The Keeper dsc-2

by Luke Delaney

  ‘What about John?’ Sally asked. ‘Did Louise ever have suspicions about him? Could he have been seeing anyone?’

  ‘If he is, Louise never mentioned it to us,’ Mr Graham assured her. ‘But we would hardly know, it’s not like we live in each other’s pockets. I mean, we see them regularly enough, but they live on the other side of London. Their business is their business.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Sally. ‘And I’m sorry I had to ask, but when a young woman goes missing we need to cover every possibility, no matter how unlikely.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Graham said, ever understanding. ‘Anything to help try and find her.’

  Sally could see the pain and loss swelling in Mrs Graham’s chest and throat. She felt a sudden sense of panic, something screaming at her without warning to run from the house, to get away from these people before they began to transfer their nightmares on to her, before she would be expected to comfort Mrs Graham, to tell her everything would be fine. Sally stretched out of her chair and placed her untouched tea on the table.

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, but I’ve taken up enough of your time.’ Sally found herself almost backing out of the room before Mrs Graham stopped her.

  ‘You don’t think anything bad has happened to her, do you?’ she asked. ‘Nothing really bad’s happened to her, has it?’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine,’ Sally reassured them, desperate to escape the house and the Grahams.

  ‘If anything’s happened to her, I don’t know what we’d do,’ Mrs Graham tortured her. ‘She’s our only child. She’s always been such a wonderful daughter. She’s a good person. No one would want to hurt Louise, would they? She’s not the sort of person anyone would want to hurt. I mean, these terrible men you hear about, they go after prostitutes and young girls whose families don’t care about them, let them wander the streets at all hours, don’t they?’

  Sally almost grabbed at the pain that suddenly throbbed in her chest, Sebastian Gibran’s face looming in her mind, straight white teeth and red eyes. Nausea gripped her body, the blood rushing from her face, her lips turning blue-white as she tried to swallow the bile seeping into her mouth. She wanted Mrs Graham to stop, but she wouldn’t.

  ‘Louise just isn’t the sort of person these people go after. She goes to work and then goes home. I’ve seen programmes on the telly, they always say murderers select their victims, don’t they, that somehow the victims attract these terrible men, they do something that draws these lunatics to them, as if there’s something wrong with them.’

  Sally knew she was close to vomiting, even if her empty stomach forced out nothing more than saliva and bile. She managed to speak.

  ‘Could I please use your toilet?’ she asked, clamping her lips closed the moment the words were out.

  Mrs Graham spoke through rising tears. ‘Of course. It’s off the hallway, second on the left.’

  Sally staggered from the lounge into the hallway, trying to remember Mrs Graham’s directions, pushing every door she came to until she found the toilet and fell inside, somehow managing to close the door before pulling her hair back with one hand and thrusting her face deep into the bowl. Instantly her stomach compressed and her eyes rolled back into her skull as she violently retched, time after time, the agonizing pain in her belly yielding nothing but a trickle of bile, thick, green and yellow, as bitter as hate. Finally the retching ceased. Sally blinked and tried to focus through watering eyes, standing and checking herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red — she’d ruptured tiny capillaries — but some colour was returning to her face and lips. She rinsed her mouth and dabbed a little of the cool liquid on to her eyes, carefully drying them with a towel without rubbing too hard. After a few minutes she decided she looked passable and headed back to the Grahams, a rapid escape uppermost in her mind.

  As she re-entered the lounge, the still-seated Grahams looked up at her like two Labradors waiting for their master’s command. ‘Are you all right?’ Mrs Graham asked.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Sally pretended.

  ‘You don’t look very well, dear,’ Mrs Graham pursued. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Just a virus,’ Sally invented. ‘Anyway, thanks for your time, and if there’s anything you think of, please let me know.’ She recovered her computer case, pulled a business card from the side pocket and handed it to Mrs Graham. ‘In the meantime, if we have any news we’ll let you know straight away.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  Mrs Graham’s gratitude only added to Sally’s rising guilt. ‘No problem,’ she called over her shoulder, heading for the front door, both the Grahams in pursuit. Rather than wait for them to open the door for her, she fumbled at the locks and handles herself, tugging the door open and stumbling into the driveway, pulling in chestfuls of fresh air through her nose. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ she promised.

