Daddy's Girls

by Sarah Flint

  As five bullets slammed into his body, the last thing he remembered was the sight of blood spurting from his chest and the sound of a gut-wrenching shriek, as Catherine’s body fell to one side away from him.

  31

  The tin fell to the ground with a crash as Emma threw her hands to her mouth, but nothing could stop the hideous scream as the bullets ripped through her father’s body. All around was noise, the echo of the gunfire ricocheting round the nearby buildings, shouted commands, sirens, the metallic clicks of the firearms being made safe, reholstered.

  Charlie, too, felt her breath catch in her throat as she watched the police officers, so recently having shot Houghton, now running forward to administer CPR. What the hell had just happened? Houghton had been following instructions. Why had he stopped – and why on earth had he put his hands in his pockets? That small movement had sealed his fate. There was no way the armed police would allow him to pull a weapon from his pocket, with Maryanne being so close, especially not with the possibility it could be a gun.

  Maryanne was being led away. Charlie swallowed hard. It wasn’t difficult to see how shocked their victim was, how pale and drawn she looked as a blanket was flung round her shoulders. Thank God she had managed to propel herself out of harm’s way and was unhurt. It might not have ended how they wanted, but at least it had ended.

  A loud sob drew Charlie from her thoughts. Emma stood staring out into the garden, held back from running to her father, by Hunter’s strong arms. It wasn’t as yet safe with the ensuing frenetic activity, but as soon as things calmed he’d promised she would be taken out. Around her feet lay the contents of the tin, the Christmas earrings, dolls’ clothes and beads spread out across the floor. A photograph of Emma in the arms of her father lay starkly on the top.

  ‘It’s all my fault,’ she spluttered, staring down at the photo. ‘I shouldn’t have said those words. I got scared when he stopped and my mum always said that phrase to get him moving. I forgot he always put his hands in his pockets…’ Her voice petered out into more sobs. ‘It’s all my fault.’

  Charlie took over from Hunter, putting an arm round Emma. The girl was trembling with shock, so she sat her down, careful to avoid the debris across the floor.

  ‘You did your best. The situation was complicated. Maybe we shouldn’t have got you involved.’ She felt the weight of guilt on her shoulders too. Thomas Houghton had done evil things. He deserved to have been locked up, but did he deserve to die? Was he mad or bad? She didn’t know, but she felt so very sorry for his daughter. Any initial feelings of dislike had been replaced by respect. Emma had done what was right in the end and she couldn’t really blame the girl for initially wanting to cover for her father. How could she have known what he had done and what he was really like? She was almost as much a victim as Maryanne.

  Naz came across, stepping carefully over the contents of the tin and indicating that she’d take care of the girl.

  ‘Hunter wants you with him,’ she nodded to where her boss now waited in the doorway. With medical aid being administered to Houghton and both Maryanne and Emma receiving the appropriate care, it was now important to see to what depths Thomas Houghton had sunk. The next few minutes would determine whether they had shot a murderer, or simply a deranged rapist.

  *

  Charlie stepped across the threshold and into the lounge and was immediately hit by the pungency of the scented candles. The whole room shimmered in a smoky haze, the combined fragrances mingling into a smog of vanilla, chocolate and citrus. It was a strange combination and one that seeped into her clothing, up her nose and under her skin.

  Glancing round, she saw two knives, laid side by side on the seat of a chair by the entrance to the room, clearly placed there with deliberation by Houghton in response to Emma’s instructions. The butt of the hunting knife was grey and metallic, almost certainly the same item as had been held to Maryanne’s neck. There was no obvious sign of a gun.

  She continued into the room, noting how ordered it seemed, apart from a small corner to one side. In this spot, clothing lay in untidy piles, heaped on to a mattress which was spread across the floor and partially covered in an open sleeping bag and several cushions. The room was clearly Houghton’s den, used by him to sleep and dwell in, if he needed a place to go. It was also where he kept his most prized possessions and as she looked across to the opposite side of the lounge she shivered involuntarily at the sight of a burgeoning shrine at the centre of the wall. Crammed on to a tabletop was an assortment of photos and memorabilia, all containing references to Catherine, including many handwritten notes and cards from Thomas Houghton himself.

