being psychotic and paranoid had not affected her ability to evade capture.
Liam Fogarty had died a tragic and violent death due to his drunkenness and the belief that a beautiful woman desired him, not because she needed to make a sacrifice.
Sara Marshall had been right. Charlotte Hamilton had been outside the front of the club in Richmond that night while the patrons were going through the interview procedure. She had even posed with a few other people who were waiting for the police to deal with them so they could go home to sleep it off, or in the murderer’s case to post pictures on Facebook. She made sure that in one of the photos she had a police officer in the background, namely Sara Stanforth, as she had been known then.
There had been a few rough months after Detective Chief Inspector Bob Marshall had removed her from the lead role in the search for Charlotte Hamilton. Forced by his superior, Detective Superintendent Martin Rowsome, he had assigned the lead role to a more experienced officer with twenty years in Homicide and a good track record.
Not that it made any difference, as he had no more success. Two months after the hapless future regional bank manager had died, and with no more deaths, no more numbers carved into men’s bodies, no more numbers painted onto walls with blood, the team were reduced in number.
Keith Greenstreet had finally retired; reluctantly, he had said, but Sara Stanforth could see that he was tired, and his health was not good. He had been a good officer, someone she had grown fond of in the short time they had worked together, so much so that when she married Bob Marshall, she asked Keith to walk her down the aisle. He had even spruced himself up for the occasion, taken to exercise and a healthy diet. However, it was of little benefit, as shortly after the wedding he had succumbed and passed away. The most he had was eight months of retirement.
Sara had continued to work in Homicide, but there had been no lead roles, other than in a case of straightforward marital strife, where the husband had shot the wife, and that was only because Bob felt some guilt over her treatment regarding the Hamilton woman.
Charlotte Hamilton’s parents, suffering immense guilt and sadness, had become reclusive, shunning contact with friends and neighbours. The last Sara had heard of them, they had sold up and moved to a cottage in a remote area.
Dr Gladys Lake at St Nicholas Hospital, Charlotte’s home for eight years, had been assigned a police guard for a few months, after receiving a phone call one night: ‘I remember,’ the only words spoken.
It was Sara who had found the cheap hotel where Charlotte had been staying after she moved out of the flat she shared with Gloria, and where she had murdered Brad Howard.
Charlotte Hamilton’s death count was now at four. Rory Hewitt had reopened the case into the death of Duncan Hamilton. The verdict had been changed from death by misadventure to cause of death unknown, although no one, certainly not Rory Hewitt or Duncan’s parents, believed in the ‘unknown’. It was clear to all three who had given that fatal push.
***
‘Sara Marshall, my name is Isaac Cook,’ the voice said on Sara’s mobile. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook.’
‘Yes, sir. What can I do for you?’
‘I need you here. Are you free?’
‘I will need to pass it by my DCI.’
‘I’ll deal with him. It’s imperative that you’re here.’
‘Where do you want me?’ Sara Marshall asked. She knew who Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook was. She had seen him on a couple of occasions, even been introduced to him, although his phone call gave the impression that he had not remembered.
‘35 Easton Grove, Holland Park.’
‘Thirty minutes.’
‘I will be there,’ DCI Cook replied. ‘I need you to see this.’
For once the traffic was in Sara’s favour. Within twenty minutes she arrived at the house. The uniforms were visible, as was the tape surrounding the crime scene. An ambulance was parked across the street.
‘Not unless you cover up,’ a voice bellowed at her.
‘I have gloves and foot protectors,’ Sara said.
‘Apologies. I’m Gordon Windsor, the CSE here. It would be best if you put overalls on as well.’
‘DCI Cook?’
‘He’s inside.’
Sara changed quickly and proceeded inside the house. It was clear that whoever lived there lived well.
‘DI, I’m Isaac Cook. I believe we’ve met. I wasn’t sure if you would have remembered.’
To Sara, it seemed naïve to believe that any woman would not remember Isaac Cook. He was over six feet, slim, and jet black. Even she had heard of his many romances, his straightforward manner with the average person as well as the top politicians in the country. She had seen him on television on more than one occasion.
‘Not sure I could forget you, sir,’ Sara replied.
‘I need your opinion,’ Isaac Cook said.
