by Sarah Flint
He fingered the hunting knife in his jacket pocket. A quick trip to a different dealer had provided him with the weapon – and a rock of crack cocaine to keep him going for a few hours. It was easy to find knives. Dealers carried knives. Users carried knives. They were a necessary evil to protect from theft of the precious drugs and the hunting knife was one of several left in prominent places within the house – just in case. He tested it out on a piece of greenery, gratified to see how easily it sliced through the bendy frond, before concealing it up his sleeve. No one would dare mess with him; not while he wielded control of such a weapon.
A light went off inside the flat and the noise of the TV receded. Catherine would either be undressing for bed or preparing to leave. Both thoughts made him light-headed. He took a drag on the joint he was smoking, hoping its pungent qualities would keep him relaxed. He couldn’t fuck this up. Not now she was so close. He could almost feel her skin against his.
He stood up from his crouched position, stretching his legs and stepping out from behind the trellis. Some rooms were still lit, but as he watched, the lights went out, one by one, until only the hallway light remained. He breathed in sharply, waiting, his pulse racing. The lamp above him sparked up. She was definitely coming out. Quickly, he withdrew into his hiding place behind the trellis again. He didn’t dare move; every muscle, every nerve in his body quivering with anticipation. This was it, the moment he’d waited for. At last, he would have Catherine back, his lovely, beautiful, healthy wife. His Catherine.
With a click, the handle turned and the door swung open. The sight of his wife stepping out backwards took his breath away. For a second, he was held static, caught in the moment, his eyes fixed on the nape of her neck, her slender shoulders mesmerisingly framed in the amber glow. She reached forward to pull the door shut, and as she did so, his hand slipped up his sleeve. He had to keep control. His fingers came to rest on the cold metal of the knife – and he stepped out from behind the trellis.
*
Charlie, Hunter and Paul watched the scene playing out on the screen in front of them in growing horror. How on earth could they have allowed this to happen?
From the moment, she had made the abortive call to Maryanne, she’d known something was up. Her fear was compounded on phoning Danielle, when the younger sister had informed her, slightly guiltily, that Maryanne had gone out after hearing her and her husband argue and hadn’t yet returned.
Paul had immediately rewound the CCTV and they’d watched in disbelief as Maryanne had appeared at her flat and gone in.
It was only in the last few minutes that their disbelief had turned to dread. A slight movement outside the front door of her flat signalled the presence of a shadowy figure ducking down behind the trellis. Watching the tape at its normal speed, they’d seen the figure emerge briefly from its hiding place and the light come on. Houghton’s face could be seen as clear as day, the blank staring eyes, the now shaven head, the short scruffy beard. As the recording came to a halt and the CCTV reverted to the live action, they were forced to watch the scenario being played out in front of them as it actually happened.
Charlie had never felt so powerless. She dialled Maryanne’s phone again, desperate to stop her from leaving the safety of her flat, but even as she was keying in the numbers, she saw the door open and Houghton step out from behind the trellis.
As Maryanne’s phone started to ring, she could hear Hunter desperately calling the control room.
Her worst nightmare was being enacted on the screen, each action deliberate and precise, as if in slow motion, and she was unable to do a thing.
Houghton was behind Maryanne. As she backed out from the doorway, he stepped forward and put an arm round her neck. There was a glint of metal at her throat, Houghton’s mouth moving as he whispered his instructions. He pushed her forward into the flat and the door swung shut behind them.
Hunter shouted that police were on their way. At least they might stand a chance of getting him if he was still inside, but would he have committed an even more serious crime by then.
The phone in Charlie’s hand bleeped as the answer phone clicked on. ‘Leave a message after this tone’, it was instructing. What could she say to Maryanne though? She was too late to tell her not to open the door, to stay inside, that she would be safe. In a strangulated voice, that she hardly recognised as her own she offered all the words of comfort she could think of.
