‘That’s fine.’
‘You’re not here for a social visit, are you?’
‘No.’
‘We heard about the last murder. It was her, wasn’t it?’
‘In the north of London?’
‘High Barnet.’
‘Yes, it was her.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’ Charles Hamilton asked. Rory could see the lines on his face, the downcast eyes. His wife may have been suffering from depression, but it was evident that Charles Hamilton was not well either.
‘Charlotte has been seen in Newcastle.’
‘My God. Has she killed anyone?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You suspect she will come here?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘If she comes, we will not stop her.’
‘That bad?’
‘Our deaths would be no worse than what we are suffering now.’
Rory understood Charles Hamilton’s sentiment.
***
Charlotte did not know why she had spoken to Gladys Lake. She had not intended to confront the woman in the graveyard, but she had been there, and it had seemed ideal. No need for a ritual, she had thought, only a knife to the heart and then to the throat. It appeared to be a perfect opportunity: an isolated graveyard, drizzling rain. If she had only killed her, she would not have had to run away. There was a freshly-dug grave; she had wanted to throw the woman in there, but then that couple with that stupid dog peeing everywhere had interrupted her. How she hated them. How she hated that dog.
Dr Lake had deserved to die; it was her duty to rid the world of a woman who took pleasure in the torture of those that she professed to care for.
Charlotte remembered running away from the graveyard, her panic overwhelming her. Now was not the time to get caught. She still had to see her parents one more time; she was sure of that, but she had no address. The Lake woman would have known; maybe that was why she had not killed her. She would have told her as the knife slid into her.
Yes, that was it, she thought.
She knew that her mind was not as sharp as it had been. Why, when she had killed those men, had she felt nothing, yet with failure she felt guilt? She did not know, and it worried her. Her thoughts were muddled, as were her plans.
She had to leave her accommodation over the pub in the centre of town; find somewhere remote, lie low. She needed her parents. They would look after her, and if they did not, then she knew what to do.
And what of the publican? He had agreed to her price, even though she had plenty of money. That miserable penny-pinching man in High Barnet had had over ten thousand pounds hidden under his bed yet he wanted her to pay on time, and then he had rejected her body.
She would have paid him with that, but he was too stupid to appreciate the offer. Many men had used her; most had paid, some had not, some had died, yet he rejected her, even after she had shown him some of the wares. He had been interested, she knew it. The publican in Newcastle had had no such problems. He had appreciated her ten minutes after showing her the room, even neglecting the patrons downstairs waiting for their pints.
***
Isaac avoided the confrontation with Richard Goddard; he and Sara Marshall were on the train to Newcastle. It was only three hours from King’s Cross; they would arrive by late afternoon.
With Charlotte Hamilton in Newcastle, and the train and bus stations being monitored, they thought there was a good chance of apprehending her. The woman was making mistakes, too many mistakes, and Isaac knew it was only a matter of time. Whether it would be soon enough to maintain his credibility, even his position on the promotion ladder, was too early to know.
Rory Hewitt met them on arrival. Sara had spoken to him before, but this was the first time meeting him in person.
‘Good to see you, Sara.’
‘And you,’ Sara replied.
‘I’ve booked you into the Marriott,’ Rory said. Isaac thought it was outside the department’s budget, but accepted graciously.
‘I’ve scheduled an appointment with Gladys Lake.’
‘Then let’s go. We can check in later,’ Isaac said. He was anxious to get on and to try and apprehend Charlotte Hamilton. He knew how it worked. If he came back with the woman in custody, then his career was back on track, as was Sara’s. If he did not, then he knew the consequence of that as well. However their visit to Newcastle turned out, it was a crucial turning point in the investigation.
A twenty-minute drive and they arrived at Dr Lake’s cottage. A uniform stood outside. Inside, Gladys Lake was relaxed. She was sitting in a chair by the window, a cat on her lap. A policewoman, assigned to stay at the cottage for the next few days, opened the door on their arrival.
‘I’m fine now,’ Gladys Lake said in answer to Isaac’s question. She turned to Sara. ‘Good to meet you after so many years,’ she said.
‘And you, although it’s not the best way to meet.’
‘Do you believe that she intended to kill me?’ Dr Lake asked.
‘You’re an educated woman. It would be wrong to lie to you,’ Isaac said. He had taken a seat on the other side of the small room. An imitation log fire burned in the corner. The cat had left its owner and moved over to him. Isaac was not a great lover of cats, having had asthma as a child that was in part exacerbated by cat fur. This time, he did not push the cat away.
‘If those people had not come into the graveyard, she would have killed me.’
‘It’s probable,’ Isaac said. ‘You will need to be careful for a few days.’
‘I have my patients.’
‘We have