He led the way as they moved to the first floor of the house, and into the main bedroom. It was a scene that Sara had seen before. In the centre of a queen-sized bed lay the body of a man, naked and flat on its back.
‘The cleaning lady found the body,’ Isaac said.
‘Similar pattern.’ Sara looked up at the wall. She knew why she had been asked to visit the house.
‘Copycat or is it the same woman?’
‘It’s been three years. After so long, most people have assumed that she committed suicide.’
‘Had you?’
‘Never. She may have been mad, but she was always in control. You saw the photo on Facebook with me in the background. And Charlotte Hamilton in the foreground taking a selfie.’
‘Who hasn’t,’ Isaac said. In fact, from what he could remember, over five million had seen that photo.
‘I knew she was still alive somewhere.’
‘What do you reckon? Is this Charlotte Hamilton?’
Sara moved around the room. The man appeared to be in his fifties, a little overweight, but apart from that in good physical shape. She observed the slight erection, assumed it to indicate mid-coitus, although that was for others to confirm.
The knife, with only the handle visible, was embedded in the man’s throat. There was also blood congealing on his chest in the area of the heart.
‘She’s improved her technique,’ Sara said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘When she killed Liam Fogarty, she only stabbed him once with a stiletto knife. Unlikely that he would have lived, but he would have lived longer had she not severed the large artery.’
‘Are you certain?’ Isaac asked.
‘The crime scene investigators will confirm, but, yes, it’s her. Did she take a shower?’
‘Dried the floor, hung up the towel afterwards.’
‘So much blood. Gave her plenty of writing material
,’ Sara said.
‘The number on the wall?’
‘It’s the same style of writing.’
Both of them looked at the wall, an off-white colour before the blood of the victim had been used to paint the number 5.
‘It’s her,’ Sara said. ‘She’s back, and she will kill again.’
‘We need to work together on this.’
‘The case was assigned to another officer.’
‘I’ll square it with your DCI.’
‘Thanks. I would like to get even with this woman.’
‘She’s dangerous, and she knows you,’ Isaac said.
‘And I know her,’ Sara said.
‘Welcome on board.’
***
Procedurally, the responsibility for the murder investigation would lie with the Homicide team in the area where the crime had occurred.
Graham Dyer, a local businessman, had died in Holland Park, close to Challis Street Police Station, and would come under DCI Cook and his team. The other murders had occurred in the Twickenham area, Sara Marshall’s area of responsibility.
Bob Marshall had no issues with his wife again taking the lead role in Twickenham, although his detective superintendent had, or at least had until Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard, Isaac’s boss, had phoned Martin Rowsome and insisted.
The plan was that Sara Marshall and her team, currently only Detective Sergeant Sean O’Riordan, would stay at their office, while Isaac Cook and his team would remain in Challis Street. The stations were close enough, only thirty minutes to drive, although sometimes it could take as long as forty-five minutes.
Sara had no illusions as to what was going to happen. Isaac had been hopeful that the death of Graham Dyer was a one-off, although he had been involved in enough murder cases to know that once a murderer has acquired the taste for killing they need to feed that hunger, and Dyer had been number 5.
Isaac had read up on the previous four deaths. He had been visibly disturbed by the death of Duncan Hamilton. He had read the psychological reports from both Grace Nelson, the criminal pathologist, and Dr Gladys Lake. The behavioural patterns of Charlotte Hamilton were clearly identified; the analysis was the same from both women: highly dangerous, likely to kill again, no cognitive sense of right or wrong.
Isaac knew this time they had a problem. In the past, his murders had been centred around blackmail, revenge, anger, a need to conceal the truth, but with Charlotte Hamilton, it went deeper.
The woman was smart. IQ tests in Newcastle had shown that she was in the top ten per cent in the country, yet coupled with that was no moral restraint, no comprehension of the evil she was committing, no concern about the emotions of those who had loved her, still loved her.
