Daddy's Girls

by Sarah Flint

  ‘Lucky I jotted down the passport details then.’ PC Goddard pulled out her pocketbook and checked the clock on the wall, as she entered the parade room. ‘I’ll put a short information report on the system before we go, and tomorrow I’ll make some enquiries at the Passport Office. I doubt that Tommy Warrington, or whoever he is, will be going anywhere overnight – and if my hunch is right, I’ve a feeling we’ll be paying him another visit again very soon.’

  *

  It was late when Charlie finally got ready to leave the office. Only she and Paul were still there, the others having cleared up and left a little earlier.

  ‘This is getting to be a habit.’ She smiled across to where he was seated in front of the screen carrying the live feed from Maryanne’s flat. It would be his task to watch for any sign of Houghton throughout the night and, if sighted, work with control to catch him. Their hopes were pinned on this strategy. Houghton was a creature of the night, relishing the darkness to carry out his crimes – and he’d already returned before.

  The control room staff were prepped and ready, but she didn’t envy Paul’s job. It was hard enough staying awake all night, almost impossible to stay alert.

  ‘Good luck and good night.’ She buttoned up her coat and headed for the door.

  ‘I’d rather be in Heaven.’ He stuck out his tongue and winked.

  At the sight of his stud, her mind flashed back to cocktails, to dancing, to fun. She grinned at the memory.

  For once she agreed.

  *

  George Cosgrove rarely deviated from his routine. The man had taken note of it before, while checking out Florence Briarly’s habits. Tonight’s reconnaissance served simply as confirmation. Bedtime for this old soldier was 11 p.m. and tonight was no different.

  The man watched the hallway lights come on and the curtains in the front room become dark. In his head, he counted each step made on the upward climb to the bedroom. One, two, three stairs, four, five, and on up to twelve, then the bedroom light was switched on and the hallway light switched off. It was regimented and exact, exhilarating, just the way he really, really liked it.

  For the following few seconds, he waited, almost too excited to breathe, and then he was there at the window. George Cosgrove, just as he had appeared on the TV, boxed within the constraints of the window frame, peering outwards to his audience while he reached up to draw the curtains.

  The invitation to talk was there, still displayed in his open arms and the way he stood so invitingly in the spotlight. It was unmistakeable, and as the man crouched in the darkness of the common opposite, he knew it wouldn’t be much longer before he took up the offer.

  26

  Charlie pressed the button and watched the recording play again. Karl Ferris had returned to his flat at exactly 03.18 that night and left it again at 07.25 that morning. On both occasions, he had appeared furtive, looking around and pulling a hooded top low over his forehead, completely obliterating any view of the birthmark. Since becoming aware of their interest in the birthmark, he was blatantly taking steps to keep it better covered. His actions were therefore far more suspicious.

  His bail conditions dictated he must live and sleep at the flat each night, but no time was stipulated. Provided he returned at some point, he was not in breach of them, but it was clear he was up to something. Closer surveillance would be required.

  The recording clicked off again. Charlie perked up. Restarting an operation on him was at least something that would give her the opportunity to be more proactive. The last few days had been endless.

  She got up and headed towards Hunter’s office, going over the results of the day’s enquiries in her mind’s eye. Phone records and cell siting was proving useless. Both Houghton and Ferris’s phones had been interrogated and neither suspect had anything of particular note but a lot to raise suspicions. Houghton’s phone had been regularly out of credit, whether purposely or coincidentally, and was therefore missing large chunks of data. Since successfully decamping, it had stopped altogether. If he had another phone, they didn’t have the number. Ferris’s phone had also been switched off regularly, but this was almost certainly done deliberately. Most nights it was offline and long periods of time sometimes elapsed before it was turned back on. These days, criminals were more switched on to having their mobile phones switched off. It made their job a hell of a lot harder.

  Added to that, neither suspect had a vehicle, Houghton’s having been seized and Ferris not owning one and being disqualified from driving. The possibility of getting a new lead through fixed or mobile number plate readers was also therefore non-existent.

  Hunter had his head in his hands when she entered, staring down at some of the older reports. His face was flushed red and deep creases gouged paths across his cheeks and pulled at the corners of his eyes. The vein on his forehead stood out prominently. It always worried her to see her boss like this. The stress of the hunt was not good for his health. She could almost see his blood pressure rising higher with every hour that passed, irrespective of his tablets.

  ‘Guv, while we’re waiting for a new lead on Houghton, I want to get back on to Ferris. He was out until 03.18 this morning and it’s a while since we had the last break-in. We’re well overdue.’

  Hunter stayed tight-lipped, instead nodding his approval for action. They both knew the small bunch of reporters waiting outside Lambeth HQ was getting larger every day they failed to get a charge. The vultures were circling, biding their time – waiting for the perfect moment to strike. She just hoped they wouldn’t soon have another dead body to feast upon.

  *

  Maryanne wandered through Hyde Park, stopping to rotate on the spot as her eyes followed the contours of the Diana, Princess of Wales Memorial Fountain. The water cascaded through the shallow curves and slopes of the Cornish granite oval, and her mind returned to the shock of hearing the Princess had died. It was a day that was etched into the memories of the British public, one that had brought together the nation, in much the same way as tragedies regularly made families unite. Hers had brought her closer to her sister.

