by Luke Delaney
Keller’s eyes darted around, spooked by the thought of giving his name to the police, suspicious they knew more than they were telling him, trying to convince himself that, if that was the case, they would have sent a small army, not two uniformed policemen. ‘My name? My name is Thomas Keller.’
‘Do you have any ID?’ the heavier one asked.
‘ID? Why do you need that? I’m not the prowler – this is my land.’
‘Of course you’re not,’ the policeman agreed. ‘It’s routine when we’re doing an inquiry like this to ask for ID from anyone we’ve spoken to. It’s just procedure. Nothing to worry about.’
‘OK,’ Keller told him. ‘Wait there.’ He turned and walked back into the house, his hand momentarily resting on the stock of the shotgun. The desire to lift it, walk out into the courtyard and blow their heads off was almost overpowering, but he managed to pull his hand away and step further inside the kitchen, where he began to rifle through another cluttered drawer until he found his driving licence. He moved quickly, desperate to stop the police getting too close to the house or wandering off, sticking their noses into places he couldn’t let them see. As he stepped outside, fear squeezed the air from his chest when he realized the taller one was no longer standing by the car. His head twisted in all directions as he searched for the missing policeman, finally seeing him casually wandering towards the abandoned battery chicken shed, peering inside then ducking out, moving deeper into the courtyard and its derelict buildings.
Keller glanced over his shoulder at the cottage entrance; the shotgun was close, but too far away to grab and point in a single motion. Besides, the policemen were now too far apart. By the time he’d shot one, the other would have escaped into the surrounding woods to radio for help, then it would be over for him. Even if he managed to chase the cop down and shoot him like a dog, the world would know.
‘Are you looking for something?’ he called to the policeman in the courtyard.
‘The prowler, remember? You don’t mind if I have a look around, do you? There’s a lot of places a man could hide out here.’
‘No,’ Keller managed to lie. ‘Look all you want. Can I get you a drink?’ he asked, trying to imagine what would be a normal thing to say. ‘I could make some tea, if you like.’
‘We’re fine thanks,’ the heavier one dismissed him. ‘Do you have any underground buildings on the land, sir? Any bomb shelters or coal cellars?’
Keller swallowed hard before lying. ‘No. No I don’t.’
‘Probably best,’ the heavier uniform replied. ‘Those old shelters can be dangerous – especially for kids.’
‘I suppose so,’ Keller managed to answer, forcing himself to step away from the door of his cottage and walk to the cop asking the questions, handing him his driving licence. ‘Will this do?’
The policeman studied it for a few seconds then handed it back. ‘That’s fine, sir.’
They stood next to each other, silently watching the taller policeman as he crossed the courtyard heading for the shed-like construction that concealed the staircase leading to the cellar. In his anxiety and terror Keller had a moment of clarity, a vision of exactly what he would do if the tall one reached the padlocked door, if he asked for the key to the lock. He would tell him the key was inside and that he’d fetch it. Once in the cottage he would retrieve the shotgun and slowly walk back into the courtyard. He’d kill the heavier one, but he’d let the other one go, let him tell the world what he’d found. It wouldn’t matter any more. He’d do what he had to do to the women in the cellar and then he’d go on to take care of the other business he needed to attend to.
The taller one was only feet away from the cellar door now, and the calmness of resignation swept over Keller, making him feel more at peace in that moment than he’d felt in years, maybe in his entire life. Suddenly a disembodied voice cut through the silence and shattered his tranquillity and certainty. ‘All unit response please. Police officer requires urgent assistance in Keston High Street. Repeat, urgent assistance Keston High Street.’ Their radios sounded in stereo, the distance the policemen stood apart producing a slight echo effect. They looked at each other, the heavier one nodding to his colleague to confirm he understood their telepathic message. He pressed the transmit switch on his radio and spoke.
‘Kilo Kilo Two-Two will take that. We’re only a couple of minutes away.’
‘Thank you, Kilo Kilo Two-Two, we’ll show you running.’
