Daddy's Girls

by Sarah Flint

  She was about to discuss her thoughts with the team when Hunter came banging through the door. He looked as if he was about to explode, his cheeks burning as hot as the chestnut vendors from the night before. ‘So help me God,’ he started to say, before scanning the office. ‘Glad you could make it in.’ He frowned towards her. ‘While you and Paul have been pissing it up, I’ve been getting it in the neck from the bosses at our lack of progress.’

  ‘All units, standby. A girl has just entered Houghton’s bedsit and has come to the window. She has a large holdall and looks to be packing property into it.’

  Charlie’s ears pricked up as the voice of a surveillance unit rang out on a radio positioned on Paul’s workstation. The interruption couldn’t have been more perfectly timed. Hunter strode over to the desk and nudged up the volume of the speaker while the team crowded round.

  ‘Is it our subject?’ the sergeant running the surveillance operation asked, his voice crackly over the airwaves.

  ‘Negative.’ The answer was loud and clear. ‘This girl is similar in age, but she is a black female and has Afro hair, cropped very short.’

  Charlie frowned. There was no way Emma Houghton could ever be described in that way.

  ‘Do you want us to follow her when she comes out?’ another voice asked.

  This time it was the sergeant’s turn to say no. ‘Negative, at this time,’ he instructed. ‘We only have authority for surveillance on the location and the specific subjects. We can’t follow this female.’

  Hunter’s phone started to ring. Charlie knew in an instant how the conversation would go, even though every molecule in her body wished it weren’t so. This girl, whatever her identity, was clearly not Emma, but she had almost certainly been sent by her, or Thomas Houghton. She had a key to the room and knew which items to collect. If they tailed her from the address, the chances were she would lead them straight to their target, but their hands were tied. The restrictions placed upon them by RIPA, or the Regulation of Investigative Powers Act 2000, to maintain the privacy and Human Rights of this particular female would override the urgency to catch their rapist – even though she was clearly colluding to give him his freedom. The rights of Maryanne Hepworth and his other potential victims to live their lives free from fear was not a consideration. It made her blood boil, and it wasn’t hard to see that Hunter felt exactly the same as he discussed the issue in clipped tones. The vein on his forehead was bulging dangerously.

  ‘Bloody RIPA,’ Hunter seethed, ending the conversation and throwing down his mobile phone. ‘Another chance to get the bastard, lost. One of these days, the politicians might start putting the victims first.’

  He got up and stormed into his office, slamming the door shut and Charlie grimaced towards the rest of the team. They could all hear him shouting loudly down the office phone. It was only by a stroke of luck that it wasn’t her on the receiving end.

  A few minutes later, he emerged.

  ‘That’s it, team. I’ve spoken to the DCI and I’ve stood down the surveillance squad. Houghton and his daughter are not going to return now. That’s perfectly clear, and at the moment, there’s not much we can do. We have no car for them, no phone numbers and no bloody idea where either of them is. Apart from their names, we have sod all.’ He glanced up at the clock on the wall and exhaled loudly, looking pointedly in Charlie’s direction. ‘Go home. There’s no point staying on today. Have a break this evening and make sure you get a good night’s sleep.’ He shut his eyes and his shoulders sagged. ‘We’ll regroup in the morning at seven o’clock prompt and make a fresh start to the week.’

  *

  Emma ran towards Ebony as she staggered towards her with the heavy bag.

  ‘Lucky you didn’t go back yerself, Em, even though you look pretty bloody different. There was Old Bill everywhere. I saw at least three of them parked up in cars, trying to hide.’ Ebony dropped the bag at her feet. ‘How often do you see a couple of white guys sitting in a car, in the middle of a council estate, reading newspapers on a Sunday morning?’ She rolled her eyes and threw her head back, cackling with glee. ‘I ask you. You’d think they could be a little more inventive?’

  Emma glanced round towards the door of the crack house, suddenly worried. ‘And you’re sure they didn’t follow you?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure. I took a few back-doubles, but they never left their motors. They’re probably still sitting in ’em dumbly now.’

