The Keeper

by Luke Delaney

  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.

  Epilogue

  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.

  Acknowledgements

  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

  About the Author

  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.

  Also By Luke Delaney

  Cold Killing

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

  COLD KILLING

  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 …

  An extract from Cold Killing

  1

  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.

  Avoiding the CCTV cameras that swamped the area, I watched the entrance to the club from the shadows of the railway bridge as the sound of the trains reverberated through the archways.

  I had already spied my target entering the club earlier that evening. The excitement made my testicles tighten. Yes, he was truly worthy of my special attentions. This wasn’t the first time I had seen him. I had watched him a couple of weeks earlier, watched him whore himself inside the club with whoever could match his price. I had been searching for the perfect victim, knowing the police would only check CCTV from the night he died or, if they were especially diligent, maybe the week before.

  I had stood in the midst of the heaving throng of stinking, foul humanity, bodies brushing past my own, tainting my being with their diseased imperfection, while at the same time inflaming my already excited, heightened senses. I so wanted to reach out and take each and every one of them by the throat, crushing trachea after trachea as the dead began to pile at my feet. I fought hard to control the surging strength within, then terror gripped me, terror like I have never felt in my entire life. Terror that the real me was revealing itself, that all those around me could see me changing in front of their very eyes, my skin glowing brilliant red, bright white light spilling from my eyes and ears, vomiting from my mouth. Heavy drops of sweat had snaked down my back, guided by my swelling, cramping back muscles. Somehow I had managed to move my legs, pushing through a crowd of squabbling worshippers until I reached the bar and stared into the giant mirror hanging behind it. Relief washed over me, slowing my heart and cooling my sweat as I could see I hadn’t changed, hadn’t betrayed myself.

  Now the time for watching was over. It was time for my prize, my release, my relief. All was in place. All was as it needed to be. At last I saw him leaving the club. He was shouting goodbyes, but seemed to be alone. He walked casually under the railway bridge, heading towards Vauxhall Bridge. I moved quickly and silently to the other side of the railway bridge and waited for him. As he neared, I stepped out. He saw me, but didn’t look scared. He returned my smile as I spoke to him.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, still smiling, stepping closer to the street light to better see me. ‘Is there something I can do for … you,’ he said, recognition spreading across his face. ‘We really must stop meeting like this.’ Yes, I’d been with him before. A risk, but a calculated one. A little more than a week ago, inside the nightclub, I’d introduced myself without speaking, making sure he saw my smiling face just long enough so he’d recognize it again. Later I met him outside. I paid him what he asked, all in advance, and we went back to his flat where I defiled myself inside him and even allowed him to defile the inside of me. The sex wasn’t important, or even pleasurable – that wasn’t the point of being with him. I wanted to feel him while he was alive, to understand he wasn’t merely an inanimate thing, but a real live person. I couldn’t be with him like that the night I dispatched him in case I left the faintest trace of semen or saliva on his body. Being with him a week or so before would give any such evidence time to degrade and die. And of course we practised safe sex: he to protect himself from the Gay Plague and I to protect myself from detection. I’d shaved away my pubic hair and wore a full-faced rubber mask that also covered my head, stopping any head hairs from being left at the scene, as well as rubber gloves to eliminate the risk of leaving fingerprints – all of which the little queer thought was simply part of the fun. But the fun, the real fun, was yet to come and I had more than a week to fantasise about events that lay ahead.

  The days had passed painfully slowly, testing my patience and control to the limit, but the memories of the night I had been with him and the thought of things to come carried me through and before I knew it he was standing in front of me, his small, straight white teeth glistening in the street lights, his oval-shaped head too large for his scrawny neck, perched on slim, narrow shoulders. His hair was blond and straight, shoulder-length, styled to make him look like a surfer, but his skin was pale and his body weak. The most athletic thing he had ever done was drop to his knees. His T-shirt was too tight and short, revealing his flat stomach, disappearing into hipster designer jeans worn to provoke the sexual urges of his peers.

  I told him I needed to be with him again. I lied that I had been inside the club and had seen him dancing, that I had been too nervous to approach him then, but now I really wanted him. We talked some more crap then he said, ‘You know I’m not cheap. If you want to be with me again it’ll cost.’


  He suggested we go to my place so I told him my boyfriend would be there, but he started rambling on about not taking people back to his flat and how last time had been an exception, until I pulled another two fifties from my wallet and thrust them into his hand. He smiled.

  We went to my car, fixed with false plates, and drove to his shithole in south-east London where I was sure not to park too close to his block. Telling him I didn’t want to take the risk of being seen walking to his flat with him, I suggested that he go ahead and leave the door unlocked.

  I waited a couple of minutes, then, as the street was empty, no one staring from windows, I walked to the flat. The block was old, cold and smelled of piss, but he had been a good boy and left the door unlocked. I quietly entered and flicked the lock on. He appeared around the corner at the end of the corridor, from what I knew was the living room. He spoke.

  ‘Was that you locking the door?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Can’t be too careful these days.’

  ‘Afraid someone’s going to burst in on us and spoil the party?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  The excitement was unbearable. My stomach was so cramped with anticipation I could hardly breathe. Inside, my mind was screaming, but I was still wearing my nervous smile as I walked into the living room.

  The whore was crouched by his CD player. I told him I wanted to clean up a little and headed for the bathroom down the hallway.

  I took my bag with me and quickly, if somewhat awkwardly, pulled on the suit, the shower cap, rubber gloves and finally the plastic bags over my shoes. I looked in the mirror, filling my lungs with air drawn in hard through my nose. I was ready.

  Fully prepared, I returned to the living room. He turned and saw me dressed and resplendent. He’d already removed his T-shirt, and he started to giggle, covering his mouth as if to stop himself.

  He spoke to me. ‘Is this how we’re going to get our kicks tonight then?’

  ‘Sort of,’ I replied. ‘Sort of.’