The Strangler's Daughter

by Amy Cross

  I briefly consider not opening the letter. I could throw it away, or burn it, or I could take it straight to the police. Detective Chief Inspector Bamford warned me that I should immediately get in touch if Dad ever made contact. To be honest, I assumed that the police were intercepting my mail, but perhaps I was wrong about that or perhaps they simply gave up at some point.

  Either way, I can feel my heart pounding as I stare down at the envelope.

  Where has he been since he ran off that night?

  What does he want?

  I take a deep breath, and then I start opening the envelope. I tell myself that it doesn't matter what he wants, that I can never forgive him for killing Grandma, but then I find a simple folded letter inside the envelope, accompanied by a group of leaves that have been twisted together to form a circle. I hesitate, daring myself to open the letter, and then I force myself to be brave.

  A shiver runs up my spine as I read Dad's words:

  Elizabeth,

  It would be very good to see you one last, final time.

  Your father, Dad.

  I read the words again, puzzled by the strange nature of the message. For one thing, although Lisa can be short for Elizabeth, my actual legal name is Lisa. Dad knows that, so why address me as Elizabeth? The phrasing of the whole message just seems off somehow, as if maybe his mind is getting muddled. That's certainly possible, if he's unwell, but then I start to consider the possibility that something else is happening here.

  I take a seat and read the letter through a few more times, and I'm starting to think that there's a secret code buried in here somewhere.

  Forgetting about everything else, I set about trying to decode the message. Dad knows I've always enjoyed this kind of thing, but I'm sure he wouldn't have set me a task that's too difficult. I try various different options, drawing a blank each time, before moving to consider the possibility that there's a number hidden in the words. At first, I assume that maybe I'll discover a phone number, but after a little more work I come up with what appear to be two completely separate numbers. I consider them briefly, and then it occurs to me that maybe these are coordinates.

  I grab a map and start checking, and I quickly realize that I'm onto something. Sure enough, the numbers I've come up with refer to a place not too far from here. If I'm right, Dad's in the middle of a huge stretch of barren moorland. I might not be right, of course, but one thing's certain.

  I have to find out.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Two days later

  As soon as I see the hut, I know that I'm in the right place.

  It took me a while to get out here. I had to get some hiking equipment, and I had to make absolutely certain that the cottage wasn't being watched. The last thing I want is to accidentally lead Bamford and his friends out here. As I reach the top of a small hill, however, I look down into the valley and I see what appears to be an old shepherding hut far down toward the bottom of the next slope.

  This can't be a coincidence. After more than a year, I've found him.

  ***

  The hut's windows are dirty, but I'm just about able to peer inside. There's not much to see except darkness, but a few slivers of light are breaking through and I spot a figure resting on a small bed, facing toward the ceiling.

  My hopes are immediately dashed, however, as I realize that this isn't Dad at all. The man, who has his eyes shut and his hands clasped together on his chest, is far too old and gray and thin to be my father. And yet, the more I look at him, the more I start to realize that he seems just a little familiar. I don't want to accept that my big, strong father has wasted away so badly, but I feel my heart break as I realize that I was wrong.

  This is him.

  I stare for a moment longer, before stepping over to the door. I hesitate, unsure as to what I'm going to say, and then I pull the door open. The hinges creak, but Dad doesn't respond, and I'm struck by the awful thought that maybe I'm too late. What if he's dead?

  I take a step forward.

  My left food creaks against a loose board, and Dad's eyes spring open. He sits up, and then he stares at me with an expression of surprise.

  I try to think of something to say, but I'm torn between a desire to rush forward and hug him and a desire to run away.

  “Lisa,” he gasps, his voice sounding impossibly dry and cracked. He reaches out with his left hand, only to let out a groan and slump back down against the bed.

  “Dad?” I say, before stepping across the hut's interior and making my way closer. “What are you doing here? What happened to you?”

  “I can't help it,” he murmurs, looking toward the wall. He seems a little dazed, as if his thought processes aren't quite functioning properly. “There was nowhere else to go. I can't even find food and water anymore. I'm almost out.”

  “How long have you been here?” I ask, looking around and seeing that the hut is completely bare.

  “I knew you'd come,” he says. “You're a clever girl. I knew you'd find me.”

  “The police are looking for you.”

  He chuckles, although he quickly winces as if he's in immense pain.

  “I know that,” he says. “Believe me, Lisa, I -”

  He breaks into a coughing fit, and I can tell that he's suffering a great deal. When he rolls onto his side, I start patting his back, and I wait for him to recover.

  “I refuse to die in some police cell,” he continues. “I always knew that they'd catch up to me eventually. I don't know how they made the link to me, and I guess I don't need to know. Not now. I always left it in the lap of the gods.”

  I open my mouth to tell him about the DNA kit, but I manage to hold back. The last thing I need is for him to start hating me.

  “I don't blame you for not being able to bring my medications,” he says, still resting on his side with his back turned toward me. “You must have been so scared, Lisa, and I'm sorry. I should have prepared you better, I should have been more -”

  “Did you kill Grandma?” I ask, interrupting him.

