by Luke Delaney
‘Almost there,’ he reassured her, as they stepped off the last stair together.
Deborah could see the outline of the cage he was leading her to, the cage she knew would be her prison. She wanted to survive. On the most basic animal level she wanted to survive, and her instincts screamed at her not to go into the cage, warning her the cage was death.
She spun away from him and for a few confused seconds she was free, moving back towards the stairs. But her foot became entangled in an old screen and she toppled backwards, landing heavily on the unyielding stone floor, her hip bearing the brunt of the fall. Her eyes closed as she winced in pain, opening a second later as she remembered her perilous situation, searching frantically in the gloom for the madman she knew would come for her. It was then she saw it: another cage. Definitely not the one she was being led to but another cage, with someone inside it, cowering in the corner staring at her, eyes impossibly wide as they connected with hers in the twilight of the cellar.
She reached for the tape over her mouth and found its corner, ripping it away painfully, filling her lungs until they could expand no more in readiness to scream — not in pain, but in desperation, in fear that she would never awake from this nightmare. In the moment just before the scream was about to escape her mouth she was sure she could smell and taste perfume in the room, only for the unexpected pleasure to be replaced by the clinical smell of chloroform and the sensation of suffocating as damp material was pressed over her open mouth and nose. Her bound hands clutched at the unseen hands, clawing at them in an effort to pull them from her face so she could breathe air and not chemicals, but as the effects of the chloroform swept over her the kicking of her bare feet became nothing more than a slight twitching, her clawing fingers weakened, until finally she fell still, arms falling to her sides as her chest rose and fell gently.
When he felt her stillness he threw the chloroform-soaked pad to the far wall of the cellar. The effects of being so close to the escaping fumes had begun to make him feel a little dizzy and disorientated. He turned his face away from hers to avoid breathing the residual fumes coming from her skin and the inside of her mouth as she lay in his lap, mouth hanging wide open. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog, giving himself time to rest and regain his breath, readying himself for the tasks ahead. Her flawless, slightly olive skin, her short brown hair — shiny and straight, a few locks now fallen across her face — and her soft, wet red lips were enticing. He felt his groin tightening as the testicles swelled and twisted in his scrotum, telling him he needed to move her before the bad thoughts beat the real him away and took control of his actions.
Gently he cradled her head in his hands as he slipped her from his lap, positioning her head carefully on the hard floor, making sure it was pointing towards the cage before scuttling around so he could slide his hands under her armpits and drag her slowly across the room to the place where he knew she would be safe. Her body was now an uncooperative dead weight and he had difficulty manoeuvring her through the narrow entrance. Beads of sweat were forming under his hairline and down his spine, and once inside the cage it became even more difficult to move, but at last he managed to manoeuvre her into position on the mattress he’d prepared for her, arms by her side, legs together, slightly bent.
His unblinking eyes moved backward and forwards across her body, excitement and desire returning in waves that threatened to swamp his intentions to worship her tenderly until she decided it was right for them to be together in that way. He tried to fight the urge, clenching his fists tightly until he felt his nails cutting into his palms. He began to fumble at the small buttons that ran the full length of the front of her nurse’s uniform, each one taking an age to unfasten, his sweaty hands making his task increasingly difficult as the anger stirred in his guts, flooding his body with adrenalin and testosterone. As the uniform began to fall open he could see her soft, warm skin, her pretty small breasts held closely together by a simple white lace bra. He let out an involuntary moan of pleasure as his hands and eyes brushed her breasts. Forcing himself to move to the next button, he tried to shake the bewildering sensations of pleasure from his consciousness, but each button he released revealed a new glimpse of things so beautiful he could only have imagined them before he’d begun to search for her. He brushed her unfastened uniform aside with the back of his hand, unable to resist the temptation to see more of what lay beneath, but regretting it as soon as the smooth skin of her belly became visible, desire making him again close his eyes as he struggled to control it.
Once her uniform was fully unfastened he had to twist and bend her elbows in order to free her arms from the ungiving material, until finally she lay on the filthy mattress naked but for her white bra and black knickers. His eyes gorged themselves on her beauty, the translucent skin pulled tight over the frame of her broad but feminine shoulders, as smooth as marble around her throat and neck, the rhythmic throbbing of her jugular’s pulse hypnotizing. He watched helplessly as his hands reached out towards her, powerless to stop them as they fell around her throat, his fingers lying softly against her skin, so softly he could feel the steady beat of the valve in her blood vessel pumping the oxygen-hungry blood back towards her heart and lungs. He smiled joyfully as he spoke to himself. ‘Yes. Yes, you’re the one. I was right about you.’
