The Keeper (53 page)

Addis shook his head. ‘No. A few minor injuries and some close scrapes, but nothing particularly unusual.’

‘His service history shows he infiltrated a paedophile ring while working undercover. Things appear to have got a little out of hand during the operation. Could that have affected him?’

‘I’m familiar with that operation,’ Addis assured her. ‘Corrigan was returned to normal duties without the need for any special … arrangements.’

‘Really?’ Anna quizzed. ‘Only, I noticed the report said the officer in charge of the undercover side of the operation, DS Chopra, had sufficiently serious doubts about DI Corrigan’s psychological welfare during the operation that he considered terminating it?’

‘An overreaction,’ Addis answered. ‘The operation was successfully concluded and Corrigan did his job. So, something else then? In his past perhaps? Before he joined the service?’

‘It’s possible,’ she admitted. ‘But if there is anything of that nature he’s buried it so deeply I couldn’t find what it is. I can only guess.’

‘And what’s your guess?’

‘It’s in the report – better to read it in full.’

‘Very well,’ Addis agreed. ‘I shall look forward to it.’

Since she’d watched Louise Russell being dragged from the cellar hours ago Deborah Thomson had been unable to do anything other than stare through the thin grey light at the cage he used to keep her in, its door hanging open as if to torment her. She’d prayed to hear the cellar door wrenched open, to hear their voices descending towards her and watch as he imprisoned Louise in her wire crate once more – anything rather than being all alone in the bleakest of dungeons. But in her gut she could feel the truth – that Louise was never coming back, never coming back to anyone.

She’d cried for so long, abandoned in the virtual darkness, that she couldn’t cry any more. Dehydration had dried her tear ducts and made her skin thin and vulnerable. She couldn’t remember the last drink she’d had and her mouth and throat burned with thirst as her gums began to shrink back over her teeth. Another day or two without water and they’d start to split and bleed while her non-essential organs would begin to slow down and eventually cease functioning as her body sent what little moisture there would be to the most vital organs – the brain, heart, lungs and liver. She chastised herself for having wasted so much valuable water on self-indulgent tears – water that had long since fallen on the stony ground and dried away. What would her brothers have thought if they’d seen her feeling sorry for herself, huddled in a corner crying like a baby when she should have been planning her escape – the next attack on the bastard who’d brought her here? They would have been ashamed of her – their tough little sister, scared of some loser-freak. Next time she had a chance she’d make it count, even with her broken kneecap. She’d almost got the better of him the first time. If it hadn’t been for an unlucky slip on the stairs, she’d have been off.

Deborah vowed not to make the same mistakes again. Next time, instead of being in a rush to get away she’d stand her ground and beat the living shit out of him – make sure he was totally incapacitated before getting out of the cellar and finding help. Or maybe she’d just call her brothers and tell them what the bastard had done to her. They’d see to it that he paid. No need for police to be involved – no interviews and court appearances. Her brothers would make him suffer – suffer like he’d made her suffer. And once she decided he’d had enough, they’d take him somewhere he’d never be found and bury him alive in a six-foot hole and that would be the end of the bastard.

Her fantasy of revenge and punishment made her feel temporarily brave, but the clang of the padlock on the cellar door being tampered with brought the terror flooding back, vanquishing all thoughts of her brothers and escape. For a brief moment she imagined it could be someone other than him fumbling at the lock, the excitement of the possibility rushing through her, almost making her cry out for help, but the lack of voices warned her to stay silent. A few seconds later she heard the dreaded sound of the metal door being dragged open, followed by the slow, steady tread of his feet on the stairs. She continued to stare at the empty cage opposite her own. She was alone now. He couldn’t be coming to see anyone else. Louise was gone. He was coming for her.

Sally pulled the car to the side of the quiet, tidy street in Catford. The small, newly built houses were arranged at strange angles to each other in an effort to give the occupiers some feeling of privacy. Sean climbed out of the car without speaking, moving as if he was somehow hypnotized by 16 Sangley Road – its new brown bricks and white PVC windows with a small garage to match – the front door hidden from passers-by. Sally appeared at his shoulder.

