Читать книгу DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 6-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network, The Toy Taker and The Jackdaw - Luke Delaney - Страница 31

Sean’s siren screamed at the ever-present choking traffic in the streets of Hammersmith as he drew closer and closer to Charing Cross Hospital and Sally. The blue light magnetically attached to the roof of his unmarked car gave other drivers little and often too late a warning of his scarcely controlled approach. If he crashed now he had no back-up, no one to continue the race towards Sally. Even in his fear and panic he knew he should have contacted the local police and had them cover the hospital, but how long would it take to explain his fears? How long would it take to get authority to deploy further armed guards? And what if he was wrong? What if this was Hellier’s last hurrah, to make him look a fool? To discredit him as a detective? No, he had to do this himself. Donnelly would organize back-up, do the sensible thing, but Sean had to come alone. Right or wrong, he had to come alone. Somehow he knew everything would end soon. Everything.

As he swung into the hospital car park he killed the siren and lights, suddenly feeling the need for stealth. Ignoring the signs for the main entrance, he made straight for the Accident and Emergency Department. He parked the car in an ambulance bay and abandoned it, keys in ignition and door open.

Sean ran as quickly as he dared through the swing doors. He didn’t know the hospital as well as he did the hospitals of south-east London and the East End, but he remembered where he’d seen the lifts the night Sally was first brought here.

He jabbed the arrow button to summon the lift and waited, beyond impatient, for the metal boxed carriage to arrive, while studying the hospital floor guide for Intensive Care. He found it just as the lift arrived. Without waiting for the doors to open fully, he leapt in and punched the floor he needed with the side of his fist. Thank God there was no one else in the lift, no one to slow his ascent to Sally. Two floors short of his destination the lift suddenly stopped and doors slid open painfully slowly. A gaggle of chatting nurses stepped towards the entrance. Sean flashed the warrant card he already held in his hand.

‘Sorry,’ he almost shouted. ‘Police business. Use another lift.’ He jabbed the lift’s button and the doors closed on a mix of protests and disbelieving giggles.

Finally the lift drew to a smooth halt at the ICU floor. The doors silently opened, the warmth and silence of the unit wrapping around Sean; mechanical whirs and beeps that appeared so reassuring.

As Sean stepped from the lift he saw the armed uniform officer standing outside what he assumed would be Sally’s room. The officer had his back to the wall; Sean presumed this was so he could see in both directions along the corridor. His eyes were immediately drawn to the automatic pistol on the officer’s thigh, as any policeman’s eyes would have been. The officer’s flat hat was pulled low over his forehead, military style, almost totally hiding his upper facial features. Sean guessed he would have been an ex-soldier, a guess made all the more likely to be true by the macho moustache the officer proudly wore. Sean’s eyes darted around the unit, checking for other signs of life. Two ICU nurses busied themselves quietly with another ravaged soul in a room two doors away from Sally’s.

Sean held his warrant card aloft. ‘DI Corrigan. I need to see DS Jones.’ The uniform nodded his permission as Sean entered through the already open door. He walked slowly towards Sally, already fearing the worst, his heart pounding out of control, making it difficult to breathe; his stomach felt painful and knotted. But as he drew closer he became aware of the comforting, rhythmic sounds emanating from the machines that surrounded Sally. Heart-rate monitors, pulse monitors, blood-pressure monitors all reassuring him that she was alive. Even the ugly, impossibly big tube that snaked into Sally’s throat, feeding her oxygen, somehow made Sean feel at ease. He finally inhaled a long breath and blew it out through pursed lips.

He placed a hand on Sally’s forehead and gently stroked her hair back. He was struggling for something to say when he suddenly felt a presence behind him, some change in the atmosphere of the room. He spun on his heels, heart rate soaring, adrenalin already beginning to prepare his body for combat.

‘Bloody hell,’ Sean said as he saw Donnelly step into the room. ‘You got here fast.’

