Free The Keeper by Luke Delaney Page A

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