by Sarah Flint
‘Good luck, Emma,’ the officer smiled towards her. ‘You’ll be all right. I know you will.’
‘Thank you, Charlie. I know I will too.’
*
Charlie stood watching Emma until she was of sight.
The girl was young. Perhaps she’d been foolish. She’d certainly made some mistakes, but had she done much more than any other teenager in her position would have done? Emma had watched her mother die. How could she watch her father incarcerated and do nothing to help? She’d had nothing left to lose – except her innate sense of right and wrong. And it had been this, programmed into her from birth, that had risen to the fore and saved her.
Charlie had meant everything she’d said. There was no doubt in her mind that Thomas and Catherine Houghton would be proud. Emma’s courage in the end had been inspirational – even though it had cost her dear.
She started to jog, her mind turning with each footfall to Maryanne. The whole experience had also cost her dear. Her confidence was gone, her independence stolen from her – but she was strong, she was resilient. In the last few days, she had even returned to work. Everything had changed, but in time, she would adjust, heal, possibly forgive – but she would never forget.
Some things could never be forgotten.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. It was a text from her mother.
Phone me as soon as you get this
She was just passing Clapham Common tube station now. She was nearly home. Slowing down to a walk, she keyed in her mother’s number and waited for the ringtone to sound. It was picked up immediately.
‘Charlie?’ Her mother sounded breathless, panicky.
‘What’s up, Mum?’ Her mother never normally sounded like this.
‘Are you home?’
‘No, why?’
‘Are you still getting flowers left on your doorstep?’
‘Yes, I am, Mum.’
She heard her mother gasp and she couldn’t understand why. They both knew it was just Ben, playing silly buggers. The regularity of the flowers had dropped slightly, but they were still turning up at her flat, and at her Mum’s. He was obviously coming to terms with things, but he was taking his time.
‘It’s just Ben.’ The words tripped easily from her lips. ‘Why?’
‘They’re not from Ben.’ She’d never heard her mother talking so weirdly. Her voice seemed an octave higher than usual and wavered alarmingly. What the fuck was going on?
‘What do you mean, they’re not from Ben? Mum?’ The volume of her speech had risen too. She was almost shouting down the phone, the tension in her mother’s voice carrying across the miles. ‘Who else could they be from?’
‘I thought when you told us about splitting with Ben, that they were from him. Or at least I hoped they were. But it didn’t feel right.’ Meg was babbling now. ‘Why would he send them to me? And with no message or name. I think I guessed then. It was the thistle. And they kept coming. And there were other little things. Some washing disappeared off the line. The shed door was open one morning. Silly little things. And then I knew for certain.’
‘You knew what? Mum, you’re not making any sense.’
‘That they were from your father.’ Her mother’s tone went flat, almost monotone.
‘They can’t be.’ Now it was Charlie’s turn to babble. She was shaking her head. Her mother must be wrong. ‘My father’s in prison, for life, for stabbing someone to death. You told me that ages ago.’ She paused, thinking. ‘But then you spoke about him the other day, for the first time in years. Why did you mention him?’ It had been the same day as the first flowers. She remembered how surprised she’d been at the comments. Her mother must have suspected then. She’d always had a sixth sense, just as she herself did. ‘You did know, didn’t you?’
She was turning into her flat now, opening the gate. A man was standing on the steps by her front door. He was thin, with straggly brown hair and piercing green eyes. He had a tattoo of an anchor on the side of his neck and a large ugly scar on his cheek.
Meg was still speaking down the phone line as she closed the gate and turned to face the man. ‘I didn’t know for definite and I hoped I was wrong,’ her mother was saying. ‘Then some more came, this morning. A really big bunch with a huge Scottish thistle in the centre. And I knew I couldn’t be wrong. Iain always liked Scottish things. I’ve just got off the phone to the authorities and they’ve confirmed that he’s been released. On licence. Somebody was supposed to have told us. Charlie. It’s him sending the flowers. I know it’s him. I don’t know how he’s found us, but he has. He always does. And he’s dangerous, Charlie. You have no idea how dangerous he is.’
The man was smiling now. From behind his back, he produced a bunch of flowers, holding them out towards her. They were wrapped in pink paper and in the centre was a large mauve thistle.
‘Hello, Charlie,’ the man said. ‘I’m your daddy, but you won’t remember me. You were only young when you were taken from me.’ He took a step towards her and grinned again through broken, yellowing teeth. ‘How’s my little girl?’
Acknowledgements
The story of Thomas Houghton grew from an arrest I had in similar circumstances while still working full time in the police. I could not understand how a man could go from committing relatively minor crimes to perhaps the worst imaginable, short of murder. His crimes were truly awful, yet I found them intriguing and they gave me the bones of the novel.
I created a story for his crime based on the fact that my mother had MS for many years and I saw first-hand the toll her illness took on my father, in particular. Caring for those with debilitating or terminal illness can affect people in different ways and many carers suffer both physically and mentally from the strain. Thankfully few turn to crime or become as mentally ill as Thomas Houghton, but there is no denying the personal hardships and challenges faced by those who dedicate their lives to caring for loved ones – and the debt that we as a society owe them.
I would also like to acknowledge the tireless work of those in the NHS. As a police officer I regularly worked in partnership with medical professionals, but this year, I have had cause to personally experience their dedication and care. I cannot commend them highly enough. Special thanks go to nurses, Lisa and Lynne, to Mr Barry, Jamie, Masha and Villy, the surgical team and to all the staff on Smithers Ward and Ellis Ward. I saw what you were called on to do – and I appreciate everything you did.
They say that it is in times of adversity that you know who your true friends are – and after this slightly more turbulent year, the realisation of how many fantastic family and friends I have has been truly humbling, so thank you to Trish, Jen, Adam, Jackie, John and family and every member of my own family. To my eldest daughter Suzie and my new son-in-law Markus, who married in July, thank you for giving me moments of pure joy. I loved every moment of your wedding day and will cherish those memories forever.
My thanks too to my childhood friends, old police colleagues, the ‘Kili crew’ who got me to the top of Africa in February and to my new friends at Thames Valley Writer’s Circle, who have all provided me with the inspiration to meet every challenge head on – and celebrate every success along the way.
And now to work – if you can count writing as ‘work’.
Many, many thanks to Judith Murdoch, my wise and experienced agent, who has continued to work with me to ensure I give my best and whose team in Europe, including Nick and Rebecca continue to successfully sell my books on the continent.
To Caroline Ridding, my great editor/publisher, whose editorial comments sometimes have me tearing my hair out – but who also knows exactly what is required to make me write better – thank you for your patience and for getting the best out of me.
Finally, to all my readers...Thank you. Those two words are not enough but they say everything. I love to hear your comments and I love to read your reviews. Your opinions mean so much and I am truly grateful for the time you take, reading, reviewing and sending m
e messages. Hopefully with your support, there will be many more.
All the very best.
Sarah xx
About the Author
With a Metropolitan Police career spanning 35 years Sarah has spent her adulthood surrounded by victims, criminals and police officers. She continues to work and lives in London with her partner and has three older daughters.
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