Читать книгу The Keeper - Luke Delaney - Страница 7

Thursday morning shortly before nine o’clock and Sally was knocking on the door of a nondescript house in Teddington on the outskirts of West London, steeling herself to ask the occupants a set of questions that even their closest friends wouldn’t dare to broach. Though she’d never met these people, experience told her they would see her as their potential saviour. This morning she felt more like an intruder come to wreak havoc. So long as she got the answers to her questions – answers that could progress or kill off this new case – she didn’t really care what impact her visit might have on their lives.

While she waited for an answer, she took a couple of steps back from the door, surveying the large ugly house that would have been the pride of the street when newly built in the seventies, but now looked tired and out of place amongst the older, more gracious houses.

She heard the approach of muffled footsteps, comfortable slippers or soft indoor shoes, moving rapidly, but shuffling, the effort of lifting feet too much for ageing, tired muscles. There was a hurried fumbling of the latch then the door opened to reveal a grey-haired couple who resembled each other: both small and slightly dumpy, curly hair long since abandoned to nature, tanned skin from too many cruise-ship holidays, cardigans and elasticated trousers, thin-framed spectacles magnifying bright, hopeful, blue eyes. They answered the door together, something that only happened in times of joyful or fearful expectation. Sally thought they looked like children sneaking into a room in the middle of the night where their parents had lied to them that Father Christmas would have left their presents, excited by the promise of toys, afraid of being caught.

‘Yes?’ the old man asked, his wife peering over his shoulder. Sally flipped open her warrant card and faked a smile.

‘DS Jones, Metropolitan Police …’ She managed to stop herself adding Murder Investigation Team. The last thing she needed was two old people passing out on her, or worse. ‘I’m looking into the disappearance of your daughter, Louise Russell. You are …’ Sally quickly checked her notebook, silently cursing herself for not having done so before knocking, ‘… Mr and Mrs Graham – Louise’s parents?’ They were too desperate to notice her hesitation.

‘Yes,’ the old man confirmed. ‘Frank and Rose Graham. Louise is our daughter.’

Frank and Rose, Sally thought. Old names. Strong names. ‘Can I come in?’ she asked, already moving towards the door.

‘Please,’ said Mr Graham, stepping aside to allow her to enter the hallway.

Sally felt the carpet under her feet, worn and thin, too colourful for today’s tastes, like the floral wallpaper and framed prints of famous paintings, Constable mingling with Van Gogh.

‘Have you heard anything?’ he asked, his patience failing him. ‘Do you know where she is?’

‘Frank,’ Mrs Graham reprimanded him. ‘Maybe Sergeant Jones would like a cup of tea first?’

‘Of course. Sorry,’ Mr Graham apologized. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come through to the lounge. We can have tea in there – or coffee, if you’d prefer.’

‘Tea will be fine,’ said Sally.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Mrs Graham announced and scuttled away to where Sally assumed the out-dated kitchen would be. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,’ she called back over her shoulder.

‘This way,’ said Mr Graham, indicating the nearest door as if he was showing her to a seat in the theatre.

Sally entered the room, taking everything in: more cheap-looking prints of paintings, moderately expensive bric-a-brac, china figurines of women in Victorian dresses holding parasols, a mustard-coloured carpet so thick it was bouncy, and as the centre piece an old oversized television newly adapted to receive a digital signal. Sally doubted they even knew why they needed the strange box that now sat on top of their former pride and joy.

‘Please,’ Graham invited her. ‘Take a seat.’

Sally looked around for a seat no one would be able to share with her and decided on the fake leather armchair, the type she’d seen in old people’s rest homes.

‘Thanks,’ she said, perching herself on the edge of the chair, dropping the computer case that she used as a briefcase on the floor by her feet. Graham sat in what she assumed was his usual chair, prime of place for TV viewing.

‘This has all been very difficult for my wife,’ he began.

‘I’m sure it has,’ Sally empathized. ‘And for you too.’

‘I’ve been OK,’ he lied. ‘Bearing up. Someone has to, you know.’

‘Of course,’ Sally pretended to agree.

‘Ten years in the army teaches you a thing or two about coping with, with difficult situations.’

‘You were in the army?’ Sally asked, warming him up for the hard questions still to come.

‘I was.’ His voice and posture suddenly became more soldierly. ‘I did my National Service and, unlike most of my mates, I loved it. So I signed up for regular army when my year was up. The Green Jackets. But it’s a young man’s game, the army. After ten years I moved to civvie street.’

‘What did you do there?’ Sally asked, already knowing she wouldn’t be interested in the answer.

‘Sales,’ he answered curtly, as bored by his life as Sally would have been. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air until Sally thought of something to say.

‘Was …’ she began clumsily. ‘Sorry, is Louise your only child?’

‘Yes. How did you know?’

‘I didn’t,’ Sally lied. She’d recognized the desperation of single-child parents the moment they’d opened the door. Once Louise was gone they’d have nothing. ‘Not for sure.’