  ‘Please find her,’ pleaded Mr Graham, his eyes glassy. ‘We don’t care what she’s done, tell her. We just want to know she’s safe.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sally answered as she stretched the distance between them and her, only stopping when Mr Graham said something she didn’t understand.

  ‘We have some money,’ he called to her.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Sally floundered. Was he trying to bribe her to find his daughter?

  ‘If someone asks for money to let her go, we have money. Not much, but it might be enough,’ he explained.

  ‘No,’ Sally told him. ‘This isn’t about money. We’re not expecting a ransom demand.’

  ‘Then what is it about?’ Mr Graham demanded.

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ Sally answered truthfully, the need to escape now overwhelming. ‘Let’s just hope she comes home safe and well soon.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t?’ Mr Graham asked. ‘What then?’

  Sally searched frantically for an answer, trying to think what the old Sally would have said to him, but nothing came.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know.’

  Sean sat at his desk feeling hungry, tired and thirsty. He’d kept promising himself he’d stop for a quick breakfast, but another intelligence report, another door-to-door inquiry questionnaire, another possible sighting of Louise Russell would catch his eye and delay rest, food and water for a few more minutes. It would be the same once the time for breakfast became time for lunch. A rapid-fire knocking on the door frame of his office made him look up from an intelligence report about a night-time prowler seen in the vicinity of the Russells’ house some weeks before Louise’s disappearance. DS Dave Donnelly’s considerable bulk filled the entrance.

  ‘Morning, guv’nor,’ he began. ‘How’s everything in the garden today? Bright and rosy, I assume.’

  ‘It’ll be a lot brighter when you get the door-to-door organized properly,’ Sean reprimanded him.

  ‘I’m only trying to save resources,’ retorted Donnelly. ‘I don’t want to waste any more time and people on this than necessary. String it out for a couple of days and then she’ll be home and we can get on with what we’re supposed to be doing.’

  Sean needed Donnelly on side, he couldn’t allow him to keep believing the case was a waste of their time. Donnelly was the mirror image of Sean — he dealt only with what was in front of him. He processed evidence, pressed witnesses hard, interviewed suspects skilfully, but he did it all on the basis of tangible evidence, not theories and hypothetical conclusions. And he got results doing things his way. Sean, on the other hand, was instinctive, imaginative, using the evidence as a guide not a rigid map, unnerving suspects in interview by telling them what they had been thinking as they were committing their crimes rather than relying on things he could prove. They complemented each other — and if the team was to be effective, they needed each other; a fact Sean grasped better than Donnelly.

  ‘Listen to me.’ Sean looked him in the eye, his voice full of conviction. ‘You’re wrong about this one. Something bad’s happened to Louise Russell. Is she
still alive? I don’t know, but I think so, which means there’s a chance we could find her before she turns up floating in a river somewhere. I need you with me on this, Dave.’ He sat back in his chair, ran a hand through his hair. ‘God knows Sally isn’t exactly her old self. I can’t afford to lose both my DSs.’

  Donnelly stood silently for a moment, weighing up his response. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘Sure she’s not just run off with a rush-hour-Romeo? One last time around the block before settling down to a life of kids and coffee mornings?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Sean told him. ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘Fine,’ Donnelly agreed reluctantly. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘See to it that door-to-door’s finished for a start,’ Sean answered, ‘and keep everyone on their toes. I want this handled as if we already had a body. No taking it easy because it’s only a MISPER.’

  ‘Your wish is my command,’ Donnelly assured him.

  ‘Really?’ Sean questioned before lowering his voice. ‘And keep an eye on Sally. She’s a bit up and down, know what I mean?’

  ‘No problem,’ said Donnelly.

  They were interrupted by Sean’s phone ringing. He held a hand up to prompt silence and ask Donnelly to stay while he took the call.

  It was DS Roddis from the dedicated Murder Investigation Forensic Team. He greeted Sean in his usual manner, avoiding any reference to rank.

