The Keeper

by Diane Saxon

  It seemed so unfair though. Her sister was missing for God’s sake. She needed to look for her, but they’d sent her home at two thirty in the morning with a police escort – the female officer who had been in the conference room. She didn’t even know her. She guessed that had been the idea. Anyone who had known her would probably have helped her slip out of her house and go looking for her sister.

  Reason took hold. It wasn’t an escort. Gregg had the best intentions when he’d sent someone to accompany her. He’d never suspected her of slipping out of her own house to look for Fliss. It was simply protocol. It was support. She had no one else.

  She met her own gaze in the mirror, hiccupped through an inward breath. She had no one.

  Mum.

  Her mind screamed the tortured word. If only her mum was here. She’d know what to do, but Jenna had no idea.

  So, she’d had a long, hot shower, scrubbed all evidence of the night’s events from her body; but she couldn’t rid her mind of them. When she’d fallen into bed, her body had dictated that she sleep. An uneasy sleep besieged by blood and black clouds, the dark, churning waters of the River Severn and Domino’s blood-covered body.

  Jenna peered closer at her own tight face, then routed around in her make-up drawer. She slapped on a good dollop of moisturiser, the one Fliss had bought her for her last birthday with a flippant laugh as she told her she was getting older and she needed to look after her skin. Jenna studied herself for a moment, she needed some anti-wrinkle crap around her eyes and mouth too. Surely at twenty-nine, she shouldn’t need to use it already. Fliss insisted she did, but what the hell did she know? She was still a child.

  With a soft sob, Jenna dabbed a small amount of anti-wrinkle cream on, patted it over her skin while the smell wound its way through her senses to remind her of her sister who used it all the time. Fliss’s not-so-best-kept secret.

  Quick puffs of air served only to make her chest ache while she ran a critical gaze over her handiwork.

  ‘Crap.’

  Purple smudged beneath her eyes, making her green irises bright and glassy. Her cap of short, thick hair emphasised the paleness of her skin.

  Nothing for it but to cover up with foundation. Not something she normally bothered with for work, she had no option, she needed to hide the dark blemishes and brighten up her cheeks with blusher. Because there was no way she was about to face her team and others – strangers enlisted in to help – looking like shit. As though she couldn’t handle a case, just because it involved her sister.

  She gulped in air and grabbed the tube of foundation, dotting a little on each waxen cheek, her forehead, her chin and then her nose.

  Once she started, the routine of applying make-up soothed, and by the time she’d finished, her eyes had lost their insolence and had started to simply look haunted. As she met her own gaze in the mirror, pain cramped her stomach. ‘Oh God, Fliss. Where are you?’

  ‘Sarg?’

  The urgent rap on the door had Jenna almost jumping out of her skin.

  ‘Yes?’ Her voice was sharper than she intended, but the woman had scared the living daylights out of her.

  ‘Are you all right in there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Irritation sparked. Of course she was all right, she was in her own bloody home. What did the woman want? She had every right to get herself ready, didn’t she? Prepare herself for the day.

  She drew in a lungful of air, blew it out again as fury flashed back at her from the mirror. ‘Yes. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ She choked back the torrent of abuse she desperately wanted to hurl. ‘Just give me… a minute.’

  ‘I’ve made coffee.’ The police officer’s muffled voice came from the other side of the door.

  Jenna jerked open the bathroom door with such suddenness the woman almost fell in.

  ‘What?’

  Her dark eyes widened with shock, the PC blinked at her. ‘Coffee. I’ve made coffee for us both. And a piece of toast. I hope you don’t mind.’ Chewing on her lip, she stepped back into the hallway, knuckles exposed as she wrung her delicate hands together. ‘I’m sorry, but we need to leave in fifteen minutes for the meeting.’

  ‘Fifteen?’ Jenna stared at her watch. Where had the time gone? She must have been in the bathroom for over an hour. She’d sat on the loo seat for most of the time, stared into the mirror for the rest of it. Head completely empty. No wonder the officer had been concerned.

