The Keeper

by Diane Saxon

  Nosy bastards.

  Fury bubbled beneath the surface, but he could control it. He’d always controlled it.

  He leaned against the wall of the ornate gates leading to the Ironbridge and swiped sweat from his forehead, focusing on the burn in his thighs from running so hard. She’d had him racing along the fucking muddy lane from the house, then back again to check before he’d turned himself around yet again and managed to track her. Straight down from the front of his house to the river. Fury raged. The bitch.

  If only he’d not been delayed at work. A few minutes earlier, he would have caught her before she’d even got out of the front door. Instead he’d wasted precious moments looking for her in the small cellar room. Not that there was anywhere for her to go. Except upstairs where she’d locked the fucking door into the house on him.

  Once he’d realised his mistake, he’d dashed back through the cellar and out through the garage door into the ever-lightening dawn and the persistent rain, heart exploding from his chest.

  He stood in the shadows of the Tollhouse at the entrance of the Ironbridge as she leaned against the deep railings, her body seeming to melt as she appeared too dazed to move on.

  It wouldn’t take much to heft her over the railings into the river below, then all evidence of her existence would be washed away. Her body would be found and they’d be left with another puzzle to solve as her time of death would never relate to their timelines. His lips twitched in wicked amusement. She probably wouldn’t reach the Severn Estuary, miles downriver, but with the swell of the river she’d get a long way towards it.

  He rubbed his hand over his mouth, temptation poking at him to dash across the bridge to where she still leaned against the side.

  He scanned the area, narrowing his eyes. With no one in sight, no movement that he could detect on the opposite side of the Ironbridge, he took a tentative step forward, keeping to the darkest shadows to get a better view of her.

  As though she sensed his presence, she glanced his way, her head jerked up as her shadowed gaze met his. She pushed upright, then stumbled, going down on one knee before she found her feet and ran in an unsteady stagger.

  A reluctant wisp of admiration curled in his chest at her strength.

  ‘I’m going to kill her. Stupid cow.’ Her death would be a pleasure.

  He glanced around.

  Fog snaked low across the River Severn, dulling any noise.

  The man stole forward again.

  ‘Morning!

  The swift rush of a bike sweeping past from behind almost stopped his heart. With swift instinct, the man melted into the shadows of the Tollhouse, breath rasping through his closed throat.

  He’d been seen. Fury kicked and struggled to burst free, but he held on to a thread of reason which kept him from leaping forward.

  Almost on top of Fliss, the cyclist slewed his bike sideways and leapt off, running the last few steps to her inert body.

  A shout went up from the cyclist and the man froze against the wall of the Tollhouse. He needed to go. But he’d find her again, and he would kill her. There was no doubt in his mind. She could identify him to her fucking supercilious fucking bitch of a sister. But he had a little time.

  Fliss would have hypothermia. She’d be in shock. Not enough to die, but enough so she wouldn’t be able to think straight to start with, wouldn’t know enough about him under the thick layer of drugs he’d administered to her. It was a risk, but he’d have to take it. He had no choice.

  The man flattened himself against the wall of the Tollhouse to take one last look before he slunk away, keeping low along the stone wall, alert for every giveaway movement of people. He comforted himself with the thought that the man on the bike never took the time to look back, never connected him with the woman on the ground. Every ounce of the cyclist’s attention pinned on poor, pathetic Felicity.

  The man shivered, the cold cutting into his flesh as he passed through the old gateway and made his way along the river path, to the east, where the weak rays of sun broke through the clouds and cast fingers of apricot and lilac through the persistent drizzle.

  Panic pressed a heavy weight on his chest. He was surprised she hadn’t run full tilt straight through to the police cordon without going over the bridge. Shame she hadn’t. He could have disposed of her then, wrung her neck and dumped her body where she’d originally fallen. Irony. Justice.

  He glanced over his shoulder. She would have done better to have kept going. Three police officers stood guard outside the cordon. She’d have run straight into them.

  Stupid bitch. He snorted. Too fucking stupid to know which way to run.

