Daddy's Girls

by Sarah Flint

  ‘It’s creepy though,’ Charlie took over, shivering involuntarily at the thought. ‘He will sit on their beds and stroke their hair, faces or hands, irrespective of whether they’re male or female. And he often tells them he loves them.’ She grimaced. ‘Up until recently he’s remained fairly calm. He’s even agreed to some of his victims’ requests, like with Len Boswell asking to keep his war medals… but he doesn’t like it if he’s asked too many questions or criticised. Then he can turn nasty. He’s been known to put his hands over their mouths or around their throats to warn them off or shut them up.’

  ‘I can well imagine that’s what he’ll have done to Florence Briarly, but we’ll know tomorrow after her post-mortem.’ Hunter stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket and squared his shoulders. ‘In the next few days we need to get out and speak to the known victims and their neighbours again. Double-check if we’ve missed anything. We need to know if anybody heard or saw anything either on the night of the burglaries, or in the days leading up to them.

  ‘Naz and Sab, I want you to concentrate on these and also check out the “possibles”. Did he make any mistakes in the early days? Was he spotted at any of these locations, or did he leave any clues, before he honed his skills?

  ‘Paul and Bet, check again with any shops that buy second-hand property and get searching for any CCTV, particularly around Florence’s address. Did our man recce the house? If he did, where did he wait? In a car? On foot? Can we see anybody acting strangely in the area?

  ‘Charlie, get a list of all the local care homes and residential homes in the area, while I get a psychological profile jacked up. They’ve been overlooked so far. You and I will make a start on them. Let’s see if they’ve had any break-ins or suspicious characters trying to trick their way in or applying for a job. If he likes the elderly that much, there’s a good chance he might have been sniffing around them at some point.’

  Hunter stopped speaking and for a few seconds the team remained still, suspended in thought. Charlie’s mind flew to the last time she’d seen her grandparents, so contented in each other’s company, living their lives quietly and without fuss. Old people deserved the chance to live out their final years in peace. Florence Briarly had deserved that chance too…

  As Hunter clapped his hands and the team rose as one to get started, Charlie understood the urgency of the situation. Now they had one dead victim, it would only be a matter of time before there would be another.

  5

  A small bunch of chrysanthemums lay in the sink, wrapped loosely in a ‘bag for life’. Emma Houghton turned the tap and watched the water gurgle and splash into the basin, sighing heavily as it gradually drained away through the ill-fitting plug. She picked the flowers up, placed them inside the bag and ran some more water into its plastic confines. At least the petals would now remain bright and alive until the morning.

  Moving away, she walked the few steps to her sofa bed and bent down, carefully pulling a tarnished metal tin out from underneath and placing it on top of the duvet, before levering the lid off and tipping the contents out into an untidy pile. An assortment of memorabilia spread out across the bed: beads from a bracelet that she’d had as a child, badges, a pen engraved with her name, tiny sets of doll’s clothes, flashing Christmas earrings, a number of seaside postcards, a small orange autograph book filled with notes and pictures. So many memories!

  Her mother’s face smiled up from the top of a stack of photos held together with a grubby elastic band. She slipped the pile out and stared at her mother, wishing for the millionth time that she had the power to turn the clocks back and luxuriate in the safety of her arms again. A single tear sprang up at the corner of her eye. It clung to the lower lid for a few seconds, threatening to fall, but then disappeared, reabsorbed into her body. There were no more tears.

  Tomorrow marked one year since her mother, Catherine Houghton, had died; one year in which her previously cosy life had been turned upside down and she’d been forced to grow up. She ought to have seen it coming, but she’d been too young, clinging on to the forlorn hope that somehow her mother would regain her mobility, her speech, her control, stolen from her so cruelly by the disease that had gradually sucked the life from every cell of her body. In the end, her death had come relatively fast, her organs giving up one-by-one in quick succession, leaving the medical profession to provide only fluids and pain relief until her heart too succumbed.

