The Keeper (57 page)

Hearing the staffroom door open, she looked up and saw Mary Greer, the A and E manager, enter. Ignoring the other people slumped around the room, she made a beeline in Kate’s direction. Kate smiled, but Mary didn’t smile back. Her own smile faded as she recognized the expression on the other woman’s face. It was an expression that said she was the bearer of bad news – personal bad news.

Kate’s first thought was that it was one of the girls, the fear almost stopping her heart. But if it was the children, surely Sean would have come? No matter what was going on at work, he would have dropped everything to be here …

In that second she realized she’d solved the puzzle. Her hand covered her mouth as tears pooled in her eyes and her throat swelled almost shut. Mary crossed the room quickly and held her gently by the shoulders. ‘I’m sorry,’ she told her. ‘It’s Sean. He’s on his way in. He’s been shot.’

Mostly it was darkness – silent darkness, but the nightmares found their way through – the orange blast of a gun pointing towards him, faces too close to his own – his father’s, sneering and leering – Thomas Keller’s, his red teeth gritted in hatred, eyes blazing with evil intention – Sebastian Gibran, mocking him with laughter – Sally lying in the hospital with tubes snaking down her throat – Kate crying and pleading with him not to leave her – the faces of Louise Russell and Karen Green, their dead eyes staring at him, their lifeless blue lips parting to whisper to him:
Why didn’t you save us? Why didn’t you save us? Why didn’t you save us?
– their faces slowly changing, growing younger and younger until they became the faces of his own daughters, their eyes also the eyes of the lifeless, their lips as pale blue as the lips of the dead women who’d spoken to him from beyond the grave as they lay broken in the woods –
Why didn’t you save us? Why didn’t you save us? Why didn’t you save us?
Then the darkness came and brought him peace – peace like he’d never known before – peace like he’d never had since being forced from his mother’s womb.

He heard sounds though he couldn’t see anything other than light. Sounds in the distance, surreal and difficult to make out. A few seconds later his eyes flickered and opened and he remembered where he was. Kate was sitting by his bedside, dressed in her hospital uniform, loose blue cotton trousers and shapeless blue top, her name tag clipped to her breast pocket. ‘You fell asleep again,’ she told him. The sun shone brightly through the window of his private room. He’d only escaped intensive care the night before.

‘Sorry,’ he murmured, his mouth painfully dry.

‘Don’t be,’ she assured him. ‘It’s the painkillers. You’ll be dopey for a few days yet.’ She lifted his covered water beaker and eased the straw between his lips. ‘You’re still pretty dehydrated. You need to try and drink.’

He nodded he understood, sipped the water and looked around the room, even in his present state able to process the information his eyes were passing to his brain. Since he’d recovered from his initial surgery he’d been waking for brief periods and nearly every time she’d been there, waiting for him, snatched conversations before he drifted away, emotional and tearful at first, but increasingly calm as the gut-wrenching fear faded somewhat.

‘A private room?’ he asked, the straw still in his mouth.

‘Press got wind of your
heroics
,’ she said. ‘They were sniffing around all over the place dressed as everything from surgeons to porters. We thought we’d better ferret you away somewhere out of sight.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, pushing the straw from his mouth with his tongue and relaxing back into his pillow, the movement making him wince with pain and turn to look at his shoulder wrapped in heavily layered white bandages with a thin tube disappearing under them.

‘It’s a self-administering morphine feed. If you’re feeling any pain, just press this switch.’ She pointed at a grey box close to his right hand. ‘It’s regulated,’ she added, ‘so you can’t overdose.’

He nodded he understood. He’d only been awake a couple of minutes, but already felt exhausted. His eyes were beginning to roll back into their sockets when Kate’s voice cut through the morphine and other opioids, the fear in her voice acting like smelling salts. ‘Sean …’ He forced his eyes to open and focus, like a drunk trying to stay awake on a train. He could see the tears she wouldn’t allow to escape in her eyes.

