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The Keeper
Luke Delaney


The second novel in the DI Sean Corrigan series – authentic and terrifying crime fiction with a psychological edge, by an ex-Met detective. Perfect for fans of Mark Billingham, Peter James and Stuart MacBride.Thomas Keller knows exactly who he’s looking for…They tried to keep them apart, but when he finds her, he’s going to keep her. Just like he knows she wants him to.DI Sean Corrigan is not like other detectives. His dark past has given him the ability to step into a crime scene and see it through the offender’s eyes. He understands what drives a person to commit terrible acts – but sometimes his gift feels more like a curse.When women start disappearing from their homes in broad daylight, Corrigan’s Murder Investigation Team is reluctant to take on a missing persons case. But then the first body turns up, and Corrigan knows he must quickly get into the mind of the murderer. Because this killer knows exactly who he wants. And he won’t stop until he finds her.









THE KEEPER

Luke Delaney










DEDICATION (#ulink_4611ff8c-b755-5b34-9eef-49b5c247953e)


I don’t believe we’re all lucky enough to find our true soul mates in this life, but I have. I would love nothing more than to write her name in lights high above the world for everyone to see, but unfortunately because of my past life I cannot. So instead of a galactic firework display in her honour, I dedicate this book, The Keeper, to my incredible wife – LJ, whose love has done much to shape the man I am today.

At our wedding my Dad gave a little speech and described LJ and I as being a powerful force. It took me a few years to fully realize what he meant, but now the meaning of his words is crystal clear, as anyone who’s ever seen us together would understand. We drive each other, push each other forward, challenge each other when it’s needed, criticize each other when it’s warranted, but above all else we love and support each other. We can do all these things because we belong to each other – are safe and secure with each other – respect and adore each other.

So here’s to LJ – loving and dedicated mother, a fearless captain of her industry and inspirational leader both at work and at home – a young girl from a nowhere town who overcame all the significant disadvantages and hurdles life put in her way to reach the very top. And most importantly of all, and as a lesson to everyone, she achieved all this without ever telling a lie, without ever being deceitful, while always being kind and loyal, and with an unshakeable morality.

Without LJ, I could easily have lost my way – at the very least settled for less than I could have been. So for all she has given me I thank her and love her.

For LJ

Love,

LD x


Table of Contents

Cover (#u2f9f93c7-69a7-5c91-8f73-d635c7c7c095)

Title Page (#u0af1efa6-2481-59ee-86da-9292126bb533)

Dedication (#u82c1d07a-7581-5800-aac0-c2f1eb4fccc4)

Chapter 1 (#u9b35c61a-9d1e-51e0-b851-e5fe90824a6a)

Chapter 2 (#u041101a8-ad89-56d0-9ace-fd27fa7acb94)

Chapter 3 (#u7a74c456-c1d0-55f8-84d7-e67a7aca12ad)

Chapter 4 (#u3bf5c6d7-fbf5-55b8-b5ac-1039827123f9)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also By Luke Delaney (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




1 (#ulink_f3b3bddb-203c-50b3-b981-e4e001988b83)


Thomas Keller walked along the quiet suburban street in Anerley, south-east London, an area that provided affordable housing to those attracted to the capital who discovered that they could only afford to live on its edges, financially excluded from the very things they had come to London for in the first place. He knew Oakfield Road well, having walked its length several times over the previous few weeks and he knew in which house Louise Russell lived.

Keller was cautious. Although confident he would draw little attention in his Post Office uniform, this was not his normal route. Someone might realize he shouldn’t be there and that the mail had already been delivered earlier that morning, but he couldn’t wait any longer – he needed Louise Russell today.

As he approached number 22 he made sure to drop post through the letter boxes of neighbouring houses, just in case some bored resident had nothing to do other than spy on the street where nothing happened anyway. As he posted junk mail his eyes flicked at the windows and doors of the street’s ugly new brick houses, built for practicality with no thought of individuality or warmth. Their design provided excellent privacy, however, and that had made Louise Russell even more attractive to him.

His excitement and fear were rising to levels he could barely control, the blood pumping through his arteries and veins so fast it hurt his head and blurred his vision. He quickly checked inside his postal delivery sack, shuffling the contents around, moving the junk mail aside, touching the items he had brought with him for reassurance – the electric stun-gun he’d bought on one of his rare holidays outside of Britain, the washing-up liquid bottle that contained chloroform, a clean flannel, a roll of heavy-duty tape and a thin blanket. He would need them all soon, very soon.

Only a few steps to the front door now and he could sense the woman inside, could taste and smell her. The architecture of the soulless house meant that once he had reached the front door he could not be seen from the street and nor could Louise Russell’s red Ford Fiesta. He held his hand up to ring the doorbell, but paused to steady himself before pressing the button attached to the door frame, in case he needed to persuade her to open the door to him. After what felt like hours he finally pressed it and waited, until a jerky shadow moved from the bowels of the house towards the front door. He stared at the opaque glass window in the door as the shadow took on colour and the door began to open without hesitation or caution. He hadn’t had to speak after all. Now at last she was standing in front of him with nothing between the two of them, nothing that could keep them apart any longer.

He stood silently, in awe of her. It felt as if her clear, shining green eyes were pulling him forward, towards her glowing skin, her pretty feminine face. She was only a little smaller than he, about five foot six and slim, with straight brown hair cut into what was nearly a bob. She was about the same age as he was, twenty-eight years old. He began to tremble, but not with fear any more, with joy. She smiled and spoke to him. ‘Hi. Do you have something for me?’

‘I’ve come to take you home, Sam,’ he told her. ‘Just like I promised I would.’

Louise Russell smiled through her confusion. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t think I understand.’

She saw his arm moving quickly towards her and tried to step back, away from the threatening-looking black box he held in his hand, but he’d anticipated she would and he stepped forward to match her stride. When the box touched her chest it felt as if she’d been hit by a wrecking ball. Her feet left the ground as she catapulted backwards and landed hard on the hallway floor. For a few blissful moments she remembered nothing as her world turned to black, but unconsciousness spared her from reality all too briefly. When her eyes opened again she somehow knew she hadn’t been out for long and that she was still unable to command her own movements as her body remained in spasm, her teeth clenched together, preventing her from screaming or begging.

But her eyes were her own and they could see everything as the man dressed like a postman busied himself around her prone body. His stained, buckled teeth repulsed her, as did the odour of his unwashed body. As his head passed close to her face she could see and smell his short, unkempt brown hair, strands of which had stuck to his forehead with sweat. His skin was pale and unhealthy and appeared quite grey, marked with acne and chicken-pox scars. His hands were bony and ugly, too long and thin, the skin almost transparent like an old person’s. Long dirty fingernails fidgeted at things he was taking from his post-bag.

Everything about him made her want to turn from him, to push him away, but she was trapped in the unrelenting grip of whatever he’d touched her with, unable to do anything but watch the nightmare she was at the centre of. And all the time he spoke to her using the name of another as the pictures adorning the walls she knew so well stared down at her – happy photographs of her with her husband, her family, her friends. How many times had she passed the pictures and not taken time to look? Now, paralysed on the floor of her own home, her sanctuary, the same pictures mocked her from above. This couldn’t be happening, not here – not in her home.

‘It’ll be all right, Sam,’ he promised. ‘We’ll get you home as soon as we can, OK. I’ll get you in the car and then it’s only a short trip. Please don’t be scared. There’s no need to be scared. I’m here to look after you now.’

He was touching her, his damp hands stroking her hair, her face and all the time he smiled at her, his heavy breaths invading her senses and turning her stomach. She watched through wild eyes as he took hold of her arms and crossed them at the wrists over her chest, his fingers lingering on her breasts. She watched as he began to unroll a length of wide, black tape from a thick roll he’d brought with him. She prayed silently inside her frozen body, prayed that her husband would appear in the doorway and beat this animal away from her. She prayed to be free from this hell and the hell that was about to happen because now she knew, she understood clearly, he was going to take her with him. Her pain and terror weren’t going to be over quickly, in a place she had no fear of. No, he was going to take her away from here, to a place she could only imagine the horror of. A place she might never leave, alive or dead.

Through her physical and mental agony she suddenly began to feel her body’s control returning to her, the muscles relaxing, her jaw and hands beginning to unclench, her spine beginning to loosen and straighten, the unbearable cramp in her buttocks finally receding, but she was betrayed by her own recovery as her lungs allowed a long breath to escape. He heard her.

‘No, no. Not yet, Sam,’ he told her. ‘Soon, but for the moment you need to relax and let me take care of everything. I swear to you everything will be just the way we wanted it to be. You believe that, don’t you, Sam?’

His voice was a menacing mix of apparent genuine concern, even compassion and a threatening tone that matched the deep hate in his eyes. If she could have answered him she would have agreed with anything he said, so long as he would let her live. She felt rape was a certainty now, her mind instinctively preparing her for that, but her very life, her existence, she would do everything she could to preserve that: she would do anything he asked.

Carefully placing the tape on the floor next to her, he took a washing-up liquid bottle from his bag and a rag. He squirted a clear liquid on the rag. ‘Don’t fight this, Sam. Just breathe normally, it’s better that way.’ Even before the rag covered her mouth and nose she could smell its pungent hospital aroma. She tried to hold her breath but could only manage a few seconds, then the chloroform fumes were sweeping into her lungs and invading her bloodstream. She sensed unconsciousness and welcomed it, but before the sanctity of sleep could descend he pulled it away. ‘Not too much,’ he said. ‘You can have some more when you’re in the car, OK?’

Louise tried to look at him, to focus on his movements, but his image was distorted and his voice warped. She blinked to clear her sight as the first effects of the chloroform began to lessen. She recovered in time to see him binding her wrists together with the tape, the pain of the adhesive being pressed into her skin cutting through even the chloroform. Then his hands moved towards her face, holding something between them. She tried to turn away, but it was useless as she felt the tape being plastered across her mouth, the panic of impending suffocation pressing down on her empty lungs like a ton weight, the effects of the chloroform preventing her thinking rationally or calming herself so she could breathe.

‘Relax,’ he assured her. ‘Relax and breathe through your nose, Sam.’ She tried, but panic and fear still refused to allow any normal sense of self-preservation to ignite.

Suddenly he moved away from her, rifling through her handbag and then the set of drawers next to the front door. Moments later he returned, having found what he was looking for – her car keys.

‘We need to go now, Sam,’ he told her. ‘Before they try and stop us again. Before they try and keep us apart. We need to hide from them, together.’

He struggled to get her to her feet, pulling her torso off the ground by gripping and tugging at her top, her near dead weight almost too much for his slight physique to bear. Finally he managed to wrap her right arm around his neck and began to haul her from the ground.

‘You have to help me, Sam. Help me get you up.’

Through her confusion and fear she could hear the growing anger in his voice and something told her she had to get up if she was to survive the next few moments of this hell. She struggled to make her legs work, the tape around her wrists preventing her from using her arms for balance or leverage, her unsteady feet slipping on the wooden floor.

‘That’s good, Sam,’ the madman encouraged her. ‘Almost there, just a little bit more.’

She sensed she was on her feet now, but the world was spinning wildly, making her unsure of anything as she began to walk, moving forward into the bright light beyond the home that should have been her refuge. The light and air helped clear her mind further and she could see she was standing at the rear of her own car while this man fumbled with her keys. She heard the alarm being deactivated and the hatchback door popping open. ‘You’ll be safe in here, Sam. Don’t worry, we haven’t got far to go.’

She realized his intentions but only managed to mumble ‘No,’ behind her taped mouth before he grasped her shoulders and steered her towards the opening, making her lose her balance and fall into the back of the car. She lay there, her eyes pleading with the man not to take her from her home. It was the last thing she remembered before the chloroform-soaked rag once more pressed into her face, only this time he held it there until unconsciousness rescued her from perdition.

He looked at her for as long as he dared, all the while smiling, almost laughing with happiness. He had her back now, now and for ever. Pulling the thin blanket from his sack, he carefully spread it over her prostrate body before closing the hatch door. He jumped into the driver’s seat and struggled to put the key in the ignition, excitement making his hands shake almost uncontrollably. At last he managed to start the car and drive away calmly, slowly so as not to draw attention. Within minutes he would swap Louise Russell’s car for his own and then, soon after that, he would be at home with Sam. At home with Sam for the rest of her life.

Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan sat inside court three at the Central Criminal Court, otherwise known as the Old Bailey, named after the City of London street it dominated. Despite all the romance and mystique of the famous old court, Sean disliked it, as did most seasoned detectives. It was difficult to get to and there was absolutely no parking within miles. Getting several large bags of exhibits to and from the Bailey was a logistical nightmare no cop looked forward to. Other courts across London might be more difficult to get a conviction at, but at least they provided some damn parking.

It was Wednesday afternoon and he’d been hanging around the court doing little more than nothing since Monday morning. Sean scanned the courtroom, oblivious to its fine architecture. It was the people inside the room he was interested in.

Finally the judge put the Probation Service report to one side and looked over the court before speaking. ‘I have considered all submissions in this matter, and have given particular weight to the psychological reports in relation to Mr Gibran’s mental state now and at the time these crimes – these serious and terrible crimes – were committed. In the case of this defendant, on the basis of the opinions of the expert witnesses for the defence, namely those of the psychologists who examined Mr Gibran, it is my conclusion that Mr Gibran is not fit to stand trial at this time and should be treated for what are apparently serious psychological conditions. Does anybody have any further submissions before we conclude this matter?’

Sean felt his excitement turn to heavy disappointment, his stomach knotted and empty. His attention was immediately pulled back to proceedings as the prosecution barrister leapt to his feet.

‘My Lord,’ he pleaded. ‘If I could draw your attention to page twelve of the probation report, it may assist the court.’

The court fell silent again except for more shuffling of papers as the judge found page twelve and read. After a few minutes he spoke to the prosecuting barrister. ‘Yes, thank you Mr Parnell, that does indeed assist the court.’

The judge looked to the back of the court where Gibran sat motionless and calm. ‘Mr Gibran,’ the judge addressed him, speaking as softly as distance would allow, already treating him like a psychiatric patient instead of a calculating murderer. ‘It is the decision of the court that in this case you will not be standing trial for the crimes you have been charged with. There exist serious doubts as to your ability to comprehend what would be happening to you, and as a result you would not be in a position to defend yourself adequately from those charges. I have therefore decided that you should receive further psychiatric treatment. However, in view of serious concerns expressed by the Probation Service that you pose both a danger to yourself and the public …’

Sean’s emptiness left him as quickly as it had come, squeezed out by the excitement again spreading through his core. He didn’t care who the turnkeys were, prison officers or nurses, so long as Gibran was locked away behind bars, for ever.

The judge continued: ‘… I cannot ignore the risk you represent and must balance that with your need to receive treatment. As a result I am ordering you to be detained under the Mental Health Act in a secure psychiatric unit for an indefinite period. Should you in the future be deemed to have made sufficient progress towards recovery then it will be considered again as to whether you should stand trial or indeed be released back into the community. Very good.’

With that the judge stood to signify an end to proceedings. Everyone in the court rose simultaneously to show their respect. Sean was the last to his feet, a suppressed smile thinning his lips as he looked to the dock and whispered under his breath, ‘Have fun in Broadmoor, you fuck.’ His eyes remained locked on Gibran’s as the guards led the defendant from the dock towards the holding cells beneath the old court. Sean knew it would almost certainly be the last time he ever saw Sebastian Gibran.

The events of the past few months raced through Sean’s mind as he gathered his files, stuffing them into his old, worn-out briefcase that looked more like a child’s oversized satchel. He headed for the exit keen to avoid the handful of journalists who had been allowed into the court, stopping en route to shake the prosecuting counsel’s hand and to thank him for his efforts, as unimpressive as they were. He walked from the courtroom at a decent pace, scanning the second-floor hallway for journalists or family members of Gibran’s victims, neither of whom he wanted to speak to now, at least not until he’d spoken to one of his own. He walked briskly through the main part of the court open to the public and into the bowels of the Bailey, a labyrinth of short airless, lightless corridors that eventually led him to a Victorian staircase that he climbed until he reached an inconsequential-looking door. Sean pushed the door open and entered without hesitation, immediately hit by the noise of the chitter-chatter that could barely be heard from the other side of the door.

The little ‘police only’ canteen was enshrined in the force’s myth and legend, as well as serving the best carvery meat in London. It didn’t take long for Sean to find Detective Sergeant Sally Jones sitting alone in the tiny warm room, nursing a coffee. She sensed Sean enter and looked straight at him. He knew she would be reading his face, seeking answers to her questions before she asked them. Sean wound and weaved his way through the tightly packed tables and chairs, apologizing when necessary for disturbing the rushed meals of busy detectives. He reached Sally and sat heavily opposite her.