‘Oh,’ was all he replied, then more silence. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go and check on that tea. Rose has been a little distracted the last couple of days. Won’t be a minute.’

‘Of course,’ said Sally. As soon as he was gone she stood and began to move slowly and silently, scrutinizing the room’s contents, careful not to touch anything. She homed in on the framed photographs on the mantelpiece above the old fake-flame electric fire. One or two showed Frank and Rose Graham in exotic locations, but most were of Louise, a collage of her life from young girl to womanhood. Sally liked the photographs. They were very different to the one and only photograph of Louise she’d seen up to now, the lifeless passport photo her husband had given them. These pictures were full of energy and joy, hope and expectations: a child beaming for the school photographer, a teenager posing with friends on a trip to the London Eye, a young woman receiving her graduation diploma outside some university. ‘Where the hell are you, Louise?’ Sally found herself saying. ‘What’s happened to you?’ Her peace was snatched away as the Grahams clattered back into the room, Mr Graham carrying the tray of tea and accompaniments as his wife opened the door and made sure his path was clear.

‘Here we are,’ Mrs Graham said almost cheerfully. ‘Pop it on the table, Frank, and I’ll sort it out from there.’ He did as he was told and retreated to his comfortable old chair as Sally returned to hers. ‘How do you take it, Sergeant?’

‘Milk and one,’ Sally told her. ‘And please, just call me Sally.’

‘All right, Sally,’ Mr Graham replied. ‘How can we help you find our daughter?’

‘Well,’ Sally began to answer before pausing to accept the cup and saucer Mrs Graham held out to her. ‘Thank you. Well, there may be questions that you’re best able to answer, about Louise – things that only a parent would know.’

‘She’s a good daughter,’ Mrs Graham insisted. ‘She always has been, but I shouldn’t think there’s anything we could tell you that John hasn’t already.’

‘Her husband?’ Sally sought to clarify.

‘He may be her husband,’ Mr Graham sniffed, ‘but he doesn’t know her like we do.’ So, Sally thought, Louise is a daddy’s girl and Daddy sounds a bit jealous.

‘You have a problem with him?’ Sally asked.

‘Yes, he does,’ Mrs Graham answered for him. ‘He’s had a problem with all her boyfriends. None of them were ever good enough for his Louise, including John.’

‘She could have done better,’ Mr Graham said coldly.

‘He’s a good husband and a good man,’ Mrs Graham scolded. ‘She did well to keep hold of him, if you ask me.’

Mr Graham rolled his eyes in disapproval.

‘Is she happy?’ Sally asked. ‘In the marriage?’

‘Very,’ Mrs Graham replied. Mr Graham chewed his bottom lip.

‘Any problems that you know about?’ Sally continued to probe.

‘None,’ Mrs Graham answered bluntly. ‘They’re hoping to start a family together. Louise is so excited, she always wanted children, you see.’

‘A waste of her education if you ask me,’ Mr Graham reminded them he was there.

‘A higher diploma in graphic design,’ Mrs Graham scoffed. ‘She was never going to light up the world with that, was she? She only went to college because he made her.’ She jutted her chin towards her husband. Another roll of his eyes.

‘Was that where she met John?’ Sally asked.

‘No,’ Mrs Graham shook her head. ‘She met him through mutual friends a few years ago.’

‘I’m sorry to ask this,’ Sally apologized in advance, ‘but was there anybody else?’

The Grahams were confused by her question. ‘Sorry?’ Mrs Graham frowned. ‘Anybody else? I don’t understand.’

Sally sucked in a deep breath. ‘Is there any possibility that Louise could have been seeing another man?’ She watched their blank faces and waited for the reaction.

‘Another man?’ Mrs Graham asked.

‘It does happen,’ Sally told them. ‘It wouldn’t make her a bad person. It’s just something that can happen.’

‘Not to Louise,’ Mr Graham answered, more stern now; offended.

‘Are you sure?’ Sally persisted. ‘I need you to be absolutely sure.’

‘We’re sure,’ Mr Graham spoke for them both.

Sally waited a while before continuing, studying Mrs Graham, looking for a contradiction in her face, a hint of shame or lying eyes avoiding hers, searching for a place to hide. She saw nothing.

‘What about John?’ Sally asked. ‘Did Louise ever have suspicions about him? Could he have been seeing anyone?’

‘If he is, Louise never mentioned it to us,’ Mr Graham assured her. ‘But we would hardly know, it’s not like we live in each other’s pockets. I mean, we see them regularly enough, but they live on the other side of London. Their business is their business.’

‘I understand,’ said Sally. ‘And I’m sorry I had to ask, but when a young woman goes missing we need to cover every possibility, no matter how unlikely.’

‘Of course,’ Mrs Graham said, ever understanding. ‘Anything to help try and find her.’

