Daddy's Girls

by Sarah Flint

  The policeman was approaching him now. ‘What’s the name of the friend who supplied the car?’

  Thomas paused. He still couldn’t mention Rocky or get him into trouble. This was getting serious. ‘I’ve already said. I don’t know his real name.’

  The copper pointed to a small peach-coloured bag in the front footwell. ‘Whose is that handbag?’ he asked.

  Thomas peered in and saw it. Shit. It was Emma’s. She must have left it there when she’d joined him earlier.

  ‘I don’t know. It must belong to the car owner,’ he muttered.

  ‘Let’s see if there’s a name in it then, shall we?’

  Before he could say anything to deter him, the policeman reached in and lifted up the bag. He rifled through the contents and pulled out a piece of paper upon which two telephone numbers were clearly written, dialling one of the numbers and watching Thomas intently. A phone rang in their house and Thomas listened in silence as the officer held a conversation with someone on the end of the line. Their front door opened and Emma appeared, a mobile phone clasped to her ear.

  ‘Strange how your daughter’s handbag is in a car that doesn’t belong to you, isn’t it?’

  The policeman walked across to their house and started to speak with Emma, who had at least taken heed of Jason’s warnings and shut the door behind her. Thomas watched as they stood on the step, deep in conversation, fear stabbing at his guts now and sweat forming in beads across his forehead. There was no way of knowing what Emma was saying, or whether her answers were at odds with what he had said.

  The policewoman had opened the driver’s door and was bending down, looking towards the footwell. She pressed her radio button and read out the chassis number, enunciating each letter and numeral clearly, her eyes constantly returning to check his position hadn’t changed.

  The result, voiced over the radio was muted, so he couldn’t hear what was said, but the policewoman looked pleased.

  ‘The car is shown as having been stolen,’ she said, rejoining him. ‘It’s on false plates, so you’d better try and remember the name of the person who lent it to you, or else it’ll be down to you.’

  He heard the words, but they didn’t make sense. In fact, he was becoming more and more confused, unable to think what to do or say. He was just cleaning the car for Rocky, wasn’t he? The car was legit, wasn’t it?

  All of a sudden, he remembered the look that had passed between Rocky and Jason. They’d known, hadn’t they – and they’d knowingly stitched him up. He was well and truly in the shit – but the cops had believed him before, and this one hadn’t taken hold of him as yet. She’d believe him again. He just needed to show them his documents, co-operate with them, and convince them the car had nothing to do with him.

  ‘Do you still have your passport on you?’ the policewoman was asking. She was too eager to see it. He could tell. She’d guessed something; everything, was wrong.

  His mind was racing. He heard the sound of a car pulling into the close.

  A small silver Nissan with a cuddly green frog hanging from the mirror came into view, stopping just past the bend. He craned his neck to see the blonde-haired female driver. The copper’s radio blared near to his ear and she stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. Cold metal brushed against his hand. Alarmed, he pulled his arm away, his response automatic, trying again to recognise the driver. It was important to see her, compelling even. She was looking straight towards him and at last he recognised her. It was Catherine. He’d thought it was, but now he was certain.

  Then there was more noise. The church bells started to peel, a low resonant sound that filled the air and echoed round inside his head. He threw his hands up to his ears to try to stop the noise, but it wouldn’t stop. The world exploded round him, with shouting and more hands taking hold of him, gripping the sleeves of his jacket. He could see the car turning round, moving away; Catherine was leaving him. It was happening again. She’d returned, but now she was being forced away from him.

  His head was pounding in time with the vibrations of the church bells. He pulled at the arms that held him, pushed hard at the body that was seeking to restrain him and saw it fall to the side, on to the concrete. He saw the redness of blood on the ground almost immediately, but the sight was of no concern; Catherine was nearly out of view.

