by Sarah Flint
The lunchtime news bulletin also brought with it the update that Thomas Houghton had died in hospital. Charlie watched as a stony-faced presenter, reading from an autocue outside the hospital, reported that he had never regained consciousness after being shot by police two nights before. His daughter, Emma, aged eighteen, had remained at his bedside throughout.
The scene changed to the frontage of Baytree House. The derelict care home was still cordoned off with incident tape, and a lone policewoman stood guard. The report went on to describe how he had been shot five times and that that the IPCC had been informed and would be monitoring the investigation. Houghton was said to have been unarmed and suffering from a mental illness at the time of the shooting. The unnamed woman he had allegedly been keeping hostage had escaped uninjured.
As she watched the report, Charlie had mixed feelings. Maryanne was a strong woman, but she was still highly traumatised, as was to be expected. She would be offered counselling and, in time, hopefully, the memories would become less vivid and more manageable. Houghton, it seemed, had been mentally ill, his drug addiction further complicating his condition, but would he ever truly have stopped believing she was his wife? With him dead, at least Maryanne would have no fear of his return. The shadow of her rapist had been removed. Perhaps their failures to apprehend him alive would ultimately give her peace.
There were, however, a lot of questions to be answered, and, having had dealings with the IPCC in the past, Charlie was in no rush to start the process again. They would look into every detail: each time that he’d slipped through their fingers, their use of Emma in the final negotiations and whether less lethal force could have been used. She was under no illusions that the team would not come out of the investigation smelling of roses, but could it have been managed in a better way? She didn’t know.
As if reading her mind, she turned to see Hunter walking towards her.
‘Houghton’s dead,’ she said, dully.
‘I know.’
‘Are you glad?’
Hunter pursed his lips. ‘I’m not sure if that’s the right word for it – but I don’t necessarily think it was the wrong conclusion, and I’m sure Maryanne will, in time, agree. Houghton might have been suffering from delusions, but he still had enough mental capacity to execute the burglary and rape, armed with a knife and with a fair amount of planning and skill.’ She watched as Hunter stared, red-eyed and without focusing, up at the TV screen, which was now showing a weather map of Europe. ‘Not to mention how he changed his identity, GBH’d two police officers and took a hostage. He might have appeared insane when he was raving about Catherine, but he was quite clearly sane when he wanted to avoid capture.’
Charlie yawned. The weatherman was concentrating on Portugal and she was beyond feeling tired. ‘And the gun? Do you think he ever had it?’ There had been no trace of the actual firearm anywhere at the care home or his squat, despite police dogs, equipped to sniff out firearms and firearm residue, indicating a trace several times.
‘Yep, I’m sure he did. You could see Emma was telling the truth. She was scared stiff. And anyway, the dogs confirmed it had, in all probability, been there. We’ll be doing some warrants in the next few days at addresses frequented by Javon Stone. Hopefully we’ll find our man Rocky with it.’
She reached forward and picked up the remote control, clicking the screen off and watching as the picture shrank to a tiny dot, leaving only a blank screen. ‘I do feel sorry for Emma though.’ She would never forget the look of horror on the girl’s face as the shots rang out. ‘She’s lost both her parents – and she’s always going to blame herself for her father’s death.’
‘It was no more her fault than anyone around him. It was a just a set of circumstances that came together. A perfect storm, as it were. Paranoia mixed with drugs, guns, dealers and sexual fantasies. It was never going to end well.’ Hunter swung round and started to walk towards the canteen door.
‘Maybe she’s better off without him.’ Charlie turned to follow, waving as Hunter ducked away in the direction of his office. She headed instead for the exit to the building, and a dose of her own reality. It was time to go home and pick up the pieces of her life, without Ben.
37
Three weeks later
Amy Briarly finished the report and set it down on her lap. It made difficult reading, being the interim coroner’s report on her mother’s murder. The cause of death had been given as strangulation and this knowledge meant that her passing would forever be a source of nightmares. Seeing it in black and white brought back her loss and the fact that she would never again speak to her mother, and her children would never get to properly know their grandmother.
Florence Briarly had been upright, warm, determined and an inspiration to her as a mother. It was unbelievable that she would not be alive, for at least a few more years, to point her and her grandchildren in the right direction.
‘Are you ready to take me home?’ George’s voice sounded tremulous, but, just like Florence, he was determined that nothing would faze him and he would not be hounded from his own home by bad memories and the residual taint of evil. Roy Skinner was not going to be victorious, but just to be on the safe side, the house had been scrubbed from top to bottom.
‘Just coming.’ She slotted the report into the top of a drawer and stood up.
It would be their first time back in the house since the break-in and she had no idea how either of them would feel. Still, it had to be done at some point, and now was as good a time as any.
The journey to George’s passed quickly. Amy knew the way like the back of her hand, her mother having lived only two doors away from George over the course of many years. Her parents’ house had been a home that she had loved, the family abode that she had been brought up in and which had been put up for sale just yesterday. With her mother’s funeral having taken place in the last few days, life was slowly getting back to normal, and selling her house would be the final step in bidding her farewell. Time would tell whether anybody would want to buy it now though, with a murder having been committed there so recently. Perhaps Roy Skinner’s shadow would fall across their lives in more ways than she realised.
