by Luke Delaney
Imagine Gibran thinking he could outwit me. I look forward to seeing him again. I’ll have a nice little surprise waiting for that jumped-up fucker.
How are my wife and children? Crying for my return, no doubt. They don’t know what they pray for. If they did, they wouldn’t.
I’m sure we’ll meet again. I feel I still owe you something.
Sean held the letter for a long time. He had hoped he’d heard the last of Stefan Korsakov, but in his heart he knew he hadn’t. Korsakov liked games too much.
His desk phone rang, making him jump. He tossed the letter aside and answered. It was Kate.
‘How you doing today?’ she asked. She had called him a lot more often these last two weeks. He used to seem so invulnerable. Now there was something tenuous about him. As if he might easily be snatched away.
‘I’m doing all right,’ he said, before she could continue. ‘Listen, I was thinking. Maybe we should get out of London.’
‘And move where?’ Kate asked.
‘Well,’ Sean answered, ‘I got an email the other day. The police in New Zealand are looking to recruit British cops. I can even do a direct transfer as a DI. We’d get full residency. The kids would love it.’
‘And me?’ Kate asked.
‘Come on, Kate,’ he reassured her. ‘You’re a doctor. There isn’t a country in the world doesn’t want more doctors.’
‘What brought this on?’ Kate asked cheerfully.
Sean looked at the letter on his desk. ‘Nothing,’ he lied, remembering how close he’d been to falling off the edge – remembering being alone in the toilet, staring into the mirror and seeing the swirling darkness of his nature. ‘I guess I’m just sick of the traffic.’
Free, I was a thing of nightmares. Now, in my cage, I have become the object of morbid fascination. You lock me away to lock your fears away. You view me from a safe distance. The newspapers and television your window into my cage. The gaps between the bars through which you peer.
And what is it that scares you most? Is it that there’s a little bit of me in all of you? That little bit of madness waiting to be let loose? When that person standing too close on the underground stamps on your foot, they apologize and you tell them it’s all right. It doesn’t matter, but really you want to stamp on their head until blood and brains cover your feet, but you swallow the violence down. Keep the madness deep inside.
As for me, I’m not finished yet. The British legal system will give me a chance. Anything is possible. The judge will call my arrest and prosecution a travesty. The police will be lambasted. The media will rally to my cause. I’ll be interviewed by Jeremy Paxman. I’ll walk free from the court. Will there be cheering crowds? So many other killers have been greeted by cheering crowds, why not me? I’ll raise my arms in victory as I walk towards the waiting photographers. I’ll call to them. ‘Innocent. Proven innocent.’
COMING SOON
The new Sean Corrigan novel
THE KEEPER
Read an exclusive preview now …
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 which house Louise Russell lived in.
Keller was cautious. Although he knew he drew little attention dressed as he was in his Post Office uniform, this was not his normal route. Someone might realise he shouldn’t be here 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 twenty two he was sure to drop some post through the letter-boxes of the neighbouring houses, just in case a bored old 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 ugly new brick buildings, built for practicality with no thought of individuality or warmth. Their design provided excellent privacy and that had made Louise Russell even more attractive to him.
As he drew near to number twenty-two, his excitement and fear were both 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, moving the junk mail aside and touching the items he’d brought with him for reassurance − the electric stun-gun he’d bought on one of his few holidays outside of Britain; the washing up bottle that contained chloroform; a clean flannel; a roll of heavy-duty masking 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 speak to her before she would open the door to him. After what felt like hours to him he finally pressed it and waited as a jerky shadow moved from the bowels of the house towards the front door. He stared at the opaque glass window in the front 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 stood 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 like 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 too, twenty-eight years old. He began to tremble now, not with fear anymore, but 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 told him. ‘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 like 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 didn’t spare her from reality for long. 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 still 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 smell of his unwashed body. As his head passed close to her face she could see and smell his short, un-kept brown hair, strands of which 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 push him away, but she was trapped in the unrelenting grip of whatever he’d touched her with. 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, those same pictures mocked her from above.
‘It�
�ll be alright Sam,’ he promised. ‘We’ll get you home as soon as we can, okay. 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.’
He was touching her, his damp hands stroking her hair, her face, 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. He began to unroll a length of wide, black masking 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 away 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 all over her being, 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 right now you just 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.
He carefully placed the tape he was holding on the floor next to her and took a washing-up liquid bottle from his bag and a rag of material. He squirted clear liquid onto 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 before the chloroform fumes swept into her lungs and invaded her bloodstream. She sensed unconsciousness and welcomed it, but before 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, okay?’
She 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. Then his hands moved towards her face, holding something between them. She tried to turn away from them, 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 tonne weight, 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 her sense of self-preservation to ignite.
Suddenly he moved away from her, searching through her handbag and then the set of drawers next to the front door. Quickly 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 pull 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 still span wildly, making her unsure of anything as she began to walk, moving forward into the bright light beyond the home that should have protected her. The light and air helped clear her mind further and she could see she was standing at the rear of her own car while her attacker fumbled with her car keys. She heard the car 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 realised his intentions but only managed to mumble ‘No,’ behind her taped mouth before he held her shoulders and carefully pushed 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 time smiling, almost laughing with happiness. He had her back now, now and forever. He pulled the thin blanket from his sack and 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 any 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 now and he’d been hanging around the court doing little more than nothing since Monday morning. Sean looked around the courtroom, oblivious to its fine architecture. It was the people inside the room he was interested in judging. There was another lull in the legal arguments as the prosecuting barrister shuffled through his papers looking for something the defence had requested a copy of.
Sean watched the judge reading, the silence of the court broken only by the occasional shuffling of a page. He thought about the investigation to catch Gibran, all that had been sacrificed by so many to bring him to this court today. The lives that had been lost and nearly lost. The families that would never recover from Gibran’s crimes. And now it all came down to this: a bored-looking judge and the fact the defence had more time and money to prepare their case than the prosecution. It was never going to be a fair fight, but Sean had won many an unfair fight before and the excited pounding of his heart told him he hadn’t given up on getting what he wanted out of the legal system in this case.
Finally the judge put the Probation Service report to one side and once more looked over the court before speaking. ‘I’ve 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. I understand that the victims and the families of the
victims would wish to see the defendant tried in a court of law for his crimes, but under British law I am obligated to first establish that the defendant is indeed sufficiently sound of mind to understand the gravity of the crimes they are accused of and that they are able to truly understand the very process of a criminal trial.
‘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 further 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 feeling knotted and empty. His attention was immediately pulled back to proceedings as the prosecution barrister got 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 room 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 rather than a murder suspect. ‘I have decided that in this case you will not be standing trial for the crimes you have been charged with as I have serious doubts over whether you would be able to comprehend what would be happening to you and defend yourself adequately from those charges. Therefore it has been decided that you should receive further psychiatric treatment. It is my job to exercise the powers under the Mental Health Act and place you in the hands of those best able to help you.’
