The Strangler's Daughter

by Amy Cross

  Looking around, I still see no sign of Dad and Caitlin, and I'm starting to panic now. I reach into my pocket and take out my phone, wondering whether I should try to call either of them, but I can't shake the feeling that I'd only end up making myself look like an idiot. I'm clinging to the hope that I've overreacting, that somehow things aren't as bad as they seem.

  And then, a moment later, I hear a faint gasping, rustling sound coming from the darkness.

  I turn and look toward the old park where I used to play. There are no lights there, of course, but after a few seconds I realize I can hear what sounds like a struggle. I instinctively start walking in that direction, while telling myself that I must be imagining things, but as I get closer I realize that the sound seems to be coming from the bushes near the swings. My chest feels impossibly tight, and I tell myself that I'm probably just hearing a badger or some other wild animal, but I stop as I realize that the sound is coming from about ten feet away.

  I swear, it sounds like someone's struggling to breathe.

  I tap at my phone's screen and bring up the flashlight app, and then I hesitate for a few seconds before forcing myself to aim the light straight ahead.

  I let out a shocked gasp as soon as I see them.

  Caitlin's on the ground, struggling desperately as Dad strangles her. His hands are tight around her throat, and I can only stare in horror at the sight of Caitlin's wild, bulging eyes. Her mouth is wide open and she's trying to scream, but all that comes out of her mouth is a very faint gurgle. She's reaching up and trying to pull Dad's hands away, but she seems to be weakening already. Her eyes turn and she looks directly at me.

  I look at Dad, and I see that he's turned to look at me. He looks utterly shocked at being discovered, and I watch as the phone's cold light picks out every wrinkle of his face.

  Caitlin lets out another, choked groan, accompanied by a crunching sound that seems to be coming from her throat.

  That's when I panic.

  Dropping my phone, I turn and run out of the park, desperately trying to get away. I slam straight into a wall, winding myself, and then I hurry along the lane. My mind is filled with the sight of so much terror in Caitlin's eyes, and I stop and steady myself against a fence.

  I should go back.

  I should try to help her.

  I turn, but in that moment I'm filled with the most immense sense of fear.

  As panic grips my soul, I turn and start running again, scrambling along the dark lane until I spot the village green ahead. I race out across the grass, almost tripping over my own feet, and tears are starting to stream down my face. I can see home ahead, and all I can think is that I desperately need to get back inside and slam the door shut. I always feel so safe at home, it's the one place where the rest of the world can't hurt me, and I feel a rush of relief as I reach the door and start searching for my keys.

  My hands are shaking violently as I get the door open, but eventually I manage to get into the hallway. I shut the door and stop to catch my breath, and then I fumble through the dark hallway and into the kitchen, where I switch the light on and then collapse on one of the chairs.

  I'm terribly out of breath, and in my mind's eye I keep replaying – over and over again – the sight of Dad strangling Caitlin.

  Why didn't I do something?

  Why didn't I help her?

  Hearing a faint meow, I turn and see Tabby clawing at the gate on her crate. I turn and reach down, unlocking the front and pulling the gate open, and then I put my hands inside.

  Before I can pick Tabby up, however, she hisses at me and lashes out, scratching my left hand.

  As she pulls back into the rear of the crate, I look at my hand and see blood running down to my wrist. Filled with shock at what happened, I wait as a thin, sharp pain begins to throb in the wound.

  A moment later, I hear the front door click open.

  I turn and watch the doorway, just as Dad steps into view.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Ten years ago

  “It's raining.”

  I suppose I didn't need to say that. As we sit in the car, drops of rain have begun to fall against the windshield, and the bright blue sky of earlier has become a vast gray swathe. Funny how a day can change like that, and when I look over at Dad I feel as if his mood is reflecting what's happening outside. All his manic energy seemed to fade after we left the museum.

  He looks so tired.

  “What are we going to do now?” I ask.

  I wait, but he doesn't say anything.

  “Are you tired?” I continue. “After your conference, I mean.”

  “What conference?” he replies.

  “You went to a conference last night,” I remind him.

  “I didn't go to a conference,” he says with a heavy sigh. “What are you talking about, Lisa?”

  We sit in silence. Rain is falling more heavily. I try to think of ways in which I might be wrong, but for once I'm pretty sure of myself. Dad did say he was going to a conference, it was the whole reason he left me alone last night.

  “Oh,” he says, “right. That conference. I mean...”

  His voice trails off.

  “The truth is,” he continues, “I just needed to get out of town. I'm sorry, Lisa, I should have been more honest with you.”

  “Couldn't you have taken me with you?”

  “I needed to clear my head.”

  I can't help but feel a little uncomfortable.

  “You said you'd never lie to me,” I point out.

  “And I won't,” he replies, before sighing again. “Not about anything important. Or only about important things. Lisa, it's complicated, I can't explain it all to you. I won't lie to you again, I promise.”

  I think about that, as I watch rain running down the windshield.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Those are my two promises to you,” he continues. “I'll never lie to you, not ever. And I'll never, ever hurt you.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Today

  Reaching out, Dad sets my phone on the kitchen table.