‘Well?’ Sally asked impatiently.

‘Not fit to stand trial.’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Sally’s response was loud enough to make the other detectives in the canteen look up, albeit briefly. Sean looked around the room, a visual warning to everyone not to interfere. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Sally continued. ‘What’s the fucking point?’

Sean noticed Sally unconsciously rubbing the right side of her chest, as if she could feel Gibran hammering the knife into her all over again. ‘Come on, Sally,’ he encouraged. ‘We always knew this was a possibility. Once we’d seen the psychiatric reports it was practically a certainty.’

‘I know,’ Sally agreed with a sigh, still rubbing her chest. ‘I was fooling myself that common sense might break out in the judicial system. I should have known better.’

‘It’s entirely possible he is actually mad.’

‘He is completely fucking mad,’ Sally agreed again. ‘But he’s also absolutely capable of standing trial. He knew what he was doing when he did what he did. There were no voices in his head. He’s as clever as he is dangerous, he’s faked his psych results, made a joke out of their so-called tests. He should stand trial for what he did to …’ Her voice tailed off as she looked down at the cold coffee on the table in front of her.

‘He’s not getting away with it,’ Sean assured her. ‘While we’re sitting here he’s already on his merry way to the secure wing at Broadmoor. Once you go in there you never come out.’ Some of England’s most notorious murderers and criminals were locked up in Broadmoor; their faces flashed through Sean’s mind: Peter Sutcliffe aka the Yorkshire Ripper, Michael Peterson aka Charles Bronson, Kenneth Erskine aka the Stockwell Strangler, Robert Napper the killer of Rachel Nickell. Sally’s voice brought him back.

‘Gibran killed a police officer and damn nearly killed me. He’ll be a bloody god in there.’

‘Don’t be so sure.’ Sean’s phone began to vibrate in his jacket pocket. The number said ‘Withheld’ meaning it was probably someone calling from their Murder Investigation Team incident room back at Peckham police station. Sean answered without ceremony and recognized the strange mixture of Glaswegian and Cockney at the other end immediately. DS Dave Donnelly wouldn’t have called unless there was good reason.

‘Guv’nor, Superintendent Featherstone wants to see you back here ASAP. Apparently something’s come up that requires our “specialized skill set”.’

‘Meaning we’re the only soldiers left in the box,’ Sean answered.

‘So cynical for one so young.’

‘We’ll be about an hour, travelling time from the Bailey,’ Sean informed him. ‘We’re all finished here anyway.’

‘Finished already?’ said Donnelly. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’

‘I’ll explain when I see you.’ Sean hung up.

‘Problem?’ Sally asked.

‘When is it ever anything else?’

Louise Russell’s eyes began to flicker open, her mind desperately trying to drag her from the chloroform-induced sleep that held nothing but nightmares of smothering, darkness, a monster in her own home. She tried to see into the gloom of her surroundings, the blinking of her eyes beginning to slow until finally they remained frozen wide open with terror. My God, he had taken her, taken her away from her home, her husband, her life. The fear fired through her like electricity, making her want to jump up and run or fight, but the effects of the chloroform weighed her down. She managed to push herself on to her hands and knees before slumping on to her side, using her forearm as a makeshift pillow. Her breathing was too rapid and irregular, her heartbeat the same. She tried to concentrate on conquering her fear, to slow the rise and fall of her chest. After a few minutes of lying still and calm her breathing became more relaxed and her eyes better able to focus on her new surroundings.

There were no windows in the room and she couldn’t see a door, only the foot of a flight of stairs she imagined would lead to a door and a way out. One low-voltage bulb hung from the high ceiling, smeared with dirt, its light just enough for her to see as her eyes began to adjust. As far as she could tell the room was little more than thirty feet wide and long, with cold unpainted walls that looked as if they’d been whitewashed years ago, but now the red and greys of old brick were showing through. The floor appeared to be solid concrete and she could feel the cold emanating from it. The only noise in the room was water running down a wall and dripping on to the floor. She felt as if she must be underground, in a cellar or the old wartime bunker of a large house. The room smelled of urine, human excrement and unwashed bodies and, more than anything else, absolute fear.

Louise pulled the duvet that covered her up to her neck against the coldness of her discoveries only to add to her chill. She looked under the duvet and realized all her clothes had been taken and the duvet left in their place. The duvet smelled clean and comforting against the cold stench of the room, but who would do this, take her from her home, take her clothes, but care enough to leave her a clean duvet to cover herself and keep out the cold? Who and why? She closed her eyes and prayed he hadn’t touched her. Her hand slowly moved down her body and between her legs. Fighting the repulsion she touched herself gently. She felt no pain, no soreness, and she was dry. She was sure he hadn’t raped her. So why was she here?

As her eyes adjusted further to the gloom she discovered she was lying on a thin single mattress, old and stained. He had left a plastic beaker of what looked and smelled like fresh water, but the thing she noticed most, the one thing that brought tears stinging from her eyes, was when she realized she wasn’t just in this terrible room, she was locked in a cage inside the room. All around her was thick wire mesh interwoven through its solid metal frame, no more than six feet long and four feet wide. She was locked inside some sort of animal cage, which meant there were only two possibilities: he’d left her there to die, or he would be coming back, coming back to see the animal he’d caught and caged, coming back to feed his prize, coming back to do whatever he wanted to her.

She wiped her tears on the duvet and once again tried to take in all of her surroundings, looking for any sign of hope. One end of her cage was clearly the way out as it was blocked with a padlocked door. She also noticed what appeared to be a hatch in the side, presumably for the safe passage of food between her and her keeper. Fear swept up from the depths of her despair and overwhelmed her. She virtually leapt at the door, pushing her fingers through the wire mesh and closing her fists around it, shaking the cage wildly, tears pouring down her cheeks as she filled her lungs ready to scream for help. She froze. She’d heard something, something moving. She wasn’t alone.

She looked deep into the room, her eyes almost completely adjusted to the low light levels now, listening for more sounds, praying they wouldn’t come, but they did, something moving. Her eyes focused on where the sounds had come from and she could see it, on the opposite side of the room, another cage, as far as she could tell identical to the one she was locked inside. My God was it an animal in there? Was she being kept with a wild animal? Was that why he’d taken her, to give her to this animal? Driven by panic she started shaking her cage door again, although she knew it was futile. The sound of a voice made her stop. A quiet, weak voice. The voice of another woman.

‘You shouldn’t do that,’ the voice whispered. ‘He might hear you. You never know when he’s listening. If he hears you doing that he’ll punish you. He’ll punish us both.’

Louise froze, the terrible realization she was not the first he’d taken paralysing her mind and body. She lay absolutely still, listening, disbelieving, waiting for the voice to speak again, beginning to think she had imagined it. She could wait no longer. ‘Hello,’ she called into the gloom. ‘Who are you? How did you get here?’ She waited for an answer. ‘My name’s Louise Russell. Can you tell me your name?’

A short, sharp ‘Sssssh,’ was the only reply. Louise waited in silence for an eternity.

‘We need to help each other,’ Louise told the voice.

‘I said be quiet,’ the voice answered, sounding afraid rather than angry. ‘Please, he might be listening.’

‘I don’t care,’ Louise insisted. ‘Please, please. I need to know your name.’ Frustration brought more tears into her eyes. She waited, staring at the coiled shape lying on the floor in the other cage, until eventually the shape began to unfold and take on a human form.

Louise looked at the young woman now sitting, legs folded under herself in the cage opposite. She looked around and confirmed to herself there were no more cages in the room, her eyes soon returning to the other woman. Louise could see that she was still pretty, despite her unkempt appearance – her short brown hair tangled and her face pale and dirty, any signs of make-up long since washed away by tears and sweat. She had bruises on her body and face, as well as a badly split lip. She looked to be in her late twenties, slim and as far as Louise could tell from a sitting position, about the same height as she was. In fact almost everything about her was similar to Louise. She couldn’t help but notice the other woman had no mattress or duvet, no covers or bedding of any kind, and all she had to wear were her filthy-looking knickers and bra. She looked cold, despite the fact the room was reasonably warm, although Louise couldn’t see an obvious source of heating. She guessed the room might be next to a boiler room or maybe the fact they were underground, as she suspected, kept it warmer than outside. But why was this other woman apparently being treated so much worse than she was? Was she being punished? Was that why she wouldn’t speak, for fear of further punishment? What would he do to her next – remove her underwear, the final humiliation?

‘My name’s Karen Green.’

The sound of the voice froze Louise. It took her a few seconds to find her own voice.

‘I’m Louise. Louise Russell,’ she answered. ‘How long have you been here for?’

‘I don’t know. He’s got my watch.’

‘Can you remember what day it was when he took you?’

‘Thursday morning,’ Karen told her. ‘What day is it now?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t be sure. I remember it was Tuesday morning when he …’ Louise struggled to find the word. ‘When he attacked me. Do you know how long I’ve been here for?’

‘Quite a while. Maybe even a day. You’ve been out the whole time.’

Louise slumped against the wire mesh of her cage, trying to comprehend the fact she could have been missing for a day and still not been found. And then a more chilling thought swept over her; Karen had been missing for almost a week and yet here she was, rotting in a mesh cage and, up until now, alone – except for him.

‘Do you know what he wants?’ she asked Karen in a sudden panic. ‘Why are we here?’

‘No. I don’t know what he wants, but he always calls me Sam.’

Louise remembered he had called her Sam too. I’ve come to take you home, Sam. Just like I promised I would. She felt the sickness rising in her stomach, the foul, bitter bile pushing up through her throat and into her mouth. They were replacements for someone else – replacements for whoever the hell Sam was.

Another wave of exhausting fear washed over her, a tangible, physical pain. They were being held by someone who was insane, someone impossible to reason or rationalize with. Hope drained from her.

Louise looked across at Karen and was reminded of her lack of clothing and the only thing she feared almost as much as death itself. ‘Has he touched you?’ she asked. There was a long silence and she watched Karen shrinking and coiling into the foetal position, hugging herself silently.

‘Not at first,’ Karen answered in little more than a tearful whisper. ‘When I woke up he’d taken my clothes, but I don’t think he’d touched me. He left me a mattress and duvet, like he has for you, but later he took them away and he … he started to hurt me. At first he was almost gentle. He injected me with something that stopped me struggling and then he did it. But now he’s always angry with me. He does it to punish me, but I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t done anything to make him angry.’

Louise listened as if she was listening to her own future being described, her body stiff with panic, her muscles cramping with tension. ‘What happened to your clothes?’ she asked. ‘You said he took them when he brought you here, but he gave you back your underwear. Why didn’t he give you the rest back?’

‘These aren’t mine,’ Karen explained. ‘My first few days here he let me wash, then he gave me some clothes and made me wear them. But last night – I think it was night, he came and took them off me, except for what I’m wearing. I didn’t know why he took them until he brought you here.’

Louise too realized why he had taken the clothes and knew that soon she would be wearing them. She retched bile, capillaries in her eyes rupturing, leaving them pink and glassy. The silence was suddenly shattered by the metallic clank of something small and heavy hitting against what sounded like sheet metal. A padlock being opened, Louise guessed, and for a second dared to believe it could be their rescuers. The fear and dread she heard in Karen’s voice soon chased her hopes away as she instinctively backed into the furthest corner of her cage.

‘He’s coming,’ Karen told her. ‘Don’t speak to me now. He’s coming.’

Sean and Sally entered their murder inquiry incident room at Peckham police station shortly before four on Wednesday afternoon. The office was both unusually busy and quiet, the detectives from Sean’s team taking advantage of the lull between new investigations to catch up on severely overdue paperwork. They hadn’t picked up a murder case in weeks, despite there being no shortage to go around. The other Murder teams working South London were getting more than a little annoyed that the regular flow of violent death seemed to be passing Sean’s team by. Though glad of the respite, Sean increasingly had the feeling he was being saved for something he knew he wasn’t going to like.

As they crossed the room he saw Detective Superintendent Featherstone through the Perspex of his partitioned office. He caught DS Donnelly’s eye as he walked and with a barely noticeable twitch of his head indicated for Donnelly to follow them. As Sean approached Featherstone, he began to get the feeling this was the day he’d been dreading. They entered the office and Featherstone stood to greet them. ‘A little bird tells me it didn’t go so good at court today,’ was Featherstone’s hello.

‘Depends on your point of view,’ Sean answered.

‘And what’s yours?’ Featherstone asked.

‘Well, he’ll probably spend the rest of his life banged up with the worst of the worst in Broadmoor. That sounds like a result to me.’

‘And who would disagree with that point of view?’ Featherstone enquired. Sean said nothing, but his eyes flicked towards Sally. ‘Nobody gets out of Broadmoor, Sally. That bastard will rot in there. Think of it this way: he’s got a life sentence and we didn’t even have to go to trial. All it takes is a couple of dimwits on the jury who like the look of him and he walks free. Trust me, Sally, this is an outstanding result.’

Sally was unmoved. ‘He should have stood trial,’ was all she said.

Sean decided it was time to move the conversation on. Cops never dwelt on old cases long. It didn’t matter whether they’d had a good result or a disastrous one; within a few hours of the court’s decision the case, though not forgotten, was put aside, rarely to be mentioned again. However, the investigation surrounding Gibran had been significantly different from anything any of them had dealt with. And bad as it had been for the rest of them, it had been much, much worse for Sally – she had almost died, almost been killed in her own home. Physically she had survived, just, but Sean felt that something had died inside her. She’d spent two months in intensive care and then another three with the hospital general population. A month later she’d gone back to work, but it was too soon and she couldn’t cope physically or mentally. A few weeks later she’d returned again and he couldn’t persuade her to take more time off, no matter how hard he tried. That was two months ago; nine months after she was attacked. She couldn’t hope to have truly recovered in that time.

‘There’s no point dwelling on what did or didn’t happen any longer than we have to. What’s done is done. We can’t appeal a decision made at committal so we all need to move on.’ Sean glanced at Sally, who was silently staring at the floor, then turned to Featherstone. ‘I assume you’ve gathered us together for a reason, boss.’

‘Indeed. I’ve got a missing person for you to find.’

Featherstone’s words were greeted with disbelieving silence.

‘A what?’ Sean queried.

‘A missing person,’ Featherstone repeated.

‘Must be someone very important to have an MIT assigned to their case,’ Donnelly surmised.

‘Important, no,’ Featherstone told them. ‘Or at least, not to the general public. No doubt she’s important to her family and friends, and certainly to her husband who reported her missing.’

‘Are we talking foul play?’ Sean asked. ‘Is the husband a suspect?’

‘Yes to the foul play, no to the husband. He’s not a suspect.’

‘How long’s she been missing for?’ Sean continued.

‘Best guess is yesterday morning. The husband, John Russell, left her at about eight thirty to go to work and hasn’t seen her since,’ Featherstone explained. ‘He got home at about six that evening and both his wife and her car were missing. Her handbag was there, her mobile phone etc, but Louise wasn’t. Clearly something’s happened to her and clearly she could be at risk.’

Sean didn’t like what he was hearing. Women who ran off with secret lovers didn’t leave their handbags and phones behind. ‘How far have we got?’ he asked.

‘About as far as I’ve just described,’ Featherstone told them. ‘The local uniform inspector who picked up the missing persons report didn’t like the look of it so he passed it up to their CID office who in turn thought it might be something we’d be interested in.’

‘And when or if they find her body, we will be interested,’ Donnelly chipped in.

‘The idea is we find her before it comes to that,’ Featherstone snapped back.

‘That’s not our brief,’ Donnelly continued to argue. ‘We deal with murders, nothing else. Why don’t they give it to the Serious Crime Group or even leave it with the local CID?’

‘Because,’ Featherstone explained, ‘the powers that be, sitting in their ivory towers in Scotland Yard, have decided to trial a new policy with vulnerable MISPERs who at first sight appear to have come to harm. It’s an extension of the murder suppression and prevention programme.’

‘Then why not give it to the Murder Suppression Unit?’ Donnelly refused to back down. ‘Seems tailor-made for them.’

‘Not quite their remit,’ Featherstone continued. ‘They need a suspect to concentrate on before they’ll take a job.’

‘And we need a body,’ Donnelly insisted.

Sean broke the argument up with a question. ‘How old is she?’

‘Sorry?’ Featherstone’s mind was still tussling with Donnelly.

