After the events at the Hamiltons’ cottage, the local police had searched for Charlotte Hamilton. The car found further south indicated that she had returned to London, although that had not been confirmed.
A local bus driver in Consett thought he remembered a woman matching the description, but he had not been sure. After that, no further sightings.
***
An unpleasant, dishevelled man with bad breath and body odour was not what Charlotte Hamilton wanted to see on her return to London, but he offered anonymity, no questions asked. ‘It’s not much, but you can have it for twenty pounds a night,’ he said.
She had not wanted to enter the building located to the east of the city of London, but her options were few. She knew that she could afford the best hotel in the city, but the police would be everywhere.
‘It’s fine. It’s been a long trip.’ The room was worth no more than ten, but Charlotte realised that the chances of being discovered were slim. It was clear that the local prostitutes brought men there, took their money, and then kicked them out of the door. The room still had the smell of cheap perfume and sweating men, even without the man who had shown her in. He had looked her up and down, imagined her naked. She knew what he deserved but lucidity had kicked in again, and she realised the cards were stacked against her. She knew she had to complete her task, yet she had not decided how.
The events in the north of the country had shaken her. No longer the success she’d had before, and the way forward was unclear. Random killings seemed to offer no satisfaction, although targeted ones still did, but when, and how?
And now she was back in London and time was running out.
Not sure where to go, Charlotte wandered the streets without purpose. Her hair was now red, her skin complexion two shades darker due to tanning cream. No longer wearing the mini skirt and the tight top that had so enticed Dennis Goldman, she was now dressed dowdily, courtesy of a shop selling old clothes for some charity or other. Conditioned as she was to disguise herself, she slouched and ambled, indicative of an older woman; she was pleased with the result.
With no purpose and no direction, subconsciously she revisited old haunts. She saw where she had killed Gregory Chalmers, even the window of the bedroom where he had first seduced her. She thought back to that night when he had taken delight in making love to her on the marital bed. In the small garden at the front, she could see the two children playing; children that she had loved as if they were her own. Stephanie Chalmers had come to the downstairs window to call them in for a meal. Charlotte could only reflect that they had been happy times, and if it had been her at the window instead of Stephanie, she could have been happy. She knew she would have been a better mother than Stephanie: always worrying about her business and whether it was a good week or bad, instead of focussing on little Billy and his sister.
She could see that the children were grown, almost at her height, especially Billy. She had been sorry that she had attacked their mother that night, but now she was sorry that she had not completed the job. Charlotte’s mind was whirring, aiming to make sense of all that had transpired, seeing it all clearly, confused at the same time.
She thought about knocking on the door and pretending to be an old woman down on her luck, but she decided against it.
She had ambled past the police station in Twickenham, and seen the policewoman, Detective Inspector Sara Stanforth, now Sara Marshall. A woman who had hunted her, now married, maybe with a child, and yet she, Charlotte Hamilton, was alone and unloved and childless.
She had seen the man in Challis Street who had put his strong arm around her in Newcastle. She knew she wanted him. She wondered if it was still possible; were her disguises good enough to fool him. A dowdy old woman wearing clothes that smelt of moth balls would not succeed, although if she dressed young and seductively, then maybe she would.
Chapter 24
Newcastle Station was a foreboding sight as Gladys Lake walked through the concourse. Time had moved on since her encounter with Charlotte in the graveyard, although she took the advice of Detective Inspector Rory Hewitt and shortened her stay in London from three nights to two, which explained why she was taking the early train.
Rory Hewitt’s argument had been cogent, in that Charlotte had been identified at King’s Cross Station. Not that it helped as it had taken a check of two days’ worth of security videos before she had been found and by then the woman had vanished. But she was in London, no one was in any doubt of that one fact, and now Gladys Lake was entering the lair of a desperate woman. A woman who had failed in her first attempt to kill her. Gladys Lake did not need Rory Hewitt or a criminal psychologist to tell her that. She knew full well what Charlotte Hamilton was capable of. After all, she had seen her in the graveyard.
The train pulled out of Newcastle Station at six in the morning for the three-hour trip to London.
With Gladys Lake leaving Newcastle, Police Sergeant Liz Castle had been relieved of guard duty. A policeman would take over in London.
‘Look out for Police Constable Rob Grantham on your arrival. You have his phone number, and please, whatever you do,
