Daddy's Girls

by Sarah Flint

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Hunter stepped in, reaching across to shake the shopkeepers’ hands. ‘You’ve been of great help, but please don’t worry yourselves any further. We can deal with this from now on.’

  *

  ‘Amy Briarly phoned while you were gone,’ Bet called across to Hunter and Charlie as they walked back into the office. ‘She identified her mother’s body with her Family Liaison Officer before the post-mortem and she’s since been informed of the cause of death, but she wanted to specifically talk to one of you about the investigation. She’s given me a new number you can use.’

  ‘You phone her, Charlie,’ Hunter was already heading to the DCI’s office. ‘I’ll start getting authorisation for tomorrow morning’s operation.’

  Charlie punched Amy’s phone number into her work mobile and waited for her to answer. At least they had something positive to talk about, although she wouldn’t be able to go into specifics.

  The phone was answered almost immediately and Amy’s voice came on the line, sounding crisp and no-nonsense. ‘Hello, Amy Briarly speaking.’

  ‘Hello Amy, it’s DC Charlie Stafford here. We spoke at your mother’s house yesterday. Thank you for doing the identification this morning.’

  There was a brief pause before Amy came back on the line. ‘It was good to get the chance to see her, even if I was unable to spend any time with her or even to hold her hand.’ Her voice wavered unsteadily and she paused again before continuing. ‘But I do understand the reasons obviously, even though I don’t like them.’

  ‘I presume they’ve told you that you will have time to be with your mother now the post-mortem has been completed.’

  ‘Yes they have, thank you, but it’s been hard having to wait.’

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry. The cogs of justice turn slowly, as I’m sure you know, but it’s better that we get everything done properly to give us every chance of catching your mother’s killer.’

  There was another long pause and Charlie wondered for a second whether she’d somehow spoken out of turn mentioning the tardiness of the system. Just as she was about to apologise, Amy spoke up.

  ‘It’s made me think that perhaps I haven’t always listened as much as I should have to the victim’s point of view, working for the defence as I have, all these years.’ She sighed audibly. ‘But as I am now to be classed as a victim, or a victim’s relative at least, I want to be an active one who fights for justice, not a passive one who sits back and hopes for the best.

  ‘I know this might sound strange, coming so soon after my mother’s murder.’ Her voice caught as she said the word, and she paused again briefly, clearing her throat before continuing. ‘But my mother always taught me to fight for what you think is right. She was always stoical and refused to be beaten. It’s what they had to do in the war, so she said. I imagine that is what may have ultimately led to her death…’ She swallowed again. ‘But I can’t think of that now. I will have plenty of time to think of that when her killer is caught, and that is what I aim to help you with, in any way possible.’

  Charlie’s thoughts were drawn in that instant to Maryanne Hepworth’s words spoken in a similar vein of fierce determination.

  ‘So I have allowed contact from one of the local newspapers and I have answered calls from some of the nationals. I’ve had plenty of interest on my old phone number. As far as I am concerned, my mother’s murder cannot go unnoticed. It can’t be buried in the list of other violent crimes that rarely stay in the news for more than one day before being forgotten. I aim to raise its profile as high as I can.

  ‘So, later today I have agreed to be interviewed so that the crime against my mother is highlighted on the main TV news. George Cosgrove too. He is eager to assist and is exactly the sort of person that will be forced to live in fear if my mother’s killer is not caught quickly.’

  She stopped briefly, but then continued.

  ‘I want everybody in the area to be aware of what is happening and to keep an eye out for their elderly neighbours and report anything that they believe is suspicious. I want this man flushed out into the open so that he makes a mistake.’

  She stopped. Charlie was tempted to tell her to wait, that they had a suspect that they would be trying to arrest the following morning, but she guessed the Family Liaison Officer would have already cautioned her against too much publicity too soon. And if it was something that Amy Briarly really needed to do for her own peace of mind, then they couldn’t stop her. In any case, what harm could come of it? As Amy had already intimated, their suspect, be it the man with the inkblot birthmark, or any other as yet unidentified, might be tempted into making a mistake.