‘Aye. I hitched a ride with the uniform lads in a response car, blues-and-twos all the way. No expense spared.’ Donnelly’s tone changed. ‘Is she okay?’

‘I think so,’ Sean replied.

‘Care to tell me what’s going on? Why we are here? Why we let Hellier walk away a free man again?’

Sean opened his mouth to explain, but no explanation came forth, only a question. ‘Where’s the guard? The armed guard? Did you see him?’

‘I didn’t see a guard,’ Donnelly answered. ‘Just you.’

‘No. You got here right after I did.’ The fear was back again, the knot in his stomach worse than ever. ‘There was a guard outside this room.’

‘Okay,’ Donnelly said calmly. ‘I believe you, guv’nor. Christ, he’s probably gone for a piss.’

‘The toilet,’ said Sean. ‘I have to check the toilet.’

‘Why?’ Donnelly asked. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘I know who the killer is,’ Sean answered, already racing along the corridor, searching for the toilet, shouting now. ‘He’s here. I know he’s here.’

‘Hellier’s the killer,’ Donnelly argued. ‘But you let him go.’

Donnelly’s words would have stung Sean, but he wasn’t listening, he was frantically searching for the toilet and the uniformed officer. At last he found the communal toilet and threw the door open. Three sinks lined one side and three toilet cubicles the other. Only one of the cubicle doors was shut. Sean walked slowly into the room.

‘Hello,’ he called to no one. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Corrigan. I need to know if anyone is in here … Is anyone in here?’ Silence. He moved to the closed cubicle and placed his palm on the door. The small square of green told Sean the door wasn’t locked. Gently he pushed and the door swung open.

Sean couldn’t help taking two steps backwards, repelled by the sight of the nearly naked man slumped on the toilet, eyes bulging grotesquely, his swollen purple tongue protruding from his mouth, rolled to one side. The burgundy colour of his face contrasting pitifully against the pale, now wax-like skin of the rest of his body. Sean stared at the scene, his mind processing the information. He saw one of the man’s arms had fallen across his lap, while the other was still raised, the fingers desperately grasping at the thin metal wire that was buried into his neck and throat. Drying blood stained the dead man’s hands and chest, blood that had run from the virtually severed fingers.

Donnelly appeared at Sean’s shoulder, ready to continue the argument until he saw the body.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Donnelly said. ‘What in God’s name is going on?’

‘It’s Gibran,’ Sean told him. ‘Sebastian Gibran killed him and all the others.’

‘But who is this poor bastard?’

‘Our armed police guard. Gibran must have taken his uniform. I walked straight past him, bastard.’ Sean turned and began to run towards the lifts, drawing concerned glances from two nurses who’d come out to see what the commotion was about.

‘Where you going?’ Donnelly called after him.

‘Stay here and watch over Sally,’ Sean commanded, punching the lift button. ‘I’m going after him. He can’t have taken the lift, else you’d have seen him, so he must have used the stairs. I can make up the ground.’

‘That’s not a good idea, guv,’ Donnelly shouted. ‘If he took the uniform, then he took the gun too. Let an armed unit—’

The lift doors closed, cutting off the rest of the sentence. As it began to descend, Sean left Donnelly’s world and entered one that few people would ever truly understand and even fewer could ever survive.

Sean ran frantically through the crowded lobby of the hospital, straining, searching in all directions for any sign of Gibran, any sign of a uniform striding through the crowds. Increasingly desperate, he approached passers-by, thrusting his warrant card into their faces.

‘A uniformed officer,’ he demanded. ‘Has anyone seen a uniformed officer?’

Most recoiled from him in fright, but finally he came upon a startled hospital porter who nodded in response to his question.

‘How long ago?’ The porter just gawped at him. Sean grabbed the man by the collar. ‘How long ago?’

‘A couple of minutes,’ the man stuttered.

‘Which way?’

‘Out the main exit, towards the car park.’

Sean released the porter and made for the exit, sprinting now, not caring who saw him, who he knocked out of the way, oblivious to the panic he might be causing. He kept running towards the car park, in blind hope more than belief.

