Luke Delaney - The Keeper

‘I’ll make sure it’s done,’ she assured him.

‘Good,’ Sean replied, suddenly sensing Anna close behind him.

‘Is it OK if I go with Fiona to the scene?’ she asked. Sean studied her for a few seconds before answering, trying to work out her intentions. She felt his wariness. ‘I’d like to see the scene from the suspect’s perspective, see if I can’t learn something more about him.’

‘OK, fine,’ Sean finally agreed, turning to Donnelly and nodding towards the main office door. ‘Keep me updated, everyone,’ he called, striding from the room without a backward glance. ‘As soon as anyone finds anything, I want to know about it.’ He waved his iPhone above his head to make his point and disappeared through the swing doors.

As Sally pulled up outside Deborah Thomson’s home she was immediately struck by the similarities between it and the homes of the other women who’d been taken. Another uninspiring, featureless, modern townhouse with a private drive and garage and a concealed front door. She almost called Sean straight away, but decided it could wait a little longer. DC Cahill was already standing outside the address with a short but muscular man in his early thirties, well groomed and well dressed. For the boyfriend of a missing woman he looked remarkably calm. Sally decided not to judge him until she had some more facts. She gave herself a few seconds to get into character before climbing from her car and walking towards them.

DC Cahill did the introductions. ‘Sam, this is DS Jones. DS Jones, this is Sam Ewart, Deborah’s boyfriend and our informant about her disappearance.’

Sally held out her hand. Underneath his slicked-back hair and tan Sally could see fear in his eyes, but what had aroused that fear — concern for Deborah or the prospect of being found out? Working on the assumption that DC Cahill had already done the softly-softly bit, she decided to jump in with the serious questioning and find out what Sam Ewart was really all about.

‘What makes you think she’s missing, Mr Ewart? Maybe she just doesn’t want to see you?’

‘No,’ Ewart replied, sounding sad and anxious. ‘She was supposed to meet me for breakfast — she was looking forward to it, I know she was, and so was I.’

‘How long have you been together?’

‘Only a few weeks.’ Sally looked him up and down, the reason for his appearance becoming clear to her now — he was still trying to impress Deborah, keep the fledgling relationship on course. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I know about the other two women. The women that went missing. I saw it on the news. He’s already killed one. He’s taken her, hasn’t he? That’s why you’re here, because you think he’s taken Deborah?’

‘We don’t know anything for sure yet. Let’s try not to get too far ahead of ourselves, eh? Sometimes people take off, you know. They need a little time alone. That might be all-’

‘Not Deborah,’ Ewart snapped. ‘He’s taken her. I’m certain of it.’ He was shaking as he tried to hold back his tears of frustration.

‘Do you have keys for the house?’ Sally asked.

‘Yes.’ He fumbled in his pocket and handed her two keys, one for the mortise and one for the Yale locks.

‘Have you been inside?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I only got the keys an hour ago. I don’t have a set for her house. A friend of hers from the hospital had these. By the time she gave them to me, the police had already told me not to go inside.’ Sally nodded her understanding. She considered delegating the task to DC Cahill, but felt more afraid of being left alone with Ewart, his sorrow and fear, than she did about entering the house by herself.

‘I need to take a look inside,’ she told DC Cahill. ‘You wait here with Mr Ewart.’

‘Shouldn’t we wait for forensics to arrive?’ queried Cahill.

‘Guv’nor wants me to take a look first. Besides, we haven’t checked the address for any signs of the victim.’ Immediately regretting referring to Deborah Thomson as a victim in Ewart’s presence, she almost apologized, but then decided it would only amplify her mistake. ‘I’ll be a few minutes,’ she said.

Unlocking first the mortise and then the Yale, she pushed the door ajar and peered into the small house, the warmth from the blaring central heating washing over her as it rushed into the chill of outside. ‘Hello,’ she called weakly into the silent interior, her voice choked by her constricted, dry throat. She coughed her airway open wider. ‘Hello. Police. Is anyone at home?’ No answer.

Sally stepped inside, pulling the door to behind her, making sure it was left slightly ajar and unlocked. If she needed to get out fast she didn’t want to be struggling with locks and latches. As she moved away from the entrance she noticed her hands were trembling and gripped them together to control the shaking. She pushed herself further into the innards of Deborah Thomson’s once-safe haven, now the scene of the first of many crimes that would be committed against her.

She moved slowly forward, occasionally glancing at her feet to ensure she wasn’t trampling over obvious evidence left by the madness that had come into Deborah Thomson’s life, training and experience kicking in as if she’d switched to autopilot, guiding her through the scene without her having to consciously think about what she was doing or where she was.

Noticing a burglar alarm control panel on the side of the hallway wall, she moved in closer to examine it. The alarm was unarmed, its light blinking green. Had the other houses been alarmed? She thought back to the time she’d spent in Karen Green’s house, to the reports of the findings from both the previous scenes. She couldn’t be sure, but she seemed to remember both homes had alarms, although neither had been activated. Clearly the madman wasn’t comfortable with alarms and lacked the expertise or knowledge to deactivate them — another reason why he used artifice to gain entry and risked abducting the women during daylight.

The kitchen was straight ahead, but first she needed to check the room immediately to her right, the door to which was half-closed. As she peered through the crack she prayed the room was empty, knowing she would be unable to deal with a dead body — or even a hung-over Deborah Thomson, sleeping through the phone calls and Sally’s noisy progress through her house. Even if it meant the swift, uncomplicated, safe conclusion of the search for the missing woman, Sally could do without any surprises.

She eased the door open slowly, pushing with the back of her hand, ready to take flight the second she sensed danger, pausing while she unclipped her extendable baton, known as an ASP, from the holder strapped to her belt. The heavy metal in her hand made her feel a little more in control as she swung the door fully open and stared inside at what was clearly the living room. The modern inexpensive furniture made her suspect the house was only rented and that the fake leather suite, along with pretty much everything else, came included in the rent. It was impersonal and slightly scruffy — half-read magazines lying on the sofa and floor, prints of Monet and Cezanne in plastic frames adorning the walls. A heavy grey box with a small screen made do for a television, the digital conversion box perched precariously on top. Sally remembered the missing woman was a nurse. Clearly the rent was swallowing most of her income — even her collection of CDs and DVDs was far from impressive. ‘Or maybe you just have more of a life than I do?’ she whispered to herself. A shiver ran through her whole body as she backed out of the room, returning the door to half-open position, careful not to leave her fingerprints on it.

She covered the few steps to the wide open kitchen door and looked inside, her eyes searching every angle and corner, the smells of Deborah Thomson’s last meals still clinging to the walls and work surfaces, magnified by the heat in the room and the windows that had been sealed shut since the first signs of winter the preceding year. Once inside the room she immediately noticed a functional brown handbag perched on the kitchen table. Next to it lay a simple mobile phone that occasionally vibrated to warn the owner they had missed calls or text messages still waiting to be read. The thought that Deborah Thomson might never read those messages or listen to the voicemails flashed through her mind. She shook it away, but could do nothing about the bitter taste of bile seeping into her mouth.