The Keeper dsc-2 Page 3

  Sean broke the argument up with a question. ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Featherstone’s mind was still tussling with Donnelly.

  ‘How old is the missing woman?’

  Featherstone flicked through the file he’d been holding throughout the meeting. ‘Thirty.’

  ‘Prime running-away-with-another-man age,’ Donnelly sniffed.

  ‘She hasn’t run away,’ Sally joined in. ‘A woman wouldn’t leave so many personal belongings behind unless something had happened.’

  ‘Like what?’ Donnelly asked.

  ‘Like she was taken,’ Sally answered.

  Sean sensed another argument was about to flare. ‘We’ll look into it,’ he announced.

  ‘What?’ Donnelly turned to him, indignant.

  ‘Look at it this way,’ Sean told Donnelly. ‘If we can find her before something happens to her, we’ll save ourselves a lot of work.’

  ‘Good,’ Featherstone said. ‘I want to be regularly updated on this one, Sean. The powers that be are keen for a positive result to keep the media off their backs.’ He handed the missing persons report to Sean who passed it on to Sally. ‘There are a few photographs of her in the file. The only distinguishing mark is a scar from when she had her appendix removed when she was a teenager.’

  ‘Get some copies of this run up please, Sally, and spread them around the team,’ Sean told her. ‘Dave can give you a hand.’

  Donnelly looked as displeased as he felt. ‘Waste of our time,’ he insisted. ‘She’ll be home in a couple of days smelling of aftershave and demanding a divorce.’

  Sean gave him a hard look. ‘I don’t think so,’ was all he said. Donnelly knew when to stop pushing and left the office in Sally’s wake.

  Featherstone waited until they were well out of earshot before speaking again. ‘How’s Sally?’ he asked.

  Sean sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘She’s getting there,’ he answered.

  ‘Bollocks,’ snapped Featherstone. ‘Any fool can see she’s struggling, unsurprisingly.’

  ‘She’ll be OK,’ Sean assured him, a little disappointed in Featherstone’s lack of faith in Sally’s ability to recover. ‘She needs some time and a decent investigation to take her mind off what happened, that’s all.’

  ‘Is that why you so readily agreed to take on a missing persons inquiry?’ Featherstone asked. ‘To help Sally.’

  Sean avoided the question. ‘I didn’t realize I had a choice.’

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ Featherstone told him, ‘you did have a choice.’ Sean said nothing as Featherstone headed out of his office. ‘Make sure you keep me posted and if there’s anything I can do, give me a call. I know you’re allergic to the media, so if you need me to deal with them, no problem.’

  Featherstone was halfway out the door when Sean stopped him with a question. ‘Do you think she’s already dead? Is that why you want me to take this on?’

  ‘I was hoping you would tell me that, Sean,’ Featherstone answered. ‘And her name’s Louise Russell and she’s someone’s wife, someone’s daughter — and if we do our jobs properly, one day she might be someone’s mother. I think we all need to remember that, don’t you?’

  Sean said nothing as he watched Featherstone close the door behind him.

  He suddenly felt very alone, sitting in his small warm office, surrounded by cheap furniture and out-dated computers with monitors that belonged in a museum. Even the view out of his window offered nothing but the sight of sprawling Peckham council estates and the travellers’ caravan site on the wasteland next to the police station itself. He started to think about Louise Russell, to imagine what had happened to her and why. Where was she now? Was she still alive and if so why? Had somebody taken her, taken her to do horrific things to her? Should they expect a ransom note? No, he didn’t think so. This felt like madness, as if madness had come into Louise Russell’s life without any warning or reason.

  Sean rubbed his face and tried to chase the questions away. She’s a missing person, he told himself. Stop treating her like she’s dead. But he knew it was pointless — he’d already begun. He’d already begun to think like him. Like the madman who’d taken her.

