The Keeper dsc-2

by Luke Delaney

  Sean scanned the letter without reading it properly, sure everything she said was true. He folded it up, sighing and shaking his head slightly and handed it back to her. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Just one thing.’

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘Don’t ask me questions I don’t have time to answer. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open. Learn through observation not interrogation. You keep up or you get left behind — understand?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you? Thank me for what?’ Donnelly and Zukov appeared at his door before she could answer. Sean could tell by their faces they were excited. ‘Something wrong?’ he asked them.

  ‘Paulo here’s dug up a possible suspect you might want to take a look at,’ Donnelly explained.

  ‘Speak up, Paulo,’ Sean encouraged.

  ‘I did what you suggested, guv’nor, and searched the local intelligence records for anyone with previous for serious sexual offences and burglary artifice. You were right — it turns out to be a very unusual mix. I only got one hit: Jason Lawlor, male, IC1, forty-two years old, loads of previous for theft, assault, burglary, commercial and residential and serious sexual offences. But it was his previous convictions involving the use of artifice to gain entry that set him apart.’

  ‘But has he ever used it to get into a house and then sexually assaulted the occupier?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Zukov answered, ‘his last conviction. He did six years for burglary and sexual assault and was only released three months ago from Belmarsh, but he’s failed to show up for his last two bail signing dates and he’s also missed his last two Sexual Offenders’ Register appointments. As of now, he’s on the run.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Ravenni-Ceron tentatively interrupted them. ‘Sorry, it’s just that the file on this case said the suspect apparently has no convictions, whereas this man has many.’

  Zukov and Donnelly both looked at Sean.

  ‘Don’t make assumptions,’ he told her. ‘Funny things can happen to fingerprints — trust me, I know. And we also have to consider the possibility our suspect is not working alone. Perhaps this Lawlor character’s made himself a friend who has no convictions. Maybe this friend does the grabbing and Lawlor does the rest.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she argued. ‘The psychological profile of the man we’re after is already clearly indicating he’s a loner, acting out some highly personal fantasy. It doesn’t make sense that he could be working with a partner.’

  ‘Truth is, we don’t really know that — and nor will we until we arrest this Lawlor and drag him across the cobbles. Once we’ve done that we’ll have a better understanding.’

  ‘For the record, I disagree.’

  ‘Noted,’ said Sean, his feelings towards her a mixture of admiration for her courage in speaking up and irritation at her interference.

  ‘And it doesn’t seem to me you have any evidence to justify his arrest.’

  ‘That won’t be a problem,’ Donnelly joined in. ‘He’s wanted for jumping bail. We can arrest him any time we like.’

  ‘Do we have an address for him?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Only his bail address — 3 Canal Walk, Sydenham,’ Zukov answered.

  ‘That’s a couple of miles from where Louise Russell was taken,’ Sean pointed out.

  ‘Same for Karen Green,’ Donnelly added.

  ‘Have the locals checked out the address?’ Sean asked.

  ‘No,’ said Zukov. ‘Apparently they’re too busy to chase after bail offenders.’

  ‘And sexual predators who fail to make their Sexual Register appointments?’ Sean continued.

  ‘They didn’t have anything to say about that,’ said Zukov.

  ‘I bet they didn’t,’ Donnelly sneered. ‘Fucking clowns.’

  ‘I’m not interested in what they did or didn’t do,’ Sean put an end to the criticism. ‘The fact is, if they haven’t checked the address then there’s a chance he may still be using it. What sort of place is it?’ He looked at Zukov.

  ‘A bedsit in a big old Victorian house. A number of the other bedsits are also used as bail addresses.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Sean shook his head, thought for a moment. ‘OK, we can’t risk putting his door in, case he’s not home. His bail house buddies will be straight on the phone to him and we’ll never see him there again. So we plot it up and wait for him to show.’

  ‘Do you want me to get hold of Featherstone and get some surveillance authorized?’ Donnelly asked.