Sally could see the pain and loss swelling in Mrs Graham’s chest and throat. She felt a sudden sense of panic, something screaming at her without warning to run from the house, to get away from these people before they began to transfer their nightmares on to her, before she would be expected to comfort Mrs Graham, to tell her everything would be fine. Sally stretched out of her chair and placed her untouched tea on the table.

‘You’ve been very helpful, but I’ve taken up enough of your time.’ Sally found herself almost backing out of the room before Mrs Graham stopped her.

‘You don’t think anything bad has happened to her, do you?’ she asked. ‘Nothing really bad’s happened to her, has it?’

‘I’m sure she’ll be fine,’ Sally reassured them, desperate to escape the house and the Grahams.

‘If anything’s happened to her, I don’t know what we’d do,’ Mrs Graham tortured her. ‘She’s our only child. She’s always been such a wonderful daughter. She’s a good person. No one would want to hurt Louise, would they? She’s not the sort of person anyone would want to hurt. I mean, these terrible men you hear about, they go after prostitutes and young girls whose families don’t care about them, let them wander the streets at all hours, don’t they?’

Sally almost grabbed at the pain that suddenly throbbed in her chest, Sebastian Gibran’s face looming in her mind, straight white teeth and red eyes. Nausea gripped her body, the blood rushing from her face, her lips turning blue-white as she tried to swallow the bile seeping into her mouth. She wanted Mrs Graham to stop, but she wouldn’t.

‘Louise just isn’t the sort of person these people go after. She goes to work and then goes home. I’ve seen programmes on the telly, they always say murderers select their victims, don’t they, that somehow the victims attract these terrible men, they do something that draws these lunatics to them, as if there’s something wrong with them.’

Sally knew she was close to vomiting, even if her empty stomach forced out nothing more than saliva and bile. She managed to speak.

‘Could I please use your toilet?’ she asked, clamping her lips closed the moment the words were out.

Mrs Graham spoke through rising tears. ‘Of course. It’s off the hallway, second on the left.’

Sally staggered from the lounge into the hallway, trying to remember Mrs Graham’s directions, pushing every door she came to until she found the toilet and fell inside, somehow managing to close the door before pulling her hair back with one hand and thrusting her face deep into the bowl. Instantly her stomach compressed and her eyes rolled back into her skull as she violently retched, time after time, the agonizing pain in her belly yielding nothing but a trickle of bile, thick, green and yellow, as bitter as hate. Finally the retching ceased. Sally blinked and tried to focus through watering eyes, standing and checking herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red – she’d ruptured tiny capillaries – but some colour was returning to her face and lips. She rinsed her mouth and dabbed a little of the cool liquid on to her eyes, carefully drying them with a towel without rubbing too hard. After a few minutes she decided she looked passable and headed back to the Grahams, a rapid escape uppermost in her mind.

As she re-entered the lounge, the still-seated Grahams looked up at her like two Labradors waiting for their master’s command. ‘Are you all right?’ Mrs Graham asked.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Sally pretended.

‘You don’t look very well, dear,’ Mrs Graham pursued. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘Just a virus,’ Sally invented. ‘Anyway, thanks for your time, and if there’s anything you think of, please let me know.’ She recovered her computer case, pulled a business card from the side pocket and handed it to Mrs Graham. ‘In the meantime, if we have any news we’ll let you know straightaway.’

‘Thank you so much.’

Mrs Graham’s gratitude only added to Sally’s rising guilt. ‘No problem,’ she called over her shoulder, heading for the front door, both the Grahams in pursuit. Rather than wait for them to open the door for her, she fumbled at the locks and handles herself, tugging the door open and stumbling into the driveway, pulling in chestfuls of fresh air through her nose. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ she promised.

‘Please find her,’ pleaded Mr Graham, his eyes glassy. ‘We don’t care what she’s done, tell her. We just want to know she’s safe.’

‘Of course,’ Sally answered as she stretched the distance between them and her, only stopping when Mr Graham said something she didn’t understand.

‘We have some money,’ he called to her.

‘Excuse me?’ Sally floundered. Was he trying to bribe her to find his daughter?

‘If someone asks for money to let her go, we have money. Not much, but it might be enough,’ he explained.

‘No,’ Sally told him. ‘This isn’t about money. We’re not expecting a ransom demand.’

‘Then what is it about?’ Mr Graham demanded.

‘We don’t know yet,’ Sally answered truthfully, the need to escape now overwhelming. ‘Let’s just hope she comes home safe and well soon.’

‘And if she doesn’t?’ Mr Graham asked. ‘What then?’

Sally searched frantically for an answer, trying to think what the old Sally would have said to him, but nothing came.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know.’

