The Keeper

by Diane Saxon

  With a fast dash to the cramped downstairs toilet, he spewed thirty-five pounds’ worth of whisky into the toilet bowl, over the floor and splattered it up the walls. As his knees turned to water, he melted onto the floor, his head too heavy to hold up. He slumped in the confined space, rested his head in the crook of his arms and let the riotous swirling take him down in the knowledge he couldn’t fall any further.

  The sour stench of vomit filled his nostrils as he reared up to dry-heave into the bowl again, sharp knives piercing his stomach as it gave a spasmodic clench. He puffed his lips out as he breathed out in a desperate attempt not to suck in any more of the rancid odour of his own sick and piss.

  Filled with self-disgust, the man lurched to his feet and staggered out of the toilet. He negotiated the stairs, determined not to touch the walls with his puke-smeared hands. He stumbled into the shower and turned it on full force. The icy blast wrenched a pained howl from him, and he dropped to his knees again as he waited for the water to warm up and soak the ice from his veins. He peeled the layers of clothing from his body, allowing the powerful gush of water to sluice away two days’ worth of dirt and body odour. His hate-filled heart beat thin and thready.

  He flipped the water off and stepped out of the shower, reaching for the thick brown towel he kept on the heater. With his hands digging into his soaking hair, he stood naked, his face screwed up as the vague recollection of a puke-filled towel in the kitchen rolled through his memory of the previous night.

  He padded barefoot across the landing and opened the airing cupboard door. He reached inside to grab the first towel he could, fingers of ice trailing down his body. Goosebumps skittered over his skin as he tossed the towel around him and started to rub while he made his way back to the bathroom, a fusty odour from the airing cupboard thick in the air, triggering his vomit reflex again.

  He rubbed the towel over his body until his skin smarted, then he swiped the steam from the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes greeted him as he stared back at himself.

  Women. Bitches, all of them.

  He’d given Mary a wonderful life, hadn’t he? She’d have still been snivelling, curled up in a ball in a back alley, if he hadn’t saved her eight years before, probably prostituting herself and living on drugs. It was no life for a teenager. Her parents had never missed her. Never tried to find her. Alcoholics, both of them, according to Mary. Why would anyone look in the backwater that was Shropshire? She’d jumped on a train from London, with only enough money to get her as far as Telford, she’d said, a new town, a new life. And he’d saved her. Ungrateful cow. Look how she’d rewarded him.

  At first life had been good. Mary had been content to live with him and his mum. She’d not wanted to go out. Why would she?

  His mum hadn’t been out for years. She had no friends. No one she cared to go and see. He’d been enough for his mum. He’d been her keeper.

  But he hadn’t been enough for Mary. She’d wanted to go out. To see and be seen. She’d been young back then, malleable, and he’d made sure she didn’t go out. Promised his mum she’d settle down, make a good wife, when he’d locked her in the cellar for her own safety. Away from his mum’s vicious jealousy.

  He leaned his hand on the wall to stop the world from spinning.

  If only his mum hadn’t wanted to visit Mary. If only he hadn’t pushed her from the top of the cellar steps. He cradled his head in his hands. Ignorant bitch. Life hadn’t been the same since his mum broke her neck in the fall. Inconsiderate bitch. Stupid, clumsy woman. She’d ruined his fucking life with one mis-step. Literally. It had been entirely her fault.

  He dragged his fingers down his face.

  He couldn’t go into work like this. If they didn’t already know, they soon would. He never went to work looking anything other than sleek and professional.

  He pushed back his stringy, wet hair and raised his chin. Ignoring the roiling nausea that threatened to overwhelm him again. He would not be sick. Not again. Mouth grim, he drew air in through his nostrils, determined to conquer the alcohol still streaming through his veins.

  A shave. He would shave and that would make a difference.

  He reached for the razor and hoped he didn’t slit his own throat.

