Daddy's Girls

by Sarah Flint

  ‘Do you know where he might be now?’ she asked.

  Emma looked round at each of them in turn, shaking her head vehemently. ‘I don’t know. Really I don’t.’ She paused. ‘Have you tried Jason’s old flat. I don’t know the exact address, but I could take you there. Or you could ask him, or Ebony and Ivory. Maybe they’ll know. They’re living next door at the moment.’

  Hunter dispatched Paul, Naz and Sabira to speak to them all. They could easily get the address from their records, but it wouldn’t hurt to find out how much his associates knew of Houghton’s movements.

  ‘Anywhere else you can think of?’ Hunter stepped up next to her. The pressure was on.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Emma screwed her face up in concentration. ‘I can’t think of anywhere.’

  Charlie cursed silently, gazing round the room, as if hoping to see the girl’s father materialise from behind the sofa. She remembered the ammunition.

  ‘Could he be armed with a gun? We found ammo, but there’s no trace of the weapon.’

  Emma swung round to face her, her eyes wide with panic. She looked close to tears again. ‘I don’t know. My father’s ill. There was a gun, but it belonged to someone called Rocky. My father was looking after it, but I think he gave it back.’

  ‘You think?’ Hunter directed his question at her forcefully. ‘But we need to know. My officers could be at risk.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Emma started to cry again. ‘My father went and collected it for Rocky earlier this evening, but I don’t know what happened to it in the end.’

  ‘Well, did you see Rocky take it away?’ Hunter eyed Emma critically. ‘Or could your father still have it?’ Hunter persisted. ‘For safekeeping?’

  Emma dropped her head into her hands, before balling them into fists and rubbing ferociously at her face. ‘I don’t know. I hope not, but I suppose he could.’

  Hunter stepped away, barking a warning down his radio.

  Charlie replayed the scene at Maryanne’s flat, wishing they’d been able to see more clearly what Houghton had been holding. It was definitely metallic and its butt end was round, possibly even barrel-shaped. Could it have been the firearm? She couldn’t be sure, but what was certain was that Hunter would have to err on the safe side. Officers’ lives could be put in danger if he didn’t.

  She reverted to her main priority, taking a seat next to the girl. Better to focus her mind on what was really important than let her mind wander over the worst-case scenario.

  ‘OK, let’s think again where he might go. Is there anywhere that your father has mentioned in the past? A friend’s place? Or family? Anywhere where he likes to go, to chill out or spend some time on his own. Anywhere?’

  The last word came out rather too forcefully, but she was beginning to feel desperate. Houghton was out there somewhere, with Maryanne, possibly armed with a gun, or knives, or both, and they still had no idea where.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Emma’s expression suddenly became animated. ‘There is somewhere he mentioned a while ago. He would take himself off there if we argued and he wanted time out. Dad said it was a special place that meant a lot to him and my mum. He said he felt calm when he was there.’

  As she gave the name and location of the care home, Charlie was on her feet. This was it, it had to be.

  29

  All around were vases of lavender, some bright purple and alive, others dried out and pale. Naked flames sprung up from a host of candles placed on every flat surface, bright manes of yellow and orange dancing and swaying in time to the draughts of air sucked in through rotting window frames.

  Maryanne sat shakily on an armchair, watching the man lighting still more candles, his expression alive in the warm glow, spirited and slightly manic. She breathed in deeply, glad to replace the stale body odour of the man with the scent of lavender, evoking vivid memories of her grandmother’s perfume on her recent visit.

  The room seemed almost plush, decked out with rugs, mats and brightly coloured cushions spread out across the floor and armchairs. At any other time, the sentiments displayed in its decoration would have brought her pleasure, but tonight the beauty of the room was totally at odds with the ugliness of her situation.

