They had recorded every press conference where he had spoken. They even had one of him with the prime minister, although Isaac was not sure that they would want a copy of the short video that had just appeared on Facebook. So far, Isaac could see that it had had over three thousand views, and that number was certain to rise.
Charlotte Hamilton had a Facebook account, and although it had been blocked a couple of times, it resurfaced soon enough with a different name. Those interested in her career always seemed to find it.
The video of Isaac leaving Graham Dyer’s house with Sara Marshall had been clear enough, even if the camera, a smartphone, had been located on the other side of the road. It had been a cold day, and most people on the street had a hat on or a hooded jacket, which would have been the ideal disguise for Charlotte Hamilton.
Isaac checked the woman’s Facebook account. Now she had fifteen thousand two hundred followers. Isaac knew that the world was full of idiots, but liking the Facebook page of a serial killer seemed macabre. He assumed that all mass murderers enjoyed their infamy, and it no doubt encouraged them to cause more misery. Next time a video of a slaying would be hard to stop. Facebook may put a block on a video portraying graphic violence, but there were other websites, and they would not be so scrupulous.
‘How are you going to handle this case, Isaac?’ DCS Goddard had asked on his arrival at the Homicide office.
‘We need to find the woman.’
‘Why do you think you will succeed? The other police station had three years, and they couldn’t find her.’
‘We’re better, sir.’
‘You may well be, but this woman is smart; smart enough to video you.’
‘Unfortunate, sir.’
‘Downright embarrassing. My best police officer videoed by a serial killer, and you never spotted her.’
‘I was with DI Sara Marshall, and she never spotted her either.’
‘That’s the second time on film for her. Any more and she’ll need to join the actors’ union, Equity.’
‘I don’t think she would appreciate that, sir.’
‘You must have a plan.’
‘Not a lot to go with. We are checking on Graham Dyer’s movements, attempting to find out when and where he met Charlotte Hamilton. Apart from that, we are at a loose end. The woman disappears, reappears and disappears again.
‘Then find out where.’
‘Not so easy. She blends in seamlessly into the city. Apart from her predilection to murder, she’s just an average citizen.’
‘That may be, but I don’t want any more deaths. Understood!’
‘Understood, sir.’
DCS Goddard left, and Bridget came into the office. ‘Bit hard on you, sir,’ she said.
‘He’s right.’
Isaac was the best police officer in the department, but even he could not see the way forward. A murderer invariably gives themselves away eventually, but Charlotte Hamilton did not see herself as a murderer.
Back in Twickenham Sara was going over old notes. She had phoned Charlotte’s father’s mobile, told them to watch out for their daughter, although they had seen the news and assumed it was her. She also called Dr Gladys Lake to let her know that Charlotte had resurfaced.
Rory Hewitt, still working, although looking forward to his retirement, stationed some uniforms to watch the hospital.
Bob Marshall, Sara’s husband and DCI, was concerned for his wife. She was now the mother of a one-year-old, and she should be spending time with him. Murder always burned the hours, and a child needs more than a couple of hours of exhausted attention from its mother each day.
Sara, eager to prove her mettle after her unceremonious dumping by her husband on the orders of Detective Superintendent Rowsome, intended to make amends, to show both of them that she was as good as any man, and certainly better than the man who had replaced her.
He had had less success than her, and he had left soon enough: tail between his legs, but his reputation not tinged by failure.
Hers had been, she knew that, and while she still held the rank of detective inspector, the two words had not been split by ‘chief’. She knew that may not be possible without a Master’s degree, and in the past the department would have paid for her studies, but for two years they had been refusing. Budgetary constraints, the official explanation; unofficially, a black mark against the candidate.
***
DS Wendy Gladstone and DI Larry Hill visited Holland Park, positioning themselves where the video of their DCI and DI Sara Marshall had been taken. They knocked on a few doors close by; nobody remembered anyone specifically, although more than one person had been videoing the scene.
Graham Dyer owned an antique shop not far away. It was closed when they arrived, not unexpected considering that the owner was now in Pathology, and would be undergoing a detailed autopsy. He had been in his fifties, well liked locally, and led an active social life. Wendy and Larry visited some local establishments – clubs, pubs, cafés.
It appeared that he had visited most of them at one time or another, had been married and would take the occasional woman home with him. So far, nobody remembered the woman from the night of the murder, although he had been in one of the pubs earlier in the day.
An attractive female would not be noticeable, both Wendy and Larry agreed, in an area that boasted more than its fair share of beautiful women.
‘The perfect disguise,’ Wendy said, although, as she freely admitted, she would not have gone unnoticed. It had been some months since her husband had passed away, but she still missed him. She had joined a gym, taken up yoga, even quit smoking for a couple of weeks, but she was back on them again, although not
