Daddy's Girls

by Sarah Flint

  Within a minute, her lethargy was forgotten as the radio sparked into life. Karl Ferris had been spotted by lamplight, peering out from the door to his flat and looking around. It seemed that, just as Hunter had mooted, he was indeed coming out to play.

  ‘Damn it,’ she said the words out loud, straightening and checking the time. It was still only half past eleven and now it seemed like her enquiry would mean she would miss all the action.

  ‘Positive ID on subject 1, out, out, out. On foot and turning right.’

  She walked across to the office door and looked down the corridor, but there was no one in sight.

  ‘On, on, on,’ the surveillance officer continued. ‘Subject is dressed in a hooded jacket, pulled down over his head and partially shielding his face. He is carrying a dark-coloured rucksack and is walking steadily, with eyes all about. Stand by. He’s stopped and is checking his pockets. Now, on, on, on, again in the same direction.’

  Charlie started to pace round the office. Half of her wanted to leave now to join the operation, but she also knew that by the time she got there, it was likely to be over.

  ‘Damn it,’ she said again, leaving the office to try to find Glenys.

  She held the radio to her ear, its volume switched down so as not to disturb the residents as she strode along each quiet corridor. The surveillance eye had switched to a different officer now, but Ferris continued to walk, keeping to the side roads and darkened sides of the street, head down, walking with a purpose. He obviously knew where he was going and he was determined to get there fast.

  ‘Subject 1 slowing down and now stationary behind a large tree on the South footway. I’m tucking in behind a fence and will keep watch,’ the officer continued. ‘He’s looking around. Now back behind the tree. Stand by, all units.’

  Charlie nearly bumped into Glenys Jones, who was backing out of a doorway, as she raced along.

  ‘Ooh, you made me jump,’ Glenys exclaimed, holding her hand to her heart.

  ‘I need you to look at some photos now.’ Charlie didn’t hold back. If she could get the answer she wanted, it might well help Hunter better decide the action that might soon be required.

  ‘OK, OK, I’m coming.’ Glenys puffed and panted, pushing her trolley as fast as she was able, given that she was short in stature and short of breath. By the time they got back to the office she was wheezing hard.

  ‘Subject 1 now across the road and in, in, in to the front garden of number forty-seven. Looking up at the first-floor front window.’

  ‘What does the house look like?’ Hunter’s voice piped up over the radio.

  ‘It’s semi-detached, with a garage to one side. It looks like it could use a lick of paint and a bit of TLC, but otherwise it’s pretty standard.’

  Charlie knew exactly what Hunter was getting at. Did it look as if the house belonged to an elderly resident?

  Glenys Jones had pulled out a nebuliser from her cardigan pocket and was sucking hard on it. She was red-faced and appeared to be having trouble catching her breath.

  Charlie put the photo album in front of her and opened the first page.

  ‘I need a voter’s check on the occupant of number 47 and any intel on the occupants ASAP,’ she heard Hunter bark down the radio.

  ‘Yes boss,’ Bet’s voice came across in answer. ‘Stand by.’

  ‘Subject is in the porch, but it’s all in darkness. He’s crouching down now. I can’t see exactly what he’s doing, but it looks like he’s checking his bag.’

  ‘Voters’ register shows a single female by the name of Anne Gledhorn.’ Bet spoke calmly. ‘No other person is shown living at the address and there are no crimes reported in the last five years. Just one intel report, stand by. I’m just reading it.’ There was a short pause. ‘It looks like a call to suspects in the rear garden, about a month ago. The result is shown as No Trace, but the officer thought it could possibly be a group of kids stopped further down the road.’

  ‘The front door is opening and subject 1 is in, in, in to the venue. No lights on, but it looks like he may be using a torch or phone light. Door closed.’

  The radio lapsed into silence. The tension was unbearable. Charlie knew that Hunter’s mind would be racing. She could almost sense his conflict in every throbbing second of quiet across the airwaves even from where she was, several miles away. There appeared to be a single female occupant at their location. Her age was unknown – but there was a recent report of a prowler. Should they hold back and wait and see what happened or should they go in now? In her opinion they didn’t dare wait.