The taller one was already moving quickly back to the car as the heavier one began to climb into the passenger seat. ‘Looks like we’re on our way,’ he said, ‘but thanks for your help. Remember, if you see anything suspicious, let us know.’
‘I will,’ Keller lied, his heart almost exploding inside his chest as he waited for them to leave, the thrill of seeing them drive away instantly replaced by utter terror and rage at the thought they might know who he really was, that they might just be playing games with him. He ran inside and grabbed the shotgun without breaking stride, pacing across the kitchen to the main cupboard, filling his pockets with as many cartridges as he could find before storming from the house and heading towards the cellar and the woman who’d somehow managed to betray him to the police, his plans for what he must do running through his darkening mind as he walked. He saw himself raising the shotgun, aiming it at the treacherous bitch’s face, his finger smoothly pulling the trigger, the bitch’s brains and pieces of skull exploding from the back of her head.
Then would come the hard part, the thing he had to do more than wanted to, but he wouldn’t leave Sam for them to take again, to fill with their poisonous lies. He would get close enough to shoot her through the chest, leaving her face untouched. He prayed she wouldn’t move as he pulled the trigger, unable to stand the thought of her screaming, wounded and in agony. Better for her if she doesn’t move, if she understands why he has to do it for her.
Then he would get in his car and drive to work where he would hunt down his tormentors one by one, dragging them from their hiding places and blowing them all to hell. But he’d have to keep moving, stay ahead of the police, make sure he still had enough time to reach his old school, and then the children’s home before paying his mother a final visit, at the place where he’d discovered she worked, saving the last cartridge for her, shooting her through her hateful face. And then all he’d have to do is sit down and wait for the police with guns to arrive, wait for them to call to him, demand he throw the gun out and walk towards them with his arms raised. But he wouldn’t do that. He’d walk out with his shotgun pointed straight at them, and then it would be over and everybody would know his name.
As he neared the cellar his pace began to slow and with it his mind and the dark thoughts of revenge against those who’d wronged him. The idea of having to kill Sam just as they were growing closer to the time when they would be together, when she would love him and accept him, was unbearable. Maybe he was being too hasty, assuming they knew much more than they did. He stopped and stood in the middle of the courtyard, listening for unfamiliar sounds, his body turning through three hundred and sixty degrees as he searched the surrounding trees and scrubland for signs of the police closing in on him. He could see nothing, hear nothing. He exhaled, expelling stale air and the anger that had almost driven him too far, and headed back to his house, calm and in control, assuring himself he wouldn’t be panicked into attacking before he was ready. It was fate that the police had left without finding the cellar, a clear sign that things would happen as he’d seen they would – as he’d planned they would. He, and only he, would decide when everything would end.
As the patrol car bumped along the drive, PC Ingram glanced in the wing mirror at Thomas Keller returning to his derelict property. ‘I can’t believe anyone could actually live in a dump like that,’ he said.
‘If it was me, I’d build a couple of houses on it and make a few quid,’ agreed PC Adams.
‘He was a bit jumpy though, wasn’t he?’
‘Maybe, but he seemed harmless enough. Didn’t come charging at us with an axe in one hand and his cock in the other.’
‘No, he didn’t do that,’ Ingram agreed, ‘but maybe we should have checked the other buildings?’
‘That wasn’t our brief,’ Adams reminded him. ‘They just want us to find possible locations this woman could be at and pass the information on to CID. If they want to, they can get a warrant and search it properly.’
‘I know,’ said Ingram, ‘but I would have liked a look around all the same.’
‘We’ve got another dozen places to check before lunch, on top of this urgent assist. You won’t be so keen to go sniffing around them after we’ve done that lot and filled in the reports.’
‘Maybe not.’
‘Like I said, let CID sort it out.’
‘I didn’t realize Peckham had places like this,’ Anna remarked as she surveyed the tasteful café that sold decent coffee and reasonable food.
‘Probably not what you’re used to, but I like it well enough.’
