Daddy's Girls

by Sarah Flint

  ‘That’s good,’ Amy replied, taken in by her summary. ‘I’m keeping up the pressure too.’ She explained that she and George would be taking part in an interview the next morning to keep her mother’s murder high in the public awareness. It was to be shown later on Sunday evening. She hoped it would attract a lot of viewers. ‘Did you hear what was stolen from my mother?’ Amy switched the subject.

  ‘Yes, her engagement ring,’ Charlie replied, glad to have heard the FLO passing on the news earlier that afternoon. She couldn’t help thinking Amy might have lobbed the question in to check if she was fully up to speed. ‘That must have been a shock’

  ‘It was.’ Amy sounded satisfied with her answer. ‘In the last few years, Mum had arthritis in her fingers. She’d taken to only wearing her wedding ring as a result and always kept the engagement ring in her bedside cabinet. I knew exactly where it should have been, because she’d promised it to me. It was awful when I found it missing. It had meant the world to her.’ There was a long, drawn-out intake of breath. ‘And to me,’ Amy added softly, pausing again. ‘Let’s hope no other daughter has to go through the same thing.’

  Charlie listened to Amy’s final plea, barely able to comprehend the depth of grief inflicted by the theft of such a sentimental item. She was hoping the same thing too, the whole team were, but with luck not going their way at present, it was anybody’s guess whether another child would indeed suffer the same fate.

  22

  Today had not gone well, and it was time he was compensated.

  The man hoisted his bag up onto his shoulder and prepared to get going. Tonight was to be his reward for having to put up with all the crap.

  He picked up his pace, his stride lengthening with every footfall, right, left, right again, along a darkened alleyway, under the leafy boughs of trees and shrubs, in fact any road or pathway devoid of cameras. The area was his domain, his hunting ground, and he knew every inch of it with his eyes shut. For a few paces he tested himself, closing his eyes to the way ahead, imagining in an instant the sight of Violet Nicholson’s ageing skin, the sensation of her windpipe and the carotid artery vibrating between his palms. Once he’d been happy just to talk, but not any more. Now he’d inflicted death, he wanted the thrill again. It was heady stuff.

  The night was perfectly still, windless and silent, and the air was fresher than the last few days, the storm having cleared some of the mugginess from the atmosphere. He breathed in the damp smell of the pollen, hammered to the ground by the weight of the rain, still wet and sludgy underfoot, any noise from his footsteps muffled by the water drops.

  It couldn’t be more perfect. Silence built suspense and suspense heightened tension, his every movement exaggerated, nerves held taut, like in a horror film, waiting for the axe to fall. Any residual sound would be further muted once he snipped the telephone wires and slipped the worn old lock in the front door. Violet Nicholson wouldn’t know what was coming. She would be lying asleep in her bed, relaxed and oblivious to his entrance – and he couldn’t wait to make her acquaintance. The thrill of the silent chase was exquisite.

  It was slightly later than normal as he crept across the recreation ground and peeped over the fence into the wild abandon of the old woman’s garden. There would be little time to savour the wait. Everything was dark, even the moon being shielded from view under the canopy of overgrown trees, spring shrubs and budding flowers. He lifted his head and inhaled the scent of the night, wanting to exchange it immediately for the cloying smell of fear.

  Tonight, the passage of time would not be stilled in the drop of the axe. Tonight, it would continue in conversation, the gentle probing of lifetime memories, and the soft, warm pressure of skin against skin.

  *

  ‘Come on, Charlie, let’s get out of here.’

  Paul yanked her coat off the stand and threw it in her direction. They were the last ones left, the rest of the team having slipped away in dribs and drabs.

  ‘I’m taking you out uptown. You’ve had a hell of a few days and you need cheering up. We both do actually. So,’ he hoisted her bodily to her feet, ‘let’s go. I’m making it my mission to put the smile back on both our faces.’