‘How old is the missing woman?’

Featherstone flicked through the file he’d been holding throughout the meeting. ‘Thirty.’

‘Prime running-away-with-another-man age,’ Donnelly sniffed.

‘She hasn’t run away,’ Sally joined in. ‘A woman wouldn’t leave so many personal belongings behind unless something had happened.’

‘Like what?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Like she was taken,’ Sally answered.

Sean sensed another argument was about to flare. ‘We’ll look into it,’ he announced.

‘What?’ Donnelly turned to him, indignant.

‘Look at it this way,’ Sean told Donnelly. ‘If we can find her before something happens to her, we’ll save ourselves a lot of work.’

‘Good,’ Featherstone said. ‘I want to be regularly updated on this one, Sean. The powers that be are keen for a positive result to keep the media off their backs.’ He handed the missing persons report to Sean who passed it on to Sally. ‘There are a few photographs of her in the file. The only distinguishing mark is a scar from when she had her appendix removed when she was a teenager.’

‘Get some copies of this run up please, Sally, and spread them around the team,’ Sean told her. ‘Dave can give you a hand.’

Donnelly looked as displeased as he felt. ‘Waste of our time,’ he insisted. ‘She’ll be home in a couple of days smelling of aftershave and demanding a divorce.’

Sean gave him a hard look. ‘I don’t think so,’ was all he said. Donnelly knew when to stop pushing and left the office in Sally’s wake.

Featherstone waited until they were well out of earshot before speaking again. ‘How’s Sally?’ he asked.

Sean sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘She’s getting there,’ he answered.

‘Bollocks,’ snapped Featherstone. ‘Any fool can see she’s struggling, unsurprisingly.’

‘She’ll be OK,’ Sean assured him, a little disappointed in Featherstone’s lack of faith in Sally’s ability to recover. ‘She needs some time and a decent investigation to take her mind off what happened, that’s all.’

‘Is that why you so readily agreed to take on a missing persons inquiry?’ Featherstone asked. ‘To help Sally.’

Sean avoided the question. ‘I didn’t realize I had a choice.’

‘For what it’s worth,’ Featherstone told him, ‘you did have a choice.’ Sean said nothing as Featherstone headed out of his office. ‘Make sure you keep me posted and if there’s anything I can do, give me a call. I know you’re allergic to the media, so if you need me to deal with them, no problem.’

Featherstone was halfway out the door when Sean stopped him with a question. ‘Do you think she’s already dead? Is that why you want me to take this on?’

‘I was hoping you would tell me that, Sean,’ Featherstone answered. ‘And her name’s Louise Russell and she’s someone’s wife, someone’s daughter – and if we do our jobs properly, one day she might be someone’s mother. I think we all need to remember that, don’t you?’

Sean said nothing as he watched Featherstone close the door behind him.

He suddenly felt very alone, sitting in his small warm office, surrounded by cheap furniture and out-dated computers with monitors that belonged in a museum. Even the view out of his window offered nothing but the sight of sprawling Peckham council estates and the travellers’ caravan site on the wasteland next to the police station itself. He started to think about Louise Russell, to imagine what had happened to her and why. Where was she now? Was she still alive and if so why? Had somebody taken her, taken her to do horrific things to her? Should they expect a ransom note? No, he didn’t think so. This felt like madness, as if madness had come into Louise Russell’s life without any warning or reason.

Sean rubbed his face and tried to chase the questions away. She’s a missing person, he told himself. Stop treating her like she’s dead. But he knew it was pointless – he’d already begun. He’d already begun to think like him. Like the madman who’d taken her.




2 (#ulink_457d0366-1691-5b6c-ab87-e3168dc24625)


Natural light flooded down the staircase and into the room, its brightness temporarily blinding Louise Russell as she blinked to adjust to its harshness, before the noise of a door being quickly but carefully closed took the light away. Louise’s eyes welcomed back the twilight she had grown accustomed to and looked across the room at Karen Green, who was sinking further into the corner of her cage, her fingers curling through and around the wire mesh as if she was bracing herself, anchoring herself against a tide that was about to sweep her away. Louise could hear her trying to stifle her tears as the footsteps on the stairs grew closer. She listened to those footsteps approaching, but they weren’t heavy and dramatic, they were light and made little more than a shuffling, scraping sound that filled her with a fear worse than anything she’d ever experienced.

It was as if her senses were tuned in to the minutest sound, shade, smell, movement in her prison. This was the darkest most desperate place and time of her life, yet she’d never felt so alive. She found herself mimicking her fellow captive as she backed into the furthest corner of her cage, the beat of her own throbbing pulse almost drowning out the gentle footsteps that tentatively crept down towards them.

After what seemed both an agonizingly long time and a desperately short time he appeared at the bottom of the stairs and stepped falteringly into the makeshift dungeon. Louise watched as he paused before slowly moving inside, keeping close to the wall. As far as she could make out he was wearing a dark or grey tracksuit top and bottoms. Still he said nothing as he moved deeper into the room, then suddenly disappeared as if by magic. A second later she heard the springy click of a cord being pulled, followed by the yellow glow of a low-wattage bulb spilling into the subterranean room. The light wasn’t strong enough to trouble her eyes or vision, but it made a huge difference to what she could see clearly. She saw that he’d walked behind a fabric screen, the type used on hospital wards to provide some degree of privacy.

It was like watching a silhouette in a puppet show, as he stood on the other side of the screen, his legs still, his arms and hands moving, busying themselves with something that made dull chinking sounds. Louise heard the rasp of a stiff tap being turned and then running water. He was cheerfully humming a tune she didn’t recognize, a sound more terrifying than any scream or screech in the night. Her mouth was unbearably dry with fear, her throat glued shut with rising panic, her eyes as wide as a wild animal that knows it’s about to be torn to pieces by its tormentors, her fully dilated pupils increasing her night vision at a time when she almost wished she could see nothing, hear nothing and feel nothing.

Louise watched as the silhouette became still, although somehow she knew he had turned to face them. She could hear him breathing deeply, as if he was preparing himself to walk on to a stage and meet his audience. Finally he stepped from behind the screen, this unimpressive man, average height, too slim, with scruffy brown hair and waxy skin. But to her he was vile monster, a hideous beast that threatened her in every way – her dignity, her freedom, her very existence. How could this wretch suddenly have so much power over her?

She could see he was smiling, a non-threatening, friendly smile. She remembered his stained teeth and the stink of his breath from when he took her, the memory pushing vomit-tasting saliva from her stomach into her mouth. Other memories rushed forward now – the smell of his unwashed hair, the stench of his stale sweat infested with stinking microbes, and his hands, his witch’s hands, lingering too long on her breasts. Without warning the deluge of noise from her heart and blood fell silent. She realized he was speaking and it was enough to make her stop breathing, for her heart to stand still, just for a second.

‘Sam? Are you OK? I brought you something; something to drink and a bite to eat if you can manage it. It’s not much, but you’ll feel better if you can manage to eat and drink a little.’ He began to walk towards her carrying a tray on which he balanced a plastic mug of water and plate with a sandwich that looked like something a child would make. He walked in a crouched position as he circled her cage, peering in through the wire bars, smiling all the time while his eyes, wide and excited, darted over her body, stabbing her with a thousand needle-points and making her skin crawl.

‘I’ll have to put the tray through the hatch,’ he told her. ‘It’s better that way, until you understand more. You know what I mean, don’t you, Sam? You always understood what I meant, even when nobody else did. That’s why we’re supposed to be together.’

He took a small key from his tracksuit pocket and unlocked the padlock securing the bolt to the cage’s hatch. Louise watched his every move, wary of his hand suddenly stretching out for her through the hatch, but he merely pushed the tray in and held it, waiting for her to take it. ‘Take the tray,’ he told her. ‘It’s all for you. I’ll come back for it later, when you’ve had enough.’ Louise shuffled forward slowly, tentatively, her eyes never leaving his as she took the tray, which she immediately placed on the ground before shuffling back into the furthest corner of her prison.

‘Try some,’ he encouraged. ‘Drink first though, the chloroform can leave you a bit dehydrated.’

She picked up the plastic mug and looked at it suspiciously, trying to detect any scent that didn’t belong in an innocent drink of water. Finally she sipped it, a sense of relief soon overtaken by the clean, cold taste of fresh water. Suddenly aware how thirsty she was, she gulped it down quickly.

‘Good, eh?’ he said. ‘Don’t drink too much too quickly though, it might make you feel sick.’

Louise stopped drinking and began to dab some of the water around her lips and face, pausing as she remembered the woman locked in the other cage. Was she strong enough to speak to him yet? She decided she needed to try, do something to establish a relationship. She’d seen a programme about a kidnapped woman who’d built a bond with her captor that ultimately saved her life when he could no longer bring himself to kill her as he’d planned. ‘What about her?’ she managed to ask, barely recognizing her own weak, scratchy voice.

‘Who?’ he asked, his smile twitching now, blinking on and off.

Louise looked towards the other animal cage then back to him. ‘Her. Karen. She said her name was Karen.’

He stared coldly into Louise’s face, his smile nothing more than a memory now. ‘You mustn’t talk to her. She’s a liar and a whore. She made me think she was you, but she isn’t.’

Louise watched his face contorting with hatred, his lips pulled back over his teeth like a hyena laughing, the veins in his neck swollen and blue with anger. Sensing that she had put Karen in real and immediate danger, she hurried to undo her mistake. ‘No,’ she told him. ‘She hasn’t said anything, I promise. I made her tell me her name. It wasn’t her fault. Please, there’s too much water here for me. You can give her the rest of this. Please.’

Her desperate attempts to calm his anger towards the woman cowering and whimpering in her cage on the other side of the room seemed to go unheard. He was stalking across the floor, his eyes fixed on Karen.

‘The whore gets nothing!’ he shouted, his voice echoing hollowly in the brick tomb. ‘The whore gets nothing, except what all whores really want.’

Louise covered her ears with her hands, instinctively curling herself into a tight ball pressed against the wire mesh, watching in horror as he drew closer to the only person in the world who shared her nightmare.

‘It wasn’t her fault,’ she forced herself to call out, somehow certain his anger would not be turned on her. ‘Leave her alone, please. She’s done nothing wrong.’ Tears slid down her cheeks, salty through dehydration. Strands of dry, sticky saliva stretched across her mouth like a spider’s web as she silently pleaded with him to stop.

He fumbled in his trouser pocket, trying to remove an object that was bulkier than the keys he had produced earlier. Whatever it was caught on the fabric of his pocket and he tugged violently to free it, his eyes never leaving Karen Green’s cage. ‘I’ll give you what you fucking want, whore.’

Louise tried to close her eyes, tried to look away as Karen desperately pushed herself into the wire at the back of her cage, trying to find a way to escape the approaching madness. She could see what he was holding now. It was the strange box he’d touched her with when she’d first opened the door to him – the thing that had left her paralysed and helpless.

Almost dropping the key in his fury and excitement, he struggled to unlock Karen’s cage, his words slurred and incoherent. Finally he opened the hatch and leaned into the cage. Karen’s scream pierced through the hands that covered Louise’s ears and penetrated into every millimetre of her body.

Karen was pressed hard against the wire, the skin on her face patterned with the squares of the wire cage, blood running down her chin from the split lip that opened raw and painful as she tried to push her body through the tiny holes, all the time imploring him to stop in her faint, defeated voice. ‘Stop. Please stop.’ But he didn’t. Instead he kept getting closer to her, inch by inch. Moving cautiously, as if she was a wild animal that might turn on him, he stabbed out at her with the stun-gun. He repeated the action several times, missing his target and then backing away, extending her misery and dread, until finally he struck her at the base of her spine.

For a split second Karen’s body went rigid and as hard as mahogany, then she collapsed in a jerking, convulsing wreck. Still he maintained his distance, watching her agony with a slight smile spreading across his lips until her convulsions began to subside. Then he moved in, rolling her on to her back and pulling her legs straight. Louise again tried to look away, but couldn’t, any more than she could have looked away from a crystal ball showing her own future. She watched as he tugged and wrenched at his tracksuit pants, exposing his white buttocks, then his long fingers reached for Karen, pulling her filthy knickers down to her knees and shuffling forward as he lay on top of her. Louise heard him moan as he entered Karen, his buttocks moving rhythmically, slowly at first then quickly, brutally, guttural animalistic noises filling the room. Karen, who had stopped convulsing, was lying under him motionless, sobbing, her eyes wide and staring at Louise, accusing her.

Less than a minute later, screams of joy and pleasure signified his climax. His cries faded away to silence. No one spoke and no one moved for what felt like hours, then he tugged at his trousers until they covered his buttocks and still swollen genitals. He backed out of the cage without a word, replacing the lock and bolt, coughing to clear his throat before speaking. He was calm now, but appeared embarrassed, his eyes avoiding Louise’s.

‘I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that, but that’s what she does. She tricks me. She makes me do it. She knows I don’t want to. She knows I don’t like being with her. She makes me feel dirty. I won’t let her trick me again. Not now you’re here, Sam. I promise,’ he told her. ‘I have to leave you for a while. I’ll come back later for the tray. Try to eat something.’

He turned off the light and moved to the staircase, head bowed as if ashamed. She listened to the slow, soft footsteps as they climbed the unseen staircase and then the clank of metal as the unseen door was unlocked. Again there was a flood of daylight that stung her already sore, red eyes. Then gloom once more as the door gently closed.

Louise peered through the gloom towards the figure lying motionless on the concrete floor of her cage making no attempt to cover herself with the little clothing she had. She whispered into the darkness: ‘Karen. Karen. Are you all right? Please, Karen. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

But there was no reply. Instead Karen curled into a tight ball, hugging herself, and began to sing a barely audible song. Louise struggled to make out the words. When she did, she realized it wasn’t a song Karen was singing, it was a nursery rhyme.

Sally and Sean pulled up outside 22 Oakfield Road, the home of Louise and John Russell, early on Wednesday evening. Sally saw an ugly but practical modern townhouse. Sean saw much more – a concealed front door providing privacy from neighbours and passers-by, state-of-the-art double-glazed windows that were virtually impossible to break in through, a street full of near-identical houses inhabited by neighbours who never spoke to one another, a street where only men who lingered too long and youths clad in hooded tracksuits would draw attention.

‘Why’s this place not been preserved for forensics?’ he demanded.

‘No one’s saying anything happened here,’ Sally told him, defending someone else’s decision as if it were her own. ‘This is just the last place anyone saw her.’

‘“Anyone” meaning her husband?’

‘Apparently.’ Only day one of the investigation and Sally already sounded weary.

They abandoned their car at the side of the road and walked the short distance to the driveway of the house. Sean stopped and looked around, silently surveying every inch of the house and street, looking up as well as at eye level. Only cops looked up as they walked. Many of the surrounding houses had lights on although it wasn’t fully dark – people still used to the habits of winter. Sean searched the windows without thinking, his eyes waiting to be attracted to something they hadn’t yet seen. Across the street a curtain twitched as his eyes passed – a neighbour who’d been spying on them guiltily trying to disguise their curiosity. Good, Sean thought, nosy neighbours were often the best witnesses. Sometimes they were the only witnesses. He made a mental note to shake up the neighbour’s world as soon as he’d finished with Russell.

He turned towards the house and saw Sally was already waiting for him at the front door. Impatience was not a trait he’d associated with Sally until Gibran almost ripped the life from her. He reasoned that, like most people who’d sailed too close to death, she could no longer bear to waste a second of life. He strode to the front door faster than he wanted to and reached for the bell before hesitating and using his fist to pound on the door instead.

‘That doorbell must have been pressed a hundred times since she was taken,’ Sally told him. ‘If indeed she was taken. Any forensic use it might have had is long gone.’

‘Good practice is good practice,’ was all he said.

A silhouette inside the house moved quickly to the door and opened it without caution. A tall slim white man in his early thirties stood in front of them. He looked tired and despondent. Everything about him reeked of desperation, not least the way he rushed to the door. He looked disappointed to see them. Sean knew he’d been hoping it was his wife, coming home to beg forgiveness for her infidelity, forgiveness he was all too willing to offer. ‘Yes?’ he said, his voice no less strained than his body and face.

‘John Russell?’ Sally asked.

‘Yes,’ he confirmed.

‘Police,’ Sally informed him bluntly. ‘We’re here about your wife.’

