Daddy's Girls

by Sarah Flint

  She could do nothing but watch and wait, and hope that he would eventually see sense and let her go, but as time ticked by, this seemed less and less likely. He refused to enter into any sort of dialogue, either on the phone or shouted across the night sky. In fact, just the sound of the man’s voice was enough to send him into a frenzy.

  The spotlight was still aimed directly into the room, its beam and brilliance illuminating the shrine he’d made in her honour. Its presence clearly angered him, but they’d refused to switch it off and it meant she could witness, minute by minute, his growing paranoia. How many times had he come here, planning and obsessing over her?

  She shivered involuntarily at the thought, wondering too what her sister would be thinking. Would Danielle be feeling guilt at the events leading up to her capture? She hoped not. There was only one person responsible for the situation and that was the half-demented man who paced incessantly and argued with himself out loud. She despised him, yet she pitied him.

  The loudspeaker struck up again. This time, it was a woman’s voice, higher pitched, yet calm, almost velvety to her ears. The man stopped pacing, moving closer, his expression one of rapt concentration.

  The voice spoke soothingly, making promises as to his treatment. It was almost melodic, unlike the more staccato, barked tones of the man. The voice was persuasive and Maryanne recognised it to be Charlie’s. Hers had been the last words on her phone, the message of hope that she had been clinging to.

  The talking stopped, the last words imploring him to answer his phone, and the room descended into silence. Maryanne held her breath as the phone started to ring, watching as the man’s head swivelled violently from side to side. His breathing became louder, harsher, quicker and he moved towards the window, crouching behind the pillar, ignoring the ringtone, his eyes ablaze.

  ‘She’s lying,’ he whispered hoarsely across the room. ‘They don’t care about me. She’s the one who promised to get you out.’

  He dropped to his knees and crawled across the mishmash of rugs to where she sat, jumping up behind her and hauling her to her feet. Roughly he dragged her across to the window, levering off some of the boarding and placing her body between him and the garden, the skin of her neck stretched out pale against the spotlight.

  ‘You’re liars,’ he screamed out into the brightness, waving the blade into the light. ‘You’re all liars. You said you were coming to get her, that you’d rescue her – but you won’t take Catherine away from me. You’ll have to kill me first – or else I’ll kill us both.’

  Pulling her backwards into the room again, he sank to his knees, his hands running down across her hair, her back, her buttocks, until his shoulders were level with her thighs, his arms encircling her waist and pulling her close.

  ‘I’ll never let you go again,’ he strained his face upwards, tears coursing down his sunken cheeks. ‘You’re mine… forever.’

  *

  ‘Get Emma briefed.’ Hunter’s expression was serious. The negotiator had still not arrived and things were getting desperate.

  Thomas Houghton’s mental state had deteriorated to such an extent that it wasn’t now safe to leave Maryanne in his presence without fearing for her imminent death.

  Hunter’s ploy had failed. Charlie, instead of providing a more feminine, less macho tone, had instead lit the touchpaper. Houghton was on the edge. How could they not have entertained the probability he would have heard her answerphone message? That he might recognise her voice. Now, there was no knowing what he was going to do.

  She gave precise, uncomplicated instructions to Emma, while listening in to Hunter’s urgent talks with the inspector of the tactical firearms unit – but their options were limited. It was still unknown whether Houghton had the gun, but he had been witnessed with at least one knife… and he stayed in very close proximity to Maryanne. It would be too risky to try and immobilise him, without putting their victim in mortal danger. Moreover, the layout of the room and security boarding afforded them only a limited view. No officer could be expected to accurately take out their suspect in the circumstances.

  She squeezed Emma’s hand, as Hunter beckoned her across, speaking in a low, serious voice.

  ‘Listen to me carefully and don’t say a word without my say-so.’ He stared at the girl intently. ‘Do you understand?’

  *

  Emma was clinging to the tin of memorabilia as she stepped forward.