‘That was too close, Sean, way too close. When they told me you’d been shot and you were being brought in – my heart, Sean – the pain in my …’ She couldn’t finish. He gave her a few seconds to compose herself. ‘I’ve been checking out the New Zealand Immigration website. I’d have no problem getting a job there, and neither would you. You could even transfer over as a DI. Listen, Sean – London, this job you’re doing – it’s too much. We have to think of the girls. A new life. A better life – for us all.’

‘Maybe …’

A knock at the open door saved him. Sally appeared, smiling in the doorway. Kate took it as her cue to leave and stood, bending over him and kissing him on the forehead.

‘Promise me you’ll think about it,’ she pleaded and headed for the door, brushing past Sally on the way out.

‘How you doing?’ Sally asked.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Kate replied with a forced smile before hurrying away along the sterile corridor. Sally shrugged her shoulders and crossed the room to Sean, slumping into the chair Kate had just vacated.

‘You look well,’ she told him with a wry smile. He shook his head and grinned as much as he could. ‘She’s hardly left your side, you know. When they first brought you in, they tried to keep her away, but she wouldn’t have it.’

‘Did you tell her what happened?’

‘I told her you’re a bloody idiot.’

‘And what about everybody else?’

‘I told them you went to the front of the house while I covered the back – that we didn’t think he was at home, which is how he managed to get the drop on you. There were a few awkward questions about why we didn’t wait for back-up, etc.’

‘And …?’

‘I said that we believed Deborah Thomson was in clear and imminent danger, so we had no choice but to go straight in and get her out.’

‘Anyone buy your story?’

Sally gave a shrug. ‘Keller didn’t contradict my account of events.’

‘You interviewed him?’

‘Yeah.’

‘With Dave?’

‘No. With Anna.’

‘Anna? Jesus.’

‘She asked some good questions. She was useful.’

‘And Keller – what did he say?’

‘I’m guessing you already know.’

He nodded. ‘He said nothing.’

‘He said less than nothing. He’s gone catatonic on us – won’t even say his name. Another future guest for Broadmoor, courtesy of our good selves.’

‘Best place for him,’ Sean pointed out, his voice beginning to fade. ‘Maybe Anna can interview him again as a patient.’

Sensing his distrust, Sally said, ‘She’s OK. Anna and I are becoming something like friends.’ Sean raised his eyebrows. ‘She’s been helping me, you know, with things.’

‘You fixed yourself,’ he told her. ‘It’s what we do, remember?’

‘I’m seeing her privately. No one at work knows about it. I’d like to keep it that way.’

‘Fair enough,’ he agreed, wilting under the influence of the medication that kept the pain at bay. Sally saw him drifting and stood to leave, her last words sounding warped and dreamlike in his head.

‘You and I both sailed too close to the wind these past nine months,’ she whispered. ‘The physical stuff heals, Sean, but we’re not the same after. We’ll never be the same people we were. But then again, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.’

He blinked slowly twice – then the darkness came.

Detective Superintendent Featherstone sat in his office at Shooters’ Hill police station poring over the reports generated by the investigation and arrest of Thomas Keller. With Corrigan still cooped up in hospital, he’d inherited a lot more paperwork than he cared for. Waste of time, he told himself – the shrinks would say Keller was barking mad and the courts would agree. There’d be no trial, just a plea of not guilty on the grounds of diminished responsibility that the CPS would accept. Then Keller would be marched off to Broadmoor for the rest of his natural. Waste of everybody’s time and money.

The phone ringing on his desk made him look up from Sally’s written account of Keller’s arrest and Deborah Thomson’s rescue, an account that had caused him to raise his eyebrows on more than one occasion. He snatched at the phone. ‘Detective Superintendent Featherstone speaking.’ He never tired of using his full rank on the phone – or anywhere else, for that matter.

‘Alan, it’s Assistant Commissioner Addis here.’ Featherstone rolled his eyes and sank deep into his chair. ‘You need to know, a lot of people are asking a lot of questions.’

‘About what, exactly?’

‘DI Corrigan,’ Addis answered.

‘Such as?’

‘Such as will he ever be fit to return to duty?’

‘He’ll need another operation to repair his shoulder, but I’m led to believe he’ll make a full recovery.’

‘Good. How soon?’