  The death had taken Emma by surprise, even though the illness had been present for most of her childhood. Somehow she’d always believed her mother would be there for her. That’s what mothers did. That’s what they were. A presence. Always.

  It was only when she stood at the graveside, looking down into the deep, cold, filthy hole in which her mother’s coffin lay, that she finally realised the truth. She, Emma Houghton, aged just eighteen, daughter of Thomas and Catherine Houghton, was all alone. She may have been surrounded by family, but they would fade from her life, just as they had over the last few years when the going got tough. And with Catherine gone they wouldn’t even try.

  Her father was a waste of space. They’d told her that, on many occasions, and she’d known they were right, but she had tried hard over the years to paper over the cracks. He had never been capable of stepping up to the mark and being the father figure for which she had always yearned. In truth, they’d never even been that close. Yes, on the surface he’d done fatherly things. He’d taken her to the local park, smiled as she’d thrown bread towards the ducks, said the right words as he dropped her at the school gates when her mother was too ill, paid lip service to those little actions and activities that was the want of every father up and down the country, but she’d never, ever felt truly loved by him.

  It had taken the heat of an argument, as a challenging teenager, one balmy summer night, for the truth to be revealed – and the words had cut her to the bone. She could, and would, never forget the thunderous rage in his voice as he accused her of causing his wife’s multiple sclerosis. That accusation had shaped her youth, seared into her psyche as it was. Her father held her to blame for her mother’s disability, the illness manifesting itself for the first time shortly after her birth, and however much Emma reasoned in her head that she couldn’t be the cause, that the charge was undeserved, the terror and guilt instilled in her in those few awful moments had never gone away.

  Nevertheless, she had tried to forge a relationship with Thomas. She had to. He was her father, however weak. So she had ignored the jibes and the pitying comments of family and friends as he’d dragged her and her mother towards the gutter, going from employment to the dole, from their own house to rented accommodation, from riches to rags. Even as her mother lay dying, Emma had tried to see the best in him.

  It was only when he’d turned tail and ignored her pleas at the funeral that she’d really, truly, understood. That day had been the blackest day of her life – but it had also turned out to be the most illuminating. Her father, Thomas Houghton, was useless. And he would never be there for her. He had become addicted to weed many years previously; unable to cope with his wife’s slow descent into death. These days he was unable to function without his daily dose of cannabis. Emma suspected he’d turned to hard drugs, but she didn’t know for sure – and she didn’t really want to know.

  The only thing of which she was certain, as she heard a scuffling sound at the door, was that tomorrow her mother had been lost to her for a whole year – and in that year her father had become lost to her too.

  She looked up as the door was flung open and her father rushed in.

  ‘I’ve just seen Catherine,’ he blurted out, breathing heavily.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve just seen your mother,’ he repeated as if it was the most normal occurrence in the world. ‘She was at the shops.’

  ‘Dad, don’t be stupid. Mum’s dead. Catherine’s dead.’ She said the words slowly and precisely, hoping that their bluntness would stop her father’s outburst.<
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  ‘But she’s not dead. It was her. Maybe she didn’t die. Maybe she just went away. But anyway she’s back. I saw her.’

  She watched, suddenly more frightened than she’d ever been, as her father, continued to pace back and forth, like a rabid animal. These days she barely recognised him. His face looked gaunt, haunted even, and his hair hung lank and greasy around sunken cheeks and a chin covered with a dark layer of stubble, leaving only a small area of pale skin, out of which his nose protruded. Piercingly blue irises stared out dully from hollows, lost behind thick eyebrows, the pupils of which, in his youth, had flashed and danced, enticing and mischievous, but were now permanently dilated and lifeless. For a man just into his forties, he looked old beyond his years.