  She selected a card, reading the words of love addressed to Catherine, from the stranger who had mistakenly believed Maryanne to be his wife, the man who now lay severely injured in the garden. Hunter was pointing at the large framed photo in the centre of the presentation. She had spotted it immediately, recognising it from the description Maryanne had given as the photograph stolen at the time of her rape.

  She nodded her recognition and continued to search, looking for any evidence of the firearm, or anything that might give them reason to believe he was responsible for Op Greystream. After fifteen minutes reading through the cards, checking every dilapidated cupboard, upending every item of furniture, they moved out from the room, joined now by Paul and Sabira. Silently they headed from room to derelict room, their torches scouring every inch of space. The discarded unwanted possessions of the last few residents lay spread across stained carpets and dusty cupboards, leftovers from a time when the corridors had echoed with the sound of orderlies bringing trolley loads of liquidised sustenance and boxes of dressings and pads.

  Trolley rails for hoists branched across ceilings, like train tracks over huge grimy baths and cracked handbasins. Dust had settled on everything, a thin film which moved and ebbed with each brush of their clothing or swish of movement. Mouse dropping were everywhere and cobwebs stretched from beds to chairs and back again, every corner of each room displaying the toils of fat, leggy spiders. It appeared as if the exodus of humans had been speedy, leaving only small mammals and insects to inhabit the building.

  The blue lights and manoeuvring of the ambulance signalled its imminent departure to the hospital with Houghton. Emma would be with him on what could potentially be her father’s last journey, with Naz accompanying her to provide strength and comfort – and to ensure she didn’t disappear.

  The activity in the garden was dying down, the frenetic actions of the police marksmen and paramedics now moving with the casualty on to the emergency vehicle and away.

  Maryanne too was to be taken to hospital, where Danielle was waiting, any recovery from her first attack likely to be stunted by the dreadful events of the night. The physical injuries were at least minimal this time, but it was anybody’s guess how the latest trauma would play out in her mind.

  Without any particular signal, other than the removal of their suspect, the small search party regrouped in the lounge. Charlie pursed her lips. None of them said a word. There was nothing any of them could say. The facts spoke for themselves. In the absence of a firearm being found, and with the knives left, as instructed, on the chair, it was becoming clear that police had shot an unarmed man.

  Worse than that even was the unspoken acknowledgement, that other than the photograph belonging to Maryanne Hepworth, no other items from Operation Greystream had been found. The squat, and any other subsequently identified locations, would be searched for property belonging to their elderly victims and the distinctive Parka jacket and trainers of their suspect, but Charlie now had no doubt these too would yield nothing of note.

  As they clustered together in silence, the truth was becoming increasingly obvious.

  They still had a murderer at large. Thomas Houghton was guilty only of the final awful crime. They had understandably, but incorrectly linked his offence to the others – and in the last few days they had put all their resources into catching the
wrong man.

  32

  Charlie drove straight to Jamie’s graveyard when she was finished at the crime scene. It was almost midday on Wednesday and she was weary to the point of exhaustion. Her feet moved automatically to his grave, following the well-worn path, almost trance-like, before she sank down against the cool tombstone and rested her head against the carving of her brother’s name. Several other people tending graves nodded in her direction, but she was too troubled to respond. All she wanted was to sleep – sleep and forget – safe in the presence of her brother.

  She closed her eyes, but the events of the night kept repeating, like a record stuck in the same groove, jumping back to that moment when the shots rang out time and time again and the tin clattered to the floor. Normally, the apprehension of a suspect was a cause for celebration, but this result was not providing any elation. Thomas Houghton had committed awful crimes, most obviously to Maryanne and the two police officers injured during his escape, but just as serious were the emotional scars inflicted on his daughter during a lifetime of neglect and detachment. Even now as he lay on a resuscitation trolley fighting for his pathetic life, she knew that Emma, not he, would be the one wracked with guilt.