  ‘No, we don’t have time. Grab Sally and whoever else you can find. We’ll do it ourselves. As soon as we see him, we’ll take him out. Nothing fancy or complicated — nick him, spin his room and then back here to interview him. All right, let’s go.’

  Donnelly and Zukov headed for the main office while Sean started to pull his raincoat on and fill his pockets with phones, handcuffs, CS gas and anything else he thought he’d be needing. Then he looked up to see Anna imitating his actions. ‘You’re not actually thinking about coming with us?’

  ‘As the letter from the assistant commissioner states, I’m to be given unrestricted access and assistance. If this is your man — although I personally don’t believe it is — then I need to see how he reacts to being arrested. I need to see where and how he lives.’

  Sean pursed his lips and let out a long sigh. ‘Have it your own way. But, like I said — keep up or get left behind. I don’t have time to wait for you. Understand?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Inspector. I’m a big girl.’

  ‘Really? Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we, Anna. I just hope you have more of a clue about what you’re letting yourself in for than I think you do.’

  He was charging through the main office in the direction of the car park before she could answer.

  Thomas Keller sat at his kitchen table and tried to stay calm, but he was too agitated. He got up and began to pace around the room looking for things to do, but it was no use, the excitement of having her so close overrode everything else. The memory of soft, warm skin made his entire body ripple and shiver with pleasure, but he cursed the ugly desires it stirred in his stomach and groin that threatened to destroy the beauty of the thing that existed between them. He had to go to the cellar, there was something he needed to do concerning the other woman, but he was afraid to go while the excitement gripped him, afraid of what it might make him do.

  Suddenly the solution came to him. He hurried along the narrow corridor to his bedroom, coming to a halt in front of the cupboard where he kept his special treasures. Tentatively he reached for the handle, checking first to make sure that he was alone, that there were no intruders lurking in the shadows. He eased the drawer open carefully, savouring the moment, allowing the anticipation to rise slowly, the expectation making his muscles begin to tighten and coil, his eyes darting from side to side as the bundles of letters revealed themselves, each held together by an elastic band. His swelling penis grew uncomfortable in his trousers as he searched for the letters addressed to Deborah Thomson. Reverently he undid the bundle and laid each item neatly on his unmade bed. To him this mundane collection of invoices and bank statements held a significance that seemed almost mystical; just by running his fingers over the letters spelling out her name he felt he could absorb something of her, feel her life flowing into his own. While his left hand rested on the letters, moving from one to another, his right hand slid slowly to his trousers, its fingers fumbling awkwardly at the button and the zip, the urgency to release himself increasing with every passing second, until at last he felt his engorged penis fall into the palm of his hand. But as he began to stroke his hand back and forth, other thoughts began to invade his mind — thoughts of the other woman, the one who’d tried to fool him — the one who’d betrayed him, her face large and distorted as she laughed at him. Then more faces joined her, circling him, pointing and laughing: the face of Karen Green, taunting him for his stupidity, telling everyone how she’d fooled him into believing s
he was Sam; and the faces of the men from his sorting office, jeering, swearing at him, telling him he was a filthy queer. He felt his penis shrinking in his hand, withering to nothing.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ he screamed into the empty room. ‘Go away. Just leave me alone.’ But the faces wouldn’t leave him. They kept spinning around him. Among them he could see the faces of his mother and the staff at the orphanage, the teachers who’d hated him and abused him. Self-consciously he struggled to zip up his trousers, but the faces were growing arms and hands which were pointing now at his pathetic, shrunken manhood. He tried to swat them away, but they danced out of his reach, their laughter reaching a crescendo as he used both arms to pull his precious letters close to his chest, protecting them from the phantoms.