Sean sat at his desk feeling hungry, tired and thirsty. He’d kept promising himself he’d stop for a quick breakfast, but another intelligence report, another door-to-door inquiry questionnaire, another possible sighting of Louise Russell would catch his eye and delay rest, food and water for a few more minutes. It would be the same once the time for breakfast became time for lunch. A rapid-fire knocking on the door frame of his office made him look up from an intelligence report about a night-time prowler seen in the vicinity of the Russells’ house some weeks before Louise’s disappearance. DS Dave Donnelly’s considerable bulk filled the entrance.

‘Morning, guv’nor,’ he began. ‘How’s everything in the garden today? Bright and rosy, I assume.’

‘It’ll be a lot brighter when you get the door-to-door organized properly,’ Sean reprimanded him.

‘I’m only trying to save resources,’ retorted Donnelly. ‘I don’t want to waste any more time and people on this than necessary. String it out for a couple of days and then she’ll be home and we can get on with what we’re supposed to be doing.’

Sean needed Donnelly on side, he couldn’t allow him to keep believing the case was a waste of their time. Donnelly was the mirror image of Sean – he dealt only with what was in front of him. He processed evidence, pressed witnesses hard, interviewed suspects skilfully, but he did it all on the basis of tangible evidence, not theories and hypothetical conclusions. And he got results doing things his way. Sean, on the other hand, was instinctive, imaginative, using the evidence as a guide not a rigid map, unnerving suspects in interview by telling them what they had been thinking as they were committing their crimes rather than relying on things he could prove. They complemented each other – and if the team was to be effective, they needed each other; a fact Sean grasped better than Donnelly.

‘Listen to me.’ Sean looked him in the eye, his voice full of conviction. ‘You’re wrong about this one. Something bad’s happened to Louise Russell. Is she still alive? I don’t know, but I think so, which means there’s a chance we could find her before she turns up floating in a river somewhere. I need you with me on this, Dave.’ He sat back in his chair, ran a hand through his hair. ‘God knows Sally isn’t exactly her old self. I can’t afford to lose both my DSs.’

Donnelly stood silently for a moment, weighing up his response. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘Sure she’s not just run off with a rush-hour-Romeo? One last time around the block before settling down to a life of kids and coffee mornings?’

‘I’m sure,’ Sean told him. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘Fine,’ Donnelly agreed reluctantly. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘See to it that door-to-door’s finished for a start,’ Sean answered, ‘and keep everyone on their toes. I want this handled as if we already had a body. No taking it easy because it’s only a MISPER.’

‘Your wish is my command,’ Donnelly assured him.

‘Really?’ Sean questioned before lowering his voice. ‘And keep an eye on Sally. She’s a bit up and down, know what I mean?’

‘No problem,’ said Donnelly.

They were interrupted by Sean’s phone ringing. He held a hand up to prompt silence and ask Donnelly to stay while he took the call.

It was DS Roddis from the dedicated Murder Investigation Forensic Team. He greeted Sean in his usual manner, avoiding any reference to rank.

‘Mr Corrigan, good morning.’

‘Sergeant Roddis. You have something for me?’

‘I’m at the Russell home now,’ he said. ‘We’re concentrating our examination on the hallway and front door, as you requested.’

‘Good,’ Sean answered. ‘Anything?’

‘It would appear so …’ Sean’s heart rate began to accelerate with anticipation. ‘Unfortunately, the scene hasn’t been preserved as I would have liked, but at least whoever took her didn’t make any attempt to clean up after him. There’s no indication that he wiped any surfaces, nothing’s been polished or scrubbed. And when we got down low to the wooden floor we found a full palm print with fingers attached. We’ve compared it to John Russell’s. It’s not his and it’s too big to be Mrs Russell’s.’

‘Can you lift it off the floor without damaging it?’ Sean asked, a picture forming in his mind of the man who took Louise Russell kneeling next to her prostrate body, his hand on the floor to balance himself, fingers spread to take his weight … while he did what to her?

‘We’ve already lifted it,’ Roddis said gleefully.

‘Is it good enough to get a match from?’

‘If he’s in the system, we’ll be able to get a match. I’m having it sent straight to Fingerprints.’

Sean was certain whoever took Louise Russell was a previous offender. It wouldn’t be anything as big as this, but there’d be something in his past. The question was, had he been convicted? If not, his prints wouldn’t be on file.

‘There’s another thing,’ Roddis continued. ‘The traces are very faint, but on the floor, close to where we found the print, there seems to be evidence of a non-typical chemical. We’ve swabbed it for the lab, but my first guess would be chloroform.’

Another piece of the film playing in Sean’s head became clearer: the man kneeling next to her, pouring chloroform on to material, placing it over her mouth. Sean saw bindings too, being wrapped around her hands, but not her feet – he would have needed her to walk. He blinked the images away and spoke into the receiver. ‘OK, thanks. Let me know as soon as you have more.’

Beckoning for Donnelly to follow him, he got up and went through into the main incident room where his team of detectives were busying themselves at their desks.

