The Keeper dsc-2

by Luke Delaney

  The kitchen window had been easy enough to open and the house wasn’t even alarmed. He’d slipped the blade of his flick-knife between the upper and lower sash and snapped the latch. The window slid open silently and easily, the scent of her life rushing at him all at once, almost knocking him back out of the window as he snaked into the house, his agile, wiry body ideally suited for climbing through tight spaces. Doing his best to ignore the assault on his senses, he jumped down to the kitchen floor, landing like an alert cat alive to any changes in sound or shade; to even the tiniest deviation to the atmosphere of the interior. Once he was satisfied he was alone, he explored the small house, always taking care that he could not be seen from the windows, searching drawers and cupboards, picking up anything and everything that belonged to her, carefully replacing items in exactly the same place he’d taken them from. He drank in as much of her life as he could without over-gorging and losing control, overloading his starved senses with her essence.

  Eventually he reached her bedroom and slipped through the barely open door, the indentations left by her body still visible on the unmade bed, her pillow flattened in the centre and puffed at the sides. But what should have been a magical moment had been ruined by the smell of the man and the deeper mould his heavy body had left in her bed. Trying to block out everything else, he had knelt next to where she had laid, his hands tracing the shape of her body and head, the faintest trace of her warmth still detectable. He rested his hands on the bed until the warmth had completely gone. Then he began to move inch by inch around the room, absorbing every detail, until he came to her dressing table, littered with make-up and things only women had, things that were strange and exotic to him, things that had never had a place in his life.

  His eyes searched the chaotic surface, finally coming to rest on two of the larger, more eye-catching items: a black bottle with a gold label, and a heavy glass jar with a chrome seal containing something white. He lifted the black bottle and read the words embossed on the label: Black Orchid Eau de Parfum. He sniffed at the top of the bottle, nervous and suspicious of the contents, surprised at the beauty of the odour, glancing from side to side as if he was being watched, then quickly stuffing it into his trouser pocket, its weight and size awkward, but worth it for the prize. Next he lifted the heavy glass jar and read the unfamiliar words written around its body — Elemis body cream. He unscrewed the lid and let the subtle, pleasant vapours drift up and into his face. Unable to resist, he pushed his finger into the cream. That had been the first time he’d enjoyed its cool oiliness, but there had been many occasions since. He rubbed the cream into his face, closing his eyes to allow images of Sam massaging the cream into her skin — all of her skin. This was not how he remembered her scent, but he knew it was how she must smell now — now the girl had become a woman.

  A sudden noise in the distance outside startled him, brought him back to where he was and what he was doing. He screwed the top back on the Elemis, tucked it into his other pocket and left the bedroom and then the house, slipping out of the same window and closing it behind him.

  The memory was a sweet one, but now he was alone again in his own bedroom, the opened jar of Elemis in his hand. He noted that the jar was half-full — enough to last a long time yet, provided he wasn’t wasteful, provided he only used it on those who really could be her. He would have to be more selective in the future, but even so, he had enough for many more women — for many more Sams. He screwed the lid back on the cream and carefully replaced it in the drawer.

  Close to midnight and Sean sat alone in his office with the overhead lights turned off to lessen the chances of being ambushed by a migraine, a desktop lamp the only lighting in the room, although the strip lights in the main office still washed the place with harsh, white light. There were a few people floating around, including Donnelly and Sally. Most were typing up their reports of the day’s findings, others making apologetic phone calls to husbands, wives and partners. His tired eyes searched the office, subconsciously processing who was there and who was missing. He noticed Sally and Anna hunched over Sally’s desk, whispering conspiratorially, no doubt discussing his harsh words at the scene of Deborah Thomson’s car, or perhaps Anna was still trying to persuade Sally to let her help. If that was the case, he wished her luck.

  He was still considering the possibilities when he saw Donnelly stretch, stand up and head his way. The lack of urgency in his manner told Sean not to expect any ground-breaking news.

  Donnelly stepped into his office and sat without being invited. ‘Guv’nor.’

  ‘Dave,’ Sean replied.

