Luke Delaney - The Keeper

Still crouching next to the body, he looked over her torso at the arm that lay partially concealed under her. He saw scratches and bruises, but nothing else.

‘What are you looking for?’ Sally asked nervously, desperate to get as far away from the crime scene and body of Louise Russell as she could — to distance herself from her own memories and thoughts of what she’d almost become — a lifeless thing to be pored over and photographed before being removed to a mortuary to be dissected in the search for evidence. Not a person any more, just a case-file.

Sean ignored her as he reached for Louise Russell’s other arm, the one that hung behind her back. As gently as he could, he took hold of her wrist and twisted it to reveal the underside of her forearm — the sight of the garish phoenix making him feel dizzy, exhilarated and confused all at the same time. He almost dropped her arm and toppled over, but managed to catch himself and lower the arm back to its previous position before standing bolt upright, his eyes never leaving the body.

‘What?’ Sally called, keeping her distance. ‘What have you found?’

‘The key,’ he told her. ‘The key to everything. Now I just need to find the lock it fits.’

‘I still don’t understand,’ she admitted as Sean walked back towards her, pulling his phone from his coat pocket, searching for the number he knew would be in his contacts. After a few rings he heard Donnelly’s voice answer.

‘Dave? Don’t say anything, just listen. This is important and I don’t have much time. That transfer I asked Paulo to look into — the phoenix — did anything come of it? Did he find anything?’

‘Oh God — that useless thing. Yeah, he gave me a report about it. Last I remember I put it on your desk, with the other information reports. I thought you would have put that through the shredder by now. How you getting on at the crime scene?’

‘Listen,’ said Sean, the tone of his voice pricking Donnelly’s ears, ‘Louise Russell has the same transfer in the same place as the one we found on Karen Green.’

Donnelly thought for a second. ‘No way. It’s not possible. The only way they could have the same fake tattoo would be if … oh Jesus Christ,’ he blasphemed as the reality of the situation dawned over him.

‘And if he put the transfers on them, it must be important to him. Important because she had a tattoo of a phoenix — the woman he’s taking them to replace. Either he got lucky and found a transfer that matched her tattoo — which I doubt — or he had them made for him by some specialist company that produces custom-made transfers. Had them made specifically because it made the women seem more like her — like the one he’s coveted for months if not years. Where are you now?’

‘I’m in the office.’

‘Good. Go through my in-tray and find the report Zukov gave you — maybe it’s got the name of the company that made the transfers. They should be able to tell us who they made them for.’

‘This isn’t possible.’

‘Trust me,’ Sean pleaded, ‘it’s possible. Now dig out the report and read what it says to me.’

‘No, no,’ Donnelly replied, ‘you don’t understand. I’ve read Zukov’s report. The transfer on Karen Green was sixteen years old. They were mass-produced for some cereal company who gave them away in packets of cornflakes or Rice Krispies or fuck knows what.’ Sean listened in stunned silence. ‘That’s why I reckoned it was a dead end,’ Donnelly explained. ‘How the hell could a sixteen-year-old transfer from a cornflake packet be relevant to our case? But if you’re telling me it is, then the man we’re looking for has been keeping those transfers for the last sixteen years.’

Sean stood wide-eyed, trembling with excitement and apprehension, terrified that the answer to the puzzle would slip from his mind before he could ensnare it and make it his permanent captive. ‘Get in front of a CRIS machine,’ he ordered.

‘One minute,’ said Donnelly, striding to the nearest computer and logging into CRIS. ‘OK, I’m in. What next?’

‘Run an inquiry for any allegations of harassment — female victim. The year I’m looking for is 1996 and the age of the victim will be between ten and twelve. D’you understand?’ he asked, his heart pounding in his chest as his belief that he was right, that he was close to finding the madman, grew within him.

‘I’m with you,’ Donnelly assured him as he punched the details into CRIS, waiting for the relevant screens to roll past.

‘The harassment would have been reported by the parents,’ Sean continued.

After a few seconds Donnelly spoke: ‘OK, I have seven reports of young girls being harassed. What now?’

‘Our man has no convictions, remember? Which means he probably wasn’t charged, meaning the parents just wanted us to warn him off. Does that match anything you have?’

The silence on the other end of the phone told him it did.

‘Victim’s name is Samantha Shaw,’ Donnelly said. ‘Suspect’s name is Thomas Keller, who was also twelve at the time of the offence. His address is shown as a children’s home in Penge, so he won’t be there any more.’

‘No, but she might still live with her parents.’

‘At the same address? It’s unlikely,’ Donnelly warned.

‘Even if they’ve moved, we have enough details to locate them,’ Sean reminded him. ‘See if you can’t find an address for this Thomas Keller, and track down the Shaws — we need to know where Samantha is now — right now.’

‘No problem. And while I’m doing that, what will you be doing?’

‘I’m going to meet our friendly supervisor from the sorting depot.’

‘On a Sunday?’ Donnelly queried.

‘I have his mobile number, remember,’ Sean reminded him. ‘He’ll meet me. Deborah Thomson’s still alive — I know she is. If necessary I’ll give him no choice. I won’t let there be a third murder — no matter what.’

Superintendent Featherstone drove through the light mid-morning traffic towards Peckham police station, having decided that location offered the best chance of intercepting Sean and getting an update on the second body, as well as showing his face to the rank and file. After that he might yet make it home for the Sunday roast his wife was in the process of preparing. Anything else he was fairly confident he could deal with over the phone, at least until the real shit-storm got underway on Monday morning. Besides, Corrigan knew what he was doing, even if he was a little unconventional.

The very phone he’d just been thinking of began to chirp and vibrate in the centre console. He grabbed it with his non-steering hand and checked the caller ID, but the number was withheld — never a good sign on a cop’s mobile phone. For a brief second he considered not answering, but decided he’d rather deal with whatever the call brought than fret about who it might have been for the rest of the morning.

‘Hello,’ he answered guardedly.

‘Good morning, Alan,’ said a voice he recognized. ‘Assistant Commissioner Addis here,’ he added unnecessarily.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Featherstone forced himself to respond, inwardly cursing himself for answering the damn phone.

‘I hear your DI Corrigan has a second victim on his hands.’

‘Bad news travels fast.’

‘Like I told you, certain people have taken an interest in DI Corrigan. The progress of any case he’s involved in finds its way to my ears quicker than you might imagine.’

‘Indeed,’ was Featherstone’s only reply.

‘And what of our mutual friend?’ Addis continued. ‘Has she submitted her report to you yet, or informed you of any interesting observations she may have made?’