The keeper, p.1
The Keeper, page 1
THE KEEPER
THE HUNT FOR THE SOUTH LONDON SERIAL KILLER
NINA BLACK
Copyright © 2023 Nina Black
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The right of Nina Black to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books.
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Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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www.bloodhoundbooks.com
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Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8292-1
CONTENTS
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Saturday July 15th, 1995
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
July 31st to December 31st, 1995
Chapter 4
Friday January 5th to Saturday January 6th, 1996
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Tuesday January 9th, 1996
Chapter 12
Tuesday March 12th to Monday April 1st, 1996
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Saturday May 18th to Monday May 20th, 1996
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Wednesday 20th December, 1971
Chapter 28
Mid-June to early August, 1996
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Saturday August 24th to Thursday August 29th, 1996
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Monday September 2nd to September 25th, 1996
Chapter 42
Saturday October 12th, 1996
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Mid-October to Mid-November, 1996
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
You will also enjoy:
Acknowledgements
A note from the publisher
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For Harry, Betsy and Clare with grateful thanks for your help
‘Murder is born of love, and love attains the greatest intensity in murder.’
— Octave Mirbeau
SATURDAY JULY 15TH, 1995
CHAPTER ONE
DI JO POLLITT
The morning heat is already starting to swell as I run from my house to the Golf parked on the road outside. I jump in, start up and drive fast as I can to Lambeth, fortunately not far from Kennington. I love this car. I bought her second-hand five years ago and then she was four years old though with low mileage. She’s proved so reliable and, touch wood, has never once broken down on me.
I straight away call Tony Smith on the mobile phone, thanking my lucky stars I remembered it at the last minute. Egg on face if the inspector turned up without it. They were only issued to us a couple of months ago and I’m still trying to get used to owning this miraculous new gadget.
The sleeping DS answers with a startled grunt. I give him the drift of what’s happened and tell him to get himself to the street address soon as. He happens to live in Lambeth so he’ll probably be there quicker than I.
I grapple a Camel from my bag, light up with the Zippo, the first of the day and take a few deep drags. My watch reads 5.14am. Although I couldn’t feel less like it at this hour, I chuck the unfinished cigarette out of the window and force myself to eat a couple of overripe bananas grabbed from the fruit bowl on my way out. They should have been binned a couple of days ago and taste like mushy cotton wool but there was no time for breakfast. It’s shaping up to be a long day ahead and I don’t do well on an empty stomach.
I did manage to brush my teeth in ten seconds and to brush my hair. In the rear mirror, I can see it’s already doing its own thing and has reverted to an uncontrolled brown mop. Thick and wiry, it has never done as it is told. I examine bleary green eyes for sand. A fingernail does the job.
When I arrive at the scene, a few what I take to be Jamaicans with hanging heads are already gathered on the pavement of the narrow, grimy street. The area has been cordoned off and a tent hides a body.
As predicted, young Tony has got there before me. He lumbers over to where I pull up. I get out and he looks me in the eyes with his big, dark, warm ones, ‘Morning, ma’am. Not a pretty sight, I warn you.’
‘Thanks, Tony. Murders seldom are.’
‘Yes, but this one…’ he mumbles and looks away.
A man who could be taken for a heavyweight boxer, Tony looks comical in the white scene suit, mask, gloves and overshoes. It’s the hood that simply doesn’t suit his big round face. Not, I know very well, that I’ll look any better myself. I’m almost the same height as him, if considerably less chunky. You’d call me lanky or long-limbed, whereas large or burly describes Tony Smith.
Reliable, steady and likeable, DS Tony Smith is a through-and-through good man and I’m comfortable working with him. He is loved by all at the station for his fearless determination to bring criminals to justice; his cheerful, happy, get-to-it attitude and his squeaky, high-pitched chortles of laughter that sound like a small child choking and giggling at the same time. In a thousand years no one would believe such a laugh could emanate from such a huge bloke.
The police received a 999 call from a woman at just before 4.30am to report that her husband Winston Clarke hadn’t arrived home from work. This call was followed about quarter of an hour later by another reporting a man dead on the pavement close to the block of flats where he lived. A shocked resident leaving the flats had recognised the man and called the police. Because the killing had happened so near to his home, news has spread like wildfire around the community, hence the gathering of people outside.