His hands slipped under her back, searching for her bra’s fastening, his fingers suddenly more assured and nimble as he undid the clip with little difficulty, easing the straps from her shoulders, his heart pounding as he so slowly eased the bra from breasts that moved only slightly when freed, her nipples becoming slightly erect as the cool air rushed over them. His mouth fell open at the sight of her, his tongue moving in circles around his lips, painting them with his saliva. He let the bra fall from his hands, directing his eyes further down her body, his tongue moving in ever-quickening circles as his hands once more reached out towards her spellbinding skin. Readjusting his body position so he was level with her knees, his face pointing towards hers, he hooked his fingers under the sides of her knickers and slowly rolled them from her hips, her pubic hair straightening, then curling again as it sprang free from the laced material, watched by his widening eyes. She moaned a little as he pulled them from her groin, making him pause, concerned she might be waking prematurely from the chloroform, but she settled quickly enough. He decided it must have been a moan of pleasure, that she was dreaming about him touching her there like he knew she wanted him to.
‘Not yet,’ he told her. ‘It’s not time yet. We have other things to do first.’
He continued slowly rolling the black panties from her body until they slipped from the ends of her toes.
Cowering in the other cage, Louise Russell watched his every move, waves of nausea washing over her each time he reached out to touch the other woman. She remembered how she had woken naked in the cage, opening her eyes to the sight of Karen Green. Now you know, Karen had told her. Now you know what’s going to happen to you. Unless she could do something to stop him, Louise knew the fate he had in store for her. Somehow she would have to persuade this other woman to help her. Only if they acted together would they stand any chance of surviving.
Keller was still transfixed by Deborah Thomson. As he stared at her nakedness, her cut and bloodied feet seemed the only imperfection. He knew he should fold the duvet over her and leave, but he couldn’t, not yet. His hands fell gently on her ankles and began to slide along her slim, smooth legs, his thumbs exploring her pubic hair and the cleft of her vagina before moving on to her soft belly and brushing over her ribs, coming to rest on her breasts, the pain of ecstasy suddenly too much for him to bear. He released the button of his trousers and undid the zip, thrusting his hand inside his underpants and gripping his fully erect penis. Moaning obscenely, he jerked his hand feverishly, and within seconds warm, sticky fluid was pumping into his hand and trousers, the relief of orgasm almost as sweet as the relief that he’d been too close to climax to have tried to enter her, his dark
side threatening to spoil everything. He wiped his hand clean on the inside of his trousers and sheepishly gathered her clothes, carefully folding the duvet over her and leaning in to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead.
He crawled from her cage and stood fastening his trousers before securing the door. As he walked from the cellar he pulled the light cord, plunging the room into darkness, not once looking in Louise Russell’s direction. Closing the metal door behind him, he walked to an old oil drum and threw Deborah Thomson’s clothes inside. Then he lifted a can of petrol he kept next to the drum, unscrewed the lid and poured in more than was necessary, pulling a box of matches from his shirt pocket and lighting three bunched together. Taking a step back, he tossed the matches into the drum and watched as the orange flames leapt high before settling into the confines of the drum where her clothes shrivelled and charred.
‘You don’t need these any more,’ he whispered. ‘They can’t make you pretend any more. You’re home now, Sam. You’re home.’
7
When Sean arrived back at the office it was approaching six thirty p.m., but the place was busier than usual for a Friday evening. Clearly a fair number of his team were still hoping to salvage some kind of a weekend, even if in their hearts they knew any real chance of spending time with friends or family had long since gone and they’d end up settling for a couple of hours in the local pub before beating their weary way home. He caught Donnelly’s eye as he passed his desk. ‘Guv’nor,’ Donnelly acknowledged him.
‘Looking forward to another relaxing weekend at home with the wife and kids?’ Sean asked ironically.
Donnelly shrugged and gave a low laugh. ‘At home with the wife and kids? I’d rather be here telling people what to do than be there being told what to do.’
Sean raised his eyebrows and kept walking until Sally stepped in front of him.
‘There’s someone in your office to see you,’ she said quietly. ‘Featherstone dropped her off a couple of hours ago.’
Sean looked towards his own office and saw the back of a woman’s head. She was sitting in one of the chairs he kept for his frequent visitors.
‘Who is she?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sally. ‘I haven’t spoken to her.’
‘Does anyone know who she is?’
Sally shrugged and walked away, leaving Sean to look around the office accusingly at the faces turning from him and forming secretive huddles. Whoever she was, he sensed she was bad news. He strode towards his office, entering with far more of a performance than usual, throwing his raincoat across his desk and emptying his heavy pockets on to it, waiting for the woman to make the first move. Carefully placing the case report she’d been reading on the floor next to her chair, she got to her feet, hand outstretched.
‘Anna Ravenni-Ceron. Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan, I presume.’ He accepted her hand, holding it softly for a second before releasing it, studying her brown eyes, which were magnified by the small, heavy-framed designer glasses she wore. Her dark skin betrayed her Mediterranean origins as surely as her name, as did her almost black hair, which he suspected was long and curly, although she’d done her best to hide the fact by pinning it in a bundle on top of her head, leaving her fine-boned face clear. She wore a fitted blue cotton blouse, unbuttoned just enough to reveal her modest cleavage, and a slim-fitting grey knee-length skirt that showed her pleasantly wide hips as they tapered into a small waist. Temporarily disarmed by her attractiveness, he sat on the edge of his desk.
‘If you’re looking for DI Corrigan, then yes, you’ve found him. Please, have a seat.’ He watched her smoothing her skirt out as she sat back down. ‘So what can I do for you, Miss … sorry, I-’
‘Anna Ravenni-Ceron and it’s Mrs, but please, just call me Anna.’
