Luke Delaney - The Keeper

‘Take the clothes off and put them through the hatch,’ he ordered. ‘Do it now.’

Louise crossed her arms across her chest, gripping the blouse and sweater, refusing to surrender these last remnants of decency. ‘Please,’ she begged him.

‘You can keep the underwear,’ he said, ‘but I need everything else.’

‘Please,’ she repeated, ‘I’ll do whatever you want, but please, let me keep the clothes. You gave them to me, remember? You told me they were my real clothes, that I needed to wear them for you, for us.’

He held a hand up to stop her. ‘Just give me the clothes.’

‘Please. You don’t want to do this, I know you don’t.’

‘Give me the fucking clothes,’ he screamed. ‘Give me the fucking clothes, you lying whore.’ She shook at the ferocity of his attack, pulling her knees up to her chest as if they were a shield, the hate in his eyes telling her he would not relent. Slowly she began to pull the sweater off, sobbing uncontrollably all the while. She passed it through the hatch to him, jumping back as soon as he took the item, unsure of what to remove next, the blouse or the skirt. ‘Hurry up,’ he demanded. She turned her back to him and began to undo the buttons of the blouse, her tears slowing as fear was replaced by humiliation and embarrassment, everyday emotions finding their way into her extraordinary situation. The blouse slipped from her shoulders and she passed it through the hatch, her left arm pressed across her chest, head bowed to avoid his leering face as she kneeled and unzipped the waist of her skirt, pulling it over her hips and down to her knees, adjusting herself into a sitting position before removing it completely and passing it through the hatch, his hands greedily grasping it, tugging it away.

As she hugged herself in the corner of her cage she looked up to see him moving around to the door of her prison, pulling the key from his pocket and easing it into the lock, opening the door and stooping into her space, the stun-gun held out in front of him as he inched towards her like a scorpion readying to strike. ‘You shouldn’t have betrayed me. That was a mistake. You’re just a little whore trying to make me do things to you — dirty things, bad things. Well now you’re going to get what you want, whore. I’m going to give you exactly what you want.’

Sally and Sean sat in the front of the unmarked car they’d concealed as best they could in a residents’ parking area about forty metres from the house where Jason Lawlor was supposed to be living. If they parked any further away they wouldn’t be able to recognize him when he arrived, but if they parked any closer he would almost certainly spot them and probably take flight. Several of the local low-lives had already paid them some unwanted attention. A small intelligence record photograph of Lawlor rested on Sean’s thigh. Anna sat in the back of the silent car, while Donnelly and Zukov were close by in another, as were DCs Maggie O’Neil and Stan-the-man McGowan.

The dilapidated old house backed on to the railway lines, the sound of passing trains only adding to the sense of foreboding as they watched the streetlights flickering on in the dusk, making the surrounding trees appear quite black.

‘He’s going to be difficult to spot,’ Sally stated, ‘in this light, from this distance.’

‘There’s enough light around the entrance to the house,’ Sean argued without looking away from the front door. ‘If he turns up, I’ll recognize him.’

Sally shrugged and the car returned to its silent vigil. After a few minutes Sally spoke again, to break the increasingly oppressive atmosphere as much as anything. ‘You’re Anna Ravenni-Ceron, aren’t you?’ she said, looking into the back of the car. ‘I recognized you from the picture on your book cover.’

‘Which book?’ Anna asked with a smile.

‘Your latest one, I think.’

‘ Programmed to Kill ?’

‘Yeah,’ Sally answered. ‘I thought it was good. You talked a lot of sense.’

Sean shifted uncomfortably in his seat and for a passing second considered telling Sally that the woman she was talking to was in part responsible for Gibran worming his way out of a trial for her attempted murder.

‘Thank you,’ said Anna. ‘It’s always good to get positive feedback from someone who actually deals with the sort of people I write about.’

‘Until I read your book I hadn’t realized most serial killers stay within their own ethnic group when selecting their victims.’

‘I’m glad you could learn something new from it.’

Sean could listen to no more.

‘Anna Ravenni-Ceron — is that your real name, or something you thought would help sell a few more copies?’ he asked, only turning to look at her after he finished his question.

‘I write books to try to educate people, not to make money.’

‘So you give the profits to charity then?’ he sneered, facing forward again. She didn’t answer.

‘Over there,’ Sally suddenly said, ‘other side of the street. It could be our man.’

Sean strained to see through the slightly misted windscreen. ‘That’s him.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Sally asked.

‘I just am. The way he moves, stands. The way he’s looking around. It’s him.’

‘He knows we’re here,’ Sally said. ‘He can sense us.’

‘Wait, he’s crossing the road. Let’s do it.’ Sean lifted the radio that had been hidden between his legs and spoke as clearly as he could into it. ‘Suspect One’s at the address, everybody move in, move in.’ He started the engine and pulled away as quietly as he could, keeping the revs low as he closed the short distance to the man who had now crossed the road and was approaching the front door of the house. As they got nearer Sean suddenly accelerated then braked hard to stop directly outside the house. The other cars hadn’t arrived yet. Sean jumped from the car, leaving the radio on his seat and pulling his warrant card from his jacket. Lawlor looked like a startled deer caught in the headlights of an approaching truck, his eyes frozen wide open and nostrils flared as he assessed the danger, his legs tense and ready to sprint.

‘Police. Stay where you are!’ Sean shouted, his warrant card held in front of him. Lawlor looked one way then the other, before suddenly jumping over the low wall at the side of the staircase that led to the door. He sprinted across the paved garden and leap-frogged another low wall, hitting the pavement running smoothly and powerfully. Sean reacted quickly, but not quickly enough to cut him off before he’d reached the open pavement. Both men tore off along the darkening, empty road, their legs and arms pumping, Sean desperately hoping their race would be no more than a short sprint before Lawlor gave in.

Sally and Anna got out of the car just in time to see the men disappear around the first corner and into an alleyway.

‘Shit,’ Sally shouted as the other two unmarked cars screeched to a stop next to her, the detectives spilling out. ‘He’s run, he’s run,’ she told them frantically. ‘The guv’nor’s gone after him, but he’s got no radio.’

‘Where?’ Donnelly shouted.

‘Down the alley.’

Donnelly turned to the younger, lighter detectives. ‘Go on then. What you waiting for? Off you go.’ Zukov and the two detectives broke into a hesitant run, staying close to each other as they jogged along the road and disappeared into the alley. He noticed Sally subconsciously clutching her chest. ‘You all right?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, a little breathlessly. ‘I should have gone after him. I should have stayed with the guv’nor.’

‘And then the rest of us wouldn’t have had any idea where you were or what had happened.’