  He should have slit Mary’s throat and buried her in the cellar along with his mother. No one would have ever found her. She’d been quite content until she’d become pregnant. Once the baby had been born, she’d been consumed by it. Completely overwhelmed. It had only taken a slight pinch to the baby’s nose and he’d gone. Too easy really, and not his fault, if only the baby’s cry hadn’t pierced his soul. If it had stayed silent instead of yowling and distracting Mary from her duty. She was supposed to look after him, not a fucking baby.

  He’d buried the baby under the brick tunnel along the Gorge. Far enough in so no one would ever find him.

  Only, she tried. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taunted her with the knowledge. He’d underestimated her attachment to the baby, never realising how much she’d miss him.

  It wasn’t his fault, of course.

  It was her fault.

  And the stupid bitch had lost her mind and made a break for it. She’d rather have been found naked than stay with him any longer. He’d arrived home to find the cellar empty. Mary gone. He should have realised how strong the bond to her baby had been. Strong enough for her to go in search of him. Her mind had been addled by then. Whatever they called it, baby blues, post-natal depression, she’d been affected, and he’d been left with no option but to follow her and put an end to it. An end to her. It hadn’t taken much to break her neck, though it hadn’t been deliberate. If only she’d come back with him, but with no good reason other than the damned baby she’d refused to acknowledge had died he’d been unable to persuade her to come home. And that godawful caterwauling she’d started. He’d needed to stop the noise. Just stop her before the entire town came out to investigate.

  He hadn’t anticipated losing her down the Gorge either. Stupid carelessness as he’d flung her naked body over his shoulder and overbalanced, surprised at the dead weight of her as she flopped over him.

  The only good thing to come of it was the stupid examiner had declared the death an accident – another bloody woman, they should all be strangled at birth – he’d broken Mary’s neck with such skill it appeared she’d done it on her long slide down the Gorge. Pride nudged away the nausea. He’d never thought they’d mistake murder for a simple nudge down the Gorge.

  Fingers still shaky, he lifted the razor to his face, making the job a dicey one but, in the end, the two day growth of mottled grey and black whiskers were removed and his clean-shaven face glowed a healthy pink, enough to deceive most people. The ones who never saw beyond the outer shell. Bitches like Detective Sergeant Jenna Morgan who pretended to care but had no interest really.

  Shame he hadn’t killed her sister. It would have been interesting to watch Jenna deteriorate. She thought the world revolved around her and her little fucking perfect family, but it didn’t. He’d had nothing to do with the demise of her mother, but the pleasure he’d experienced watching DS Morgan’s desperate misery had soothed his soul.

  The man peered at his watch as it swirled before his eyes. If he was lucky and fell asleep straight away, he’d get five hours rest before he needed to return to work.

  He squeezed toothpaste onto his electric toothbrush and did precisely the recommended two minutes, glancing at the little timer each time the toothbrush jigged every thirty seconds, just to make sure.

  He grabbed the glass on the edge of the sink and filled it with water. As he gulped down the third refill, his gaze, swirling with alcohol and superior satisfaction, stayed on the mirror.

  They didn’t know. Fliss hadn’t told them. For whatever reason, she’d decided to hold on to the information that could ruin him.

  The man placed the empty glass back on the sink, a glimmer of a smile danced on his lips. There had to be a reason she’d not told the police who he was. Perh
aps Felicity hadn’t really wanted to escape. Had he made a mistake drugging her too much? He’d confused her. Maybe she regretted fleeing. She’d changed her mind and wanted to belong to him. Let him keep her again.

  38

  Thursday 1 November, 17:55 hrs

  ‘Hey, Frank. How’s it going?’

  Frank’s bony shoulders jiggled. He rubbed his hands together, stare firmly fixed on the incident board. ‘Nothing. Just nothing. It’s a dead-end.’

  Jenna stepped closer, narrowing her gaze to see what he could. Still nothing. Every time she came in that’s what she was told. No little nuggets of information. Anything they’d found so far related to Jane Doe and her baby.

  ‘Essentially, we’ve got no leads.’ He shook his head and met her gaze, his own filled with a peculiar, satisfied gleam. ‘A perfect crime.’

  ‘No crime is perfect.’ She sipped at her coffee as she turned her attention back to the board.