‘No, I mean it. It’s very nice.’
‘It doesn’t bother me what you think. It’s not like I own the place.’
‘Good to know my opinion means so much to you.’
‘I’ll be honest with you, Anna, the only opinion that really matters to me is my own.’
‘Such as, in your opinion the man who took these women is slowly but surely spiralling out of control?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I noticed you didn’t share that opinion with Superintendent Featherstone.’
‘He wouldn’t understand.’
‘Don’t you think you should have tried?’
‘He’s a good enough cop, but he’s two-dimensional. He only deals with what’s in front of him. He wouldn’t understand.’
‘I can’t say I understand your theory myself. I see no evidence he’ll turn from micro-dramas and personalized victim selection and abuse to something more expressive and grandiose. Also I don’t see him as self-destructive.’
‘He’s not – yet,’ said Sean. ‘But he’s turning that way. When he feels me around the corner he’ll blow up. I promise you.’
‘I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree. All the same, I find your insights very interesting. Have you ever studied psychology?’
He almost choked on a mouthful of coffee and pastry, coughing drily for several seconds before he was able to answer.
‘I don’t have time for other people’s theories,’ he said. ‘Everything I know, I’ve learned out here, in the real world, dealing with lunatics like Sebastian Gibran. Trust me, when you’re chasing down these people, you learn fast – and you’d better be right or there’ll be hell to pay. There’s no time to sit around for weeks writing theses for other academics to argue the toss over. No offence, but if you get it wrong, who cares? I get it wrong, at best I’ll end up spending the rest of my career in the back of beyond. At worst I’m on Sky News in the evening and on trial for God knows what a few months later.’
‘Surely not?’
‘You don’t believe me? Listen, it’s always the police’s fault. At the end of the day, no matter what, we’ll get the blame. We’re an easy scapegoat. Stephen Lawrence is murdered by a gang of racist thugs – it’s our fault. A bunch of anarchists smash up the West End – it’s our fault because we were too soft. A student gets badly injured on a protest march – it’s our fault because we were too heavy-handed. The News of the World hacks into the phones of publicity-hungry celebrities who probably love the attention – guess what, it’s our fault for not investigating it sooner. We don’t catch this psychopath before he kills again – it’ll be my fault.’
He took an angry bite from his pastry, eyes fixed on Anna as if challenging her to refute his claims. When she remained silent, he continued, ‘Have you any idea what it’s like, working day after day with practically no sleep, forcing yourself to keep going and going, having to tell your wife and your children you won’t be seeing them till God knows when. And then, when you finally get the job done and the baddy’s locked up nice and tight, when you finally get to go home you turn the TV on and what’s the first thing you see? Politicians telling the world it was the police’s fault, that heads will roll. They never mention the good stuff we do, the personal risks we take for the sake of total strangers, the thousands of seriously nasty bastards we take off the streets every year. Sometimes it makes you want to chuck it all in, walk away.’
‘I’d never thought about like that,’ Anna confessed. ‘It can’t be easy.’
‘No. No it’s not.’
‘How do you feel when you see the news coverage of murder cases?’
‘You’re not trying to analyse me again, are you?’
‘No. Just interested in a police perspective.’
‘They make me angry,’ he said. ‘They treat it like a reality show, titillation for the masses. If they’d ever been inside a real murder scene, on their own, before it had been cleaned up, they wouldn’t sound so excited. You can tell they’ve never had the taste of death in their mouths. It lingers for days, no matter how many times you brush your teeth or rinse with mouthwash. But then again, how many people have? Have you?’
‘I want to ask you a question, Sean, and obviously you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to.’
‘I can’t stop you asking it.’
‘Did something happen to you, when you were younger?’
‘No,’ he lied.
‘Some trauma perhaps, a serious injury or critical situation you encountered while doing your job?’
‘Plenty, but no one thing. Why?’
‘Sometimes you display the traits of someone suffering from a type of post-traumatic-stress syndrome.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s as if your insights are driven more by memory than imagination.’