  There was no scope for argument, and she didn’t have the energy to try. Charlie was on her way. As they walked, she felt Paul link his arm through hers, not really sure who was holding who, but not caring either. They crossed Westminster Bridge, past the rather sorrowful sight of Big Ben swathed in scaffolding and headed towards Trafalgar Square. There was little conversation between them. There didn’t need to be. Tonight, it would just be the two of them, her and Paul, her best friend and companion.

  Charing Cross Road was as busy as always, the piercing shrieks of drunken revellers louder even than the honking of horns from the tricycle taxis that weaved in and out of the traffic. They passed a food stand, the smell of the countryside filling her nostrils as the vendor tossed charcoaled roast chestnuts into bags. A brilliantly coloured hoarding spun on its axle from its vantage point on top of a menswear shop, advertising the joys of the West End theatre shows.

  They passed Leicester Square and headed towards Soho. Paul led the way. This was where he loved best; the part of London that indulged his sexual preferences. Here was the Admiral Duncan, the Ku Bar and G.A.Y. – clubs and pubs that paid no heed to gender, sexuality or age. Everyone was accepted here. Everybody was equal.

  She didn’t protest as he nudged her towards a particularly loud bar, relaxing as her body filled with noise. She didn’t complain as she was carried by a mass of heaving, sweaty bodies to the centre of the room. Nor did she object when a cocktail was thrust into her hand, then another and another. Tonight, she didn’t have to think, to feel, to be Charlie. Tonight she could just be.

  *

  ‘Who’s there?’

  The voice was thin with age, trembling. It sounded again through the darkness.

  ‘Is somebody there?’

  The man stood stock-still, pausing in his movements, listening to the rustling of her bedding. A torch flickered on, its thin light wavering across the clutter in the bedroom. The room was a mess, with piles of boxes heaped on top of each other, old picture frames leaning one against the other, dozens of ancient newspapers stacked in towers. The old woman had let things slip. It happened with the elderly, especially when they lived alone.

  He licked his lips and adjusted his mask, holding the base of it open, the air inside already becoming oxygen-less with the anticipation of their introduction.

  ‘I know you’re there,’ the voice had strength to it now. ‘Come out where I can see you.’

  He bristled at the command. This one sounded feisty and he didn’t like the sound of it. He preferred them submissive.

  The beam of the torch roamed to where he stood, motionless behind a stack of old papers. He stepped out into its meagre light, at the same time switching on his own powerful torch, aiming it upwards at the mask, waiting for her reaction to the grotesque grinning image. It came swiftly in a loud gasp and the rasping of her breath, the sight filling her lungs with terror. He grinned from ear-to-ear, his delight at her distress from within his disguise mirroring the expression of the skull. He loved this bit.

  ‘Violet?’ he asked.

  ‘How do you know my name?’ the old woman whimpered from where she lay.

  ‘I know all about you.’ He chuckled as he spoke, savouring every tremulous cry.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to talk. Tell me all about what you did in the war.’ He took a few paces towards her, holding out his gloved hand to stroke a few strands of her hair back in place, but she brushed his hand away, scrabbling further from his reach across the bed.

  ‘Get away from me,’ she cried out, her feisty demeanour returning. ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’ She waved her arms at him, as if urging him to leave, shooing him out, like a troublesome feline, her scrawny wrists and bony fingers cutting through the air in dismissal. ‘Leave me alone,’ s
he screamed again, her expression half-demented. She was clearly deranged and wouldn’t be calmed.

  He placed his torch on top of the pile of newspapers and took hold of her arms, his fingers easily fitting around each skinny wrist. She started to struggle, tugging with her arms to become free, but he grasped them tightly. It took no effort to keep them still.

  She flung her head from side to side, her eyes wildly searching for someone, anyone, trying to establish if there was a way out, but there was no one to help and nowhere for her to go. The torchlight lit up her terror. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but no sound came out. He gripped both wrists within one hand and leant forward, clamping his free hand over her mouth and chin, in case she tried again.