  ‘I didn’t think you were allowed in here without that guy.’ He turned away from the board and his gaze bored into her.

  ‘I’m allowed to look. I’m just not supposed to do anything.’ Frustration rumbled through her voice. ‘I just like to think something will “pop” and I’ll see what no one else has.’

  ‘If you do, be sure to let me know first. I’d hate to see you lose your job over it.’

  Jenna shrugged. Frank was unusually gritty. He’d obviously had a bad day. ‘She’s my sister, Frank.’

  ‘Not worth losing your job over.’

  ‘I’d give up my life, if it meant she was safe.’

  His dark eyes swirled with uncomfortable intensity. ‘Would you really?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  ‘How is she? Back home? Recovering well, I hope.’

  ‘Early days yet, but, yes, I think she’ll be okay.’

  ‘Good.’ He nodded as he picked up a stack of papers and handed it to her. ‘As you’re here, you might as well have a look through these.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘People you’ve arrested since you began your career who fit your sister’s description of her… kidnapper.’

  Disappointed, she flicked through the dozen or so sheets of paper. ‘Not many.’

  ‘No, I guess your sister gave a reasonably generic description.’

  ‘I guess “murdering-bastard-sleaze-ball” doesn’t show up on our search engine?’

  His mouth kicked up at the sides, but his expression stayed flat. ‘I guess not.’

  Jenna reached out and squeezed his arm. ‘I’ll run through them. I’ll let you know when I’m done.’ She turned and wound her way through the tables towards the door when a thought occurred to her. He had issues with his wife’s mental health. With her own problems, Jenna hadn’t given him a thought. Last she’d heard, his wife had been going through a better time, perhaps the situation had changed again. ‘Frank?’ She swung around in his direction. ‘How’s your wife?’

  Surprise shot his eyebrows up. ‘She… left.’

  Staggered, Jenna stopped in her tracks. ‘What?’

  ‘She left me.’

  ‘Oh, Frank, I’m so sorry.’ She took a few steps in his direction. ‘You should have said. I feel terrible. I thought she was so much better.’

  He gave a tight smile. ‘So much she decided she didn’t need me any more and left.’

  As Jenna came closer, she lowered her voice so the others in the room couldn’t hear. ‘Did she say why?’

  He hesitated, then puffed out a sigh of resignation. ‘No. She just walked out the front door, leaving it open.’ He stood with hands on hips.

  ‘How long ago was this? Have you heard from her?’

  He dipped his head, shaking it so a hank of thinning hair flopped over his face. ‘No, but I’m sure she’s happier where she is.’

  Before Jenna could voice a reassuring reply, her radio fizzed. ‘Juliette Alpha 76. This is Control.’

  She patted Frank on the arm, mouthed ‘I’m so sorry.’ And then spoke into Airwaves. ‘This is Juliette Alpha 76, go ahead, Control.’

  ‘Hey, Sarg. I have some information for you regarding the rape case you’re dealing with.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Her mobile phone rang, and she glanced over at the number. Not recognising it, she nodded at it and mouthed to Frank, ‘Could you get it?’ as she listened to Control.

  Frank raised her phone to his ear. ‘DS Morgan’s phone, Frank Bartwell speaking.’ He waited, his brow crinkling with consternation as he held the phone to his ear a moment longer and then lifted the mobile away from his face. He shrugged before he put it back and spoke again. ‘Hello, this is DS Morgan’s phone… can I help you?’ He stared at the display again and then stabbed the call end button. ‘Some stupid kid messing around, or a heavy breather.’ He placed her phone on the desk, raised his hand to give a quick wave. ‘I’m off home now. See you tomorrow.’

  39

  Thursday 1 November, 18:25 hrs

  ‘Fuck. Fuck.’

  Sweat popped out of every pore on his skin as Frank’s foot shot from underneath him and he almost went head first down the police station stairwell in his haste to get out.

  ‘You all right there, Frank?’