  ‘Mr Corrigan, good morning.’

  ‘Sergeant Roddis. You have something for me?’

  ‘I’m at the Russell home now,’ he said. ‘We’re concentrating our examination on the hallway and front door, as you requested.’

  ‘Good,’ Sean answered. ‘Anything?’

  ‘It would appear so …’ Sean’s heart rate began to accelerate with anticipation. ‘Unfortunately, the scene hasn’t been preserved as I would have liked, but at least whoever took her didn’t make any attempt to clean up after him. There’s no indication that he wiped any surfaces, nothing’s been polished or scrubbed. And when we got down low to the wooden floor we found a full palm print with fingers attached. We’ve compared it to John Russell’s. It’s not his and it’s too big to be Mrs Russell’s.’

  ‘Can you lift it off the floor without damaging it?’ Sean asked, a picture forming in his mind of the man who took Louise Russell kneeling next to her prostrate body, his hand on the floor to balance himself, fingers spread to take his weight … while he did what to her?

  ‘We’ve already lifted it,’ Roddis said gleefully.

  ‘Is it good enough to get a match from?’

  ‘If he’s in the system, we’ll be able to get a match. I’m having it sent straight to Fingerprints.’

  Sean was certain whoever took Louise Russell was a previous offender. It wouldn’t be anything as big as this, but there’d be something in his past. The question was, had he been convicted? If not, his prints wouldn’t be on file.

  ‘There’s another thing,’ Roddis continued. ‘The traces are very faint, but on the floor, close to where we found the print, there seems to be evidence of a non-typical chemical. We’ve swabbed it for the lab, but my first guess would be chloroform.’

  Another piece of the film playing in Sean’s head became clearer: the man kneeling next to her, pouring chloroform on to material, placing it over her mouth. Sean saw bindings too, being wrapped around her hands, but not her feet — he would have needed her to walk. He blinked the images away and spoke into the receiver. ‘OK, thanks. Let me know as soon as you have more.’

  Beckoning for Donnelly to follow him, he got up and went through into the main incident room where his team of detectives were busying themselves at their desks.

  ‘Listen up, everyone,’ Sean shouted across the room. ‘Forensics have just confirmed there are indications that Louise Russell was abducted from her home by an unknown male. If this isn’t already a murder case it soon will be unless we can find her. I know this is different from our usual, but we are now her only hope, so I want you to give it everything. Chase down every lead, every piece of information and intelligence we have, no matter how irrelevant it looks. Let’s find her before it’s too late.’ Sean looked around the room at the faces of his team. The message seemed to have got through.

  ‘Just for once,’ Donnelly said, ‘I hope you’re wrong.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Sean told him. ‘But what I can’t be sure of is how long we’ve got. How long before he tires of his new plaything? And after he throws her out with the rubbish, what then for our man? Somebody else? Will he take another?’

  ‘You tell me,’ Donnelly answered.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sean replied. ‘Not yet anyway.’

  Mid-morning Thursday and Thomas Keller should have been at work, but his supervisor had agreed to let him have a few hours off so long as he made the time up in the afternoon. As he walked across the cluttered courtyard from his cottage towards the metal door that led to the cellar his excitement and nervousness grew in equal measure. He picked his way through the old tyres and oil drums that littered his land, land that was dotted with old, disused outhouses and corrugated-iron barns that once housed battery chickens and God knows what else. Even the cottage he lived in was hideous, made of large grey breezeblocks sometime in the sixties and never painted.

  He wore his usual loose-fitting tracksuit, the stun-gun pushed into one pocket bouncing awkwardly off his hip as he walked, the keys in his other pocket prone to becoming entangled in stray threads from the fraying seams. This morning he also carried a breakfast tray and a holdall thrown over his shoulder.

  On reaching the heavy metal-clad door that led to the cellar below he carefully placed the tray on the floor. Cursing himself for not having moved one of the old oil drums to the door so he could use it as a temporary table, he resolved to do it later, after he’d taken Sam her breakfast.