The road was quiet and she drove straight to George’s house, pulling up outside. As she set the handbrake, she looked across to the common. In the foreground were the remnants of some cordon tape, marking a small area where the grass had been trampled down – the spot police believed to have been used by Skinner to gain an insight into the routines of his two targets. As she peered across the road now, the sight set her whole body on edge. She wanted the tape gone – and only the memories of her mother, surrounded by flowers and love to remain.
She would remove it herself, if necessary, but for now though, she needed to support George. Their old friend and neighbour was pulling his suitcase from the boot of her car and was about to set foot up the path to his house. Quickly, she jumped out of the car and pulled the boot down, keeping pace with George as he headed towards the door.
A new phone line was in place and the old louvre windows in the kitchen exchanged for a solid glass panel. All the physical repairs had been made. It would remain to be seen what psychological scars lingered.
The house smelt of fresh polish and lemon soap. George went straight to the bedroom, anxious to see that everything had been returned to its proper place. Amy followed close behind, the floorboards squeaking as she climbed the stairs.
‘We were lucky he came,’ George remarked, as Amy looked round the little bedroom. ‘How did you know he would?’ They had discussed the possible run of events before they had actually played out, but little had been said since the old man had made his witness statement. Now the time seemed right.
‘I didn’t know for definite that he would, but we had to try, didn’t we?’ She pulled the curtains open and stared out towards the gardens, her eyes alighting on her mother’s bank of rose bushes, just a couple of doors down, and recalling instantly how her mum had so lo
ved to sit within their fragrant shade. ‘He didn’t seem averse to returning to the same road and he preferred old folks with some connection to the armed forces. You were a perfect target.’
‘We did well,’ George agreed. ‘He’d obviously seen me on TV, because the first thing he said was that he’d heard I wanted to talk. I gather he was an ex-soldier. That explains a lot.’ He pointed to a spot on the floor in front of an oak wardrobe. ‘That’s where he fell.’
Amy squatted down to check all around that the floor was clean.
‘Will I get my bayonet and dagger back?’ George looked behind the bedstead. ‘I usually keep the bayonet there, but that night I had it in the bed with me, ready, just like you suggested.’
‘I doubt you’ll get either back. They’ll be needed for evidence at the inquests.’ She stood up, staring at the neatly smoothed duvet. ‘And you had the dagger in your bed too?’
‘Yes, it was a good idea of yours to bring it up from the cabinet. I wouldn’t have had time to get it otherwise, because the police were there far quicker than I thought they’d be.’
‘They’d just worked out it was Skinner, apparently, and that you were to be his next target. They were already on their way, but it was lucky you phoned for help when you did. There might have been questions asked if you hadn’t, and it added weight to your assertion that you were fighting for your life… even if you weren’t.’ She reached across, smoothing the bedcovers still further. ‘You did well to get the dagger so close to his hand though, George.’
‘I barely had time, to be honest. I knew it was important because I remember us discussing the fact that he needed to be armed, especially if I was to use my bayonet.’ He frowned, the lines on his forehead slashed deeper than ever into his waxy skin. ‘We were also fortunate that he found my medals in the same cabinet as I keep my ceremonial knives before he came up.’
She shook her head, suddenly angry. ‘It wouldn’t have changed things that much if he hadn’t, but it shows what a lowlife thieving bastard he was. How could he think it was right to steal from someone like you? Or Mum. He deserved everything he got – but it was still perfect the way that he damned himself by leaving some of the fibres from his coat right by where you’d taken the dagger.’
She watched as George walked across to the window and stared out in exactly the same direction as she had just a few minutes before. ‘I just wish I’d been able to save your mum though.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose.
‘You did the next best thing. You got her – and his other victims – justice. I know how the system works, don’t forget.’ She put her fingers to her mouth and shushed. ‘The exact way it all played out will be our little secret. It might not have been legally right, but I’ve got no doubt that it was morally right.’
‘I’m not really quite sure whether we did the right thing or not.’ George shoved his handkerchief into his pocket and straightened. ‘But it’s a shame that Roy Skinner didn’t. If he’d given himself in, like I suggested, things would never have come to this.’ He turned and walked away from the bedroom, down the stairs and into the lounge, where he bent over and selected one of his medals from the cabinet.
Amy followed, watching as her friend lifted a circular, silver military medal up to the light, dangling it on its blue, red and white striped ribbon.
‘At least, your mother and the others can rest in peace,’ he said quietly. ‘Roy Skinner got summary justice.’
She slipped in behind him, reaching around his frail, old body to hold the medal up to his chest and reading aloud the words of commendation on the front. ‘For bravery in the field.’
Gently, she kissed him on the back of his head, her lips warm against his scalp, the waft of Brylcreem from his sparse, grey hair, still having the power to send tears of pride and nostalgia slipping down her cheeks.
‘You were brave, George. You did us proud, but remember, it wasn’t summary justice. It was self-defence. We just needed to persuade the police and CPS to come to the right conclusion.’