He’d been running hard for over a minute and his lungs and thighs were on fire, but still no sign of Gibran. Sean bent over, resting with his hands on his hips, desperately trying to draw new oxygen into his exhausted blood. After a few seconds he straightened and began to scan the vast car park. His mobile vibrated in his pocket. Donnelly’s name came up on the screen. Somehow he managed to speak.

‘I’ve lost him,’ was all he said.

‘Where the hell are you?’ Donnelly asked.

‘In the main car park,’ he answered breathlessly. Then, about a hundred metres ahead of him, bobbing his way through the legions of parked cars, he saw a figure clad in police uniform, the peaked cap prominent. ‘He’s here, in the car park. I can see him.’ He hung up without waiting for Donnelly’s response.

The excitement electrified Sean’s body. The pain in his chest and legs was soon forgotten as he sprinted faster than he knew he could towards the walking figure, so fast that he knew he would catch up with the man – but if it was Gibran, why wasn’t he running? What was he waiting for?

As Sean closed the last few metres the man turned to face him with the speed of a snake. Sean saw nothing but the knife in the man’s hand. The shining, gleaming knife that Sean was about to run on to. Sean tried to stop, but knew he would be too late. He braced himself for the unbearable pain that he knew was about to cut into his stomach or his liver or chest.

The last thing Sean saw before he closed his eyes were Gibran’s white teeth, his lips curled back in a grin as he prepared to impale Sean on his short, sharp blade. But no cutting pain ripped into Sean’s body. Instead he was hit by an incredibly powerful force in the chest, like being struck by a medicine ball fired from a cannon. It lifted him off his feet and threw him backwards. He landed on a car bonnet and rolled on to the ground, immediately springing back to his feet, instinctively checking his chest for blood. There was none.

Sean quickly regained his bearings, his eyes searching for Gibran, his mind trying to work out what it was that had hit him. Even as the scene in front of him became clear, his mind struggled to make sense of what he was seeing.

James Hellier was holding Gibran in a grip not even he could escape from. The knife that had been in Gibran’s hand was now in Hellier’s. He pressed it hard into Gibran’s throat, breaking the skin, allowing a trickle of blood to escape. Hellier’s other hand pushed the pistol he’d already slipped from the holster on Gibran’s thigh into his kidney. Swiftly tucking the pistol into his waistband, Hellier used this free hand to enhance his physical dominance of Gibran, who squirmed in protest.

‘Ah, ah,’ Hellier warned him and pushed the blade a little deeper into his throat. Sean watched as Hellier suddenly pulled one of Gibran’s arms behind his back. Sean heard a click and knew what was happening. Gibran visibly winced. With practised ease Hellier pulled the other arm backwards and another clicking sound. Again Gibran winced as the handcuffs were tightened around his wrists. All the while, Hellier kept the knife pressed to his throat.

Hellier spoke to Gibran, Sean a mere observer. ‘If you cross me, you have to pay the price. You have to pay the ferryman.’

‘Don’t do it, James,’ Sean asked calmly, trying to somehow wrestle control of the situation. ‘Can you hear that?’ Above the sounds of the city, the wail of approaching sirens announced that reinforcements were closing in. ‘I know you didn’t kill anyone, James,’ Sean continued. ‘But if you kill him, you’ll rot in prison all the same.’

‘I can’t let him live,’ Hellier explained. ‘He tried to make a fool of me. He used me.’ Gibran wriggled in protest. Hellier jerked him into obedience.

Sean tried to find the words that would get through to Hellier. Normal threats or promises he knew would have little effect.

‘I took my kids to the zoo,’ Sean told him. ‘A couple of weeks ago, you know, I’d promised my wife, so …’ Hellier stared, but remained silent. ‘They had a tiger there, this beautiful tiger in this cage, you know, but all it did was walk up and down, head bowed, like it had given up. Like all it wanted was for someone to put it out of its misery. It was all I could think about for days after. It was … it was one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen some sad things. You couldn’t survive in a cage, not after the last time, James. And you know it. Let him go.’

