‘That’s unfair, sir. I took a photo at the Marriott. How was I to know that Charlotte Hamilton would be there?’
‘That’s as may be, but I can’t do anything about this. If the commissioner wants your head, he gets it.’
Isaac was aware that this time he was not going to survive. He was an ambitious police officer, yet on more than one occasion his friendly nature had got him into trouble. It had been a late night in Newcastle, and if he had been more alert, he might have studied the features of the woman who coerced him into a photo with her. His willingness to put his arm around her and her newly-acquired friend came naturally. He was a tactile man who was at ease with women as well as with men.
‘Sometimes I wonder if you’re worth the bother,’ the DCS said.
Isaac sat upright on a chair on one side of Goddard’s desk; his senior sat on the other. The leather chair he sat on looked precarious as he perched on its front edge. The man was angry, Isaac could see that, and if he had been in his position, he would have been as well.
‘What about the commissioner, sir?’ Isaac asked.
‘I don’t know. I’ve spent enough time with that man to know he does not suffer fools gladly, and that is what you are, a fool.’
‘Yes.’
Goddard looked out of the window, unable to look his DCI in the face. He knew what he should do, was reluctant to do it.
‘Make yourself scarce, at least for a few days, and just hope you have a breakthrough.’
‘I will, sir.’
‘Which one do you mean? Making yourself scarce or you’ll have a breakthrough.’
‘Both.’
‘The damage is done. Let’s hope we both survive.’
‘You, sir?’
‘I went out on a limb for you. I told the commissioner you were my best officer and that I had total confidence in you. And yet again you let me down. How many times is this now?’
‘A few.’
‘Damn right. So far, you’ve been involved with an operative from MI5 who probably murdered one of the victims in one of your cases.’
‘Unproven, sir.’
‘And what about Jess O’Neill?’
‘Platonic, until Sutherland’s murderer was arrested.’
‘Charlotte Hamilton’s a good-looking woman. Don’t go sleeping with her.’
‘I’m not a total fool.’
‘Find this female, and fast. I can’t hold off the commissioner for much longer.’
‘The previous commissioner?’
‘Shaw? He’s now in the House of Lords, clothed in ermine. I doubt if there’s much he can do.’
Chapter 21
Isaac’s office felt cold when he returned to it after his dressing down by his boss. Some of the other people in the building had been polite as he descended the two flights of stairs. Others had smiled and then sneered when he was not looking, but he had expected that.
There he was, one of the stars of the Met, the man most likely to make it up to commissioner, the first black man to lead the most respected police force in the world. Those who sneered – he knew their names – were those who resented the idea that someone other than a pure-bred Anglo-Saxon could be allowed to hold the top job.
It had upset Farhan Ahmed, his Pakistan-born former DI. Isaac had told him to develop a thick skin and to brush it off, and now his skin was not as thick as it had been.
Charlotte Hamilton obviously had a fixation on him, as had others, and now he was on her website and the front page of at least two of the major newspapers in the country.
There was to be a press conference that afternoon. For once, Isaac’s parents would not be tuning in to watch him. His attendance was not required, although his name would be on everyone’s lips.
‘My date with a serial killer,’ was the headline in one of the newspapers. The other said, ‘The long arm of the law,’ referring to his arm around Charlotte Hamilton.
Isaac entered his office and closed the door. He sat down, his hands behind his head, his eyes closed.
It was Larry, his DI, who knocked on the door. ‘No point in dwelling on it. We still have a murderer to catch.’
‘What do we know?’ Isaac asked.
‘They could not find the woman after…’
‘After I had been photographed.’
Larry did not answer.
‘We know she moved out of the pub in town,’ Isaac said. ‘Any idea where she went after that?’
‘Not yet. I could go up to Newcastle,’ Larry said.
‘Best if you stay here. Rory Hewitt is a good man, and it’s his part of the world.’
‘Is she returning to London?’
‘It’s impossible to know. There’s unfinished business for her up north. She failed in her bid to kill Gladys Lake, and her parents are targets.’
‘Do they have protection?’
‘Protection, yes. I’m not confident that it is sufficient,’ Isaac said.
‘With Charlotte Hamilton, it’s probably not,’ Larry agreed.
***
Psychotic, crazy thoughts swirled in Charlotte’s mind; thoughts she knew were right, yet were wrong. An intelligent woman, she saw it all so clearly now.
The black police officer had been attractive, and she realised that she liked him, but he wanted her in jail. Her parents wanted her there as well, as did the Lake woman. She had failed there; she had to rectify her mistake, but how?
The authorities were crushing her, as they had when she was a child. Her parents had questioned her over the death of her brother. She had seen the police officer who had taken so much interest in her song that morning in the garden. She had seen the notebook and his writing down of every word. He was older now, and his hair was thinning, but it was the same man. She remembered the song: Stupid Duncan up at the quarry, along came a sister and gave him a push.
