Dennis Goldman knew a sure bet when he saw one, and this woman was money in the bank. He could see that she wore no bra under the top. It had been a hard week in the city, what with the declining pound and the rise in interest rates. He had made the right call on shorting the pound earlier in the day; he knew that he was making the right call with the woman, especially as she was progressively moving closer to him.
‘Are you busy tonight?’ he asked the red-haired woman with the winning smile and the beautiful body.
‘I’m free. Do you have anything in mind?’
‘A meal and then my place,’ he said.
If this one doesn’t come across, it’s still early enough in the evening to find another, he thought.
‘How about your place first?’
Excellent, he thought.
‘Is it far?’ Charlotte asked.
‘Five minutes in a taxi, ten if you walk.’
‘Then we walk,’ she said.
Charlotte drank her vodka and lime; Dennis finished his beer. They left the pub holding hands. Dennis believed himself to be a lucky man, although attracting females came easily to him. He had the talk down to a fine art. Run through the first few sentences, ensure a result. No result, move on to the next.
London was awash with beautiful women, and he was having the time of his life. He was making plenty of money, sleeping with more than his fair share of women.
This one would be another to add to the tally, he thought.
Dennis’s place reflected the man: confident, brash, and modern. It was on the second floor of a converted terrace house, and it commanded a good view over London. Charlotte had to admit that she liked the apartment, even liked the man, but Gregory Chalmers had been a smooth talker, and he had turned out bad.
Besides, he brings me back here, no doubt to screw me and then dump me. I’m not the first one he’s brought up here, she thought.
Dennis prepared some snacks, and brought a bottle of wine to the table in the sitting room; Charlotte continued to give the right signals.
The bottle of wine consumed, they moved towards each other. Soon, they were naked and writhing on the carpet. Charlotte was on top, the ideal position for the finale.
‘You’re beautiful,’ Dennis gasped.
‘You are suitable,’ Charlotte replied.
‘I’m ready.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Charlotte leant over to her bag. She put her hand in and withdrew the knife.
‘What’s that for?’ he asked.
‘You bastard. You think women are just here to satisfy your carnal lusts.’
‘What…’
The knife entered his body easily, driven by the force of the palms of both hands pushing down. The man’s erection subsided as the blood drained out of his body.
Charlotte, familiar with the act of death, removed the knife; she then drove it back down again, this time harder than before. The man beneath her did not move. She took another knife from her bag, a larger knife, razor-sharp, and slit his throat. The blood spurted out. She rubbed it over her bare breasts and placed her bloodied fingers to her mouth.
‘You taste great,’ she said.
She then removed herself from the dead man’s body and walked slowly to his shower. She washed all the blood off and shampooed her hair, careful to remove all traces of the red dye she had applied earlier in the day. She then dried herself, put on the top and jeans she had worn earlier. Before she left, she helped herself to some food from the refrigerator. She made a sandwich and walked towards the front door.
She looked back at the man lying dead on the carpet as she passed. She admired the skill with which she had carved the number 6 on his chest.
Bastard, she thought as she closed the front door behind her.
***
In one part of London, a woman bathed in the glory of her fame; in another, a police officer was coming to terms with not being in control of the situation.
Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook, the star of Homicide, a man slated for senior management, the protégé of Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Goddard, was floundering. He had met senior politicians, charmed them with his good manners. He had met and seduced many women, but now there was one woman who was oblivious to him. The one woman who could undermine his career if she was not stopped, and soon.
She had murdered five, and according to her website, she had killed again. So far, the department had not received any information about another murder, but the website had shown a view from the apartment, and it was clearly London. The photo of a naked man covered in blood was too disturbing for most to see. The London Metropolitan Police had attempted to block the website; it had not been successful. Charlotte Hamilton was fast attaining cult status, with a loyal band of followers: deviants, sadists, and miscreants, not to mention the extreme feminists who saw all men as superfluous.
Monday morning and it was the weekly meeting. Bridget, Wendy, and Larry were in attendance, as well as DI Sara Marshall and DS Sean O’Riordan.
There had only been one subject to discuss, and Sara was still the person with the most intimate knowledge of the woman.
Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard had joined them, at least for the first fifteen minutes. ‘It’s not looking good, is it?’ he said.
‘We are working on it, sir,’ Isaac replied.
‘Without any tangible results. I can find out more information about the murders and this woman on the internet than from you. Doesn’t reflect well on this department, and now I have the commissioner of police on the phone asking what I’m doing, and what sort of people I have.’
‘He's unreasonable,’ Isaac said.
‘I
