Daddy's Girls

by Sarah Flint

  ‘Do you have to take this out with you?’ She leant over and picked it up, hiding it away in the kitchen drawer. ‘I don’t know why you insist on carrying a knife these days?’ If he wasn’t going to be the adult in their relationship, she would have to be.

  ‘I need it, for self-defence. There’re bad things happening. I’ve already told you that.’ He pulled out a small snap-bag of cannabis and started to roll himself a joint.

  ‘Dad, stop it. You don’t need to carry a knife – and you don’t need that.’

  He ignored her, flicking a lighter and closing his eyes as he inhaled. For a few seconds she had the urge to grab it off him and stamp it underfoot. She hated the smell of it, especially in their poky room – and she hated what it did to him. His face was already taking on a vacant expression. God only knew where his mind was taking him, but wherever it was she didn’t want to be there. In fact, she didn’t want to be anywhere near him. Her head was already throbbing painfully, any pity turning to anger, any residual feelings of love turning to icy distain for this man who called himself her father.

  ‘That’s right.’ She couldn’t stop herself. ‘You’re really trying to sort things out, aren’t you?’ She pulled the bunch of chrysanthemums from the sink and threw a coat across her arm. She would go alone to place the flowers on her mother’s grave. Why had she ever presumed to think that he might have wanted to join her in this small act of remembrance? He clearly didn’t care. And she didn’t care to have him with her. Not in this state. Not now.

  Opening the door to the bedsit, she paused briefly to stare at her father’s supine figure, now lying spaced out on the bed, a silly smile twitching on his lips.

  ‘You know what you are?’ she shouted in disgust, enunciating each word more slowly than ever, before marching off down the stairs. ‘You’re fucking mad!’

  11

  ‘Show us those images again.’

  Hunter stared moodily at the screen, impatiently drumming his fingers on the desk as Paul prepared the CCTV that had come to light. Charlie squeezed in next to Bet to better see and glanced across at her boss. Something was clearly bugging him. He’d been thoughtful the whole way back to the office, particularly after Maryanne Hepworth had dropped into the conversation that her eighty-eight-year-old nan had been staying with her until two days before the rape. Now, with the compelling proposition that Maryanne’s nan had been the intended target, the rape had been included in the linked series of break-ins, meaning there had been two offences in two days. The pressure was on.

  ‘Here we go then,’ Paul drew their attention back to the screen. ‘Charlie gave us the idea when she mentioned the bus routes. Bus CCTV is always excellent. It’s so much easier to get good stills when the lighting is good and the atmosphere is dry. There are several recordings that might help.’

  He pressed a button and the screen loaded with the image of the interior of a bus. The picture was of good quality and showed several passengers in detail.

  ‘So, I checked what bus routes serviced our offence locations,’ Bet continued. ‘As Charlie suspected, there was one, the Route 249, which runs all the way from Clapham Common, along Streatham High Road and up Streatham Common North in SW16 where some of our offences are, then up through Crown Dale, SE27 to the SE19 area of Crystal Palace and Annerley. It’s a perfect fit.’ She indicated back to Paul, who took up the baton.

  ‘I then spoke to the Family Liaison officer who has been assigned to Amy Briarly and she was able to get us a rundown of Florence’s routines, with the help of her neighbour George Cosgrove. Amy would get Florence’s main shopping, but she confirmed that her mother used to go to the shops once a week, regular as clockwork, to top up with a few bits.’

  ‘She did it more for the company actually,’ Bet chipped in. ‘But guess which bus she always took?’

  ‘Route 249?’ Charlie could feel her excitement building.

  ‘Yep,’ Paul nodded. ‘So while you’ve been gone, I legged it to the bus garage and got all the CCTV I could for Monday mornings, when Florence usually caught the bus. We knew which stop she would get on at, and the approximate time, so we were able to check those buses first.

