As he read the psychological report that detailed some of the abuse Keller had suffered as a boy, abuse that occasionally mirrored his own childhood, he struggled to work out how he felt about the man. He knew he didnt hate him or even resent him, and decided he just felt overwhelmingly sorry for him. But he felt sorry for his victims too. No one had come out of the Keller case a winner.
Despite being completely immersed in the report, he still sensed a change in the atmosphere of the main office that made him look up and see Featherstone striding across the office, all smiles and waves, as if he was on an American presidential campaign. Sean puffed out his cheeks and waited for Featherstones inevitable arrival, his large frame soon filling the doorway as for some reason he bothered to knock on the open door before entering without being invited and slumping heavily into the chair opposite Sean.
Fuck me. Freeze brass monkeys out there, was his opening gambit. Nice and warm in here though. Wouldnt want to be stuck at an outside murder scene too long today.
Morning, boss, Sean replied, his voice heavy with disinterest once he realized Featherstone wasnt about to hand him a much-needed murder investigation. Anything happening out there?
Nah! Featherstone answered. Just thought Id drop by and tell you myself.
Sean frowned. Tell me what?
Now dont get too pissed off, but I had a call from the Assistant Commissioner a couple of hours ago.
And?
One of the top bods at the CPS called him and told him they wouldnt be trying to get any convictions for rape or murder against Thomas Keller or any other type of conviction for that matter. Theyre going to accept a plea of manslaughter on grounds of diminished responsibility and then hes off to Broadmoor for the rest of his natural. I thought it best if I tell you personally. I know what he did to you. Sean involuntarily grabbed his shoulder. How is the old shoulder, anyway?
Its fine, Sean lied, and Im neither pissed off nor surprised. Keller is what he is. I dont care how he ends up behind bars just so long as he does.
He can talk to all the other nutters in there. Featherstone smiled, but stopped when he realized Sean wasnt returning the sentiment. Anyway, thats that job put to bed, so I suppose youll be needing something to keep the troops busy. Idle hands and all that.
Right now Ill take anything, Sean told him.
Cant allow that, Im afraid, Featherstone said. Assistant Commissioner Addis is adamant you and yours are to be saved for the more well, you know.
Yeah, but this is south-east London, not Washington State. It could be years before another Keller comes along.
Indeed, Featherstone agreed. But what if you covered the whole of London and, sometimes, if the case merited it, beyond?
How can we investigate a murder in deepest-darkest north London if were based in Peckham?
Which rather neatly brings us on to my next bit of news youre moving.
What? Sean almost shouted, drawing concerned looks from the detectives eavesdropping in the main office. Where to?
Where else? The Yard, of course.
Scotland Yard? Sean asked, incredulous. Most of my team live in Kent or the borders of. How are they supposed to get to the Yard every day?
Same way everyone else does, Featherstone told him. Train, bus you can even drive if you have to. The Assistant Commissioners bagged you a few parking places in the underground car park there. Best you pull rank and reserve yourself one.
This is not going to go down well, Sean warned him.
Nothing I can do about it, and nothing you can do about it, Featherstone replied, his voice hushed now, as if Addis could somehow overhear him from his office high in the tower that was New Scotland Yard. Mr Addis is determined to keep you for the special ones: murders with strong sexual elements, especially ones involving children; murders showing excessive violence and body mutilation, and missing person cases where there are strong grounds to believe a predatory offender may be involved. You get the drift. Addis put the proposal to the Commissioner and he agreed it, so thats that. They feel weve been getting caught out by not having a specialist team to investigate these types of cases, so they decided to create one and youre it.
Meaning, Sean offered, when these high-interest, media-attracting cases dont go quite to plan theyve got someone ready-made and in place to blame?
You may think that, but I couldnt possibly comment, Featherstone replied. Lets just say you dont get to be the Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police without learning how to cover your arse. Sean just pursed his lips. Anyway, your new homes on the seventh floor, Room 714. Used to be the Arts and Antiques Teams, until Addis decided they werent offering value for money any more and sent them back to division half of them back to uniform. Wonder how theyre feeling this morning walking the beat in some khazi somewhere freezing their nuts or tits off. A warning to the wise Addis is not a man to piss off.
What if I say no? Sean suddenly asked. What if I say I dont want to do it? Images of his wife, Kate, flashed in his mind, smiling and clutching her chest with relief as he told her hed quit the Murder Team.
