‘You had your arm around her.’
‘I was asked by a group of women partying in the hotel; it was late at night. I believe that I acted correctly when approached to take a photo of them.’
‘Brent MacDonald, BBC. It is apparent that this woman is making a mockery of the police.’
‘That is not the case,’ Richard Goddard replied.
‘The question was directed at DCI Cook,’ MacDonald said.
The conference was not going well.
‘I believe that she made a mockery of me, not the police force,’ Isaac replied, aware that the best defence was to divert the blame, confuse the audience.
‘Are you saying you are incompetent?’
‘Not at all. Let me ask you, Mr MacDonald. What would you have done if you had been asked to take some photos?’
‘I would have refused.’ Isaac knew the man was a miserable sod and he had given a truthful answer.
‘Detective Chief Superintendent, do you have confidence in DCI Cook’s ability to bring this woman to justice?’
‘I have total confidence,’ Goddard replied.
‘After six murders?’ Brent McDonald persisted, aiming to evoke a response from Richard Goddard. The murder of Duncan Hamilton was generally not known about, and the official count stood at six, not seven.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Cook has an impeccable record. He will apprehend this woman soon.’
‘And where is she now?’
‘She was last seen in Newcastle.’
‘With your inspector’s arm around her. It’s a shame it wasn’t handcuffs. Although with the incompetence of the police, DCI Cook would have been cuffed to a radiator.’
The room burst into laughter. Only two faces remained impassive.
‘That is an ill-founded assertion,’ Goddard said.
‘You’re wasting your time with this lot,’ Isaac whispered to him. ‘It would be better to wrap it up.’
Richard Goddard took his DCI’s advice. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, let me assure you that we are working hard to find this woman and detain her. You will need to excuse us.’
Both of the police officers beat a hasty retreat.
‘Disaster, sir,’ Isaac said.
‘Unmitigated.’ Goddard’s monosyllabic response.
Chapter 22
Charlotte Hamilton had remembered the area that her parents had liked. It was pure chance that she had seen them that day. She could see that her mother was looking older, although her father, always the fitter of the two, had not changed.
She felt some compassion on seeing them; almost had wanted to rush up and throw her hands around them. Her love for them had been unconditional, but it was never returned, only given to her brother, her dead brother, squashed like a melon at the bottom of a quarry. She smiled at the thought of it.
It had not been difficult to find out where they lived from the overly talkative woman at the supermarket. ‘We never see them here,’ the lady had said. ‘It’s a sad story.’
‘Where do they live?’
‘Up the road, about five miles. There’s a road off to the left, go up there until you see a small cottage. You can’t miss it.’
Charlotte left the supermarket and found a car that had been left with its engine running. She got in and drove off.
The road was easy to find. As she drove along it, she saw a police car off to one side. The officer was talking on his mobile.
It was clear that reaching the cottage unseen was not possible by road, as her car would be visible from where the police car was parked. Two miles further on, she pulled the car off to one side. It was higher up the side of the hill, and the road had snaked back on itself. Down below, not more than five hundred yards away, she could see the cottage, with smoke billowing out of the chimney. It looked picture perfect to her.
There was a gate to a field. She opened it and drove the car through, parking so that it was hidden from the road. The wind was bitterly cold, but she had brought warm clothes. Satisfied that no one would see her, she walked down through the fields to the house. As she got nearer, she saw the car that she had seen at the supermarket. It was the right place.
Through the small window at the rear of the cottage she could see her father. Her mother was not visible.
Crouching down, she edged along the wall outside. The weather was getting colder, and she could feel herself shaking. She ignored her discomfort and continued to edge forward.
The door, she could see, was secured by a latch. She lifted it gently. It opened, and she entered the cottage. Her father was in the other room. It was warmer inside than out, and she removed her coat.
‘Father,’ she murmured.
‘Charlotte!’ her father exclaimed. He put down the cup that he was holding. ‘What are you doing here?’ He wanted to call the police but knew he could not. His mobile phone was on the table behind his daughter, a person who he had not seen for five years. A person that he loved, hated, loved. A person who had come to kill him and her mother.
‘How’s mother?’ Charlotte asked.
‘She’s not well.’
‘I want to see her.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I needed to see you one more time before…’
‘Before what?’ Her father cut her conversation short. He had to admit she had changed. She had been blonde with a beautiful face the last time he had seen her. From what he could see, she had dark, shoulder-length hair, and the complexion that had been perfect was now blotchy. He could see the anger in her eyes, and hear the venom in her speech. She knew why she was there; he knew what he had to do. But could he? Could he kill his own daughter in cold blood to
