The door opened, and an old man in his eighties and wearing an old crumpled shirt and a pair of shorts entered. On his feet he wore a pair of slippers.
‘The rent,’ he said.
She would have paid him, but she had no money. The money she had saved over the years, including some that she had stolen from the men she had killed, was not sufficient. If the man had been younger, she would have given herself to him; it would not be the first time that she had exchanged sexual favours for financial independence.
‘No rent, no stay. You know the rules.’
She knew the rules, although he did not. Upset her and her vengeance was absolute, no exceptions.
‘I don’t have any money.’
‘Not my problem.’ The man spoke poor English, in spite of having arrived in the country from Eastern Europe thirteen years previously. His country of birth had joined the European Community, and he left it for England and its welfare system. The house he rented, and then sublet, was his only means of income once he had exhausted his adopted country’s generosity. When he had arrived in the country, he had had a wife and a family, but they were gone. To him, they were worthless. The accommodation he provided was not legal and did not satisfy any government regulations. There were no insurance policies, no fire prevention systems, no regular pest inspections. Just a bed and a wash basin; the bathroom was at the end of the hall.
‘We could exchange,’ she said.
‘What with?’
‘What do you think?’
The old man looked at the woman. He could see that she was young and nubile, not old and haggard as his wife had been. ‘Ten years ago, we could have made a deal.’
‘You’re not too old,’ she said. There had been some who had visited her when she was with Mavis Williams who must have been older than the man standing in front of her. Some were able to maintain an erection long enough, most weren’t, and the man demanding money appeared to be one of the latter. She could not think of a more disagreeable prospect than seducing this man, but if it was necessary...
She had been there for three months, in that horrible room in that horrible house, and no one had suspected who she was. It was the safest place in London, and she wanted to stay.
‘Thirty minutes and you’re out of here,’ he said. ‘Tight arse or no tight arse.’
She knew that she could leave, but he stood in her way. ‘We can at least part as friends,’ she said.
‘It’s purely business.’
‘I understand.’
The rent collector came and sat on the edge of her bed. She gave him a beer to drink. He opened it and gulped it down. He smelt of rotting fish and sweat. He did not see the knife in her hand, although he felt it enter his chest. He collapsed on the bed. The woman then moved his legs parallel with the length of the bed. Thorough, as always, she slit his throat, careful to stand clear. The shower at the end of the hall was dirty and cold; this time she would forsake the cleanliness. Not wishing to bloody her hands, she took a toothbrush and rubbed it in the blood coming from his throat. One wall in that dingy bedroom was not as dirty as the others. She wrote a number with the toothbrush. It took her five minutes to complete to her satisfaction. Packing her case, she left the room and the house. On the way, she checked the landlord’s room. She found nearly ten thousand pounds in cash hidden under his mattress. Now Charlotte had the rent money, but no one to pay it to.
She headed to the railway station: unfinished business.
***
Sara Marshall and Sean O’Riordan headed back to Twickenham to review the events three years before. Isaac headed back to Challis Street from Dennis Goldman’s apartment; he knew what was coming.
Not only was he a reluctant celebrity courtesy of Charlotte Hamilton, but he was also a detective chief inspector who had let two murders occur. Graham Dyer was unforeseen, but Dennis Goldman was not. The celebrity of the woman was well known and would have formed the basis of many pub conversations, especially that she would thrust the knife in mid-coitus. The thought of it made Isaac squirm.
Yet an attractive female and Dennis Goldman had been swayed, and almost certainly never gave any thought to the possibility that the woman coming on too easily to him was anything other than a woman with easy virtues. The landlord at the Duke of York had sensed something was amiss, Wendy said, but Isaac did not believe his statement.
Isaac knew that hindsight was all very well, but the landlord, the same as every other man, even he, would have taken Charlotte Hamilton. Isaac knew that he had made mistakes in the past: bedding Linda Harris while pursuing a relationship with Jess O’Neill was the biggest mistake so far, but then Sue Smith had made a dent in his heart, and now she was overseas. He was soon to be forty, and he knew that a man needs someone in his life. He could see himself as a lifelong bachelor; the idea did not appeal.
Wendy disturbed Isaac’s thoughts. ‘Sir, we still need to find this woman.’
‘How can she disappear so easily.’
‘She’s a Barbie Doll.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The woman has no distinctive features, no moles on her face, no rear end that’s too large or breasts that protrude. She’s the generic young English Rose. Careful makeup, change of clothes, change of hair colour, and she is transformed.’
‘You’re right, of course. What about the Duke of York? How did you and Larry go?’
‘The pub had cameras. Bridget’s