  Her gaze swept over every inch of space, searching for ways of possible escape – his car keys, her phone, anything, but he’d left nothing in view. Eventually, her eyes came to rest on a sight that took her breath away. Situated on the mantelpiece, surrounded by pots of new lavender and scented candles, was a photo frame – one that she recognised only too well. And staring out from the frame was her own face, radiant and alive, on holiday with an ex-partner, her blonde hair trailing out behind her, in the thrall of a strong gust of wind. The relationship had ended shortly afterwards, but the memory still remained, as did the photo. It was one of her favourites – the one stolen from her in the recent burglary.

  She stared open-mouthed at the picture, reliving the stormy conditions in which it had been taken, until realising that the man had stopped what he was doing and was staring in her direction.

  ‘You look beautiful in that one, Catherine. I had to have it when I saw it. It reminded me so much of the good times we had, soon after we were married.’

  So that was it. He believed she was his wife. He’d called her Catherine before when he’d given himself a name.

  ‘Thomas?’ she ventured.

  ‘Yes.’ His smile was all-encompassing.

  ‘This room is beautiful. Have you decorated it for me?’

  ‘Yes, I have. Do you like it? I’ve even got your favourite lavender.’

  He took a few steps towards her and she was suddenly unsure whether to keep him sweet and risk another rape or inform him now that he had the wrong person and incur his wrath.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she replied finally. ‘Thank you.’ The decision was actually very straightforward. Keep him happy and try to play for more time. With any luck, when she failed to return, Danielle would contact the police. ‘Do you mind if I take a nap? I’m really tired and this room is so relaxing,’ she asked, sensing immediately his disappointment.

  ‘Sleep there.’ He hid it well, gesturing towards the sofa. ‘I’ll watch over you and when you wake, we’ll talk.’

  She pulled her shoes from her feet, and lay down, curling her legs up to her chest, and shutting her eyes to feign sleep, desperate to calm the desire to flee, but with every muscle tensed, awaiting the possibility. She was aware of him moving about, his shadow crossing the inside of her lids. She could hear his feet shuffling against the matting and his finger flicking the lighter, and she could smell the strong pungent smell of cannabis wafting through the atmosphere. He settled in a chair next to the sofa and the smell grew stronger, filling her nostrils and coating her hair.

  His breathing became slow and rasping, almost to the point of sleep, but he stayed awake; she could sense his eyes fixed on her form, as if waiting for her to stir. After what seemed like hours, she slowly shifted a foot and stretched out, waiting to see if he reacted to the movement, daring to hope he wouldn’t.

  As quick as a flash, her hopes were dashed, the weight of despair descending like a heavy cloak on her shoulders as she felt the touch of his fingers on her foot, moving slowly round her toes, before moving up to caress her ankle. Her ploy hadn’t worked.

  Thomas was still awake – and he was still waiting.

  *

  Thomas was on fire; her soft skin arousing him, each toenail painted a perfect rose-pink, like her lips. He felt his desire growing – and now she had woken.

  He took a deep breath, trying to quench the flames that were raging within, thinking back over the events of the last few hours. He needed to stay in control. The words of the phone message replayed in his head. We’re coming to get you, we’re coming to get you, but he couldn’t let it happen. He wouldn’t let anything or anyone take his wife from him this time – or ever. She was his, ’til death do us part!

  His hand moved automatically to the two knives �
� the long, serrated kitchen knife, still protruding from his trouser pocket, and the compact, deadly hunting knife, bulging ominously in its sheath, now attached to his waistband. They were his insurance against loss… but he didn’t intend to lose.

  He took a deep breath, allowing the scent of the lavender and the heady, swaying flames to hypnotise him. Catherine twitched momentarily and his eyes were drawn to the way her pupils flickered against her lids, the rhythm of her heartbeat as it pulsed softly under her clothing. He could wait no more. She’d slept long enough. Gently, he moved closer, breathing in the sweet smell of her skin until his lips grazed her hand.

  She was fully awake now, but her body was tense and unresponsive and her eyes wide. He would have to take things slowly. Kneeling over her body, he pulled her upright, unbuttoning the silky fabric of her shirt, his fingers trembling. She whimpered at his touch, turning her face away from his, her reticence reminding him of their first time together, in this same building, timid and shy, reluctant, yet yielding to his dominance. Then just as now.