Winston was a thirty-four-year-old who worked as a bus driver. Having finished his night shift at 3.10am, he dropped his vehicle at the bus depot in Waterloo and walked back, as he did every night, to his home in Lambeth.
Tony hands me some PPE into which I struggle before I bend to enter the tent. The dead man is lying on his back in an awkward position, his legs splayed. A deep, livid mark around the neck indicates he has been garrotted and has died from strangulation. The trousers and underpants have been pulled down to the knees to expose the genitals which have been cut around and detached from the body. Blood has soaked the groin area, extended under the legs, seeped across the pavement and dripped onto the street. As Tony warned, it is not a pretty sight.
My immediate thought is a gang-related killing. In this neighbourhood, just about all the murders are. A man murdered at that time of night in this place is always going to be suspected of involvement with the drugs gangs. Might the emasculation be a new warning to others not to mess with one particular gang? It is possible. Yet the man is not dressed to type and certainly doesn’t look like a druggie. Besides, he’s a bus driver – an unlikely candidate for being part of a gang.
Liz Watts is kneeling beside the corpse, a mask covering her nose and mouth as she works. Considering her job, the pathologist is a surprisingly jolly woman. While others are combing the area for clues, she is surrounded by a cloud of flies. I know whose job I’d prefer.
‘Hello there. Thought you’d retired, Liz?’
She stands up to greet me. I am conscious that, like many females and a number of men, she feels diminished when she stands next to me. I’ve become used to this over the years. At times its consequences stand me in good stead and at others work against me, in particular with certain men who feel belittled and can turn a tad aggressive to compensate.
‘Hello Jo, circumstances aside, it’s nice to see you. You are correct; I have indeed retired and am only standing in for the new man who’s on holiday for a couple of weeks.’
‘Ah, I see. Enjoying retirement, I trust?’
‘I am indeed, but happy to return from time to time.’ She flashes a brief smile before returning her gaze to the corpse.
‘Funny one we’ve got here. Highly unusual. Very nasty thing but mercifully, it appears the mutilation happened after death, which would have been the quickest. Hopefully, I can tell you more once we get him back to the morgue.’
‘Any sign of the genitals?’
She shakes h er head. ‘Not so far.’
A thorough police search of the scene finds no trace of the amputated parts. Has the murderer planned to do something with them? Or have they simply disposed of them? In either case, why? I contemplate these thoughts with disgust.
There are many angles to think about. Winston was older and more ordinary than the younger drug dealers; and the usual gang killings were stabbings or shootings, not strangulations and certainly not castrations.
CHAPTER TWO
‘Can I help?’ he said.
It was hard to see on the dark side street and he peered forward to read the piece of paper before it fluttered out of my hand to the pavement.
Without waiting for the answer, he bent down to pick it up… the kind of man he was. The sort who would always help out where he can. A man I felt relieved to have chosen. Before he had even grasped hold of the scribbled map, the cord had slipped over his head and tightened around his neck; his head had been yanked back; and my knee was thrusting deep into his back.
His throat constricted when I twisted as tight as I was able. When he jerked backward attempting a scream, no sound emerged except a faint gurgle as the larynx crushed against the back of the throat. The knot had done its job.
His strong, stocky body threshed and flailed for what seemed only seconds before he slowly buckled and crumpled. He was heavy and dropped with a thud as life leached from him fast.
I crouched in front of his distorted body lying on the pavement on that hot, muggy London night and swiftly but carefully removed what he was well rid of and wouldn’t be needing anymore.
My heart was racing and I’m not ashamed to admit to myself that I was somewhat scared as well as excited. The sensation felt like that time long ago when the police found me alone in the car.
I have to say I am proud of the speed and of the neat job I made of it, even though I was in a hurry. I’ll admit I was extremely nervous about the whole thing. He was fairly short but bigger and stronger than I had intended for my first and I wasn’t at all sure my strength was going to be up to it. But it worked and I succeeded.
And it felt so, so good. Both worse and better by far than I ever could have imagined. Exhilarating, nerve-racking, terrifying and wonderful.