  “Here,” he says calmly. “You dropped this.”

  I can only stare at his hands. His big, muscular hands, filled with so much power. A shudder passes through my body as I remember the sight of those hands wrapped tight around Caitlin's throat. My stupor is only broken when Dad pulls the opposite chair out and sits down.

  I want to reach out and take the phone, but I don't dare. I don't know if that's what Dad wants.

  “You followed me tonight,” he says.

  I look at him, and I see that he seems less angry than before. In the pub, it was as if he wanted me to disappear, but now he seems to be studying me.

  “Well,” he continues, “I'm not going to treat you like a child tonight, Lisa. I think we're past that point now.”

  “No,” I whimper, as more tears run down my cheeks, “please...”

  “No what ?” he asks. “Do you want to be treated like a child?”

  “No,” I stammer, “I mean... I...”

  My voice trails off. I keep thinking about the way Caitlin looked at me as she was being strangled. I suppose it was dark, and the glare from my phone was strong, so there's a chance she didn't actually know that it was me, but...

  She did know.

  At the end, she must have known.

  “Why is your hand bleeding?” Dad asks.

  I look down at the scratch. For such a small wound, it's producing quite a lot of blood.

  “Lisa,” Dad says firmly, “tell me why your hand is bleeding.”

  “Cat,” I say, barely even able to get that word out. “The cat did it.”

  “Why did the cat attack you?”

  “I don't know,” I reply, still staring at the blood. “I tried to take her out, and she just...”

  “I see.”

  Dad gets to his feet and makes his way around the table, and then he crouches in front of the crate.

  “Come on, pussy cat,
” he says, adding a slight whistle sound in an attempt to lure Tabby out. “It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you. Come on.”

  I watch as Tabby slinks out and lets Dad pick her up. She's showing none of the viciousness that was on display when she lashed out at me. Instead, she's trying to lick his face, and I'm stunned by her friendliness as Dad carries her back around and sits once more on the chair.

  Standing on his lap, Tabby purrs and brushes her head against Dad's chest.

  “That must feel really bad,” Dad says to me. “You tried to protect something innocent, you did your best to look after it, and in return it hurt you. What do you think, Lisa? Do you think I know how that feels?”

  I wipe the blood on the side of my shirt.

  Dad's stroking Tabby now, with both hands.

  “You shouldn't have come out tonight,” he says. “You shouldn't have come to the pub, and you definitely shouldn't have followed me to the park. Do you understand why I'm angry at you, Lisa?”

  I pause, and my bottom lip is trembling as I nod.

  “So you've acted out a little,” Dad continues. “You've tried making a stand and -”

  “No...”

  “Yes, Lisa,” he says firmly, “that's exactly what this is. You tried making a stand and doing what you thought was right, and where did it get you? Are you pleased with the consequences of your actions? Do you think tonight was a great success?”

  “I don't know,” I whimper.

  “Don't give me that,” he replies, still stroking Tabby but placing his hands tighter around her neck now. “If you're so keen to grow up and make your own decisions, then let's hear it. You're sobbing, you're shaking, you're bleeding, but none of that matters if you're happy with how things went. Is that the case, Lisa? All things considered, is there anything you'd change about how tonight unfolded?”

  “Why her?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why did you have to kill Caitlin?”

  “I didn't have to do anything. I wanted to.”

  “But I thought you said you'd never kill anyone in the village.”

  “This was the exception that proves the rule.”

  “I know about Birmingham!” I spit.

  He tilts his head slightly. That, at least, he doesn't seem to have expected.

  “I know you killed more people than I know about,” I continue. “You killed someone when you went to Scotland, didn't you? And other places, I bet you did.”

  I wait, but he's simply staring at me coldly.

  “How many?” I ask.

  “How many what?”

  “How many people have you killed?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I thought it was three or four,” I reply, “But how many is it really?”

  I wait, but he simply stares at me.

  “Fifteen,” he says.

  I feel a wave of shock pass through my chest, and I struggle to keep from bursting into tears and screaming.

  “Give or take,” he adds. “And yes, the police have connected some of them. That's fine, they can't link them to me. I've been careful to cover my tracks, Lisa. You know I'm smart, don't you?”

  “Why did they have to die?”

  “They didn't have to die,” he replies. “I chose to kill them. That's very different, although I can understand why you maybe don't realize that.”

  “Why did you have to kill anyone?” I ask. “Were they all women?”

  “I don't see what that's got to do with anything, Lisa, but yes, they were all women.”

  He's stroking Tabby with one hand now, but I can't help noticing that his other hand seems to be gripping her throat quite tightly. I don't want to overreact and say anything, not just yet, but I flinch as I see that he's holding Tabby very firmly in place. She tries to slip clear, but his huge hands force her to stay on his lap. Finally, unable to hold back any longer, I get to my feet and step around the table.

  “I should put her back in her crate now,” I say.

  “Why? I think she's enjoying this.”

  Tabby struggles some more, but now Dad's really holding her down.

  “Just let me take her,” I stammer, trying not to panic. “Please.”

  “What's wrong, Lisa?” he continues. “You seem to be getting all het up about something. You do trust me with your little pet, don't you?”