  He could smell her breath, sleepy and stale, drifting through the holes in his mask and into his nostrils. His eyes searched her face but saw only anger now in the set of her brow. She was not a gentle soul, as he had expected, and she was unlikely to talk kindly to him. In fact, she was unlikely to talk at all.

  ‘I do not like you,’ she snapped, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Get out of my house.’

  He frowned, within his mask, his whole body tensing with disappointment and regret.

  This was not going to go well.

  *

  A long queue snaked back from the nightclub, under Charing Cross Station and along Villiers Street. Every now and again, a train rumbled overhead, vibrating the cobblestones and sending miniscule showers of dust spilling from the brickwork.

  Charlie’s head rested on Paul’s shoulder as they edged forward, the pounding of the music getting louder as the line became shorter. Her mouth tasted of salt and citrus from the numerous tequila shots she had necked and her throat was sore from singing to the over-hyped anthems, popular within the gay community. But their night was not over. The best was yet to come.

  ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed, as they reached the door and were swallowed up into the darkness.

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ Paul chuckled back, guiding her through brick arches and circular caverns, until they got to the main dance floor.

  A DJ was perched on a platform at the front of the stage, his hand punching the air in perfect time with the beat, while his audience lurched up and down in random, uncontrolled movements. It was the hour of the night when chaos reigned.

  ‘Let’s dance,’ Paul shouted over the throb of the music.

  A thousand tiny lights peered down from the ceiling and out from the walls as Charlie nodded her agreement, further adding to the muzziness inside her head. Paul was at her side, his normally immaculately gelled hair sticking out in stiff peaks, the large diamond studs in both ears glinting crazily in the laser light. He opened his mouth wide and laughed, the gold stud in his tongue flicking in and out in perfect synchronisation with the anthem.

  As she too let down her guard and started to sway, Charlie’s eyes focused on a row of slanted blue lights, spelling out the name of the club. She started to grin as her eyes picked out each individual letter, starting with H and ending with n, slotting them together to make her perfect place. How could Paul have known they were meant for her? She reached out and tapped his arm, jerking her head in the direction of the sign and winking. Today had been hell, but tonight, they were in Heaven.

  *

  It was still dark when the man slipped out the front door and retraced his footsteps. A slight mist clung to the top of the undergrowth in the back garden, wetting the legs of his trousers as he pushed through the brambles, the fabric catching on individual thorns. A particularly strong barb tugged at his clothing and he kicked at it in irritation. The visit had not panned out as he had hoped.

  Violet Nicholson was half-mad. It was no wonder her home was in the state it was. There was no way imaginable anybody would be allowed over the threshold of her bungalow with her blessing. In fact, it was far more likely that any family member trying to check on her welfare would be given short shrift and forbidden from entering… and as for social services! Well, they may as well not bother even trying. There would be absolutely no possibility a visit by anybody from officialdom would ever be entertained.

  No, Violet Nicholson was as independent as they came. She saw only who she wanted, spoke only when she wanted and listened only to the words she wished to hear. Conversation had been minimal. Every attempt at making small talk had been met with disdain, if not downright aggression. The woman was surly, contemptuous and without an ounce of compassion. How she could ever have served as a nurse in the war was impossible to imagine.

  He pushed through the gap in the back fence and paused, checking for the presence of people in the recreation ground, his fists curling open and shut as he acknowledged it was deserted. Could she not see how desperate he had been to talk?

  He had tried. For many minutes, he had tried, attempting to lure her into her past, to speak of her memories, to return to a bygone era when communities were more like extended family and the elders of the neighbourhood were treated with respect and gratitude: a time when the collective war effort was rewarded with patriotism and a sense of belonging.

  Violet Nicholson had wanted none of it, intent on belittling his every attempt and yelling at him to leave. The final straw had come when she’d mentioned his mother, screaming that she would likely be disgusted by the way his fingers roved gently across her face and hair, scolding him for his actions in trying to be friendly.