She had wanted to sing it for her parents, knowing they would not have liked it, but she did not. They knew of her hatred for her brother, or they should have. It was always him; he was always the favourite.
At Christmas, she had wanted another doll, but they had given her a book. They said she was too old, but what did they know. They had given Duncan what he wanted, not her. She was only a female, and they had wanted sons, not daughters. She knew that she hated them. They deserved to die, the same as the others.
***
Gladys Lake was not an easy person to protect. She was impetuous, rushing here and there. The instructions from DI Hewitt had been precise. ‘Don’t move without one police constable, don’t allow him or her out of your sight, and lock all your doors.’
Initially, mindful to follow instructions, she had been diligent, but those who had been assigned to keep a watch on her were complaining.
Rory had been warned by the head administrator at St Nicholas that Dr Lake could be a nightmare. ‘Brilliant doctor, but a scatterbrain.’
The man had been right, Rory concluded. He had seen her office with Keith Greenstreet, and it was a mess. Her cottage was better, but not much. In the kitchen, cups and saucers were not in the right place. In the main room, files were on the floor, on the table, even where the cat sat.
Gladys Lake had been asked to speak at a conference in London, and she was going. Rory had advised against it, but she had been adamant.
He knew that down there he could not protect her, and there was no reason to believe that Charlotte Hamilton intended to let her live.
Charlotte Hamilton’s attention to detail and to cleanliness was well documented. It took a logical mind to kill someone and then shower, even hanging the towel up and drying the floor.
If Gladys Lake was still on Charlotte’s hit list, London would represent the best opportunity.
***
Sara Marshall had been forewarned. If Isaac Cook was removed from the case, she was to take over. Her fortunes had been resurrected, and once again she was in her detective superintendent’s good books.
Not that she wanted to take the lead position
. She had a young child, and he was at an awkward age. He needed her to be around, but she had a career and a murder case.
Charlotte Hamilton frightened her. It was clear that she was devoid of emotion, and she would have no problems with harming anyone close to those who hurt her.
The team believed the woman to still be in Newcastle, but that was unproven, purely a supposition.
Sara and Sean O’Riordan were back in Twickenham, communicating with the team at Challis Street on a constant basis.
After the attack on Gladys Lake, it had gone quiet. It had only been six days, but it felt like an eternity.
Sara knew that Charlotte was still around somewhere. Instinct told her that, and that she would strike again very soon. Anyone as brazen as she had been in having her photo taken with Isaac Cook does not disappear for long.
The question remained as to where. Was it to be London or Newcastle? Nobody could be sure. Sara believed she would strike again in Newcastle.
***
An isolated farm cottage was not the most secure of locations, and it was fine as long as its occupants stayed there, but occasionally they needed to go out.
Charles and Fiona Hamilton made the trip to the supermarket. They had, at least for the last seven weeks, driven forty miles away to avoid confronting the locals.
This one time, they followed the police advice and drove to the town only two miles away. Charles went to get money out of the cash machine; his wife took a trolley and was filling it up with provisions for four weeks. The two police officers waited in their car, the heater on full blast. The season was changing from cold to even colder. They wondered how Charles Hamilton could walk around in just a shirt. Too many events had clouded his ability to think, to even register the climate.
His wife, Fiona, was slowly withering away; another three months and she would be dead. Charles Hamilton considered his position as he waited for his wife. He was sixty-five and still fit, but without his wife he could not continue, would not want to, and he knew their lives were forfeit.
He returned to the present and entered the supermarket. He found his wife in the second aisle loading up with cereal. She was moving slowly, not looking at what she was buying. He returned some items to where she had found them, and then took another trolley.
‘Cash or credit?’ the lady at the checkout counter asked.
‘Cash,’ Charles Hamilton’s reply.
Together, Charles and Fiona Hamilton wheeled the trolleys out to their car. Charles pressed the key on his remote. The lid of the boot opened. After putting the provisions in the car, they drove out of the car park.
Neither they nor the police had noticed the woman on the other side of the road.
***
Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Goddard did not like press conferences. There were always some attending who felt the need to monopolise proceedings. The investigation was not going well, and it was hard to defend their lack of progress. Against his better judgement, he had been instructed to bring his DCI with him.
The commissioner had been adamant. ‘You’re a wet fish once they stick a camera in your face. Cook may be a bloody idiot, but he handles himself well. He can deal with the flak when they start asking their stupid questions.’
As usual, Goddard made the official presentation: long on content, short on fact.
At the end of his statement, the hands went up.
‘DCI Cook, what is the situation with you and Charlotte Hamilton. Are you protecting her?’ It was not unexpected. Liz Devon, who typically did not attend police press conferences, was a columnist for one of the gutter press publications. She did not care about the murders, only salacious gossip.
‘Miss Devon, you are aware of the circumstances surrounding that photo,’ Isaac said.
‘You had your arm around her.’