  He worked his way up the small incline to his house, his boots crunching across the shingle driveway. If anyone saw him now, they’d assume he’d just arrived home from work. Lucky none of his neighbours lived in close proximity and he had very little to do with them anyway. Hardly knew their names.

  He hadn’t even closed the garage door, or the front door she’d left wide open in her bid for freedom. A bid she’d won. Hate scratched a deep furrow in his heart.

  A tension headache throbbed behind his eyes as he pulled the front door closed and then worked his way around to the garage. He stepped inside and heaved the heavy iron up-and-over door down, plunging himself into darkness. Punching the light switch, the man made his way through to the small cellar room to study the mess she’d made of it.

  She’d pay. He’d make her fucking pay.

  He sloshed his way through the four inches of floodwater, knowing it would rise still further before it receded, leaving its stinking, foetid mud behind. He was sick of it. Sick of the place his mother had left him. The trap she’d left for him to rot in because he’d never sell it. Never be able to. Who’d want a virtually derelict, uninsurable house, with a garage and cellar that flooded and the mostly decomposed body of someone’s mother buried beneath the false concrete floor?

  Exhausted, he panted out irritated breaths. He needed to sweep the room, remove any evidence of Fliss’s visit, her existence. Just in case.

  He kicked the broken cot bed with his booted foot as he passed it and made his way through the room to the stairs beyond. He had to force himself to calm down. He needed his wits about him if he was to deal with Felicity Morgan before she let her sister know who’d taken her.

  He smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead in an effort to focus his mind. They’d take her to the hospital first. DS Morgan probably wouldn’t even be allowed to see her in the first instance, which could be to his advantage.

  He ignored the visible shake in his fingers as he reached for the door into his hallway. His plans had fallen apart. He needed food, then he’d clean up the cellar and sleep before he made a new plan to get him out of the situation she’d put him in. It was her fault. But he’d formulate a plan. It was his forte. Planning.

  He pulled at the door handle, but the door stuck fast. He clenched his jaw so hard, his head pulsed with pain. He’d forgotten she’d locked it from the other side. He’d never thought to unlock it before he came through the garage.

  He reared his head back and with a roar of fury kicked the thin door with all of his might, splintering it off its hinges to send it crashing through into the hallway of the house.

  With a slow intake of air through his nostrils, the man smoothed his fingers through his fine hair as he made his way to the kitchen without a backward glance at the fallen door.

  32

  Tuesday 30 October, 07:35 hrs

  Jenna leaned her backside against the desk, taking a life-saving sip of black coffee from another takeout cup Adrian had pressed into her hand, while she studied the latest progress on the board.

  Shoulder to shoulder with DI Taylor, she shrugged. ‘It doesn’t make sense. What the hell is the link? There just doesn’t appear to be one.’

  He nodded his agreement and then turned away, picking up a file of papers as he made his way to the end of the conference table and took a seat.
Head in hands, he studied the file in front of him in silence while Jenna continued to scrutinise the board.

  Misery weighed her down. ‘She’s been missing more than eighty-four hours now. Any leads we might have had have gone cold.’

  As a police officer, Jenna knew those first few hours were vital in tracing a missing person.

  DI Taylor shook his head, his lips pursing. ‘Jenna, we’ve covered so much in so little time.’ He counted off on his fingers the points they’d covered. ‘We still have an unidentified body despite looking through every missing person.’ His mouth dipped down at the edges. ‘A baby, literally hours old when it died, buried under the tunnel that the woman was found at the mouth of. DNA results that confirm they were mother and daughter.’ He shot her a sideways look. ‘As you know, we deal in facts and evidence, but somewhere along the line, we have to accept the coincidences are too strong. So, who killed the baby, because we know he didn’t die of natural causes, he was suffocated.’

  In pain, Jenna worked her way around the room to stand over him. ‘What monster could do that to a baby?’

  DI Taylor leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his wide chest. ‘Well, either the woman did it, and then committed suicide by flinging herself off the hillside…’

  Jenna shot him a doubtful stare.