  ‘You have to persuade him that you won’t split them up,’ she took out a photo of her parents together and pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘He really believes that woman is my mother. I don’t think he even realises he’s done anything wrong.’

  ‘So why has he run away from police so many times?’ Hunter shook his head.

  Emma thought for a moment, unsure whether to tell the police inspector what Thomas had admitted, but it was so minor in the scheme of things. It couldn’t make the situation worse. ‘Because he told me he broke into a convenience store in Streatham High Road and he thinks he’s been identified on CCTV. He did it for us, and he doesn’t want to get put inside for it. Not when he thinks he’s found my mum.’

  She listened as Charlie got straight on to the phone, asking for a search to be completed on the details.

  ‘Why didn’t you explain about this when we raided your bedsit?’ Charlie put her hand over the handset while they awaited a reply. ‘Didn’t you think we were being a bit over the top for a shop burglary?’

  Emma dropped her head. ‘Well you didn’t tell me what you were there for either.’ She wasn’t going to take all the blame. ‘And I’d told my friend about the gun I saw, and I thought she’d grassed him up. I thought it was all my fault for getting him in trouble. Anyway, I didn’t find out about the break-in until later.’

  Charlie lifted the phone to her ear again.

  ‘Yep, all confirmed,’ she nodded to the inspector. ‘There was a recent burglary at the minimart, with some vague CCTV and the suspect fits Houghton’s description… at least before he shaved his head and grew a beard.’

  ‘That’s why he changed his appearance,’ Emma said. ‘I helped him do it so that he wouldn’t be recognised.’

  Emma felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. As far as she was concerned, the police now knew everything. And she was pleased. She’d always been taught to do the right thing by her mother and these last few weeks and months covering for her father had challenged her very essence. The only bonus had been her new friends, although it was doubtful her mother would have approved of either Ebony or Ivory, never mind Jason, Josef or Rocky.

  For a few seconds, the memory of Josef materialised, his unexpected tenderness, his taut, sinewy body, his lopsided smile. She’d liked him, and she thought he liked her, but she knew it would never work, could never work. Her father’s instincts had been right, much as she’d tried to gloss over the reason it had happened. Sex was a commodity. Her body had been purchased and, however sweet Josef had turned out to be, she could never get over that fact.

  She swept the memory to the furthest corners of her mind. At least the situation was becoming clearer. Right now, she had to be sure that her father would be dealt with fairly. He was sick and he needed treatment, not just to be locked away.

  ‘How is my father at the moment?’ She already knew the answer, but she hadn’t been privy to the best view. Maybe there was more that she hadn’t herself witnessed.

  ‘He’s very agitated.’ The inspector cut straight to the point. ‘We need to end this hostage situation as soon as possible, for both their sakes.’

  Emma nodded, suddenly nervous. ‘And you promise that if I help, you’ll get him treatment. He won’t be hurt in any way?’

  Hunter passed the loudspeaker to her. ‘If you do exactly what I say and he follows instructions, he won’t be harmed. I promise. Now let’s get on.’

  *

  Thomas heard Emma’s voice slicing through the light and let his hand drop.

  ‘Dad,’ she said
clearly. ‘It’s me, Emma. Can we talk?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he shouted towards the gap in the boarding. ‘Have they got you too? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, but he wasn’t sure whether to believe her.

  ‘Dad, they want you to come out. They don’t want to split you two up. Catherine can leave with you. I’ve got their word on it.’

  ‘How can I trust what they say? What if it’s a trap?’

  ‘In a minute they’re going to switch off the spotlight and you’ll see me. I’ll be standing in the garden on my own. It’ll show you I’m not trying to trick you. I could run away at any time.’

