Daddy's Girls

by Sarah Flint

  Rocky drove, careful to do nothing to draw attention to the unregistered and undocumented vehicle. The boy was to be the getaway driver, the eyes and ears for the operation, while Thomas did the graft.

  Thomas zipped his jacket up and pulled his woolly hat down to meet it at the collar, tucking his hair away out of sight.

  ‘What happens if the cops catch us?’ he glanced across at Rocky.

  ‘They won’t catch me.’ Rocky pulled a flick knife from a small pouch inside his waistband. ‘Remember what Jason said, and if you do fuck up, keep your mouth shut, got it. Nobody likes a grass, and I personally fucking hate them.’

  The message was loud and clear.

  A few minutes later, Rocky dimmed the lights and pulled slowly into an alleyway to the rear of the shops, cutting the engine and switching the sidelights off. They stayed seated for a few minutes, watching and listening, checking for any sign they had been spotted, but nothing stirred.

  Despite his heart pounding, Thomas felt calm, having spent the preceding hours allowing Jason’s instructions to run and rerun through his head until he was satisfied he knew exactly what was required. He was not only doing this to keep things on an even keel with his dealer, he was doing it for Catherine, and Emma. Perhaps, Jason could then find his family unit somewhere better to stay, a home they could call their own. After all, Jason always seemed able to find new lodgings for himself and his girls.

  ‘Let’s go then,’ Rocky whispered loudly, his whole face animated. There was no way the boy would countenance failure.

  Thomas did as he was told, pulling his gloves on, tying his scarf round his face and grabbing hold of the two holdalls and a rucksack that he had been given, before following Rocky as he crept along the alleyway. They kept to the building line, then turned between two outhouses and mounted a metal staircase onto a flat roof. An old sash window, its glass broken and its frame split was to be their point of entry. They climbed through warily and made their way to the room directly above the store, careful to avoid kicking any of the discarded cans and other rubbish strewn round the empty premises. In the corner of the room was a small area devoid of floorboards and Rocky pointed at it, making it clear this was where he was to enter the shop.

  ‘Don’t fuck this up,’ Rocky hissed, starting to back away. ‘I’ll phone you if there’s a problem.’

  Then Thomas was alone. For a few seconds, he stared down at the hole, wishing he too could retreat, but there was no choice. He was to be the fall guy if things went awry, but if he wanted Catherine, he would just have to get on and do as instructed. Cautiously, he pushed downwards onto the plaster beneath the missing floorboards with one foot, listening as it cracked and spattered onto the floor below. The sound seemed magnified in the confines of the room, but there was no stopping now. He inched towards the opening, chipping away at the plaster around the edges until the hole was large enough to drop through with his bags.

  Debris lay scattered across the lino, crunching beneath his shoes as he located the cash desk below. A ladder stood to one side, evidently for use in reaching the higher shelves. He couldn’t believe his luck. Quickly, he repositioned it under the hole, in case a speedy exit was required. A shower of chipped plaster fell from the ceiling as he did so, the dusty fragments falling straight into his eyes, making them water and smart. He pulled his hat off and lowered his scarf slightly, shaking out his hair and wiping the particles away before pulling the garments back into position and starting his task. In the gloom the shop floor seemed extra cluttered, but, with the aid of the light from his phone, he was soon able to navigate the aisles, selecting bottles, cigarettes, jars of coffee, mobile phone top-up cards, anything he thought could be passed on easily, sold for cash or swapped for gear. The longer he spent, the more confident he became. For the second night in a row, he was taking control of his life.

  He was just filling the last holdall when he noticed a camera trained down towards the checkout, blinking out across the shelves. It was in the right position to capture his entry and movements quite readily, if it was connected and working. He pulled the scarf up higher still so that his eyes were barely visible. He hadn’t spotted the camera before and it unsettled him. Rocky must have missed it too when he’d passed on news of the shop to Jason.

  To add to his sense of misgiving, his phone began to vibrate and Rocky’s name flashed up on the screen. He remembered his instructions. Rocky would only phone if there was a problem and in the event of that happening he was to immediately decamp, without even stopping to answer.