‘Listen up, everyone,’ Sean shouted across the room. ‘Forensics have just confirmed there are indications that Louise Russell was abducted from her home by an unknown male. If this isn’t already a murder case it soon will be unless we can find her. I know this is different from our usual, but we are now her only hope, so I want you to give it everything. Chase down every lead, every piece of information and intelligence we have, no matter how irrelevant it looks. Let’s find her before it’s too late.’ Sean looked around the room at the faces of his team. The message seemed to have got through.

‘Just for once,’ Donnelly said, ‘I hope you’re wrong.’

‘I’m not,’ Sean told him. ‘But what I can’t be sure of is how long we’ve got. How long before he tires of his new plaything? And after he throws her out with the rubbish, what then for our man? Somebody else? Will he take another?’

‘You tell me,’ Donnelly answered.

‘I don’t know,’ Sean replied. ‘Not yet anyway.’

Mid-morning Thursday and Thomas Keller should have been at work, but his supervisor had agreed to let him have a few hours off so long as he made the time up in the afternoon. As he walked across the cluttered courtyard from his cottage towards the metal door that led to the cellar his excitement and nervousness grew in equal measure. He picked his way through the old tyres and oil drums that littered his land, land that was dotted with old, disused outhouses and corrugated-iron barns that once housed battery chickens and God knows what else. Even the cottage he lived in was hideous, made of large grey breezeblocks sometime in the sixties and never painted.

He wore his usual loose-fitting tracksuit, the stun-gun pushed into one pocket bouncing awkwardly off his hip as he walked, the keys in his other pocket prone to becoming entangled in stray threads from the fraying seams. This morning he also carried a breakfast tray and a holdall thrown over his shoulder.

On reaching the heavy metal-clad door that led to the cellar below he carefully placed the tray on the floor. Cursing himself for not having moved one of the old oil drums to the door so he could use it as a temporary table, he resolved to do it later, after he’d taken Sam her breakfast.

As he unlocked the oversized padlock that held the door secure he felt his heart begin to race with anticipation and anxiety. He’d barely been able to contain himself during the night, barely been able to keep himself from sneaking in to see her, even if it was just to watch her sleep, to curl up on the other side of the wire next to her and listen to her breathing. But he knew he should leave her alone and let her rest. Now that he was only seconds away from seeing her, the longing to be with her, be with her the way he knew she wanted him to be, was almost overwhelming. He practised his breathing like the doctors had shown him – breathing was the key to being able to control his actions, his temper, his desires.

He pulled the big door back slowly, allowing the light to flood into the cellar, and stood at the entrance, head cocked to one side, listening for any noises that might drift up from the darkness below. After a few minutes, having heard nothing, he picked up the tray and began to move stealthily down the stone stairs, still listening. If he heard anything that alarmed him he would drop the tray and run back to the light, slam the door shut and lock it for ever, never returning to the cellar no matter what.

At the bottom of the stairs he craned his head around the corner of the wall that hid the staircase from the rest of the room and peered into the gloom, allowing his vision time to adjust to the poor light, searching for any sign of change, anything that should make him run. After a few seconds he could clearly make out the two figures cowering in their cages, both sitting with their knees pulled up to their chins, arms wrapped around their legs, Karen in her filthy underwear, Louise naked but covered by the duvet he’d given her.

Finally he stepped into the cellar, their dungeon, all his concentration on Louise, as if Karen wasn’t there any more. ‘Did you sleep OK, Sam? I’ve brought you some breakfast.’ He lifted the tray a little so she could see. ‘You’ll probably want to get cleaned up first though, eh?’

Placing the tray on the makeshift table behind the old hospital screen, he tugged the cord, the bright bulb flooding the cellar with harsh white light. Louise squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the onslaught, tears seeping out from her eyelids as he pulled the stun-gun and key from his trousers and moved slowly towards her cage, careful not to alarm her by moving too fast like before. He unlocked the cage and allowed the door to swing open, his head ducking inside. Seeing her eyes focused on the stun-gun in his hand, his own eyes were drawn to it.

‘I do trust you, Sam, you need to know that, but they could still try to keep us apart. If they do, I’ll need this to protect you. You do understand?’

She nodded a frightened yes, her eyes wide with fear. He thought she looked like a kitten waiting to be plucked from its mother’s side, and it made him feel good, made him feel strong, wanted, needed and in control. He backed away from the entrance to allow her to emerge and watched as she shuffled forward, bent double, clinging to the duvet that hid her nakedness. He knew what she was hiding, remembering the first day he’d brought her here, when he’d taken her clothes, the clothes they’d made her wear. Excitement coursed through him, his penis swelling as the blood rushed into it, making it uncomfortable and obvious under his tracksuit. The memory of seeing, of touching her soft, warm, slightly olive skin was almost too much for him to bear. He closed his eyes and tried to keep control, but the image of her round breasts, dark circles at their centre, and the soft pubic hair almost entirely covering her womanhood, burnt itself into his mind. The need to be with her here and now was so strong it was threatening to overtake him. He knew she wanted him too, wanted him as her lover, but first he needed to show her that he respected her. When they were finally together it would be so much better because they had waited.

