As the train pulled out of King’s Cross, she broke into song. Stupid Duncan up at the quarry, along came a sister and gave him a push.
An elderly couple looked her way, unable to hear the full words due to the noise of the train.
Charlotte smiled back at them.
She remembered little of the trip, other than the train stopping two, maybe three, times to let people off, others on. The elderly couple had left at one of the stops, only to be replaced by a family of four. Charlotte took little notice, although the little boy had tripped over her foot one time. If he was here on his own, she thought. She realised her destiny, her purpose with more clarity. The time for subtlety had passed.
From now on, she would intensify her efforts. The elderly couple had seen a bookish woman on the train, not the frivolous tart that had killed the banker. What would she be in Newcastle? Her bag contained all she needed by way of makeup. In her suitcase were clothes suitable for any occasion, any look, any age. So far, she had kept her age close to her own, but she could be young if she wanted, old if needed.
It was five years since she had last been in Newcastle, but it had changed little. She found an internet café close to the railway station. She had covered her face with a scarf, a perfect disguise considering the biting wind.
Four pounds, cheaper than London for forty-five minutes’ internet use, a complimentary cup of coffee which was surprisingly good. Not like the muck they serve down in London, she thought.
She took out her laptop; the battery still had charge. She removed the connector from the old computer on the table and inserted it into her laptop. She checked the speed; it was adequate.
Ten minutes later, Isaac Cook saw the update on his smartphone. He pulled over to the side of the road and scrolled through the photos.
***
High Barnet, the furthermost station on the Northern Line of the London Underground, was only fifteen miles from the centre of London. Another murder that appeared to be the handiwork of Charlotte Hamilton. The full team had mobilised on hearing of the number on the wall, the knife in the chest, the slit throat.
Jason Martin had been surprisingly articulate once he had calmed himself. He had phoned up emergency services, given a clear description of the man’s condition as well as the address.
‘54 Normanton Avenue. Send an ambulance, not that it will be much use,’ he had said.
The woman on the other end of the phone pressed a computer key to mobilise the police and the ambulance. She maintained the conversation to allow the software on her computer to check the phone number, its approximate location, and the owner’s address. They all tallied.
The local DI, Jim Davies, had phoned Isaac on visiting the murder scene. They had met some years previously, and the modus operandi of Charlotte Hamilton was well known.
‘It’s one of yours,’ Davies had said on the phone.
Within five minutes of the phone call, Sara Marshall and Sean O’Riordan were heading north. Wendy Gladstone and Larry Hill were in another car and moving in the same direction. Isaac had decided to take his own.
He phoned Sara after looking at the photos on his phone. ‘It’s not a pleasant sight,’ Isaac said.
‘We’ll see soon enough.’
Wendy and Larry arrived first. The standard procedure: crime scene tape, barricades to keep the onlookers at a distance, a uniform at the front door of the house, which was a sad example of pre-war architecture.
The crime scene investigators from the local area were taking control. Gordon Windsor was coming up in an advisory capacity, as he had the most recent knowledge of the woman’s style of dispatching men.
Wendy took the opportunity to kit up: gloves, foot protectors, overalls. She showed her badge to the uniforms and proceeded to the first floor of the house. She was stopped by Jim Davies before she entered the room.
‘I work with DCI Cook,’ she explained.
‘Fine. Just be careful where you walk.’
Wendy saw the body on the bed; felt as though she wanted to throw up. It had been clear on entering that somebody already had. From what she could see the man was fully clothed, which was in stark contrast to Charlotte Hamilton’s usual approach to dispatching her victims.
‘Not much to see here, and besides, you’re in my way,’ the CSE said.
Wendy left the room and went downstairs. Sara and Sean had arrived.
‘He’s prickly,’ Wendy said as Sara kitted up.
‘Don’t worry. I can deal with him.’ Wendy thought she probably could. She would only have to smile at him.
Isaac arrived ten minutes later. He kitted up and went upstairs, which left Wendy and Larry with Jason Martin. The man was calm, and a cigarette hung from his mouth – it was tobacco, although the lingering smell of marijuana remained. Not that Wendy and Larry were concerned with his possible illegal activities. He appeared to be a sensible man and a reliable witness.
‘You found the body?’ Wendy asked.
‘And phoned the police.’
‘Can you tell us about the murderer?’
‘A good-looking sort. Fancied her myself.’
‘Did she respond to your advances? I’m assuming you made some,’ Larry asked.
‘I tried it on once. Shot down in flames.’
‘Did she have a name?’
‘Ingrid.’
‘Tell us about Ingrid,’ Wendy said.
‘She arrived some time ago. She lived in the room next to me. Always civil to me when I saw her, but she kept to herself. Apart from that, there’s not a lot I can tell you.’
Jason Martin forgot to mention that she had a birthmark just below her left breast, and one breast was
