At that moment, Charlotte realised the anger in her had subsided. It was if she was back in the village where she had spent three years with Beaty and her cat. She relaxed her guard and embraced her father.
‘Why, Charlotte?’ he asked as he hugged her in return. Tears were streaming down his face. At that moment, he held the loving daughter that they had known before that day: that day when Duncan had died. He pulled back from her, the daughter he loved, the murderer of his son.
‘You don’t love me, you never did,’ she said.
‘We always loved you, but you killed Duncan.’
‘He deserved to die.’
‘But why?’
‘He broke my doll,’ she said. The anger in her eyes had returned. Charles Hamilton was afraid again; afraid for his wife.
‘You cannot stay here,’ he said.
‘This is my home.’
‘The police will return. They will see you.’
‘I can hide.’
‘We still have your doll,’ Charlotte’s father said. If she stayed, he would have to call the authorities; he knew that.
‘I want it.’
‘Wait here, and I’ll get it for you.’
Charles Hamilton went to the other room and picked up his wife’s phone. He pressed speed dial to a prearranged number. The alarm flashed in the police car down the road.
‘You’ve called the police,’ Charlotte screamed. Her mother appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘Go back, Fiona. Lock yourself in your room.’
Charlotte came forward, a knife in her hand. She was ready to kill her father.
‘You bastard. I killed Duncan, the irritating little fool. Now I will kill you.’
The father, desperate to protect his wife, unable to kill his daughter, grabbed a vase holding some flowers and hit her across the head. Charlotte, momentarily stunned, fell back against the door separating the main room from the kitchen. Her father rushed forward to restrain her, receiving a slash across the face from a stiletto knife. He pulled back; the police car drew closer.
Regaining her senses, Charlotte retreated out through the back door and into the cold weather. She had not picked up her coat. Charles Hamilton could see her running up the hill, her warm breath visible in the almost freezing air.
The police car arrived. ‘Backups are coming,’ the police officer behind the wheel said.
‘Anyone injured?’ he asked.
‘We are fine.’
‘Your daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Unconscious in the kitchen.’ Charles Hamilton lied. He could not kill his daughter, nor could he allow her to be caught. He knew he was wrong, and that it was a decision he would have to live with for the rest of his life.
***
Charlotte Hamilton reached the car; she was out of breath. She started the car and drove off at speed. The car had a full tank of fuel, sufficient for where she was going.
Rory Hewitt arrived at the cottage within forty minutes. ‘Where is she?’ he asked Charles Hamilton.
‘She must have regained consciousness and left.’
Rory Hewitt knew that he had lied, but then what would he have done in a similar situation?
‘Your wife?’
‘I gave her a sedative. In her condition, she may not survive.’
‘What do you mean? Has she been harmed?’
‘No. She’s let herself go, and now with Charlotte having been here, the stress may be too much.’
‘She should be in the hospital.’
‘An ambulance is coming.’
The team in London were notified of developments. Isaac had been trying to deal with paperwork but failing miserably as the situation with the photo in Newcastle continued to bother him.
Wendy had tried to buck him up, but with little success.
Sara Marshall was in the car and heading over to Challis Street as soon as Rory Hewitt had phoned her. She arrived in the office puffing, as she had run up the stairs. ‘She’s making mistakes. We’ll have her soon.’
‘Where is she now?’ Larry asked.
‘They’re looking for her. She cannot have got far. It’s remote up there.’
‘Never assume anything with this woman,’ Isaac said. ‘The moment you believe she’s cornered, she disappears, and the next time we find her, there’s a dead body.’
‘She just missed out on 8 and 9,’ Sara said.
‘Dr Lake. Is she safe?’ Isaac asked.
‘DI Hewitt has removed her to a safe location, regardless of the woman’s protestations.’
‘Charlotte Hamilton’s coming back here,’ Larry said.
‘That may be, but where and when and who will she target this time?’ Isaac asked.
‘You may need protection, sir,’ Wendy said.
‘I will, as well,’ Sara said.
***
Charlotte drove ten miles before realising the stolen car had probably been reported to the police. She had to dump it. All she had now was her backpack; it still contained her laptop and a change of clothes. It was clear she could not return to Newcastle. Instead, she drove to a small town in County Durham; she remembered she had an aunt there, although she would not be visiting.
From there she was sure she could take local buses and trains until she reached her destination. Her episodes of paranoia were increasing in their frequency and their intensity, but in her lucid moments she could feel tenderness for her parents, sorrow that her father had rejected her.
She knew that her time was drawing to a close, yet there was unfinished business. The Lake woman had deserved to die, but somehow she had survived. Her father, she had wanted to love, but he had rejected her. And, as for her mother, she could go to Hell.
There were others that had made her life miserable. She remembered them well. She ticked them off in her mind: 8, 9, 10.
It was a good number, but first she had to get back down south. She felt in the front pocket of her backpack; the ten thousand pounds in cash was still there. She could always buy new clothes, new disguises, and this time they would be quality.
Chapter 23
Fiona Hamilton died twenty-four hours after her daughter had visited the cottage. Her husband said it was a blessing.