  The last twelve months had taken a toll on him and he’d given up completely, forcing them to move from the modest rented accommodation they had to the dismal bedsit in which they were now living. The room was one of many in a large run-down house, with a shared bathroom, no garden and no privacy, but it was all they could now afford. Over the course of the last year, Emma had become the adult in their relationship, giving up her studies to become the one who did the day-to-day cleaning, shopping and cooking, while her father was capable only of seeing to his own requirements. When she wasn’t working in the part-time shop assistant’s job to keep the roof over their heads, she was working to keep their meagre surroundings habitable. Only the presence of a single friend, Kelly, and her baby, Yasmin, in a nearby room kept her from walking away. That, and a faint loyalty to her mother, a promise made as she lay dying in hospital to take care of her father.

  She watched as her father paced around the small rug in the centre of the room. He was becoming increasingly manic. At night he would cry out in his sleep, his face screwed up in anguish, his body taut with fear. Even during the day, the paranoia revealed itself with a noise or sudden movement making him start, but just as his agitation came and went, so too did the moments when he would become lucid and calm as if controlled by someone or something alien… and it was getting worse. This evening, was the worst it had ever been. It was as if he were a stranger, but one that looked and spoke like her father – and she didn’t know what to do.

  ‘Mum’s been dead for a year, Dad. She died exactly a year tomorrow. That’s why I’m looking at my photos.’ She pointed towards the pile of memorabilia on her sofa bed and then took the few steps to the sink, lifting the chrysanthemums up high. ‘That’s why I have flowers. To put on her grave.’ She needed to get the message across as forcefully as she could, but the words still caught in her throat. At the sound of her voice, he became even more agitated.

  ‘But she hasn’t left us. She’s still around. I’ve been visiting her.’

  ‘What do you mean, visiting her?’

  ‘At the home. Remember Baytree House. She’s there. I can feel her.’

  Emma was stunned into silence. She did remember. They’d spoken of it often. It was where her mother had worked as a carer before her illness had become too debilitating. It was where her father and mother had met, where he had proposed to her in front of a crowd of applauding, delighted old people. It was a special place of significance to them both, but as far as Emma knew, it was now derelict, the cost of removing the large amounts of asbestos and upgrading and modernising the old building being prohibitive.

  ‘Then I saw her in the street. She’s come back to find us. It was her. I’ve seen her a few times now by the shops. The same blonde hair, the same blue eyes, just like you.’ He moved towards her, glancing fondly at the photo of Catherine on top of the pile, before stretching grubby, hooked fingers out tentatively, to stroke Emma’s hair, her face.

  Quickly, she stepped to one side, avoiding his touch, the attempt at intimacy revolting her to the core.

  ‘She smiled at me the last time, you know!’ her father pressed on, totally unfazed by her rebuff. ‘I followed her. She didn’t realise I was there, but I followed her round the shops and I followed her home. She’s got a pretty flat, with lavender in the garden. You know how much your mother loved lavender?’ His eyes searched hungrily for hers, seeking recognition, but she couldn’t meet them. ‘I’ve been there a few times now. I’ve watched her moving about inside. It was her. I know it was. She’s been away for a year and now she’s come back to me.’

  ‘Dad, stop it.’

  He paused, as if stirred by the sound of her imploration and, without a word, strode towards her, taking hold of her by the shoulders, the strength of his grip sending ripples of fear pulsing through her whole body.

  ‘But Emma. Mummy’s back. Aren’t you pleased?’

  The question brought tears of hurt flooding back to her dry eyes. If only it were true… but it wasn’t. It couldn’t be, and just the knowledge that he believed it terrified her.

  She pulled away, but his grip on her shoulders was too tight, giving her no chance to escape. Instead she felt herself hugged even closer to his body, the pungent stench of desperation making her almost gag. Who was this man?

  ‘Dad. Get the fuck off me.’ Her throat was tight, restricted by a sudden wave of nausea. She swallowed back the bile, struggling and bucking against him.

  ‘But, Emma, don’t you see what I’m telling you.’ He released her suddenly, his hands brushing lightly against her cheeks. ‘Mummy’s back and everything’s going to be all right. She’s not ill now. She’s well and I’m going to bring her back to us.’