  He started to walk, his boots leaving footprints across the dewy grass. He pulled the hood of his coat up over his head, its thick, furry lining throwing his face further into anonymous shadow. The file of certificates and photos tucked into the waistband of his trousers felt rough against his skin. He plunged his hands into the coat’s deep cavernous pockets, adjusting the position of the file, his fingers brushing the antique engraved nurse’s fob watch still stored perfectly within its original presentation box. She didn’t deserve it.

  Nor did she deserve the hand of friendship that had been extended in her direction – just as he had not warranted her withering critique or icy tongue. She could stay in her messy home, surrounded by the clutter of her past, having paid no heed to the needs for her future. She could stay lying alone in her own sad world.

  He smiled, as he hefted the bag further onto his shoulder and thought of how proud his mother would actually be. Violet had never known her, nor had they ever met. Violet had no idea how full of grace his mother was, how she admired how he had cared for his elderly grandparents. Even with dementia, they too had been beautiful people, never criticising, always calm and tender in their ramblings. They had never told him off or demeaned his efforts.

  No, Violet Nicholson would scold him no more… because Violet Nicholson was dead.

  *

  A faint pink sunrise was just dawning as Charlie opened the latch on her garden gate and ushered Paul towards her front door. They had only three hours to sleep before they were due back to the office.

  Another bunch of flowers lay on the doorstep, the same size and colour as before and with the same ornate thistle taking centre spot.

  ‘Ooh, Charlie. Who’s your secret admirer then?’ Paul picked them up, spinning them round in his hands to check for a name label. There was none.

  ‘It’s just Ben.’ She pushed the front door open, snatching them from his hands, suddenly irritated by their presence. If Ben wanted her to forget him, then why did he keep insisting on sending her flowers? Entering the lounge, she tossed them on to the table and indicated her sofa.

  Paul needed no further encouragement. He threw himself down and closed his eyes, falling asleep almost the second his head touched the cushion. Charlie pulled a warm fleece throw from the back of the sofa, tucked it down on top of her friend and headed for her bed, careful to ignore the flowers. She wasn’t going to let anything, or anyone, spoil her night.

  23

  At the smell of bacon butties, Charlie’s stomach heaved.

  She took one look at Paul, his mouth wrapped round a parti
cularly large, greasy bap, and headed for the washroom, her hand clenched firmly over her mouth. What she saw in the mirror, after she’d relieved her stomach of its contents, was literally a sight for sore eyes – red bloodshot ones, which had almost vanished in white pasty cheeks.

  A sheen of perspiration clung to her forehead and she groaned audibly as she brushed past Paul on the way back to her desk, conscious of three sets of perfectly bright eyes trained on her. Naz, Sabira and Bet were all grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Bastard,’ she whispered under her breath, knowing that she’d loved every minute of their time together. ‘How do you do it?’ Her stomach did another flip.

  ‘Years of practice,’ Paul sank his teeth into the roll.

  ‘Put me down for some more training then,’ she smiled through clenched teeth and slumped in front of her computer. The night out had provided just the tonic she needed, though right now, she’d have killed for a dose of Alka-Seltzer and a long sleep.

  Bet shuffled across with a mug of steaming black coffee and several pages of typed A4 paper. ‘Hunter wants you to take a look at this while he’s in having his ear chewed by the big bosses. It’s the psychological profile on our suspect.’ She placed the mug down directly under Charlie’s nostrils and winked. ‘He wants you to see how it fits Houghton and Ferris. Just what you needed eh?’

  Charlie groaned again as she tried to focus on the report. All the perfectly typed paragraphs were swimming together hazily.

  ‘Oh, and he’s not best pleased you two were late.’

  Charlie shrugged. He didn’t know the half of what was going on. Even less what was going on in her head.

  The report made interesting reading, giving an analysis of their likely offender. She tried to concentrate, ticking off each point as it affected the profile of each of their suspects. Much of it fitted both men, but frustratingly there were parts which seemed to point to Ferris, while others that leant towards Houghton.