  ‘Reading their newspapers?’ Emma didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. In the last two days, her life had changed so dramatically she didn’t know whether she was coming or going. It was like Sliding Doors, Mr Benn and Stars in their Eyes all rolled into one. One moment, one decision that had the potential to change her life forever – and the transformation had already begun. Last night, although unsure, she’d slept with Josef. It had been less upsetting than expected. He’d been gentle, almost attentive. Perhaps in time he would grow to really like her, to love her even. She had to hope. What alternative was there otherwise?

  She pushed the thought to the back of her mind, concentrating instead on the better memories of the night. How Ebony and Ivory had gone out to the all-night convenience store to buy hair dye, make-up and vodka. In twenty-four hours they had already proved more loyal than Kelly. They’d cut her hair and shown her how to apply thick white foundation and black eyeshadow and liner. And they’d giggled at her reflection in the mirror. They always giggled. Later on when she’d plucked up the courage, Ivory had accompanied her to Waterloo railway station to get her passport photo done. The traffic hub was always open and it wasn’t far to go.

  Thomas had got a set of photos done there too, though he had gone alone, still morose and moody after his quarrel with Josef. He’d stayed away for hours, only a phone call from her to his new phone quelling her fears, only the need to pass on his photo for transport to Josef bringing him back. It rankled her slightly, how little he seemed to care for her welfare, how happy he was to leave her, so soon, with relative strangers, but that had always been the case.

  She had been the carer, and it seemed that wouldn’t change. But it mattered not now, because Ebony and Ivory were there, Jason and Silver too, and tonight under cover of darkness they’d be moving to the new house. By daybreak, they would be making a new start, in a new home, with new identities. It didn’t matter that the house wasn’t officially theirs or that they’d be claiming squatters’ rights. Theirs would be just one of many similar squats in London. Jason had explained everything. It had been left unfinished and deserted and would otherwise be gathering dust. In fact, as she remembered Jason saying, it would be criminal to leave it empty.

  *

  The man shifted position impatiently. He couldn’t get comfortable and he didn’t want to settle. He wanted to talk, but there was no one to speak with, no one to listen. He was alone and he didn’t want to be alone.

  He got up, heading into the room where he kept his souvenirs, fingering the pages of the ancient photograph albums, looking through the framed black and white photos, the yellowing documents. Everything was old, and he liked old – old, disciplined and patriotic.

  He frowned, tracing the contours of an old army medal grasped within his palm. The metal felt smooth to the touch, loved and polished. It spoke of strength, of service, of loyalty – qualities that had made his grandparents stand tall. Qualities that had made him stand tall – once.

  He placed the medal back in its holder, anger nipping at his thoughts. Nobody was allowed to care for their friends or family or neighbours any more. Nobody could be proud of their country, apart from those actually serving within the forces. Service and patriotism had been discredited. That was why he loved to hear the stories – and that was why he was still raging at Violet Nicholson’s insults and at Florence Briarly’s sombre disappointment. He had tried to live a good life. It wasn’t his fault that things had turned out as they had. Life hadn’t been fair. It still wasn’t.

  The evening news was abo
ut to start. He could hear the tones of the programme titles inviting viewers to listen to the events occurring throughout the world today. The summoning chords were loud and distinctive, even from another room, the TV enticing him back to hear the words of the newscaster.

  He stood, watching wordlessly as the faces of world leaders appeared on the screen – Donald Trump, Theresa May, Vladimir Putin – names and images of people whose decrees changed policies, whose decisions influenced the everyday lives of people across the planet.

  The headlines were finishing and the focus was on local news items now. Two faces appeared, speaking passionately about a series of crimes that had shocked the south of London; how the series was ongoing and needed to be stopped. How the public must help.

  He recognised the two people. They had appeared on the news before, and he hadn’t liked what they had said then, encouraging cowardice, mocking the motives of the perpetrator.