  Shit! A million thoughts jumbled into his head. He couldn’t fuck this up. He needed to prove his worth to Jason so he would be rewarded, so he could start getting his life back in order – their lives.

  The memory of Catherine from the night before came to mind, her awful, unexplainable plea for mercy at the thought she might die. He remembered Emma’s words of derision, how she’d spat out her hate. Somehow, he would have to convince them both, give them time – and at this precise moment he had precious little.

  Shakily, he took hold of the ladder, his hands trembling so violently that its rungs and frame started to vibrate. He took a deep breath and steadied it as best as he could, willing it to stay firm, hoisting each holdall up through the gap into the flat above until they stood in a row by the broken sash window.

  For a second, he paused, alert for sirens, but there was no sound, other than the scraping of nocturnal creatures among the rubbish. The scratching was becoming louder, more persistent in his ears, each crackle becoming more sinister, the noise of cops creeping up on him, grinning with malevolent delight as they waited silently in the shadows, ready to cut short his future plans as he tried to make good his escape. He blinked away the vision, climbing hastily through the window and almost tripping down the outside steps.

  The car was in sight now, the shape of Rocky seated in the driver’s seat providing solace, as he stumbled out from the bottom of the metal stairs. A light came on in the flat next door and a window opened. He heard a man’s voice shouting, but he was on his way, half carrying, half dragging his stash. There was no way he would be leaving without it. He started to run towards the car, watching as the headlights flashed on and off briefly, directing him to hurry. As he reached the rear of the car, he pulled open the doors, throwing the bags along the back seat and jumping in as Rocky gunned the unlit vehicle from the alleyway with wheels spinning and dirt flying.

  It was only when the shop was completely out of sight and they’d safely navigated their escape route away from the cameras in Streatham High Road that he started to relax.

  ‘You’ve done well by the look of things,’ Rocky shouted.

  ‘Yeah it was OK, no thanks to you. There was a bleeding camera, but hopefully it’ll have been too dark to get a good picture. So, where are the cops?’ He paused, growing more confident with every passing minute. ‘I thought when you phoned they’d be just round the corner.’

  ‘There were no cops!’ Rocky was grinning from ear to ear, his gold tooth glinting in the reflected light of the dashboard. ‘I just wanted you to hurry the fuck up.’

  ‘What!’ Thomas exploded, in an instant realising that all his fears had been unfounded. His hopes and plans were still intact. He started to chuckle, quietly at first but louder and louder as the pleasure of his achievement grew. He’d fucking done it. They’d done it. Nothing could stop him now.

  Rocky too started to holler, all their pent-up energy expelled into the interior of the car as they whooped and shouted together.

  Thomas glanced across at his partner in crime, wanting to berate him for his practical joke but laughing still at his cheek. ‘You bastard,’ was all he could say. ‘You fucking bastard.’

  13

  ‘Are you in position?’ Hunter spoke to Paul and Naz over the airwaves.

  ‘Yes, boss, ready and waiting at the end of Narbonne Avenue,’ Paul replied rather too jauntily for 6.50 a.m.

  Charlie rubbed her eyes. They still f
elt sore and tired, having hardly slept a wink until the early hours of the morning. Ben had not returned all night and by the time she’d risen, she’d known with growing certainty that he wouldn’t. Casper had therefore been walked, fed and brought to work. She’d said little about the reason for his presence and none of the team had asked, her red-eyed appearance signalling everything they needed to know. He was now keeping Bet company in the office, while they were all out on the plot. Tonight, she’d fend off the expected inquisition and leave him at his new home with her mum, Meg, and half-sisters, Lucy and Beth. She’d also take the opportunity to pay a quick visit to Jamie’s grave, even if it was a day late.

  She sighed out loud without realising. Her whole world felt in flux at the moment and nothing seemed to help. Even the impending visit to her brother’s grave didn’t bring its usual calm. Whatever was going on inside her head was transferring to every facet of her life.