  She heard her name being called and turned to see Danielle and her nieces running towards her, fresh from a school outing up town. She bent down, allowing the youngest to run straight into her outstretched arms, swinging her round so that her legs flew crazily through the air.

  Danielle smiled towards her, as the older two clustered round, each wanting a hand to hold, and fighting to be one of the two to succeed in their quest.

  ‘It’s good to see you looking a bit more like your old self,’ Danielle commented, pulling one away and gripping their hand, so they couldn’t resume the fight.

  Maryanne smiled back. In the last couple of days, things had changed, her rebirth had begun. Not completely, but she was definitely feeling stronger.

  ‘Thanks, sis, I am feeling better actually. I’ll be back to work and out of your hair soon, I promise.’ She pulled her hand free from the youngest niece and tousled her blonde hair as Danielle’s phone sparked into life. Her sister mouthed the name of her husband and grimaced. He was evidently unhappy. Maryanne tried not to listen, but the strength of the voice through the handset and her sister’s expression gave the game away.

  ‘OK, we’re coming now. I’ll make dinner when I get back.’ Danielle ended the call and turned towards Maryanne. ‘Oops, I forgot he was getting off work early.’

  An hour later, they were walking up the path to Danielle’s house. The girls vanished upstairs to get changed, on seeing the look on their father’s face, and Maryanne took her cue too, mounting the stairs to her room and gathering a few bits together. She could hear raised voices from the kitchen below. It was time to give the family some space.

  ‘I’m going out for a while. Got a few things I need to do,’ she said, knocking on the kitchen door and nodding towards her sister. ‘I’ll be gone for the whole evening, so don’t wait up.’

  Her sister tried to persuade her to stay, but the words were
empty, her gratitude at Maryanne reading her husband’s mood clear. Maryanne was welcomed by her sister, but resented at times by her brother-in-law, however hard he tried to accept the reason. It was time she made herself scarce, at least for a few hours.

  She climbed into her car and started to drive, not really knowing in which direction to head. Aimlessly, she drove towards Hyde Park and Buckingham Palace, wanting to recapture the magic of the day, but everything was different now she was alone. The day trippers and tourists were already thinning out, being replaced by the thriving night-time economy. The atmosphere had changed and it made her uneasy.

  She threaded her way back over the river and through the grubby, crime-ridden streets of South London, towards suburbia on the outskirts.

  By the time she reached Mitcham, the sun was low in the sky and most of the shops were shut. Something inside her was drawing her magnetically towards the cul-de-sac and the small terraced house in which she increasingly believed her future would be.

  *

  PC Lisa Goddard came off the phone from the Passport Office and leant back in her chair with a satisfied grin. She was pleased, very pleased, to find her hunch was right. There was no trace of any passport application from a male by the name of Tommy Warrington, with the date of birth he had given. Ever.

  She pulled out her radio and called up her colleague.

  ‘We were right about Tommy Warrington,’ she said through a private radio channel. ‘I’ve just received information that his passport is fake, and thanks to his gobby mate we know exactly where he lives. I think it’s time we pay him a visit.’

  *

  Charlie flicked through the police intranet, checking the daily briefings for all the local boroughs, while she awaited the arrival of the surveillance team jacked up to target Karl Ferris that evening.

  It had already been a long day and with the paperwork having been completed, she needed something to keep her mind occupied.

  Some of the boroughs had recently amalgamated, but most of the briefings were the usual mix of wanted people, suspects involved in crime or terrorism and domestic situations requiring an urgent response by police. She scanned through the intelligence of a few inner boroughs before moving outwards to the more residential areas on the outskirts of London. As she was about to close the screen, a report came up, bearing the name and photo of a prostitute by the name of Tara Fielding. The report stated that she had been stopped with a white male, giving the name Tommy Warrington, leaving a recently purloined squat. The male had no previous convictions, but the officers stopping the couple were suspicious. A description of the male was given, but they wanted further information from anyone with personal knowledge.

  Charlie stared at the screen, recognising the female well; she’d had dealings with her on many previous occasions when she lived in Lambeth. Her street name was Ivory. She hung around with another prostitute called Ebony and they had frequented a crack house run by a drug dealer called Jason. More importantly, a male called Javon Stone, street name Rocky, was known to be one of their associates – and he had been seen recently with Thomas Houghton. Their association had been the main reason for the use of firearms officers in their warrant execution. How could she forget that debacle?

  She stopped in her tracks, peering at the face of Tara Fielding, her brain processing the information before her eyes. Could the crack house now be running from this new address? Had they moved on recently? Inhabitants of drugs addresses did tend to be itinerant, moving regularly from place to place to escape attention from any of the various interested authorities. Removing Rocky from the equation would be like losing one side of a triangle, but it didn’t mean that Houghton was not connected to Ivory.

  Could Thomas Houghton now be masquerading as Tommy Warrington? It seemed almost laughable at the ease of the switch, but in the world of drug dealers and users, simplicity was what was required.