  As the pause lengthened, Charlie realised that Amy seemed to be waiting for a response. She thought of the conversation they’d just had at TFL and at the tobacconists. Maybe the man with the inkblot stain had already made his mistake in the fact that they were close to getting him identified.

  ‘And when he does,’ Charlie replied, returning to Amy’s last comment and not letting on anything more about the impending operation, ‘we’ll be there to arrest him.’

  12

  The reception at Jason’s flat that evening was less than enthusiastic.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you were playing at, threatening me like that, Tommy?’ Jason’s tone was low and menacing, pressing the point of a kitchen knife hard against his stomach. ‘If you ever come round here and pull a stunt like that again, I’ll rip your fucking tongue out.’

  Thomas said nothing – and he didn’t try to escape from the neck-hold in which Jason had him restrained. Better to do exactly as his dealer said this time. He sucked in his breath as Jason pushed the knife a little harder, the tip piercing his skin painfully.

  ‘Do you understand?’ Jason leant in close, patting him down roughly and whispering loud enough for the assembled audience to catch every word. There was no messing with Jason and it was a lesson they all did well to remember. If you threw your weight around with your dealer, you paid the price. He still had a lot to learn.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jason. I won’t do it again,’ he stammered, thankful that he’d paid heed to the warning bells in his head and thought to leave the kitchen knife in his old Honda Civic parked up below.

  ‘Too right you won’t do it again. You know what will fucking happen if you do.’ Jason released his grip as swiftly as he’d taken hold and pushed him to one side, staring menacingly at each of the onlookers in turn to reinforce his threat. He’d made his point, quite literally.

  Thomas sank down silently on to a chair. His stomach was leaching out a small amount of blood, but holding his T-shirt against it firmly stemmed the flow. Ebony, Ivory and Silver, who had been watching the action, stared across towards where he sat, speaking in hushed tones to one another.

  ‘So now it’s payback time.’ Jason was addressing him again. ‘In a few hours, you will be going with Rocky, my new minder here, to do a proper job.’

  Thomas looked to where Jason was nodding, noticing the same young black boy who’d been asleep the previous evening. The boy was awake now and watching with amusement. He was about nineteen years old, with a shaven head and lazy grin. A gold tooth glinted from his open mouth, complementing the thick gold chain round his neck and the set of rings that adorned each finger. He wore his jeans loose, with the top of his boxers tucked over the waistband, and his chest naked. His torso was well-defined with a tight stomach and biceps that strained to break free from his skin.

  ‘Rocky will be your guide tonight,’ Jason continued seriously. ‘He’ll make sure you do what you’re told, won’t you now?’ He swung round and grinned towards the boy and Rocky winked in reply, eliciting a further chuckle from his dealer. ‘And just in case you weren’t sure, Rocky. This is Tommy who I was telling you about.’ Jason put his finger to his head and twisted it. ‘He’s the mad son of a bitch who thinks his wife has just risen from the dead. He’s also a bit slow when it comes to stumping up cash. He needs a bit of g
uidance!’

  They exchanged a glance and laughed.

  Thomas bristled at the mention of Catherine but knew better than to remonstrate. Now was not the time to rile his dealer any further. He would need Jason on side if his plan was to come to fruition.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he said instead.

  ‘There’s a convenience shop on Streatham High Road that Rocky has noticed is just ripe for screwing.’ Jason pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. ‘The only alarms are on the doors and there’re no obvious cameras, apart from the council ones on the roadway at the front. It’s got an empty flat above it with a broken window and easy access at the rear. Get in and you can kick the ceiling through. It’s only plasterboard, apparently. Once you’ve made a hole, you can drop straight down into the shop and bingo. There’s booze, fags, probably a bit of cash in the till, even a few dirty mags if that’s what takes your fancy. Fill your boots, but remember you owe me.’ Jason ran his finger along the handle of the knife which was now protruding from the waistband of his jeans. ‘You need to prove you’re worth a second chance.’

