Wendy and Sean had been given a phone number and address of Dennis Goldman’s place of work; they were heading over there.
Sara called Charlotte Hamilton’s parents. ‘Have you heard from your daughter?’
Charles Hamilton answered the phone. ‘My wife is not well enough to talk to you.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Sara said. She felt for Charlotte Hamilton’s parents. According to Keith Greenstreet, who had met them some years previously, they were decent people who, because of their daughter, the most savage serial killer in England for many years, were now pariahs in society. They were unable to go out of their house, and if they did, then it was to a distant location, hoping they would not be recognised, to purchase the household provisions and then return as quickly as possible to the sanctity of their remote location.
‘Is it her?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘My wife has suffered a breakdown; attempted suicide.’
‘Will she recover?’ Sara asked.
‘Her body may. We are broken people,’ Charles Hamilton said.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Find our daughter before she kills again.’
***
In an internet café on the northern outskirts of London sat a woman. It was the evening of the previous day, way past 9 p.m. and the café was due to close in fifteen minutes.
Long enough, the woman thought. She had become used to run-down internet facilities with their dodgy screens, keyboards with keys that stuck, especially the most used ones, and cursors that jerked their way across the screen.
A permanent connection was not possible at the bedsit she rented, and a mobile modem would not have had the capacity for the photos she was loading. She was a lonely figure in that café, but she was happy.
She was famous all over the world, her followers a testament to that fact. Each day, in all the newspapers in London, there would be an article on her latest murder, and always a photo of the black police officer.
Her intellect told her that she was taking risks. An internet connection could be checked, even the café where she was now, but she did not care.
She knew that one day all those mad people who saw her as crazy would put her in prison, but it was them, not her, who deserved to be in prison. If they were going to catch her, and she knew they would, then she would lead them on a merry chase first.
She would make the black police officer pay. They said his name was Isaac Cook: she would remember that name. And there, yet again, was that woman, that Sara Stanforth, although now they were reporting her as Sara Marshall. The woman had a husband; what joy to put a knife into him, to watch her suffer.
Maybe she would kill them both. The thought made her smile and then to laugh. The owner of the internet café, a small man with a strong accent, looked at her as she laughed. His interest waned after ten seconds, and he went back to the comic that he had been reading.
He had a motley collection of patrons coming into his café, paying five pounds for a coffee and thirty minutes’ free internet, even though the connection was slow. Not that it seemed to concern the woman, a short-haired brunette, her face partially concealed by a large scarf.
If he had looked, he would have noticed that she was attractive, but he was not a man who cared about anything very much. As long as they paid, what did he care? They could be talking to a girlfriend, even indulging in phone sex, learning how to make a bomb, booking accommodation. He only wanted their money, and at five pounds for each patron, he would have enough to make a trip back to India that year.
‘Five minutes,’ he said.
‘Fine,’ the reply.
Charlotte Hamilton loaded up some more photos, checked her emails, and pressed enter. The pictures loaded slowly. She wondered what would happen when they went live around the world. Would her parents be shocked? Would Dr Lake? And what about Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook? Would he be shocked as well, or would he take them in his stride? She thought he would, but she needed to know. She knew that she needed to meet him.
***
Wendy Gladstone knocked on the door of the house next to Dennis Goldman’s apartment. A young woman in her twenties answered the door.
‘Are you aware of what has happened next door?’ Wendy asked.
‘I’ve just woken up; must have slept for two days.’
‘Why?’ Wendy asked.
‘Just lazy, I suppose.’ It did not seem a good enough answer to Wendy.
The woman moved uneasily on her feet. As she lurched forward, Wendy grabbed hold of her and eased her into the house. Dennis Goldman’s apartment had been an upmarket conversion of an impressive terrace house. The young woman’s house was in its original state.
‘Your house?’ Wendy asked as the woman revived.
‘My parents. They’re loaded.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m just the spoilt kid of the house.’
‘Are you proud of that?’ Wendy asked.
‘I’m not bothered either way. I have a good time, plenty of friends, plenty of money. Why work?’
Wendy could have given the woman a lecture about her responsibilities, but she knew it would be wasted, and besides, she was investigating the death of Dennis Goldman.
‘Do you know Dennis Goldman?’ Wendy asked.
‘He’s a friend. We go out drinking together sometimes.’
‘I am sorry to inform you that he has