  As she spoke, the spotlight was dimmed and the room became atmospheric, lit only by the quaint glow of the candles. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to acclimatise to the gloom before manoeuvring Catherine in front of him towards the window. It was still dark outside, although there was the faint promise of a new day on the horizon. A slight movement in the corner of the garden alerted him to the presence of police, but this was swiftly forgotten as Emma came into view. She walked slowly and deliberately, her dyed mahogany hair and willowy figure lit up in what light there was from the moon. As if to convince him further, she switched on a torch, holding it aloft so that its beam shone down on her face and body. It was her, and for a full minute he luxuriated in the sight of his only daughter, alternatively wishing he could go to her or otherwise bring her back to the safe haven he had created with Catherine.

  As quickly as she had appeared though, she left and the spotlight was aimed back into the room.

  ‘Tell them to turn the light off,’ he screamed, shielding his eyes from the blinding light.

  ‘They won’t,’ Emma replied calmly over the loudspeaker. ‘They want to be able to see that Mum is OK. Please, Dad come out and stop this now.’

  He was momentarily taken back by her use of the word Mum, understanding in that second the exact ramifications of his current predicament.

  ‘They’ll nick me and we’ll all be separated.’ He was choked with emotion.

  There was a pause before Emma spoke again.

  ‘I told them about the break-in, Dad. They say it’s not a big deal and it can be sorted out easily.’

  ‘I only did it for us.’

  ‘I know. I told them that. They understand.’ She paused again. ‘Will you come out for me?’

  He sensed her desperation, realising then how much it would mean to his daughter if he did what she asked. Yet, at the same time, it was admitting defeat, all his efforts written off as being of no consequence. And he didn’t know yet whether they could be trusted.

  But what if Emma was right? What if the matter could be dealt with quickly and they could stay reunited? Surely that would be better? There would be no need to keep running and hiding. Everything would be out in the open. They would be starting afresh.

  He turned to Catherine and looked her straight in the face.

  ‘If we leave together now, Catherine, will you wait for me while I get things sorted?’

  The glimmer of hope that lit up her face was instantaneous and her voice gave him strength. ‘Yes, Thomas, I will wait for you,’ she smiled.

  It was all he needed to hear. Quelling the wave of apprehension that threatened to engulf him at the thought of his next few steps, he turned his head to where his daughter had so recently stood and shouted into the silence.

  ‘OK, we’re coming out, but only if Emma tells me what I must do.’

  *

  Charlie spun round towards Hunter, her fists clenched in front of her.

  ‘Yes!’ She couldn’t help herself. Emma was grinning broadly and she turned towards the girl with her thumbs up. ‘Well done,’ she mouthed the words, winking at her and smiling back. At last there might now be an end to Maryanne’s nightmare – but there was still so much that could go wrong.

  Hunter was in discussion with the tactical firearms advisor, issuing instructions about when and how the operation might be concluded. It was still unclear whether Houghton had access to the firearm – and they had to err on the side of safety. What was known, without any doubt, was that he had at least one lethal weapon, in the shape of a knife, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. An updated briefing was given over the radio to all the armed officers on their options. Emma too was warned to follow Hunter’s instructions precisely. Using her was a huge risk but, set against the growing volatility of the situation, it was deemed acceptable. Still, everything had to be absolutely transparent. There could be no room for accidents or mistakes.

  Charlie gave Emma a pat on the shoulder. The girl had proved to be exceptional. She had been the key. Now she just had to hold her nerve and finish the job.

  After the immediate buzz of anticipation, the RVP had quietened, every person in the room now held frozen in a collective deep breath. The next few minutes would determine the success, or failure, of their rape investigation, possibly even the murder hunt. With any luck, they would find evidence within Houghton’s den to point to his guilt for all the crimes. Within a few minutes, they would know.

  *

  Emma couldn’t believe she’d almost succeeded. Her father had listened to her. He had believed in her, trusted her, and now she was on the brink of getting him out to safety.

  With that prospect, however, came mixed feelings. His surrender would almost certainly signal the start of a term in a mental hospital or prison, or perhaps both. But what was the alternative, with so many armed police training firearms in his direction? She dared not think.

