Daddy's Girls
Page 1
By Sarah Flint
Mummy’s Favourite
The Trophy Taker
Liar Liar
Broken Dolls
Daddy’s Girls
Daddy’s Girls
Sarah Flint
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Sarah Flint, 2019
The moral right of Sarah Flint to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788547949
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue: April 2017
Chapter 1: Monday 23 April 2018
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37: Three weeks later
Chapter 38
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Become an Aria Addict
To all the staff working in the NHS and especially at the Royal Marsden hospitals in Chelsea and Sutton, whose tireless determination to do their best for their patients is second to none.
Prologue
April 2017
It hadn’t always been like this.
Gazing at Catherine’s coffin, something deep inside his gut snapped. As his wife’s body was lowered down into the earth and the straps that held it in place were withdrawn, so Thomas Houghton knew that everything had changed. His wife was dead. He was dead. Everything around him was dead. His life was in free fall.
A gentle wind rustled the leaves of the watching trees, sending whispers of discord to his ears as he eyed those gathered at the graveside: his daughter, his parents, his grandmother – four generations of family in total, all of whom had been powerless to stop the onslaught of his wife’s disease.
The vicar was chanting a prayer as the coffin was laid to rest. Thomas heard his daughter, Emma, stifle a sob next to him, but he remained still, his mind dulled by blame and accusations, the heaviness of his heart preventing his movement. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to gaze down at Catherine’s cheap wooden coffin. He couldn’t throw earth. He couldn’t throw flowers. He couldn’t even offer comfort to their only daughter.
Anger bubbled up in his throat, threatening to overwhelm him, and his eyes flew open, his gaze switching wildly from face to face. He could stay no longer. It was time to go. He swivelled on his feet, shoving his hands deep into his trouser pockets, ignoring the plea on his daughter’s face.
Time to go; that had been he and his wife’s special phrase. They had been the words that had bound them together – those three words slipping from Catherine’s lips when it was time for them to be wed, time for them to leave for the hospital for his daughter’s birth… time for Catherine to die. Time to go, said with a smile on her lips, their phrase demanding he put his hands in his pockets and give a mischievous shrug of his shoulders. Now those same words were demanding his exit.
A dozen heads turned to watch his hurried departure, but he ignored the unvoiced criticism. All he cared about was escaping.
Rage filled his whole body; it filled his head and it filled his soul. The cords that had held his fragile mind intact were gone. Anger would guide his movements. As his legs sped him towards Jason and the crack house, Thomas Houghton knew, without doubt, that he was heading to where his destiny lay… and he couldn’t now be held responsible for any of his future actions.
1
Monday 23 April 2018
The 249 bus crawled slowly up the hill towards Crown Point, its brakes hissing with displeasure as it pulled to a halt several bus stops from the top.
Florence Briarly gathered up her shopping bags and prepared to dismount, staring with glee from the window at the view across Streatham Common and out towards the most southerly parts of London. The sun was bright, its reflection bouncing between the glass-fronted office blocks in the nearby mini-metropolis of Croydon, each dark towering shape brilliantly silhouetted against the azure sky. The sight was one from which she would never tire.
At the next stop, she moved gingerly towards the door, clinging hard to the grips at the top of each seat with every step that she took, consciously waiting for the final jolt that signalled the bus was at last stationary. Her fingers shook with the effort and her legs bowed with the exertion of stepping down the two steep metal stairs on to the road below.
The bus was rarely busy between school times, and apart from a few passengers who had left along her journey, there were only two other people on board: a silver-haired, outwardly respectable lady of a similar age to her and a man in his mid-forties with a red inkblot style birthmark on his forehead. They would be kept waiting until she dismounted, so she tried to be quick.
Once on the pavement, she placed her two small shopping bags down and waved her thanks towards the driver. It wasn’t their usual driver. This driver was a woman, a little less aware of customer satisfaction and a little more focused on adhering to the timetable maybe, but Florence liked to be polite. Good manners were still as important now as when they’d been instilled in her by her Victorian mother.
She thought of her usual driver, always full of cheery words and a welcome smile, well-liked amongst the local residents of Streatham and Crystal Palace. He was a love though. On one occasion he had even dismounted from the driver’s cab to assist her on to the bus, his strong hands guiding her frail figure to one of the nearest seats saved for the elderly.