  ‘Anything happening?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Anything in the information reports prick your interest, from the roadblocks … door-to-door?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Sean answered, ‘although, as you can see, I still have plenty to get through.’ He gestured to the pile of A4 sheets on his desk.

  ‘Aye,’ Donnelly sympathized. ‘I’ve cut the wheat from the chaff as much as I could, but you know what it’s like with an investigation of this profile: every Tom, Dick and Harry wants to get their little piece of information in so they can spend the rest of their careers in the canteen boring anyone who’ll listen that they were the one who discovered the key that broke the case and caught a murderer.’

  ‘I know,’ Sean agreed, ‘but the answer will be in there, somewhere. It’s just a matter of whether I can find it.’

  ‘You will,’ Donnelly told him.

  ‘Not until I get that Production Order for the Post Office employee files, and you and I both know there isn’t a judge in the land who’s going to give me an Order on all I’ve got so far — one wobbly witness who’s had a bit of junk mail stuffed through his door.’

  ‘We keep digging, we’ll find more. Hopefully enough to get the Order by Monday.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sean answered. ‘Anyway, not much else you can do here tonight. Why don’t you go home for a bit or go for a drink?’

  Donnelly glanced at his watch. ‘Too late for the pub,’ he sighed.

  ‘You don’t actually expect me to believe that Dave Donnelly doesn’t know where to get an after-hours drink from, do you?’

  ‘Aye, well,’ Donnelly stuttered, embarrassed and delighted at his infamy.

  ‘And do me a favour,’ Sean added, ‘take Sally and Anna with you, will you? Just keep your phones handy. I’ll call if anything breaks.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Donnelly cheerfully agreed and swept from his office back into the main incident room, gathering up Sally and Anna despite their protests and ushering them towards the swing-door exit and away.

  Somehow their leaving made Sean breathe easier, as if he’d been relieved of a burden he hadn’t even known he’d been carrying. He rubbed his eyes hard, waiting for the mist to clear before staring at the small mountain of papers and reports he had to plough through. He couldn’t let go of the feeling that he already knew the answer, so why had his search of the Crime Reporting Investigation System drawn a blank? Could he really be so wrong? ‘No,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I’m right, I know I am.’ He pulled the pile of reports towards him and began to read, at first without enthusiasm, sheet after sheet of pointless bits of information, but as he sank deeper into the ocean of intelligence he forgot what he was doing and where he was, drifting away on a tide of possibilities. Every so often, he read something that stabbed excitedly at his chest. But there were still too many possibles, too many people stopped and questioned whom the interviewing officer had thought a little strange or uncooperative. Too many men who’d appeared keen to avoid telling the police of their whereabouts at the times of the crimes. Too many disused factories and smallholdings to allow any one thing to stand out. He needed something to cross-reference itself — a nervous postman stopped at a roadblock or living on an abandoned farm. If he could find that in amongst the deluge of information, if he could find that one report, he knew he would find his quarry.

  The next time he looked up
and into the main office it was empty and in as much darkness as any police room ever is. He quickly looked at his watch and then his phone, suddenly remembering he hadn’t called Kate all day. Now it was two a.m. and too late to do anything other than drop himself in it even more. If he didn’t phone he faced a few frosty hours next time he saw her, but if he did and woke the kids, it wouldn’t improve his popularity. He considered sending a text, but decided it was too late to try anything.

  He looked away from the phone and back to the slowly diminishing pile of reports on his desk, resisting the urge to go home and grab a few hours’ sleep before everything started all over again the next morning. Lifting another piece of paper to read, he promised himself that after this one he would pack it in for the night. One more report, then he’d head home to the short fitful sleep full of nightmares that waited for him — Louise Russell’s near-naked body lying in woods, her accusing eyes pleading with him for the answer — why? Why hadn’t he been able to find her in time?