  Jenna raised her hand to push back the choppy layers of her brown hair and grab hold of a little composure. ‘Coffee would be good. Thank you.’ Forcing herself to be reasonable, Jenna followed the woman through to the kitchen and accepted the mug of thick, black liquid. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name last night.’

  ‘Donna. PC Donna McGuire.’ Sitting down opposite her, Donna took a sip of coffee, wet her lips. ‘I’m sorry about your sister. It’s terrible.’ Her soft, Scottish brogue soothed Jenna.

  ‘Thank you. I know.’ With a nod, Jenna leaned back in her own chair, not really knowing what to say. She’d always kept her own counsel. She wasn’t really used to opening up to others. Her little sister was the only one who ever knew what she was thinking. Her and Mason. ‘I’m sorry if I was rude. It’s…’ Breath shuddered through the burn in her chest. ‘It’s not easy.’

  Donna nodded, took another sip of her coffee while her gaze skittered away from Jenna’s. She picked up a slice of buttered wholemeal toast and nibbled at the corner. ‘I understand.’

  Fear and hard-to-control fury bubbled just below the surface, threatening to emerge in a screaming, teeth-gnashing geyser. Understand? It was a term Jenna had used herself, a million times. But how the hell could anyone understand? Instead of replying, she turned her face to the window and took a deep gulp of the hot coffee so Donna couldn’t see the spitting fury in her expression.

  The police car Donna had brought her home in the previous night was parked in her drive where Fliss normally dumped her stupid little car.

  White, with huge black Dalmatian prints all over it. A damned humiliation which Fliss thought was a hoot when she stuck them on. Especially when Domino stared at people in the cars behind. He sat up straight like little Lord Fauntleroy, with a haughty stare out of the window. All he needed was a monocle.

  Stupid bloody dog.

  A sob caught in her throat.

  On the practical side of things, no one would ever want to buy or steal the car.

  Jenna choked on a small hiccupping sob. Poor Domino. Who the hell would want a Dalmatian print car other than Fliss? Unless they had a cow fetish.

  Sarah, the vet, had phoned sometime in the middle of the night. Jenna frowned as she tried to remember what time. She barely remembered the call. Just that Domino was out of surgery and in recovery.

  She touched her fingers to the deep ache in her temple. She needed to phone the vets’ as soon as they were open, check on him again. Pain cramped her chest. Fliss would never forgive her if she let anything happen to him.

  At least the police vehicle wasn’t parked at an angle. Fliss couldn’t park for shit, but Jenna would far rather see the car half-mounted on the pavement than know it was currently with SOCO undergoing a thorough examination to check if there were any clues.

  They wouldn’t find anything. They knew that already, but it had to be carried out. No sense in leaving out one step and finding out later down the line she’d returned to her vehicle and left some kind of evidence. Evidence which would be contaminated by the biggest shitload of rubbish SOCO had ever encountered.

  Despite residing at Jenna’s, Fliss lived out of her car. Take-out coffee cups, tissues, sweet packets and half the contents of her wardrobe were in there, scattered around so she had to dig for anything she needed.

  Jenna glanced down at her hands cradling the mug of coffee. Paper-dry skin already from the elements. At least Fliss could always find gloves in her car. They may not be a pair, but Fliss always insisted on keeping her hands protected and her hands were always so
ft. And warm.

  Jenna sucked in a breath of air. What if she wasn’t warm now? What if wherever she was, she was freezing cold?

  The sharp sting of tears threatened while a leaden weight pressed on her chest.

  Slow and controlled, she placed the mug on the table, blinked to rid herself of the impending tears and forced a tight smile. ‘I should ring the vets’ again before we go.’

  ‘I already did.’ Donna flicked out her notebook. ‘Your sister’s dog had to have ninety-seven stitches down his side. His jaw was broken. Not as bad as Sarah had thought at first. They managed to fix him up during a four and a half hour operation. They’ve kept him lightly sedated because they were worried about his brain swelling after the blow to his head. You can visit him this afternoon if you would like. Let them know before you go.’ There was a moment’s awkward silence as Donna closed her notebook and waited for Jenna to say something.