The bus was pulling away now as she started to shuffle up the road, her hip jarring with each step taken. The bags were light, only a few single pieces of fruit, some cereal and a packet of teabags, the outing being more an excuse to leave the confines of her house and speak to people really. There were a few flags fluttering outside houses, the red crosses signifying St George’s Day, bringing back patriotic memories of wartime Britain. Her hip tweaked again, reinforcing the fact she was old enough to remember. Still, it wasn’t far to go, thankfully. Just across the footpath at the top of the common, past The Rookery cafe and then a few houses
into the street that bordered the woods.
Her neighbour was bent over, tending to his front garden as she approached. He straightened and rubbed the base of his back, squeezing his eyes shut briefly.
‘Good morning Flo,’ he smiled warmly towards the old lady. ‘It’s good to see you out and about. How’s the hip replacement doing?’
‘I can’t complain, George.’ She never complained. Flo nodded towards a clump of colourful wallflowers. ‘Anyway, it gets me out in the sunshine to admire your gardening prowess, especially as it’s the day named in your honour – St George’s Day.’ She chuckled as her friend shook his head with a grin, leaning across to get her balance on the gate. George had lost his wife two years after she had lost Alf. The four of them had been great friends and more than one member of her family and other acquaintances had commented on their possible pairing… but it had never happened, for no other reason than it didn’t seem right.
She returned his smile, winking cheekily. Florence Briarly might have an ingrained sense of propriety, but she wasn’t too stuffy to tease and she certainly would never forego the opportunity to have some fun with George, even if that meant a gentle flirtation with her neighbour… along with the odd game of whist or scrabble. They were as close to being a couple as was possible, without actually being a couple and although she was sure that her Alf and his Jeanie wouldn’t have minded, to blur the lines of their previous friendships still seemed like a breach of both etiquette and trust.
They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes before arranging their next social. Tomorrow afternoon George would join her, Nick Hewer, Rachel Riley and Susie Dent for a game of Countdown, washed down with tea and cake. Tomorrow they would meet as they had done for years to pit their wits and knowledge against each other. Tomorrow the two old friends would be companions, providing solace against the inevitable solitude of living alone.
Flo watched as George bent and snipped a single daffodil from a clump of growing spring bulbs and held it out towards her. She shook her head in mock rebuke but took the flower, smiling with pleasure, before saying her goodbyes and hobbling off with the delicate yellow bloom held carefully between the handles of her bags. He was an old fool, but she would be looking forward to the next day now.
As she made her way two doors further along the road and in through her incurably squeaky wooden gate, little did she know that two eyes were following her every footstep. Even less did she realise that her every movement was being carefully scrutinised as she turned her worn Yale key in the only lock on the front door and pushed it open.
As she entered the warmth and homeliness of the house she’d shared with Alf for all those years and closed the door shut behind her, she had no idea that her own game of Countdown had just begun.
*
It was dark when the man returned.
The man liked darkness. He liked the anonymity it provided. He had worked in darkness many times in the early years of his career and was at home in its obscurity. On one occasion, many years before, he had heard a politician being described on the TV as ‘having something of the night’ about him and the phrase had stuck in his head. It fitted him. It was him. There had always been something dark inside him that he had never been able to truly control. At times it had emerged, unbidden, but he had never been able to allow it free rein… until more recently.
He slipped into the bushes, retracing his previous route along the footpaths of the common until he came to a small, cramped spot of flattened foliage, right opposite the old woman’s house. It was perfect. In fact, the whole area was perfect. Streatham Common was a well-known location for the anonymous liaisons of gay men, so it was criss-crossed by walkways, some wide, some only lightly trodden, with small, circular patches where the shrubs had been compressed flat by the weekends’ illicit activities. Tonight, however, being a Monday, the common was quiet, as were the residential streets that bordered it, few cars other than those belonging to residents requiring access.
With gloved hands, the man carefully unfolded a square of waterproof sheeting, spread it out on top of the trodden leaves and crouched down on it, watching and listening at all times – but nothing stirred. Idly, he ran his fingers through his rucksack, double-checking that all his tools were in their correct places, cleaned and sharpened, ready to cut wires, score through putty, slip locks; if necessary keep control. He couldn’t risk making any mistakes. He was too good for that.
The old woman’s details were already seared into his memory. She was called Florence Briarly; he’d seen it on discarded correspondence. She was eighty-two years of age, subscribed to several charities and on the whole wasn’t taken in by junk mail, most being thrown away unopened. He knew all of this because he’d been there before, during daylight hours, as well as under cover of darkness, scoping out her house, checking the bins and memorising her night-time rituals.