Sean saw the blood drain from Russell’s face and knew what he was thinking. ‘It’s all right,’ he tried to explain. ‘She’s still missing.’ He watched Russell start to breathe again and held his warrant card at eye level so that even through his panic Russell could see it clearly. ‘Detective Inspector Corrigan and this is Detective Sergeant Jones.’ Sally’s face remained blank. ‘May we come in?’

Locked in his moment of private torment, Russell took a few seconds to react and step aside. ‘Sorry. Of course. Please, please come in.’ He closed the door behind them and led the way to a comfortable kitchen-diner.

Sean glanced at the bric-a-brac of the couple’s lives: photographs of holidays together, more elaborately framed photographs of their wedding taking the prime spots on side tables and hallway walls. They looked happy living their unextraordinary lives, content with their lot, blissfully ignorant of the things he saw every day. He guessed they were planning to have children soon.

‘Would either of you like a drink?’ Russell offered.

‘No thanks. We’re fine.’ Sean spoke for both of them. ‘We just wanted to ask you a few questions about your wife, Louise.’

‘OK,’ Russell agreed. Sean could tell he was nervous, but not in a way that suggested guilt.

‘When did you last see her?’ Sean asked.

‘Tuesday morning. I left for work at about eight thirty and she was still here, but when I got home she wasn’t.’

‘And that was unusual?’

‘She nearly always got home before me. I work longer hours.’

‘Did she say she was going out after work? Maybe you didn’t hear her when she told you. Maybe you were distracted. We all live busy lives, Mr Russell,’ Sean suggested. ‘My wife reckons I only hear about a third of what she actually says.’

‘No,’ Russell insisted. ‘We don’t live like that. If she’d been going somewhere or if she was going to be late she would have made sure I knew and I would have remembered. This is all a waste of time anyway. She didn’t go out for a night out with her friends and she hasn’t run off with another man. If you knew her, you wouldn’t think that, you’d be looking for her.’

‘We are looking for her,’ Sean reassured him. ‘That’s why we’re here and that’s why I have to ask some difficult questions.’ Russell didn’t respond. ‘Even the people closest to us sometimes have secrets. If we can find out any secrets Louise had then maybe we can find her.’

‘Louise didn’t have secrets from me,’ Russell insisted.

‘What about you from her?’ Sally asked clumsily. It was a question that needed to be put, but not now. Not yet.

Sean swallowed his frustration with Sally. ‘Maybe something that seemed innocent to you, but that you didn’t want her to know, something that might have upset her enough to make her want to be alone for a few days?’

‘Such as?’ Russell asked.

‘Anything,’ Sean answered. ‘An old girlfriend contacting you or a large bill you’ve been hiding from her because you didn’t want her to worry about it. Maybe she thought it was a breach of trust.’

‘No,’ Russell slammed the door of possibility shut. ‘There are no old girlfriends, no money worries. We’re careful.’

Sean took a few seconds to consider before making his final judgement. Russell had nothing to do with his wife’s disappearance and couldn’t help Sean find her. There would be no secret lover and she wasn’t going to return in a couple of days telling anyone who would listen that she’d needed a little time alone. Something terrible had happened to her, something beyond her husband’s imagination, beyond almost everyone’s imagination. But not Sean’s.

Despite the warmth of the central heating Sean felt the hairs on his arms and neck begin to tingle and rise. He found himself looking back towards the front door. He saw the faceless silhouette of a man coming through the door, knocking Louise Russell to the ground, somehow overpowering her and taking her, dragging her from her own home, the place she felt safest.

He didn’t know how many seconds he’d been absent for when Sally’s voice dragged him back.

‘Guv’nor?’

‘What?’ he replied like a man caught daydreaming.

‘Anything else we need to know?’

‘Yes …’ Sean turned to Russell. ‘You said her car was missing too?’

‘That’s right,’ Russell answered. ‘That was when I realized something was wrong, when I saw her car wasn’t on the drive. I just had a bad feeling. Then I came inside and found her handbag and phone, but she wasn’t here. I’ve already given your colleagues a description of her car and registration number.’ Sean glanced at Sally, who confirmed with a quick nod of her head. ‘Is there anything else you need?’ Russell asked tiredly.

‘No,’ Sean told him. It was obvious the guy had had enough of giving the same answers to the same questions. ‘You’ve been really helpful, thanks.’ Russell said nothing. ‘If I could just ask you to try and avoid the hallway by the front door as much as possible until I can get our forensics people to have a look at it.’ Russell looked at him accusingly. ‘I like to be sure,’ Sean reassured him. ‘Check every possibility.’

‘If you think it’s necessary,’ Russell agreed.

‘Thank you,’ Sean said. ‘And one last thing, before I forget. Who is her best friend? Who would she confide in?’

‘Me,’ Russell told them. ‘She would confide in me.’

Sean and Sally heard the door close softly behind them as they walked down the Russells’ driveway without looking back. Sally spoke quietly: ‘Well?’

‘He’s got nothing to do with it and he can’t help us find her any more than he already has. We both know she hasn’t run away, not without her bag and phone.’

‘We’re not all addicted to handbags,’ Sally reprimanded him, holding out her arms to indicate the absence of a bag.

‘Phone?’ Sean asked, indicating the mobile clutched in Sally’s guilty hand.

‘OK,’ Sally conceded. ‘So what happened?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ Sean answered. ‘He either did her in the hallway by the front door and took her body away in her own car, or he took her alive.’

‘He?’ Sally challenged. ‘You sound like you already know him.’ Sean merely shrugged in reply. ‘So what next?’ she continued.

‘I need you to get hold of Roddis. Have him examine the house properly, concentrating on the hallway, front door, etc. The scene, if it is one, has been well and truly trampled, but you never know your luck. And make sure her car details are circulated if they haven’t been already, then get them marked for forensic preservation – that won’t have been done yet, you can put your mortgage on it.’

‘I’ll see to it,’ Sally assured him while following his eyeline across the street to the house he was staring at. ‘Something I should know?’

‘A twitching curtain,’ Sean told her. ‘When we first pulled up, someone was watching us. The question is, why?’ He started walking towards the house, offering no explanation. Sally followed.

Sean used the doorbell this time and waited impatiently – he already knew someone was at home. There was no glass in the front door, just a spyhole. Clearly the occupier preferred security to natural light. Sean noticed the pristine Neighbourhood Watch sticker attached to the inside of the front-room window. He went to press the doorbell again, but delayed when he felt a presence on the other side of the wooden barrier. They listened as at least two good, heavy deadbolts were withdrawn. Not many people used security like that when they were at home and awake.

The door fell back into the warm house revealing an elderly man in his late sixties or early seventies. He was still quite tall, about Sean’s height, and he held his back straight military-style, although Sean doubted he’d ever actually been a soldier. He wore smart grey trousers and a brown cardigan over a blue shirt that contrasted with the reddening skin pulled over his bony, angular face. His hair was grey and wavy, but still had traces of the blond that had only recently deserted him. He knew who they were but asked them anyway: ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

Sean had already formed a dislike to him. Sally had no opinion; to her he was one more face, one more witness to be spoken to, assessed and categorized before she could escape to the solitude of her own home, away from prying eyes and stupid questions about how she was coping.

Holding up his warrant card for the wannabe soldier, Sean announced: ‘DI Corrigan and this is my colleague DS Jones. We’re making some local inquiries about a missing person. Mind if we ask you a couple of questions?’

‘Do I know this missing person?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sean answered. ‘Do you? Louise Russell, she lives across the road, number twenty-two?’ Sean didn’t let him answer. ‘Do you mind if we come inside? This inquiry’s at a sensitive stage, you understand.’

The man stepped aside reluctantly. ‘Fine, but this won’t take too long, will it?’

‘No.’ Sean passed by him into the neat and orderly house, immediately looking around, his eyes studying every detail. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ Sean prompted as Sally entered the hallway, making a little too much of checking her watch.

‘Levy,’ the man answered. ‘Douglas Levy.’ Sean’s eyes turned from scanning the house to surveying the occupier, dissecting him layer by layer. Was this the man responsible for Louise Russell’s disappearance? Had he watched her every day from behind his twitching curtain, fantasized about her, about having her, taking her, doing things to her that no woman would ever let him do to them? Had he masturbated while thinking about her, did he take himself in hand while he watched her from the window, ejaculating embarrassingly into his own hand, too overcome by his excitement to fetch tissues from the bathroom before he started? And then, after months, maybe even years, had he decided he needed more? Maybe just to touch her once, maybe a kiss, an innocent kiss on the cheek, something to add spice to his fantasies and masturbating. Had he gone too far, touched her in the wrong place, tried to kiss her too hard until she started to scream and fight, and he panicked, hit her, hit her hard and all the time the excitement rising in his groin, the material of his underpants tightening uncomfortably around his swelling penis and then she was unconscious and he was inside her, grunting and rutting like a pig until all too quickly it was over and then he had to kill her, he didn’t want to, but he had to, to stop her telling everyone what he had done, his hands closing around her throat, her eyes bulging, the whites turning red as a thousand unseen capillaries ruptured. Sean found himself studying Levy’s hands for scratch marks. There were none, but Sean knew he was at least partly right about him.

‘Do you live alone, Mr Levy?’ Sean asked.

‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything,’ Levy responded, indignant.

‘No,’ Sean agreed, his question unwittingly answered. ‘I see you’re a member of the local Neighbourhood Watch.’

‘Actually, Inspector, I’m the coordinator of the Neighbourhood Watch. You can check with the local police if you don’t believe me.’

‘Why wouldn’t I believe you?’ said Sean, enjoying the discomfort creeping over Levy’s features.

Sally looked on, disinterested and excluded, already convinced Levy was a waste of time as a witness or a suspect.

‘As coordinator of the Neighbourhood Watch, you no doubt keep an eye on things, look out for strangers in the street, keep a watch on your neighbours’ houses when they’re at work and you’re at home alone … I’m sorry,’ Sean finished with an insincere smile, ‘I’ve made an assumption you’re retired.’

‘I am,’ Levy told him, straightening his back as if he was proud of his retired status, although Sean could tell it was killing him, knowing that he’d passed his usefulness sell-by-date.

‘And did you?’ Sean asked.

‘Did I what?’ Levy was struggling to keep up with the conversation, his pink face growing redder with anger and frustration.

‘See anything or anyone in the street the last few days that made you suspicious?’

‘I don’t spend all my time looking out of the window,’ Levy protested.

‘But when you hear something, like a car coming or going, you do,’ Sean suggested.

Levy grew more flustered. ‘Sometimes … maybe … I don’t know, not really.’

‘But you heard us arrive earlier and you watched us through the window. So you like to keep an eye on the comings and goings of the street, yes?’

‘What’s the point of all of this?’ Levy snapped. ‘I know nothing about the woman across the street’s disappearance. I didn’t hear anything and I didn’t see anything.’

Sean studied him in silence for as long as he felt Levy could stand. ‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘Just one more thing. Did anyone ever arrive at the Russells’ house after Mr Russell had left for work but before Mrs Russell set off?’

‘Not that I noticed.’ Levy answered with his eyes closed as if he could somehow block Sean out of his consciousness.

‘Did they ever argue or fight that you know of?’ Sean continued.

‘No,’ Levy insisted. ‘They’re a decent, quiet couple who keep themselves to themselves. Now please, I’m very busy and I think I’ve helped you as much as I can so—’

‘Of course,’ Sean agreed. Levy opened the door a little too quickly and moved aside, waiting for them to leave. ‘Thanks for your time.’

They walked past him and into the growing darkness. The street was quiet with the onset of night and their words would travel too far if they spoke outside, so they waited until they were back in the car. Sally spoke first.

‘Do you mind telling me what that was all about?’ she asked. ‘Given that I doubt even you are seriously considering Levy as a suspect.’

‘Why not? Lives alone, bored out of his skull, nothing to do, nothing to look forward to. The devil finds work for idle hands. He watches her, fantasizes about her until finally he can’t resist it any more so he waits for the husband to go to work and decides to pay Mrs Russell a little visit. But he goes too far and before he knows it he’s a killer. It’s nothing we haven’t seen.’

‘Christ!’ Sally exclaimed. ‘Even if he did fantasize about her – which I doubt – he would never have the balls to try and do something about it. If there’s one thing that terrifies the likes of Levy it’s change. He would never risk upsetting his pointless life.’

Sean could see that Sally had had enough. ‘Fair point. I guess I just didn’t like him. I guess I just don’t like any of them.’

‘Any of who?’ Sally asked.

‘The stuffed shirt Neighbourhood Watch brigade. We might as well get rid of the lot of them for all the good they do. Stickers in windows and monthly meetings, for fuck’s sake – who are they kidding? Some madman came to this street and killed or kidnapped a woman right under their pious noses and nobody saw a damn thing. Neighbourhood Watch? Bunch of sanctimonious wankers.’ Tiredness suddenly swept over him, reminding him to check his watch. It was gone eight. By the time they got back to Peckham and tidied up the first day of inquiries and prepared for the next it would be close to eleven. He had a chance of making it home before midnight.

‘So you’re sure then?’ Sally asked. ‘She’s either already dead or someone’s taken her and she probably soon will be.’

‘I’m not sure of anything,’ Sean lied. ‘Let’s head back to the office. It’s getting late, there’s nothing else we can do tonight. In the morning you go see her parents and I’ll have a word with her workmates, just in case we’re missing something.’

‘Fine,’ was all Sally replied.

Sean forced himself to ask her the obvious question, fearful she might answer truthfully, making him listen to her fears and pain, but Sally wasn’t about to share herself with anyone yet. ‘Sore and tired,’ she told him. ‘I need tramadol and sleep.’

‘Sort out forensics for the house and check her car details have been circulated and then get yourself home,’ he instructed her. ‘Don’t stick around for anything else.’ He watched as Sally again subconsciously rubbed her chest where the knife had entered. He could imagine the scars beneath her jacket and blouse, still red, raised and ugly; one above her right breast and one below. It would be years before they faded, but they would always be clearly visible.

‘I will,’ Sally promised. ‘And thanks.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ Sean insisted. ‘Just look after yourself.’

Louise Russell sat in the gloom of her cage, knees pulled up to her chin, arms wrapped around her lower legs, hugging the thin duvet close and rocking subconsciously as she tried to judge the time. She guessed it must be the early hours of the morning, whereas in fact it was earlier, not quite ten at night. She’d tried to get her fellow captive to talk, but Karen Green just lay motionless on the floor of her wire prison. Louise already suspected that if either of them were ever to see the sun again they would have to work together. Somehow she needed to break through to Karen and persuade her to talk.

The sudden noise of metal striking metal fired her alert, her eyes open impossibly wide, like a frightened deer, her heart beating like a cornered rat’s. She heard Karen shuffling around in her cage, scratching at the floor looking for somewhere she would never find to hide. The noise and movement fleetingly reminded Louise of the pet mouse she was allowed to keep as a child, always searching in vain for a way to escape its wire world.

Gripped by fear, Louise waited for more sounds. She heard the heavy metal door swinging open and waited for the flood of light to sting her eyes, but it never came and she remembered it was night. A thin beam threw a circle of light on to the floor at the bottom of the staircase. As the soft footsteps made their way down towards them the ray of light bounced around. He stepped into the room and swung the torch slowly and deliberately from one side to the other, ensuring everything was as it should be, exactly as he’d left it. Temporarily blinded, Louise could no longer see his silhouette, only the harsh glare of the torchlight touching her skin, making her shudder as surely as the touch of his hands. She couldn’t see his face, but she was sure he was smiling.

A minute or two later the light behind the screen clicked on, the string cord swinging after he released it. Louise squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds while she prayed this was all a nightmare, an unusually long and realistic nightmare, but one that must end soon. If she could only chase the sleep away and wake herself then this would be over. It would leave her shaken for the rest of the morning, but by lunchtime it would have faded like a watercolour left in the rain. But when she dared open her eyes again he was standing there, peering into her very being, a torch in one hand and a tray in the other with a happy smile on his face.

He carefully placed the things he was carrying on what she assumed was some kind of table behind the screen and began to nervously approach her, one or two small steps at a time, his right hand outstretched in front of him palm up, as if he was approaching a stranger’s dog. ‘It’s OK, Sam,’ he tried to reassure her. ‘It’s me. I didn’t wake you, did I? I didn’t mean to disturb you. I only wanted to make sure you were all right.’ He fell silent as if expecting her to answer. She didn’t. ‘You should be feeling a lot better by now, the effects of the chloroform should pretty much have gone.’ Still she didn’t answer him, but she watched him, watched his every tiny move. He gestured to the tray hidden behind the screen. ‘I’ve brought you more food and something to drink, a Diet Coke – I remembered it’s your favourite.’

