The Keeper (26 page)

‘No.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘To help.’

‘To help how? How many murder investigations have you been involved with, exactly?’

‘None. But I’ve conducted extensive interviews with many convicted murderers, including a study of some of Broadmoor’s most troubled patients.’

‘Really?’ Sean asked, impressed despite himself. ‘Like who?’

‘Like Sebastian Gibran,’ she answered. ‘One of yours, I believe.’

‘One of mine?’ Sean repeated. ‘I wouldn’t call him that.’

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘I was invited to examine him as part of his psychological assessment, to see if he was fit to stand trial.’

‘And you decided he wasn’t.’

‘Yes.’

‘You were wrong.’

‘Sebastian was clearly suffering from a deep-rooted personality disorder, his psychopathic traits and complete inability to form meaningful relationships with people were obvious from the start. His marriage, relationships at work, even those with his parents and siblings were an act: he was merely portraying the person they wanted to him to be, while in fact he was living out an incredibly well-formed and detailed fantasy life from a very early age. He was clearly incapable of truly understanding his own trial, in the context of grasping the real-life implications it could have held for him.’

‘He’s bad,’ Sean told her, ‘not mad. He had every advantage in life, yet he chose to do what he did. He
chose
to do it.’

‘If you mean he didn’t have the typical background for a serial killer, then you’re right. He doesn’t appear to have been abused as a child or to have suffered any particularly traumatic incident that could have affected him adversely in later life. On the face of it, he was very successful and intelligent, but the fact remains he clearly has a psychotic social behavioural disorder.’

‘He pulled the wool over your eyes,’ Sean jeered. ‘He did to you what he’s spent his entire life doing – he told you what you wanted to hear and showed you only what he wanted you to see, made himself an interesting psychiatric case for the experts to pore over. What better way to keep himself out of prison? And now all he has to do is wait until he feels the time is right to pass all your blunt tests, leaving you with no choice but to declare him sane. Then what happens?’

‘He’ll stand trial for his crimes.’

‘And use all the evidence you and your colleagues have amassed about his state of mind at the time to prove he can’t be held accountable for his actions on the grounds of diminished responsibility. And then he walks free. True?’

‘I don’t know,’ she answered truthfully, never looking away from him. ‘I’m not an expert when it comes to the judicial system. My job is to provide clinical assessments. I don’t get involved in the moral or legal judgements.’

‘I wish I had that luxury.’ Sean was silent for a moment before continuing: ‘Listen, it’s like this – I’ve never met a psychiatrist or read a psychiatric report about an offender that told me anything I wouldn’t expect any of my detectives to be able to tell me.’

‘I really believe I can help you.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, at the end of the day it doesn’t matter what you think, does it?’

‘Meaning?’

She reached for the briefcase at the side of her chair and pulled an opened letter from inside, handing it to Sean. ‘That’s a letter from your assistant commissioner in charge of serious crime, instructing you to ensure that I have unrestricted access to all matters relating to this investigation, including forensic evidence and interviews with suspects. I will of course not be permitted knowledge of the use of existing covert human intelligent sources or the deployment of undercover officers, although any thoughts I have about how the undercover officer or officers may best infiltrate the offender or offenders would be expected to be fully explained to them, by you.’

Sean scanned the letter without reading it properly, sure everything she said was true. He folded it up, sighing and shaking his head slightly and handed it back to her. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Just one thing.’

‘What would that be?’

‘Don’t ask me questions I don’t have time to answer. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open. Learn through observation not interrogation. You keep up or you get left behind – understand?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Thank you? Thank me for what?’ Donnelly and Zukov appeared at his door before she could answer. Sean could tell by their faces they were excited. ‘Something wrong?’ he asked them.

‘Paulo here’s dug up a possible suspect you might want to take a look at,’ Donnelly explained.

‘Speak up, Paulo,’ Sean encouraged.

‘I did what you suggested, guv’nor, and searched the local intelligence records for anyone with previous for serious sexual offences and burglary artifice. You were right – it turns out to be a very unusual mix. I only got one hit: Jason Lawlor, male, IC1, forty-two years old, loads of previous for theft, assault, burglary, commercial and residential and serious sexual offences. But it was his previous convictions involving the use of artifice to gain entry that set him apart.’