  Glenys Jones was turning the pages of the album.

  ‘See if you recognise any of the faces,’ Charlie prompted. ‘In particular let me know if you recognise the man you thought was called Ray, or Roy, who helped out at the Christmas Party here. But bear in mind he won’t be wearing a hat or glasses in these photos. None of the faces will be.’

  She held her breath. With any luck, the manager would point out Ferris and she could phone the identification through to Hunter. If Ferris was picked out as the man known to have been acting suspiciously with the elderly residents, it would add weight to his guilt – and that might help Hunter to make his decision. But even without a positive identification, could Hunter risk waiting? Anne Gledhorn could be in serious danger right this second – and they didn’t know whether this slightly unsavoury volunteer had anything to do with the burglaries anyway. Her hunch could be wrong.

  It appeared that a decision had already been made. Hunter was mobilising the surveillance units, quickly and quietly, ensuring the house was surrounded on all sides. An entry team, previously on standby, were being brought forward in readiness, with Paul, Naz and Sabira in the first wave of officers to enter. They could not afford to delay any longer.

  She watched as Glenys Jones turned over to the page showing Karl Ferris. His face stared out, his eyes dark and soulless.

  ‘Go, go, go,’ Hunter’s voice boomed across the airwaves.

  Charlie could barely breathe as she waited for news.

  ‘He looks evil,’ Glenys Jones commented, pointing towards Karl Ferris’ image with his birthmark standing out, stained dark red and brooding against his pale skin. She flipped over the page and looked up. ‘But I don’t recognise him.’

  *

  It didn’t take long for Glenys to finish the album. As the manager leafed through the final pages, Charlie mused on the fact that not only had she drawn a blank, but she had also missed out on the operation to save a potential victim and help to put Karl Ferris away. If she tried not to look disappointed then she clearly failed. It was written right across her face.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,’ Glenys Jones tried to cheer her up. ‘I did spread the word though, like you asked me to.’ She turned away and pulled out the top drawer of a filing cabinet, delving down into one of the spaces and pulling out a brown envelope. ‘One of the relatives visiting for the Christmas party gave me some copies of photographs that they took that day. I was going to phone, but I didn’t want to bother you. There might be something of use on them.’

  She passed the envelope across to Charlie, who slipped it into the front of the photo album. She couldn’t help being disappointed that she’d failed. Thanking Glenys Jones for her help, she returned rather despondently to her car. Hunter, Paul and the others looked to have saved the day, but she’d make her way to see what, belatedly, she could do. It wasn’t often her hunches were wrong, but this time she’d blown it quite dramatically.

  Firing up the engine, she shifted the car into gear and started making her way. At least Hunter’s suspicion had proved to be right.

  33

  The first sight she saw on pulling up in the sea of revolving blue lights was Karl Ferris standing in handcuffs by the rear of a police van. His head was down and Paul stood guard at his side.

  ‘Nice work,’ Charlie said as she approached.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ Paul raised his eyebrows and put o
ne finger to his lips.

  ‘Nice work?’ Karl Ferris raised his head and spat out an imitation. ‘Nice work?’ His voice sounded high and petulant. ‘You must be joking. You’re all shit. I was just visiting one of my birds, like I do regularly when my missus is asleep. She needs a good seeing-to, if you know what I mean.’ He eyed her up and down. ‘Looks like you could do with one too.’

  She was about to reply when she saw Paul tweaking the handcuffs higher up Ferris’s back. Ferris jerked forward suddenly, his speech now pitched even higher in complaint.

  ‘Be quiet and don’t talk to a female officer like that,’ Paul muttered in his ear, keeping the cuffs in the same position. ‘In fact, don’t talk to any woman like that, you lowlife.’

  Ferris opened his mouth and was about to spit out a retort when Hunter came marching towards him.

  Hunter’s cheeks glowed bright red, but the frown he was wearing darkened his whole face. ‘Let him go,’ he ordered Paul, indicating the handcuffs, his expression venomous. He stared up at Karl Ferris. ‘And you’d better be home in your bed and asleep in the next half an hour or I’ll be knocking on your door to arrest you for breaching your bail.’