  He lunged forward one last time and ran after the car, sprinting round the bend in the road, but it was too fast for him. The stone cross caught his eye, silent and imposing. He turned back and saw Emma standing on the steps of the house, her hands thrown up over her face. The policeman was chasing up the road towards him. The policewoman was lying still on the ground. He couldn’t let the cop stop him now; it would ruin his plans. He had to get Catherine back.

  Turning directly towards the charging cop, he shouldered him hard in the chest, spinning him round, before aiming a punch to his head, which sent him crashing to the ground. The Mondeo was still standing open. He ran back and jumped into the driver’s seat, locking the doors shut behind him. His hands were shaking so violently, he had trouble finding the ignition switch, but eventually he located it, willing the car to start first time, and almost shouting with relief as it fired up.

  The female cop was clawing her way back onto her feet. Her hands were reaching out for the door handle, pulling at it now. He could hear her shouting down the radio for assistance. She was shouting at him too and pounding on the car window with her baton.

  He revved the engine as the driver’s window shattered round him. Then the car was moving, slowly at first, with the cop still hanging onto the door handle, reaching in, trying to grab his clothing. He pushed his foot down hard on the accelerator and he heard the wheels screech. The vehicle lurched forward, speeding up with every second. It mounted the pavement and careered along the path as the noise of the bells grew to a crescendo. The female cop gave a final shout and let go, falling heavily on to the concrete, screaming out in agony as the rear wheel bumped over her leg. He spun round in his seat and saw her raise her head from where she lay, mouthing words into her radio.

  The car shot across the junction as he tried to bring it under control. Broken glass stabbed at his skin and the noise of the bells still hammered inside his skull. He needed to calm himself. The large stone cross loomed into the rear mirror, dark and powerful.

  As the chaos started to recede from view, he instantly felt calm. Catherine had come looking for him. Nothing else mattered. She still loved him. She still wanted him. Only circumstances had prevented their reunion.

  He closed his eyes, just for a second, visualising her smile, the sound of her voice calling his name and the heat of her skin on his lips. Turning the nose of the stolen car into the next side road, he started to manoeuvre through the maze of side streets. There was only one place he knew of where she might be, but would she be there, waiting?

  He didn’t know, but he had to try.

  27

  Charlie heard the commotion over the radio as she sped towards Mitcham. The whole team, excluding Bet, were squashed into the car, Hunter having even pulled Paul off the camera when she’d put two and two together. They needed all hands on deck. Only Bet remained to liaise with control.

  Now, all hell was breaking out. Officers were calling for urgent assistance, registration numbers were being circulated and ambulances called.

  ‘Damn it,’ she swore out loud, over the top of the wailing sirens, pressing down harder on the accelerator. ‘Why couldn’t uniform have waited a few minutes longer before going back? Or let us know what they were doing. By the time we get there, he’ll be well and truly gone.’

  The others said nothing. They all knew that the uniformed officers would have had no way of knowing who their suspect was – or that he was wanted by them, but it was still maddening. If only she’d spotted the report just a few minutes earlier, it would have been their team who’d led the way, but yet again, it appeared that Houghton had slipped through their fingers – and this time had left a tra
il of injured police officers in his wake.

  ‘If it is Houghton, then I wouldn’t mind betting that Emma will be there.’ She suddenly had a thought. ‘Let’s head straight there and see what she says.’

  Hunter nodded his agreement. Houghton’s stolen Mondeo had remained below the radar since decamping and would likely be abandoned soon, if the fugitive had any nous. Better to go directly to the scene.

  It only took a few minutes before they arrived to a scene of chaos. Police cars and ambulances stood abandoned, their blue lights still rotating, left in whatever space could be found, while their drivers sped out on foot to help the injured officers. Cordon tape was in the process of being tied across the entrance to the cul-de-sac, but a quick word to the duty officer from Hunter ensured they were chauffeured through.