‘But has he ever used it to get into a house and then sexually assaulted the occupier?’

‘Yeah,’ Zukov answered, ‘his last conviction. He did six years for burglary and sexual assault and was only released three months ago from Belmarsh, but he’s failed to show up for his last two bail signing dates and he’s also missed his last two Sexual Offenders’ Register appointments. As of now, he’s on the run.’

‘Excuse me,’ Ravenni-Ceron tentatively interrupted them. ‘Sorry, it’s just that the file on this case said the suspect apparently has no convictions, whereas this man has many.’

Zukov and Donnelly both looked at Sean.

‘Don’t make assumptions,’ he told her. ‘Funny things can happen to fingerprints – trust me, I know. And we also have to consider the possibility our suspect is not working alone. Perhaps this Lawlor character’s made himself a friend who has no convictions. Maybe this friend does the grabbing and Lawlor does the rest.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she argued. ‘The psychological profile of the man we’re after is already clearly indicating he’s a loner, acting out some highly personal fantasy. It doesn’t make sense that he could be working with a partner.’

‘Truth is, we don’t really know that – and nor will we until we arrest this Lawlor and drag him across the cobbles. Once we’ve done that we’ll have a better understanding.’

‘For the record, I disagree.’

‘Noted,’ said Sean, his feelings towards her a mixture of admiration for her courage in speaking up and irritation at her interference.

‘And it doesn’t seem to me you have any evidence to justify his arrest.’

‘That won’t be a problem,’ Donnelly joined in. ‘He’s wanted for jumping bail. We can arrest him any time we like.’

‘Do we have an address for him?’ Sean asked.

‘Only his bail address – 3 Canal Walk, Sydenham,’ Zukov answered.

‘That’s a couple of miles from where Louise Russell was taken,’ Sean pointed out.

‘Same for Karen Green,’ Donnelly added.

‘Have the locals checked out the address?’ Sean asked.

‘No,’ said Zukov. ‘Apparently they’re too busy to chase after bail offenders.’

‘And sexual predators who fail to make their Sexual Register appointments?’ Sean continued.

‘They didn’t have anything to say about that,’ said Zukov.

‘I bet they didn’t,’ Donnelly sneered. ‘Fucking clowns.’

‘I’m not interested in what they did or didn’t do,’ Sean put an end to the criticism. ‘The fact is, if they haven’t checked the address then there’s a chance he may still be using it. What sort of place is it?’ He looked at Zukov.

‘A bedsit in a big old Victorian house. A number of the other bedsits are also used as bail addresses.’

‘Bollocks.’ Sean shook his head, thought for a moment. ‘OK, we can’t risk putting his door in, case he’s not home. His bail house buddies will be straight on the phone to him and we’ll never see him there again. So we plot it up and wait for him to show.’

‘Do you want me to get hold of Featherstone and get some surveillance authorized?’ Donnelly asked.

‘No, we don’t have time. Grab Sally and whoever else you can find. We’ll do it ourselves. As soon as we see him, we’ll take him out. Nothing fancy or complicated – nick him, spin his room and then back here to interview him. All right, let’s go.’

Donnelly and Zukov headed for the main office while Sean started to pull his raincoat on and fill his pockets with phones, handcuffs, CS gas and anything else he thought he’d be needing. Then he looked up to see Anna imitating his actions. ‘You’re not actually thinking about coming with us?’

‘As the letter from the assistant commissioner states, I’m to be given unrestricted access and assistance. If this is your man – although I personally don’t believe it is – then I need to see how he reacts to being arrested. I need to see where and how he lives.’

Sean pursed his lips and let out a long sigh. ‘Have it your own way. But, like I said – keep up or get left behind. I don’t have time to wait for you. Understand?’

‘Don’t worry about me, Inspector. I’m a big girl.’

‘Really? Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we, Anna. I just hope you have more of a clue about what you’re letting yourself in for than I think you do.’

He was charging through the main office in the direction of the car park before she could answer.