  He looked at the paper in his hands, his eyes so tired he could hardly focus, the sick feeling in his stomach and the pounding in his head reminding him he had forgotten to drink or eat since brunch with Anna. His eyes flickered until the words settled and formed. It was an information report submitted by two uniformed officers checking possible locations where the abducted women could be being kept. Their names — PCs Ingram and Adams. They’d visited a disused poultry factory out in Keston, on the Kent-London border. The report said the land was poorly maintained and hazardous, but that it contained a small abode and numerous outhouses. The man living on the land gave the name Thomas Keller, twenty-eight years old, five foot nine inches tall, slim, white, identification checked out OK and nothing particularly suspicious or untoward noted. Sean frantically scanned the report for Keller’s occupation, but none was shown. ‘Damn it,’ he cursed quietly. ‘Fuck.’ He began to move his index finger backwards and forwards under the name Thomas Keller, backwards and forwards, until finally he tossed it back on to his desk before cursing again.

  ‘Christ, I’m fucking losing it,’ he accused himself, convinced the tiredness was close to making him hallucinate. ‘Go home,’ he told himself. ‘For Christ’s sake, just go home.’ He hauled himself from the chair he’d been stuck in for more hours than he could remember, pulled on his coat, filling the pockets with the trappings of his life and headed towards the exit. By the time he reached the swing doors the name Thomas Keller had all but been wiped from his mind — just another name on another information report. One of hundreds.

  He lay in his bed tossing and turning until he could take no more of the hellish images that tore around inside his head. Demons that always came in the night, dancing behind his closed eyelids, never allowing him to escape his cursed life — not even in sleep. Tonight had been worse than usual, somehow more intense and vivid, as if he was reaching the climax of his very existence. Finally, maybe the end was near. The end of this life and the beginning of the next. He threw the soiled duvet off his overly slim, ugly body and stood in the darkness, the moonlight from outside the only illumination, blue and cold.

  Almost without thinking, as if he was unaware of his own intentions, he tugged his tatty underpants down past his hips and let them fall to the floor, stepping out of them and grabbing the tracksuit bottoms from the bedpost and pulling them over his hairless, vein-ridden legs before recovering his hooded top from the floor and struggling into it, searching in the faint light for his training shoes and pushing his neglected feet into them. He grabbed the cellar keys from the chest of drawers where he kept so many special things and walked through the cramped, dingy house to the bathroom, taking a phial of alfentanil and a syringe from the cabinet, drawing fifty-millilitres into it before replacing the safety cap over the needle and marching to what served as the front door, stopping only once more to recover the cattle prod from the same kitchen cupboard where he kept his shotgun. For a moment he considered also taking the stun-gun as he would have normally, but tonight, for some reason he didn’t. The cattle prod and alfentanil would be enough.

  He stepped out into the bitter night, the clear skies allowing the temperature to drop dramatically, the freezing, still air catching him by surprise, causing his breath to shallow until his lungs adjusted to the cold mixture he forced into them. As he strode through the night across the derelict yard, great plumes of breath burst from his mouth, clouds of condensation reflecting the moonlight before dying to nothing. He unlocked the padlock and pulled the metal door to the cellar open, its scraping and screeching turning him to a statue as he listened to the darkness for signs of danger, only daring to move once the resonating sounds of the door had faded. Slowly he began to descend into the faintest yellow light below, the underground cavern significantly warmer than the world outside. He reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the cellar, not speaking, waiting in the gloom, listening for the women, allowing his eyes to adjust to the man-made light, feeling calmer than usual, more in control, more instinctive, as if whatever was going to happen was somehow by his unconscious design — clear and unstoppable. Fate. His and theirs.

  After a few minutes he walked purposefully to the cage in which Louise Russell cowered in the corner, her eyes wide with terror and suspicion, unblinking, following his every slightest move, waiting for him to speak. But he just stood next to her cage, staring in at her through the wire and faint light, until finally he turned his back on her and walked mechanically to the string that hung from the ceiling and acted as a light switch. He pulled the string and washed the room with the weak light. She could see the cattle prod clearly now, the memories of how he’d used it to torture Karen Green still painfully fresh — how he’d used it to make her compliant the night he had taken her from her cage and led her to the stairs, half helping her, half dragging her, ignoring her pleas and promises to do whatever he wanted her to, just so long as he let her stay. Life in the cage was better than no life at all.