‘Looks familiar,’ she said, but he didn’t answer as he drifted towards the front door, his head thumping with possibilities. He was about to meet for the first time the woman who was a goddess to the man he hunted, but couldn’t help but feel he’d already met her twice – yet never while she was still alive. As he walked along the short driveway he experienced the same disorientating sense of déjà-vu – the same sense of the killer’s presence he’d had at the other scenes, and knew he’d been here and why.

He rang the doorbell, stepped back and waited, sensing movement inside – hearing muffled voices. After a couple of minutes a face warped by the thick glass of the door approached, moving quickly and confidently, not like someone who was living in fear of being stalked. The door was pulled open without caution and a young woman with short brown hair smiled at them, her green eyes shining with life.

‘Hi,’ she greeted them without a care in the world – it was Sunday and the sun was beginning to poke through the low cloud. Her hair was still wet from the shower and strands were sticking to her temples and brow. Sean remembered gently brushing the hair away from Karen Green’s face when he’d been alone with her in the woods. He hadn’t expected to be so vividly reminded of the women, now dead, that the killer had taken to replace the one standing in front of him. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’ Sam prompted him, her smile fading a little.

He suddenly remembered why he was there and pulled his warrant card free, flipping it open for her to see. ‘Samantha Shaw?’ he asked.

‘Yes. That’s me. Is something wrong?’ The smile disappeared from her face.

Sean ignored her concern, her obvious fear they were there to deliver bad news about someone she loved. ‘I’m DI Corrigan and this is DS Jones. It’s about Thomas Keller,’ he told her. ‘I need to find him. Do you know where he lives?’

She looked over her shoulder before answering. ‘Tommy? This is about Tommy?’

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘Why would you ask me that? I haven’t seen Tommy since we were kids. Not since …’

‘We know about what happened back then,’ he assured her. ‘And we know he was harassing you—’

She cut across him. ‘No – watching me, but not harassing me. My parents reported it, not me.’

‘You sound as though you still have a lot of affection for him,’ Sean almost accused her.

‘Tommy’s childhood was hell. I felt sorry for him – thought I could help him, that’s all. I didn’t want to make things worse for him, even after …’

‘Can we come in and talk about it?’ Sally asked.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Ian doesn’t know anything about it and I’d like to keep it that way.’

‘Have you seen Thomas Keller since?’ Sean persisted. ‘Since the assault and the harassment?’

‘No,’ she replied, and he believed her. ‘They took him out of my school and last I heard he was still in the children’s home. But I never saw him again and quite frankly, until now, I’d pretty much forgotten about him – which is exactly how I want it to be. Tommy’s not my problem any more.’

‘After what happened to you, when you were still a child – you’re telling me you forgot all about it, about him?’

‘Yes.’ She was a bad liar, but Sean decided to let it go. ‘The only thing I heard was from an old school friend I bumped into a few years ago. They said they’d seen Tommy and that he was a postman now. I was happy for him, you know. I thought maybe things had turned out all right for him, despite everything. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing else I can tell you.’

‘I understand,’ Sean said, eager to move the questioning on. ‘Just one more thing. Have you had any break-ins in the last few months or maybe even longer ago? Anything unusual gone missing?’

She looked truly concerned for the first time since she’d opened the door. ‘Is Tommy in trouble? Did he do something? Is that why you’re here?’

‘My question,’ he reminded her.

‘No,’ she snapped. ‘I haven’t had any break-ins and nothing’s gone missing.’

‘I need you to think really hard,’ he insisted. ‘Not necessarily an obvious burglary – maybe just small items that have gone missing?’ He saw a flicker of something in her eyes. ‘You can’t go on protecting him, Samantha. You’re not twelve any more, and neither is he. He’s dangerous now – more dangerous than you can imagine. I need you to answer my questions.’

She sighed and shook her head. ‘OK. A few months ago I’d just had a bath and was in my bedroom. I went to use my body cream, but it wasn’t where I always left it, on my dressing table. I looked everywhere, but couldn’t find it. I asked Ian if he’d moved it and he said no. We’d just taken on a cleaner, because we both work, and I guess I thought she might have taken it.’

‘Did anything else go missing?’

‘A few silly things – a bottle of perfume.’

‘Black Orchid. And the body cream was from Elemis, wasn’t it?’