  ‘Please, don’t.’ Her voice was thin, hanging on a thread. ‘Please, not now.’

  Candlelight reflected in her eyes. He tried to read her expression. Was her pain imagined or real? He didn’t know, but he knew he couldn’t stop.

  He pulled her closer, her hair tickling his chest, each wisp magnifying his need. She started to sob, gently at first, the tears tracing a path down her cheeks and neck, lying like tiny pools of coloured water against her cleavage. The sight stirred him further. His emotions were spinning out of control. He took the knives from his waistband and his pocket and placed them to one side, daring to bend and let his mouth make contact with the hot, salty tears. He could feel the heat from her breasts.

  ‘Catherine, I love you,’ he almost shouted. ‘I love you so much.’

  He closed his eyes, his head reeling with desire, his body out of control, tugging urgently at his shirt and trousers to free himself, lost in the heat of the moment.

  ‘Thomas’. A voice boomed through the white light; calling him over a speaker, loud and authoritative, the shock of hearing his name registering through the haze. A powerful spotlight shone through the window, silhouetting the shape of his chest against the wall, the prominence of each rib, the shrunken emptiness of his abdomen.

  Thomas. His name was called out again and he jumped up, his mind in disarray. What was happening? His brain couldn’t make sense of the commotion.

  Catherine was pulling her shirt back in place, covering herself with a cushion, everything of which he’d dreamed for so long shrinking from view. He grabbed his knives and tugged her to her feet, standing directly behind her, daring anyone to take her away. His breath caught at the almost inaudible sound of her gasp, as he rested the heavy hunting blade on her neck, his fingers rough against the silky skin of her throat.

  He felt his control slipping away. The usual clamour started up inside his head, the laughter, the mockery, the ugly goading. He gripped the knife tighter. Nothing was going to stop them being together. Nothing could be allowed to split them apart. Not now.

  The voice boomed out again.

  ‘Thomas. It’s the police. Stay calm and don’t make any sudden movements. We just want to talk.’

  *

  Charlie paced around the rendezvous point, the blood pounding in her ears, her feet moving automatically to each beat of her heart. She had been right. Emma had been the key to her father’s location. Baytree House had been swiftly identified and the street in which it was located cordoned off.

  To confirm their hunch, the stolen Mondeo was found parked up outside and an area of flickering candlelight highlighted their suspect’s exact position within the building. Armed Trojan police units were setting up round the rear garden, with more officers, laden down under bullet-proof vests, tasers and firearms, arriving with every minute that passed.

  But now they had everything to do.

  Maryanne was a hostage of Thomas Houghton – again, but this time he too was held captive. There was no knowing how the situation would play out and the stakes were high. Everyone was well aware of the lengths Houghton would go to secure his freedom; the injuries of PC Goddard, especially, bore witness to that. It would be many months before she was up on her feet again, still more before she was chasing after suspects.

  No, there was no doubt in any of their minds: Thomas Houghton was dangerous and, with a cocktail of drugs and mental-health issues thrown into the mix, the next few hours were likely to be highly volatile and totally unpredictable. Maryanne might have been unaware of what had happened at the squat, but anyone could see her terror as she was led from her flat. Their victim clearly feared for her life – and she was right to do so.

  Charlie peered across their makeshift rendezvous point. Emma was her ward, brought with them to assist with negotiations and now seated on a wooden bench, clutching the small metal box in which her mother’s photos and memorabilia were held. They risked being stolen at the squat, so she’d insisted on bringing them, much like Hunter had insisted on bringing the girl. Family members could sometimes provide calm in hostage situations, but their use could just as easily be incendiary. Circumstances would dictate whether she would be beneficial, but she was another weapon to be used if required – and Charlie had a feeling they would need all the help they could get.