  As he unlocked the oversized padlock that held the door secure he felt his heart begin to race with anticipation and anxiety. He’d barely been able to contain himself during the night, barely been able to keep himself from sneaking in to see her, even if it was just to watch her sleep, to curl up on the other side of the wire next to her and listen to her breathing. But he knew he should leave her alone and let her rest. Now that he was only seconds away from seeing her, the longing to be with her, be with her the way he knew she wanted him to be, was almost overwhelming. He practised his breathing like the doctors had shown him — breathing was the key to being able to control his actions, his temper, his desires.

  He pulled the big door back slowly, allowing the light to flood into the cellar, and stood at the entrance, head cocked to one side, listening for any noises that might drift up from the darkness below. After a few minutes, having heard nothing, he picked up the tray and began to move stealthily down the stone stairs, still listening. If he heard anything that alarmed him he would drop the tray and run back to the light, slam the door shut and lock it for ever, never returning to the cellar no matter what.

  At the bottom of the stairs he craned his head around the corner of the wall that hid the staircase from the rest of the room and peered into the gloom, allowing his vision time to adjust to the poor light, searching for any sign of change, anything that should make him run. After a few seconds he could clearly make out the two figures cowering in their cages, both sitting with their knees pulled up to their chins, arms wrapped around their legs, Karen in her filthy underwear, Louise naked but covered by the duvet he’d given her.

  Finally he stepped into the cellar, their dungeon, all his concentration on Louise, as if Karen wasn’t there any more. ‘Did you sleep OK, Sam? I’ve brought you some breakfast.’ He lifted the tray a little so she could see. ‘You’ll probably want to get cleaned up first though, eh?’

  Placing the tray on the makeshift table behind the old hospital screen, he tugged the cord, the bright bulb flooding the cellar with harsh white light. Louise squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the onslaught, tears seeping out from her eyel
ids as he pulled the stun-gun and key from his trousers and moved slowly towards her cage, careful not to alarm her by moving too fast like before. He unlocked the cage and allowed the door to swing open, his head ducking inside. Seeing her eyes focused on the stun-gun in his hand, his own eyes were drawn to it.

  ‘I do trust you, Sam, you need to know that, but they could still try to keep us apart. If they do, I’ll need this to protect you. You do understand?’

  She nodded a frightened yes, her eyes wide with fear. He thought she looked like a kitten waiting to be plucked from its mother’s side, and it made him feel good, made him feel strong, wanted, needed and in control. He backed away from the entrance to allow her to emerge and watched as she shuffled forward, bent double, clinging to the duvet that hid her nakedness. He knew what she was hiding, remembering the first day he’d brought her here, when he’d taken her clothes, the clothes they’d made her wear. Excitement coursed through him, his penis swelling as the blood rushed into it, making it uncomfortable and obvious under his tracksuit. The memory of seeing, of touching her soft, warm, slightly olive skin was almost too much for him to bear. He closed his eyes and tried to keep control, but the image of her round breasts, dark circles at their centre, and the soft pubic hair almost entirely covering her womanhood, burnt itself into his mind. The need to be with her here and now was so strong it was threatening to overtake him. He knew she wanted him too, wanted him as her lover, but first he needed to show her that he respected her. When they were finally together it would be so much better because they had waited.

  She disappeared behind the screen, becoming a shapeless shadow with a silhouette of a human head. ‘There should be plenty of hot water,’ he managed to say through his pain, the need to release growing ever stronger, ‘and the towel should still be there.’ He heard the sound of running water and waited, knowing what was coming, until at last the duvet slipped from her shoulders to the floor, the perfection of her silhouette standing so clearly in front of him now, the shape of her back, the curves of her hips and buttocks, her beautiful breasts, the points of her nipples, her hands running over her body, touching it as he so desperately wanted to, her shadow a template on to which he projected the memory of her nakedness. He realized his mouth was hanging open and emitting an ugly guttural moaning he hoped she hadn’t heard above the running water. The sound of water ceased as he watched her hurriedly dry herself and pull the duvet tightly around her body. ‘Don’t forget the tray,’ he rasped through his dry mouth. ‘You must eat. You’ll need your strength.’