  Emma stumbled backwards, her leg catching on the table in the corner, her body crashing against the wall. She didn’t recognise the man in front of her. He was deranged. A madman who needed help, but she was powerless to assist.

  ‘OK,’ she murmured, forcing a smile to her lips, her tone smooth, understanding suddenly that the only way to calm him would be to remain calm herself, humour him even.

  The strategy seemed to work. For a moment he stilled, his whole body held immobile, only his mouth twitching in unison with the tapping of one foot. He returned her smile, his head starting to nod in time with a set of low urgent musings. ‘She loves me. She smiled at me, didn’t she? Why doesn’t she come to me? I’ll have to bring her back.’

  The words became louder as he started to circle the room, his rambling thoughts more insistent.

  She, she, she. But who was she? Emma didn’t know. All Emma knew was that whoever her father had seen would be unaware of what was happening. She would not know that she had been followed, watched, mistaken for another. She would have no idea that a man, whose traits his own daughter could barely recognise, might pose her a danger.

  ‘Dad, maybe she doesn’t want to come back.’ It was suddenly of the utmost importance that he must leave the woman alone and not approach, that he must back off and only watch from a distance, at least until he realised his mistake. And he would realise. He couldn’t fail to appreciate the truth, could he? How could he continue to believe the unbelievable? But, for now, Emma would try not to antagonise him. He had to think that she was on his side, or at least neutral, while she tried to dissuade him from doing anything further. ‘Maybe she’s got her own life now,’ she added.

  He spun round towards her, fixing her with an angry glare.

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ he spat out. ‘I’m her husband. Catherine loves me. She loves you too. She just doesn’t know where we are. I’ll have to bring her back to where she belongs.’ In an instant, the rage was gone. His expression changed to the same lucid intensity she’d seen before. ‘But I can’t have anyone trying to stop her coming to us.’

  Emma watched, her panic rising, as he calmly walked to the kitchen area and selected a large knife from the draining board. He’d started to carry knives more recently and it terrified her. ‘For my protection’ he’d said, closing down any discussion with an angry frown when she’d challenged him a few months earlier. ‘Everyone carries one these days. You never know what dangers are on the streets.’ He wiped the blade, cleaning it until it shone, before wrapping it in a tea towel and slippi
ng it up his sleeve.

  ‘Dad. Stop it! Stop what you’re doing. Please, don’t go. Stay with me, I need you.’ She ran across, grabbing him by the arm, her voice choking with emotion, desperate to keep him from leaving by any means.

  He yanked his arm from her grip, his expression now blank and unreadable. Pacing across to a chest of drawers, he selected a pair of gloves and a scarf, which he slipped into the waistband of his jeans. He tucked his hair up into a thin woolly hat, pulled down low over his head, and headed towards the door, flinging it open and stepping out on to the landing. Turning towards her, he raised his hand, clearly forbidding her to intervene.

  ‘Catherine needs me too,’ he said gruffly.

  And then he was gone.

  6

  The camera shot was dark and grainy, but it still made alarming viewing. Sunny Meadows Care Home was the third nursing home that they had visited, but it was the first to bear fruit.

  Charlie watched as the shadow moved from window to window to patio door, its dark hand reaching out to try handles, its head leaning close towards the glass. The care home didn’t exactly have enough land to meet its rather expansive name, being set as it was in the SE19 area of Crystal Palace, but it did have an adequate size rear lawn to give the intruder a good twenty minutes’ worth of time to peep and pry. At one stage, the stalker stood at a single window for nearly ten minutes, their face pressed against a small gap in the curtains, from where a dim light shone. Not enough to illuminate their features, which remained in shadow, but obviously enough to give them time to spy on the elderly resident asleep in their bed.

  It was spine-chilling to watch, as the intruder tried each of the windows slowly and carefully, before moving to the patio doors, but on each occasion they were thwarted. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief as the rooms proved to be secure and the stalker moved on.