  Hunter had charge of the loudspeaker while they waited for a trained hostage negotiator, gripping it between sweaty palms, every now and then pausing to wipe his hands down his trousers as he concentrated on how best to keep Houghton calm. She could see the concern etched in every crease of his brow. He would, no doubt, be hoping to bring the situation to a satisfactory conclusion before the negotiator arrived and it was taken out of their hands.

  They heard a shout from within the building and strained to see through the gap in the boarding across the window. In the searchlight, they could see Maryanne still being held round the throat at knifepoint, but did Houghton also have the Beretta? And if he did, was it kept close to hand. This was clearly his hideaway, the den where he kept all his treasured possessions – including Maryanne. If he still had the gun, it would be here too – and that reality had to be factored into their every decision.

  ‘I don’t want to talk. Go away all of you and leave us alone.’ Houghton’s voice was gruff and angry, edged with menace. His expression was wild.

  ‘Thomas, keep calm. We need to talk,’ Hunter had already expressed the necessity for a good line of communication. ‘Do you have a phone number I can ring you on? There are important things you need to know.’

  ‘There’s nothing I need to know. I have my wife, and she is everything I want.’ He pulled Maryanne up higher so that her neck stretched out under his arm. ‘You won’t take her away from me again.’

  ‘I have his new mobile number,’ Emma’s voice sounded small and distant. She pulled out her own phone and scrolled through it, reading out the saved number marked as ‘Dad’, her expression darkening. ‘I doubt he’ll be bothered with me now he thinks he has my mum back. She was always his priority. He always blamed me for my mother’s illness.’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t really?’ Charlie watched as Emma shook her head, smiling sadly. ‘How could he? MS could strike anybody, at any time.’

  ‘It struck my mum straight after she gave birth to me. There was never any question in his mind that it was my fault.’ The words spilled out from Emma’s mouth without emotion. It was as if she was reading them from a medical journal, a textbook that she too believed to be correct. ‘It was only very recently that he’d begun to come round. He was just starting to trust me and build a life for us both. For the first time, it actually felt as if he cared, that I might become his little girl, that he might even love me.’ She paused and her voice caught. ‘That was why I changed. He was all I had left. His love and acceptance was all I ever wanted.’

  Charlie was appalled. No wonder Emma had been so reticent to help, and his last statement would have
reinforced her previous belief that he didn’t really care about her, that she would always play second fiddle to her dead mother.

  Still, there was no doubting he had been trying to change. He hadn’t just run off and left her. He’d got them a house, new identities. He had a plan, and she was very much part of it. Emma might have been held at arm’s length before, but it was clear that, recently, she had been fully included. They just had to remind him of her presence. But when?

  Hunter was redialling the number again, but each time he tried to speak, Houghton would end the call. He put the handset on speakerphone and they listened as this time the ringtone ended and the answerphone kicked in.

  ‘Please call me back,’ Hunter said. ‘We want to try to help you in the best way we can.’

  He picked up the loudspeaker again. ‘Thomas, please answer your phone. We need to talk.’

  Charlie watched helplessly as Hunter paced around the confined space. Time was moving on and they were going nowhere. Soon their suspect would need more drugs – and there was no way that could ever be sanctioned. Houghton would get increasingly unstable and who knew what would happen. He was like a bomb primed and ready to explode, but with no way of knowing the time or cause of the detonation.

  30

  Thomas was getting increasingly volatile, padding noiselessly round the room, his footsteps light and springy, his head swivelling from side to side, assessing, and reassessing his options. Maryanne knew that, realistically, he had only two. Come quietly, or go out in a blaze of glory.

  It was the question of what he intended to do with her that frightened her the most. He was both predator and prey, the hunter and the hunted, but it was as if he hadn’t made up his mind which role he should assume. Sometimes he would treat her with tenderness, cupping her face in his hands and whispering that everything would be all right. The next minute, he was enraged, shouting out in anger as if the situation was of her making, blaming the voice over the loudspeaker for his predicament.