DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

drive, rain for most of the time, and he could feel the weariness in his bones. He knew deep down that retirement for him would not last for very long, whereas Rory Hewitt was still fit, even sported colour in his hair, although it was thinning. Keith assumed the colour came courtesy of a bottle. For Keith, what you are given is all that you get. He had no intention of dying his hair black or any other colour; there was not much left, and it was grey. And as for dieting and exercising, that was for others. Rory had tried to entice Keith to a game of golf once. Keith’s comment at the end of the day was the same as Winston Churchill’s, or was it Mark Twain, he was not sure which: ‘A waste of a good walk.’ Keith didn’t have much time for walking either, but Rory had taken his comment with the humour intended.

‘What do you need?’ Rory asked.

‘Ingrid Bentham, not her real name, carved the number 2 onto Chalmers’ chest.’

‘And you want the number 1? Long shot coming up here.’

‘Maybe,’ Keith said, ‘but we’ve been around a long time. Our collective minds might find something not in the files.’

‘No murders up here that fit the bill.’

‘The best we have is that Ingrid Bentham had traces of a Newcastle accent. Apart from that, we have no idea who she is.’

‘Then we need to review old cases,’ Rory said. ‘I’m free for a few days.’

***

Sara considered the case so far. They had a woman who had killed once, possibly twice, and there was the very real risk of a third time. Yet they had no idea who the woman was. Keith was trying to fill in some of the blanks, but Sara still had her concerns. Ingrid Bentham had arrived in London several years previously, and there were photos available to confirm that. The college she had attended had not provided much information, other than to say that she was an adequate student, hardworking, although she struggled at times.

Sara had seen reports like it before; to her, it was a euphemism for not being too bright. Sean had seen it differently, in that his research had shown that with the drugs she was almost certainly taking, she would have had difficulties in focussing.

Regardless of her educational record, she had certainly been astute enough to have gained the confidence of the Chalmers, as well as employers in a few previous jobs, mainly shop work.

As far as Grace Nelson, the criminal psychologist was concerned, Ingrid was extreme, and she needed to be found at the earliest opportunity. Sean had taken up the search for the person who had purchased the ring that Ingrid Bentham had worn, hoping to find out where it had been engraved, but it seemed a pointless exercise. As keen as he was, he had to concede that the chances of success were slim.

It was almost certainly a wedding ring. The condition of the ring, according to a local jeweller, placed its date of manufacture as thirty years ago. Sean assumed that it had belonged to Ingrid’s mother, which would indicate that the mother had given it to her. The engraving showed that to be possible.

Sara advised Sean to put the ring to one side and to focus on something else, but what? They were out of ideas on how to proceed. An all-points warning had been put out for the woman, but they had little faith in it producing a result. Ingrid Bentham had no distinguishing features, her face was symmetrical, her height and figure average for a woman of her age, or what they thought was her age. Her college records indicated twenty-four, although that was not certain.

Bob Marshall could see that Sara was floundering. The chief superintendent had already voiced his concerns over Sara’s competency.

It wasn’t out of any discrimination against women, Detective Superintendent Rowsome had insisted, but Bob Marshall could see the man shifting responsibility, leaving him to carry the can. As far as Rowsome was concerned, a person’s ability was suspect until it was proven. This was Sara’s first murder trial and it was not going well. She knew how it worked, as did Bob. Ten successes and everyone respects you enormously; one failure, even after the ten, and your reputation is shattered.

***

Keith and Rory reminisced over old cases they had worked on in the past. Keith had spent his working career in London, Rory predominantly in the north of the country, but villains are villains, and they are mobile.

They had first met twenty-six years earlier when a gang of drug pushers attempted to expand their operation throughout the country. Both of them had been detective sergeants then. Rory had dealt with the case in his part of the world, Keith in London. After that, they exchanged information about suspected criminals, or about crimes that appeared to have similarities. They had met up on a few policing courses since then, sharing a few pints of beer of a night time.

‘What do you have?’ Rory asked, after they had found an empty room near the back of the police station.

‘What I’ve already told you. Female, mid-twenties, almost certainly a paranoid schizophrenic, and a murderer.’

‘The photo doesn’t tell us much, does it?’

‘She could dye the hair, cut it, and she’d not be recognisable.’

‘If she has, then it indicates that she is in control of her faculties.’

‘And aware that she had committed a murder,’ Keith said.

‘Guilty conscience, or is she paranoid enough to believe it was the voice in her head, or Gregory Chalmers deserved to die?’

‘Does it matter, at least to us? If she is as nutty as a fruit cake or as sane as you and me is not the issue.’

‘Agreed. We have dealt with enough in either category over the years. Whatever she