Larry confirmed Isaac’s suspicions. ‘I could do with a good plate of steak and chips.’
‘Why don’t you?’ Isaac asked.
‘My wife’s right, of course,’ Larry admitted, ‘although it doesn’t help with the hours we work.’ Isaac said no more; he understood. Jess O’Neill, before she moved out of his place, had been keen on eating properly, so much so that he had tried to modify his eating habits of grabbing a bite here and there, and to wait until he was home with her. On some occasions that was very late at night, as both were busy people with demanding jobs.
Sara Marshall and Sean O’Riordan were both present, as was Bridget, who continued to do a sterling job dealing with the paperwork, assisting Isaac with his when she could.
‘Any luck?’ Isaac asked, looking over in the direction of Sara and Sean. Sara was looking worried.
‘Not really,’ Sara said. ‘We know she’s in London somewhere.’
‘Apart from picking her up on camera at King’s Cross, she’s not been seen since,’ Isaac said.
‘She could hardly go back to Newcastle,’ Sean said. ‘Rory Hewitt and his team would have apprehended her if she had.’
‘Are you joking?’ Larry said. ‘Why should they have any more luck than us? Besides, she updated on social media that she was coming to London.’
‘And we trust her to be truthful?’ Isaac interjected.
‘She has unfinished business,’ Sara reminded the team.
‘Gladys Lake?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you, sir,’ Wendy reminded Isaac.
Isaac, usually a mild-mannered man, was becoming frustrated. Apart from Larry consuming the biscuits, he couldn’t see what they were achieving. Charlotte Hamilton continued to intrigue the media, although she had not killed for some time, and each time police ineptitude was implied, and on more than one occasion referred to overtly. His name had been mentioned more times than he appreciated, and whereas he had achieved some degree of celebrity, and someone had once said that any publicity was good, it didn’t ring true in his case. He had become accustomed to reading accolades about himself, receiving phone calls from Richard Goddard congratulating him on excellent policing, even from the commissioner, the head of the Met, on one occasion. But now every phone call from a superior asked the same questions: when will there be an arrest, what are you doing to find this woman? Isaac realised there was one question being asked amongst his superiors: Is DCI Cook up to the task or should he be relieved of command?
He felt sure that Goddard would protect him; after all, he had ensured that Isaac was on the promotion ladder, and he had protected him well enough in the past. However, his DCS was a political animal, and he was not going to allow his career to be hindered by defending the indefensible.
***
Charlotte Hamilton, safely ensconced in her room at the flea-bitten accommodation she had found, sat on her bed. Her mood was ebullient, even if her life was in tatters.
She quietly sang a song: stupid Duncan up at the quarry, along came a sister and gave him a push. Although now she had another verse: the black policeman thought he was smart until I stuck a knife in his heart.
The melodious singing was interrupted by the sound of a jackhammer on the road outside. She looked around the room. It wasn’t much for someone who had close to ten thousand pounds in her backpack.
A night in a good hotel will do me good, she thought. Maybe the hotel where the Lake bitch is staying. So much easier to deal with her if I am close.
She opened her bag and took out the clothes she needed: an old woollen skirt she had purchased in a charity shop, a blue jumper, some sensible black shoes, a brunette wig. She changed, applied makeup to age her face, and walked out of the door.
‘The bastard can wait for his money,’ she said under her breath. She still owed for two nights’ accommodation, but she had no intention of coming back to pay. It was a five-minute walk to the train, although she made it in four. As the train rattled towards its final destination, she looked round the carriage. If only they knew who was on the train, she thought.
Virtually everyone was looking at their smartphones; some had iPads, but only one person had a newspaper. Even from where she was sitting, she could see a reference to her on the front page, as well as a picture of two men at a press conference. She recognised one, his black complexion unmistakable. A woman to one side of her looked at her for a while and looked away. Maybe the woman recognised her, she thought, but discounted it. Charlotte knew her ability to disguise herself was excellent, and that she would have no problems checking into Gladys Lake’s hotel.
Thirty minutes later, Charlotte left the train at King’s Cross and walked down Euston Road, heading for the hotel, and the woman who remained her main focus. An attentive receptionist at the St Pancras Renaissance Hotel signed her in, although she had used a false name and address. She paid in advance with cash and asked for the minibar to be emptied. Even so, she had taken a step back when she saw Inspector Sara Marshall sitting in the foyer drinking coffee. Charlotte felt for the knife in her pocket, resisting the urge to move closer and to insert it into the police officer’s chest, as she realised that her carefully constructed plan would then be in shreds. She had already
