Luke Delaney - The Keeper

‘What?’ Sally managed to ask, her heart pounding, wanting to be anywhere but there.

‘… a mattress and … and clothes — some sort of clothing. Here,’ he said, his excitement matching her anxiety.

Sally took a peep. ‘Looks like an outside toilet to me.’

Sean peered back through the gap in time to see the man place the items on the ground and lock the door with a padlock before recovering the clothing and mattress and heading off across the forecourt towards a dilapidated bungalow he guessed was his living quarters. ‘That’s no outside toilet,’ he said. ‘You don’t padlock an outside toilet. And the mattress and the clothes — it must be the entrance to an old bomb shelter or cellar.’ He filled his lungs and pushed himself away from the fence. ‘He keeps them in there,’ he told himself as much as Sally. ‘Deborah Thomson’s down there.’

‘Are you sure it’s him?’ Sally asked. ‘Thomas Keller?’

Sean pulled up the image in his mind: the employee photograph of Thomas Keller that Leonard Trewsbury had shown him little more than an hour ago. ‘Hard to tell — he’s older now and we’re too far away. But yes, I think it’s him.’

‘Fine,’ said Sally. ‘Let’s call in back-up and take him down.’ Her head was beginning to pound as the sickness in her stomach started to spread to the rest of her body. She wanted to run — run back to the car and drive away, keep driving and leave the madmen to it.

‘OK …’ Sean appeared to relent, but immediately went on to confirm her worst fears: ‘You sort out the back-up and wait here until it arrives. I’m going to fetch the car and drive up to the front of his house. Keep watch and cover my back. If the shit hits the fan, stay put and wait for back-up. Call for urgent assistance if you have to — but only if you have to.’

‘This is a really bad idea,’ she warned him.

‘I’ll be fine,’ he assured her. ‘I’ve got my ASP and CS spray. If he tries to get the jump on me, I’ll give him a full canister in the face.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘You know why,’ he answered. ‘Because I have to. I have to fill in the blanks.’

Sally nodded. She didn’t like it, but she understood. He was the animal that he was and no one could change him.

‘Here-’ he handed her a standard-issue radio. ‘Take this. You’ll need it more than I will.’

She slowly took it from him as if it was some precious parting gift, handing him the keys to the car in exchange. He began to walk away.

‘Wait,’ she stopped him. ‘How will I know you’re OK?’

‘I told you, I’ll be fine. I’m going to keep him talking until the troops arrive. As soon as they do, just come charging in.’

‘But what if this isn’t where he’s keeping Deborah Thomson?’

‘It is,’ he insisted. ‘Trust me.’

Determined not to give her another chance to stop him, he strode into the woods, moving quickly and quietly, becoming more accustomed to his rural surroundings, more comfortable amongst the trees — just like the man he hunted. He reached the car and climbed in, fumbling with the keys as his hands shook with anticipation of what was soon to come. Finally he got the car started and headed slowly towards the farm and Thomas Keller, swallowing drily, his mouth parched and sticky. He pulled the CS spray from its leather holster on his belt and slid it into his right-hand coat pocket where it would be easier to reach in a desperate moment. The car passed through the tumble-down gates and rolled to a gentle halt in front of the breezeblock bungalow.

Sean took a moment to compose himself before getting out of the car. The realization that he’d reached the end of the deadly game brought a sudden peace and calmness to him. It was over — almost. Gently closing the car door behind him, he spent a few seconds looking around, vivid images of Karen Green and Louise Russell being marched from the cellar before being driven away to their deaths played in his mind, but nevertheless he remained icy calm. Images of Thomas Keller heading towards the cellar armed with his cattle prod and alfentanil, intent on the rape and murder of innocent women, followed, but still Sean remained calm. When he was ready, he walked purposefully to what appeared to be the front door, his warrant card already in the palm of his left hand while his right rested on the CS canister in his coat pocket. There was no doorbell, just a thin door with a plain sheet of glass covering the top quarter. He tapped gently on the window and called into the house. ‘Hello. Is anyone home? It’s the police.’ He stood back from the door and watched through the glass, listening for sounds of life, imagining the jolt of panic his voice must have delivered to the man he knew was lurking somewhere inside. Imagining Keller breaking out in a cold sweat of terror, he savoured his own moment of cruelty before stepping forward and tapping on the glass again. ‘Hello. Police.’ This time he stayed close to the door, pretending to be looking away, in case he was being watched, using his peripheral vision to look through the window. He saw a shape dart across a doorway inside, on the other side of what looked to be the kitchen. ‘Come on, you son-of-a-bitch,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Open the fucking door and let me see your face.’

It was unfortunate the front door appeared to lead directly into the kitchen, where knives and heavy metal objects would be easily to hand. He covertly checked his ASP was still attached to his belt. If it came to a close-quarter battle, the CS spray would be no good — it would blind them both. Better to go with the ASP. Again the shape inside darted across the doorway opposite. ‘Fuck this,’ he said, almost too loudly, and reached out for the door handle. He rested his hand on the faded chrome and slowly pressed down on it, wary of a possible booby trap. As the handle depressed further he heard the click of the door opening. Clearly Keller hadn’t been expecting company and had left the door unlocked.

Sean remembered the clothes he’d been carrying and imagined what Keller had been doing when he’d first heard the knock at his door — holding the clothes against his naked skin, rubbing their scent all over himself, especially his private parts, lying on the soiled mattress and drinking in the smell of his victims, relishing their fear and his power over them. Sean wondered whether Keller had pissed himself when he heard the knock at his door.

He pushed the door and let it swing open, intently surveying the room for anything that could be used as a weapon or a hiding place, listening for the sound of a pit-bull that had been trained to lie silently in wait for an unsuspecting trespasser to enter its domain. As satisfied as he could be that there were no immediate hidden dangers, he stepped inside. He felt powerful and dangerous intruding into Keller’s sanctuary — doing to Keller what he had done to women he’d taken — invading his home, his most sacred place, and shattering all his faint illusions.

‘Thomas Keller,’ he called out. ‘My name is DI Sean Corrigan. I need to speak to you, Thomas. You’re not in any trouble — I just want a word with you. I’m doing a follow-up visit — two of my uniformed colleagues came to see you a couple of days ago. They thought you might be able to help me with a certain matter I’m looking into.’

Suddenly he was there — the madman, Thomas Keller — standing in the doorway he’d been ghosting past seconds earlier, those same burning brown eyes Sean had seen in the Post Office ID photograph, their intensity not even slightly diminished by the passing of the years since the picture was taken. Sean could see Keller’s chest rising and falling with the exertion of whatever he’d been doing before his arrival. The effort of trying to appear unconcerned that a policeman was standing in his kitchen was only adding to his strain. He watched Keller’s tongue curl from his mouth like a cat’s and lick the beads of sweat from his upper lip.