‘OK, Anna, what can I do for you?’
‘It was my understanding that you would be expecting me. Superintendent Featherstone assured me he’d informed you that I would be assisting with the investigation.’ Recognizing the blank expression on Sean’s face, she added, ‘I’m the criminal psychiatrist who’s been assigned to help profile the man who kidnapped Louise Russell. I gather there’s reason to believe he’s also responsible for the murder of another woman.’
‘Karen Green,’ he said, the coolness returning to his voice now he understood who she was. Cops didn’t like outsiders sticking their noses into police business. ‘The woman he murdered — her name was Karen Green.’
‘Yes, that was in the file.’ She indicated the dossier she had been reading. ‘A very interesting case, and I think I already have some suggestions about the suspect. I believe he …’ Sean held his hand up to stop her.
‘I’m sure you’ve got better things to do on a Friday night than sit around here with a bunch of grizzly old detectives. Please, take the file home with you and study it over the weekend, and then if you still think you can help, by all means pop back in on Monday and let me know what you’ve found.’
‘Actually I’d rather make a start right away.’
‘You don’t have to do that,’ said Sean. ‘Monday will be fine.’ A silence hung between them while she considered her next move.
‘By then it could be too late,’ she insisted. ‘For Louise Russell and perhaps you too.’
‘Don’t waste your time worrying about me.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Then go home and study your file.’
‘As I said, I’d rather stay here, close to the investigation, where I can be of most use.’
‘Anna, I have two, three days, maybe less, before Louise Russell becomes his second victim. I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to explain the ins and outs of a murder investigation to a layman.’
‘I’ve studied many murder investigations, Inspector. I’m not a total layman.’
‘Is that why you’re here? So you can tell everyone you’ve got your hands dirty with a real murder investigation, instead of just studying one second-hand?’
‘No.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘To help.’
‘To help how? How many murder investigations have you been involved with, exactly?’
‘None. But I’ve conducted extensive interviews with many convicted murderers, including a study of some of Broadmoor’s most troubled patients.’
‘Really?’ Sean asked, impressed despite himself. ‘Like who?’
‘Like Sebastian Gibran,’ she answered. ‘One of yours, I believe.’
‘One of mine?’ Sean repeated. ‘I wouldn’t call him that.’
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘I was invited to examine him as part of his psychological assessment, to see if he was fit to stand trial.’
‘And you decided he wasn’t.’
‘Yes.’
‘You were wrong.’
‘Sebastian was clearly suffering from a deep-rooted personality disorder, his psychopathic traits and complete inability to form meaningful relationships with people were obvious from the start. His marriage, relationships at work, even those with his parents and siblings were an act: he was merely portraying the person they wanted to him to be, while in fact he was living out an incredibly well-formed and detailed fantasy life from a very early age. He was clearly incapable of truly understanding his own trial, in the context of grasping the real-life implications it could have held for him.’
‘He’s bad,’ Sean told her, ‘not mad. He had every advantage in life, yet he chose to do what he did. He chose to do it.’
‘If you mean he didn’t have the typical background for a serial killer, then you’re right. He doesn’t appear to have been abused as a child or to have suffered any particularly traumatic incident that could have affected him adversely in later life. On the face of it, he was very successful and intelligent, but the fact remains he clearly has a psychotic social behavioural disorder.’
‘He pulled the wool over your eyes,’ Sean jeered. ‘He did to you what he’s spent his entire life doing — he told you what you wante
d to hear and showed you only what he wanted you to see, made himself an interesting psychiatric case for the experts to pore over. What better way to keep himself out of prison? And now all he has to do is wait until he feels the time is right to pass all your blunt tests, leaving you with no choice but to declare him sane. Then what happens?’
‘He’ll stand trial for his crimes.’
‘And use all the evidence you and your colleagues have amassed about his state of mind at the time to prove he can’t be held accountable for his actions on the grounds of diminished responsibility. And then he walks free. True?’
‘I don’t know,’ she answered truthfully, never looking away from him. ‘I’m not an expert when it comes to the judicial system. My job is to provide clinical assessments. I don’t get involved in the moral or legal judgements.’
‘I wish I had that luxury.’ Sean was silent for a moment before continuing: ‘Listen, it’s like this — I’ve never met a psychiatrist or read a psychiatric report about an offender that told me anything I wouldn’t expect any of my detectives to be able to tell me.’
‘I really believe I can help you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, at the end of the day it doesn’t matter what you think, does it?’
‘Meaning?’
She reached for the briefcase at the side of her chair and pulled an opened letter from inside, handing it to Sean. ‘That’s a letter from your assistant commissioner in charge of serious crime, instructing you to ensure that I have unrestricted access to all matters relating to this investigation, including forensic evidence and interviews with suspects. I will of course not be permitted knowledge of the use of existing covert human intelligent sources or the deployment of undercover officers, although any thoughts I have about how the undercover officer or officers may best infiltrate the offender or offenders would be expected to be fully explained to them, by you.’