The Keeper

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‘Unlikely or not, it’s a fact. And any DNA we find will go the same way.’

‘So,’ Featherstone continued, ‘we’ll have to find him by old-fashioned means – shoe leather and hard work, folks.’

‘With respect, sir,’ said Sally, ‘we’re going to need more than that if we want to catch him quickly.’

‘Agreed,’ Featherstone contradicted himself. ‘Which is why I’ve sorted out a media blitz. ITV and BBC will put out an appeal for information on their local channels tonight, with a special appearance by yours truly. I’m still working on Sky, but they’re holding out for more details than we want to give them at this time.’

‘What about the papers?’ Sean asked.

‘The papers will follow the TV channels’ lead.’ He made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Right, I need to be at the Yard by six to meet the TV people, so I’m off. Keep me posted.’ Dismissing them with a nod, he strode out of the office.

‘God save us from senior officers,’ Donnelly said when Featherstone was well away.

‘He’s not so bad,’ Sean reminded him. ‘We could do a lot worse.’

‘If you say so.’ Sean let it slide. ‘Me, I’m off to chase my daily quota of useless leads.’ Meaning he was heading to the pub, Sean thought. ‘Care to give me a hand, Sally?’

‘Not just now,’ she answered. ‘I need to tidy a few things up, make a few phone calls.’

‘Suit yourself,’ sniffed Donnelly. ‘Then I shall bid you farewell. If I don’t see you later, I’ll see you tomorrow.’ With that he headed for the main office in search of recruits to buy him a drink.

‘He’s got the right idea,’ Sean told Sally.

‘How so?’ she asked.

‘Get some rest and recreation now, while you still can. I get the definite feeling this will be the last chance for some time. Once that media appeal goes out, the spotlight will fall on us.’

‘Just go home and forget about Louise Russell until tomorrow?’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Sean. ‘It’s just things are going to start happening tomorrow, I can feel it. And they’re not going to stop until this case is finished, one way or another.’

‘You think she’s already dead, don’t you?’

Sean sat heavily in his chair, caught off balance by her question.

‘Maybe not … It depends on his cycle.’

‘What cycle?’

‘Just an idea,’ Sean explained. ‘A theory.’

‘What theory?’ she demanded, losing patience with his secrecy.

‘He’s taking a lot of risks. Calculated risks, but risks all the same. He doesn’t just do to them whatever it is he wants to do in their homes, because he needs more time with them. And if he needs time with them then the chances are there is a timescale. I think he fantasized about her for a while before taking her and transporting her into his living fantasy – a fantasy that will have a beginning, middle and end. All of which suggests a timescale. It might be a week, a month – I don’t know yet.’

‘Or it might be a lot less?’ Sally questioned.

‘Might be,’ Sean admitted. ‘There’s no way of telling until he releases her or we find her.’

‘Find her body, you mean.’

‘We have to be prepared for that possibility.’

‘Possibility or probability?’ Sally asked.

‘You know how this works.’ Sean shrugged. ‘Look, if it’s too much too soon, I’d understand. If you want to keep this one at arm’s length it’s not a problem. I can make that happen.’

‘Don’t make allowances for me.’

‘You’ve got nothing to prove,’ he told her and meant it. She didn’t reply. ‘Go home, Sally. Get some rest. I’ll call you if anything happens.’

She slowly rose and headed for the door, turning when she got there. ‘One thing …’

‘Go on,’ said Sean.

‘I want to be in on the interviews. When we catch him, I want to sit in on the interviews.’

‘OK.’ Sean granted the request, knowing why she needed to sit in. She nodded once and left him alone.

Sean scanned the office for anyone heading his way. When he was happy no one would require his immediate attention, he lifted the phone on his desk and punched in a sequence of numbers. It was answered on the fifth ring.

‘Hello.’

‘Dr Canning, it’s Sean Corrigan.’

‘And what can I do for you, Inspector?’

‘Nothing yet,’ said Sean. ‘This is more of a heads-up to expect something in the next few days. Something a little more unusual than the norm.’

‘Ah,’ Canning replied. ‘Your speciality seems to be things that are a little more unusual than the norm.’

‘What can I say? Somebody somewhere must like me.’

‘So what should I be expecting?’ Canning sounded intrigued. ‘What does that crystal ball of yours tell you, Inspector?’

He nodded as if Canning could see him. ‘When it happens it’ll be an outside body drop, in a wooded area, possibly in water. The victim will be a white woman in her late twenties. Cause of death will be suffocation or strangulation with evidence of drugs having been administered to her. That’s all I’m prepared to speculate for the time being,’ Sean explained. ‘But I’ll need you to examine the body in situ.’

‘That’s quite a lot of information you have there, considering this person is still alive,’ said Canning. ‘I am correct in assuming they are still alive?’

‘You are,’ Sean admitted, but he’d say no more.

‘Very well,’ Canning agreed. ‘I shall await your call – and thanks for the warning. I don’t usually get advance notice of such things in my business.’

‘No,’ Sean answered. ‘I don’t suppose you do.’

‘Until the unhappy event then,’ Canning said.

