The Keeper dsc-2

by Luke Delaney

  The Keeper

  ( D.I. Sean Corrigan - 2 )

  Luke Delaney

  Luke Delaney

  The Keeper

  1

  Thomas Keller walked along the quiet suburban street in Anerley, south-east London, an area that provided affordable housing to those attracted to the capital who discovered that they could only afford to live on its edges, financially excluded from the very things they had come to London for in the first place. He knew Oakfield Road well, having walked its length several times over the previous few weeks and he knew in which house Louise Russell lived.

  Keller was cautious. Although confident he would draw little attention in his Post Office uniform, this was not his normal route. Someone might realize he shouldn’t be there and that the mail had already been delivered earlier that morning, but he couldn’t wait any longer — he needed Louise Russell today.

  As he approached number 22 he made sure to drop post through the letter boxes of neighbouring houses, just in case some bored resident had nothing to do other than spy on the street where nothing happened anyway. As he posted junk mail his eyes flicked at the windows and doors of the street’s ugly new brick houses, built for practicality with no thought of individuality or warmth. Their design provided excellent privacy, however, and that had made Louise Russell even more attractive to him.

  His excitement and fear were rising to levels he could barely control, the blood pumping through his arteries and veins so fast it hurt his head and blurred his vision. He quickly checked inside his postal delivery sack, shuffling the contents around, moving the junk mail aside, touching the items he had brought with him for reassurance — the electric stun-gun he’d bought on one of his rare holidays outside of Britain, the washing-up liquid bottle that contained chloroform, a clean flannel, a roll of heavy-duty tape and a thin blanket. He would need them all soon, very soon.

  Only a few steps to the front door now and he could sense the woman inside, could taste and smell her. The architecture of the soulless house meant that once he had reached the front door he could not be seen from the street and nor could Louise Russell’s red Ford Fiesta. He held his hand up to ring the doorbell, but paused to steady himself before pressing the button attached to the door frame, in case he needed to persuade her to open the door to him. After what felt like hours he finally pressed it and waited, until a jerky shadow moved from the bowels of the house towards the front door. He stared at the opaque glass window in the door as the shadow took on colour and the door began to open without hesitation or caution. He hadn’t had to speak after all. Now at last she was standing in front of him with nothing between the two of them, nothing that could keep them apart any longer.

  He stood silently, in awe of her. It felt as if her clear, shining green eyes were pulling him forward, towards her glowing skin, her pretty feminine face. She was only a little smaller than he, about five foot six and slim, with straight brown hair cut into what was nearly a bob. She was about the same age as he was, twenty-eight years old. He began to tremble, but not with fear any more, with joy. She smiled and spoke to him. ‘Hi. Do you have something for me?’

  ‘I’ve come to take you home, Sam,’ he told her. ‘Just like I promised I would.’

  Louise Russell smiled through her confusion. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t think I understand.’

  She saw his arm moving quickly towards her and tried to step back, away from the threatening-looking black box he held in his hand, but he’d anticipated she would and he stepped forward to match her stride. When the box touched her chest it felt as if she’d been hit by a wrecking ball. Her feet left the ground as she catapulted backwards and landed hard on the hallway floor. For a few blissful moments she remembered nothing as her world turned to black, but unconsciousness spared her from reality all too briefly. When her eyes opened again she somehow knew she hadn’t been out for long and that she was still unable to command her own movements as her body remained in spasm, her teeth clenched together, preventing her from screaming or begging.

  But her eyes were her own and they could see everything as the man dressed like a postman busied himself around her prone body. His stained, buckled teeth repulsed her, as did the odour of his unwashed body. As his head passed close to her face she could see and smell his short, unkempt brown hair, strands of which had stuck to his forehead with sweat. His skin was pale and unhealthy and appeared quite grey, marked with acne and chicken-pox scars. His hands were bony and ugly, too long and thin, the skin almost transparent like an old person’s. Long dirty fingernails fidgeted at things he was taking from his post-bag.

  Everything about him made her want to turn from him, to push him away, but she was trapped in the unrelenting grip of whatever he’d touched her with, unable to do anything but watch the nightmare she was at the centre of. And all the time he spoke to her using the name of another as the pictures adorning the walls she knew so well stared down at her — happy photographs of her with her husband, her family, her friends. How many times had she passed the pictures and not taken time to look? Now, paralysed on the floor of her own home, her sanctuary, the same pictures mocked her from above. This couldn’t be happening, not here — not in her home.

  ‘It’ll be all right, Sam,’ he promised. ‘We’ll get you home as soon as we can, OK. I’ll get you in the car and then it’s only a short trip. Please don’t be scared. There’s no need to be scared. I’m here to look after you now.’

  He was touching her, his damp hands stroking her hair, her face and all the time he smiled at her, his heavy breaths invading her senses and turning her stomach. She watched through wild eyes as he took hold of her arms and crossed them at the wrists over her chest, his fingers lingering on her breasts. She watched as he began to unroll a length of wide, black tape from a thick roll he’d brought with him. She prayed silently inside her frozen body, prayed that her husband would appear in the doorway and beat this animal away from her. She prayed to be free from this hell and the hell that was about to happen because now she knew, she understood clearly, he was going to take her with him. Her pain and terror weren’t going to be over quickly, in a place she had no fear of. No, he was going to take her away from here, to a place she could only imagine the horror of. A place she might never leave, alive or dead.