  This time, however, was different. This time, the old man spoke more, his voice stronger, more fervent, encouraging his audience to do their civic duty. He was offering his services to the nation, as he had done in wartime. He was offering to talk; in fact he was offering to talk to him personally. This was more like it.

  The old man was interesting and proud. He had seen the best and worst of humanity, unlike any of the so-called world leaders. He would make a good companion.

  He would also be easy to track down, being a neighbour of Florence Briarly, the mother of the woman to his right. How could he forget her, and where she lived?

  He waited until the man faded from the screen and then pulled on his shoes. The decision came easily, but now there were things that would need planning, locations to be scoped out, daily rituals to be checked.

  The old man wanted to talk – and he wanted a new companion.

  He tied up his laces and got ready to leave, the disappointment of his engagement with Violet Nicholson now forgotten. George Cosgrove would have his wish granted. He would talk. He would go and talk to the old man for hours, if that was what George wanted – but it would be his choice as to when it would start – and, more importantly, it would be his decision when, and how, it would finish.

  *

  ‘It’s time to go.’

  Thomas heard the shout, spinning round immediately to see Jason standing at the broken window. For a second, he stopped dead in his tracks, the words propelling his hands deep into his trouser pockets, reliving again the precious times when Catherine had made the same declaration. It still always brought a smile to his face. These days, though, he preferred not to think of Catherine dying. Things had moved on since then.

  ‘Come on, Dad. We need to get going.’ Emma nudged him into movement. She looked so very different now with her dark mahogany hair and heavy black make-up masking her previously blonde hair and fresh complexion. She was almost unrecognisable as Catherine’s daughter, a fact that he regretted – but it had to be done.

  The group was in high spirits, the mood one of elation at the new start and the chance to explore a new area. Although only a few miles away, the cul-de-sac was in a different borough; one in which the residents, shopkeepers and council would be unaware of their antisocial living arrangements and criminal lifestyles. More to the point, they would be unknown to the local police, and with their new identity cards almost in place, any introductions would be on their terms and with only their new details being provided.

  Thomas grabbed a couple of bin bags and headed down the stairs to where Rocky was seated in a van he had borrowed from a friend. As with the purchasing of the Beretta, it didn’t do to ask him too many questions, so Thomas ushered Emma into the rear, with a hasty introduction, and jumped in next to her, sitting quietly while the others boarded. The same could not be said for Rocky. Several times in quick succession, he brought up the subject of the gun’s location, prompting Thomas’s hurried confirmation that his mate’s prized possession was still safe and sound. He had a secret hiding place that would never be discovered and the Beretta was wisely concealed there.

  When the others had all climbed inside, Rocky pulled away, accelerating hard and making the girls squeal with laughter as the van vaulted over the numerous speed humps blighting their passage. Thomas stared out from the rear as they continued through Lambeth and into the outskirts of Mitcham. Here, the council estates were lower level and interspersed between larger areas of private residences.

  A short distance from Mitcham town centre, Jason indicated for Rocky to turn right. Thomas looked to where he was pointing and saw a small turning, the entrance of which was shrouded under a canopy of oaks. A church stood at the corner of the cul-de-sac, its old stonework and bell tower blending in with the timeless seclusion of the gnarled trees surrounding it. Standing at the gateway was a large stone cross, and to its side a dark wooden noticeboard giving the times of the Sunday services. He couldn’t take his eyes off the cross, a shiver of apprehension catching him out, as yet again he remembered the failed ‘healing’ services and the way Catherine’s religion had helped to tear their lives apart.

  ‘Are you going to sit there all fucking day?’ His thoughts were cut short at the sound of Jason’s voice, clipped and irritable. The van had come to a halt round a bend at the end of the cul-de-sac and the others had already climbed out and were standing, staring up at two rows of terraced houses which faced each other sullenly. They were bare and lifeless, with no brightly patterned curtains, no open windows or noisy, colourful occupants and no cars parked haphazardly on driveways. Only the glow from several street lights lit up the row, shining darkly on the windows and making their frontages appear almost perfect from the outside.