  ‘You can try,’ Ferris grinned malevolently in return. ‘But my conditions only say I must live and sleep at that address. They don’t say when I must sleep.’ He pulled his arm free from an unlocked cuff and shook it out in his face. ‘And it also doesn’t say I can’t sleep at any other address, or with any other person.’ He leant in towards Hunter, dropping his voice. ‘And if you want to know, that’s where I was going on the bus those two times when you saw me on CCTV. I go there every Monday. To my other bird.’ He licked his lips and exhaled loudly. ‘I wasn’t interested in that old woman. Why would I be? Not when I’m so popular with the younger ones.’ He leered openly towards Charlie. ‘But I like to check I’m not being followed, if you know what I mean. Wouldn’t want them finding out about the others. Got to keep them all happy.’ He pulled his other hand free and shook it out.

  Charlie swallowed at a lump in her throat. The man made her feel physically sick. How any woman could find him in the least bit appealing was totally beyond her.

  Paul put the handcuffs into his jacket pocket, rattling them towards Ferris as he did so. ‘You might think you’re clever, but you’re still on bail,’ he whispered. ‘So until the next time.’

  ‘There won’t be a next time. You’ve got nothin’ on me,’ Ferris took a few steps away, before turning round and looking towards the front door of the house. ‘Same time tomorrow night, darlin’,’ he shouted across to a middle-aged woman standing in the doorway with a dirty cream dressing gown wrapped tightly around her and hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a comb for many months.

  ‘All right darlin’. Same time tomorrow,’ she screamed back at him, their voices perfectly harmonised.

  ‘They deserve each other,’ Hunter mumbled angrily. ‘When I said I thought he was coming out to play, I didn’t mean like this.’

  And with that he stomped away, leaving Paul to explain what she’d already gathered from the conversation. Karl Ferris had been conducting night-time visits to this particular lady friend for some months, or so she had confirmed. Tonight, he had left his home with a small rucksack containing a change of clothing and some rather grubby sex toys to continue his liaison. On the way, he realised he had forgotten his key to her address, hence the stop to check his pockets and the surreptitious glance to her window and phone call on his arrival, imploring her to open the door. The minute or two waiting in the gloom of the porch led the surveillance officers to come to the wrong conclusion that he was forcing entry, as opposed to waiting to be allowed in by his beau, who was hidden from view behind the door.

  All in all, it had been a prize cock-up.

  They watched as the sea of blue gradually disappeared, each vehicle heading off to patrol the streets and airwaves.

  ‘And Glenys Jones, the manager of Applewood House Nursing Home, didn’t pick Ferris out from our witness album either.’ Charlie filled Paul in on her wasted trip as they dawdled back towards their own car. ‘I was hoping he might be the volunteer who disappeared when asked for a CRB check. It might not have assisted hugely, but at least it might have provided some useful background evidence, and confirmed we were on the right track.’

  ‘Rather than back to square one.’ Paul kicked a fallen conker, sending it scudding across the pavement. ‘Shit. Both Houghton and Ferris are almost off the hook.’

  Charlie climbed into the car, slamming the door shut hard. As Paul jumped in beside her, he lifted the photo album up off the passenger seat to make room, tipping it over so far that that the brown envelope Glenys had given her fell out against the gearstick.

  She sighed, picking it up and ripping open the top. She may as well have a look, but it really was scraping the barrel, staring at a load of strangers dressed up in party hats singing Christmas carols to a group of lovely but half-senile care home residents. It was going back way further than square one, but she supposed, as she pulled out a raft of about ten photos, that it wouldn’t do any harm to look?

  The first one showed nothing of interest: an old woman sitting in a wheelchair with a garland made from tinsel hanging round her neck. The second was no better – a nurse spoon-feeding the same woman what appeared to be a liquidised mixture of roast turkey and some sort of green vegetable.

  She switched the interior light on as she turned to the third, holding the photo under its beam and tilting it towards her to better see the image. The old woman was in the background on this one, her hand being held by a male in the foreground. The male was slightly rotund and white. He wore a trilby hat and a small pair of round spectacles and as Charlie stared at the sharply focused image of the overfamiliar stranger, she realised with a shock that she had seen his face before.

