Luke Delaney - The Keeper

Sally crossed the kitchen and tried to look into the handbag without touching it, but it was no use. Cursing herself for not having a pair of rubber gloves with her, she took a pen from her jacket pocket and began to poke around inside the bag. After a few minutes of searching as best she could without emptying the contents out, she was satisfied that what she was looking for was indeed missing. Deborah’s bag was still here and so was her mobile phone, but both her house and car keys were nowhere to be seen. For Sally it was the final confirmation that Deborah Thomson been taken by the man they were hunting. She needed to phone Sean, but as she searched for his number a voice calling from the door startled her, making her almost drop her phone. It was Anna. ‘Sally. You in there?’

‘Don’t come in,’ Sally commanded, but Anna ignored her and stepped into the hallway. ‘This is a crime scene. You shouldn’t be in here.’

‘Sorry, but I was worried about you. I don’t think you should be in here alone, not yet.’

‘I’m fine,’ Sally lied. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

‘I came with DC Cahill.’

‘I didn’t see you when I arrived,’ Sally accused.

‘No. I was checking the rest of the street.’

‘What for?’

‘Trying to see things as he would have seen them.’

Sally rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath. ‘Not you as well.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing, but if you’re coming in, at least stick to the sides of the hallway.’

‘I know the procedure at a crime scene,’ said Anna, walking to meet Sally in the kitchen. ‘Find anything?’

‘Her bag and mobile are here, but her keys are missing.’

‘It’s him then?’ Sally didn’t answer. ‘I really don’t think you’re ready for this,’ Anna persisted. ‘You need to move more slowly, tell Sean you need to ease yourself back to what you did before.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Sally whispered. ‘If I tell Sean, I’m finished. He’ll have to refer me for psychiatric help, then I’m finished in the CID, finished in the police. I’m a cop. We’re not allowed to need help. We’re expected to deal with it, no matter what. Once we can’t, we’re no use to anyone. Sean’s a good man, but the second he thinks I’m a liability to him or the team he’ll get rid of me just as fast as anyone else would.’

‘I think you’re underestimating him.’

‘He’s a cop,’ said Sally. ‘He won’t be able to help himself.’

‘Then come and see me privately. I guarantee I’ll keep it totally confidential — no feedback to the police. We all need someone to talk to, Sally, especially after a life-changing event.’

‘Maybe,’ Sally answered without commitment. A loud angry voice at the front door ended their conversation.

‘What the bloody hell are you two doing in my crime scene?’ an angry DS Roddis shouted. ‘Right, neither of you are going anywhere until I’ve had a look at your shoes. If you’re lucky, I might let you keep your clothes.’

Sean and Donnelly entered the large, chaotic building that served as the South Norwood sorting office unannounced. Sean finished talking to Sally on his mobile and stuffed the phone into the pocket of his raincoat.

‘Well?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Sally, from the latest scene. Everything seems to indicate our boy has taken her.’

‘This is getting seriously out of hand,’ Donnelly warned. ‘A third victim — the media are gonna go crazy.’

‘Best we end it then, and quickly.’ Sean was preoccupied, looking around the inside of the cavernous building. The high ceilings and exposed pipework made it look more like the bowels of a giant ship than a place where mail was sorted. People in Royal Mail uniforms mingled with people dressed normally, adding to the feeling of disorganization. There seemed to be an absence of leadership or direction; although many of the workers had watched them suspiciously, no one had yet queried their presence. Losing patience with being ignored, Sean grabbed the next person who walked past. ‘I need to speak with a supervisor or a manager,’ he demanded.

‘Upstairs,’ the man stammered. ‘F-first floor.’ Sean followed the man’s eyes across the room to a wide metal staircase. ‘There’s signs,’ he added, unwilling to help further, aware of unfriendly eyes watching his every move.

‘Thanks,’ said Sean, holding on to the man’s arm a few seconds before releasing him. The man scuttled away, glancing over his shoulder.

The detectives crossed the room, staring hard at everyone they passed, hoping they might get lucky and spook someone into running. As soon as he’d chased the runaway down, Sean knew it would only take one look into his eyes to tell him whether it was their man.

Their shoes clanked loudly on the metal steps. ‘These stairs are murder on my old knees,’ Donnelly quipped. Sean ignored him, his mind already turned towards the supervisor they were yet to meet — the questions he would ask him; the threats and promises he would make to get the information he needed. He paused at the top of the stairs and looked around, breathing the stale air in deeply, listening to the sounds of the living building.

Donnelly walked on a few steps before he realized Sean had stopped. ‘Problem?’

Sean raised his hand to stop him saying more. ‘He works here.’ He was nodding to himself. ‘Our guy’s a real postman and he works here, in this sorting office.’

‘Maybe.’

‘No. Definitely,’ Sean insisted.

‘How do you know? We haven’t even confirmed this office covers all the abduction sites.’

‘It feels right. Everything about it feels right. I can feel him here. Can’t you?’

‘Let’s just say if it turns out he does work here I won’t exactly fall off my chair,’ said Donnelly. ‘But for now perhaps we should concentrate on getting hold of a supervisor — see if we can’t find some evidence to go with your gut feeling.’

‘What?’ Sean asked, his semi-trance broken. ‘Yeah, sure. Lead the way.’

The man Sean had accosted had been right about the signs — they were everywhere. They found one marked Supervisor and walked in the direction the arrow indicated, along narrow, gloomily lit corridors, passing cheap wooden doors adorned with white plastic name plates. It was Saturday and most of the side rooms were abandoned for the weekend. The detectives moved deeper into the upper floor of the building, searching for signs of life.

‘Fuck me, guv’nor, this place makes your average police station look positively cheery,’ Donnelly announced.

‘Not exactly big on security either,’ Sean agreed.

They kept walking until they finally found a room that had someone inside. The name plate said Supervisors Only. Sean knocked on the open door and waited for the man to turn around, but he carried on sitting with his back to them.

‘If it’s overtime you’re after, there’s plenty of it. If you want to change routes, you’ll have to fill in the forms,’ the man said without looking.

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Donnelly couldn’t resist saying, but at least it made the man turn around.

‘Who are you and what do you want?’ the supervisor asked in a slight West Indian accent.

Sean studied him for a few seconds before speaking. He had receding grey hair and a beard to match, spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, a brown cardigan draped over his tall, slim torso, casual grey slacks flowing down to shoes that were more like slippers. He looked as if he should be at home in front of his ancient electric bar heater rather than at work. Retirement wasn’t far away, but he’d obviously decided to start practising already. Sean flipped his warrant card open and held it out.