‘Sometimes I wonder if you’re worth the bother,’ the DCS said.
Isaac sat upright on a chair on one side of Goddard’s desk; his senior sat on the other. The leather chair he sat on looked precarious as he perched on its front edge. The man was angry, Isaac could see that, and if he had been in his position, he would have been as well.
‘What about the commissioner, sir?’ Isaac asked.
‘I don’t know. I’ve spent enough time with that man to know he does not suffer fools gladly, and that is what you are, a fool.’
‘Yes.’
Goddard looked out of the window, unable to look his DCI in the face. He knew what he should do, was reluctant to do it.
‘Make yourself scarce, at least for a few days, and just hope you have a breakthrough.’
‘I will, sir.’
‘Which one do you mean? Making yourself scarce or you’ll have a breakthrough.’
‘Both.’
‘The damage is done. Let’s hope we both survive.’
‘You, sir?’
‘I went out on a limb for you. I told the commissioner you were my best officer and that I had total confidence in you. And yet again you let me down. How many times is this now?’
‘A few.’
‘Damn right. So far, you’ve been involved with an operative from MI5 who probably murdered one of the victims in one of your cases.’
‘Unproven, sir.’
‘And what about Jess O’Neill?’
‘Platonic, until Sutherland’s murderer was arrested.’
‘Charlotte Hamilton’s a good-looking woman. Don’t go sleeping with her.’
‘I’m not a total fool.’
‘Find this female, and fast. I can’t hold off the commissioner for much longer.’
‘The previous commissioner?’
‘Shaw? He’s now in the House of Lords, clothed in ermine. I doubt if there’s much he can do.’
Chapter 21
Isaac’s office felt cold when he returned to it after his dressing down by his boss. Some of the other people in the building had been polite as he descended the two flights of stairs. Others had smiled and then sneered when he was not looking, but he had expected that.
There he was, one of the stars of the Met, the man most likely to make it up to commissioner, the first black man to lead the most respected police force in the world. Those who sneered – he knew their names – were those who resented the idea that someone other than a pure-bred Anglo-Saxon could be allowed to hold the top job.
It had upset Farhan Ahmed, his Pakistan-born former DI. Isaac had told him to develop a thick skin and to brush it off, and now his skin was not as thick as it had been.
Charlotte Hamilton obviously had a fixation on him, as had others, and now he was on her website and the front page of at least two of the major newspapers in the country.
There was to be a press conference that afternoon. For once, Isaac’s parents would not be tuning in to watch him. His attendance was not required, although his name would be on everyone’s lips.
‘My date with a serial killer,’ was the headline in one of the newspapers. The other said, ‘The long arm of the law,’ referring to his arm around Charlotte Hamilton.
Isaac entered his office and closed the door. He sat down, his hands behind his head, his eyes closed.
It was Larry, his DI, who knocked on the door. ‘No point in dwelling on it. We still have a murderer to catch.’
‘What do we know?’ Isaac asked.
‘They could not find the woman after…’
‘After I had been photographed.’
Larry did not answer.
‘We know she moved out of the pub in town,’ Isaac said. ‘Any idea where she went after that?’
‘Not yet. I could go up to Newcastle,’ Larry said.
‘Best if you stay here. Rory Hewitt is a good man, and it’s his part of the world.’
‘Is she returning to London?’
‘It’s impossible to know. There’s unfinished business for her up north. She failed in her bid to kill Gladys Lake, and her parents are targets.’
‘Do they have protection?’
‘Protection, yes. I’m not confident that it is sufficient,’ Isaac said.
‘With Charlotte Hamilton, it’s probably not,’ Larry agreed.
***
Psychotic, crazy thoughts swirled in Charlotte’s mind; thoughts she knew were right, yet were wrong. An intelligent woman, she saw it all so clearly now.
The black police officer had been attractive, and she realised that she liked him, but he wanted her in jail. Her parents wanted her there as well, as did the Lake woman. She had failed there; she had to rectify her mistake, but how?
The authorities were crushing her, as they had when she was a child. Her parents had questioned her over the death of her brother. She had seen the police officer who had taken so much interest in her song that morning in the garden. She had seen the notebook and his writing down of every word. He was older now, and his hair was thinning, but it was the same man. She remembered the song: Stupid Duncan up at the quarry, along came a sister and gave him a push.
She had wanted to sing it for her parents, knowing they would not have liked it, but she did not. They knew of her hatred for her brother, or they should have. It was always him; he was always the favourite.
At Christmas, she had wanted another doll, but they had given her a book. They said she was too