‘Stay calm. We’re coming to get you. Try not to panic.’
On the screen, the door burst open again and Maryanne emerged, still alive thankfully, but still gripped round the neck by Houghton. A large kitchen knife now stuck out of his trouser pocket, its handle clearly visible. Charlie strained to see what was held to Maryanne’s throat, but the shape was unclear and his hand kept moving. Paul zoomed in to the item gripped within Houghton’s hand, but they could only see the butt end. It was thick and metallic, but was it a knife or a firearm?
She remembered the ammunition. Could Houghton be armed with a gun and, more importantly, was he desperate enough to use it, either on Maryanne or arriving police officers There was barely enough time to get a warning to them. Her mind was screaming. She looked at Houghton’s face. His vacant blank eyes seemed even darker and fathomless; his cheeks more hollow than in the photos, the veins in his neck more prominent. He had a kind of madness about him.
They lurched forward towards the camera, before turning away and retreating from view. Charlie remained glued to the screen for what seemed like ages, hoping they would come back into sight and she could make everything right. Officers were beginning to arrive. They were running into the yard, entering the still open front door. She watched them coming into view from the camera in the rear garden. They were peering into the windows, surrounding the flat, searching inside, but it was too late. Houghton was gone and, with him, Maryanne too, her face pinched and white, like a prisoner walking to her execution.
28
Maryanne sat in the front seat of the car, watching, frozen with terror, as the landscape hurtled past. The vehicle was travelling fast, veering round bends with its tyres screeching. For a moment, she hoped it would crash and she would be spared from whatever the man had planned.
She’d felt him first, his arm round her neck, the touch of cold sharp metal on her throat, the filthy, cloying smell of cannabis on his body.
As soon as she’d seen his face, she’d recognised him to be the familiar stranger from the cul-de-sac. But it was only when she heard his voice that her predicament became clear.
‘Catherine,’ he’d said, dragging her back inside the flat and grabbing another knife from the kitchen. ‘It’s me. I’ve come back for you like I promised.’
The voice had sent an icy blast through every part of her body, numbing her fingers, her toes, her brain. The voice sent tears cascading down her cheeks – it was the voice she’d heard over and over in the darkness of her bedroom, in the darkest recesses of her mind. It belonged to the man who had broken into her flat and attacked her.
‘Don’t cry,’ he’d whispered, stroking her face. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I love you.’
But now he had two knives. One of his own and one of hers. This time, he would surely kill her, then carve her body up and leave it to be found the next morning by worried neighbours or, worse still, Danielle.
‘Nothing’s going to stop us being together again,’ he’d said simply, pushing her back out of the flat and steering her towards his car, with one hand gripping her shoulders and the other pressing the blade to her throat.
For a moment, she’d heard the sound of sirens. For an instant, when he’d shoved her into the car and ran to the driver’s side, she’d thought of escape, but just as quickly, she heard the locks click into place. Any attempt to flee would be futile. She wasn’t fast and she didn’t dare provoke his anger. She would have to rely on the spoken word.
So here she was now, speeding through the night with only her rapist knowing her whereabouts.
The scenery was changing slightly, the route direct, moving from the leafier suburban areas, along main roads, fast and steady, without deviating, to narrow streets and tall town houses. Wind buffeted her face, streaming in through the broken driver’s window and plastering her hair across her eyes. Shards of glass punctured her clothing, spiking painfully into her buttocks. The man didn’t speak, being intent instead on driving. Only when she pushed her hair from her face, so that it billowed out behind her, did she see him glance across and smile.
After a short time, they slowed, and then the car was turning, crunching over gravel into the driveway of a large, deserted house. The windows were boarded up and weeds grew tall in the front garden. It was obviously his chosen destination. Thoughts of Hyde Park, Danielle, her nieces flew into her mind, like the pages of a book being flicked in quick succession, a black and white film of her last few hours. Would this be their lasting memory? She didn’t know. It was only a short time ago, but it seemed like a lifetime.