Once they had been well liked and respected, but they had become outcasts. Rory Hewitt could only feel sadness for the man.
‘Broken heart,’ Hamilton said.
The doctor’s official statement was heart failure exacerbated by a weakened physical condition due to poor nutrition.
Rory phoned the team in London. Wendy, although she had not met the woman, cried on hearing the news, as did Sara Marshall. It brought a lump to Isaac’s throat as well.
Rory left the hospital at the same time as Charles Hamilton. He intended to return to the cottage on his own.
Back in London, Isaac called the team together. ‘The car she stole has been found.’
‘Where?’ Larry asked.
‘Consett, County Durham.’
‘Was she seen?’
‘We’re checking, but the local police believe she would have taken a bus and left the town.’
‘Direction?’
‘She can’t go to Newcastle unless it’s to deal with unfinished business.’
‘Gladys Lake,’ Larry said.
‘She will not find her.’
‘Safe location?’
‘Very safe. There’s no way Charlotte Hamilton can find her.’
‘That’s what you said about her parents, sir,’ Wendy reminded him. Isaac chose not to answer.
Sara Marshall and Sean O’Riordan joined the team at Challis Street.
‘Why can’t we find this woman?’ Sara asked. She looked nervous.
‘What’s the problem?’ Isaac asked.
‘We’re targets. You realise that?’
‘It had crossed my mind.’
‘I have a child. This woman is willing to kill her own parents. She would not have a
ny issues with an infant.’
‘You’d better find somewhere for your son,’ Isaac said.
‘She can’t do that,’ Wendy said. ‘No mother would part with their child indefinitely.’
‘Not even when their child may be at risk?’
‘Isaac’s right,’ Sara said. ‘If I stay with my son, she will find us eventually, and besides, I can’t disappear. I know her from three years ago, and so far, Isaac and myself are the only ones who have been close to her.’
Larry felt inclined to make a comment. Isaac was still smarting over the rollicking that he had received from Richard Goddard, and was not in the mood to be reminded of the scurrilous reports in the newspapers and on the internet, not to mention the remarks in the police station.
Sara left the office. If Charlotte Hamilton were on her way, it would only be hours before she arrived. Sara had a place to take her son; she only hoped he would be safe there.
Isaac, aware that he was also in danger, organised a gun for himself. He offered to arrange one for Sara, but she declined.
Wendy and Larry went out to the Chalmers’ home. Eventually, after the kitchen had been cleaned and repainted, Stephanie Chalmers had moved back in. The area where her husband had died had been bricked off. It reduced the size of the kitchen, and Stephanie did not like to spend time in there. She had organised a cook to prepare all the meals.
Charlotte Hamilton was coming back, and it was important to visit all the places, all the people that she had been involved with, to reanalyse any item of interest that could possibly help them to find her. The police had been given a directive to approach the woman with care, as she was extremely dangerous. If she did not accede to an order, they were licensed to use a Taser. If there was further resistance, they had the authority to shoot.
Charlotte’s website had been updated. Her ramblings were more incoherent, although that did not seem to concern her followers, whose numbers continued to increase.
***
Stephanie Chalmers had not been able to help much. Her life appeared to have returned to pre-Ingrid Bentham. Wendy and Larry saw little to be gained by interviewing her more. Gloria was out of the country and safe, and there could only be three obvious targets: Isaac Cook, Sara Marshall, and Gladys Lake.
The movements of all three were being monitored, although Gladys Lake was the most difficult to protect. She had an agenda, and a presentation at a conference on mental health in London was more important to her than her personal safety. She had been warned not to go out on her own enough times, but she continued to ignore the advice.
There had been a couple of times at St Nicholas Hospital when she had absent-mindedly wandered off on her own. The assumption that she was safe within the confines of the building were incorrect. It was not a prison, purely a secure location.
After the death of Fiona Hamilton, Rory had kept in contact with Charles Hamilton. His wife was buried in a moving ceremony attended by Hamilton’s immediate family, a few morbid onlookers, Rory, and three members of the press. Apart from that, there was no one else.
The priest had followed the traditional service, omitting any mention of the Hamilton’s children. Charles Hamilton read a eulogy. He mentioned the son, but not the daughter. Rory thought the man looked old, even though he was only two years older than him. He had been a university lecturer, but at the lectern in the small church he had mumbled, sometimes incoherently, as though his mind was going. Rory put it down to grief. He wondered what would happen to the man now that he had no one to look after.
After the events at the Hamiltons’ cottage, the local police had searched for Charlotte Hamilton. The car found further south indicated that she had returned to London, although that had not been confirmed.
A local bus driver in Consett thought he remembered a woman matching the description, but he had not been sure. After that, no further sightings.
***
An unpleasant, dishevelled man with bad breath and body odour was not what Charlotte Hamilton wanted to see on her return to London, but he offered anonymity, no questions asked. ‘It’s not much, but you can have it for twenty pounds a night,’ he said.
She had not wanted to enter the building located to the east of the city of London, but her options were few. She knew that she could afford the best hotel in the city, but the police would be everywhere.