  It wasn’t fair and she hated injustice. Shifting her position, she laid down, curling her body around the tombstone and pulled a thin coat up round her shoulders and over her face. With the sun blanked out, she immediately had the sensation of falling, spiralling into darkness, alone, just as she had when Jamie had died. This time, though, her brother stayed with her, guiding her upwards through the foaming surf until she burst back out into the fresh air, gasping for oxygen, tossing her head around to find him. But even though he was nowhere to be seen, she could sense him, moulding his body in behind hers, calming and rejuvenating.

  ‘Are you all right? You’ve been asleep for several hours.’

  She woke to the feel of a hand gently jogging her awake, and a face both kind and concerned. She pulled the coat from her face, screwing her eyes up against the light, even though the sky was overcast and dark clouds threatened. Stretching out her limbs, she was surprised to find her spine felt stiff and her hip numb from where she’d lain.

  ‘Thank you, yes I’m fine. It was a long night.’ She recognised the woman. She was a regular to the graveyard, ageless in her grief, her skin scarred with sleepless nights and care-worn days, the deep creases in her forehead and neck like the map of a vast, empty, water-starved plain. She had seen the woman often, tending to a clean white stone dedicated to the memory of a child. Sometimes she came with a younger woman, but more often, just like her, she came by herself. For a moment, as Charlie processed this fact, her mind turned to her own mother and the way in which Meg chose to deal with her grief alone, never sharing the burden or helping to overcome her pain.

  As if reading her mind, the woman bent down and offered her a hand.

  ‘Don’t stay here for too long,’ the woman said, tugging her upwards gently as Charlie took hold of her hand. ‘It’s not good to spend too much time alone with your past.’

  She smiled back at the woman, recognising immediately the sadness in her face. There was nothing obvious, no dried streaks of tears, no red-rimmed eyes, just an emptiness where once there had almost certainly been life, a dullness where once there had been a spark.

  ‘I’m not alone,’ she replied simply, squeezing the woman’s hand and gazing deep into the emptiness. ‘We’re never alone.’ She watched as the faintest glow lit up in the woman’s eyes.

  ‘We’re not, are we!’ The woman nodded almost imperceptibly, holding on to her hand for a few seconds longer, before letting it go and smiling one last time. ‘Now, you take care of yourself, and those around you.’

  Charlie nodded in return, pulling her jacket around her neck and watching as the woman glided away. She blew a kiss towards her brother’s tombstone, understanding at last she wouldn’t be back. The conversation, short as it had been, had touched on something she’d known for a while but hadn’t as yet been able to verbalise. And the words had come from her own mouth.

  She was never alone. Jamie was always with her. His body might be buried under the soil here in the tranquil silence of the graveyard, but his spirit was with her always. It was what provided her fight, the determination to do the right thing, the resolve to always put the victims first.

  She turned when she got to the gate, catching a glimpse of the woman kneeling at the side of the white headstone, her head bowed, a tissue held to her face. Maybe she too was saying her goodbyes. Perhaps it was time for her to move on. Who knew, but it was strange how a chance meeting could yield such a startling revelation.

  For twenty years, Charlie had been coming each week, but her life was changing. It was time to let go of her past and look to the future. Whether she would feel the same the following Wednesday, she didn’t know, but as she climbed into her car, she could almost imagine the click of the lock as the passenger door swung shut, and the wrinkling of the car seat next to hers with the weight of her unseen guest.

  *

  Another bunch of flowers lay on her step as she opened her flat door a few hours later to head back into the office. With Houghton eliminated, almost literally, from Op Greystream, the bulk of the investigation would revert to Karl Ferris.

  She picked the flowers up and headed off, noticing the same central thistle and a similar type of flowers. This time though there was a small pink card with a creamy-coloured heart clipped to the covering. She flipped it over, but there was no message attached. The sight made her shiver inexplicably. It seemed strange to think of Ben being so close whilst she’d slept. Only a week ago he’d been sharing her bed, now he was creeping about outside.