  ‘Each time, she got off at the same stop in Crystal Palace. She would then spend an hour or so pottering around different shops and then half an hour having a cup of tea in the local charity cafe. Then she would catch the 11.50, Route 249 bus from the same stop, arriving home at just gone midday.’ He pressed the button and the recording started. ‘So this is taken on Monday 23rd April at 11.52, the day before she was found dead.’

  Charlie watched as the figure of Florence Briarly climbed the steps of the bus and presented her Freedom card to the card reader. The old lady appeared in good spirits, entering into a few words of conversation with the female driver before moving on past the driver’s cab and taking one of the seats reserved for the elderly. Looking further on down the bus, she could see a woman with a child in a pushchair and another elderly woman of a similar age to Florence with silver hair, a navy jacket and a large gold-leaf brooch on the collar.

  As she watched, a man climbed up the steps. He presented a card to the card reader but kept his head bowed, saying nothing to the driver and moving on down the aisle of the bus to the very rear seat. He looked to be in his mid-forties, medium build and was balding, with only a few short dark brown wisps of hair at the sides. He wore a scruffy green jacket, jeans and had a red football scarf slung round his neck and tucked away inside his coat.

  The bus pulled away, stopping and starting as it inched along in slow-moving traffic past the shops.

  Charlie continued to watch the man. He was acting in a strange manner, keeping his eyes cast downwards and peering up only to survey the bus occasionally. He had no phone or book and kept a newspaper folded under his arm, so in the absence of anything in his hands, his demeanour seemed unusual. Most bus passengers with nothing on which to concentrate would tend to look out at the passing scenery.

  At the next stop, the woman with her child exited, the child appearing fractious as it awoke on leaving the bus.

  The man stayed still, not moving, his head remaining bowed.

  Two stops later it was time for Florence Briarly to leave. As the bus eased to a standstill, the man looked up briefly, his head facing straight down the aisle to the centre doors, where the old lady was climbing unsteadily down the steps. He turned his head as she dismounted, his gaze appearing to follow the direction of her travel, until he swung round completely as if to watch her progress through the rear window. The bus set off again and he stood and moved to the centre, standing by the doors until moments later it pulled over at its next stop, his head again swivelling round in the direction from which it had come. For a brief moment as the doors swung open, he turned in the direction of the other silver-haired old lady, providing a full view of his facial features, before he stepped down and walked off towards the previous stop.

  Paul rewound the recording briefly to the point at which they could see the full-face shot. Charlie squinted at the man’s features in freeze-frame, memorising for herself the wide forehead, the down-turned mouth, the bushy eyebrows shielding pale watery eyes, the large ears and unshaven chin and neck.

  ‘Wow, he looks dodgy,’ she commented, casting round at Hunter, who was still staring animatedly at the screen. ‘Did you see the way he was watching Florence?’

  Wait until you see this then,’ Paul agreed.

  He turned to Bet’s computer and flicked a couple of buttons and another similar recording spread out across the monitor. This time, the date on the bottom of the screen was Monday 9th April 2018 and the time showed 11.51. The location was the same. Florence Briarly could be seen, exactly as previously, stepping up on to the bus from the shops, engaging the male bus driver this time in conversation and sitting down on the same seat. Moments later, the same scruffily dressed man stepped up behind her and the journey was repeated, almost identically to the first.

  As the man stood by t
he door this time, however, Hunter pointed to the screen. ‘Can you zoom in on his face, Paul,’ he said, squinting in yet further towards the monitor. Paul did as he was asked and was sorting out the controls when they were joined by Naz and Sabira, pushing through the doors with a stack of exhibits in their arms.

  ‘It’s official,’ Naz said immediately, not waiting to see what they were looking at. ‘Florence Briarly was manually strangled. She had fingermarks and bruising to her neck and tiny red spots over her face which are caused by strangulation. She didn’t stand a chance.’ She sidled up and stared at the screen that now held the close-up facial image of the man on the bus. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked directly.

  They all stood watching as, with a twist of the dial, a red inkblot-style birthmark on the man’s forehead zoomed into focus.

