He was a man who had cherished life, and now faced the ultimate dilemma: the death of his child or that of his wife. It was not a decision he could make, a decision that anyone should be forced to make, and the situation was irresolvable. His daughter was psychotic, mad, and she had killed seven times already. In her twisted mind, the killing of her parents would just be another notch in the belt, he realised.
‘Are you here to kill us?’
At that moment, Charlotte realised the anger in her had subsided. It was if she was back in the village where she had spent three years with Beaty and her cat. She relaxed her guard and embraced her father.
‘Why, Charlotte?’ he asked as he hugged her in return. Tears were streaming down his face. At that moment, he held the loving daughter that they had known before that day: that day when Duncan had died. He pulled back from her, the daughter he loved, the murderer of his son.
‘You don’t love me, you never did,’ she said.
‘We always loved you, but you killed Duncan.’
‘He deserved to die.’
‘But why?’
‘He broke my doll,’ she said. The anger in her eyes had returned. Charles Hamilton was afraid again; afraid for his wife.
‘You cannot stay here,’ he said.
‘This is my home.’
‘The police will return. They will see you.’
‘I can hide.’
‘We still have your doll,’ Charlotte’s father said. If she stayed, he would have to call the authorities; he knew that.
‘I want it.’
‘Wait here, and I’ll get it for you.’
Charles Hamilton went to the other room and picked up his wife’s phone. He pressed speed dial to a prearranged number. The alarm flashed in the police car down the road.
‘You’ve called the police,’ Charlotte screamed. Her mother appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘Go back, Fiona. Lock yourself in your room.’
Charlotte came forward, a knife in her hand. She was ready to kill her father.
‘You bastard. I killed Duncan, the irritating little fool. Now I will kill you.’
The father, desperate to protect his wife, unable to kill his daughter, grabbed a vase holding some flowers and hit her across the head. Charlotte, momentarily stunned, fell back against the door separating the main room from the kitchen. Her father rushed forward to restrain her, receiving a slash across the face from a stiletto knife. He pulled back; the police car drew closer.
Regaining her senses, Charlotte retreated out through the back door and into the cold weather. She had not picked up her coat. Charles Hamilton could see her running up the hill, her warm breath visible in the almost freezing air.
The police car arrived. ‘Backups are coming,’ the police officer behind the wheel said.
‘Anyone injured?’ he asked.
‘We are fine.’
‘Your daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Unconscious in the kitchen.’ Charles Hamilton lied. He could not kill his daughter, nor could he allow her to be caught. He knew he was wrong, and that it was a decision he would have to live with for the rest of his life.
***
Charlotte Hamilton reached the car; she was out of breath. She started the car and drove off at speed. The car had a full tank of fuel, sufficient for where she was going.
Rory Hewitt arrived at the cottage within forty minutes. ‘Where is she?’ he asked Charles Hamilton.
‘She must have regained consciousness and left.’
Rory Hewitt knew that he had lied, but then what would he have done in a similar situation?
‘Your wife?’
‘I gave her a sedative. In her condition, she may not survive.’
‘What do you mean? Has she been harmed?’
‘No. She’s let herself go, and now with Charlotte having been here, the stress may be too much.’
‘She should be in the hospital.’
‘An ambulance is coming.’
The team in London were notified of developments. Isaac had been trying to deal with paperwork but failing miserably as the situation with the photo in Newcastle continued to bother him.
Wendy had tried to buck him up, but with little success.
Sara Marshall was in the car and heading over to Challis Street as soon as Rory Hewitt had phoned her. She arrived in the office puffing, as she had run up the stairs. ‘She’s making mistakes. We’ll have her soon.’
‘Where is she now?’ Larry asked.
‘They’re looking for her. She cannot have got far. It’s remote up there.’
‘Never assume anything with this woman,’ Isaac said. ‘The moment you believe she’s cornered, she disappears, and the next time we find her, there’s a dead body.’
‘She just missed out on 8 and 9,’ Sara said.
‘Dr Lake. Is she safe?’ Isaac asked.
‘DI Hewitt has removed her to a safe location, regardless of the woman’s protestations.’
‘Charlotte Hamilton’s coming back here,’ Larry said.
‘That may be, but where and when and who will she target this time?’ Isaac asked.
‘You may need protection, sir,’ Wendy said.
‘I will, as well,’ Sara said.
***
Charlotte drove ten miles before realising the stolen car had probably been reported to the police. She had to dump it. All she had now was her backpack; it still contained her laptop and a change of clothes. It was clear she could not return to Newcastle. Instead, she drove to a small town in County Durham; she remembered she had an aunt there, although she would not be visiting.
From there she was sure she could take local buses and trains until she reached her destination. Her episodes of paranoia were increasing in their frequency and their intensity, but in her lucid moments she could feel tenderness for her parents, sorrow that her father had rejected her.
She knew that her time was drawing to a close, yet there was unfinished business. The Lake woman had deserved to die, but somehow she had