She gawped at him, mouth hanging open, eyes clouding with suspicion. ‘How did you know? How could you possibly know that?’

‘Lucky guess,’ said Sean. ‘You said other things went missing too. What things?’

‘Some of my clothes: a skirt, blouse and a sweater, I think. But you know how it is, things go missing all the time, lost at the dry cleaner’s, left at work. It happens to us all.’

Clothes. Of course, he thought, berating himself for having not seen it earlier. He dressed them in her clothes – that’s why the bodies had been naked or nearly so, because he was recycling her clothes, using them on victim after victim, taking them from one to give to the next as his belief that they were the real Samantha Shaw faded and died.

‘Did you report it to the police?’

‘Are you kidding? They would have thought I was mental.’

‘But did you think it could be Tommy? In your heart, did you think it could be him? Did you see him in your mind coming into your house, your bedroom, and taking the perfume – the cream?’

‘I … I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she faltered.

‘Yes you do,’ he said. ‘But burying the past mattered more to you than telling anyone the thing you feared – feared more than anything else.’

‘And what would that be?’ she asked calmly.

‘That he was back,’ said Sean. ‘That after all these years, Thomas Keller was back.’

‘You don’t know anything about my fears,’ she warned him, still icy calm.

‘I know more than you think.’

Sally had seen Sean in many guises, but this was a new one, even for her. ‘This isn’t getting us any closer to Keller,’ she said. ‘If you have no idea where he is, then you can’t help us any further. Thanks for your time. We’ll be in touch.’

She turned to look at Sean, as if willing him to walk away, but he stood rooted, eyes locked with Samantha Shaw’s, convinced there was more information she could give, even if she didn’t know it herself. He let his eyes alone ask all the questions, until eventually she answered.

‘Listen, the only other thing I can think of is that Tommy always talked about getting himself a farm when he grew up. That’s all I can tell you.’

Sean suddenly looked at the ground, his hand rising towards her face, fingers spread wide like a net, as if he was trying to catch her words before they escaped and were lost for ever. ‘What did you just say?’ he demanded.

‘I said Tommy wanted to live on a farm. I suppose he wanted to be away from people …’ She was still talking when he turned from her, not listening any more, walking away tugging his phone from his pocket and searching for Donnelly’s number. It was answered within a few ring tones.

‘Guv’nor.’

‘Are you still in the office?’

‘Aye.’

‘Thomas Keller. I remember where I’ve seen his name,’ Sean told him. ‘It was on an information report. A uniform patrol checked out a farm – the man living there gave his name as Thomas Keller.’

‘You sure?’ Donnelly asked. ‘We must have checked out more than a hundred smallholdings, not to mention the hundreds of other information reports with name after name on them.’

‘Samantha Shaw just told me that Keller always wanted to live on a farm. As soon as she said it, I remembered – remembered seeing it. But I can’t remember the address. The report should still be in my office. I need you to search for it – go through every last scrap of paper till you find it.’

‘Fuck me, guv’nor – have you seen your office? That could take days.’

‘No,’ Sean insisted. ‘The information reports from property searches are in a separate pile, as are the ones from door-to-door, as are the ones from roadblocks, as are they all. The pile you’re looking for will be smaller than the others. I’ll stay on the line while you check.’

Donnelly eased himself out of his chair and headed to Sean’s office. ‘On my way – hold on.’ He scanned the stacks of reports until he found the pile he was looking for. ‘Here we go,’ he said, sitting at the desk in front of the reports. He puffed out his cheeks and began to scan through them, checking the names while Sean waited silently, his hands shaking with anticipation, listening to Donnelly discounting each useless report. ‘No.’ A few seconds later. ‘No.’ More seconds later. ‘No,’ until finally Donnelly’s tone changed completely. ‘Fuck me,’ he declared. ‘How the hell did you remember seeing that?’

Sean didn’t have to ask if Donnelly had found it. ‘What’s the address?’

‘It’s in Keston, Kent, off Shire Lane in what appears to be a disused poultry farm. He showed the uniform patrol his driving licence as ID, which by all accounts checked out. Do you want me to scramble TSG, or maybe a surveillance team – make sure he’s holding Deborah Thomson at the same place?’