  Emma Houghton sat between two officers in the lounge of one of the squats, staring morosely at the floor. Charlie did a double take on seeing her changed appearance. The girl looked so very different. Hunter slipped in next to her, while Naz, Paul and Sabira spread out round the house.

  ‘This girl’s handbag was found in the stolen car that our suspect was working on,’ the duty officer pointed towards her. ‘He tried to say it belonged to the owner of the car, but a phone number in the bag came back to her, so we know they’re connected. She’s giving the name Emily Warrington.’

  ‘Is she now? Well hello, Emma,’ Charlie tried to sound friendly. It might be the only way she would get anything.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here’ Emma commented, looking up, her face immediately registering recognition. ‘I suppose you want to have a word with me again.’ The girl’s sarcasm was obvious. ‘Well, don’t bother. I won’t be saying nothing this time neither.’

  Charlie’s irritation spiked. ‘Well I suggest you think long and hard if that’s what you want to do,’ she said bluntly. ‘Because, otherwise, you’re looking at being arrested for assisting an offender.’

  ‘What offender? I don’t know who you’re talking about. I haven’t done anything to assist anyone.’

  Charlie turned away angrily. It was patently clear she was not going to get anywhere.

  ‘Come and see what we’ve found,’ Sabira poked her head through the door.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she started to walk away from Emma, taking a deep breath as she did so. She needed to calm down and try her earlier, friendly tack. ‘And I’d really like to speak to you. We need your help.’

  She didn’t look back, following Sabira instead to one of the bedrooms upstairs, which had men’s clothing strewn about the floor. Lying next to the discarded clothing were several knives. One was a black metallic-handled flick knife, with the blade extended and locked into position. The other was a large kitchen knife.

  Charlie cast her mind back to Maryanne’s statement, recalling the description of the large kitchen knife held above her throat during the rape.

  ‘Shit! I wonder if that’s the one he used when he attacked Maryanne.’

  Sabira nodded, bending to pick it up in her gloved hand. ‘That’s what I thought. I’ll bag it up, just in case. There are a few others dotted round the house that I’ve seen. I’ll bag them all.’

  ‘He’ll no doubt get another, if he hasn’t already.’ Charlie grimaced at the thought. ‘The psych profile alluded to that. He needs to keep control, and he sees having a knife as the best way to do this.’ She turned away, heading towards the door.

  Naz and Paul were in the kitchen, bending over an open drawer, when she poked her head in. Paul beckoned her over, pointing at a brand-new driving licence ID card.

  ‘Take a look.’

  She picked it up, noting the name of Tommy Warrington, but then staring in amazement at the photo of a shaven-headed, bearded man.

  ‘Shit, it’s Houghton isn’t it? I would hardly have recognised him. The cunning bastard.’

  She pulled out her warrant card, comparing it to a copy of Thomas Houghton’s photo, she’d slipped in at the time of the search at his bedsit. They looked like two different men, but as she studied the features, she could see that they matched – the same shape nose, the same blank eyes, the same scars.

  Another envelope revealed store cards and more documentation in the name Tommy Warrington.

  ‘The same name as on the briefing slide,’ she muttered to herself. ‘And the same surname as Emma has just given to police downstairs. She’s in it up to her neck too. Changed name, changed appearance. She knows exactly what’s going on.’

  Passing the ID documents to Naz to seal up, she returned to the lounge to see Hunter kneeling down at the end of the sofa. Emma was staring in his direction. Charlie walked over to join him and bent to see the item that was holding their interest.

  Two clips of ammunition were lying on the carpet, partially tucked under the edge of the sofa.

  ‘Apparently they fit a Beretta,’ Hunter said out loud. ‘We just need to find the gun that fires them.’ He raised his eyebrows towards Emma, who looked quickly away.

  Charlie turned to face her, but the girl stayed staring down at the carpet.

  ‘Or the person who’s got the gun, to be more precise.’

  *

  ‘He’s out here somewhere.’