  ‘I won’t let you down, you’ll see.’ Thomas stood up as if to show willing.

  As if on cue, Rocky stretched and got to his feet too. He sauntered over, leaning in so close to Thomas that he could smell the stale sweat from his body and the stench of cannabis smoke on his breath.

  ‘You’d better not,’ the boy drawled, drawing his fingers into the shape of a gun and holding them to Thomas’s head. ‘I don’t like having to tell the boss we’ve cocked up. You get me?’

  *

  All the ‘i’s had been dotted and the ‘t’s crossed on the briefing for the next morning’s operation to detain the ‘inkblot man’, when Charlie eventually stood up to leave the office. The only remaining thing to do before heading round to Ben’s was to update the control room, but she was weary. At every passing hour with no contact, a sense of impending doom had settled on her shoulders, but she had remained tight-lipped about the situation, stubbornly ignoring Hunter’s worried glances and more overt comments from Paul on her lack of humour.

  The TV was on in the control room as she walked in, the late-night newscaster finishing an article on how the Brexit negotiations appeared to be stalled, again. She sighed in frustration, tired of the daily ups and downs of the whole seemingly endless procedure. One day, perhaps, the inhabitants of the Houses of Parliament might actually work together for the sake of the country, rather than tearing it apart even further with their party politics.

  The screen flicked suddenly to the site of a police cordon and she realised with a start that it was the crime scene at Florence Briarly’s house. The address was still in the process of being examined, although the SOCOs had nearly finished their task. A report detailed the events of the murder and the fact that no arrests had yet been made.

  The report then switched to the studio, concentrating on where the figures of Amy Briarly and George Cosgrove sat. Both looked pale and drawn but both also had an air of determination in the way they held themselves and spoke. Florence was a much-loved mother, grandmother and neighbour. Her death could not be forgotten. Could people please contact the police with any information, however small or inconsequential they thought it might be. They needed to find the killer before he struck again and destroyed the lives of others. Amy did the majority of the talking, her voice slow and steady, her career clearly having influenced her choice of words and the emphasis she put on certain phrases, but every now and again it faltered enough to betray the depths of her grief.

  The last appeal was orated by George Cosgrove. He spoke equally as deliberately as Amy, but age had brought a more tremulous quality to his voice. Nonetheless, he spoke with the strength of an old soldier, appealing to the murderer man-to-man to stop his reign of terror. He finished by looking directly into the camera and asserting to the killer that to hand himself in would not be seen as cowardice. Instead it would show strength of character and the ability to stand up and be counted, and give an explanation for his actions.

  It almost seemed to Charlie, watching avidly from the side of the control room, that he was issuing a personal challenge to the murderer, appealing to the man to do the right thing. It would remain to be seen how his foe would react to the challenge.

  *

  Charlie knew things were very wrong the moment she got to Ben’s. Her previous irritation had turned to full-blown anxiety as the afternoon had turned into evening and she’d heard nothing. The lights were off and the curtains open and her stomach lurched at the sight of his darkened flat.

  Gingerly, she peered into the front window, shielding her eyes against the reflection of a nearby street light and squashing her face against the glass. If something was wrong, like every sinew in her body was now screaming, she wanted to be forewarned. She’d walked into far too many horrific scenes as a young probationer not to have learned to check first. Thankfully, there was no sign of Ben slumped in his usual chair, or Casper curled up at his feet, and the TV screen was blank. He must be out.

  She pulled her set of keys from her pocket and selected the one to Ben’s flat, opening the door and throwing the light on. Normally on a Wednesday, she would have headed to her family home in Lingfield for her weekly visit to the nearby graveyard where her brother, Jamie, was buried – but that would have to wait, even though excluding it from her weekly ritual set her even more on edge.