  He turns to me, and I can already see the answer in his eyes.

  “And Sean Alton?”

  “Who?”

  “Sean Alton. Everyone thinks he ran away from home, but...”

  My voice trails off.

  “Oh.” He pauses. “Him. Yes, of course I did, Lisa. He's exactly the kind of pointless, scrappy piece of garbage that the world doesn't need. You're not the only one who should be glad that I got rid of him.”

  “Did you...” I pause, but I know I have to ask this next question. “Did you kill Mum?”

  “No,” he replies quickly, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. Your mother was the love of my life. She nursed me through my first battle with cancer, all those years ago. Then, later, when she found out what I was doing, she took you away and I sat down and waited for the police to come. She was going to turn me in, and she had every right to do so. But when the police showed up, it wasn't to arrest me. It was because your mother had died in that hotel room. I'll never forget how I felt that night, Lisa. I thought my whole world was going to come crashing down. It did, but not in the way I expected.”

  He stares at me, and I can see tears in his eyes.

  “I'd do anything to change what happened,” he adds. “To get your mother back.”

  “Did you kill Grandma?” I ask again.

  “She left me no choice. She was getting close to figure out what your mother knew, and I couldn't let her do anything that might separate you and me.” He reaches out and touches the side of my face. “You look so well, Lisa. I knew you'd be okay without me.”

  “Why did you do it?” I ask. “Why did you kill any of them? Why did you kill Caitlin and all the others? Was it my fault?”

  “How could it be your fault?”

  “I was almost strangled at birth,” I remind him. “Was it something to do with that?”

  “I'd already killed a couple of women before that,” he explains. “I admit, there was som
e irony in what happened to you, but no... I killed because I liked picking people at random and deciding that they had to die. And strangling them felt more honest, less cowardly than using a knife. And the truth is, I'm not really normal. I know that. I tried so hard to fit in, but I always felt like screaming. Killing those people was like a scream, it was my way of letting everything out. Once I killed someone, I could pretend to be normal for a little while longer, but that never works for long. People like us... We can't pretend to be normal, Lisa.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “It's just impossible.”

  I consider this.

  “No,” I say, “I don't think that's right. It's hard, but I think it's possible.”

  “You're not normal either, you know,” he says.

  “I know,” I reply.

  “I never quite knew how much you understood, though,” he continues. “Even when you knew about it, I wasn't sure that you really absorbed what I was doing.”

  “I knew,” I tell him.

  “I know that, but did you really understand?”

  I nod.

  “Then why did you just let it go on?”

  “You were always nicer to me after you'd done it,” I tell him. “You'd go away, and you'd come back and treat me for a day or two. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't want to disrupt things. I just wanted things to stay the same as they were and -”

  Before I can finish, he starts coughing again. He turns away, as if he wants to hide something, but I quickly see that he's bringing up blood.

  “You need to see a doctor,” I tell him.

  “It's too late for that,” he replies.

  “It's not too late, it's never too late. If I -”

  “I refuse to die like that!” he snarls, turning back to me. Flecks of blood are all around his mouth now, and I realize that he's deathly pale. “I need you to be strong now, Lisa. I'm in so much pain, it's as if every part of me is on fire. I need you to take one of the pillows and...”

  His voice trails off.

  “Please, Lisa,” he continues. “Do this for me.”

  I stare at him, and then I turn and take a pillow from the floor. I know what he's asking me to do, but I hate the idea of hurting him. Then again, if I let him live on in agony, I'll just be hurting him some other way. There's no way for him to not suffer, and I guess a merciful death is probably the best option. Maybe I should be filled with indecision, maybe I should struggle to make a choice, but instead I feel a strange sense of calm. And a desire to do what's best for my father.

  I move the pillow toward his face.

  “Wait,” he says. “Lisa... Don't you want to say anything to me?”

  “I love you,” I reply.

  “I love you too.”

  I move the pillow toward onto his nose and mouth.

  “Wait,” he says.

  I shift the pillow to one side.

  “Isn't there anything else?” he asks.

  I try to think of something, and I know most people would probably have more to say. Right now, however, I'm completely lost for words.

  “You were a serial killer,” I say, “and -”

  “No!” he snaps. “Don't say that! I killed people, but they were scum, they were people who caused trouble in the world. I was doing everyone a favor!”

  I stare at him. He's so inconsistent, always changing his justification for killing people. I suppose I ought to point that point, but then I tell myself that there's no real point. Perhaps he's hiding the truth from himself. Perhaps, deep down, he just enjoys strangling people.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “You're like a robot,” he replies. “Do you realize that? When you were born, the doctors said you might have suffered brain damage from the umbilical cord around your neck. I used to think that was true, but now I figure there's no damage at all. This is just your personality. You're not normal, Lisa, and you never will be.”

  I move the pillow closer to his face.

  “You can really do this?” he asks.

  “You told me to.”