38
The sun was shining as Emma Houghton walked into the graveyard. Spring was giving way to summer and the flowers in the gardens had changed to brightly coloured wallflowers and sweet peas, lifting the eye from the dull greys of the headstones. A raft of late-flowering crocuses still peeped up in the shadows, with the last few six-packed torsos of bluebells sprinkled intermittently between them.
For the first time in years, she felt excited for the future.
She stopped as she passed a wooden bench, breathing in the fragrances and reading the words of a small oval plaque screwed to its back, commemorating the lives of an elderly couple who had died just two months apart. The sentiment was perfect.
After a moment, she strolled across to her mother’s grave. In her hands, she held a gold-coloured urn containing the ashes of her father. For a few minutes she stayed still, in silent contemplation, then she knelt on the grass and sprinkled them out across where her mother lay buried. Just like the couple named on the plaque, Thomas and Catherine Houghton were now destined to be together forever, their remains intertwined, as their lives had been.
The sound of footsteps broke her reverie and she looked up to see the figure of DC Charlie Stafford walking towards her. They might have got off on the wrong footing initially, but the detective had helped her through the last few weeks, and for that she was grateful.
‘Hi Emma,’ Charlie said. ‘How are you?’ She motioned towards the empty urn. ‘They’re both together now then?’
Emma nodded and stood up. She started to saunter along the pathway, Charlie falling in step as she walked. She was in no rush to leave the serenity of the place.
‘I’m feeling much better, thanks. The council have found me a nice flat and it’s been decorated in my choice of colours. It’s only small, but it’s my own.’
‘That’s good.’ They continued in silence for a minute before Charlie spoke again. ‘They’ve started the investigation into your father’s death. Are they keeping you updated?’
For a second, her anger flared. ‘Yes they are, but what’s the point? At the end of the day, you lot killed an unarmed man. Whatever the rights and wrongs of what happened, it won’t bring him back.’ She shoved her hands in her pockets, her fingers coming to rest on an old photograph of her parents when they’d first met, retrieved from her tin box. She pulled it out, concentrating instead on the clarity of joy on their faces, before turning it to show Charlie. ‘Actually, I’m not sure that he would have wanted to carry on as he was, without my mum, though. He’d changed so much over the years.’ She swallowed back the thought. ‘He could never accept her illness, or her death. It finished him. There was nothing I could do to make it better for him.’
‘At least he could see that you tried though. That must have made a difference.’
‘It did. For a few days at least I think we actually had a connection. He was my dad. I was his daughter. It almost felt like he loved me, without blaming me for my mother’s…’ Her voice petered out and she kicked at a small stone, sending it scudding across the concrete onto the grass. ‘But it was all wrong. He was ill. I should have got him help, not just covered for him. I should never have done what I did. I don’t know what on earth got into me.’ She looked over her shoulder at the small wooden name plaque at her mother’s grave. ‘Mum would have turned in her grave if she’d known what Dad had got into, and what I had too. I’ve left all that behind now. Jason and the girls might have been friendly, but they weren’t worth it. It felt wrong and Mum always taught me to do the right thing, however difficult.’
For a second, an image of Josef sprung into her mind, but, just as quickly, she shut it out. She hadn’t looked to make contact with him since. He was different from her – and he was part of that life. She was stronger now. She had to move on.
‘Well you certainly did that, Emma. We would never have tracked your dad down without your help. Who knows what would have happened if
we hadn’t found him.’
‘Well, he would still be alive, for a start, wouldn’t he?’ She blinked back a tear, closing her eyes momentarily, but opening them within seconds, as the flash of searchlights and rattle of gunfire seared into her head. However much she rationalised Thomas was better off dead with Catherine than alive without his wife, the fact that she was now an orphan still gnawed away at her innards. She concentrated instead on the flower bed they were passing, ‘But at what cost? That poor woman…’
They continued to walk, lapsing into silence again. Emma twisted the empty urn around in her hands, tapping on its roughened surface with her fingers.
‘Did I tell you that I’ve signed up for a college course?’ she said after a while. ‘I’m going to become a nanny. I always loved looking after Yasmin, my friend’s little girl. I’ve been back in touch with Kelly. She was nice really and I know now she was just trying to help. She said I should do a childcare diploma.’
‘That’s excellent, Emma.’ Charlie was smiling at her. ‘Your mum would be proud.’ She leant across and patted her on her shoulder. ‘And I think your dad would be too.’
They walked on a little further, Emma’s mind returning to the happy days of her childhood. They rounded a bend and the gates to the graveyard came into view. All of a sudden, she wanted to get away.
‘I did do the right thing though, didn’t I?’ She needed affirmation. ‘Whatever the outcome. I just didn’t remember that he would shove his hands in his pockets at those words.’
‘Yes, you did do the right thing, Emma. At any other time, those words would have worked. They were what mattered to him – three small words that brought his love for your mother to the forefront of his mind.’
The detective was holding out her hand to shake. Emma shoved the urn under one arm and took hold of Charlie’s hand, understanding immediately the sentiment. She would say her goodbyes and she would make her own way in life. It was ‘time to go’.