  He shrugged and continued, ‘or there’s a monster out there who has kept this woman for years and when she gave birth, murdered her child. Their child. And buried him in a shallow grave.’ He raised his arms, linked his fingers and, leaning into his hands, cradled the back of his head. ‘That would be my take.’

  Jenna pulled in a sharp breath. They’d known it was a possibility, almost bet on it, but having it verified hit a chord in her heart. ‘Poor baby.’

  ‘Poor mother.’ DI Taylor scratched the top of his head, the short thick hairs rasping in the quiet of the room.

  She studied the photographs of the woman. ‘Why naked?’

  DI Taylor shrugged. ‘Her only chance to escape? He didn’t allow her clothes?’

  ‘What about the door-to-door? Surely someone knows her, recognises her?’

  ‘They turned up nothing. No one saw anything, no one heard anything.’

  ‘But she was pregnant. Didn’t she go to antenatal?’

  ‘Evidently not. We’ve checked all the records.’

  With a quick glance to where Adrian worked on his laptop at the opposite side of the room, Jenna sank into the chair next to DI Taylor. ‘Where did she come from? I mean, what about her footprints? From the night she died? Where were they?’

  ‘Difficult. We found his, which could have been from either night, but none of the victim’s. Mainly we assume because of the torrential rain. It would have washed them away. We haven’t found anything further up the hillside that may have belonged to her, but forensics are still on it and will be for some considerable time. There’s a hell of a lot of ground to cover.’

  ‘And Fliss…’

  DI Taylor touched her arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Jenna, but we’re no further forward with that part of the case either.’

  Airwaves radios sizzled to life.

  ‘Control from Golf Bravo 13. Woman found in Ironbridge, believed to be Felicity Morgan.’

  Jenna shot upright, her coffee sloshing over the rim of the cup. She whipped her head around to stare at DI Taylor.

  He held up a hand, demanding silence. ‘Go ahead, Golf Bravo 13.’

  Excitement laced the deep male tones on the radio. ‘We’ve found her, sir. We’ve found her.’

  Terror paralysed Jenna while she watched the room move in slow motion, officers jumped from their chairs, Adrian headed across the room to join her, his hand tightened on her shoulder.

  DI Taylor turned his gaze on her, pure professionalism in his stance as he raised his radio to his lips again. ‘What’s her status?’

  ‘Alive. She’s alive, sir.’ The exhilaration in the officer’s voice bounced down the Airwaves and released Jenna from her statue-like state.

  ‘Where is she?’ She grabbed at her bag, dug inside for her car keys while she waited for an answer.

  ‘Golf Bravo 13, what’s the location of Miss Morgan?’

  ‘Ironbridge, sir. She’s here. We have her. She’s weak, and confused, sir, but she’s alive and conscious.’

  ‘Golf Bravo 13, have you called an ambulance?’

  ‘That’s a positive, Control.’ A moment’s hesitation crackled the line before the officer returned. ‘The woman in the newsagent called them. We were just passing through and she shot out of her doorway. Miss Morgan had fallen coming over the Ironbridge. A cyclist helped her to the shop doorway, the woman was still on the phone to the ambulance service when we passed by.’

  The buzz of sirens sounded in the background as Jenna raced for the door, heart skipping in her chest.

  She was alive. Fliss was bloody well alive.

  Dammit, she was going to kill that sister of hers when she got hold of her for putting her through hell and back. Her heart skipped a beat and a sob hiccupped out of her mouth.

  ‘Has she confirmed her name, Golf Bravo 13? Do you have confirmation of her identity?’

  ‘Negative, Control. She’s unable to talk. We have her wrapped in our coats. She’s almost naked, Control, suffering from hypothermia at a guess. But it has to be her, Control. It has to be.’

  Jenna’s feet skimmed the stairs as she shot down the three flights. She gave a firm push to the door at the bottom and continued headlong through to the outer door without pausing for breath, until she skidded to a halt just outside as a car lurched to a stop in front of her, brakes squealing in protest.