She disappeared behind the screen, becoming a shapeless shadow with a silhouette of a human head. ‘There should be plenty of hot water,’ he managed to say through his pain, the need to release growing ever stronger, ‘and the towel should still be there.’ He heard the sound of running water and waited, knowing what was coming, until at last the duvet slipped from her shoulders to the floor, the perfection of her silhouette standing so clearly in front of him now, the shape of her back, the curves of her hips and buttocks, her beautiful breasts, the points of her nipples, her hands running over her body, touching it as he so desperately wanted to, her shadow a template on to which he projected the memory of her nakedness. He realized his mouth was hanging open and emitting an ugly guttural moaning he hoped she hadn’t heard above the running water. The sound of water ceased as he watched her hurriedly dry herself and pull the duvet tightly around her body. ‘Don’t forget the tray,’ he rasped through his dry mouth. ‘You must eat. You’ll need your strength.’

She appeared from behind the screen, looking from the floor to him and back again, heading for her cage, speeding up as she passed him, glancing at the stun-gun in his hand, ducking obediently back inside the safe place he’d made for her. He waited until she’d settled, watching her examining the items on the tray: cereal, milk, some fruit. Yes, he thought to himself – she was becoming as he wanted her to be, as he needed her to be. He eased the cage door shut and replaced the lock, all the time watching her in wide-eyed excitement and anticipation of the moment when he would be with her, as it had always been meant to be.

Needing release, to untie the knot in his guts, to stop the throbbing in his head, the pain in his groin, he looked across at Karen Green. He was disgusted by her, yet drawn to her, drawn to the odour leaking from her cage. Slowly he moved towards her, his face ugly and threatening, his uneven stained teeth bared. Sensing danger, she tried to escape his approach, but all directions led to cold wire.

‘You disgusting whore,’ he accused her, his voice quiet, but full of hateful intent. ‘You’ve pissed yourself. Do you want me to punish you? Do you?’ shouting now.

‘No, please,’ she begged him. ‘I couldn’t help it. Please, I tried not to. I knew it would make you angry, please.’

His teeth clenched together in rage, the words squeezing through them, each one shouted with a pause between to emphasize his fury as he edged closer to his desperately needed release. ‘If … you … knew … it … would … make … me … angry … then … why … the … fuck … did … you … do … it?’

‘I tried so hard not to,’ Karen pleaded, bright tears making clean stains down her increasingly filthy face, her mouth round as if trapped in a scream, her eyes wild with panic as he approached.

He opened a hatch in the side of the cage that was just big enough for a human arm to fit. ‘Put your arm through the hole,’ he demanded.

‘No,’ she sobbed.

‘Put your arm through the fucking hole or you know what’ll happen.’

‘I can’t,’ Karen gasped between terrible childlike sobs. ‘I can’t.’

‘Put your arm through the fucking hole!’ His scream intensified, making both women jump in fright.

Slowly Karen inched her way across the cage and slid her arm through the gate, looking away, knowing pain would soon come. He leapt forward and stabbed the stun-gun into her exposed flesh, sending her flying through the air to the rear of the cage where she crashed into the wire and fell on to her side.

Then he waited. Waited until the convulsions became little more than twitches. Finally he darted to the cage door, dropping the key in his rush to unlock it, fumbling on the floor in a panic to locate it, giggling when he did. The lock undone, he jerked the door open in a desperate rush to reach her before she fully recovered.

The desire was overtaking him, everything beginning to feel dreamlike, as if he had left his body and was watching someone else in the cage with her, someone else rolling her on to her stomach, tearing at her flimsy underwear, pulling himself free and searching for her, thrusting and missing, thrusting again, searching for a warm opening to push himself into her, until finally, when he was so close to releasing the demons that pounded inside of him, he felt himself enter her, the feeling of being inside her making his eyes roll back with excruciating pleasure like he’d never been able to feel before – before he started taking them. In the midst of his ecstasy he wondered if the others would be as good as this, his first.

He rutted like a wild animal, almost unaware of the human being lying underneath him, crying in pain, humiliated and desolate, while he forced himself on her, grunting with absolute pleasure, the warm flesh around his sex driving him to push harder and deeper until the release rushed free from his body and into her. He pushed himself as deeply as he could inside her as the release began to fade, at last allowing his body to relax, bringing him back to the world and the realization of what he had done, shame attempting to wash him clean of his terrible sin.

Keller looked down at the sobbing creature pinned underneath him, his erection fading fast. He pulled himself out of her and tugged his trousers up, already backing out of the cage, unable to look at her. His eyes were immediately drawn to Louise, looking on in horror.

Pointing at the figure discarded on the floor of the other cage, he protested, ‘She made me do it, Sam. She always makes me do it. She knows how to trick me. She’s one of them. That’s how I knew she wasn’t really you, because of the things she makes me do to her. You would never make me do those things.’

