The Keeper (7 page)

‘No, no,’ Karen sobbed. ‘Please, I don’t understand what you mean. I don’t know why I’m here. Just let me go, please. I swear I won’t tell anyone what you’ve done.’

‘Shut up,’ he screamed, agitated, behaving as if he was the one who was trapped, as if he was the one in danger. ‘You’re trying to trick me. You’re trying to fuck with my head again.’ He was pointing at Karen, accusing her, close to tears himself now. He turned to Louise. ‘See what they do, Sam? See what they’re trying to do to us?’

‘Just let me go,’ Karen was almost shouting. ‘Please, let me go.’

‘Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Make her stop, Sam!’

Louise covered her ears with the palms of her hands, pressing so hard that her inner ears began to hurt under the pressure. She couldn’t stand to listen to this a moment longer.

‘You’re a whore, a lying whore! She tried to pretend she was you, Sam. She tricked me. She made me bring her here, but I found out she’s a liar. She’s one of them, trying to ruin everything for me.’

‘That’s not true,’ Karen pleaded with him through the strings of saliva that webbed across her contorted mouth. ‘I’ll do anything you want me to, I swear.’

‘Shut up, lying whore,’ he shouted in her face through the wire, holding his stun-gun in front of her so she could see clearly. ‘I know what you’re trying to make me do, it’s what all you whores want me to do to them, but you won’t make me.’ He looked back at Louise, a smile mixing with his fear, his face shining with the sweat of anxiety. ‘Sam’s with me now. You can’t stop us.’ He began to walk backwards, silently, his eyes never leaving Karen’s, wagging his finger at her as if warning her against doing whatever it was he imagined she was about to do. He pulled the light-switch cord, sinking the room back to its deathly gloom as he stepped behind the wall of the staircase and out of sight. They could hear him breathing, deep and panicked, but calming once he couldn’t be seen, then they could hear him no more. They waited a few minutes until the torchlight returned with a click, followed by his familiar soft footsteps climbing the stairs. A metal door being pulled open and then swung carefully shut; the locked padlock clanging against the sheet metal. Then nothing – silence and darkness. Nothing.

Shortly after ten on Wednesday night Sally squeezed her hatchback into virtually the last parking space in the street. Even the necessity to display your residents-only parking permit couldn’t keep the road clear of vehicles abandoned for the night. Her neighbours had been home for hours, most already thinking about sleep before the dawning of another day exactly like the one they’d just lived. Sally almost envied them. She waited in her locked car, lights on and engine running, until she saw some other sign of life in the street. A young couple appeared in her wing mirror, walking arm in arm along the pavement, the man muttering and the woman giggling. At this time of night it would have to do. Sally quickly turned off the lights and engine and jumped from her car, locking it without looking as she walked towards the smart three-storey Victorian terrace her new flat was in: a two-bedroom place on the top floor. By the time she reached the front door she already had her house keys ready and she entered the house quickly and quietly, the way she’d practised hundreds of times. No one could have followed her inside.

She heard the young couple walk past outside, reminding her of one of the many reasons she’d chosen this flat, in this house, on this street: because it was often quite busy, even at night – Putney High Street was just at the end of the road. Sebastian Gibran may not have taken her life, but he’d killed so many things that had been important to her, that she’d loved. She’d not been back to her old flat since he attacked her there. It held nothing for her but nightmarish memories of horror and pain. The selling estate agent had been very helpful and had visited the flat whenever necessary so Sally hadn’t had to.

As quickly and efficiently as she’d entered the house, she climbed the stairs and entered her flat. Only when she was inside did she breathe out the tension she’d been carrying for the last few hours. Standing with her back to the front door, she surveyed the interior, the lights she’d deliberately left on all day – another new habit, to avoid those panicked moments in the dark, fumbling for the light switch. Everything seemed fine as she scanned the sparse furniture and removal company boxes spread around the floor, still waiting to be unpacked. If this latest case went the way she was sure Sean thought it would, the boxes would have to wait a few more days or even weeks.