  The door was flung open and Jenna bent at the waist to peer in.

  ‘Get in.’ Tension tightened Mason’s mouth as his sharp gaze met hers. ‘I heard it over Airwaves as I walked in. I knew you’d want to drive, but it’s my pleasure.’ His grin was fast and feral.

  Her fingers shook as she grasped the door and pulled it closed once she’d flung herself into the seat.

  ‘What if it’s not her?’

  The voice from the back seat took her by surprise when it expressed the fear she’d already raised in her own mind. She craned her neck to stare at Ryan, who leaned forward, his hands braced on the back of the driver’s seat.

  When had she stopped being so young and passionate? She’d never stopped caring, she just paced herself better. Considered the world in a different light. With cool cynicism, instead of hot enthusiasm.

  Well, that keenness had raised its head and there was no way she was about to be negative or cynical about this. ‘It’s her. They said it has to be her, who else could it be?’ She’d deal with the desperate disappointment if it wasn’t, but right now, she needed to remain positive and focused. It was Fliss. It had to be.

  Adrian flung open the rear door behind her and launched himself inside the moving car as Mason floored the accelerator. ‘Not so bloody fast, you’re going nowhere without me.’

  Jenna whipped around and pinned Adrian with a deadly stare. ‘Don’t try and stop me seeing her. I will mow you down if you get in my path.’

  His lips twitched. ‘Wouldn’t dream of trying, DS Morgan. I’ll merely act as a professional witness of any encounters.’

  Mason took the first right at the roundabout and Jenna almost swallowed her tongue in desperation.

  ‘Where are you going? It’s Ironbridge, Mason, Ironbridge.’ Panic gripped her throat as she flapped her hands around to indicate he should go back the way he’d come, but he raised one hand from the wheel and pointed ahead.

  ‘The hospital. They’ll take her straight to the hospital. Priorities, Jenna. Her physical welfare is the most important thing right now. The paramedics will take her straight there. They won’t wait for anything.’

  Her mind cleared to zero with a sharpness she’d always utilised in her job. He was correct. It may be her sister, but she still had to do things right, otherwise they’d end up chasing ambulances thro
ugh the grey light of dawn. She gave a curt nod and stared out of the window, counting the minutes until they arrived at the casualty department.

  Mason negotiated the roundabouts with nauseating fluidity until she gripped the passenger door, her fingernails digging into the plastic handhold. Reluctant to make any criticism, Jenna grit her teeth until her jaw popped.

  As the car came to a skidding halt, Jenna leapt out, air sticking in her lungs as she hitched in strained breaths.

  Quiet at that time of the morning, there was only one ambulance in the emergency bay, back doors open to reveal its emptiness.

  She wound her way through A&E to the check-in desk, flipped out her warrant card and dangled it in front of the nurse. ‘DS Morgan. I believe a Felicity Morgan has been brought in by ambulance this morning.’

  Unfazed by the badge of authority, the nurse took a moment to study Jenna’s warrant card before she scanned the computer screen in front of her.

  Jenna’s heart stuttered. One part of her wanted to race down the hospital corridors screaming out her sister’s name, while the cool professional side had to batten down the desire and swallow the lump in her throat as she waited for the nurse to respond.

  ‘I’m afraid we have no one of that name here.’

  Jenna ground her teeth and forced herself to smile. ‘Could you check if she’s on her way in by ambulance?’

  ‘Of course.’ The nurse took even longer, and Jenna resisted the temptation to tap her foot. It wasn’t the nurse’s fault, but where the hell was the ambulance? It should have had its blues and twos all the way there. They should have arrived before Jenna.

  Worry had her whipping around to meet Mason’s intent gaze. ‘Where is she?’ She pointed her finger at his nose. ‘If they’ve taken her to Shrewsbury instead…’

  Ryan fidgeted, tugging at his already loose collar, while Adrian stood cool and observant, towering over the young PC.

  ‘Okay.’

  Jenna swung around, avid attention pinned on the nurse’s next words.