‘Charlotte Hamilton?’
‘Unless you know it’s her, you’d not pick her. How about Gordon Windsor? Is he confirming that it was Charlotte Hamilton?’ Wendy asked.
‘It’s her. How many is that now?’
‘According to her count, it’s six.’
‘Isaac, what the hell is going on?’ a voice bellowed. Wendy made herself scarce and went to talk to Larry.
‘She’s killed again.’
‘I know that,’ DCS Goddard said. ‘Not only does she broadcast it in advance, as well as some pictures of you, we now have another body.’
‘He should have checked before taking her to his house,’ Isaac said by way of a lame excuse.
‘Would you?’ The DCS knew his DCI well enough to know the answer to that question. ‘And now there is a damn press conference. I expect you to put up a good defence. The department’s looking very shabby at the present moment, and the commissioner is breathing down my neck. I’ve spent enough time sweet talking that man; I don’t want to blow it with your incompetence.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Isaac said.
‘I know it’s not fair, but you need reminding. Whatever happens, you’re carrying the can for this.’
‘I won’t let you down, sir.’
‘Isaac, you’re the best I’ve got. I cannot afford to lose you, but how many more deaths? The woman’s identity is known. Her fingerprints, her DNA are on record. We have photos of her, and then we have her website. I’m trying to get it blocked, but it’s not so easy.’
‘She will only change the server again. Over one hundred thousand followers now, and they can all find her website easily enough.’
‘Misguided fools?’ Goddard asked.
‘Only a few would be as mental as Charlotte Hamilton.’
‘Only!’
‘So far, there has been one copycat killer in the UK, two or three in the USA.’
‘That’s just what we need. Random lunatics aiming to emulate her.’
‘That’s what being a celebrity does to people.’
‘I don’t get it,’ Goddard said. He left soon after. He had not seen the man so angry before.
Isaac called in Wendy and Larry. ‘One week maximum or else.’
‘Else what?’ Larry asked.
‘One week, and I’m off the case.’
‘And us?’
‘What do you think?’
***
Jason Martin had fancied her from the day she moved in. A casual labourer, he could not afford more than a single room in the converted house. The landlord was a pig of a man, but he minded his business and did not complain about the smell of marijuana in his room.
Martin made little in the way of money, and what he did make he spent on drugs and the occasional woman. He was an unattractive man approaching his forty-fifth year. Each and every day of the year, he wore the same clothes: a tee-shirt, a worn pair of jeans, trainers with holes in the soles, and an anorak. He moved slowly, although he had no impediment. He was a lazy man who would come home after work to smoke and to watch the television, but only the commercial channels. The national broadcaster, devoid of adverts, was not to his taste. ‘Intellectual crap,’ he would say each time his remote flicked through the channels, briefly pausing to look at a debate or a documentary before flicking on.
He had not had a steady girlfriend in ten years, a fact he put down to their poor taste and his irregular working hours. The new woman, young and just his type, had taken the room next to him. She was polite to him in the corridor and when they queued for the bathroom, he always let her go first as she would clean up, and there was always the smell of her perfume that lingered in the air; also, the meter on the hot water cistern would often have some remaining credit.
He had asked her out once, but she had not accepted. He had decided that she was not good enough for him, although it did not stop him from looking through the crack in the door of the bathroom as she removed her clothes and bathed herself. It also did not stop him widening the crack in the dividing wall between his room and hers, to see her naked. The wall, constructed of cheap panelling, divided a larger room. He thought his half was better than hers.
At night, when it was quiet, he could hear her talking to herself. He imagined that she could hear him. The thought of it excited him.
He had not expected the door to her room to be open when he returned at five in the morning. The urge to look in was irresistible.
He had expected to see an empty room, possibly the woman asleep. He entered, after whispering ‘Hello’ first.
The bed was initially hidden by the door. He looked through the crack near to the handle; a crack he had used before. He saw a man he recognised. He was not moving.
Slowly Jason, the Peeping Tom, moved forward. He recognised the landlord on the bed, his hands folded over his chest. Not sure of what he saw, Jason Martin touched the red on the man’s shirt. He put his finger to his mouth; he knew the taste.
Five minutes later, he phoned for an ambulance.
Chapter 18
At King’s Cross Station, the woman carried her worldly belongings. She reflected that it was not much to show for five years. In one hand, she carried a voluminous handbag. On her back, a backpack for her laptop and the photos she cherished. She also dragged a small suitcase.
There had not been time to upload the latest photos; that would be her first task on arriving at her destination. It would only be three hours, and she hoped that the body of the landlord would not be discovered