  Bitter tears stung his eyes and cheeks, the humiliation that had replaced desire giving way to rage. He’d make them sorry for laughing at him, for belittling him. He’d make them all pay, especially her. Abandoning the letters, he jumped to his feet and ran to the cupboard where he kept his stun-gun and the keys to the cellar. He threw open the back door and staggered out into the yard, swiping tears and mucus from his face, his teeth clenched in anger as he made his way to the cellar door. His movements became more fluid now that his purpose was clear, as if his fury were guiding him as he undid the lock and yanked the door open so hard it clattered into the wall and bounced closed. Again he pulled it open and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, staring down into the semi-darkness, breathing hard. Then he moved down the stairs, steadily, purposefully, the tasks ahead clear to him. He rounded the bottom of the stairs and pulled the light cord, watching Louise Russell scuttle into the furthest corner of her cage, her red eyes wild with loathing and fear. He walked to her cage and opened the hatch on the side.

  ‘Take the clothes off and put them through the hatch,’ he ordered. ‘Do it now.’

  Louise crossed her arms across her chest, gripping the blouse and sweater, refusing to surrender these last remnants of decency. ‘Please,’ she begged him.

  ‘You can keep the underwear,’ he said, ‘but I need everything else.’

  ‘Please,’ she repeated, ‘I’ll do whatever you want, but please, let me keep the clothes. You gave them to me, remember? You told me they were my real clothes, that I needed to wear them for you, for us.’

  He held a hand up to stop her. ‘Just give me the clothes.’

  ‘Please. You don’t want to do this, I know you don’t.’

  ‘Give me the fucking clothes,’ he screamed. ‘Give me the fucking clothes, you lying whore.’ She shook at the ferocity of his attack, pulling her knees up to her chest as if they were a shield, the hate in his eyes telling her he would not relent. Slowly she began to pull the sweater off, sobbing uncontrollably all the while. She passed it through the hatch to him, jumping back as soon as he took the item, unsure of what to remove next, the blouse or the skirt. ‘Hurry up,’ he demanded. She turned her back to him and began to undo the buttons of the blouse, her tears slowing as fear was replaced by humiliation and embarrassment, everyday emotions finding their way into her extraordinary situation. The blouse slipped from her shoulders and she passed it through the hatch, her left arm pressed across her chest, head bowed to avoid his leering face as she kneeled and unzipped the waist of her skirt, pulling it over her hips and down to her knees, adjusting herself into a sitting position before removing it completely and passing it through the hatch, his hands greedily grasping it, tugging it away.

  As she hugged herself in the corner of her cage she looked up to see him moving around to the door of her prison, pulling the key from his pocket and easing it into the lock, opening the door and stooping into her space, the stun-gun held out in front of him as he inched towards her like a scorpion readying to strike. ‘You shouldn’t have betrayed me. That was a mistake. You’re just a little whore trying to make me do things to you — dirty things, bad things. Well now you’re going to get what you want, whore. I’m going to give you exactly what you want.’

  Sally and Sean sat in the front of the unmarked car they’d concealed as best they could in a residents’ parking area about forty metres from the house where Jason Lawlor was supposed to be living. If they parked any further away they wouldn’t be able to recognize him when he arrived, but if they parked any closer he would almost certainly spot them and probably take flight. Several of the local low-lives had already paid them some unwanted attention. A small intelligence record photograph of Lawlor rested on Sean’s thigh. Anna sat in the back of the silent car, while Donnelly and Zukov were close by in another, as were DCs Maggie O’Neil and Stan-the-man McGowan.

  The dilapidated old house backed on to the railway lines, the sound of passing trains only adding to the sense of foreboding as they watched the streetlights flickering on in the dusk, making the surrounding trees appear quite black.

  ‘He’s going to be difficult to spot,’ Sally stated, ‘in this light, from this distance.’

  ‘There’s enough light around the entrance to the house,’ Sean argued without looking away from the front door. ‘If he turns up, I’ll recognize him.’

  Sally shrugged and the car returned to its silent vigil. After a few minutes Sally spoke again, to break the increasingly oppressive atmosphere as much as anything. ‘You’re Anna Ravenni-Ceron, aren’t you?’ she said, looking into the back of the car. ‘I recognized you from the picture on your book cover.’