  ‘That could be our suspect,’ Hunter said, standing up straight and looking at each of them in turn.

  Charlie grinned broadly in return, staring at the stain and taking in its exact shape, size and position on the man’s scalp. ‘And that could be the reason why our suspect usually wears either a mask or, in the last case, a woolly hat.’

  *

  The trip to the Headquarters of TFL, or Transport for London, took Charlie and Hunter to the east side of London. It would be quicker to go straight to the head office with the necessary paperwork than try any of the local branches, with fewer staff able to assist. The office was located at International Quarter, at the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park; site of the 2012 London Olympics, and was positioned next to the Aquatics Centre and adjacent to Westfield Centre, one of the largest shopping malls in London.

  As Charlie parked up, she glanced across towards the Aquatics Centre, its undulating roof and fluid curves designed to reflect the movement of water. It had been a fantastic Olympic Games and one which she had been lucky enough to attend both on – and off – duty, the ambience and conviviality in the Park amongst the spectators being one that she would never forget. Today, however, it was quiet and far removed from that atmosphere.

  Bet had phoned ahead and arranged for one of the TFL managers to meet them. They needed information as a matter of urgency and hopefully one would be ready and available.

  The entrance to the reception was through the main door, situated to the side of a bright red lift shaft. They were met immediately by a smartly dressed woman in a navy suit and orange cravat. Introductions were swift and formal; the minimum of pleasantries being exchanged before they were whisked to a room in which a dozen people sat at a dozen computers. Paperwork was checked and dates were given. They now had to wait… and hope.

  Florence Briarly used a Freedom Pass, a type of bus pass issued individually, by name, to every old-age pensioner in London, giving them the freedom to move about the capital on the buses during off-peak hours. Her daughter had confirmed she carried it regularly and it was believed she had proffered it on the two days and at the two times shown on the bus CCTV. Could they find the details of her card and marry her usage up with the times given on the data printout of the bus records? If so, would they then be able to ascertain what card had been tendered immediately after Florence’s? Was it the same card on both occasions and if so was it an Oyster card or a bank card? Most importantly, if it was a bank card, could they obtain details of the account, or if an Oyster card, had it been registered, and to whom? Only at that stage would they know the identity of the man with the inkblot birthmark. It was a long shot, but one that needed to be tried.

  The employee tasked to perform the search beckoned towards the manager and she in turn welcomed them to join her.

  ‘How’s it going, Derek?’ she asked, staring down at several printouts. ‘Any joy?’

  ‘Well, yes. I’ve got the results that you asked for,’ Derek replied. His voice was quite flat, almost monotone, and portrayed no pleasure in being of assistance. He looked down at the first of two printouts. ‘I found Florence Briarly’s Freedom Pass number in our records and can see that she used it on both occasions at the times you gave me.

  ‘I can also see the same number card entered the bus straight after her Freedom Pass on both occasions, and you’re right, it is an Oyster card.’ He pointed to the second printout containing details of the bus passengers and read out the twelve-digit serial number, duplicated on the back of each Oyster card. ‘But I’m afraid it’s unregistered, so I won’t be able to get you a name.’

  Charlie exhaled loudly and Hunter closed his eyes, both clearly as frustrated as the other. It seemed their idea was already dead in the water.

  ‘Dammit, that’s a shame,’ she said, picking up the list of passengers and glaring at it as if somehow it should be able to offer up what they wanted. ‘We could really do with locating its owner.’

  ‘Well… I might be able to help with that.’ Derek nodded towards his boss and signalled for Charlie to return the list, suddenly becoming more animated. ‘I could print you out a record of where this particular Oyster card has been used previously, so you can see whether there is a particular location that it regularly starts or finishes from. That at least might give you the area where the user lives.’

  His enthusiasm was infectious. It couldn’t be the most exciting job in the world, but at that moment Derek looked as if he’d won the lottery.