  Through her physical and mental agony she suddenly began to feel her body’s control returning to her, the muscles relaxing, her jaw and hands beginning to unclench, her spine beginning to loosen and straighten, the unbearable cramp in her buttocks finally receding, but she was betrayed by her own recovery as her lungs allowed a long breath to escape. He heard her.

  ‘No, no. Not yet, Sam,’ he told her. ‘Soon, but for the moment you need to relax and let me take care of everything. I swear to you everything will be just the way we wanted it to be. You believe that, don’t you, Sam?’

  His voice was a menacing mix of apparent genuine concern, even compassion and a threatening tone that matched the deep hate in his eyes. If she could have answered him she would have agreed with anything he said, so long as he would let her live. She felt rape was a certainty now, her mind instinctively preparing her for that, but her very life, her existence, she would do everything she could to preserve that: she would do anything he asked.

  Carefully placing the tape on the floor next to her, he took a washing-up liquid bottle from his bag and a rag. He squirted a clear liquid on the rag. ‘Don’t fight this, Sam. Just breathe normally, it’s better that way.’ Even before the rag covered her mouth and nose she could smell its pungent hospital aroma. She tried to hold her breath but could only manage a few seconds, then the chloroform fumes were sweeping into her lungs and invading her bloodstream. She sensed unconsciousness and welcomed it, but befor
e the sanctity of sleep could descend he pulled it away. ‘Not too much,’ he said. ‘You can have some more when you’re in the car, OK?’

  Louise tried to look at him, to focus on his movements, but his image was distorted and his voice warped. She blinked to clear her sight as the first effects of the chloroform began to lessen. She recovered in time to see him binding her wrists together with the tape, the pain of the adhesive being pressed into her skin cutting through even the chloroform. Then his hands moved towards her face, holding something between them. She tried to turn away, but it was useless as she felt the tape being plastered across her mouth, the panic of impending suffocation pressing down on her empty lungs like a ton weight, the effects of the chloroform preventing her thinking rationally or calming herself so she could breathe.

  ‘Relax,’ he assured her. ‘Relax and breathe through your nose, Sam.’ She tried, but panic and fear still refused to allow any normal sense of self-preservation to ignite.

  Suddenly he moved away from her, rifling through her handbag and then the set of drawers next to the front door. Moments later he returned, having found what he was looking for — her car keys.

  ‘We need to go now, Sam,’ he told her. ‘Before they try and stop us again. Before they try and keep us apart. We need to hide from them, together.’

  He struggled to get her to her feet, pulling her torso off the ground by gripping and tugging at her top, her near dead weight almost too much for his slight physique to bear. Finally he managed to wrap her right arm around his neck and began to haul her from the ground.

  ‘You have to help me, Sam. Help me get you up.’

  Through her confusion and fear she could hear the growing anger in his voice and something told her she had to get up if she was to survive the next few moments of this hell. She struggled to make her legs work, the tape around her wrists preventing her from using her arms for balance or leverage, her unsteady feet slipping on the wooden floor.

  ‘That’s good, Sam,’ the madman encouraged her. ‘Almost there, just a little bit more.’

  She sensed she was on her feet now, but the world was spinning wildly, making her unsure of anything as she began to walk, moving forward into the bright light beyond the home that should have been her refuge. The light and air helped clear her mind further and she could see she was standing at the rear of her own car while this man fumbled with her keys. She heard the alarm being deactivated and the hatchback door popping open. ‘You’ll be safe in here, Sam. Don’t worry, we haven’t got far to go.’

  She realized his intentions but only managed to mumble ‘No,’ behind her taped mouth before he grasped her shoulders and steered her towards the opening, making her lose her balance and fall into the back of the car. She lay there, her eyes pleading with the man not to take her from her home. It was the last thing she remembered before the chloroform-soaked rag once more pressed into her face, only this time he held it there until unconsciousness rescued her from perdition.

  He looked at her for as long as he dared, all the while smiling, almost laughing with happiness. He had her back now, now and for ever. Pulling the thin blanket from his sack, he carefully spread it over her prostrate body before closing the hatch door. He jumped into the driver’s seat and struggled to put the key in the ignition, excitement making his hands shake almost uncontrollably. At last he managed to start the car and drive away calmly, slowly so as not to draw attention. Within minutes he would swap Louise Russell’s car for his own and then, soon after that, he would be at home with Sam. At home with Sam for the rest of her life.

  Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan sat inside court three at the Central Criminal Court, otherwise known as the Old Bailey, named after the City of London street it dominated. Despite all the romance and mystique of the famous old court, Sean disliked it, as did most seasoned detectives. It was difficult to get to and there was absolutely no parking within miles. Getting several large bags of exhibits to and from the Bailey was a logistical nightmare no cop looked forward to. Other courts across London might be more difficult to get a conviction at, but at least they provided some damn parking.