‘I was asked by a group of women partying in the hotel; it was late at night. I believe that I acted correctly when approached to take a photo of them.’
‘Brent MacDonald, BBC. It is apparent that this woman is making a mockery of the police.’
‘That is not the case,’ Richard Goddard replied.
‘The question was directed at DCI Cook,’ MacDonald said.
The conference was not going well.
‘I believe that she made a mockery of me, not the police force,’ Isaac replied, aware that the best defence was to divert the blame, confuse the audience.
‘Are you saying you are incompetent?’
‘Not at all. Let me ask you, Mr MacDonald. What would you have done if you had been asked to take some photos?’
‘I would have refused.’ Isaac knew the man was a miserable sod and he had given a truthful answer.
‘Detective Chief Superintendent, do you have confidence in DCI Cook’s ability to bring this woman to justice?’
‘I have total confidence,’ Goddard replied.
‘After six murders?’ Brent McDonald persisted, aiming to evoke a response from Richard Goddard. The murder of Duncan Hamilton was generally not known about, and the official count stood at six, not seven.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Cook has an impeccable record. He will apprehend this woman soon.’
‘And where is she now?’
‘She was last seen in Newcastle.’
‘With your inspector’s arm around her. It’s a shame it wasn’t handcuffs. Although with the incompetence of the police, DCI Cook would have been cuffed to a radiator.’
The room burst into laughter. Only two faces remained impassive.
‘That is an ill-founded assertion,’ Goddard said.
‘You’re wasting your time with this lot,’ Isaac whispered to him. ‘It would be better to wrap it up.’
Richard Goddard took his DCI’s advice. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, let me assure you that we are working hard to find this woman and detain her. You will need to excuse us.’
Both of the police officers beat a hasty retreat.
‘Disaster, sir,’ Isaac said.
‘Unmitigated.’ Goddard’s monosyllabic response.
Chapter 22
Charlotte Hamilton had remembered the area that her parents had liked. It was pure chance that she had seen them that day. She could see that her mother was looking older, although her father, always the fitter of the two, had not changed.
She felt some compassion on seeing them; almost had wanted to rush up and throw her hands around them. Her love for them had been unconditional, but it was never returned, only given to her brother, her dead brother, squashed like a melon at the bottom of a quarry. She smiled at the thought of it.
It had not been difficult to find out where they lived from the overly talkative woman at the supermarket. ‘We never see them here,’ the lady had said. ‘It’s a sad story.’
‘Where do they live?’
‘Up the road, about five miles. There’s a road off to the left, go up there until you see a small cottage. You can’t miss it.’
Charlotte left the supermarket and found a car that had been left with its engine running. She got in and drove off.
The road was easy to find. As she drove along it, she saw a police car off to one side. The officer was talking on his mobile.
It was clear that reaching the cottage unseen was not possible by road, as her car would be visible from where the police car was parked. Two miles further on, she pulled the car off to one side. It was higher up the side of the hill, and the road had snaked back on itself. Down below, not more than five hundred yards away, she could see the cottage, with smoke billowing out of the chimney. It looked picture perfect to her.
There was a gate to a field. She opened it and drove the car through, parking so that it was hidden from the road. The wind was bitterly cold, but she had brought warm clothes. Satisfied that no one would see her, she walked down through the fields to the house. As she got nearer, she saw the car that she had seen at the supermarket. It was the right place.
Through the small window at the rear of th
e cottage she could see her father. Her mother was not visible.
Crouching down, she edged along the wall outside. The weather was getting colder, and she could feel herself shaking. She ignored her discomfort and continued to edge forward.
The door, she could see, was secured by a latch. She lifted it gently. It opened, and she entered the cottage. Her father was in the other room. It was warmer inside than out, and she removed her coat.
‘Father,’ she murmured.
‘Charlotte!’ her father exclaimed. He put down the cup that he was holding. ‘What are you doing here?’ He wanted to call the police but knew he could not. His mobile phone was on the table behind his daughter, a person who he had not seen for five years. A person that he loved, hated, loved. A person who had come to kill him and her mother.
‘How’s mother?’ Charlotte asked.
‘She’s not well.’
‘I want to see her.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I needed to see you one more time before…’
‘Before what?’ Her father cut her conversation short. He had to admit she had changed. She had been blonde with a beautiful face the last time he had seen her. From what he could see, she had dark, shoulder-length hair, and the complexion that had been perfect was now blotchy. He could see the anger in her eyes, and hear the venom in her speech. She knew why she was there; he knew what he had to do. But could he? Could he kill his own daughter in cold blood to protect the mother? Was that possible?
He was a man who had cherished life, and now faced the ultimate dilemma: the death of his child or that of his wife. It was not a decision he could make, a decision that anyone should be forced to make, and the situation was irresolvable. His daughter was psychotic, mad, and she had killed seven times already. In her twisted mind, the killing of her parents would just be another notch in the belt, he realised.
‘Are you here to kill us?’
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 77