Thomas Keller sat at his kitchen table and tried to stay calm, but he was too agitated. He got up and began to pace around the room looking for things to do, but it was no use, the excitement of having her so close overrode everything else. The memory of soft, warm skin made his entire body ripple and shiver with pleasure, but he cursed the ugly desires it stirred in his stomach and groin that threatened to destroy the beauty of the thing that existed between them. He had to go to the cellar, there was something he needed to do concerning the other woman, but he was afraid to go while the excitement gripped him, afraid of what it might make him do.

Suddenly the solution came to him. He hurried along the narrow corridor to his bedroom, coming to a halt in front of the cupboard where he kept his special treasures. Tentatively he reached for the handle, checking first to make sure that he was alone, that there were no intruders lurking in the shadows. He eased the drawer open carefully, savouring the moment, allowing the anticipation to rise slowly, the expectation making his muscles begin to tighten and coil, his eyes darting from side to side as the bundles of letters revealed themselves, each held together by an elastic band. His swelling penis grew uncomfortable in his trousers as he searched for the letters addressed to Deborah Thomson. Reverently he undid the bundle and laid each item neatly on his unmade bed. To him this mundane collection of invoices and bank statements held a significance that seemed almost mystical; just by running his fingers over the letters spelling out her name he felt he could absorb something of her, feel her life flowing into his own. While his left hand rested on the letters, moving from one to another, his right hand slid slowly to his trousers, its fingers fumbling awkwardly at the button and the zip, the urgency to release himself increasing with every passing second, until at last he felt his engorged penis fall into the palm of his hand. But as he began to stroke his hand back and forth, other thoughts began to invade his mind – thoughts of the other woman, the one who’d tried to fool him – the one who’d betrayed him, her face large and distorted as she laughed at him. Then more faces joined her, circling him, pointing and laughing: the face of Karen Green, taunting him for his stupidity, telling everyone how she’d fooled him into believing she was Sam; and the faces of the men from his sorting office, jeering, swearing at him, telling him he was a filthy queer. He felt his penis shrinking in his hand, withering to nothing.

‘Leave me alone!’ he screamed into the empty room. ‘Go away. Just leave me alone.’ But the faces wouldn’t leave him. They kept spinning around him. Among them he could see the faces of his mother and the staff at the orphanage, the teachers who’d hated him and abused him. Self-consciously he struggled to zip up his trousers, but the faces were growing arms and hands which were pointing now at his pathetic, shrunken manhood. He tried to swat them away, but they danced out of his reach, their laughter reaching a crescendo as he used both arms to pull his precious letters close to his chest, protecting them from the phantoms.

Bitter tears stung his eyes and cheeks, the humiliation that had replaced desire giving way to rage. He’d make them sorry for laughing at him, for belittling him. He’d make them all pay, especially her. Abandoning the letters, he jumped to his feet and ran to the cupboard where he kept his stun-gun and the keys to the cellar. He threw open the back door and staggered out into the yard, swiping tears and mucus from his face, his teeth clenched in anger as he made his way to the cellar door. His movements became more fluid now that his purpose was clear, as if his fury were guiding him as he undid the lock and yanked the door open so hard it clattered into the wall and bounced closed. Again he pulled it open and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, staring down into the semi-darkness, breathing hard. Then he moved down the stairs, steadily, purposefully, the tasks ahead clear to him. He rounded the bottom of the stairs and pulled the light cord, watching Louise Russell scuttle into the furthest corner of her cage, her red eyes wild with loathing and fear. He walked to her cage and opened the hatch on the side.

‘Take the clothes off and put them through the hatch,’ he ordered. ‘Do it now.’

Louise crossed her arms across her chest, gripping the blouse and sweater, refusing to surrender these last remnants of decency. ‘Please,’ she begged him.

‘You can keep the underwear,’ he said, ‘but I need everything else.’

‘Please,’ she repeated, ‘I’ll do whatever you want, but please, let me keep the clothes. You gave them to me, remember? You told me they were my real clothes, that I needed to wear them for you, for us.’

He held a hand up to stop her. ‘Just give me the clothes.’