  ‘Guys,’ she shouted out across the office. ‘Come and take a look at this and tell me what you think.’

  She didn’t need the answer though. She already knew. She just had to get to the address and prove it to herself.

  *

  Emma looked out of the window of her new house to see her father still scrubbing at the nearly new Ford Mondeo that Rocky had arrived in earlier. With the exception of a few minutes’ conversation, when she’d sat beside him in the passenger seat, the only break he’d had in ages was a rather secretive errand run for Rocky. The errand had taken just less than an hour. She’d watched as the two men had huddled together in whispered conversation before he’d left. And she’d heard his return, noticing immediately the small grey bag clasped to his side.

  She’d recognised the bag straight away, even before Rocky had pulled the gun from it, flashing it about in the open, before tucking it in his waistband, only the angry scowls of Jason prompting caution. Rocky couldn’t contain his excitement. He climbed in and out of the Mondeo, talking animatedly to her father, constantly fingering the package, before finally vanishing on foot – with or without the gun, she didn’t know. But she hadn’t seen the bag since, so she hoped it was gone.

  Her father seemed unfazed by the whole palaver, concentrating his efforts exclusively on the job in hand, cleaning and polishing every part of the bodywork as if his life depended on it. She’d never seen him working so hard physically before and it frightened her. Something was wrong.

  Since moving to the new house, he had become preoccupied, barely sleeping and hardly eating. The only thing that was keeping him going was the cocktail of crack, dope and booze that seemed endlessly on tap at Jason’s place. Last night, he’d been out again, for hours. Even when he’d returned, he hadn’t slept, pacing round the house, mumbling about his plans – always his plans. If he was upset, it was because his plans weren’t going right. If he was happy, it was because they were. She had no idea what was going on in his head. She didn’t even fully know what his plans were, but they apparently included her, and the house.

  Thankfully, Catherine’s name had not been mentioned for a while though, so she was cautiously optimistic that his obsession with her mother had faded.

  For the hundredth time, she checked her watch, before peeping out again. Rocky would be returning at about ten, that gave him two hours or so to be finished. As if sensing her eyes on him, her father stopped and waved in her direction, before returning purposefully to his mission. She stepped away from the window slightly but continued to watch from the shadows, determining to join her father shortly.

  A police car was pulling into the roadway, its brightly striped livery unmistakable through the frosted glass. Panicking slightly, she ran up the stairs to the bedroom, looking out from above. Two police officers were now approaching her father as he worked on the car, one male, one female. She continued to watch, almost overcome by the urge to go to him, but she couldn’t risk it. One of them might have been part of the group of coppers who had raided the bedsit – and if they did recognise her, they might then work out her father’s identity. Her new appearance had not been tested, unlike her father’s the previous night. And, anyway, Thomas had his papers. He’d be all right… wouldn’t he?

  Biting her lip, she held her breath and slid behind the edge of the window to watch.

  *

  PC Lisa Goddard was still basking in the knowledge that her instinct was right. She was even happier when she saw the same bearded, shaven-headed, scruffy man as before, working on a shiny Mondeo, when they pulled into the cul-de-sac.

  ‘That’s useful,’ her colleague muttered, as if reading her mind. ‘He’s with a car. Gives us extra powers to demand his documents, and by the look of that motor, we might even have a little bit more.’

  PC Goddard nodded her agreement. They would need the forged passport in order to arrest him for its possession, but how was a crackhead like him in possession of a car this new? It was looking good.

  ‘Yep, he won’t be getting the better of us this time.’ Her lips twitched in anticipation
. ‘I’ll be finding out his real name, if it’s the last thing I do.’

  *

  Thomas was annoyed to see the police car pulling into the close. He was even more irritated when he realised it was the same two coppers that had stopped him the night before. Hadn’t they hassled him enough already!

  He carried on rubbing at the bodywork as the two police officers parked up. There was still work to be done and not much time left to do it. As they approached, he forced himself to relax, deciding to start in the same vein as he had before.

  ‘Good evening officers, how can I help you, again?’ He emphasised the last word.

  ‘Is this your car?’ The policewoman ignored his point.

  ‘No, it’s not mine. I’m just doing some work on it for a friend.’

  ‘And what’s this friend’s name?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He couldn’t grass Rocky up.

  ‘Who’s it registered to?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You don’t seem to know much, do you?’

  Was she trying to deliberately wind him up?

  He shrugged. What did it matter to him anyway? He just did the work.

  The policeman was walking round the car, looking into it, examining the tyres, the registration plate, speaking on his radio. Every so often, he looked towards Thomas. Thomas didn’t care though. They’d believed him last night. There was no reason to think they wouldn’t this time.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ the policewoman asked.

  ‘Tommy Warrington. Don’t you remember? You only stopped me last night.’

  ‘Yes I do remember.’ Her voice was too calm. She was trying to catch him out. ‘Which house are you squatting in?’

  He pointed to their house, suddenly uncomfortable. The tone of the conversation had changed and he had the distinct impression they were looking to pin something on him. Maybe they’d seen his photo on the CCTV from the shop and recognised him, but his appearance was so different that it was hard to see how a good identification had been made. He frowned, trying to concentrate on his predicament.