What if I say no? Sean suddenly asked. What if I say I dont want to do it? Images of his wife, Kate, flashed in his mind, smiling and clutching her chest with relief as he told her hed quit the Murder Team.
And what else would you do? Featherstone answered. Go back to division and rubber-stamp search warrants, oversee endless dodgy rape allegations? Come on, Sean it would kill you.
Flying Squad? Anti-Terrorist?
Theyre plum jobs, Sean. You know the score: everyone leaving a central or area posting has to go back and serve time on division before getting another off-division posting. And like I said just in case you werent listening Addis is not a man to piss off. Kates smiling face faded to nothing. Besides, this is where you belong. Im not blowing smoke up your arse, but seriously, Sean, youre the best Ive got at doing this the best Ive ever seen, always one step ahead of everyone else, sometimes two steps, three steps. I dont know how you do what you do, but I know you can use it to catch some very bad people, and maybe save a few lives along the way. Sean said nothing. Whats done is done. Now get yourself and your team over to NSY and set up shop. Your new home awaits you.
The discussion over, Featherstone stood and walked backwards towards the door. Were done here. Ill drop in and see you in a couple of days, see how the moves going. Who knows, you might have a special case by then. Just what your troops need to take their minds off being moved and you too. Good luck, and remember, when you make it to the Yard be careful: Addis has eyes and ears everywhere. Loose lips sink ships.
With that he turned on his heels and was gone, leaving Sean alone, staring at the space hed left. A special case, Sean thought to himself. Such a neat, sterile way to describe what he had seen and would see again: women and men mutilated and abused before death finally claimed them. What would be next?
Celia Bridgeman checked her watch as she searched through the under-the-stairs cupboard for her training shoes and realized it was almost eight fifteen a.m. She needed to be at the gym by nine a.m. At thirty-five it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain her sleek figure, no matter how little she ate; the hairdressers by ten thirty a.m and then she had a lunch date with some of the mums from school at twelve thirty p.m; grilled chicken salads, no dressing, all round. At least the nanny was here to get the kids fed and dressed and off to school, even if her soon-to-be-sacked cleaner was late again. She found her trainers just as she heard footsteps above her rattling down the stairs, at which she pulled her head from the cupboard in time to see her six-year-old daughter jump the last three stairs into the hallway. She flicked her perfectly dyed blonde hair from her face and spoke to her through straight, shining white teeth. Sophia, have you seen George yet?
No, Sophia replied, sounding more like a teenager than a six-year-old. Hes probably playing with his toys in his bedroom as usual.
Yeah, well hes going to be late for school.
Nursery, mum, Sophia corrected her. George goes to nursery, not school. Remember?
Dont talk to me like that, Sophia and go and tell Caroline what you want for breakfast. Sophia tossed her head to one side to show her dissatisfaction and headed for the kitchen, her mothers genes already shaping her face and body for a life at the top table. Celia pursed her lips and shook her head as she watched daddys little princess swagger towards a health-conscious breakfast before looking at the flights of stairs above her and calling to the heavens. George. Stop playing with your toys and come and get breakfast. She waited for an answer, but none came. George. Again she waited. Nothing. Caroline, the nanny, had arrived while she was still in the shower. Perhaps shed already fed and dressed George? She looked at her watch again, the increasing concern she was going to be late for the gym urging her to speak to Caroline and save herself a trip up two flights of stairs. She followed Sophias route to the kitchen and found the nanny slicing apples and bananas for her daughters breakfast. You should have some toast or something as well, she reprimanded her.
I dont want to get fat, Sophia answered. Celia almost argued with her but remembered why she was there.
Caroline. Have you seen George yet this morning? she asked.
No, Mrs Bridgeman, she answered. Not yet. I thought maybe hed already had his breakfast.
Hes hardly going to get it himself, Sophia unhelpfully added.
Dont be rude, Sophia, Celia silenced her.
Maybe hes not feeling very well, Caroline suggested. Dyou want me to go and check on him?
No, Celia snapped, a sudden unexplained feeling of anxiety creeping through her like a grass fire. George had been late before many times quietly playing in his bedroom with his toys, unwilling to join the family rituals that his young mind knew would be being played out two floors below, but this felt different somehow. Ill go, she said.