  2

  Natural light flooded down the staircase and into the room, its brightness temporarily blinding Louise Russell as she blinked to adjust to its harshness, before the noise of a door being quickly but carefully closed took the light away. Louise’s eyes welcomed back the twilight she had grown accustomed to and looked across the room at Karen Green, who was sinking further into the corner of her cage, her fingers curling through and around the wire mesh as if she was bracing herself, anchoring herself against a tide that was about to sweep her away. Louise could hear her trying to stifle her tears as the footsteps on the stairs grew closer. She listened to those footsteps approaching, but they weren’t heavy and dramatic, they were light and made little more than a shuffling, scraping sound that filled her with a fear worse than anything she’d ever experienced.

  It was as if her senses were tuned in to the minutest sound, shade, smell, movement in her prison. This was the darkest most desperate place and time of her life, yet she’d never felt so alive. She found herself mimicking her fellow captive as she backed into the furthest corner of her cage, the beat of her own throbbing pulse almost drowning out the gentle footsteps that tentatively crept down towards them.

  After what seemed both an agonizingly long time and a desperately short time he appeared at the bottom of the stairs and stepped falteringly into the makeshift dungeon. Louise watched as he paused before slowly moving inside, keeping close to the wall. As far as she could make out he was wearing a dark or grey tracksuit top and bottoms. Still he said nothing as he moved deeper into the room, then suddenly disappeared as if by magic. A second later she heard the springy click of a cord being pulled, followed by the yellow glow of a low-wattage bulb spilling into the subterranean room. The light wasn’t strong enough to trouble her eyes or vision, but it made a huge difference to what she could see clearly. She saw that he’d walked behind a fabric screen, the type used on hospital wards to provide some degree of privacy.

  It was like watching a silhouette in a puppet show, as he stood on the other side of the screen, his legs still, his arms and hands moving, busying themselves with something that made dull chinking sounds. Louise heard the rasp of a stiff tap being turned and then running water. He was cheerfully humming a tune she didn’t recognize, a sound more terrifying than any scream or screech in the night. Her mouth was unbearably dry with fear, her throat glued shut with rising panic, her eyes as wide as a wild animal that knows it’s about to be torn to pieces by its tormentors, her fully dilated pupils increasing her night vision at a time when she almost wished she could see nothing, hear nothing and feel nothing.

  Louise watched as the silhouette became still, although somehow she knew he had turned to face them. She could hear him breathing deeply, as if he was preparing himself to walk on to a stage and meet his audience. Finally he stepped from behind the screen, this unimpressive man, average height, too slim, with scruffy brown hair and waxy skin. But to her he was vile monster, a hideous beast that threatened her in every way — her dignity, her freedom, her very existence. How could this wretch suddenly have so much power over her?

  She could see he was smiling, a non-threatening, friendly smile. She remembered his stained teeth and the stink of his breath from when he took her, the memory pushing vomit-tasting saliva from her stomach into her mouth. Other memories rushed forward now — the smell of his unwashed hair, the stench of his stale sweat infested with stinking microbes, and his hands, his witch’s hands, lingering too long on her breasts. Without warning the deluge of noise from her heart and blood fell silent. She realized he was speaking and it was enough to make her stop breathing, for her heart to stand still, just for a second.

  ‘Sam? Are you OK? I brought you something; something to drink and a bite to eat if you can manage it. It’s not
much, but you’ll feel better if you can manage to eat and drink a little.’ He began to walk towards her carrying a tray on which he balanced a plastic mug of water and plate with a sandwich that looked like something a child would make. He walked in a crouched position as he circled her cage, peering in through the wire bars, smiling all the time while his eyes, wide and excited, darted over her body, stabbing her with a thousand needle-points and making her skin crawl.

  ‘I’ll have to put the tray through the hatch,’ he told her. ‘It’s better that way, until you understand more. You know what I mean, don’t you, Sam? You always understood what I meant, even when nobody else did. That’s why we’re supposed to be together.’

  He took a small key from his tracksuit pocket and unlocked the padlock securing the bolt to the cage’s hatch. Louise watched his every move, wary of his hand suddenly stretching out for her through the hatch, but he merely pushed the tray in and held it, waiting for her to take it. ‘Take the tray,’ he told her. ‘It’s all for you. I’ll come back for it later, when you’ve had enough.’ Louise shuffled forward slowly, tentatively, her eyes never leaving his as she took the tray, which she immediately placed on the ground before shuffling back into the furthest corner of her prison.