‘It’s fine. It’s been a long trip.’ The room was worth no more than ten, but Charlotte realised that the chances of being discovered were slim. It was clear that the local prostitutes brought men there, took their money, and then kicked them out of the door. The room still had the smell of cheap perfume and sweating men, even without the man who had shown her in. He had looked her up and down, imagined her naked. She knew what he deserved but lucidity had kicked in again, and she realised the cards were stacked against her. She knew she had to complete her task, yet she had not decided how.
The events in the north of the country had shaken her. No longer the success she’d had before, and the way forward was unclear. Random killings seemed to offer no satisfaction, although targeted ones still did, but when, and how?
And now she was back in London and time was running out.
Not sure where to go, Charlotte wandered the streets without purpose. Her hair was now red, her skin complexion two shades darker due to tanning cream. No longer wearing the mini skirt and the tight top that had so enticed Dennis Goldman, she was now dressed dowdily, courtesy of a shop selling old clothes for some charity or other. Conditioned as she was to disguise herself, she slouched and ambled, indicative of an older woman; she was pleased with the result.
With no purpose and no direction, subconsciously she revisited old haunts. She saw where she had killed Gregory Chalmers, even the window of the bedroom where he had first seduced her. She thought back to that night when he had taken delight in making love to her on the marital bed. In the small garden at the front, she could see the two children playing; children that she had loved as if they were her own. Stephanie Chalmers had come to the downstairs window to call them in for a meal. Charlotte could only reflect that they had been happy times, and if it had been her at the window instead of Stephanie, she could have been happy. She knew she would have been a better mother than Stephanie: always worrying about her business and whether it was a good week or bad, instead of focussing on little Billy and his sister.
She could see that the children were grown, almost at her height, especially Billy. She had been sorry that she had attacked their mother that night, but now she was sorry that she had not completed the job. Charlotte’s mind was whirring, aiming to make sense of all that had transpired, seeing it all clearly, confused at the same time.
She thought about knocking on the door and pretending to be an old woman down on her luck, but she decided against it.
She had ambled past the police station in Twickenham, and seen the policewoman, Detective Inspector Sara Stanforth, now Sara Marshall. A woman who had hunted her, now married, maybe with a child, and yet she, Charlotte Hamilton, was alone and unloved and childless.
She had seen the man in Challis Street who had put his strong arm around her in Newcastle. She knew she wanted him. She wondered if it was still possible; were her disguises good enough to fool him. A dowdy old woman wearing clothes that smelt of moth balls would not succeed, although if she dressed young and seductively, then maybe she would.
Chapter 24
Newcastle Station was a foreboding sight as Gladys Lake walked through the concourse. Time had moved on since her encounter with Charlotte in the graveyard, although she took the advice of Detective Inspector Rory Hewitt and shortened her stay in London from three nights to two, which explained why she was taking the early train.
Rory Hewitt’s argument had been cogent, in that Charlotte had been identified at King’s Cross Station. Not that it helped as it had taken a check of two days’ worth of security videos before she had been found and by then the woman had vanished. But she was in Lond
on, no one was in any doubt of that one fact, and now Gladys Lake was entering the lair of a desperate woman. A woman who had failed in her first attempt to kill her. Gladys Lake did not need Rory Hewitt or a criminal psychologist to tell her that. She knew full well what Charlotte Hamilton was capable of. After all, she had seen her in the graveyard.
The train pulled out of Newcastle Station at six in the morning for the three-hour trip to London.
With Gladys Lake leaving Newcastle, Police Sergeant Liz Castle had been relieved of guard duty. A policeman would take over in London.
‘Look out for Police Constable Rob Grantham on your arrival. You have his phone number, and please, whatever you do, don’t leave King’s Cross Station without him,’ Liz Castle said, glad of the chance to get back to some real policing. She knew she was new at the station, only three months, but so far she had been assigned the menial tasks reserved for juniors. Still, she reasoned, it would only be a matter of time before she was given a real job to do.
Three hours later the train drew into King’s Cross. Gladys Lake failed to follow instructions and did not contact PC Grantham, and he was late anyway due to an accident near King’s Cross. The speech she was due to give was not until two in the afternoon, and it was still only nine o’clock. She had the chance of a few hours’ rest. She hailed a taxi. ‘St Pancras Renaissance Hotel, please.’
Unbeknown to her, she had been seen. Charlotte Hamilton was a smart woman, everyone agreed on that, even if she was mad. She had phoned the hospital in Newcastle and had found out Dr Lake’s plans. It was pure luck for her that Dr Lake was attending the conference in London.
It had not been difficult to wait at the railway station, knowing full well that Gladys Lake had a fear of flying and did not drive, so it had to be the train. It was quicker anyway. For two days, Charlotte had waited in the station, watching Platform 2 from the comfort of a café for some of the time, or else wandering around the concourse. No one would have noticed her. She had to admit that her ability to disguise herself was good. One day old and dowdy, another young and tarty, as her facial features were still young and her body had not turned to flab, unlike her mother, although the last time at the farmhouse she had looked almost anorexic.
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