‘Indeed,’ Sean agreed and hung up, already regretting making the call. He knew forensically it made good sense – forewarning Canning meant he could prepare himself and his pathology equipment for an outside scene examination, possibly saving as much as a few vital hours. Outside scenes could deteriorate incredibly quickly, especially if whoever took her went to the trouble of dumping her body in flowing water, although Sean doubted he would; he’d made no effort to destroy evidence at the other scenes so why would he when it came time to rid himself of her body? Mother Nature was no respecter of the dead or of those trying to gather the evidence to give them justice. But nonetheless he wished he hadn’t made the call. He felt soiled, complicit, as if he’d somehow sealed Louise Russell’s fate.

Shaking his regrets away, he buried his head in the ever-growing pile of reports spreading across his desk.

Thomas Keller arrived home still upset and agitated by the confrontation he’d had at work. His ageing Ford slid to a stop on the dust road outside his ugly cottage just as the spring day was turning into a cold, cloudless night. His mind was racing so much he almost forgot to turn the lights off and lock the door. He fumbled for his house keys, desperate to release the pressure he felt hammering in his head and tightening in his groin. Once inside, he tore through the cluttered cottage, not stopping to turn on any lights, tripping over unpacked boxes and piles of old magazines in the rush to get to his bedroom. The frantic pace came to a halt only when his hand was within reach of his special drawer, where he kept his special things. He froze, heart drumming on the walls of his chest, listening to the silence, feeling the air around him until he was certain he was alone. With a sudden burst he pulled the drawer open, pushing aside the mish-mash of clothes until he found the bundle of letters bound together with an elastic band. He would have liked to linger, to unwrap the magical package the way he planned to undress Sam when they were finally together, but his excitement was overpowering, forcing him to rush. He yanked the elastic band away and let the letters spill on to his unmade bed, grabbing at the nearest one, running his fingers across the name on the front of the envelope as if he was reading Braille. He looked down at the other envelopes, his eyes leaping from one to the next, all bearing the same name – Louise Russell.

Most of the letters were the usual bills and credit card statements, although some were personal, but they were all precious to him, they all brought her closer to him, entwined his life with hers. These letters had been the beginning of their relationship. It had taken him months to collect them, as he couldn’t risk arousing her suspicions that her mail was being stolen. Somehow he’d been disciplined enough to limit himself to a few items each month, mostly things she would never miss, resisting the almost unbearable temptation to take everything that looked personal. Every time he needed to be with her, he turned to the letters.

He knew the letter he held in his hand was from an old friend of hers who now lived on the other side of the world, in a place where he suspected mail regularly went missing. He slipped the letter from its envelope and began to read the hellos and how are yous, the apologies for not writing sooner, the references to a past life they’d shared as young girls. The more he read the more agitated he felt, the more his uncontrollable desire engulfed him. He dropped to his knees by his bedside as if he was about to pray, but his hands did not come together. Holding the letter in one hand, he slid the other hand slowly under his waistband, moving tentatively towards his swelling sex. As he touched himself a moan escaped his mouth in anticipation of the pleasure and release he would soon feel washing through his body. He gripped himself tightly and began to move his hand back and forth, gently at first, but then quickly, desperately, as he failed to reach a full erection, the frustration overtaking any thoughts of ecstasy, causing his penis to grow ever more flaccid in his palm.

Cursing and issuing silent threats in his mind, he leapt to his feet and snatched another bundle of letters from the drawer, held together by an elastic band just as the others had been. His eyes fleetingly rested on a third bundle of letters and a fourth and a fifth, before returning to the one in his hand. He checked the name on the top envelope – Karen Green. Yes, he told himself, this was all her fault. She was ruining everything with her jealous lies, deliberately coming between him and Sam. But he knew how to deal with her. He knew what he had to do. Throwing her letters on the floor, he tore off his postman’s uniform and began rifling through a pile of dirty clothes on the floor until he found his tracksuit. He tugged it on and stomped to the kitchen.

The narrow cupboard by the back door held a number of illicit items. After a moment’s thought he selected the electric cattle prod he’d found and repaired when he first bought the buildings and land from the local council for a bargain price, other potential buyers having been put off by its history of animal cruelty and slaughter. The land was everything he’d been waiting and praying for – everything he’d been saving for, putting aside most of his earnings for years until finally he’d amassed enough to buy it, the land and buildings that meant he could begin to prepare for a life with Sam. Once he’d bought the land he’d immediately started his search for her, but it had been difficult to tell who Sam was now – so many years had passed and her mind had been so poisoned, any one of them could be her. He had no choice but to work his way through them until he found the real one. No matter how many of them tried to make him look a fool. He knew what to do with people who tried to make him look a fool.

With a final glance at the double-barrelled shotgun that held pride of place, he grabbed the keys to the cellar from their hook and closed the door. Then he stumbled to the bathroom, pulling the cabinet open and taking out a first-aid box. He opened it and removed one of the syringes and a large phial of alfentanil. Taking the safety cap from the syringe, he expertly eased it into the phial, drawing out fifty millilitres of the anaesthetic before replacing the cap.

Now that he had everything he needed, he made his way outside, striding across the yard, the syringe in his trouser pocket, the cattle prod gripped in his hand. But when he reached the metal door he froze, the absolute clarity of what he had to do suddenly deserting him, the enormity of it almost too much comprehend.

You have no choice