The car stopped and the man pulled out her phone, snatched from her hand as she left her flat. He fumbled with it for a few seconds before a familiar voice rang out through the speaker. It was the police officer, Charlie Stafford. ‘Stay calm. We’re coming to get you. Try not to panic,’ she said, but they didn’t know where she was, and even if they did, they would be too late, much too late. It was over. She wouldn’t escape with her life this time and she didn’t know if she wanted to.
The man swore under his breath, switching the phone off and pulling out the battery, but then, just as swiftly, he turned, suddenly animated. ‘Do you remember this place?’ His eyes searched hers.
She didn’t know what to say, so she shrugged.
‘It’s our special place, don’t you remember?’ This time, he was more agitated, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, before reaching down to retrieve the hunting knife from where he’d secreted it in the door pocket, tucking it into his waistband, its outline stark against the soft material of his T-shirt. ‘I come here when I want to be close to you. You must remember! It was where we first met, where you worked, where I proposed to you…’ He tailed off, but then he was out of the car, running round to her side. ‘Come with me. I’ll show you.’
She could see the kitchen knife now, sticking visibly from his trouser pocket, just its presence removing the last feasible option to escape.
They walked around to the side of the building and squeezed through a gap in the boarding. The grass was long here, but there was a thin path which they now followed. Ivy had run riot, covering the walls of the building, hanging from the drainpipes and competing with long fronds of bindweed to reach the roof. The man’s disposition became more excitable.
‘In here.’ He pointed to a door, turning the handle and pushing it open, his eyes wide and wild.
Inside was dark and gloomy. Maryanne blinked, trying to get her eyes acclimatised. A corridor led away from where they stood, with doors on either side, and she could just make out what appeared to be a visitors’ hatch in an oval office area at the end. Huge, grey filing cabinets lay randomly across the floor, spilling out from the reception and laying in their path.
The man knew exactly where he was heading, pushing her forward impatiently around the obstructions and along a dark corridor to a room at the back of the building, each footstep echoing in the darkness.
‘We’re nearly there,’ he mumbled gruffly, as she stumbled against a broken bookcase. ‘Then we’ll be safe. They’ll never find us. They’ll never take you away again.’
His words, so calmly spoken, sent a fresh rush of blood through her veins. He was right. They would never be found. She would die here in this abandoned building with no one to hear her cries.
Then he stopped, pushing open a door, to what appeared to be a lounge area facing out towards a rear lawn. ‘We’re here, Catherine.’ He guided her inside. ‘Now do you remember this place? It was where I proposed to you, in front of all the old people, where we spent so much time. Now we can be together again.’
She stepped forward into the gloom. A gap in a boarded-up window threw a measure of light across the interior, but as she turned to watch the man moving about purposefully now, nothing could prepare her for the shock at what was revealed when he took out a lighter and struck up a flame.
*
Charlie hardly took her foot off the accelerator as they flew back towards the squat. The details of Houghton’s stolen Mondeo had been circulated to all units after he’d sped from the close, but with most of the available police resources still tied up at the crime scene, there was little chance of it being spotted. There was only one person who could help.
A sullen-faced Emma was sitting between Naz and Sabira when they burst through the door.
Charlie came straight to the point. ‘Where’s your father likely to be?’
Emma turned her head slowly towards her and shrugged. ‘How the hell should I know, and why do you think I would tell you even if I did?’
Charlie closed her eyes momentarily and tried to remain calm. ‘Because it’s essential that we find him, now.’
‘Why?’ Emma cut in angrily. ‘So that you can sling him in prison for something he didn’t do. So you can split us up when we’ve only just become close; and all because of some story that an ex-friend of mine made up. No way.’
Charlie didn’t know what the girl was talking about, and she didn’t care. Lowering her voice, she made one last attempt. ‘Emma we really do need your help. I’m asking for your assistance. I will personally promise that he’ll be treated properly and fairly.’
