The Keeper (55 page)

It was unfortunate the front door appeared to lead directly into the kitchen, where knives and heavy metal objects would be easily to hand. He covertly checked his ASP was still attached to his belt. If it came to a close-quarter battle, the CS spray would be no good – it would blind them both. Better to go with the ASP. Again the shape inside darted across the doorway opposite. ‘Fuck this,’ he said, almost too loudly, and reached out for the door handle. He rested his hand on the faded chrome and slowly pressed down on it, wary of a possible booby trap. As the handle depressed further he heard the click of the door opening. Clearly Keller hadn’t been expecting company and had left the door unlocked.

Sean remembered the clothes he’d been carrying and imagined what Keller had been doing when he’d first heard the knock at his door – holding the clothes against his naked skin, rubbing their scent all over himself, especially his private parts, lying on the soiled mattress and drinking in the smell of his victims, relishing their fear and his power over them. Sean wondered whether Keller had pissed himself when he heard the knock at his door.

He pushed the door and let it swing open, intently surveying the room for anything that could be used as a weapon or a hiding place, listening for the sound of a pit-bull that had been trained to lie silently in wait for an unsuspecting trespasser to enter its domain. As satisfied as he could be that there were no immediate hidden dangers, he stepped inside. He felt powerful and dangerous intruding into Keller’s sanctuary – doing to Keller what he had done to women he’d taken – invading his home, his most sacred place, and shattering all his faint illusions.

‘Thomas Keller,’ he called out. ‘My name is DI Sean Corrigan. I need to speak to you, Thomas. You’re not in any trouble – I just want a word with you. I’m doing a follow-up visit – two of my uniformed colleagues came to see you a couple of days ago. They thought you might be able to help me with a certain matter I’m looking into.’

Suddenly he was there – the madman, Thomas Keller – standing in the doorway he’d been ghosting past seconds earlier, those same burning brown eyes Sean had seen in the Post Office ID photograph, their intensity not even slightly diminished by the passing of the years since the picture was taken. Sean could see Keller’s chest rising and falling with the exertion of whatever he’d been doing before his arrival. The effort of trying to appear unconcerned that a policeman was standing in his kitchen was only adding to his strain. He watched Keller’s tongue curl from his mouth like a cat’s and lick the beads of sweat from his upper lip.

Sean faked a smile. ‘Hi. The door was unlocked so I let myself in,’ he told the madman. ‘I was worried something might have happened to you. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘No,’ Keller stabbed his answer, using the back of his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, enjoying the torture, knowing Keller was anything but OK, knowing that he would be dying inside. He saw Keller’s legs momentarily twitch, as if he was about to sprint away, and realized he was moving too fast. He wanted to speak to Keller, not end up chasing him across ground the madman would know better than him – into the woods where he felt so comfortable and empowered. No, he needed to keep him here, in the confined space he himself was already growing accustomed to.

He pulled an old wooden chair from under the littered kitchen table and slowly sat down, his eyes never leaving Keller, the false smile still keeping the madman disorientated. ‘You don’t mind if I sit down, do you?’ Sean asked. ‘It’s been a long week.’ Keller said nothing. ‘Hell of a place you’ve got here,’ Sean continued, ‘lots of space. Not easy to find in this neck of the woods. Must have cost plenty?’

Sean held his silence and his nerve, knowing Keller had to be the next to speak or the game would be over before it started. While he waited, he studied the thin, unimpressive man standing on the other side of the foul-smelling kitchen – a man who would be feared by no one who saw him in the street, a man who looked like one of life’s victims, yet a man who the media and public would soon be branding a monster. What name would they create for him, Sean wondered:
The South London Strangler? The Keston Rapist? The Keeper?

‘I got it cheap,’ Keller’s weak voice brought Sean back from his musing. ‘It used to be a poultry farm, and they slaughtered calves here, for veal. It put people off wanting to buy it.’

‘But not you?’ Sean asked, trying to keep him talking.

‘No. Not me, but I don’t suppose you came here to talk about how much my land cost,’ said Keller, stepping into the kitchen, his eyes wandering around the room, avoiding contact with Sean’s.

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘It’s like I said, I’m doing a follow-up to the visit by my uniformed colleagues. Do you remember them?’