  ‘Domino.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Donna leaned closer as though she couldn’t quite hear.

  ‘My sister’s dog.’ Jenna smiled as she thought about him. How much she adored him, despite her continual moaning about him to Fliss. All she wanted was to have him back, so she could nurse him, cuddle him. Cry over him. ‘He’s called Domino.’ She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment to stop the tears. ‘When he was a puppy, he only had a few spots. Fliss thought he looked like a Domino.’ She dipped her head, sucked in a long breath and sighed it out while she picked at a fingernail still with ingrained mud under it, despite scrubbing her fingers through her hair in the shower. Jenna shook her head with the memory of the leggy little pup. Adorable little thing, who’d grown into a monster, far too big for her compact three bedroom house.

  She ignored the slice of toast Donna had buttered and cut into triangles for her and jerked up from the chair. She made her way over to the kitchen sink to throw the dregs of her coffee away. She rinsed the mug and set it upside down on the draining board while she stared out of the kitchen window at the grey light and the depressing drizzle, searching for something innocuous to say to keep her from thinking about the day ahead.

  ‘You know Dalmatians get their spots like chickenpox.’ She flicked Donna a sidelong glance as the woman brushed the crumbs from her fingers, still chewing the last of her toast as she crossed the kitchen to join her. She probably wasn’t really interested, but Jenna continued anyway. It soothed her to talk a pile of shit. ‘From birth, the spots come out every few weeks in crops, like a rash, until they’re about two years old.’ She watched Donna place her mug in the sink and wondered absently why she hadn’t washed it. It was something Fliss did. It bugged the hell out of Jenna to find an unwashed mug in the bottom of the sink.

  As Donna walked away, Jenna automatically picked up the mug and washed it under the hot water, ran the soapy dishcloth around the rim to make sure she’d removed any germs. Cold sores. She hadn’t noticed one on the police officer’s lips, but you never knew. That’s how she always got them, if a mug wasn’t washed properly. She gave it a final rinse before she placed the mug on the drainer. ‘Shall we go?’

  Donna brushed delicate fingers over her perfectly defined lips, self-consciously brushing away a stray crumb as she nodded her agreement and followed Jenna into the hallway.

  Jenna slipped her old flat-heeled ankle boots on. Her new ones were still covered in mud from the slide down the Gorge and she had no interest in cleaning them or finding out if the heel had given way. There were far more important things to deal with and it was time to focus on them.

  She pulled the door closed behind her and followed Donna down the garden path, her attention on the woman’s neat little bun at the nape of her neck, shoulders square, posture perfect, and straightened her own shoulders, disgusted at the creak and groan down the entire length of her spine. When did she get to be old? It had started when her mother died and snowballed the moment she realised Fliss had gone missing.

  At the click of the unlock button, Jenna opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat.

  The drive to the station was only fifteen minutes but it gave Jenna the opportunity to sulk again. After she’d given her report to the Chief Super last night, he’d told her he wanted her to go home, wash, eat, sleep and report for duty at 09:00. She tried to argue that she was due to meet with the search teams at Ironbridge, but he would have none of it.

  ‘You will shower, you will eat, and you will sleep, that’s an order, Sergeant. There’s nothing more you can do tonight. You’re done. We need you tomorrow. The scenes of crime officers won’t be able to do anything until daylight, and you can’t do anything until they’ve done their job. So, go home. When refreshed, you will answer more questions. Jenna, you will be needed, and you will be on top form.’ Gregg showed a measure of why he had been promoted to the position he was in. Leadership and command came naturally.

  She had followed his instructions. She’d showered at length, but it hadn’t washed away the fear; ate, so to speak; slept fitfully. She couldn’t claim to feel refreshed.

  She glanced out of the window, desperate to get back to the search instead of wasting more time by going to the station. She could be looking for Fliss. She needed to find her sister. Where the hell could she be? Jenna refused to believe she’d been swept away by the river. But the alternative didn’t bear thinking about. What if someone had her, was holding her captive? What if she was injured? What if… Jenna’s mind raced in ever-decreasing circles. She needed to get to work. There was no point making assumptions. She needed facts.