Some deep survival instinct told her she had to answer him or soon she would become to him what Karen Green already was. Had that been Karen’s failure, her damnation, that she hadn’t been able to answer him? ‘Thank you.’ She forced the words out, her voice sounding weak and broken.

A wide, relieved smile spread across his face. With his new-found confidence he moved too quickly towards her cage, startling her. He froze for a second, aware his impatience had frightened her.

‘Don’t be afraid, Sam,’ he almost begged her. ‘I would never hurt you, you know that. That’s why I brought you here, so I could look after you, protect you from all those liars, all those liars who told you all those things about me to keep you away from me. I always knew you didn’t believe them, Sam. And now they can’t hurt us any more. We can be together now.’ More silence as he waited for her to answer.

‘I need the toilet,’ she told him, the thought and words coming from nowhere.

He stared at her for a while, his mouth still holding a thin smile, but his eyes darted around in confusion and fear. ‘Of course,’ he eventually answered. ‘I thought you probably would.’ It wasn’t how she’d expected him to answer. ‘I’ll have to let you out,’ he continued. ‘Where you won’t be as safe from them, Sam. They’re still in your mind, you see. All the things they did to you, they’re still in your mind. They might try and trick you, get you to do something you don’t want to do. They might try and make you hurt me.’

‘I won’t,’ she forced herself to say. ‘I promise.’

He pushed his hand into his loose tracksuit bottoms and fished around awkwardly for something, before finally tugging the black box free and showing it to her. She recognized it immediately, the stun-gun he’d used to take her. The thing he’d used to defile Karen Green. ‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her. ‘If they try and make you do something you shouldn’t, I’ll use this.’ He looked puzzled by her expression of fear. ‘It won’t hurt you,’ he promised. ‘It’ll just stop them making you do things. It keeps them away.’

‘I need to clean up, that’s all,’ she told him.

He considered her for a long time before speaking. ‘OK,’ he said, and moved towards her cage slowly and carefully, his eyes never leaving hers. Within a few short steps he was at her cage, almost as close to her as he’d been when he took her, his pallid skin and stained crooked teeth clearly visible, his arms thin, but sinewy and strong, the arteries and veins blue and swollen. He took a key carefully from his other tracksuit pocket and tentatively held it close to the lock. He considered her again, then gave a broad smile, pushed the key into the lock and turned it. A slight moment of hesitation and then he swung the door open, the hinges squealing and the wire of the cage reverberating. He stepped back, the stun-gun in his hand at his side. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘this way,’ and pointed towards the old hospital screen.

Louise walked in a hunched, squatted gait towards the opening, the pain of her muscles cramping matched only by the fear that made her heart send shock waves through her chest. She paused for a moment at the entrance and waited for him to take a few more steps back, at last pushing herself through into the room, stretching her sore, stiff body, straightening for the first time in a day and a half, but all the time careful not to let the duvet slip from her shoulders and show him her nakedness. ‘Behind the screen,’ he instructed her. ‘You can get cleaned up there and there’s a toilet you can use. It’s only a chemical one, but it works well enough.’

‘Thank you,’ she forced herself to tell him, when all she really wanted to do was spit in his face. As she rounded the screen she saw her facilities – an old, stained sink barely attached to the cellar wall; rusty, limescale-crusted metal taps and a new-looking chemical toilet set low on the floor. She guessed he had recently installed the toilet, but clearly he had been planning for this for some time. Her eyes searched around for anything she could fashion into a weapon. There was nothing. She swallowed her disappointment and her rising tears.

She could feel him on the other side of the screen, watching her through the thin fabric, waiting for her to drop the duvet, his imagination removing the barrier, his eyes flicking across her skin. ‘Are you all right in there?’ he asked, as if she was in a separate room.

‘Yes,’ she stuttered in reply. ‘Just getting things ready.’

‘The hot water tap’s the one on the left,’ he warned her.

She let the water run hot before putting the chained plug in the sink and allowing it to fill, looking over her shoulder at his silhouette behind her, allowing the duvet to slip to the floor, leaving her standing naked and vulnerable in a way she’d never felt until now. Quickly she began to wash, using the sliver of soap he’d left on the sink to try and cleanse her skin of as much of him as she could. All the time she knew he was watching her, watching her hands moving over her own damp, shiny body. She rinsed herself clean of the soap and looked around for a towel, a sense of panic rising as she realized there wasn’t one next to the sink, the panic easing when she saw it on the table by the tray of food he’d brought. Hurriedly she patted herself dry, the stale smell of the scratchy towel making her want to retch. She could hear him, breathing heavily as he watched her. Pulling the duvet over herself, she stepped out from behind the screen.

‘Take the tray,’ he said. ‘It’s all for you.’

She studied the tray and the items on it suspiciously. A white-bread sandwich, some crisps emptied into a plastic bowl, a few biscuits and a can of Coke. The emptiness in her stomach and the rasping dryness of her throat told her to take it. ‘You’ll have to eat it in your room,’ he instructed, his eyes pointing to her cage. ‘I’ll get the tray later.’

She did as he wanted and walked as quickly as she could back to her prison, almost relieved to be behind the wire again, a barrier between her and him, even if she knew it was a barrier he controlled. ‘I’ll bring you clean clothes in the morning,’ he said as he closed her cage door and replaced the lock. ‘You need to get some sleep, Sam. We have so many plans to make. I have to go now.’

He was moving towards the light cord when a weak voice stopped him.

Karen’s head raised slightly from the floor. ‘Please,’ she asked desperately. ‘I need a drink and I’m very hungry. Can I have something, please? I promise I’ll be good.’ The room waited silently for a reaction, Louise looking from Karen to him and back, praying he wouldn’t hurt her cellmate, praying she wouldn’t have to watch again.

‘What?’ he demanded, the friendliness in his voice replaced with a quiet menace. ‘You want what, whore?’

‘Please,’ Karen pleaded, her voice trembling, her throat almost shut with dryness and terror. ‘I’m so thirsty. I don’t feel very well. I need some food. Please. Anything.’

‘Lying whores get nothing!’ he shouted.

‘No, no,’ Karen sobbed. ‘Please, I don’t understand what you mean. I don’t know why I’m here. Just let me go, please. I swear I won’t tell anyone what you’ve done.’

‘Shut up,’ he screamed, agitated, behaving as if he was the one who was trapped, as if he was the one in danger. ‘You’re trying to trick me. You’re trying to fuck with my head again.’ He was pointing at Karen, accusing her, close to tears himself now. He turned to Louise. ‘See what they do, Sam? See what they’re trying to do to us?’

‘Just let me go,’ Karen was almost shouting. ‘Please, let me go.’

‘Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Make her stop, Sam!’

Louise covered her ears with the palms of her hands, pressing so hard that her inner ears began to hurt under the pressure. She couldn’t stand to listen to this a moment longer.

‘You’re a whore, a lying whore! She tried to pretend she was you, Sam. She tricked me. She made me bring her here, but I found out she’s a liar. She’s one of them, trying to ruin everything for me.’

‘That’s not true,’ Karen pleaded with him through the strings of saliva that webbed across her contorted mouth. ‘I’ll do anything you want me to, I swear.’

‘Shut up, lying whore,’ he shouted in her face through the wire, holding his stun-gun in front of her so she could see clearly. ‘I know what you’re trying to make me do, it’s what all you whores want me to do to them, but you won’t make me.’ He looked back at Louise, a smile mixing with his fear, his face shining with the sweat of anxiety. ‘Sam’s with me now. You can’t stop us.’ He began to walk backwards, silently, his eyes never leaving Karen’s, wagging his finger at her as if warning her against doing whatever it was he imagined she was about to do. He pulled the light-switch cord, sinking the room back to its deathly gloom as he stepped behind the wall of the staircase and out of sight. They could hear him breathing, deep and panicked, but calming once he couldn’t be seen, then they could hear him no more. They waited a few minutes until the torchlight returned with a click, followed by his familiar soft footsteps climbing the stairs. A metal door being pulled open and then swung carefully shut; the locked padlock clanging against the sheet metal. Then nothing – silence and darkness. Nothing.

Shortly after ten on Wednesday night Sally squeezed her hatchback into virtually the last parking space in the street. Even the necessity to display your residents-only parking permit couldn’t keep the road clear of vehicles abandoned for the night. Her neighbours had been home for hours, most already thinking about sleep before the dawning of another day exactly like the one they’d just lived. Sally almost envied them. She waited in her locked car, lights on and engine running, until she saw some other sign of life in the street. A young couple appeared in her wing mirror, walking arm in arm along the pavement, the man muttering and the woman giggling. At this time of night it would have to do. Sally quickly turned off the lights and engine and jumped from her car, locking it without looking as she walked towards the smart three-storey Victorian terrace her new flat was in: a two-bedroom place on the top floor. By the time she reached the front door she already had her house keys ready and she entered the house quickly and quietly, the way she’d practised hundreds of times. No one could have followed her inside.

She heard the young couple walk past outside, reminding her of one of the many reasons she’d chosen this flat, in this house, on this street: because it was often quite busy, even at night – Putney High Street was just at the end of the road. Sebastian Gibran may not have taken her life, but he’d killed so many things that had been important to her, that she’d loved. She’d not been back to her old flat since he attacked her there. It held nothing for her but nightmarish memories of horror and pain. The selling estate agent had been very helpful and had visited the flat whenever necessary so Sally hadn’t had to.

As quickly and efficiently as she’d entered the house, she climbed the stairs and entered her flat. Only when she was inside did she breathe out the tension she’d been carrying for the last few hours. Standing with her back to the front door, she surveyed the interior, the lights she’d deliberately left on all day – another new habit, to avoid those panicked moments in the dark, fumbling for the light switch. Everything seemed fine as she scanned the sparse furniture and removal company boxes spread around the floor, still waiting to be unpacked. If this latest case went the way she was sure Sean thought it would, the boxes would have to wait a few more days or even weeks.

Sally stepped into the room that served as both her entrance and lounge and searched for the television remote. She found it on the coffee table, hiding under an unread newspaper, and clicked the TV on for background noise. She kept moving deeper into the flat, along the corridor and into the gleaming new kitchen equipped with everything a keen cook would need, things that she would hardly ever use. Stabbing pains in her chest strong enough to make her wince reminded her of her mission. From an overhead cupboard she pulled a pack of tramadol prescription painkillers free, grabbed a glass from the neighbouring cupboard and headed for the fridge. She yanked the door open and checked the barren contents, discovering half a bottle of white wine, still drinkable. Trying unsuccessfully to steady her hand, she poured a full glass, spilling a few drops that ran down the outside of the glass and dripped annoyingly on to the kitchen table. She pushed three tramadol from their foil surrounds, one more than she’d been prescribed to take, and swallowed them in one go with a good swig of the wine.

Closing her eyes, she waited for some relief, some elemental change in her mind and body, but the effects were too slow. She grabbed another glass from the draining board and headed for the freezer, hesitating for a second before surrendering to the idea and opening the door. Her old friend seemed to look at her, that bottle of vodka that had been ever-present in her freezer since her early days in the CID, wedged between a packet of unopened frozen vegetables and a once-raided bag of French fries. The vodka had become more necessary of late, an everyday requirement rather than a treat after a particularly tough day. By five o’clock her mind would already be drifting to the thought of that first taste, first hit, mixing with the tramadol and ibuprofen, a legal narcotics cocktail that rushed straight to her brain and took the world away just as sure as any junky’s fix could. She poured two fingers’ worth into the short, fat tumbler and drank half in one gulp, the freezing liquid numbing her throat and empty stomach, warning her brain of the delights it could soon expect.

She waited for the chemicals to ease her pain and anxiety, but as the storms calmed the quieter ghosts began to sweep forward. The tears seemed to start in her throat, but no matter how hard she tried to swallow them back down they found their way to her eyes and escaped in heavy drops that ran down her face, each finding a new route, dropping on to her hands and into her drink. Once the tears were flowing she knew there was no point fighting them, better to let them come until she would be too exhausted to cry any more; then she would sit quietly, motionless, her mind still and blank, her heart fluttering in the silence until finally sleep would take her. In the morning she would feel a little better, hung-over, but a little better, just about able to face the world.

Since she went back to work she’d been holding it together OK during office hours, getting the job done, not asking for any special treatment, but there were frequent moments of burning anxiety, when she’d been scared to speak for fear of her voice shaking, scared to hold a pen in case someone noticed her hand trembling. And every morning before leaving for work she stood frozen by her front door, physically unable to reach out and open it, hyperventilating with fear of the world beyond. Two weeks ago she’d suffered one of her worst attacks, remaining slumped against her door for more than an hour while she desperately tried to gather up the courage to leave her sanctuary. Even on the days when she overcame the fear and made it to her car, she would drive through the streets pretending nothing was wrong, sit at her desk pretending that she didn’t have to endure this daily ritual of personal torment.

Sally drained the glass and reached for her old friend in the freezer to pour a refill.

It was midnight by the time Sean arrived home, a modest semi-detached Edwardian house in the better part of Dulwich that he shared with his wife Kate and their two young daughters, Mandy and Louise. He knew Kate had been working the late shift as the attending physician in the Accident and Emergency Department of Guy’s Hospital and would therefore not long have got home herself. Probably he’d find her awake, eager to talk about her day and the children. On a normal day at a normal time he’d have looked forward to sitting with Kate and chatting about the unimportant and important alike, but this had been no normal day. His mind was swimming with images and ideas he wouldn’t share with her – images and ideas that would make it difficult to concentrate on anything she said. He reminded himself that women needed to talk, that somehow he would have to focus on his wife’s conversation. All the same he was hoping she’d be asleep so he could grab a drink and watch the TV in the kitchen and pretend to himself he wasn’t thinking about Louise Russell.

He turned the key and quietly pushed the door open. The lights were on in the kitchen. Dropping his keys as noisily as he dared on the hallway table, hoping Kate would hear the noise and know he was home before he accidentally startled her, he took a breath and walked to the kitchen.

Kate looked up from her laptop. ‘You’re late,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I’m the one who’s supposed to be on lates this week, remember?’

‘Sorry,’ Sean told her. ‘We picked up a new case.’

‘So you won’t be around much the next few days?’

‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘You know what it’s like when a new one comes in.’

‘Yes, Sean,’ she answered. ‘We all know what it’s like when you get a new one. Shame,’ she continued, ‘I was hoping to save some money on childcare this week.’

‘Kirsty’s all right looking after the kids, isn’t she?’ he asked. ‘She probably needs the cash.’

‘So do we,’ Kate reminded him. ‘At least if you were still a sergeant, you’d get paid overtime. The hours you work, we’d be rich.’

‘I doubt it,’ Sean scoffed.

‘So what’s the new case?’ Kate asked. ‘What tale of horror do you have to untangle this time? I assume it’s another murder?’

‘Even if it was a murder, you know I wouldn’t tell you about it. Work stays at work.’

‘Even if it was a murder,’ Kate pointed out. ‘Meaning it’s not a murder this time. So why is a Murder Investigation Team investigating something other than a murder?’

‘As it happens, it’s a missing person,’ Sean told her.

‘Oh,’ Kate said, interested and concerned. ‘A missing person who you think is dead. Get you on the job early, ready for when the body turns up. That’s not like the Met, planning ahead.’

‘I don’t,’ Sean said.

‘Don’t what?’

‘Think she’s dead. I think someone’s taken her.’

‘A kidnap case?’ Kate asked.

‘I’m not expecting a ransom note.’

‘Then what?’

‘Like I said, no details.’ Sean changed the subject: ‘How are the girls?’

Kate paused before answering, unsure as to whether she should try and prise more details from him. She decided she’d be wasting her time. ‘Last time I saw them awake they were fine, but they miss their dad.’

‘I suppose that’s good.’

‘I think I know what you mean,’ Kate smiled. ‘Next time you’re home they’ll mob you – you have been warned.’

‘I look forward to it.’ Sean headed for the fridge, searching around inside for a beer. Kate waved her empty wine glass in the air. ‘While you’re in there, a top-up please.’ He grabbed the bottle of wine and poured as little as he thought he could get away with into her glass, not wishing to delay her going to bed any longer than was absolutely necessary, before putting it back in the fridge and grabbing a beer. He took his favourite glass from the cupboard and sat at the table with Kate, using the remote to click the TV on.

‘I take it that’s the end of conversation for the night,’ Kate accused.

‘Sorry.’ Sean turned to her with a mischievous grin. ‘I thought you were playing on your computer.’