The media, as ever aggressive for a good story, had soon latched on to the death of Graham Dyer. So far they did not know about the number on the wall. They had been bad enough the first time, even attempting to portray her as some kind of folk hero, at least on one internet site dedicated to the bizarre and deluded. Isaac had checked it out; it had over twenty thousand followers, although most of them were just curious and could be considered harmless. However, taking the numbers down from twenty thousand to those who read the website, maybe ten per cent, and then to those who fantasised over Charlotte Hamilton, the lone ranger, wreaking revenge on those men who had subjugated women. Even if ten per cent of ten per cent of ten per cent of twenty thousand, there was bound to be one or two crazy enough to commit murder.
Isaac hoped that the deluded would do it elsewhere; Charlotte Hamilton was enough to deal with. His team were primed and ready: DI Hill was already interfacing with his counterpart, DI Sara Marshall. Detective Sergeant Wendy Gladstone was in communication with Sean O’Riordan, and Bridget Halloran was collating the paperwork.
A joint operations room had been set up in Challis Street. Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard had attended the first meeting, given them the obligatory pep talk.
‘What do we know about this woman?’ Isaac asked after Richard Goddard had left.
‘You’ve read the report?’ Sara asked.
‘We’ve all read it, but what we need is to hear it from you.’
Sara, pleased to be a rising star again, not a has-been confined to the office more often than she would have liked, stood up to speak.
‘After Liam Fogarty’s death, we kept the investigation open for another four months. In all that time, we found no trace of Charlotte Hamilton, other than a hotel where she had stayed after killing Brad Howard.’
‘Are all the murders attributable to Charlotte Hamilton? Could any be copycats?’ Larry Hill asked.
‘There’s no doubt. Fingerprints and DNA at all murders, apart from Duncan Hamilton.’
‘She killed her own brother?’ Wendy Gladstone asked.
‘Psychotic. No concept of right or wrong,’ Sara said.
‘Medical reports aside,’ Isaac said, ‘what do you believe she intends to do? What are her thought patterns?’
‘She killed three people in London and disappeared.’
‘Any thoughts as to why?’ Larry asked.
‘As to why she killed three people or why she disappeared?’ Sara asked.
‘The latter.’
‘Either she went back on medication, although we could find no prescriptions in the names that she has used and no black-market sales, or she just stopped of her own free will.’
‘Is that possible?’ Isaac asked.
‘According to the experts it is, although the psychotic thoughts would remain.’
‘The triggers being men?’ Wendy asked.
‘That’s what we believe. So far, there have been no attacks against women, apart from Stephanie Chalmers at the first murder. We believe that only happened as a result of her walking in just after Charlotte Hamilton had killed Gregory Chalmers. Gloria, her flatmate, was not killed, although her boyfriend was.’
‘Gloria, where is she?’
‘I’ve no idea. Probably back in London, but we’ve had no reason to contact her for over two years.’
‘We need to find Charlotte Hamilton,’ Isaac said. ‘Any ideas where we should look?’
‘Where she’s stayed hidden for three years may be a good place to look,’ Sean O’Riordan said.
‘But you’ve no idea where to look,’ Larry reminded him.
‘As you say, no idea, and that is the problem.’
‘Job for you, Wendy,’ Isaac said.
Gordon Windsor, the crime scene examiner at the murder in Holland Park, joined the meeting. ‘I can confirm that samples we found at Graham Dyer’s house belong to Charlotte Hamilton. As expected, he died mid-coitus, seminal fluid found on the tip of his penis. At the moment of ejaculation, she thrust the knife into his heart. This time, she missed the large artery, and he would have still been alive. He had been stabbed an additional three times in the heart and once in the throat.’
‘Any clues about the woman?’ Isaac asked.
‘Brunette, although the roots were blonde. Also, she showered, cleaned the bathroom and left. Nothing more.’
‘We conducted door-to-doors,’ Larry said. ‘Nobody saw anything. Graham Dyer was a local businessman, successful by all accounts. He had been married but was living on his own. One neighbour stated that he occasionally brought a woman home with him.’
‘Where did he meet Charlotte Hamilton?’ Bridget asked.
‘Good question,’ Isaac said. ‘Sara, any ideas?’
‘Not really. Gregory Chalmers, she met when he and his wife had advertised for someone to help with the children. Brad Howard, she knew through Gloria. Liam Fogarty, she picked up at a club in Richmond. If she wants a man, she’ll find one.’
‘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.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 71