  “Dad, please...”

  I start to reach out so that I can grab Tabby, but then I hold back. I don't want to panic, but at the same time he's holding Tabby so tight that I'm worried he's staring to hurt her. More tears are filling my eyes, and I feel as if I'm about to explode with fear.

  “Here,” Dad says, holding her out to me.

  I grab Tabby, and then my knees give way and I drop down onto the floor. It's as if all the tension of the evening has suddenly flooded out of my body.

  “I hope you don't seriously think that I'd hurt your cat,” Dad says, getting to his feet and heading to the door. “I'm going up to bed, Lisa. Make sure to put the cat away securely and turn the lights off before you come upstairs.”

  Once he's gone, I hug Tabby tight as tears run down my face. I'm sobbing wildly, shaking with great waves of fear and relief, but I know I can't go after Dad and tell him what I really think. Maybe tonight was my fault, maybe I could have acted differently, maybe I accidentally goaded Dad into doing what he did. And now, as I continue to cuddle Tabby, I tell myself that I have to be more careful. I saw a new side of Dad tonight, a side I don't want to see again. And that means that I have to be smarter.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Ten years ago

  By the time we get home, Dad seems sadder somehow. I feel bad, in case I drained him of all his energy. I ask him if it's my fault, but he insists that I've got no reason to feel guilty. He says he's just tired, and that he's still missing Mum a lot. I don't want to upset him, so I just tell him that I understand.

  As I sit watching a film, however, I start to realize that Dad's sobbing in the kitchen. I don't want to mute the film, in case I make him feel awkward, but I slowly turn and look toward the doorway. Sure enough, the sobbing sound continues and I realize that Dad's sadness seems to have erupted. It's as if, in the space of a few hours, he's gone from one extreme to the other. I want to go and make him feel better, but I'm worried that I'd actually make him worse.

  So I turn the TV's volume up, and I focus on the film.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Today

  Morning sunlight streams through my bedroom window as I continue to stare up at the ceiling.

  I didn't sleep all night. It's 7am now and I'm tired but awake, and I keep running over the night's events in my head. Somehow, the whole situation with Caitlin seems unreal now that morning has arrived, and I'm starting to think that maybe it didn't happen at all. What if I imagined it all? What if it was some kind of feverish dream? As I listen to the sound of birds chirping in the garden, I start to find it harder and harder to believe that anything truly awful happened last night. Caitlin's probably alive and already on her way to London. Dad's probably not mad at me.

  Everything's fine.

  And then I hear voices outside in the street. My window's slightly open, so I can just about make out what they're saying.

  “It's absolutely shocking,” a woman mutters. “The police are all over the park. People are saying she was strangled.”

  ***

  “So I'll be out all morning,” Dad says as he puts his briefcase on the kitchen table, “but I should be back after lunch. Don't worry about dinner, I'll pick something up on the way home.”

  As Tabby continues to sniff the leg of a nearby chair, I stare into space. I want to scream, but I know that Dad would be upset.

  “Lisa?”

  I can hear his voice, but somehow it sounds as if he's ten million miles away.

  “Lisa.”

  He touches my shoulder, and I flinch as I pull back and turn to him.

  “Lisa, what's wrong?” he asks, wi
th a faint smile. “You need to sort your head out, young lady. You've got a cat to look after now.”

  He pats my shoulder as he carries his briefcase over to the doorway.

  “Have a good morning, you two,” he adds nonchalantly, as if everything's completely fine with the world. “Oh, and remember to clean up any pee and poo, Lisa. That stuff can start to smell bad very quickly.”

  I listen to the sound of the front door swinging shut, and then I'm left sitting in silence. I know I should play with Tabby, but I can't get over the fact that Dad's been acting as if nothing's changed. Last night really happened, but it doesn't seem to have affected him at all. He's made no mention of Caitlin, or of the conversation we had after I got home. It's as if he can just compartmentalize the different parts of his life and forget about the things that he's done.

  I don't like that.

  I think he should face the truth about his actions.

  ***

  As I step toward the postbox, I hear a car door slamming shut and I turn to see two detective stepping away from a parked police car. They're heading toward the park, which has been cordoned off all morning, and I feel a flicker of sadness in my gut as I realize what they're investigating.

  “Isn't it awful?” a woman says, stopping next to me and watching as the detectives duck under some fluttering police tape. “It was Delia's granddaughter, you know. Mo Lewis found her this morning while he was out walking his dog. They say she'd been murdered!”

  “That's awful,” I reply, thinking back to the sight of Caitlin's eyes in the night.

  As the woman wanders away, I turn to head home, but then I hesitate. A few people have gathered close to the police tape and, although I don't want to start gawking at whatever's going on, I start walking that way. With each and every step, I feel as if I should turn around and go back, but I just can't help myself. It's as if I'm drawn to the scene of the murder, and soon I reach the tape and stop to take a look.

  A small tent has been set up on the grass, covering the spot where Caitlin's body was found. Several police officers are milling around, along with experts in white outfits. After a moment I spot a couple more officers examining a patch of dirt, although I can't imagine what they might be trying to find.