  She started to jog to the bus stop, tucking the flowers under her arm. Bet could arrange them for the office. Having had only three hours to grab some proper sleep in her bed, she’d left getting up until the last possible moment.

  Paul was climbing the steps into Lambeth HQ as she arrived. For once, he appeared in as bad a shape as she, his usual blond spiky hair ungelled and his eyes slitty and tired. He screwed them up further on seeing her.

  ‘Ben again?’ He nodded towards the flowers and gave her a nudge. ‘You absolutely sure it’s not a secret admirer?’ Sidestepping her as she went to hit him, he continued to tease. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right man?’ He raised his eyebrows, jumping into the revolving doors in front of her. ‘Talking of which. Karl Ferris. Do you reckon he’s our man?’

  The question got her thinking as she climbed the stairs to the office. Was Ferris really their man? Or were they missing something? He was certainly repugnant. He made her skin crawl in fact, but was he capable of cold-blooded murder?

  A slight doubt had been nagging at her throughout the investigation. It had become stronger that day as she’d walked from the graveyard, the presence of so many dead round her, honing her desire for justice. Maryanne’s burglary had always felt different, even though it had been linked by many similarities. Now that Houghton could almost certainly be ruled out, her thoughts returned to Florence Briarly, her daughter Amy and neighbour George Cosgrove.

  Her brain had never dismissed a lead that had already been started. It had provided an interesting link but one that hadn’t been researched to its full potential. Now, as she thought of Ferris and his smarmy gloating words, the urge to follow it up became ever more pressing.

  *

  ‘Karl Ferris returned to his flat at 03.18 on Tuesday 1st May. We don’t know where he was before that time, or whether he met up with anybody. Or whether he was out recceing his next victim.’

  Hunter’s voice sounded loud and authoritative, briefing a small team of surveillance officers when Charlie and Paul walked in together. It was just after 9 p.m., but they were to be out on the plot straight away, just in case.

  ‘Boss, can I go and make a quick enquiry before joining you?’ Charlie asked, waiting for a pause in the conversation and quickly explaining what she had in mind.<
br />
  ‘If you must, but you’re on your own. I can’t spare Paul?’ Hunter frowned; clearly not happy at losing her, but at the same time not wanting to rein her in. Charlie’s hunches had gained quite a reputation for being correct over the years. ‘Be quick though. I’ve a hunch too, and I think that Ferris will be coming out to play tonight.’

  She grinned, never averse to a little competition.

  Pulling out her phone, she typed in a number, immediately pleased by confirmation that the woman she needed to meet was on duty all night. They might not have been able to get hold of her for the ID parade with Houghton, but at least she was available now. Things were looking up. Grabbing an album of photos from the shelf, she copied out a photo of Karl Ferris and slotted it in carefully on to a random page.

  The surveillance team were already heading out the door as she finished, anxious to get in position and ready well before eleven. They needed to catch Ferris as he left his flat, in order to establish where he was heading – and more importantly, what he was up to.

  She checked her watch. With any luck, her enquiry wouldn’t take too long and would add meat to the bones of Hunter’s hunch.

  As she started her car, though, she also knew that it had the potential to provide their suspect with a further disclosable point of defence.

  *

  Glenys Jones was busy sorting out the last few residents at Applewood House when Charlie was ushered through.

  ‘You’ll have to wait, but I won’t be long,’ she said, holding a clasp of safety pins in gritted teeth while pointing the way to the office. ‘Take a seat. I’ve just got one last resident to get comfortable and then I’ll be back with you.’

  She did as she was told, making herself comfortable on a leather armchair and pulling out her radio. She set it on the table in front of her and settled back against the high back of the chair, letting her head relax and feeling immediately dozy. What sleep she’d had in the last twenty-four hours had been broken and sporadic and she was still tired.