  ‘Try some,’ he encouraged. ‘Drink first though, the chloroform can leave you a bit dehydrated.’

  She picked up the plastic mug and looked at it suspiciously, trying to detect any scent that didn’t belong in an innocent drink of water. Finally she sipped it, a sense of relief soon overtaken by the clean, cold taste of fresh water. Suddenly aware how thirsty she was, she gulped it down quickly.

  ‘Good, eh?’ he said. ‘Don’t drink too much too quickly though, it might make you feel sick.’

  Louise stopped drinking and began to dab some of the water around her lips and face, pausing as she remembered the woman locked in the other cage. Was she strong enough to speak to him yet? She decided she needed to try, do something to establish a relationship. She’d seen a programme about a kidnapped woman who’d built a bond with her captor that ultimately saved her life when he could no longer bring himself to kill her as he’d planned. ‘What about her?’ she managed to ask, barely recognizing her own weak, scratchy voice.

  ‘Who?’ he asked, his smile twitching now, blinking on and off.

  Louise looked towards the other animal cage then back to him. ‘Her. Karen. She said her name was Karen.’

  He stared coldly into Louise’s face, his smile nothing more than a memory now. ‘You mustn’t talk to her. She’s a liar and a whore. She made me think she was you, but she isn’t.’

  Louise watched his face contorting with hatred, his lips pulled back over his teeth like a hyena laughing, the veins in his neck swollen and blue with anger. Sensing that she had put Karen in real and immediate danger, she hurried to undo her mistake. ‘No,’ she told him. ‘She hasn’t said anything, I promise. I made her tell me her name. It wasn’t her fault. Please, there’s too much water here for me. You can give her the rest of this. Please.’

  Her desperate attempts to calm his anger towards the woman cowering and whimpering in her cage on the other side of the room seemed to go unheard. He was stalking across the floor, his eyes fixed on Karen.

  ‘The whore gets nothing!’ he shouted, his voice echoing hollowly in the brick tomb. ‘The whore gets nothing, except what all whores really want.’

  Louise covered her ears with her hands, instinctively curling herself into a tight ball pressed against the wire mesh, watching in horror as he drew closer to the only person in the world who shared her nightmare.

  ‘It wasn’t her fault,’ she forced herself to call out, somehow certain his anger would not be turned on her. ‘Leave her alone, please. She’s done nothing wrong.’ Tears slid down her cheeks, salty through dehydration. Strands of dry, sticky saliva stretched across her mouth like a spider’s web as she silently pleaded with him to stop.

  He fumbled in his trouser pocket, trying to remove an object that was bulkier than the keys he had produced earlier. Whatever it was caught on the fabric of his pocket and he tugged violently to free it, his eyes never leaving Karen Green’s cage. ‘I’ll give you what you fucking want, whore.’

  Louise tried to close her eyes, tried to look away as Karen desperately pushed herself into the wire at the back of her cage, trying to find a way to escape the approaching madness. She could see what he was holding now. It was the strange box he’d touched her with when she’d first opened the door to him — the thing that had left her paralysed and helpless.

  Almost dropping the key in his fury and excitement, he struggled to unlock Karen’s cage, his words slurred and incoherent. Finally he opened the hatch and leaned into the cage. Karen’s scream pierced through the hands that covered Louise’s ears and penetrated into every millimetre of her body.

  Karen was pressed hard against the wire, the skin on her face patterned with the squares of the wire cage, blood running down her chin from the split lip that opened raw and painful as she tried to push her body through the tiny holes, all the time imploring him to stop in her faint, defeated voice. ‘Stop. Please stop.’ But he didn’t. Instead he kept getting closer to her, inch by inch. Moving cautiously, as if she was a wild animal that might turn on him, he stabbed out at her with the stun-gun. He repeated the action several times, missing his target and then backing away, extending her misery and dread, until finally he struck her at the base of her spine.