Slamming the door to Karen’s cage shut, he snapped the lock back into place then stood clinging to the wire mesh, fighting back the tears that tried to escape from his red eyes, self-loathing and hatred tearing away the ecstasy he’d felt only moments earlier. He scrunched his eyes tightly together, shame giving way to an anger that without warning swept through his being like a raging fire ripping through a bone-dry forest. He straightened, his body frozen with tension as he released his fury, screaming ‘I hate you!’ into the room.

Then he turned and ran sobbing from the cellar, up the stairs and into the daylight, cursing his lack of control, his weakness, the fact they had seen his weakness. Humiliation kept his legs pumping as he ran across the derelict courtyard, bouncing off oil drums, tripping on old tyres until he reached his dilapidated cottage and fell through the door, clutching his chest, desperate for his burning lungs to fill with air, to slow his heart and stop the throbbing pain in his head.

Collapsed on the floor of his neglected kitchen, he waited, staring at the ceiling, as images from his childhood taunted him, joined by other, more recent images of torment. But he didn’t try to push them away. Instead he embraced them like a welcome dream, and gradually the ugly images calmed him, slowed the torrents of his mind and body until finally he was in control again.

Realizing he was lying on the kitchen floor, he sprang to his feet, confused and distrustful of how he came to be there. The memories of what had happened in the cellar came seeping back, and with them his anger, but it was controllable now. He could turn this weakness into his strength, but in order to do that she needed to be taught a lesson. He would have to show the whore he knew what she was.

Keller made his way to the shed attached to the side of the cottage and pulled the unlocked door open. Undaunted by the disorganized chaos that confronted him, he began to scoop armfuls of items from their shelves, kicking the things that landed on the floor out of his way until he found what he was looking for: a bag of litter and a tray he’d bought months ago when he was trying to domesticate one of the feral cats that patrolled his land. He paused for a second, the memory of the ungrateful cat pricking his thoughts. It had got what it deserved, but at least he’d given it a proper burial, in one of the few green and picturesque spots on his land, under the sole willow tree that shaded the back of his cottage. He shook the memory away and examined the items he held.

Satisfied that this would teach the whore who was in control, he set about filling the litter tray, then made his way back to the stairs that led to the cellar, taking care to avoid the obstacles that littered the way. Once inside, he raced down the stairs, abandoning caution now, revelling in his power when he saw them cowering in the corners of their cages. He saw the holdall he’d dropped on the floor earlier and the clothes inside. No matter. First he’d deal with the whore.

He unlocked the padlock to Karen Green’s cage and pulled the door open. This time there was no need to brandish the stun-gun; she wouldn’t dare cross him now. The terror in her eyes told him she knew it was no use trying to escape. He threw the tray of cat litter on to the floor of her cage. ‘When you need to piss, whore,’ he shouted, ‘you piss in there. You piss in there and you shit in there.’ He watched as she hugged herself, rocking rhythmically back and forth. Again he pointed at the tray. ‘In there – understand, whore?’

Neither waiting for an answer nor expecting one, he slammed her door closed and carefully replaced the padlock. Then he crossed the cellar to retrieve the holdall, a smile changing the shape of his face as he pulled the clean and pressed clothes from within: a sky-blue blouse, grey knee-length pencil skirt, a cream V-neck sweater and white underwear. Next he removed two bottles: Elemis body lotion and Tom Ford Black Orchid Eau de Parfum.

‘This is for you, Sam,’ he told Louise. ‘Your own clothes, not the ones they made you wear. These are your own. And look – your favourite perfume and lotion. Use the lotion before you dress. Understand?’ Louise nodded that she did. ‘Put the perfume on after,’ he added. ‘Understand?’ She nodded again. He moved to the side of her cage and opened the hatch just wide enough to fit the items through once he’d rolled them into a single package. ‘Take them,’ he demanded, making her stretch out and snatch the package away, falling back into the corner of her cage.

‘I have to go to work now,’ he said. ‘But I promise I’ll come and see you when I get home. And don’t worry about her.’ He flicked his head towards the other cage. ‘She can’t hurt us any more. Nobody can. Nobody can keep us apart, Sam. They’ll never find us here. They’ll never take you away from me again. I swear it on my life, Sam, I’ll never let that happen.’

Mid-morning Thursday and Sean waited in the comfortable office of Harry Montieth, owner-manager of Graphic Solutions, the small business in Dartmouth Road, Forest Hill, where Louise Russell should have been at work. He heard Montieth knock on his own door before ushering in two women in their late twenties. They both looked scared and anxious; the darkening around their eyes a clear indication that neither had slept well since learning of their colleague’s disappearance. He liked them already because of their concern, their self-inflicted sharing of her pain.

‘This is Tina,’ said Montieth, fumbling for the best way to introduce them to a cop. ‘Tina Nuffield. And this is Gabby – Gabby Scott.’