Emma swung round, her head upturned, her brows set hard in anger. ‘Oh yeah, right! You might treat him right, but it won’t stop him being banged up in prison when he’s done nothing wrong, and I bet you anything, the screws inside won’t treat him so properly and fairly.’ She accentuated the words sarcastically, before looking pointedly in a different direction.
Something inside Charlie snapped. Until now, she had strived to remain professional, not alluding to the offence for which the girl’s father was wanted. The exact details had remained private, as was his human right. But now she had Maryanne’s rights to consider, and the most important of these was her right to life. Striding up, she took the girl’s head in her hands, turning it round so they were staring straight into each other’s face.
‘Listen to me!’ she shouted. ‘I have just sat and watched your father abduct a woman. She is the same woman that he raped a short time ago, after breaking into her flat and holding a knife to her throat. Goodness knows what he’s planning to do with her now, but we’ve got to find both of them before it’s too late. Now, either you start helping us or I’ll have you locked up for harbouring an offender, or impeding an investigation, or any other bloody thing that I can think of.’
*
‘You’re lying,’ Emma’s head was pounding so hard, she could barely speak. What the hell was the detective talking about? Her father couldn’t have raped someone. The cop was making it up, trying to goad her into telling them where to find Thomas. It was just the stuff with the gun that Kelly had grassed to the cops about. That was it. Or maybe it had been the break-in that her father had mentioned in passing? But he’d done that to help them, hadn’t he? To make a fresh start, a new future for them both; and it wasn’t really that serious, was it? Besides, she’d promised her mother that she would take care of him. How could she tell the cops where he was? Especially when she didn’t even know?
She sniffed loudly, wiping at her face unashamedly, a barrage of thoughts and questions clustering into her head, suddenly demanding answers – but underneath them all, gnawing at the vortex of her fears, was the growing, awful realisation that the cop might be right.
The detective was offering her a tissue now, introducing herself as DC Charlie Stafford. She put a hand on her shoulder and Emma felt a fresh well of tears starting to threaten.
‘Emma. It’s true,’ Charlie was saying. ‘That
’s why we need to find him so urgently. Before he does something even worse.’
‘So, when was this rape then?’ She still couldn’t accept what she was being told. ‘Tell me. I don’t believe you. I would have known.’
The female cop spoke with authority, but her expression was one of sympathy. ‘The rape happened in the early hours of the 25th April this year. We think he’s been stalking her ever since.’
Emma felt the blood drain from her cheeks. ‘That was the anniversary of my mother’s death.’ Closing her eyes, she had the sensation of falling. That date was printed indelibly in her mind.
‘And your mother was called Catherine?’ Charlie was asking, although it was clear she already knew.
‘Yes, yes she was. Why?’ But Emma didn’t want to know the answer. She already knew. Every awful detail was falling into place. Her father’s excitement as he declared he’d seen Catherine again. His obsession and belief that they would all be reunited. She’d thought it was all make-believe, just the effects of the drugs. That he was ill. Certainly, she could never have imagined that he was capable of this. Her head was spinning. Then she recalled in detail the night before the anniversary.
‘He went out that evening.’ She could barely speak for the emotion. ‘And he took a knife with him, and a scarf and gloves. I asked him why he had the knife, but he couldn’t really say. He just said everyone carried them these days. He didn’t return all night.’
She felt herself shaking violently.
‘When I woke up on the morning of the anniversary, he was lying next to me,’ she whispered hoarsely, closing her eyes as the room started to spin. ‘Oh my God! My father raped another woman and then he climbed into bed with me.’
*
Charlie watched the emotion flowing from Emma and couldn’t help feeling pity. The girl’s reaction had been so acute that it was totally implausible she had been aware of her father’s actions – but still, there was no time for niceties; Maryanne’s life was at risk with each second that passed.