  “And it's easy for you?” He seems horrified. “What's wrong with you? Can you really just kill your own father so easily? You're an abomination!”

  Before he can say another word, I press the pillow down hard against his face. He starts struggling, but I remind myself that this is what he wanted me to do. He begged me. Sure, he's pushing back now, but that's a natural reaction. He's dying, and this is my way of showing him mercy. He killed all those women because he enjoyed killing, I'm sure of that now, but I'm killing him because it's the right thing to do. Dad and I might be similar in some ways, but in other ways we're quite different.

  After a couple of minutes, his struggles become weaker. I can tell he's still alive, though, so I push down harder than ever against the pillow. In films and TV shows, this sort of thing is always over fairly quickly, but in real life I'm having to be very careful in order to make sure that I don't release the pressure too soon. Even when Dad falls completely still, I'm worried that he might not be dead. Maybe this is how he felt every time he killed one of his victims.

  I don't know how long I wait. At least five minutes, probably longer. Finally, however, I move the pillow aside and see Dad's dead eyes staring up at me. There's quite a lot of blood on the pillow, around the area that was covering his mouth.

  It's done.

  “I'm your daughter,” I reply.

  I set the pillow on the floor, and then I sit in silence. Would an ordinary person feel bad right now? Ashamed? I can understand those reactions, but I'm also able to rationalize what I did today. If I hadn't given Dad what he wanted, he'd still be in pain right now. In the circumstances, I don't see how anyone could have made a different choice?

  But maybe that's because I don't really understand people.

  I stare at Dad for a few more seconds, and then I carefully climb down off the bed. Once I'm on my back, on the floor, I stare up at the hut's ceiling and I listen to the sound of a gentle breeze shaking one of the windowpanes. This whole scene feels utterly calm and tranquil, and I can't help but believe that Dad chose a good place to die. In fact, the thought of going back to the chaos of the real world fills me with fear.

  Perhaps, then, I should put this matter in the lap of the gods.

  I hesitate, before reaching up and putting my hands around my throat. I imagine that a person can't strangle themselves, but perhaps it's possible if they're absolutely determined. I start squeezing tighter and tighter, until I can no longer breathe, and then I push through my fear and squeeze as tight as I can. With each passing second, I remind myself that I could stop at any moment, but I also tell myself that I have to try. My legs start shaking slightly, and I feel as if my eyes are starting to burst out from their sockets, but I keep squeezing until my whole body is trembling. Then I continue to squeeze, harder and harder, and my eyesight becomes blurred and blotchy.

  Still I squeeze, and I think I feel something crunch in my throat, but I keep going. Now I can't see at all, and I'm making the most awful gurgling sound, but I refuse to stop. My body is juddering against the wooden floor, and I can feel myself losing consciousness. Just a few more seconds and this might all be over forever.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Three weeks later

  I hesitate, and then I carefully put my neckerchief back in place. Everyone's watching me, and I know they've already seen the bruises around my neck, but I suppose there's no need to keep my injuries on display.

  Once I've regathered my composure, I start walking along the aisle after Dad's coffin.

  ***

  “You'll be pleased to know that the investigation into your father's death has been closed.”

  As the hearse drives away from the front of the church, I turn to find that Detective Chief Inspector Bamford is standing nearby, leaning against the stone wall.

  “Sorry to do this at your father's funeral,” he continues, “but I thought you'd want to know as soon as possible.�
��

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  “Your claims of self defense have been accepted,” he says, “and as for the exact circumstances of your father dying... Well, it's been accepted that the full details might never be known. The coroner suggested that there was a chance he'd been smothered, but obviously there was no sign of anything that could have been used. I did wonder whether you might have burned an item or two, but it was pointed out to me that your father had left you incapacitated. So that seems to have been ruled out.”

  “I'm sorry I went out there without informing you first,” I tell him. “I know that was wrong of me.”

  “These things happen,” he replies. “I also finished looking into your mother's death, and I'm reassured that there was no foul play.”

  I pause, before nodding.

  “So this is goodbye, Ms. Ashford,” he continues, stepping toward me. “Unless you happen to get involved in any other criminal occurrences, that is.”

  “I won't,” I tell him.

  “How are your injuries?”

  I reach up to make sure that the neckerchief is firmly in place.

  “It'll all heal,” I explain. “The bruises will go down eventually. That's what the doctor told me.”

  “I don't mind telling you,” he continues, “that there are aspects of this case that still don't quite sit right with me. Unfortunately, resources are stretched and I simply can't spend all my time digging into what happened. Your father was a prolific serial killer and now he's dead. The important thing is that nobody else is in danger.” He stares at me. “I suppose I should say that I'm sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, as the last of the mourners leave the churchyard. “If you don't mind, I have to get going. I have a lot to do today.”

  “I'm sure you do.”

  I start walking away, but with each step I'm more and more terrified that Bamford is going to call me back.

  “Just don't go getting yourself into trouble,” he says. “Has anyone ever told you, Ms. Ashford, that you have your father's eyes? The resemblance is quite uncanny at times.”