‘Ha, ha,’ Kate replied. ‘Working, Sean. Working. All we ever do is work. Work and pay bills. That’s it.’

‘It’s not that bad,’ Sean argued, now glad she’d waited up, pleased to have the distraction of conversation.

‘We should think about New Zealand again. Remember, after what happened to Sally, you said we ought to get the hell out of here, start a new life, one where we actually see each other. Where we see the kids.’

‘I don’t know,’ Sean answered. ‘It just feels like running away.’

‘Nothing wrong with running away if it’s running away to a better life.’

‘There’s no guarantee of a better life,’ Sean argued. ‘I did my research. New Zealand’s not all green fields and blue skies. They’ve got plenty of problems too. You don’t really think they’d stick me in a plush office somewhere overlooking the Pacific with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs and admire the view all day, do you? They’d find some shithole to stick me in and we’d be back where we started, only stuck on the other side of the world.’

‘It can’t be as bad as it is here,’ Kate insisted. ‘I’ve lived with you too long not to know your job and how it works. If you were to so much as hint that you want to go home and see your family once in a while, they’d all look at you like you’ve gone mad, like you’re somehow letting the team down. Only losers want to actually go home now and then, right?’ Sean shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘And as we both know, there’s no way you could ever, ever walk out on a job and let somebody else deal with it. You’re way too conscientious for that. True?’

‘I can’t walk out in the middle of a job. There’s no one else to pass it on to. A case comes in, it lands on my desk and that’s it. It’s mine until it’s finished. If I don’t get to come home for a week then I don’t get to come home for a week. That’s the way it is. It goes with the territory. It’s the job. It’s what I do. I can’t run off to New Zealand. I can’t run off anywhere. I am what I am. I do what I do. You don’t want to see me sitting in an office in the City pushing paper around, living for my bonus, another clone – that would kill me. I wouldn’t be me any more. I’d bore you to death.’

Kate thought for a long while before answering. ‘You’re right,’ she told him. ‘I know you have to be a cop. You thrive on it. It makes you proud – and so it should. But the kids are getting older. At least one of us needs to be here more for them.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I’m just saying,’ Kate went on. ‘The fact is I earn almost twice what you do and I don’t have to nearly kill myself to do it.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Sean asked, his voice thick with suspicion.

‘I don’t really know,’ Kate admitted. ‘I think we need more of a plan, that’s all. I have no idea where we’re going.’

‘Who ever knows that?’ Sean questioned. ‘All anyone can do is live in the day, try and get something out of every day. All these books and gurus spouting plans for a better life – it’s a load of crap. You have to just try and live your life the best you can.’

Kate studied him a while. ‘I am happy,’ she told him, ‘but surely there’s more for us somewhere. Something better.’

Sean searched her brown eyes for signs of happiness. He saw no signs of unhappiness and decided that was good enough, for now.

‘I do love you,’ she continued, ‘which is why I worry about you, which is why I don’t want to share you with the bad people, the psychos, the drug dealers, the angry madmen. I want you all for myself and the kids.’

Her words made him smile. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I want you and the kids to be proud of me. I want them to know what I do.’

‘Christ,’ Kate replied. ‘You’ll scare the bloody hell out of them.’

‘I’ll spare them the details, but you get what I mean.’

‘So,’ Kate surrendered, ‘we carry on as we are, ships that pass in the night, absent parents?’

‘I’m not ready to walk away yet,’ Sean told her. ‘Let’s give it a couple more years, then we’ll see.’

‘I wouldn’t ask you to walk away if you don’t want to,’ she assured him.

‘A couple more years,’ Sean almost promised. ‘Then we’ll see.’

‘I’ll remember this conversation, you know,’ she warned him.

‘Of course you will,’ Sean conceded. ‘You’re a woman.’




3 (#ulink_08cddd36-2fe9-5db0-8809-d03c7c0c99c7)


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.




4 (#ulink_2b17bc5b-4ec8-535b-b21a-96739db20329)


Thomas Keller arrived for the afternoon shift feeling content and calm, almost happy. He walked through the gates of the Holmesdale Road Royal Mail sorting office in South Norwood and headed towards the large grey building he’d worked in as a postman for the last eleven years. It had changed little inside and out since he’d started there not long after leaving school at seventeen. To begin with he’d been restricted to menial jobs, working his way up to helping with the sorting. It took several years before he was finally given his own round. He’d never sought to go further in the Royal Mail and knew he never would. He entered the main building and clocked on, the same time-card-punching machine noting his arrival now just as it had done eleven years ago.

Without acknowledging his colleagues he walked to his station in front of the seven-foot tall wooden shelving system and began to prepare the mail for his round, placing the letters and parcels into pigeonholes according to postcode. He found the work easy and relaxing; its repetitiveness allowed his mind to wander to more pleasant thoughts and recent memories.

He was unaware that he was smiling until a voice too close behind him broke his reverie.

‘’Allo,’ the scratchy voice accused, thick with a south-east London accent. ‘Someone looks happy.’

Thomas Keller knew who the voice belonged to. Jimmy Locke was one of his regular tormentors.

‘D’you get your end away or something, Tommy?’ Locke bellowed, the smile broad on his face as he looked around at the other men working their stations for approval. Their laughter indicated that he had found an appreciative audience.

Keller looked sheepishly over his shoulder and smiled briefly before returning to his task, doing his best to ignore them.

‘Oi!’ Jimmy demanded, his face suddenly more serious, the Crystal Palace Football Club tattoos on his biceps stretching as he flexed the sizeable muscles that helped offset his growing beer-gut, his cropped hair making his head look small. ‘I asked you a question, Tommy.’

The room fell quiet as the men waited for an answer.

‘My name’s not Tommy,’ Keller responded weakly. ‘It’s Thomas.’

‘Is it now?’ Jimmy mocked him. ‘So tell me, Thomas – is that Thom-arse or Tom-ass?’

More laughter, the other men enjoying Keller’s impending humiliation. Keller continued to try and ignore them.

‘So what are you, son, an arse or an ass?’ Locke turned to face his audience, pleased with his wit, his daily ritual of destroying Thomas Keller bit-by-bit almost complete. ‘I’m waiting for an answer, Thom-arse, and I don’t like being kept waiting, especially not by little cunts like you.’

Keller felt the shame crawling up his back, hatred and fear swelling in his belly in equal measures. He felt his skin tingling, growing hot and sweaty, his face and the back of his neck glowing red, super-heated by his crushing embarrassment and feelings of uselessness. He heard Locke moving closer to him, readying himself to spit more venomous words into his ear, but still he couldn’t find the strength to turn and face his torturer. He cursed the power for deserting him, the power he felt when he was with them, alone in his cellar with them. If he had that power now he would tear Locke apart. He would tear them all apart. One day, he promised himself. One day he would turn and face them, and then they would all be sorry.

Locke’s mouth moved in close to the side of his face, the smell of stale beer and tobacco unmistakeable. Keller tried to lift his arms to pigeonhole the letters, but they refused to rise.

‘Are you a queer, Thom-arse?’ Locke demanded. ‘Me and the boys reckon you’re a fucking queer. Is that right? Because we don’t like working in the same place as a fucking queer. Some of the boys are worried you might give them AIDS. They reckon you dirty faggots are all disease-ridden. Is that right, Thom-arse? Are you infected?’ Locke’s face, twisted with bigotry, was inches from his.

‘I’m not a homosexual,’ Keller managed to stutter, barely a whisper.

‘What?’ Locke almost shouted into his ear, flecks of spittle pricking the side of Keller’s face.

‘I’m not a homosexual,’ Keller repeated a little louder, wishing he had a knife in his hand, imagining how he would spin on his heels, keeping the knife low and tight to his own body, flashing it across Locke’s abdomen, stepping back to watch the red streak spread across the fat bastard’s belly as his intestines slowly tumbled out like eels from a fishing net, with Locke struggling to push them back into the cavity of his gut, a look of horror replacing the smug expression on his face.

‘What did you say, queer?’ Locke snapped, making him jump as he yelled into his ear. ‘Can’t you faggots speak properly?’

Without warning, Keller turned on his tormentor, the imagined knife in his hand slashing at the soft flesh of Locke’s over-sized belly just as he’d planned. The movement was enough to make Locke jump back, fear flashing across his features for a split second. Keller had never dared turn to face him before. He would make sure the little faggot never did again. His fingers curled into a well-practised fist, miniscule scars bearing witness to the teeth he had punched in the past.

Keller waited for the blow he knew would come. Instead he heard a voice demanding, ‘What’s going on here, men?’

The strong calm voice that carried a trace of Jamaican belonged to the shift supervisor, Leonard Trewsbury. He peered at Locke over the top of his bifocals, refusing to be intimidated by the younger, bigger man. The man who he knew detested being supervised by a black man.

‘Nothing for you to worry about, Leonard,’ Locke pushed.

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ the supervisor warned him, knowing Locke would back down. ‘And you can call me Mr Trewsbury.’ He maintained eye contact with Locke, daring him to give him an excuse to put him on report or, better still, dismiss him altogether. ‘OK, everybody, let’s get back to work,’ he ordered.

Eyes glaring and vengeful, Locke slunk back to his workstation.

Trewsbury pulled Thomas Keller to one side. He liked the boy. Keller kept himself to himself and worked hard. He came to work on time and was always looking for and willing to do overtime. What he did with his money was a mystery. Trewsbury never asked and Keller never told.

‘You shouldn’t let them push you around,’ Trewsbury told him.

‘It’s all right,’ Keller lied. ‘It doesn’t bother me. They’re just joking.’

‘That’s not what it looked like. Next time Locke or any of his cronies bothers you, you let me know, OK?’

‘OK,’ Keller agreed, the pounding in his heart mercifully receding, the throbbing pain of self-loathing and rage easing in his temples.

‘Good man,’ said Trewsbury. ‘Now let’s get back to work before we fall too far behind to catch up.’

‘Sure,’ Keller replied, trying to sound cool and in control. But inside his soul, where nobody could see, the images of his revenge were playing out cold and cruel, bloody and excruciating. When he was with Sam, when they were finally together as they were meant to be, as he knew she wanted them to be, she would give him the strength to be the person he knew he really was. And then he would make Locke and the others regret their tormenting. He would make them all regret everything they had ever done to him.

Sean turned on to the access road in Norman Park, Bromley, heading towards Scrogginhall Wood. Only in a city would such an insignificant patch of forest be given the title ‘Wood’. His car bumped along the uneven track, bouncing him around inside and causing him to swear out loud. As he passed between the wooden posts that marked the entrance to the car park, he saw there were a number of cars parked there in addition to the police vehicles he’d expected to see. Presumably their owners hadn’t returned from walking dogs or liaising with their extra-marital lovers. He hadn’t decided yet whether he was going to let any vehicles be taken away. One could belong to the man he hunted. He could be lingering in the trees, watching the police, laughing at them. Laughing at him.

He spotted Donnelly sitting on the boot of his unmarked Vauxhall, which was parked next to the uniform patrol who’d found Louise’s red Ford Fiesta. An AA man was standing by in his van, waiting to be given the order to use his box of tricks to open the abandoned car.

Sean pulled up at a forty-five-degree angle to the car that was now a crime scene, blocking any other vehicles from driving too close to potentially precious tyre tracks or footprints. He swung his feet from the carpet of his car to the surface of the car park, disappointed to feel a rough mixture of compressed dirt and solid stone connecting with the soles of his shoes; not a promising surface for recovering useable prints or tracks.

Catching sight of him, Donnelly flicked his cigarette as far as he could away from the found car, aware of his own DNA soaked into the butt, not wanting to end up the subject of ridicule at the next office lunch for having contaminated the crime scene.

Sean made a beeline for the car, calling out to Donnelly while scanning the ground. ‘Let’s start tightening things up a bit, shall we?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning securing the entire area as a crime scene, not just the car itself. And not dropping fag butts close to the centre of it.’

Donnelly looked in the direction of his discarded cigarette, disappointed by Sean’s lack of appreciation for the distance he’d managed to flick it.

Sean tugged the rubber gloves he’d produced from his pocket over his hands, all the while surveying the ground around Louise Russell’s abandoned car, a mute mechanical witness to her fate. He could see nothing obvious so moved closer to the car, slowly circling anti-clockwise, his eyes passing over every last millimetre of the ground. Donnelly watched silently, knowing when best to leave Sean to himself – to his own methods.

After a few minutes Sean was back at the spot he’d started from. Again he began to circumnavigate the car, clockwise this time, his eyes concentrating on the vehicle itself, searching for anything, anything at all. A trace of the suspect’s blood drawn from his body by a fighting, scratching victim. A scrape from another vehicle that might have left a paint trace or imprinted a memory in the mind of whichever motorist had been struck by a red Fiesta that failed to stop after the accident. Louise had kept the car spotlessly clean – any visible evidence would have been relatively obvious, but he could see none.

If there were clues to be found on the exterior of the car they must be invisible to the naked eye. Perhaps they might yet be retrieved with the use of powders and chemicals, ultraviolet lights and magnification. In the meantime Sean needed to see inside the car, to feel its stillness before Roddis and the forensic boys turned it into a science circus.

‘Let’s get it open,’ he said.

Donnelly strode across to the waiting AA van and tapped on the window. The driver dropped his copy of the Sun and eagerly jumped out, grabbing a bag of unusual tools from the back.

‘Will you be able to get it open?’ Donnelly asked, more out of the need for something to say than because of any doubts.

‘It’s a Ford,’ the AA man answered, heading for the car. ‘It’ll only take a few seconds. Which door do you want opening?’

‘The passenger door,’ Sean told him. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could touch as little as possible.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ he answered, already tugging what looked like an over-sized metal ruler with a hook at one end from his bag. Sean recognized it, known to AA men and car thieves alike as a slim-jim. The AA man peeled back the rubber window seal and slid the metal deep down into the door panel. His face twisted in concentration as he manoeuvred the slim-jim blindly around the mechanics of the door, before suddenly jerking it upwards, an audible click letting all present know the door was now unlocked. The AA man immediately reached for the door handle, but Sean’s hand wrapped around his wrist and stopped him.

‘Hasn’t been checked for prints yet,’ Sean told him.

Once the AA man had been moved away, Sean’s gloved hand stretched carefully towards the handle, one finger hooking under it in the place the suspect was least likely to have touched. He pulled his finger up and waited for the door to pop open a fraction, his other hand poised to stop a sudden breeze swinging it fully open before he was ready. He checked around the now broken seal that separated the door from the main body of the chassis, keeping an eye out for any evidence the wind might threaten to take away – a hair pulled from the suspect’s head as he closed the door too quickly, a piece of material torn from his clothes as he fled from the abandoned car. He saw nothing and allowed the door to open by a few inches, the smell of the interior flooding out and catching him unaware, making him recoil at first. He steadied himself then breathed all the scents in eagerly: cloth, vinyl, rubber and above all else, her perfume, floral and subtle. But there was something underlying the other smells, something trying to disguise itself, trying to stay hidden in the cacophony – the faint trace of something surgical, clinical.

Chloroform, Sean decided. It was not something he’d ever smelt before, but he knew it had to be. Donnelly broke his concentration.

‘Anything?’ he called out.

‘Chloroform, I think,’ Sean answered. ‘Get hold of Roddis and have him take a look at the car in situ before towing it away to the lab.’

‘Will do.’ Donnelly immediately started punching keys on his phone.

Sean opened the door more fully now, all the while searching for anything that might be evidence, touching nothing, seeing all as he crouched next to the opening, bothered by something he couldn’t think of, something missing. Without warning the answer jumped into his head. It was too quiet. He stood upright and spoke to no one in particular: ‘There’s no alarm.’

Donnelly looked up from his phone. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Why’s there no alarm?’ Sean asked. ‘He locked the car, but there’s no alarm.’ His heart was beginning to pound a little with the conviction he’d found something relevant, but his hope was cut short by the watching AA man.

‘It’s a Ford,’ he said.

‘So?’

‘You lock it with the remote key. One press to lock it and another to arm the alarm.’

Did that mean anything? Sean asked himself. Had the man he hunted been in so much of a panic that he’d fled the scene without making sure the alarm was on? Or had he not wanted the beep of the alarm setting to attract attention to him? Why lock it at all? He’d already left his palm and fingerprints at the Russells’ house.

Sean had to remind himself not to get too tied up in the knots of possibilities. All the same, he couldn’t stop this man from invading his mind. As the case went on he would gradually start thinking like his quarry, until the thoughts of the man he hunted would become his own thoughts. A cold, uncomfortable feeling washed over him. The days ahead would be joyless and stressful, his only hope of relief would be finding Louise Russell and the man who took her. The man who had her now.