  Charlie stood by the front door to the squat with Hunter at her side, breathing in the fresh air and squinting across at the dark recesses and alleyways alongside the houses opposite. ‘But we’ve still got to find him.’

  Within minutes it had become clear that Emma Houghton wouldn’t speak to them. Instead of prompting her to talk, the ammo they had found had forced her mouth firmly shut. She was saying nothing.

  With that in mind, it was decided that she and Hunter would take Paul back to the office so that he could continue viewing the camera recordings, while Naz and Sabira would stay with Emma and bag up any evidence.

  ‘Do you think we should give Maryanne a ring now? And let her know what’s happened?’ Charlie wasn’t looking forward to the conversation.

  ‘She’s quite safe with her sister,’ Hunter shook his head confidently. ‘Houghton won’t be able to find her there.’

  ‘You’re right.’ She paused, as a sense of foreboding caught her off guard. ‘But maybe, I’ll give her and Danielle a quick ring when we get back to the office, just to check that everything’s OK. It won’t do any harm to let them know what’s happened.’

  *

  Maryanne sat on the sofa in her flat and gave herself a mental pat on the back for braving the visit on her own. It was another small step on her road to recovery, even though she doubted she’d have come if it hadn’t been for her solicitor requesting some paperwork and her brother-in-law needing space. Still, she’d made it, even though every room was lit up as brightly as the North Star and the volume of the TV drowned out the sound of her heart hammering against her ribcage.

  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to imagine life before it had happened. Come on, Maryanne, you’re doing well. She repeated the phrase in her mind several times and then spoke it out loud. Her voice sounded strange, but somehow just hearing the words calmed her slightly.

  After checking her post, she got up and wandered into the kitchen, the familiar disquiet at the sight of the bedroom and bathroom cementing the knowledge she’d made the right decision to sell the place. Her mind wandered back to the new houses and her hopes for the future.

  It was a shame the police had been there when she’d pulled into the quiet cul-de-sac, but at least it seemed that they had the problem of the squatters in hand. Hopefully they’d soon be gone. She’d left almost immediately, not wishing to appear nosy, but at the same time regretting the chance to park up and get a feel for the place. The officers were talking to the same man who was there before, the shaven-headed stranger who looked familiar. This time, though, he looked even more desperate, straining his head over the shoulder of the policewoman to stare at her.

  She pressed the switch for the kettle, and within minutes the unsettling memory was lo
st within the churning maelstrom of boiling water. The ringtone of her phone sounded from somewhere in the lounge, but by the time she reached it, the call had ended and no message had been left. The number was showing as withheld, a fact that bothered her more than she expected. Only the police usually called from a withheld number. What could they want, phoning at this time of the evening?

  The thought prompted her to get going. It was well past ten o’clock. A hot drink could wait until she returned to her sister’s. Enough time had passed to allow Danielle and her husband some space together, and with the sky now dark, she guessed they might be fretting over her whereabouts.

  Wandering back into the front room, she switched the TV off and the room became silent; not even the muted sound of her neighbours’ footsteps on the boards above penetrating the stillness. To mask her increasing uneasiness she started to hum, her nerves ratcheting up the volume until she was singing out loud. As each light was switched off and each room was plunged into gloom, she reverted to her childhood habit of backing out of the doors, anxious not to let the darkness creep up from behind.

  She was being stupid. There was nothing wrong.

  In the hallway, she switched on the porch lamp and gathered together her bags, before taking a deep breath, preparing to slip out backwards into the half-light.

  *

  Thomas hid behind the trellis next to Catherine’s front door, waiting silently and patiently for her to emerge. He knew she wanted him. She’d tried to return to him earlier, hadn’t she? But the bloody cops had got in the way, so now he was here, ready and waiting for her.

  It felt good. He was high and his mind was buzzing, but this time he was prepared to wait. He couldn’t risk frightening her again. This time, nothing and no one would get in the way of their reunion.