‘I don’t know – a few months, maybe less.’

‘Let’s make it less, shall we.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Featherstone. ‘What’s the rush?’

‘Maximizing the use of assets, Alan,’ Addis explained. ‘I want him in place and ready for the next time. Special Cases only – understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Featherstone listened to the line go dead, Addis’s words playing in his mind.

The next time. The next time.

Firstly I would like to acknowledge and say a huge thank you to my agent – Simon Trewin, now at William Morris Endeavour, for the incredible belief he showed in this untried, untested and untrained author. The work he put in to make my first book –
Cold Killing
– a viable piece of literature was miraculous, as were his efforts to secure fantastic publishing deals in Britain, the Commonwealth, America and beyond. Without Simon there would have been no first book, let alone a second. I’d also like to mention his assistant at the time and now agent in her own right – Ariella Feiner at United Agents, for all her work thus far.

Secondly I’d like to say a massive thank you to all the staff at HarperCollins Publishers for everything they’ve done for me, especially Kate Elton for having the courage to take such a big chance on an unknown quantity like myself and to Sarah Hodgson who’s not only been my fantastic editor, but also my chief liaison officer and guide in what to me is still the weird and wonderful world of publishing. A
hearty thanks also to the rest of the team – Adam, Oli, Louise, Tanya, Kiwi Kate, Hannah and everyone else. Many, many thanks.

LD

Luke Delaney joined the Metropolitan Police Service in the late 1980s and his first posting was to an inner city area of South East London notorious for high levels of crime and extreme violence. He later joined CID where he investigated murders ranging from those committed by fledgling serial killers to gangland assassinations.

Cold Killing

If you enjoyed
The Keeper
, try the first in the DI Sean Corrigan series:

NO MOTIVE. NO MERCY. NO REMORSE.

A series of brutal killings leaves South London’s Murder Investigation Unit struggling to connect the crimes: no recognizable method; no forensic evidence; and the victims have nothing in common.

NO TIME TO LOSE.

DI Sean Corrigan’s troubled past has left him with an uncanny ability to identify the darkness in others – a darkness he struggles to keep buried within his own psyche. Sean knows these murders are the work of one man. As the violence escalates, Sean must find the evidence he needs to bring the perpetrator to justice – before the next attack hits too close to home …

Click here to buy
Cold Killing

Or read on for an extract …

Saturday. I agreed to come to the park with the wife and children. They’re over there on the grassy hill, just along from the pond. They’ve fed themselves, fed the ducks and now they’re feeding their own belief that we’re one normal happy family. And to be fair, as far as they’re concerned, we are. I won’t let the sight of them spoil my day. The sun is shining and I’m getting a bit of a tan. The memory of the latest visit is still fresh and satisfying. It keeps the smile on my face.

Look at all these people. Happy and relaxed. They’ve no idea I’m watching them. Watching as small children wander away from their mothers too distracted by idle chat to notice. Then they realize their little darling has wandered too far and up goes that shrill shriek of an over-protective parent, followed by a leg slap for the child and more shrieking.

I am satisfied for the time being. The fun I had last week will keep me contented for a while, so everyone is safe today.

I thoroughly enjoyed the time I spent with the little queer. I made it look like a domestic murder. I’ve heard fights between people like him can get nasty, so I had a bit of fun with the idea.

He was easy enough to dispatch. These people live dangerous lives. They make perfect victims. So I hunted amongst them, looking for someone, and I found him.

I had already decided to spend the evening stalking the patrons of a Vauxhall nightclub, Utopia. What a ridiculous name. More like Hell, if you ask me. I told my wife I was out of town on business, packed some spare clothes, toiletries, the usual things for a night away and booked a hotel room in Victoria. I could hardly turn up at home in the early hours. That would arouse suspicions. I couldn’t have that. Everything at home needed to appear … normal.

I also packed a paper decorating suit that I bought at Homebase, several pairs of surgical gloves – readily available from all sorts of shops – a shower cap and some plastic bags to cover my feet. A little noisy, but effective. And last but not least a syringe. All fitted neatly into a small rucksack.