  ‘You OK?’ Hunter asked, but she knew that he didn’t really want to start a long personal discussion. He didn’t do them at the best of times, and he certainly wouldn’t want to now, while they were sitting in an unmarked police car waiting for a suspect to appear. She didn’t want to talk either. Work was work, but it was nice that he’d asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, boss. Nothing that I can’t deal with. Right, let’s hope our man turns up on time and the wait is worthwhile.’ She checked her watch, keen to change the subject. The initial wait always dragged but when 7.30 approached and they listened for the first update, she knew that time would speed up. As soon as a suspect was in sight, time would positively fly.

  ‘Signal check, Sabira,’ Hunter spoke into his radio again. ‘Can I confirm you are receiving me?’

  ‘R5, guv,’ Sabira made the normal retort, meaning the radio signal was loud and clear. She was already in position in an observation van parked directly opposite the tobacconist shop and with a view straight down Narbonne Avenue. In a few minutes, Sabira would be sitting silently in a small area curtained off from view, peering through one of several peepholes that would give her sight of their suspect’s approach and his entry and exit from the shop. Charlie herself had driven the van up earlier with Sabira hidden in the rear, locked the doors and casually walked off to where she and Hunter were now positioned.

  The van would remain in situ, with Sabira secreted inside until after the conclusion of the operation, when someone would return to drive her to an innocuous spot where she could be released. Her job would be to identify their suspect, but then she’d be forced to sit and await the outcome from the confines of the van. It was a role that Charlie always tried to avoid, preferring to be part of the action.

  For the umpteenth time, she checked the time, watching as a postman shuffled past the observation van and rested his bicycle against the brick gatepost of the next-door estate agents. She stared at the scene, knowing that even though he might only be yards from her colleague, the postman would be totally unaware of Sabira’s presence. It always brought a wry smile to her lips.

  The postman moved off but was quickly replaced by several pedestrians; early morning commuters in smart suits hurrying to the nearby tube station to catch trains into their Central London offices. As she watched, a light rain started to fall, causing the businessmen to pull umbrellas from their briefcases and hunker down underneath them. The windscreen started to mist over as the first splashes of rain covered the outside surface, obscuring her view.

  ‘That’s all we need.’ She switched the fan on and put the wipers on intermittent. She didn’t want to draw attention to the two of them sitting in their car, but at the same time they needed to see.

  ‘I have a possible suspect in view.’ The sound of Sabira’s voice made Charlie sit up and concentrate. It was almost 7.25 – spot on time. ‘Narbonne Avenue now,’ Sabira continued. ‘Dressed in a scruffy dark grey jacket, with a black woollen hat, walking slowly in the direction of the shops.’

  Charlie squinted towards the junction, waiting for the man to emerge and ruing the fact that he was wearing a hat. Identification would be so much easier if the inkblot birthmark was clearly visible.

  ‘He’s just put his hood up. Standby.’

  They waited, Charlie straining to see the figure better, but he was too far away.

  ‘He’s in, in, in to the tobacconist shop now.’

  ‘Is it a positive ID?’ Hunter called, a note of impatience in his tone.

  There was a pause before Sabira answered. ‘Negative. My vantage point has steamed up, guv, and, what with him putting his hood up, I couldn’t see his face properly, sorry.’ There was another pause before she piped up again. ‘He’s the right sort of height and build though and his jacket is very similar to the one on the bus CCTV.’

  ‘Damn it,’ Hunter muttered to himself.

  It was one of the hazards of old surveillance vans. Stuck inside a covert vehicle there would be nothing Sabira could do to wipe the glass clean without the risk of being spotted. If they were to find out where he lived straight away, they would now have to wait for the man to leave the shop, before confirming they had the right person.

  ‘Standby then everybody,’ Hunter called across the radio. ‘We’ll wait for him to exit.’

  The seconds turned into minutes as they waited and with every second the tension mounted… and the rain got harder. If Sabira was unable to identify him, they would have to stop him blind, which meant they would have to act with more caution than conviction.

  ‘He’s out, out, out.’ Sabira’s voice was clear.