  The flat was cool and smelt stale. It had only been a couple of days since she’d last stayed, but in that time dirty crockery had piled up in the sink and an array of cans and bottles were standing empty around Ben’s favourite armchair. Several cans had been stamped on and half a dozen more knocked over and were lying disconsolately in the sticky residue of their spilled contents.

  Without thought, she picked one up and hurled it towards the bin, the noise, as it missed the lid and clattered on to the floor, magnified in the silence. As it scudded to a halt, her ears were drawn to the sound of a rustle, followed by a thud coming from the bedroom and her heart leapt. Perhaps Ben was OK after all and had just been resting. With any luck, his obvious relapse had not transitioned to anything more serious.

  She skirted round the armchair and headed for the bedroom door, coming face-to-face with Casper, as he padded towards her. On recognising her, the old dog stopped walking and stretched out yawning and arching his spine along the length of his back, to a final wiggle at the far end of his tail. She bent down to him, stroking the soft fur on the top of his head and neck, realising as she did so how glad she was to have at least some semblance of normality. Casper yawned again and dipped his head towards her outstretched hand, before turning tail and heaving himself back up on to a crushed circle of black, hairy duvet, at the bottom of the empty bed. He was clearly unfazed by the fact that his master was not around and a quick check of the lounge showed a half-eaten dish of food and a full water bowl.

  ‘Where’s Ben, gorgeous boy?’ She bent to wipe a small crusty piece of dirt from his eye, marvelling, as ever at the softness of the old Labrador’s muzzle and ears. ‘Where’s he gone?’ Casper stretched his neck at her touch and let out a soft whine, as if trying to tell her something. Glancing up from where he lay, she noticed an envelope lying on the pillow, half hidden under the top of the duvet. It was addressed to her.

  With her heart pounding, she picked it up, recognising in an instant the staccato shapes of Ben’s handwriting, the way each symbol stood alone, isolated from the next. In that second, she understood why.

  The letter explained with brutal clarity how he had come to the conclusion that he was too broken to ever be joined to another. How he believed that he could never be mended and that he would forever be a burden. It said he needed time and space to sort out his head and he couldn’t say when, or even if, he would return. It urged her not to try to find him and said that he had everything he needed to survive.

  At the bottom of the page, he proclaimed, in words that made her heart break, h
ow he loved her and how he would always love her, but how she must now forget him and make a life for herself. That she deserved better.

  She turned the page, with tears stinging her eyes and a lump in her throat so hard and heavy that she could barely breathe. The other side gave instructions on where to find various items that she might need in order to better organise his flat and what belongings could be put into storage. It presented so clinically, but she knew as she read it that he meant every word. Ben spoke only words of truth. He said what was in his heart and he was not ashamed to lay bare his emotions. He had tried so hard, but in his mind he had failed… and he was not the sort of man to bring anybody down with him.

  She picked up her phone, and dialled his number, listening to the automated message saying that the line was dead, understanding in her heart that the relationship was dead too. Perhaps it could never have survived. It had just been too hard. Even as she read the words in black and white on the page clasped between her fingers, an almost imperceptible sense of relief took hold, the knowledge that Ben had had the strength to say what perhaps she had always known. It was over… and she would have to move on.

  Curling up on the bed, she wound her legs round the body of the old dog and read out loud the last words Ben had written.

  ‘Please take care of Casper. I cannot take him with me as I do not know yet where I will be going. He has been a faithful friend and he deserves more than I can ever give. Hopefully you will find a way to keep him safe and warm for his final days.’ She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears from falling, and whispered the final line of his letter. ‘You will both be forever in my thoughts. Goodbye.’

  *

  Streatham High Road was deserted when Thomas and Rocky approached in his old Honda Civic. It was the time of night with the least footfall, the witching hour between the clubs and restaurants closing and the early morning convenience shops opening.