  The forensics guys would already have been at the site at first light to conduct a fingertip search. She comforted herself with the thought that they would be getting on with the investigations while she had a debrief in the conference room at the station, and as she was in charge of the investigation, she would join SOCO later.

  10

  Saturday 27 October, 08:10 hrs

  The man stared at Felicity while he scooped porridge into his mouth, scraping his spoon over his lips to swipe away any that may have missed his mouth. Still out of it, her purple-hued cheek lay flaccid against the greying pillow, her limbs sprawled over the narrow cot bed.

  He glanced around the room. He’d not used it for several months, ever since his wife had become more… receptive. The heavier she’d become as the baby grew inside her, the more compliant she’d been.

  He’d obviously made a mistake by letting her have more freedom and ultimately it had resulted in her demise. He’d learnt his mistake from that. One he would never make again.

  Stupid woman, with more thought of escape than survival. He’d adored her. He told her every day how much he loved her as he stroked her tender skin and tended to the minor abrasions she seemed to have accrued. Such a clumsy woman. She always had something wrong with her, brought about by her own stupidity, her clumsiness, but he’d cared for her, kept her safe. Helped her to give birth.

  The pungent smell of damp wrinkled his nose. He’d need to replace the mattress and pillow if Felicity was to stay. Maybe bring a small rug down to give the place a homely feel. Although with the likelihood of flooding, it might be better to leave it until spring. If she survived.

  He chewed the porridge, counting to twenty in his head before he swallowed while he contemplated the corpse-like state of the woman. He’d overdosed her. She was obviously lighter than he thought when he hefted her through the Gorge the previous night. She’d felt like a lead weight. Perhaps he was getting weaker, but he’d assumed she was half the weight again of his wife. That’s what he’d based the dose on.

  He filled his mouth again and then placed his bowl on the floor as he crouched down beside the inert body. Her flesh was cooler than it should be but still felt tepid to the touch. He pushed his fingers against the side of her swollen, blackened neck and pressed to find a thin, thready pulse. Perhaps she’d die, and all his efforts would be for nothing.

  With narrowed eyes, he studied her neck.

  Her skin warmed beneath
the heat of his fingers as he cupped his hand around her throat. Her lips parted, and she expelled a light breath triggering a shot of lust which fired through his veins to make his own breath come in short, excited puffs. She wanted him. Even in her sleep, she wanted him.

  He trailed his fingers down her chest, nudging aside the soft cotton of her T-shirt, teasing aside her lacy black bra, his heart hammering as he slipped his hand inside and cupped her breast in his palm. Smaller than his wife’s large, balloon-like breasts, Felicity’s barely filled his hand, her small nipple hard against his palm.

  A bead of sweat broke out across his forehead as he licked his lips, his penis hardening, so he shuffled onto his knees to a more comfortable position, pressing himself against the metal-framed cot. He closed his eyes and gave a gentle squeeze of her breast. Ecstasy setting his skin on fire.

  Fliss whimpered in her sleep and his eyes shot open as he whipped his hand away, guilt and disgust mingling.

  He shouldn’t touch her. It was wrong. She was a dirty little slag. His lip curled in self-disgust as he stared at the blood-stained remains of her clothes. She was injured. Damaged. Imperfect.

  In a swift move, he lurched to his feet and backed away from her, his foot clipping the porridge bowl he’d left on the floor. The loud clatter shook him, rattling through his system like an alarm. He blew out in short, sharp pants in an attempt to centre himself.

  If she died, he’d have to get rid of her body. Fate would make the decision, but he could help keep her alive.

  He glanced at his watch. Time was running out. He had to go. He’d be late for work and he really needed to be there.

  He snatched at the musty smelling blanket on the bottom of the cot, jolting her feet so she let out a pained groan. He shook out the blanket and threw it over her, and then tossed her jacket on top. He swiped up his empty bowl and scurried from the room, locking the door behind him, her soft sigh haunting his every move.