At last, it’s done. I have wondered about this for so long that now I can hardly believe it has happened. Mamma would have been proud of me. She always said I could do anything I put my mind to.
CHAPTER THREE
DI JO POLLITT
There is nothing for me to do until the family liaison officer arrives. Watching the pathologist at work, I ponder this unusual killing.
A weird MO that poses an unusual set of questions. First of all, the motive: revenge, rage or jealousy? I feel all three can be ruled out as there is no obvious anger about the killing. It is neat and careful.
Then there is the next question: was the victim known to the killer? I think he possibly may have been, which raises further questions.
Did a member or friend of the family commit the murder on behalf of the wife? Had Winston been playing away? Had the wife wanted rid of her husband for some other reason? Did someone else have another reason to be rid of him – but if so, was the motive sexual jealousy? Were they after the wife?
I need to meet and talk to Mrs Clarke soon as. I check my pocket to feel for my little bottle of herbal calming remedy. I use it in particularly stressful situations. Whether or not it is a placebo doesn’t bother me. For me it works. A few drops on the tongue always helps me tackle the direst of situations and I take some now.
At about 7.40, the female family liaison officer turns up and accompanies me and Tony as we head to the flat entrance to interview Sandrene Clarke. Tony is Jamaican himself, so he knows how to handle himself around this area. Many of his compatriots frown on him for joining the pigs but he stands his ground. He also copes well with the institutionalised racism within the force itself.
It’s a typical red-brick seventies-built council block of flats in Lambeth in which there are six floors and about forty flats. The air thick with marijuana, the odd syringe abandoned in the corridors, spliff butts littering the dark staircases. We find our way up the dirty concrete flights of steps to the fifth floor where the Clarkes’ flat is.
Cops are strictly unwelcome here but in a case like this, the residents will make an exception. Winston was evidently popular and for those who don’t yet know about the killing, having Tony with us makes us less conspicuous and safer than we might have been without him. Being females in plain clothes helps as well, although these folk can sniff police from a distance.
Sandrene, a shapely woman who must weigh around thirteen stone, opens the door. A head of magnificent bushy hair that from side to side measures a minimum fourteen inches frames a kind, plump face with huge dark eyes that are bloodshot from crying. When she sees us, she starts to howl and throws her arms around Tony’s neck who, in spite of his own size briefly staggers under her weight as she shakes and sobs on his shoulder.
Once she has calmed down some, we persuade her to invite us through to her small living room that is full to bursting with her own sizable family and the children of others as well as her own, some of whom have overflowed into the bedrooms.
I employ as much tact as I know when asking them all to leave temporarily so we can talk to the widow in private. The group doesn’t look at all happy about this and at one stage it looks as though things might kick off. Fortunately, Sandrene convinces them it’s okay to come back in half an hour’s time. So, they take her kids and promise to return when she calls them.
At a nod from me, Tony offers to make us coffee and goes quietly into the kitchen. I sit on an armchair facing Sandrene so I can see her face to face. I need to be able to read her expressions carefully while talking to her. The liaison officer sits quietly beside her, a discreet packet of tissues on her lap, ready to comfort the grieving widow and to listen to all that is said.
I like to think I am a sympathetic and sensitive woman who particularly identifies with other females and I ask gently about Winston and why anyone might have wanted him dead.
Sandrene is voluble and talking seems to be helping her deal with the terrible shock she is facing. Between her miserable wails, I gather that everybody loved her Winston, that he had no enemies, that he never hurt a fly, that he had loved his God, his children and his Sandrene.
‘Who do you think might have done this, Sandrene?’ I try my best to be as soft as I can with the poor, distraught woman.
‘How do I know? Who would kill him? Who would kill my husband? Who would do such a thing taking my man, hood and all? You tell me who?’
Her cries are so loud and full of grief they are hard for us to bear. If I’d been able, I’d have broken the news of the murder gently and kept the castration for later to give Sandrene the chance to absorb the blow of hearing about her husband’s death before facing the brutal details. But she already knows them. No doubt, the family has talked of nothing else. At least we are spared the agony of telling her what had happened to him after his death.