  *

  ‘Quick, Paul, put the monitor on and I’ll show you.’

  They were back at Lambeth HQ within minutes, with the image lodged squarely in her mind – and with Bet now leaning in to see, and Naz, Sabira and Hunter on the way. She was determined to have her identification confirmed and staring out at them all from the screen by the time they arrived. She wasn’t a super recogniser for nothing, and this time, with any luck, she was one hundred per cent accurate.

  She placed the photograph of the volunteer on the desk in front of her computer and glanced at the image again.

  Paul dug out the CCTV footage and slotted it into the hard drive and they watched as the recording started to run. The date was 9 April 2018 at 11.51. Florence Briarly climbed on to the route 249 bus and sat down on the lower deck, waiting for it to pull away. Karl Ferris could be seen entering the bus and sitting down at the rear, head down.

  Charlie paused the footage as Hunter pushed through the door, closely followed by Naz and Sabira.

  ‘What have we got then?’ Hunter frowned at the screenshot of Karl Ferris as they huddled up behind her. ‘Not just him again, I hope?’

  ‘No, ignore him.’ She pressed play and the recording started up again, showing the journey of the bus until it reached Florence’s stop, where she stood up ready to leave. The doors swung open and Florence began to dismount, stopping briefly to wave a cheery goodbye to the driver. ‘Wait for it,’ she gasped, holding her breath as the bus driver’s head appeared at the foot of the camera. For a few seconds, his head remained lowered, his features hidden, but then he swivelled round, turning his head upwards so that he was in full sight of the camera lens.

  Charlie freeze-framed the footage, stopping as the man’s face came into full view, a small pair of round spectacles cementing her identification. Picking up the photograph, she placed it alongside and they all stared open-mouthed at the sight before them.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Paul said what they were all thinking. ‘It’s the same bloke. The bus driver is the volunteer.’

  Hunter clapped her on the back. ‘That’s brilliant. Charlie. Well done. Now, we just need to find ou
t who he is.’

  *

  It didn’t take long. Enquiries at the bus garage were quick to reveal that Roy, not Ray, Skinner, date of birth 1/9/1960, was the man who regularly drove the Route 249. He was known to police, but his convictions were ‘spent’, enabling him to easily obtain employment with Transport for London. He had therefore been driving buses for over twelve years.

  A quick scan of the second raft of footage on the day of Florence Briarly’s murder showed that on that occasion it had not been Skinner driving the bus. Nor was he driving on the days of many of the other break-ins, perhaps preferring to spend those days preparing for his forthcoming night-time excursions.

  The most damning piece of information, though, was his reputation with the elderly. He was clearly a popular driver, with letters of commendation regularly received from many older passengers who had been welcomed with a cheery smile, or assisted on or off buses with heavy bags of shopping. He certainly seemed to make a point of chatting to the old folks on his route. The question was, was he obsessed enough to break into their homes, under cover of darkness; and had this rather strange perversion led ultimately to the murder of Florence Briarly?

  Charlie had no hesitation in believing that to be the case and Hunter, too, had already forgotten the failure of their last mission on Karl Ferris, delegating Naz and Sabira immediately with the unpopular job of waking the local magistrate from their bed for a signature on a warrant. He was now concentrating fully on gathering as many troops as was possible, to deliver the second door-knock of the night.

  Charlie stared at the photo of Skinner on the screen. It was the most up-to-date image taken from his Public Service Vehicle licence and also appeared on the ID card he wore when he was on duty on the buses.

  Roy Skinner was the type of man you would walk past in the street and not even realise you’d walked past. In other words, he was forgettable. He was your everyday middle-aged man, of medium to portly build, balding, with grey hair at the sides and a hangdog expression. He sported a moustache, a dimple on the chin, deep frown marks and a larger than average bottom lip, with a wisp of hair right in the centre, partially masking yellowing teeth. He was in his late fifties and wore round-rimmed spectacles that made him appear invisible, a latter-day Harry Potter, but with none of the power or invincibility.