She was getting too close and he didn’t like it. ‘You want to know if I can think like the people I spend my life trying to catch? The answer is yes,’ he told her. ‘But if you want to know how I do it, then I’m sorry, the answer is I don’t know. Am I comfortable with it? No – but if I can use it to save lives and lock up some very bad people then I’ll use it, no matter how uncomfortable it is.’
‘That kind of self-sacrifice can be damaging. Who looks after you while you’re looking after everybody else?’
‘My wife. My children. Myself.’
‘Sounds a little insular.’
‘To you maybe. Not to me.’
‘You don’t like talking about yourself, do you?’
‘No, I don’t, so let’s not. Besides, I’ve found a way you can finally be useful to me.’ He didn’t stop to think how that sounded.
‘Wow, thanks.’
‘You’ve spoken to DS Jones?’
‘Sally? Yes.’
‘You know what happened to her. You read the report, before you interviewed Gibran.’
‘I did, but anything Sally may have told me would be subject to patient confidentiality. I can’t discuss it with anyone.’
‘Appreciated, but all I want to know is whether there’s a serious problem there. Am I doing the right thing by letting her come to work, or should I re-think things?’
‘Isolation won’t help her, but I can’t say anything else. Understand?’
‘Understood. Loud and clear.’
‘Just don’t put her in harm’s way or expect too much from her.’
‘I won’t, but don’t underestimate her.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Listen, I appreciate the time out and the heads-up about Sally, but as you know, I’m standing in the middle of a storm here.’
‘And you need to get back to work.’
‘Sorry.’ He stood to leave, then paused, remembering the thing that had been playing on his mind since they’d first met. ‘I almost forgot – there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’
‘I’m intrigued.’
‘Did Sebastian Gibran ever d
iscuss James Hellier with you? His real name was Stefan Korsakov, but Gibran would have known him as Hellier.’
‘He did. Hellier was the one he blamed his crimes on – said he’d set him up, that he’d obviously spent years studying him so the police would think it was him and not Hellier who was the killer. Hellier seemed to be the focal point of his paranoid delusions.’
‘Clever bastard,’ Sean told her. ‘He switched the truth around. It was him who was using Hellier.’
‘So the police reports said.’
‘You mean what my report said?’ She didn’t answer. ‘He was an interesting character, James Hellier. I bet you would have liked to have had a chance to interview that one. You could have written a whole book about him.’
‘Why don’t you tell me about him?’
‘I can tell you that when I first met him I hated him. Then I was scared of him. But ultimately he saved my life …’ As if realizing he had let down his guard and come close to confiding, he broke off. When he spoke again, it was in his usual clipped, businesslike tone. ‘Truth is, I don’t really know how I feel about him. Time to go.’ He stretched out a hand to pick up the bill from its china plate, but Anna made a grab for it.
‘I’ll get this,’ she insisted, their fingers touching as they reached the plate at the same time, their eyes simultaneously flashing towards each other. Sean remained expressionless despite the sudden excitement he felt stirring inside him. He pulled his hand away, taking the bill with it.
‘My treat,’ he told her.
As Thomas Keller descended the stone stairs the syringe containing the alfentanil rolled from side to side on the tray. Keeping his thumb pressed on the precious transfer to prevent it from slipping away, he gave Louise Russell’s cage little more than a cursory glance as he crossed the room and crouched down beside Deborah Thomson. ‘I think it’s time, Sam,’ he said. ‘We’ve both been patient long enough.’ He placed the tray on the floor and picked up the transfer of the phoenix, showing it to her, anticipation and excitement coursing through him, and pride, pride at having rescued her from all the liars and manipulators. ‘This is for you,’ he continued, rolling up his sleeve to show her his identical tattoo, shaking the paper the transfer was stuck to, ensuring she was looking at it. ‘This isn’t a permanent one – you can have that done later, but this will do for now. Once you have this, we can be together, properly together.’