  It was Wednesday afternoon and he’d been hanging around the court doing little more than nothing since Monday morning. Sean scanned the courtroom, oblivious to its fine architecture. It was the people inside the room he was interested in.

  Finally the judge put the Probation Service report to one side and looked over the court before speaking. ‘I have considered all submissions in this matter, and have given particular weight to the psychological reports in relation to Mr Gibran’s mental state now and at the time these crimes — these serious and terrible crimes — were committed. In the case of this defendant, on the basis of the opinions of the expert witnesses for the defence, namely those of the psychologists who examined Mr Gibran, it is my conclusion that Mr Gibran is not fit to stand trial at this time and should be treated for what are apparently serious psychological conditions. Does anybody have any further submissions before we conclude this matter?’

  Sean felt his excitement turn to heavy disappointment, his stomach knotted and empty. His attention was immediately pulled back to proceedings as the prosecution barrister leapt to his feet.

  ‘My Lord,’ he pleaded. ‘If I could draw your attention to page twelve of the probation report, it may assist the court.’

  The court fell silent again except for more shuffling of papers as the judge found page twelve and read. After a few minutes he spoke to the prosecuting barrister. ‘Yes, thank you Mr Parnell, that does indeed assist the court.’

  The judge looked to the back of the court where Gibran sat motionless and calm. ‘Mr Gibran,’ the judge addressed him, speaking as softly as distance would allow, already treating him like a psychiatric patient instead of a calculating murderer. ‘It is the decision of the court that in this case you will not be standing trial for the crimes you have been charged with. There exist serious doubts as to your ability to comprehend what would be happening to you, and as a result you would not be in a position to defend yourself adequately from those charges. I have therefore decided that you should receive further psychiatric treatment. However, in view of serious concerns expressed by the Probation Service that you pose both a danger to yourself and the public …’

  Sean’s emptiness left him as quickly as it had come, squeezed out by the excitement again spreading through his core. He didn’t care who the turnkeys were, prison officers or nurses, so long as Gibran was locked away behind bars, for ever.

  The judge continued: ‘… I cannot ignore the risk you represent and must balance that with your need to receive treatment. As a result I am ordering you to be detained under the Mental Health Act in a secure psychiatric unit for an indefinite period. Should you in the future be deemed to have made sufficient progress towards recovery then it will be considered again as to whether you should stand trial or indeed be released back into the community. Very good.’

  With that the judge stood to signify an end to proceedings. Everyone in the court rose simultaneously to show their respect. Sean was the last to his feet, a suppressed smile thinning his lips as he looked to the dock and whispered under his breath, ‘Have fun in Broadmoor, you fuck.’ His eyes remained locked on Gibran’s as the guards led the defendant from the dock towards the holding cells beneath the old court. Sean knew it would almost certainly be the last time he ever saw Sebastian Gibran.

  The events of the past few months raced through Sean’s mind as he gathered his files, stuffing them into his old, worn-out briefcase that looked more like a child’s oversized satchel. He headed for the exit keen to avoid the handful of journalists who had been allowed into the court, stopping en route to shake the prosecuting counsel’s hand and to thank him for his efforts, as unimpressive as they were. He walked from the courtroom at a decent pace, scanning the second-floor hallway for journalists or family members of Gibran’s victims, neither of whom he wanted to speak to now, at least not until he’d spoken to one o
f his own. He walked briskly through the main part of the court open to the public and into the bowels of the Bailey, a labyrinth of short airless, lightless corridors that eventually led him to a Victorian staircase that he climbed until he reached an inconsequential-looking door. Sean pushed the door open and entered without hesitation, immediately hit by the noise of the chitter-chatter that could barely be heard from the other side of the door.

  The little ‘police only’ canteen was enshrined in the force’s myth and legend, as well as serving the best carvery meat in London. It didn’t take long for Sean to find Detective Sergeant Sally Jones sitting alone in the tiny warm room, nursing a coffee. She sensed Sean enter and looked straight at him. He knew she would be reading his face, seeking answers to her questions before she asked them. Sean wound and weaved his way through the tightly packed tables and chairs, apologizing when necessary for disturbing the rushed meals of busy detectives. He reached Sally and sat heavily opposite her.

  ‘Well?’ Sally asked impatiently.

  ‘Not fit to stand trial.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Sally’s response was loud enough to make the other detectives in the canteen look up, albeit briefly. Sean looked around the room, a visual warning to everyone not to interfere. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Sally continued. ‘What’s the fucking point?’

  Sean noticed Sally unconsciously rubbing the right side of her chest, as if she could feel Gibran hammering the knife into her all over again. ‘Come on, Sally,’ he encouraged. ‘We always knew this was a possibility. Once we’d seen the psychiatric reports it was practically a certainty.’

  ‘I know,’ Sally agreed with a sigh, still rubbing her chest. ‘I was fooling myself that common sense might break out in the judicial system. I should have known better.’

  ‘It’s entirely possible he is actually mad.’