  ‘Yes please,’ she smiled at him, returning the printout and watching as he typed the serial number into the computer and another list of data appeared. He pushed a pair of small dark framed glasses on to the end of his nose and leant towards the screen, peering at the small print.

  ‘Here we go,’ he said, his eyes flicking from one point to another. ‘The same bus stop is featuring on almost all of the journeys and it is…’ he called up another screen on which a map was held, zooming in on a numbered location. ‘On Clapham Common southside by the junction with Elms Road.’ He turned, beaming, towards Charlie and pulled the glasses from his nose. ‘And if you want to know where he usually tops up his card, it’s in the Daily News tobacconists in a parade of shops in Abbeville Road, SW4, by the junction with Narbonne Avenue.’

  *

  The tobacconists was reached within the hour. As they made their way through the traffic, Hunter scanned the photo of the man with the inkblot birthmark, downloaded from the bus CCTV.

  ‘He’s got a copy of The Sun under his arm,’ he said, peering at it again. ‘With any luck, if he has a set routine and buys his paper every day from the same shop, the shopkeepers will know him. So, even if doesn’t have to top up his Oyster card that regularly, we might still get a name – or at least an idea of where he lives and when he’s about.’

  It was a good theory and one that would soon be put to the test.

  Charlie slid the car to a halt outside the shop, just as her phone pinged up with a text. Switching the engine off, she yanked the mobile irritably from her pocket, expecting it to be Ben. He hadn’t messaged her all day, despite the fact that she’d sent him several. Surely he’d be up and about by now? Casper would have turfed him out of bed, or licked him awake.

  She keyed in her security code and concentrated on the screen, waiting for the message to appear, her irritation spiking. He must know she’d be worried, or annoyed. Either way, he should have made contact by now.

  ‘Got a message from my mate, Ben?’ Hunter teased. The whole team knew and liked Ben, especially her boss, who seemed to regard him more like a second son. But none of her friends realised what was going on. They all believed he was on the road to recovery – and she really didn’t want to admit that it was all happening again.

  But it wasn’t Ben. The message was from her mother, alluding that she had some news to tell her and asking when she’d next be down for dinner.

  ‘I wish,’ she mumbled, adding, ‘It’s a long story.’ She turned away angrily, busying herself with her clipboard and rucksack, and only returning to her phone when Hunter was climbing out from the car. There was no time to explain now, even if she wanted.

  U OK? xx

&
nbsp; Her fingers flew across the buttons, pressing send to Ben’s number again, before jumping out to join her boss. She’d reply to her mother later.

  The tobacconist shop was musty and cluttered, and as soon as they entered, Charlie’s expectation soared. It was the kind of local shop whose owners had been there a lifetime, rarely updated their merchandise and knew everyone and everything that was going on in the neighbourhood.

  As anticipated, the shopkeepers were an elderly couple, the woman confirming they had run the shop for over thirty years. Charlie showed them a photo of the man with the inkblot birthmark and relayed the information received from TFL, passing across the image so they could better see. She waited impatiently as the couple peered down at their suspect for what seemed like an age and was about to chivvy them along when the woman turned towards them both.

  ‘He is one of our regulars,’ she confirmed. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t know his name because he rarely speaks. He comes in every day to buy his newspaper, but he’s the sort who keeps himself to himself.’ She looked towards her husband, who nodded his evident agreement. ‘I’ve seen him coming and going from across the way, in Narbonne Avenue though, so he must live round there somewhere.’

  Charlie rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand, trying hard not to show her disappointment. It would have made their lives far easier if they could have had a name and address outright, but at least it wasn’t the end of the line.

  ‘Does he come in at a particular time every day, or is it more random?’ she asked, subconsciously crossing her fingers.

  The woman looked across at her husband again, as if to get his approval, but then continued anyway. ‘You’re in luck,’ she smiled her understanding. ‘He comes in regular as clockwork at 7.30 a.m. If you want, we could give you a ring when he’s next in?’ She looked up questioningly towards them both.