She was a typical pensioner: she entertained only a handful of daytime visitors and spent evenings alone with just her TV for company. She got up at the same time every morning and she went to bed at the same time every night. She tended to shop and complete her chores in the mornings, took a short nap after lunch and entertained most visitors in the afternoon, before having tea at around 6 p.m. She chose not to drive, so if not being picked up would usually catch a bus. She did not appear to have a mobile phone and had little use for technology. A landline and TV were clearly all she needed, and that was all she had.
He allowed himself a smile of anticipation. She was perfect for what he wanted – and what he really wanted was conversation, a chance to get to know the real Florence Briarly. He loved the elderly. They held memories he loved to hear.
A light still shone from the downstairs window but soon it would begin its movement upwards, the meagre glow lighting her way up the stairs, onto the landing and into her bedroom. Old people were slaves to routine and Florence Briarly was no exception.
He checked his watch and made himself more comfortable, lying on the waterproof sheet and pulling the hood of his jacket tighter around his head, leaving only a small hole through which to peer. Even though the sun had been warm, now it was night, the chill dampness of the woodland seeped into his bones – but he didn’t care. He had spent many an hour rooted unmoving to a single spot in his youth. Doing so again only served to heighten the experience.
The hands of his watch glowed luminous in the light of the copse. It was two minutes to ten. Two minutes to wait before she would mount the stairs, slip into her nightdress and climb into bed. He felt his pulse quicken at the thought and his hands pulled subconsciously at the bag, reaching in and pulling out the mask.
The time clicked forward onto ten o’clock, just as the downstairs light clicked off. He imagined the old woman grasping the handrails and pulling her frail body up the stairs. He visualised her bedtime routine: cleaning her face, her teeth, her body, and a long fleece dressing gown pulled tightly around her fragile ribcage.
It would be a few more hours until he dare go to her. He would have to remain hidden until she was deeply asleep and her neighbours’ houses had descended into darkness. He closed his eyes and pulled the mask over his face, letting his warm, moist breath fill the space between his skin and the latex. This was the part he loved. The wait was exhilarating. The wait heightened every sense in his body. It made him feel alive.
Would she answer his questions and speak? Or would she stay disappointingly mute? Would she do everything he asked? Or would she spoil his musings? He hoped she wouldn’t make him angry.
What he did know though, and what he concentrated on now, as he lay savouring the texture of the air in the mask, was that very soon Florence Briarly would be safely tucked up in bed. Very soon her breathing would become shallow, her mouth would fall open and her eyes close sleepily… and just as she was in her deepest, sleepiest state of relaxation, he would creep up her stairs and make her acquaintance.
*
For some reason, Florence Briarly felt unsettled. She di
dn’t know the cause of her unease, but the feeling had settled on her as she climbed the stairs to bed that night and it had stayed with her ever since.
Sleep had been intermittent as a result – one minute relaxing into slumber and the next wide awake, her limbs tense and her brain running through everything that had happened that day. Had she watched something on television that had brought with it unforeseen alarm? The daily news bulletins were full of inhumanity and death. Even the nightly menu of her favourite soaps was darker and more dramatic than in years gone by. Maybe she’d eaten something that had disagreed? Perhaps even the shopping trip had taken more out of her than she’d thought. The strain of the walk and bus ride was harder than ever these days, but she was loath to stop it, even though her daughter worried about the chance of her falling. Once she stopped making the effort, she sensed that the walls of her house would close in on her and her life would shrink inwards until eventually suffocating her in its cosy isolation.
She’d seen it happen to friends and she was dammed if she would let it happen to her. The thought impinged on her sleep again and she realised that the whole of her body was rigid with worry, her brows creased deeply in consternation. She made a conscious effort to relax, shifting on to her other side and concentrating on recalling instead the good news of the new Royal baby, born to William and Kate, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, along with an earlier documentary on the most common garden creatures.
The noise of leaves crunching below the window outside forced her eyes open. She closed them again with a weary sigh. Even the memory of hedgehogs and field mice filmed snuffling amongst the leaves was failing to dull her already vivid imagination. The carriage clock next to her bed ticked gently on.
A sharp snap sounded, not too loud but still distinct. She opened her eyes, staring into the darkness, listening for more sounds, her heart beat quickening. There was nothing to worry about; it was just the same nocturnal animal stepping on a twig.