  For a split second Karen’s body went rigid and as hard as mahogany, then she collapsed in a jerking, convulsing wreck. Still he maintained his distance, watching her agony with a slight smile spreading across his lips until her convulsions began to subside. Then he moved in, rolling her on to her back and pulling her legs straight. Louise again tried to look away, but couldn’t, any more than she could have looked away from a crystal ball showing her own future. She watched as he tugged and wrenched at his tracksuit pants, exposing his white buttocks, then his long fingers reached for Karen, pulling her filthy knickers down to her knees and shuffling forward as he lay on top of her. Louise heard him moan as he entered Karen, his buttocks moving rhythmically, slowly at first then quickly, brutally, guttural animalistic noises filling the room. Karen, who had stopped convulsing, was lying under him motionless, sobbing, her eyes wide and staring at Louise, accusing her.

  Less than a minute later, screams of joy and pleasure signified his climax. His cries faded away to silence. No one spoke and no one moved for what felt like hours, then he tugged at his trousers until they covered his buttocks and still swollen genitals. He backed out of the cage without a word, replacing the lock and bolt, coughing to clear his throat before speaking. He was calm now, but appeared embarrassed, his eyes avoiding Louise’s.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that, but that’s what she does. She tricks me. She makes me do it. She knows I don’t want to. She knows I don’t like being with her. She makes me feel dirty. I won’t let her trick me again. Not now you’re here, Sam. I promise,’ he told her. ‘I have to leave you for a while. I’ll come back later for the tray. Try to eat something.’

  He turned off the light and moved to the staircase, head bowed as if ashamed. She listened to the slow, soft footsteps as they climbed the unseen staircase and then the clank of metal as the unseen door was unlocked. Again there was a flood of daylight that stung her already sore, red eyes. Then gloom once more as the door gently closed.

  Louise peered through the gloom towards the figure lying motionless on the concrete floor of her cage making no attempt to cover herself with the little clothing she had. She whispered into the darkness: ‘Karen. Karen. Are you all right? Please, Karen. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  But there was no reply. Instead Karen curled into a tight ball, hugging herself, and began to sing a barely audible song. Louise struggled to make out the words. When she did, she realized it wasn’t a song Karen was singing, it was a nursery rhyme.

  Sally and
Sean pulled up outside 22 Oakfield Road, the home of Louise and John Russell, early on Wednesday evening. Sally saw an ugly but practical modern townhouse. Sean saw much more — a concealed front door providing privacy from neighbours and passers-by, state-of-the-art double-glazed windows that were virtually impossible to break in through, a street full of near-identical houses inhabited by neighbours who never spoke to one another, a street where only men who lingered too long and youths clad in hooded tracksuits would draw attention.

  ‘Why’s this place not been preserved for forensics?’ he demanded.

  ‘No one’s saying anything happened here,’ Sally told him, defending someone else’s decision as if it were her own. ‘This is just the last place anyone saw her.’

  ‘“Anyone” meaning her husband?’

  ‘Apparently.’ Only day one of the investigation and Sally already sounded weary.

  They abandoned their car at the side of the road and walked the short distance to the driveway of the house. Sean stopped and looked around, silently surveying every inch of the house and street, looking up as well as at eye level. Only cops looked up as they walked. Many of the surrounding houses had lights on although it wasn’t fully dark — people still used to the habits of winter. Sean searched the windows without thinking, his eyes waiting to be attracted to something they hadn’t yet seen. Across the street a curtain twitched as his eyes passed — a neighbour who’d been spying on them guiltily trying to disguise their curiosity. Good, Sean thought, nosy neighbours were often the best witnesses. Sometimes they were the only witnesses. He made a mental note to shake up the neighbour’s world as soon as he’d finished with Russell.

  He turned towards the house and saw Sally was already waiting for him at the front door. Impatience was not a trait he’d associated with Sally until Gibran almost ripped the life from her. He reasoned that, like most people who’d sailed too close to death, she could no longer bear to waste a second of life. He strode to the front door faster than he wanted to and reached for the bell before hesitating and using his fist to pound on the door instead.