Sally stepped into the room that served as both her entrance and lounge and searched for the television remote. She found it on the coffee table, hiding under an unread newspaper, and clicked the TV on for background noise. She kept moving deeper into the flat, along the corridor and into the gleaming new kitchen equipped with everything a keen cook would need, things that she would hardly ever use. Stabbing pains in her chest strong enough to make her wince reminded her of her mission. From an overhead cupboard she pulled a pack of tramadol prescription painkillers free, grabbed a glass from the neighbouring cupboard and headed for the fridge. She yanked the door open and checked the barren contents, discovering half a bottle of white wine, still drinkable. Trying unsuccessfully to steady her hand, she poured a full glass, spilling a few drops that ran down the outside of the glass and dripped annoyingly on to the kitchen table. She pushed three tramadol from their foil surrounds, one more than she’d been prescribed to take, and swallowed them in one go with a good swig of the wine.

Closing her eyes, she waited for some relief, some elemental change in her mind and body, but the effects were too slow. She grabbed another glass from the draining board and headed for the freezer, hesitating for a second before surrendering to the idea and opening the door. Her old friend seemed to look at her, that bottle of vodka that had been ever-present in her freezer since her early days in the CID, wedged between a packet of unopened frozen vegetables and a once-raided bag of French fries. The vodka had become more necessary of late, an everyday requirement rather than a treat after a particularly tough day. By five o’clock her mind would already be drifting to the thought of that first taste, first hit, mixing with the tramadol and ibuprofen, a legal narcotics cocktail that rushed straight to her brain and took the world away just as sure as any junky’s fix could. She poured two fingers’ worth into the short, fat tumbler and drank half in one gulp, the freezing liquid numbing her throat and empty stomach, warning her brain of the delights it could soon expect.

She waited for the chemicals to ease her pain and anxiety, but as the storms calmed the quieter ghosts began to sweep forward. The tears seemed to start in her throat, but no matter how hard she tried to swallow them back down they found their way to her eyes and escaped in heavy drops that ran down her face, each finding a new route, dropping on to her hands and into her drink. Once the tears were flowing she knew there was no point fighting them, better to let them come until she would be too exhausted to cry any more; then she would sit quietly, motionless, her mind still and blank, her heart fluttering in the silence until finally sleep would take her. In the morning she would feel a little better, hung-over, but a little better, just about able to face the world.

Since she went back to work she’d been holding it together OK during office hours, getting the job done, not asking for any special treatment, but there were frequent moments of burning anxiety, when she’d been scared to speak for fear of her voice shaking, scared to hold a pen in case someone noticed her hand trembling. And every morning before leaving for work she stood frozen by her front door, physically unable to reach out and open it, hyperventilating with fear of the world beyond. Two weeks ago she’d suffered one of her worst attacks, remaining slumped against her door for more than an hour while she desperately tried to gather up the courage to leave her sanctuary. Even on the days when she overcame the fear and made it to her car, she would drive through the streets pretending nothing was wrong, sit at her desk pretending that she didn’t have to endure this daily ritual of personal torment.

Sally drained the glass and reached for her old friend in the freezer to pour a refill.

It was midnight by the time Sean arrived home, a modest semi-detached Edwardian house in the better part of Dulwich that he shared with his wife Kate and their two young daughters, Mandy and Louise. He knew Kate had been working the late shift as the attending physician in the Accident and Emergency Department of Guy’s Hospital and would therefore not long have got home herself. Probably he’d find her awake, eager to talk about her day and the children. On a normal day at a normal time he’d have looked forward to sitting with Kate and chatting about the unimportant and important alike, but this had been no normal day. His mind was swimming with images and ideas he wouldn’t share with her – images and ideas that would make it difficult to concentrate on anything she said. He reminded himself that women needed to talk, that somehow he would have to focus on his wife’s conversation. All the same he was hoping she’d be asleep so he could grab a drink and watch the TV in the kitchen and pretend to himself he wasn’t thinking about Louise Russell.

He turned the key and quietly pushed the door open. The lights were on in the kitchen. Dropping his keys as noisily as he dared on the hallway table, hoping Kate would hear the noise and know he was home before he accidentally startled her, he took a breath and walked to the kitchen.

Kate looked up from her laptop. ‘You’re late,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I’m the one who’s supposed to be on lates this week, remember?’

‘Sorry,’ Sean told her. ‘We picked up a new case.’

‘So you won’t be around much the next few days?’

‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘You know what it’s like when a new one comes in.’

‘Yes, Sean,’ she answered. ‘We all know what it’s like when you get a new one. Shame,’ she continued, ‘I was hoping to save some money on childcare this week.’

‘Kirsty’s all right looking after the kids, isn’t she?’ he asked. ‘She probably needs the cash.’

‘So do we,’ Kate reminded him. ‘At least if you were still a sergeant, you’d get paid overtime. The hours you work, we’d be rich.’

‘I doubt it,’ Sean scoffed.

‘So what’s the new case?’ Kate asked. ‘What tale of horror do you have to untangle this time? I assume it’s another murder?’

‘Even if it was a murder, you know I wouldn’t tell you about it. Work stays at work.’

‘Even if it was a murder,’ Kate pointed out. ‘Meaning it’s not a murder this time. So why is a Murder Investigation Team investigating something other than a murder?’

‘As it happens, it’s a missing person,’ Sean told her.

‘Oh,’ Kate said, interested and concerned. ‘A missing person who you think is dead. Get you on the job early, ready for when the body turns up. That’s not like the Met, planning ahead.’

‘I don’t,’ Sean said.

‘Don’t what?’

‘Think she’s dead. I think someone’s taken her.’

‘A kidnap case?’ Kate asked.

‘I’m not expecting a ransom note.’

‘Then what?’

‘Like I said, no details.’ Sean changed the subject: ‘How are the girls?’

Kate paused before answering, unsure as to whether she should try and prise more details from him. She decided she’d be wasting her time. ‘Last time I saw them awake they were fine, but they miss their dad.’

‘I suppose that’s good.’

‘I think I know what you mean,’ Kate smiled. ‘Next time you’re home they’ll mob you – you have been warned.’

‘I look forward to it.’ Sean headed for the fridge, searching around inside for a beer. Kate waved her empty wine glass in the air. ‘While you’re in there, a top-up please.’ He grabbed the bottle of wine and poured as little as he thought he could get away with into her glass, not wishing to delay her going to bed any longer than was absolutely necessary, before putting it back in the fridge and grabbing a beer. He took his favourite glass from the cupboard and sat at the table with Kate, using the remote to click the TV on.

‘I take it that’s the end of conversation for the night,’ Kate accused.

‘Sorry.’ Sean turned to her with a mischievous grin. ‘I thought you were playing on your computer.’

‘Ha, ha,’ Kate replied. ‘Working, Sean. Working. All we ever do is work. Work and pay bills. That’s it.’

‘It’s not that bad,’ Sean argued, now glad she’d waited up, pleased to have the distraction of conversation.

‘We should think about New Zealand again. Remember, after what happened to Sally, you said we ought to get the hell out of here, start a new life, one where we actually see each other. Where we see the kids.’

‘I don’t know,’ Sean answered. ‘It just feels like running away.’

‘Nothing wrong with running away if it’s running away to a better life.’

‘There’s no guarantee of a better life,’ Sean argued. ‘I did my research. New Zealand’s not all green fields and blue skies. They’ve got plenty of problems too. You don’t really think they’d stick me in a plush office somewhere overlooking the Pacific with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs and admire the view all day, do you? They’d find some shithole to stick me in and we’d be back where we started, only stuck on the other side of the world.’

‘It can’t be as bad as it is here,’ Kate insisted. ‘I’ve lived with you too long not to know your job and how it works. If you were to so much as hint that you want to go home and see your family once in a while, they’d all look at you like you’ve gone mad, like you’re somehow letting the team down. Only losers want to actually go home now and then, right?’ Sean shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘And as we both know, there’s no way you could ever, ever walk out on a job and let somebody else deal with it. You’re way too conscientious for that. True?’

‘I can’t walk out in the middle of a job. There’s no one else to pass it on to. A case comes in, it lands on my desk and that’s it. It’s mine until it’s finished. If I don’t get to come home for a week then I don’t get to come home for a week. That’s the way it is. It goes with the territory. It’s the job. It’s what I do. I can’t run off to New Zealand. I can’t run off anywhere. I am what I am. I do what I do. You don’t want to see me sitting in an office in the City pushing paper around, living for my bonus, another clone – that would kill me. I wouldn’t be me any more. I’d bore you to death.’