Luke Delaney - The Keeper

‘No!’ he screamed at himself, at the ugly thoughts taking over his mind — the thoughts that reminded him of last night — how good it felt to squeeze the life from the whore’s neck. ‘That was different,’ he yelled. ‘She betrayed me.’

He jumped to his feet and stumbled to the drawer where he kept his precious letters, pulling it open and searching frantically through the bundles until he found the one he was looking for — a thick roll of envelopes addressed to Hannah O’Brien. Yanking the elastic band away, he let the letters fall over the surface of the chest of drawers and began to spread them around so he could see as many of them as possible at the same time. Without even realizing it, his hand had slipped inside his tracksuit bottoms and gripped himself. Yes, he told himself, the others had all been mistakes, but at last he’d found the real Sam. He would rescue her and then she would save him from the ugly thoughts. It was how it was meant to be. Once he’d rescued her, he’d pile the other letters into one of the oil drums and burn them and with them all the ugly thoughts. But what if she didn’t understand what he’d had to do — the sacrifices he’d had to make? No, no, he reassured himself — she’d understand, she wouldn’t judge him — she never had.

First, however, there was still one more mistake he had to deal with. He took his hand away from the letters and headed slowly towards his bathroom.

Sally parked their car a good fifty metres from the address that Trewsbury had illegally given them. If Keller was at home, they didn’t want to spook him by screeching up outside his front door. They climbed from the car and began to walk along the neglected street of three-storey Victorian terraced houses, most of which had been converted into flats. Sean was already beginning to suspect that Keller had given the Post Office a false address or, more likely, had moved and not bothered to tell them. He was a Post Office employee, so discreetly having his mail re-directed wouldn’t have been too difficult.

As they closed on the address Sally became increasingly concerned about their course of action.

‘Maybe we should get TSG to hit the address? Go in hard and shake him up,’ she suggested.

‘No,’ said Sean, assessing the house. Even if Keller was still here, it was clear that Deborah Thomson would not be. ‘Let’s check it out first, see how the land lies, then we can consider using the TSG.’

‘Perhaps we should put him under surveillance,’ suggested Sally, ‘see if he leads us to Deborah Thomson. If we grab him now he may never talk. He could leave her to starve to death in some hole in the ground.’

‘Time,’ he reminded her, ‘it’s all about time we don’t have. Karen Green abducted — found dead seven days later. Louise Russell abducted — found dead five days later.’ He stopped and turned to face her. ‘He’s speeding up, Sally. The interval between the abduction and the killing is shrinking. How many days does Deborah Thomson have? Four? Three? Less?’

He started walking again, Sally trailing behind, almost breaking into a run to keep up until they reached the three shallow steps that led to the front door and a panel of doorbells mounted on the side of the door frame. Six bells meant six separate flats. The peeling paint on the front door and lack of names next to the intercom buttons told Sean the flats were probably occupied by the transient — London’s throngs of the unsettled and unwanted. He rang the only buzzer that had a readable name beside it and waited. After a few seconds that felt like minutes the intercom crackled and a voice leaked out of it.

‘Yes?’

‘Police,’ Sean said into the machine as quietly as he could without sounding like anything but a cop. ‘Can I have a word?’

More silent seconds. ‘What’s it about?’

‘Open the door and I’ll tell you,’ Sean promised.

‘Hold on a minute. I’ll come to the front door.’ They waited, listening to the sounds of doors opening and closing, locks being turned, shuffling footsteps growing nearer and a chain being attached to the door before finally it opened by four inches and the plump, pink face of a woman in her fifties peered through the gap, her small crooked teeth revealing the brown stains of years of cigarette smoking when she spoke.

‘Yeah?’ she asked them suspiciously in a thick South London accent. Sean couldn’t help but look her up and down, noting her ancient slippers and cardigan, her wild grey hair and swollen limbs.

‘DI Corrigan,’ he announced, holding his warrant card out.

The woman looked to Sally, who realized she wasn’t going to be satisfied with seeing just one warrant card. She sighed, pulling hers from her coat pocket and thrusting it towards the suspicious old woman who immediately looked back to Sean.

‘We need to find out if a certain person lives here. Can we come in?’

The woman’s eyes darted between them before she finally relented — more time wasted. ‘I suppose so,’ she muttered, releasing the chain and allowing Sean to push the door fully open and step past her into the building. Sally followed suit, closing the door behind her. The poky hallway felt very crowded with three of them in it.

‘Would you like a drink — a cup of tea or something?’ The image of foul-tasting tea served in a filthy cup flashed through Sean’s mind.

‘No, thanks, we’re in a hurry.’

‘It’s no bother. I was about to put the kettle on.’

Sean talked over the top of her. ‘Mrs …?’

‘Miss, actually. Miss Rose Vickery.’

‘Miss Vickery, does-’

‘But you can call me Rose.’

‘Rose. Does the name Thomas Keller mean anything to you? Does anyone by that name live in this house?’

‘People come and go from here all the time,’ she said. ‘Nobody stays long, except me. I’ve been here almost twenty years, back when you used to know your neighbours. Ain’t got a clue who lives here now — people coming and going all hours, but I never see nobody — just keep meself to meself.’

‘Do you rent your flat?’

‘Yeah, of course I do. All the flats in here are rented by the same landlord — Mr Williams.’

Sean was about to ask for Williams’s telephone number when Sally interrupted. ‘Guv’nor.’ He turned and saw her holding a bundle of mail, most of which looked like junk. She took a couple of letters from the pile and handed them to him. He read the name — Thomas Keller, Flat 4, 184 Ravenscroft Road, Penge. Sean passed the letters to Rose.

‘This is 184 Ravenscroft Road, right?’

‘Yes.’ She sounded nervous.

‘And this is the name of the man I just asked you about — Thomas Keller.’

‘Yes, but I don’t read other people’s mail,’ she protested. ‘Besides, there’s mail still comes here for people who are long gone.’

‘Come on,’ said Sean. ‘You must see the names on the letters, when you’re searching for your own mail?’

‘What you trying to say?’

‘I’m saying you know who lives here and who doesn’t. So you need to tell me, does Thomas Keller live in flat 4? Now!’ he demanded, raising his voice and making Rose flinch.

‘I don’t know,’ she insisted, pulling her cardigan tightly around herself.

Sean thought for a second. ‘He’s a postman. Maybe you remember seeing him in his Post Office uniform.’

‘Oh,’ Rose declared, almost smiling with relief, ‘him. The postie, yeah, he used to live here, but he don’t no more — ain’t lived here for a few years. He pops back every now and then to pick up his mail. I suppose he kept his key for the front door — most of the old residents do, you know. I saw him a few weeks ago, actually. I remember it because I said to him, you’d think he’d be able to get his mail sent to the right address, seeing how he’s a postie and all.’