He desperately wanted to enter the car, to sit in the driver’s seat as her abductor had done. To check the position of the seat, the mirrors, the steering wheel. Louise’s limp body flashed through his mind, bound and gagged, lying behind the back seat in the boot of the hatchback. He saw a faceless shadow driving the car through London traffic with his prisoner, his prize, in the back, moaning muffled pleas for him to let her go from behind the material wrapped around her mouth. He saw the faceless shadow looking over his shoulder, talking to her as he drove, reassuring her everything would be all right, that he wouldn’t harm her, wouldn’t touch her. But Sean wasn’t about to enter the car and risk damaging or destroying any invisible evidence waiting to be found within.

Donnelly came up behind him and made him jump. ‘Roddis is on his way,’ he announced.

‘Good. Thanks,’ Sean replied, hesitating before continuing: ‘I need to have a look in the back.’

‘Are you sure that’s wise, guv’nor? Roddis will not be pleased.’

‘I won’t touch anything,’ Sean promised. ‘I just need a quick look.’ He moved to the back of the car and searched with one finger under the lip of the hatchback door for the handle, the handle he absolutely knew the suspect would have touched. He pulled the handle and watched the hatch door rise open with a pneumatic hiss. He bent inside as much he could without over-balancing and falling forward, noticing immediately how clean the boot was, like everything else in the car. Everything was perfect, everything except for the slight scuffing on the carpeted surface of the boot and the smallest of scratch marks on the interior panelling close by. Sean knew what it meant.

He pulled away and stood. ‘This is where he had her,’ he told the listening Donnelly. ‘He tied her, probably gagged her and put her in the boot. You can see where her shoes have disturbed the carpet and marked the plastic panel. He’s a bold one, our boy. He snatches her from her own home in broad daylight and casually drives her through mid-morning traffic to this spot. And this is where his own car was waiting,’ he continued, indicating with a sweep of his hand that the suspect’s car would have been on the driver’s side of Russell’s. ‘He pulls up here and waits a few seconds, just long enough to be sure no one’s around. Then he gets out, moving fast, but smoothly. He knows exactly what he’s doing, no panic. He unlocks his own car or van, pulls Russell from the boot of the Fiesta and forces her into the boot of his. If he used chloroform in the house then he’s unsure whether he can control her without it, so he probably gives her another dose before trying to move her – but not too much, he doesn’t want to knock her out and end up with a dead weight. He’s not strong enough – if he was, he wouldn’t be so reliant on weapons and drugs – he’d physically overpower her instead. Once he transfers her to his own car, he locks hers and takes the keys with him. He doesn’t stop to wipe any prints or check for anything else he might have left behind because he doesn’t care whether we find it or not. He has what he wants, the one thing that he cares about. He has her. He closes the hatch door and carefully drives away. Have you checked for CCTV?’

‘There is none,’ Donnelly told him.

‘Then he knew there wasn’t,’ Sean insisted. ‘He’s a planner. None of this happened by accident. Have the access road checked for cameras. You won’t find any, but check anyway.’

‘It’ll be done,’ Donnelly promised.

Sean closed the hatch door carefully. He looked into the woods, just as the suspect would have done when he was checking the car cark before moving her. He still couldn’t see the man’s face, but already he felt as if he would recognize him in a second if he saw him. Something he didn’t yet fully understand would enable him to pick this one out in a crowd if only he could get close enough. That’s what he had to do now: let the evidence, let the facts get him close enough to allow the dark thing inside of him to take him the rest of the way to finding this madman.

In the early spring the trees still looked wintery and foreboding. Sean felt himself shiver, as if he was being watched. As if he was being watched from the inside by some spectre he knew he would eventually find himself face to face with.

‘I’ve got a really bad feeling about this one,’ he confessed to Donnelly. ‘I don’t think it’s going to end well.’ He pinched his temples between the middle finger and thumb of one hand and tried to squeeze the growing pressure in his head away before it exploded into a full migraine. ‘You wait here with the motor,’ he said. ‘I need to get back to the office and start trying to piece all this together. People are going to be sticking their noses into our business, so we might as well be ready with a few answers. When Roddis gets here, leave him with the car and head back to Peckham for a scrum-down.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

Sean didn’t hear Donnelly’s reply; he was already climbing into his car looking for Superintendent Featherstone’s mobile number with one hand while starting the ignition, releasing the hand brake and fastening his seat belt with the other. He still hadn’t got around to setting his phone up to be hands-free. Again he cursed the uneven road as he bounced along, driving too fast and making it even worse. He had to wait longer than he’d wanted to before Featherstone answered.

‘Boss, it’s Sean.’

‘Problem?’ Featherstone asked bluntly.

‘Your missing person case,’ said Sean. ‘I’m afraid it’s an abduction case now.’

‘Any idea who took her?’

‘Whoever it was, I don’t think she knew them.’

‘A stranger attack,’ Featherstone said. ‘That does not bode well.’

‘No, sir,’ Sean agreed. ‘It does not.’

‘What do you need from me?’

‘Have you got anyone in the media who owes you a favour?’

‘Maybe,’ Featherstone answered cagily.

‘I need to get an appeal out tonight,’ Sean explained. ‘Ask for public assistance. He took her in broad daylight and transferred her from one vehicle to another in a public place. It’s possible someone saw something.’

‘If someone has taken her, won’t an appeal spook him?’ said Featherstone. ‘We don’t want to force his hand. I don’t want to push him into—’

‘I understand,’ Sean agreed, eager to cut to the chase, ‘but I have no choice. Her family have already worked out what’s happened, and now we’ve found her car dumped close to a wood in Bromley. If we don’t pull out all the stops to find her, we’re leaving ourselves wide open. It’s a shitty call to have to make, but we have no choice.’

‘All right,’ Featherstone reluctantly agreed. ‘I’ll call in a few favours, see if I can get my face on the telly tonight – but no promises. I’ll catch up with you later.’ He hung up before Sean could reply.

He tossed his phone into the centre console, finally controlling the car with two hands, relieved to be back on a smooth road, suddenly remembering he needed to call Sally, again cursing himself for not having set up his hands-free system. He found Sally in his contacts and called her number while pushing his car through the increasingly dense traffic, all the while wishing he had more time – more time to simply sit and think, to try to become the thing he had to stop. The sooner he did, the sooner they would catch the man who dumped Louise Russell’s car near the wood. The man who Sean knew would soon dump her body as casually as he’d abandoned her car, unless he could find him first. Find him and stop him, any way he knew how.

Sally paced up and down the street outside the Russells’ home under the pretence of checking on the door-to-door team’s progress, but in truth she just needed to get out of the office and get some fresh air, to be away from sympathetic and suspicious eyes alike. She knew Sean was trying to prevent her becoming involved in the main body of the investigation, his way of protecting her, but it wasn’t making her feel any better.

She spotted DC Paulo Zukov walking along the street towards her. ‘All right there, Sarge?’ Zukov asked in his usual chirpy, mischievous manner.

‘You’re not in uniform any more,’ Sally reminded him. ‘You call me Sally now. Remember?’

‘Just being respectful,’ Zukov teased. ‘But seriously, how are you?’

‘Don’t try and sound genuine and caring,’ Sally chided him unfairly. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

It was water off a duck’s back for Zukov. He’d only been in the police six years, but it had been more than enough to harden his shell. ‘Harsh, but fair,’ he replied with a grin, pleased she perceived him as some cynical old detective, despite his young years and short length of service.

‘Have you finished the door-to-door yet?’ Sally asked.

‘Not quite, but we ain’t getting anything interesting anyway and I don’t suppose we will. Door-to-door, waste of bloody time if you ask me.’

‘No one did,’ Sally reprimanded him, her phone vibrating in her hand distracting her from their tête-à-tête. Caller ID told her who it was. ‘Yes, guv’nor.’

‘We found Russell’s car.’

‘Any sign of Louise?’ Sally knew he’d have said so right out if there had been, but she asked anyway.

‘No,’ Sean replied. ‘The official line is that she’s been taken. That’s what I believe.’

‘What’s our next move?’

‘As much media coverage as we can get, roadblocks, start canvassing a wider area and wait for forensics to give us something. Where are you?’

‘Checking on the door-to-door.’

‘They don’t need you there. Get back to Peckham as soon as and I’ll see you then.’

‘OK,’ Sally managed to get in before he hung up, leaving her alone with Zukov.

‘Problem?’ he asked.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ she muttered, a feeling of dread crawling over her skin. A suffocating anxiety was spreading through her body like an unstoppable rising tide turning dry sand wet and heavy. ‘I’ve got to head back to the office.’

The few steps to the car felt like miles and the car door seemed heavy as a drawbridge as she pulled it open, falling into her seat, feeling for the thick scars under her blouse, her breath coming in short sporadic bursts. She grasped the computer case she used as a holdall and frantically searched inside until she found the two small cardboard packets she needed. She popped two tramadol from one and six hundred milligrams of ibuprofen from the other into the palm of her hand and threw them down her throat, swallowing drily. She was glad now she hadn’t concealed a bottle of vodka in the bag as she’d considered doing.

Leaning back with her head on the headrest she closed her eyes, waiting for the drugs to give her some relief, both physical and psychological. To expel the memories of Sebastian Gibran breathing into her face as he waited, expected her to die – of Sebastian Gibran sitting opposite her in an exclusive London restaurant, smiling and flirting and her liking it. The memories forced her eyes open. She found herself gazing up the branches of a nearby tree, dead-looking limbs beginning to burst into life, the little green buds forcing their way through the hard bark. She thought of Louise Russell’s parents, so normal and unsuspecting, dragged from their comfortable life of cruise-liner holidays and early evening soap operas into a world they’d only ever seen fleetingly on the news. She hoped Sean wasn’t planning on putting them in front of the cameras – a tearful appeal from loving parents wanting their precious child returned to them unharmed. She had a horrible feeling he was, but as she shook the thought away more unwelcome images rushed her consciousness. Where was Louise now, right now? Was she looking into the eyes of the man who’d taken her, the man who meant her harm, the way Sally had looked into Gibran’s eyes? Was she feeling sick with fear the way Sally had? Did she feel suddenly weak and vulnerable, as impotent as Sally had – like a victim?

A victim. Sally had never realized how much she feared becoming a victim until it happened. All the power and prestige she’d built up as a detective, a cop, stripped away by a man whose madness ran so deep even Sean had struggled to grasp his motivation. She felt the tears beginning to force their way to her eyes, the pressure of holding them back numbing her brain and dulling her senses, and all the while the questions banging inside her head – could she face another killer now each case was all so much more personal to her than ever before? Could she sit across an interview room from them and resist the instinct to flee or worse? Would she be able to chase a suspect into a dark alley in the middle of the night, alone? ‘You bastard,’ she whispered to the car. ‘I hope you rot in hell.’

A loud rap on the window put her heart into her mouth. It was Zukov. She wound the window down.

‘You OK?’ he asked, registering the glassiness in her eyes.

‘I’m fine,’ she told him. ‘Just knackered, that’s all.’

Zukov offered his packet of cigarettes to her. ‘Smoke?’

‘No,’ she said bluntly. ‘I quit. Remember?’ It wasn’t true entirely. The fact was she’d been unable to smoke after the attack, lying for weeks in a medically induced coma, then weeks more of drifting between this world and another few would ever see. By the time she could make her own way from her bed to the hospital garden she’d broken the physical habit, but the psychological addiction still burned strongly, only the pain in her chest stopping her from reaching for a packet. ‘I need to get back to the office,’ she told him, winding up the window and starting the engine. ‘I’ll see you later.’

She drove away leaving Zukov standing alone, cigarette in mouth.

‘Nice speaking to you too,’ Zukov called after her, knowing she couldn’t hear him. He reminded himself to speak with Donnelly about Sally. No one wanted someone who was going to lose it on the team. The poison of their inability to cope would affect them all. He was young, but old school. He liked everyone around him to be solid and predictable, to pretend everything was fine even if it wasn’t. All troubles, be they domestic, health, financial or other, should be left at home, not brought to work. The job took precedence over everything. If Sally couldn’t handle it any more, then maybe it was time she was moved on. He dragged on his cigarette and wondered whether they would make him acting sergeant if Sally went. He saw no reason why not.

Louise Russell sat in the gloom of her cage dressed in the clean clothes he’d brought her, but despite their pristine condition they made her skin crawl with revulsion. These weren’t her clothes and no matter how much she tried to quieten her mind, it kept asking her the same question. Whose clothes are they? Whose clothes were they? She looked across at the shape she knew was Karen Green and remembered what she had told her: the first few days he’d let Karen wash and then he’d given her some clean clothes to wear, but the night before he’d taken Louise, he’d made Karen remove the clothes, his false affection towards her replaced by violence and lust, an outlet for his sick frustrations. Was she about to become what Karen was already? And if so, what was he going to do to Karen?

Desperation to survive forced her into action. ‘Karen,’ she whispered, just loud enough to be heard, a barely audible echo reverberating around the hard walls of their prison. No answer. ‘Karen,’ she said a little louder. ‘We have to help each other. We can’t just wait for someone to find us.’ Still no movement. ‘I think he leaves the door open,’ she explained. ‘When he comes down here, I think he leaves the door open. The door to this cellar or wherever we are.’ Karen moved a little on the floor of her cage. ‘Please, I’m not your enemy,’ Louise promised. ‘I know it probably feels that way, but that’s what he wants. He does it on purpose, to stop us helping each other.’

‘How do you know?’ Karen broke her silence with a quiet, defeated voice.

‘How do I know what?’

‘How do you know he leaves the door open?’

‘Because the last time he came here there was daylight. I heard him opening the door and then there was daylight and the light stayed, even once he was down here, the light stayed. Next time one of us is out of these cages we have to try and free whoever isn’t. Together I think we can overpower him.’

‘How would you get the key to open the cage?’ Karen asked, already doubtful and afraid of the consequences of any attempt to rescue themselves.

‘Take him by surprise,’ Louise explained. ‘Throw the tray in his face and kick him where it hurts. Just keep hitting him until he’s the one cowering on this stinking floor. Take the keys off him while he’s still confused. Then open the cage and free whichever one of us is locked in. Then we can both kick the bastard to death.’

‘It won’t work,’ Karen argued. ‘And if we try, it’ll only make things worse. He’ll be so angry, it’ll just make things worse.’

‘How could things be worse?’ Louise asked, exasperated.

‘We could be dead.’

Karen’s response silenced Louise for a moment while she tried to come up with another way to reach her. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked. ‘Sorry. Stupid question. You must be. I have some food left, maybe I could get it over to you.’

‘No,’ Karen snapped. ‘If he sees you’ve tried he’ll blame me and then you know what he’ll do. You’ve seen it.’

They both sat in silence for a long while before Karen spoke again. ‘I was supposed to be going to Australia. The day he took me. I had everything packed, everything arranged. Six months of travelling, maybe longer. I might even have stayed there. But he took me and brought me here. Jesus Christ, why is this happening to me?’

Louise waited for the crying to stop, then asked, ‘Is there anyone special in your life?’

‘No,’ came the answer, followed by more silence.

‘I’m married. My husband’s name is John. We were going to start a family. My God, John. He must be beside himself. Blaming himself. I miss him so much. Please, God, let me see him again.’ She felt sorrow and loss threatening to engulf her. It wasn’t what she needed now and she pushed all thoughts of home and lovers away. ‘Karen, I need to ask you something …’

‘What?’

‘These clothes I’m wearing – are they the same clothes he made you wear? Are these the clothes he took from you before I got here?’ There was no answer. ‘Please,’ she tried. ‘I need to know.’ She waited, dreading the answer.

‘I can’t be sure,’ Karen lied. ‘They look the same, but I can’t be sure.’

‘They are, aren’t they?’ Louise pressed. ‘Aren’t they?’

‘Yes,’ Karen almost shouted before returning to a whisper. ‘Now you know. Now you know what’s going to happen to you.’

Trying to comprehend the enormity of what she was being told, Louise looked across the cellar at the wretched creature in the opposite cage, filthy and bruised, covered in his foul scent, with his diseased seed forced inside her. She wouldn’t let it happen to her. She couldn’t let it happen to her.