  He reared his head up and glared as Mason trotted up the stairs towards him. Bastard. If he said another word, he’d fucking smack him on the nose. Teeth gritting, he forced himself to reply. ‘Yeah.’

  Mason paused on the step below him. ‘Are you sure? You don’t look so good.’

  Staggered by the genuine concern on the other man’s face, Frank paused. Be nice. Be nice to him and he’ll never suspect. ‘I’m fine. It’s been a long day.’

  Mason moved up a couple of steps. ‘It’s been a long week.’ He reached out to pat Frank’s shoulder and it was all Frank could do not to flinch at the sickening display of manly bonding. Mason was a fucking dick. Everyone thought he was funny, but he wasn’t. He was just a juvenile prick.

  Frank ducked his head and continued down the stairs, slower this time. Better not to attract attention.

  Mason called out from above him. ‘You seen Sergeant Morgan?’

  Cold sweat pooled along Frank’s spine, but he forced himself to pause and look up, so his gaze met Mason’s. ‘She’s in the incident room.’

  ‘Cheers, pal.’

  Frank dipped his head to keep the vicious retorts running through his mind from spilling out of his mouth. You’re no ‘pal’ of mine, you fucking twat.

  Frank raised his hand to the duty sergeant as he passed the public service counter and then dipped his fingers into his pocket to wrap his fingers around the set of keys he’d removed from Jenna’s handbag. When would women learn that it was the easiest crime in the world to just swipe keys, purses, credit cards, fucking money from the top of their handbags? Not even a crime, just an invitation to take when they left the bag on the back of a chair, with its top gaping open like a yawning mouth.

  He slid into the driver’s seat of his car and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Control. He needed to get back his control or he’d ruin everything.

  She’d already nearly ruined everything for him. Fucking woman. He rued the day her path had ever crossed his. Each time he formulated a plan, she managed to bugger it up.

  He scraped his trembling fingers through his hair and then buckled up.

  He’d planned everything so well. He’d even managed to change Donna McGuire’s duty using Taylor’s profile, so when it was investigated, no one would suspect him.

  He blew out a breath as he turned the key and fired the engine.

  Cornered, he had no choice but to carry on. Strategy was his thing, provided he didn’t panic. Discipline.

  Follow the plan. It was still his intention. Everything had fallen into place, just the way he needed, except the timing. Even so, he could handle it. The window of opportunity would be tight, but he could do it.

  He reversed his car out of the parking space, glancing over his should
er at the concrete and glass monstrosity that was Malinsgate Police Station. His heart pounded. He’d never set out to deliberately kill anyone before. Life had just happened and his mum and Mary had both been accidents. Even the baby had gone quicker than he expected. A weak, pathetic life that had snuffed out in the blink of an eye. He’d never meant them any harm. Each one of them had contributed to their own demise. Stupid, stupid women. It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t be held to blame. And now he had to clear up this mess that she’d created.

  40

  Thursday 1 November, 18:55 hrs

  As she finished her conversation with Control, Jenna glanced around. Frank had left for the day, but the pile of identities was still on the desk in front of her. She glanced at her phone, the last number on it not one she recognised.

  Adrian had slipped into the office while she discussed her case and leaned over his laptop, too deep in concentration to notice her.

  She glanced over at DI Taylor, absorbed in conversation with Salter and Wainwright.

  Mason swung through the doorway, pushing food into his mouth as he approached.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Unfortunately, nothing. The leads are all cold. Not a single decent connection to the dead woman and her baby, and Fliss.’

  ‘Huh.’ He slumped into the seat next to hers, giving her a shoulder bump so her chair wheeled a few inches away from the desk.

  ‘Where have you been?’ She shot him a quick glance while she shuffled through the papers in front of her, pressing her fingers into her furrowed brow as she tried to imagine one of the unlikely suspects kidnapping her sister.

  ‘I took the kid to do some investigating.’

  ‘Investigating? You took him for something to eat, didn’t you?’

  He grinned and swallowed the last of the burger bun, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth to rid himself of any crumbs. He shuffled his chair forward and leaned on the desk next to her, earning a quiet look from Adrian from across the room.