‘Thank you,’ Sean acknowledged, examining his face for any signs of guilt or shame, searching the women’s faces for telltale indications of disgust. Having concluded there was nothing untoward going on between Montieth and his female employees, he set about questioning them. ‘Mr Montieth has told me that you are Louise’s closest friends.’

‘We’re good friends,’ said Gabby, brushing her short blonde hair behind her ear. Tina remained silent, chewing on her bottom lip, in danger of opening the partly healed cut she’d already made.

‘How good?’ Sean probed.

‘I’ve known her since she started here, must be nearly five years ago.’

‘And what about you, Tina?’ Sean wanted to drag her into the conversation.

‘About three years,’ she answered quietly. ‘That’s when I started here. Louise really looked after me, and Gabby too,’ she added, so as not to upset her friend.

Sean had already decided there was nothing here for him. He continued the standard questions, barely listening to the replies.

‘Things sometimes happen at work that stay at work,’ he suggested. ‘Things that never find their way home. You know what I mean?’ Everyone in the office did.

‘Not Louise,’ Gabby said firmly. ‘If anything like that had happened, we’d know about it for sure and I’d tell you now if it was. I wouldn’t risk lying to you.’

‘You’re her best friends, so I guess you would know,’ Sean encouraged.

‘We would,’ Gabby reaffirmed. ‘And there wasn’t. If Louise went out without John she would be out with us. We would’ve known. She loves John. All she ever talked about was John and how they were going to start a family soon.’

‘What about an unwanted admirer?’ Sean asked as a last procedural question. ‘Someone hanging around outside the office waiting for her? Someone other than the husband sending flowers, cards?’

The three colleagues looked blankly at each other before Gabby answered for them all.

‘No. Not that I ever saw and not that she ever mentioned.’

‘What about at home? Anyone making a nuisance of themselves?’

‘Same,’ said Gabby. ‘Nothing. If there had been, she would have reported it to the police.’

They were interrupted by Sean’s phone ringing on the borrowed desk. He glanced at the caller ID. It was Donnelly.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, snatching the phone up, turning his back on them for false privacy. ‘What’s happening?’

‘We’ve found the car,’ Donnelly told him.

‘Where?’

‘A place called Scrogginhall Wood, in Norman Park, Bromley.’

‘Bromley!’ Sean exclaimed. ‘That’s only a few miles from her home.’

‘You were expecting something different?’ Donnelly queried.

Sean realized he’d been thinking out loud. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘Not necessarily.’ He already had a strong feeling that whoever had taken Louise Russell was local. She hadn’t been snatched by some long-distance lorry driver or salesman on a trip down South. No, this one was from somewhere within the borders of this forgotten part of London. ‘What state’s the car in?’

‘Locked and secure, apparently. No signs of damage or a struggle. A routine uniform patrol found it in the car park while they were looking for local toe-rags who screw the cars there with annoying regularity.’

‘Are you already with the car?’ Sean asked.

‘No,’ said Donnelly. ‘I’m on my way. ETA about fifteen minutes.’

‘Fine. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. Travelling time from Forest Hill,’ Sean explained. ‘Make sure uniform preserve it and the car park for Forensics. And have the AA meet us there to get the thing open. I don’t want any over-keen constables smashing the windows in.’

‘It’ll be done,’ Donnelly assured him.

Sean hung up and turned to his waiting audience.

‘Have you found something?’ Montieth asked, his lips pale with dread.

‘We’ve found her car,’ Sean told them, seeing no point in keeping it a secret. Montieth’s eyes widened, while Gabby started to cry and Tina covered her mouth with both hands, as if pushing the scream of anxiety back inside her. ‘It’s just her car,’ Sean tried to reassure them. ‘There’s no sign of a struggle, nothing to suggest anything untoward has happened to her.’ Gathering up his belongings, he told them, ‘I need to get to where the car was found as quickly as I can, so I’m afraid I’ll have to cut our meeting short. Thanks for all your help. I promise I’ll be in touch if we find anything.’ During the long months without Sally at his side, covering for his abruptness, he’d had to learn to be a lot more subtle and polite with the public.

‘Of course,’ Montieth agreed. ‘Please, you do what you have to do.’

Sean headed for the door, only to be stopped by Gabby grabbing his arm and locking eyes with him.

‘If someone’s hurt her,’ she told him, ‘and you find them, you do the right thing by Louise. You understand?’

‘I understand,’ he assured her, resisting the temptation to rattle off a spiel about justice, courts and trials, knowing it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She continued to hold his arm and eyes. ‘I understand,’ he repeated, his gaze dropping to the fingers coiled around his forearm. She slowly released her grip. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he promised.

The moment the office door closed behind him he broke into a run, virtually jumping down the stairs, desperate to get to the car before any more evidence could fade. Before the last lingering traces of the man he hunted drifted away in the next spring breeze.