  All she knew was that she was doing the right thing, and her mother would be proud. The inspector gave her the nod and she returned the signal, holding firmly to the tarnished metal tin, the memories contained within giving her the strength to proceed.

  This was it. Inspector Hunter was to tell her what to say, and she was to say it, loud and clear, so there could be no mistakes.

  ‘Dad, come out on your own,’ she repeated the phrase given by the inspector, speaking clearly through the loudspeaker.

  ‘I’m not coming out without your mother.’

  She swung her head round towards the inspector, who raised his hands in acceptance and whispered the next instructions.

  ‘OK, Dad,’ she followed his words exactly. ‘But leave your weapons behind in the room and take your top off, so they can see you have nothing concealed. The fire escape door just outside the lounge has been opened ready. When you come out of the door into the garden, walk slowly with your arms up. Don’t stop and don’t lower your arms.’

  She watched the movements inside the room as her father made himself ready and shuffled across the room towards the door with his hostage held close. The tension inside the rendezvous point was almost unbearable.

  Then they were there, approaching the fire escape, slowly and steadily, and it felt like every breath of air was being sucked from her lungs. Her father held both arms aloft, clutching the hands of a blonde-haired woman who also had her arms held high, her body close against him. They walked in step, along the corridor to the door of the fire exit, their shapes becoming slowly bathed in brilliance as they approached. From where she stood, Emma could see the outline of his emaciated chest and sunken features, in contrast to the woman’s fuller figure.

  ‘Keep walking, Dad, with your arms raised.’ She repeated the inspector’s words, longing at the same time to run to him and tell him everything was going to be all right; that she was doing this for him, so he could get help. ‘Dad, do not stop for any reason, until I tell you to.’

  They came to the door and took two steps outside, into the night air. She willed him forward, desperate to keep up the momentum, but to her dismay, he stopped, his eyes closed, his expression stricken and Emma felt her whole body freeze with trepidation, as she waited for him to take the next step.

  *

  Thomas was fighting hard to control the panic coursing through his head, as he moved one step at a time towards a solitary world, w
here he just knew Catherine would be taken from him. Emma was there, and he tried to concentrate on her commands to quell his unease, but he couldn’t avoid the sight of the marksman crouched at the furthest end of the corridor, as they left their special room and turned towards the fire escape. The cop was behind them now, their black submachine gun primed and ready, and his head was screaming for him to run and escape, to try to re-establish the control that was being sucked steadily from him. He needed his knives. He really needed his knives; they calmed him, but he’d left them both in the room.

  Now as he stepped out from the safety of the care home lounge, his mind started to fill with bad thoughts and accusations; the sing-song sound of laughter, the mocking voices taunting him. They were confusing him. He couldn’t go on.

  ‘Dad, keep walking,’ he heard Emma saying. ‘Don’t stop. Walk into the middle of the garden.’

  But a small voice inside his head was nagging at him, reminding him of when she’d been born, when all his troubles had started; the slight unease he’d felt as he’d shown off his newborn daughter to the elderly residents all those years ago, the suspicion that she’d brought trouble with her, was the cause of it.

  He heard her voice again, slightly more urgent now.

  ‘Keep walking, Dad. Come on. Come out to me. Don’t stop.’

  But he had stopped and his legs wouldn’t move to propel him any further. He felt Catherine’s hands in his and he wanted to hold them forever, never leave her.

  Emma had stopped talking and the silence was overwhelming, crowding in on him. He closed his eyes tight, trying to shut out the light, the noise in his head, everything. Then he heard the voice.

  ‘Thomas. Come on. It’s time. It’s time to go.’

  It was a voice he recognised. It sounded like Catherine. It traversed the screaming in his head and cut through the white light as cleanly and brightly as it had always done.

  The voice demanded the same reaction as always. He smiled and shrugged, letting go of Catherine’s fingers and thrusting both hands downwards into his trouser pockets.