  Panic spread through Louise’s body as she realized why he had come in the dead of night. She scuttled around inside her cage like an animal sensing it’s about to be put down, looking for an escape she knew didn’t exist, a weakness in the metal wire she knew she wouldn’t find — watching him with horror as he strode back to her cage, moving around to the small hatch and unlocking it, placing the prod on top of the cage while he took the syringe from his tracksuit bottoms and removed the safety cap.

  ‘Give me your arm,’ he demanded, his voice strong, but cold and lifeless. She wrapped her arms around her in a futile attempt to save them from the inevitable. ‘Give me your arm or you know what’ll happen,’ he warned, resting his free hand on the cattle prod as a reminder of Karen Green’s fate.

  ‘No,’ she pleaded. ‘I can’t. Please. I can’t.’ Tears streaked down her dirty face leaving clean tracks through the thin layer of dust that had settled on her skin over the last few days during which she hadn’t been allowed to wash. He stood and watched her for a while, then closed the hatch, replacing the safety cap on the syringe and returning it to his pocket, recovering the prod and moving around to the main door of the cage. Louise’s terrified eyes followed him every inch of the way, watching as he held the prod under his armpit while he fumbled for the padlock key in his pocket. Her heart pounded uncontrollably as she watched him slot the key into the lock and jiggle the padlock free, her eyes darting from side to side. She felt her bowels and bladder loosen as he slowly eased the door open, a trickle of urine running down the inside of her legs.

  Now he was in the cage with her, the cattle prod once more held firmly in his hands, pointing straight towards her. She felt close to fainting as she remembered Karen’s body twisting and contorting each time he’d stabbed the prod into her bare flesh, her screams of agony. She couldn’t let that happen to her. Her mind suddenly flashed with false hope, that maybe he had let Karen go free — had taken her into the woods or city and released her, that the drug he had given her was purely so she wouldn’t
remember where she’d been kept, that Deborah had been wrong about her body being found, or that it had been the body of someone else. ‘Please,’ she begged him, unfolding her arms and offering both to him, each upturned and ready to be injected. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll do as you say. I’ll do anything you say.’ He was so close, moving slowly towards her, his mouth slightly open, revealing his crooked, stained teeth, his eyes narrow and cruel.

  ‘Too late for that,’ he hissed at her. ‘I know what you are, you little whore.’

  She was about to speak, but the electricity that the cattle prod poured into her body jammed her jaw shut as she fell on to her side, every muscle wracked in spasm, the pain etching itself into her brain. The convulsion lasted a matter of seconds, unlike the longer-lasting effects of the stun-gun, and she felt her body begin to relax only to be punished again by another shot from the prod and then another and another, in her spine, her stomach and thighs, until she lay exhausted and motionless.

  He stood over her, watching for signs that she was still capable of resisting him, the deep scratches in his face reminding him to be cautious, even of fallen prey. He kicked her without venom several times in her ribcage, causing her to moan slightly, but barely stir. Satisfied, he knelt beside her, resting the cattle prod on the floor and removing the syringe from his pocket, taking her arm in his other hand and searching for a useable artery, but her dehydration made it impossible to find one. He clasped the syringe in his teeth and began to slap the crook of her arm, trying to raise the blood vessels, until finally he saw the traces of a blue line running beneath her skin. Quickly he clamped her arm just above the elbow with his fingers and waited for the blood to dam and make the artery more prominent, watching without emotion as it swelled to an almost normal size. He took the syringe from his teeth and laid the needle across the blue line in her arm before bringing it to a shallow angle and pushing its sharp point through her thin, pale skin, sinking it deeply into the blood vessel, drawing the miniature plunger backwards first, pulling a few millilitres of her own blood into the syringe, the red liquid swirling and mixing with the alfentanil already inside. Then he remorselessly pushed both blood and drug into her arm, the beat of her own heart rushing it to the far reaches of her body. He pulled the needle from her artery and waited, listening for the sigh he knew would ease from her mouth, a sigh that would mean the anaesthetic had worked and she would now be unable to resist his will. After a few seconds he heard what he was waiting to hear.