‘Of course,’ Keller answered, still standing, his back to a tall, narrow, built-in cupboard he clearly didn’t want to be too far away from.

Sean sensed that the cupboard spelled danger. Was it where he kept his cattle prod and the stun-gun? Years of experience searching suspects’ houses had given him a sixth sense of where the threat would come from. If Keller went for the cupboard, he would have to move fast, unthinkingly, hit him hard and stop him before he got the door open. If he hesitated he could be dead. He needed to get Keller away from there.

‘Why don’t you take a seat?’

‘No,’ Keller replied, ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’

‘Suit yourself,’ he said calmly, despite his soaring heart rate, his eyes flicking between Keller and the cupboard. ‘Did the other officers tell you why they were here?’

‘They said it was about some prowler?’

‘That’s right,’ he said, managing to sound flippant and friendly. ‘But we’re also looking for some women who’ve gone missing,’ Sean told him matter-of-factly, hoping he could panic him into running and confirming his guilt there and then. ‘We’re up to three women – so far.’ He let the smile slip from his face, but only for a few seconds while he listed their names. ‘Karen Green, Louise Russell and Deborah Thomson. Those names mean anything to you?’ Again he saw the twitch in Keller’s legs.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Why should they?’

‘No reason, other than they’ve been on the news a lot and in the papers – local and national.’

‘I don’t watch television,’ Keller answered truthfully.

‘Ever read the papers?’

‘Not really.’ Another truthful answer.

‘Then you probably don’t know that we’ve already found two of the women, both dead. Both slaughtered, just like the animals on this farm used to be.’ He waited for a reaction, but Keller was blank.

‘That’s very sad. I’m sorry for their families.’

‘Sorry for their families?’ Sean probed. ‘It’s the women I’m sorry for. I’m sorry for Karen Green and I’m sorry for Louise Russell. And unless I find her soon I’m going to be sorry for Deborah Thomson – it’s strange you’re not.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Keller stammered. ‘Listen, I’m very sorry, but I can’t help you and I’m really busy, so if you don’t mind …’

Sean ignored him. ‘What happened to your face?’ he asked. Keller’s hand involuntarily reached for the deep gouges Deborah Thomson’s nails had made. ‘Cut yourself walking in the woods round here?’ Sean knew the marks had not been left by a tree, but he didn’t want to panic his prey – not yet. ‘Me too,’ he continued, pointing to the cut on his own cheek, left by the branch of a tree at the scene of Louise Russell’s body drop.

‘Something like that,’ Keller answered.

‘Who would have thought walking in the woods could be so dangerous?’ Sean asked. Keller said nothing. ‘I think my uniform colleagues were a little worried they hadn’t searched your land properly – checked inside the other buildings and maybe the woods that seem to surround you here.’

‘Why would they want to do that?’ said Keller, his eyes blinking fast.

‘I don’t know. I suppose they thought you’ve got a decent amount of land and plenty of outbuildings. Lots of places to hide things.’

‘Like what?’

‘You tell me,’ Sean inched closer. Keller said nothing. ‘Maybe we could take a look around now, together – see what we can find.’

‘I …’

‘Check the outbuildings together. Check the cellar or bomb shelter or whatever it is.’

‘No. I …’

‘What did you do with the clothes and the mattress?’ he suddenly asked. ‘The clothes and the mattress I saw you with?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Keller lied, every muscle in his body tensing, the shotgun in the cupboard behind him so close, already loaded and primed to fire.

‘You know who I spoke to, just before I came here?’

‘No.’

‘Samantha Shaw, Thomas. I spoke to Samantha Shaw.’

Keller nodded slowly and silently. He understood now.

‘You do remember Samantha, don’t you, Thomas? We don’t forget our gods, do we? I just wanted to talk to you, you know – alone, before the world falls on you, Thomas.’

‘Why? Why do you want to talk to me? We have nothing to say to each other.’