  Charlie gave the wipers a nudge and squinted out as the windscreen cleared for a few seconds. She could see the man as he started to walk away, but then the view blurred again. Even with the shorter distance, Sabira’s job would be a hard one.

  ‘Any ID yet?’ Hunter snapped down the radio.

  ‘I can’t be certain,’ Sabira mumbled. ‘He’s got his head down. I can’t see him facially.’

  For a moment, time stood still. Charlie turned to speak to Hunter but stopped abruptly, recognising the concentration etched in every line of his face. She knew exactly what his thought process would be. Should they attempt to stop the man to verify his identity but risk alerting their real suspect and his neighbours if they’d got the wrong person? Or should they try again the next morning but risk leaving their potential murderer free to commit another crime? Not to mention having to admit to their senior officers that they’d failed.

  The man looked very similar to their suspect and he had arrived at the right shop, at the right time, but was he the right man? They would never know unless they stopped him.

  Hunter seemed to have come to the same conclusion and signalled for her to move the vehicle forward, pointing towards the back of the man as he turned into Narbonne Avenue again. At the same time, he spoke into the radio.

  ‘Move in, Paul. Wait until you see us enter the road and then drive towards our suspect as we come up from behind. Understood?’

  ‘All received, guv,’ Paul replied.

  The plan was set. As Charlie accelerated forward, every cell in her body was primed and ready. This was what she loved the most. The man came into view, walking along the pavement to their left. His head was cast downwards and his hood pulled over his hat, with a newspaper wedged between the top of his arm and his body. She could see Paul’s car approaching them as she slowed, but just as they were about to pull up, the man suddenly slipped into a garden gate on his left, turning as he did so to glance up at the two cars in turn, before throwing down his newspaper and sprinting down the side of the house.

  Charlie slewed the car to a standstill and jumped out, chasing after their suspect. She was aware that Naz and Paul were right behind her, fanning out as they reached the rear of the house. She could hear Hunter calling up on the radio for further uniformed assistance and for the help of a dog unit, probably kicking himself he hadn’t had them already lined up.

  The man had disappeared from view, but he couldn’t have gone far. He on
ly had a few seconds on them. She motioned for the others to stop moving so they could listen, but the area was already quiet. Nothing was stirring other than the steady noise of the rain splashing on to a plastic lean-to and dripping off the leaves of the numerous trees and bushes in the garden. She stared towards the back of the house. The door to the lean-to was pulled shut. She tried the handle, but it was locked and didn’t move. She peered through the glass, immediately noting wet footprints leading from the frame towards another door which appeared to lead into a kitchen area. Beckoning Paul and Naz over, she pointed silently to the footprints.

  ‘He’s in there,’ she whispered. ‘He’s got to be. He had no time to go anywhere else.’

  ‘I’ll let Hunter know,’ Paul started to move off. ‘He can get Bet to do some checks on the address while we’re waiting for the dog to arrive.’

  She nodded. Whatever happened now, she was sure they’d be going in. Hunter wouldn’t have it any other way, however slim their grounds were to enter the premises. He was ‘old school’, his methods as ingrained in him as Grammars were to the Conservatives, and Academies were to Labour. He would, or could, never change. It was all that he knew. She smiled to herself at the analogy.

  Within a few minutes, her thoughts were confirmed as she saw Hunter approaching, with a sodden copy of The Sun held high in his hand, as if in presentation of the last piece of the jigsaw.

  ‘He’s got to be our man,’ he said with a grin, as Bet’s voice came across the radio, giving a précis of all the information known to police on the premises.

  The house was split into three flats, the ground-floor premises being occupied by a male and female with the same surname. The male’s name was given as Karl Ferris and the female was evidently his wife. Karl Ferris was well known for a string of violent offences predominantly aimed at his partner, while living in Yorkshire. Since moving south, the abusive behaviour had continued, with police having been called to regular drunken domestic assaults. More recently Karl had also been charged with drink-driving, but had failed to appear at court, being therefore found guilty and disqualified from driving in his absence. He was therefore shown as wanted.