Sara did not speak. She had been informed by Bob that someone more experienced was to take over the case. He had not wanted to do it, but she had lost the confidence of senior management, and whereas she had done an excellent job, he had no option but to remove her. However, she would stay with the team. Keith Greenstreet had made an impassioned plea for her to remain in charge, only to be told by Bob that it was beyond his control. He knew where he would be sleeping that night.
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