Sean remembered his interview with Jason Lawlor, the gaps in his own imagination that Lawlor had been able to fill – the things he’d felt, the things he’d desired that Sean never could or would. ‘After you’ve raped them, could you go on smelling them, smelling their sex? Did you avoid washing your private parts for days after so you could still smell them on you?’ He watched the madman’s eyes narrow and then grow wide and round, his nostrils flare as his breathing intensified. ‘God, they smelled so good, didn’t they? Tell me, what was it like, being in their houses, their homes – taking them from the place where they felt safest of all? My God, that must have made you feel so … so powerful – so
alive
. And keeping them close, so you could go to them whenever you wanted to – whenever you needed to … Was it everything you dreamed it would be? Did you feel accepted by them, when you forced yourself inside them? Did you feel loved?’

‘No!’ Keller shouted, taking a step towards him and then stopping, almost making Sean leap from his chair and spray blinding CS gas into his eyes. ‘No. They disgust me. I can’t stand the smell of them on me.’

‘Then why?’ Sean pushed, knowing he must be running out of time, knowing Sally would have called for assistance almost as soon as he left her and that any moment half the Metropolitan Police would be crashing through the thin door behind him.

‘They made me do it,’ Keller answered. ‘They’re whores – all of them. They tricked me. They made me … be with them, but they disgusted me. I scrubbed myself in the shower, but still I could smell their stench. They’re whores. They’re nothing and I treated them like nothing.’

‘But what about Samantha? She wasn’t a whore. She wasn’t nothing.’

‘Don’t you talk about her,’ Keller warned him, tears welling in his eyes, spit spraying from his thin, white lips. ‘She’s not like them. They tried to make me believe they were her … the … the way they cut their hair – the clothes they wore, everything, but they were just whores. Meaningless whores.’

‘So you killed them. You drugged them and you took them into the woods and you killed them.’

‘No,’ Keller screamed, taking another step forward, but Sean held his ground, acting as the bait to draw him further away from the tall cupboard.

‘And how did that feel, Thomas? Killing them? When you slipped your hands around their beautiful, delicate necks and sank your thumbs deep into their throats – how did that feel?’

‘You don’t know anything,’ Keller screamed.

‘When the life ebbed from them, when you held them even after they were dead, when you stared into their lifeless eyes – how did that feel, Thomas?’

‘No. No. No!’

Sean’s fist hit the table hard, making the myriad items littering its surface jump and scatter. ‘Damn you – tell me how it felt.’

Hatred poured from Keller’s eyes, his face twisted and deformed, his stained teeth bared and threatening, primeval weapons readied for use, his entire body a coiled spring about to explode all over Sean. ‘Fuck you!’ he screamed so loudly he shattered the very air in the dingy room, spinning quickly and smoothly, reaching the tall cupboard in micro-seconds and throwing the door open.

Sean was already on his feet, his right hand pulling the CS spray from his coat, his left planted on the underside of the table, lifting it upwards and hurtling it out of his way, providing him with the shortest route to the madman, cups and plates, half-full glasses flying through the air. It seemed to happen in slow motion, but it was the shotgun Keller was reaching for that Sean saw above all else – its wooden stock and shortened black double barrels. He moved as fast as he’d ever moved in his life, but as he watched Keller’s right hand wrap around the pistol grip of the stock he knew he hadn’t moved fast enough. Keller spun back towards him, the black holes of the gun barrels bearing down on him. The two men were only three feet from each other, simultaneously firing their weapons. The CS canister soaked Keller’s face in burning liquid, instantly blinding him and arresting his respiratory system, while the outside arc of the shotgun blast pounded into Sean’s left shoulder, knocking him backwards through the air and throwing him to the ground, dozens of red-hot lead pellets feeling first like a punch, then like the feet of a hundred crawling insects before turning to the searing pain of a thousand wasp stings.

He looked up at the madman, thrashing and wailing, clawing at his own eyes with one hand, unwittingly pushing the caustic liquid deeper into them, salivating uncontrollably, sweeping the shotgun back and forth across the room, trying to see Sean through blinded eyes, listening for him, finger wrapped around the trigger. It wouldn’t be long before Keller’s eyes began to clear, leaving him a sitting duck, lying on the floor with only one good arm, the CS he’d been holding long since dropped and lost amongst the wreckage from the table he’d upturned. He grabbed the first thing of size he could reach, a small saucepan, and threw it across the room, sending it crashing into the cupboard next to the sink. Keller spun towards the noise, pointing the shotgun at the place he thought Sean had to be, his finger squeezing the trigger, but then easing off, some animal instinct to survive telling him to save his last shot until he was sure.