She tried to imagine Karen away from this hell, in Australia somewhere, on a beach, happy and tanned, her attractive young body drawing attention from the men showing off on the beach. No cares, no worries, young and alive, enjoying the adventure of a lifetime. The image almost made her happy, but then it made her sad, replaced by thoughts of herself at home, cooking something in the kitchen while John tried to help but only succeeded in getting in the way. Herself happy and looking forward to having a bump in her belly and shopping for tiny clothes. Feeling safe. Above all else, she feels safe.

What wouldn’t she give to feel safe again? Louise closed her eyes, promising herself that she would never undervalue that feeling ever again, just so long as she could live through this.

Karen’s voice broke the silence. ‘When he takes away your clothes, when he comes to you the way he comes to me, if he offers you drugs, take them. It makes it easier. You’ll feel less.’ Then she rolled over so her back faced Louise, leaving her alone in the silent darkness, happy thoughts of her home and husband chased away by the gathering demons of things yet to come.

Sean paced the floor of his office, listening to Donnelly updating him on the progress of the forensic examination of Louise Russell’s car. Roddis’s team had searched the area around the vehicle, but found nothing. The car had then been loaded on to a flat-back lorry, covered in a plastic tarpaulin and carried off to the forensic car-pound at Charlton, where it would be minutely examined inside and out. By the time they had finished it would be little more than a shell, but any evidence would have been carefully and meticulously bagged and tagged before being sent off to the various private forensic laboratories that had taken over from the once fabled do-all government-funded lab at Lambeth. Another stroke of genius from the powers that be, granting access to highly sensitive material to commercial enterprises all for the sake of saving a few pounds.

His eye was drawn to movement in the main office: Sally had come in and was making her way to her desk. He summoned her with a jut of his chin. She dropped her computer case on her chair and headed straight for them, eyes down and shoulders slumped. Watching her, Sean was again reminded how much he missed the person she used to be. She walked into his office and sat without being asked. ‘What’s happening?’ she demanded.

‘Not enough,’ Sean replied.

‘Whatever that means,’ she said, oblivious to her own mood. Sean let it slide.

‘We’ve been on this for twenty-four hours. He snatched her in broad daylight in her own car. He’s a planner and he’s organized. He would have checked her house before he took her, made sure he couldn’t be seen.’

‘So he’s been there before,’ Donnelly surmised.

‘Yes, but when?’ Sean asked. ‘Sally, have the door-to-door team ask neighbours to think back at least a couple of weeks for sightings of strangers hanging around.’ She scribbled something in her notebook. Sean took it as a sign she understood.

‘What else?’ said Donnelly. ‘Any insights?’ Sean knew the question was directed solely at him.

‘No,’ he answered, not entirely truthfully. ‘Other than I believe he’s local and probably lives alone in a decent-sized house or maybe somewhere reasonably isolated. He needs space and privacy.’

‘For what?’ Sally joined in.

‘I don’t know yet,’ Sean answered, ‘but I know it’s bad. Sorry.’ Sally looked at the floor again. Sean wanted to bring her back. ‘But you’re right. We need to work out why he takes them. When we understand that, we’ll be that much closer to catching him.’

‘Them?’ Sally stopped him. ‘You said them.’

‘I meant her,’ he lied again.

‘No you didn’t,’ Sally insisted. Sean didn’t reply.

‘Oh, bloody marvellous,’ Donnelly exclaimed. ‘You mean there’s going to be more?’

‘Only if we don’t stop him in time,’ Sean pointed out.

‘But surely we have to consider the possibility this is a one-off, that for whatever reason Louise Russell was special to him?’ Donnelly insisted. ‘Special enough to make him want to take her.’

‘She was special to him,’ Sean agreed, ‘but not because of any relationship between them. She was a stranger to him and he to her. He chose her quite deliberately, maybe because of the way she looked or maybe just because of the type of house she lived in – I don’t know yet. But whatever he saw in her, he’ll see in others. That much I’m sure of. If we don’t find him, there will be others.’

Sally came back to them. ‘There was no forced entry,’ she pointed out. ‘So maybe she knew whoever took her.’

‘She was young and strong and in her own home. She had no reason to be fearful of a knock at the door. Do you only open the door to people you know?’ Sean regretted his question as soon as it was out of his mouth. Sally unflinchingly held his gaze, her misting eyes accusing him. His desk phone saved him from making it worse by ringing before he had a chance to say sorry, the last thing Sally wanted to hear. He snatched it like a drowning man reaching for a life-jacket. ‘DI Corrigan.’

‘Andy Roddis here,’ announced the forensic team leader. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. No match on file for the prints we lifted from the Russell home. Sorry.’

‘Damn it,’ Sean said calmly, despite the twisting in his guts. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

‘Nor me,’ Roddis confided.

‘What about the car? Anything yet?’

‘Too soon to tell, but I expect to at least find his prints. They won’t help us identify him prior to his arrest, but once we have him they’ll certainly help get a conviction.’

‘OK. Thanks, Andy. Keep me posted.’ He hung up and turned to the others. ‘His prints aren’t on file.’ They knew what it meant – the man they were looking for had no convictions.

‘I was bloody sure this one would have previous, even if it was just a bit of flashing on Bromley Common,’ Donnelly said.

‘It’s unfortunate,’ Sean agreed. ‘But there must be something in his past. He may not have been convicted, but you can bet he’ll have been arrested and charged somewhere down the line. This guy is in our records, we just need to dig around till we find him: run checks on local sexual offenders who’ve come to our notice but have never been convicted of anything. And let’s check on any local stalkers – top-end only though, not ones who’ve gone after celebrities and footballers. Concentrate on the care-in-the-community types. Our boy hasn’t just jumped in at this level, he’s been building up to this for years, convictions or no convictions. Anything else?’

‘Sounds straightforward enough,’ Donnelly said. ‘All we need now is about another hundred detectives and we’ll have him nicked by lunchtime tomorrow.’

‘Well, that ain’t going to happen,’ Sean confirmed what he already knew. ‘So let’s do the best we can with what we’ve—’

A ripple of disturbance from the main office caused him to break off and look through the Perspex that separated him from his team. Featherstone was making his way across the main office, stopping periodically, handing out pep talks to one and all en route.

‘Heads up, people,’ Sean warned Sally and Donnelly. A few seconds later Featherstone was knocking on his office door frame and entering without being invited.

‘Afternoon, boss,’ Sean said. ‘Only a step backwards since we last spoke, I’m afraid.’

‘How so?’

‘It appears whoever we’re looking for has no previous. Prints found at the Russells’ house came back “no match”.’

‘That sounds unlikely.’ Featherstone raised an eyebrow.

‘Unlikely or not, it’s a fact. And any DNA we find will go the same way.’

‘So,’ Featherstone continued, ‘we’ll have to find him by old-fashioned means – shoe leather and hard work, folks.’

‘With respect, sir,’ said Sally, ‘we’re going to need more than that if we want to catch him quickly.’

‘Agreed,’ Featherstone contradicted himself. ‘Which is why I’ve sorted out a media blitz. ITV and BBC will put out an appeal for information on their local channels tonight, with a special appearance by yours truly. I’m still working on Sky, but they’re holding out for more details than we want to give them at this time.’

‘What about the papers?’ Sean asked.

‘The papers will follow the TV channels’ lead.’ He made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Right, I need to be at the Yard by six to meet the TV people, so I’m off. Keep me posted.’ Dismissing them with a nod, he strode out of the office.

‘God save us from senior officers,’ Donnelly said when Featherstone was well away.

‘He’s not so bad,’ Sean reminded him. ‘We could do a lot worse.’

‘If you say so.’ Sean let it slide. ‘Me, I’m off to chase my daily quota of useless leads.’ Meaning he was heading to the pub, Sean thought. ‘Care to give me a hand, Sally?’

‘Not just now,’ she answered. ‘I need to tidy a few things up, make a few phone calls.’

‘Suit yourself,’ sniffed Donnelly. ‘Then I shall bid you farewell. If I don’t see you later, I’ll see you tomorrow.’ With that he headed for the main office in search of recruits to buy him a drink.

‘He’s got the right idea,’ Sean told Sally.

‘How so?’ she asked.

‘Get some rest and recreation now, while you still can. I get the definite feeling this will be the last chance for some time. Once that media appeal goes out, the spotlight will fall on us.’

‘Just go home and forget about Louise Russell until tomorrow?’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Sean. ‘It’s just things are going to start happening tomorrow, I can feel it. And they’re not going to stop until this case is finished, one way or another.’

‘You think she’s already dead, don’t you?’

Sean sat heavily in his chair, caught off balance by her question.

‘Maybe not … It depends on his cycle.’

‘What cycle?’

‘Just an idea,’ Sean explained. ‘A theory.’

‘What theory?’ she demanded, losing patience with his secrecy.

‘He’s taking a lot of risks. Calculated risks, but risks all the same. He doesn’t just do to them whatever it is he wants to do in their homes, because he needs more time with them. And if he needs time with them then the chances are there is a timescale. I think he fantasized about her for a while before taking her and transporting her into his living fantasy – a fantasy that will have a beginning, middle and end. All of which suggests a timescale. It might be a week, a month – I don’t know yet.’

‘Or it might be a lot less?’ Sally questioned.

‘Might be,’ Sean admitted. ‘There’s no way of telling until he releases her or we find her.’

‘Find her body, you mean.’

‘We have to be prepared for that possibility.’

‘Possibility or probability?’ Sally asked.

‘You know how this works.’ Sean shrugged. ‘Look, if it’s too much too soon, I’d understand. If you want to keep this one at arm’s length it’s not a problem. I can make that happen.’

‘Don’t make allowances for me.’

‘You’ve got nothing to prove,’ he told her and meant it. She didn’t reply. ‘Go home, Sally. Get some rest. I’ll call you if anything happens.’

She slowly rose and headed for the door, turning when she got there. ‘One thing …’

‘Go on,’ said Sean.

‘I want to be in on the interviews. When we catch him, I want to sit in on the interviews.’

‘OK.’ Sean granted the request, knowing why she needed to sit in. She nodded once and left him alone.

Sean scanned the office for anyone heading his way. When he was happy no one would require his immediate attention, he lifted the phone on his desk and punched in a sequence of numbers. It was answered on the fifth ring.

‘Hello.’

‘Dr Canning, it’s Sean Corrigan.’

‘And what can I do for you, Inspector?’

‘Nothing yet,’ said Sean. ‘This is more of a heads-up to expect something in the next few days. Something a little more unusual than the norm.’

‘Ah,’ Canning replied. ‘Your speciality seems to be things that are a little more unusual than the norm.’

‘What can I say? Somebody somewhere must like me.’

‘So what should I be expecting?’ Canning sounded intrigued. ‘What does that crystal ball of yours tell you, Inspector?’

He nodded as if Canning could see him. ‘When it happens it’ll be an outside body drop, in a wooded area, possibly in water. The victim will be a white woman in her late twenties. Cause of death will be suffocation or strangulation with evidence of drugs having been administered to her. That’s all I’m prepared to speculate for the time being,’ Sean explained. ‘But I’ll need you to examine the body in situ.’

‘That’s quite a lot of information you have there, considering this person is still alive,’ said Canning. ‘I am correct in assuming they are still alive?’

‘You are,’ Sean admitted, but he’d say no more.

‘Very well,’ Canning agreed. ‘I shall await your call – and thanks for the warning. I don’t usually get advance notice of such things in my business.’

‘No,’ Sean answered. ‘I don’t suppose you do.’

‘Until the unhappy event then,’ Canning said.

‘Indeed,’ Sean agreed and hung up, already regretting making the call. He knew forensically it made good sense – forewarning Canning meant he could prepare himself and his pathology equipment for an outside scene examination, possibly saving as much as a few vital hours. Outside scenes could deteriorate incredibly quickly, especially if whoever took her went to the trouble of dumping her body in flowing water, although Sean doubted he would; he’d made no effort to destroy evidence at the other scenes so why would he when it came time to rid himself of her body? Mother Nature was no respecter of the dead or of those trying to gather the evidence to give them justice. But nonetheless he wished he hadn’t made the call. He felt soiled, complicit, as if he’d somehow sealed Louise Russell’s fate.

Shaking his regrets away, he buried his head in the ever-growing pile of reports spreading across his desk.

Thomas Keller arrived home still upset and agitated by the confrontation he’d had at work. His ageing Ford slid to a stop on the dust road outside his ugly cottage just as the spring day was turning into a cold, cloudless night. His mind was racing so much he almost forgot to turn the lights off and lock the door. He fumbled for his house keys, desperate to release the pressure he felt hammering in his head and tightening in his groin. Once inside, he tore through the cluttered cottage, not stopping to turn on any lights, tripping over unpacked boxes and piles of old magazines in the rush to get to his bedroom. The frantic pace came to a halt only when his hand was within reach of his special drawer, where he kept his special things. He froze, heart drumming on the walls of his chest, listening to the silence, feeling the air around him until he was certain he was alone. With a sudden burst he pulled the drawer open, pushing aside the mish-mash of clothes until he found the bundle of letters bound together with an elastic band. He would have liked to linger, to unwrap the magical package the way he planned to undress Sam when they were finally together, but his excitement was overpowering, forcing him to rush. He yanked the elastic band away and let the letters spill on to his unmade bed, grabbing at the nearest one, running his fingers across the name on the front of the envelope as if he was reading Braille. He looked down at the other envelopes, his eyes leaping from one to the next, all bearing the same name – Louise Russell.

Most of the letters were the usual bills and credit card statements, although some were personal, but they were all precious to him, they all brought her closer to him, entwined his life with hers. These letters had been the beginning of their relationship. It had taken him months to collect them, as he couldn’t risk arousing her suspicions that her mail was being stolen. Somehow he’d been disciplined enough to limit himself to a few items each month, mostly things she would never miss, resisting the almost unbearable temptation to take everything that looked personal. Every time he needed to be with her, he turned to the letters.

He knew the letter he held in his hand was from an old friend of hers who now lived on the other side of the world, in a place where he suspected mail regularly went missing. He slipped the letter from its envelope and began to read the hellos and how are yous, the apologies for not writing sooner, the references to a past life they’d shared as young girls. The more he read the more agitated he felt, the more his uncontrollable desire engulfed him. He dropped to his knees by his bedside as if he was about to pray, but his hands did not come together. Holding the letter in one hand, he slid the other hand slowly under his waistband, moving tentatively towards his swelling sex. As he touched himself a moan escaped his mouth in anticipation of the pleasure and release he would soon feel washing through his body. He gripped himself tightly and began to move his hand back and forth, gently at first, but then quickly, desperately, as he failed to reach a full erection, the frustration overtaking any thoughts of ecstasy, causing his penis to grow ever more flaccid in his palm.

Cursing and issuing silent threats in his mind, he leapt to his feet and snatched another bundle of letters from the drawer, held together by an elastic band just as the others had been. His eyes fleetingly rested on a third bundle of letters and a fourth and a fifth, before returning to the one in his hand. He checked the name on the top envelope – Karen Green. Yes, he told himself, this was all her fault. She was ruining everything with her jealous lies, deliberately coming between him and Sam. But he knew how to deal with her. He knew what he had to do. Throwing her letters on the floor, he tore off his postman’s uniform and began rifling through a pile of dirty clothes on the floor until he found his tracksuit. He tugged it on and stomped to the kitchen.

The narrow cupboard by the back door held a number of illicit items. After a moment’s thought he selected the electric cattle prod he’d found and repaired when he first bought the buildings and land from the local council for a bargain price, other potential buyers having been put off by its history of animal cruelty and slaughter. The land was everything he’d been waiting and praying for – everything he’d been saving for, putting aside most of his earnings for years until finally he’d amassed enough to buy it, the land and buildings that meant he could begin to prepare for a life with Sam. Once he’d bought the land he’d immediately started his search for her, but it had been difficult to tell who Sam was now – so many years had passed and her mind had been so poisoned, any one of them could be her. He had no choice but to work his way through them until he found the real one. No matter how many of them tried to make him look a fool. He knew what to do with people who tried to make him look a fool.

With a final glance at the double-barrelled shotgun that held pride of place, he grabbed the keys to the cellar from their hook and closed the door. Then he stumbled to the bathroom, pulling the cabinet open and taking out a first-aid box. He opened it and removed one of the syringes and a large phial of alfentanil. Taking the safety cap from the syringe, he expertly eased it into the phial, drawing out fifty millilitres of the anaesthetic before replacing the cap.

Now that he had everything he needed, he made his way outside, striding across the yard, the syringe in his trouser pocket, the cattle prod gripped in his hand. But when he reached the metal door he froze, the absolute clarity of what he had to do suddenly deserting him, the enormity of it almost too much comprehend.

You have no choice




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