  ‘They’re nice, ain’t they?’ Jason chewed on some gum. ‘Which one would you like?’

  ‘But we can’t just break into them?’ Emma was incredulous.

  ‘Why not? If the developers cared, they’d have sold them on at whatever stage they’d got to, or at least secured them properly. Seeing as they can’t be bothered, I figure we might as well make use of them.’

  Thomas was almost as dubious as Emma. The houses were beautiful. Four-bedroomed, smooth-fronted buildings with mock-Tudor beams across the upper gable. They were newly built, less than six months old, and were still in excellent condition. Each had its own driveway and rear garden, and shrubs were dotted about the edges to separate them.

  ‘So which one do you want?’ Jason asked again. ‘We need to get you in before any nosy neighbours notice our van. Once you’re in, you can’t be touched.’

  ‘You choose, Emma.’ He watched as she scanned each building and stole towards the windows, peering in with her phone torch, before disappearing from view into the rear gardens.

  ‘Can we have this one?’ she said eventually, returning to the group and pointing to one in the middle of a row of four.

  ‘Of course you can.’ Jason removed a bag from the front of the van and took out a jemmy and torch, vanishing to the rear himself. A few muffled crashes later and he was back, holding the jemmy aloft and grinning toothily. ‘They don’t make them like they used to. Follow me.’

  They did as they were bid, keeping step with Jason round the side of the houses until they came to the rear patio doors which had been lifted off their runner and stood to one side.

  ‘I’ll fix that when I’ve got ours sorted. Can’t keep my girls waiting.’ Jason raised his eyebrows, heading back to where Ebony and Ivory stood. ‘Have a look around while I’m gone.’

  Emma didn’t wait for a second invitation, stepping forward into their new abode, with Thomas close behind. He gave a low whistle at the sight. The house was amazing. All the walls were painted magnolia and a creamy-beige carpet covered the floor. He followed Emma by torchlight, as she wandered into the hallway and up the stairs, glancing into each spacious, bare bedroom, noting the fully fitted bathroom and finishing at the tiny bedroom in the attic. Carpet had been laid throughout and all the fixtures and fittings were in place. Only the kitchen remained unfinishe
d, with just a single hob fitted and spaces left for other white goods.

  By the time they came back downstairs, Jason had returned and was attempting to repair the broken door. With a crunching sound, it slipped back into place, moving slowly and roughly along its bent runner. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked and that was all that was required.

  ‘Oi, Tommy,’ he shouted, as they entered the lounge. ‘Switch on the light.’

  He flicked the switch, without a second thought, squinting suddenly as a naked bulb in the centre of the ceiling came on, bathing the whole room in brightness.

  ‘How thoughtful,’ Jason whooped out loud raucously, at the same time pulling a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘They’ve even left you connected.’ He turned to leave, carefully selecting a small rock of crack from a packet and handing it to Thomas. ‘You might need this to make you more at home.’

  Thomas could feel Emma’s eyes boring into him as he mumbled his thanks and slipped it away, suddenly ashamed. He’d always tried to make his use of crack cocaine slightly more discreet, particularly in front of his daughter, though he guessed she wasn’t stupid. Now he was here, he’d give up the hard drugs. Catherine wouldn’t like them, and if Emma was ready to give him a second chance at least he should make the effort.

  ‘What are you like?’ Jason shook his head, clearly reading his discomfiture and thrust the sheet of paper towards him. ‘Here you go, Tommy! Read this and then put it up at your front window and, remember; if the cops do come poking their noses around, don’t let ’em in, even if they try to say they can enter. They can’t! So only speak to ’em through the letter box and don’t open the door.’

  He nodded and took the note, reading it out loud. ‘We have moved in here and are claiming squatters’ rights because we have nowhere else to live. This is not a criminal matter; it is a civil matter between us and the owners, and they must take us to court for a possession order if they want us to leave. Criminal Law Act 1977.