  ‘Which book?’ Anna asked with a smile.

  ‘Your latest one, I think.’

  ‘Programmed to Kill?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sally answered. ‘I thought it was good. You talked a lot of sense.’

  Sean shifted uncomfortably in his seat and for a passing second considered telling Sally that the woman she was talking to was in part responsible for Gibran worming his way out of a trial for her attempted murder.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Anna. ‘It’s always good to get positive feedback from someone who actually deals with the sort of people I write about.’

  ‘Until I read your book I hadn’t realized most serial killers stay within their own ethnic group when selecting their victims.’

  ‘I’m glad you could learn something new from it.’

  Sean could listen to no more.

  ‘Anna Ravenni-Ceron — is that your real name, or something you thought would help sell a few more copies?’ he asked, only turning to look at her after he finished his question.

  ‘I write books to try to educate people, not to make money.’

  ‘So you give the profits to charity then?’ he sneered, facing forward again. She didn’t answer.

  ‘Over there,’ Sally suddenly said, ‘other side of the street. It could be our man.’

  Sean strained to see through the slightly misted windscreen. ‘That’s him.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Sally asked.

  ‘I just am. The way he moves, stands. The way he’s looking around. It’s him.’

  ‘He knows we’re here,’ Sally said. ‘He can sense us.’

  ‘Wait, he’s crossing the road. Let’s do it.’ Sean lifted the radio that had been hidden between his legs and spoke as clearly as he could into it. ‘Suspect One’s at the address, everybody move in, move in.’ He started the engine and pulled away as quietly as he could, keeping the revs low as he closed the short distance to the man who had now crossed the road and was approaching the front door of the house. As they got nearer Sean suddenly accelerated then braked hard to stop directly outside the house. The other cars hadn’t arrived yet. Sean jumped from the car, leaving the radio on his seat and pulling his warrant card from his jacket. Lawlor looked like a startled deer caught in the headlights of an approaching truck, his eyes frozen wide open and nostrils flared as he assessed the danger, his legs tense and ready to sprint.

  ‘Police. Stay where you are!’ Sean shouted, his warrant card held in front of him. Lawlor looked one way then the other, before suddenly jumping over the low wall at the side of the stairc
ase that led to the door. He sprinted across the paved garden and leap-frogged another low wall, hitting the pavement running smoothly and powerfully. Sean reacted quickly, but not quickly enough to cut him off before he’d reached the open pavement. Both men tore off along the darkening, empty road, their legs and arms pumping, Sean desperately hoping their race would be no more than a short sprint before Lawlor gave in.

  Sally and Anna got out of the car just in time to see the men disappear around the first corner and into an alleyway.

  ‘Shit,’ Sally shouted as the other two unmarked cars screeched to a stop next to her, the detectives spilling out. ‘He’s run, he’s run,’ she told them frantically. ‘The guv’nor’s gone after him, but he’s got no radio.’

  ‘Where?’ Donnelly shouted.

  ‘Down the alley.’

  Donnelly turned to the younger, lighter detectives. ‘Go on then. What you waiting for? Off you go.’ Zukov and the two detectives broke into a hesitant run, staying close to each other as they jogged along the road and disappeared into the alley. He noticed Sally subconsciously clutching her chest. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, a little breathlessly. ‘I should have gone after him. I should have stayed with the guv’nor.’

  ‘And then the rest of us wouldn’t have had any idea where you were or what had happened.’

  ‘I would have taken a radio,’ she argued.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her. ‘The others will catch up with him.’

  ‘No they won’t — and I don’t think he wants them to.’

  Sean’s raincoat trailed behind him like broken wings as he burst from the alley. Lawlor was only a few metres ahead, never once looking over his shoulder — years of running from the police had taught him that could be a costly mistake. They ran straight across the emerging road, causing a passing car to judder to a stop, its horn blaring as the two figures disappeared into another alley and faded into the darkness.