Hellier’s eyes narrowed but immediately became animated and wide, a smile spreading across his face. ‘Don’t worry, Inspector. I’m not going to kill him. Not yet, anyway. I want him to live in fear for a while. I want him to taste fear every day until the day comes when I decide he’s lived long enough, then I’ll do for him what someone should have done for your tiger.’ Hellier pushed Gibran the short distance towards Sean, who grappled to hold on to him, hindered by his broken, throbbing hand, surprised and somewhat intimidated by Gibran’s strength. How had Hellier overpowered him so easily?

‘Consider this my going away present,’ Hellier beamed. ‘Not quite what I had in mind, but he’ll have to do, for now. Oh, and by the way, be careful, Inspector: he’s as dangerous as he thinks he is, and I should know.’

‘I’ll see you in hell,’ Gibran spat towards Hellier.

‘I’ll be waiting for you there,’ Hellier answered, matter-of-factly.

The sirens had shifted from the background to the foreground. Sean glanced over his shoulder and saw the marked police cars pulling up at the perimeter of the car park, officers climbing from the vehicles.

‘Give me the gun, James. We’ll need a statement from you. You help us, we can make a deal on the Jarratt thing.’

‘I don’t think so, Sean.’ It was the first time Hellier had used his Christian name. ‘Not all of your kind will be so understanding. Besides, it’s time for me to move on. You’ve already killed James Hellier, Sean.’

Hellier began to walk away, ready to melt into the city that had been his playground for so long.

‘James,’ Sean called after him. ‘James, you can’t just walk away.’

‘Remember what I told you: I can be anyone I like and I can go anywhere I want. Goodbye, Sean.’

‘James,’ Sean called, the distance between them growing ever greater.

Hellier turned towards him one last time. ‘I’ll hold on to the gun, if you don’t mind, just in case anyone foolishly decides to follow me. Goodbye, Sean. Take care now.’ Hellier turned his back on Sean, waved once without looking and disappeared behind a parked van.

‘James,’ Sean shouted. ‘Stefan. Stefan.’ But Hellier was gone.

The sight of the uniformed officers closing in precipitated Gibran to make one last effort to break free. Sean pushed him over a car bonnet and lay across him. Despite the handcuffs, it took all his strength to control him.

‘You can’t prove a fucking thing,’ Gibran challenged.

‘You’re wearing a dead police officer’s uniform, you piece of shit. You’re finished, Gibran. I’ll fucking make sure of it.’

Sean stepped out of the lift and moved fast towards Sally’s room. The ICU was quiet. The maelstrom hadn’t broken over the crime scene yet, but it soon would. Sean entered Sally’s room. Donnelly was standing over her.

‘Bloody hell, guv’nor. I didn’t expect to see you back here. I heard on the radio you got your man.’

‘Plenty of time to deal with him later,’ said Sean. ‘I take it I have you to thank for the cavalry turning up?’ Donnelly waved his mobile by way of an answer, but Sean was already searching through the cabinet next to Sally’s bed.

‘Looking for something?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Sally’s personal stuff,’ Sean answered.

‘Why?’

‘I need it. I need to make sure.’

‘Of what?’ Donnelly enquired.

‘That Gibran goes down for what he did to her.’ Sean nodded towards Sally.

‘Her personal stuff’s probably locked up and logged.’

‘Not necessarily. She came in through A and E, remember. They had better things to do than worry about bagging and tagging property.’

He pulled the bottom door open and saw what he’d been praying for: a plastic bag containing Sally’s personal items. Her simple watch, some jewellery, even an elastic headband and the thing Sean sought most – her warrant card.

‘Is the bag sealed?’ Donnelly asked in hushed tones.

‘No,’ Sean almost whispered the answer. ‘Her warrant card’s in its own bag, but it’s not sealed.’ Sean held the bloodstained police identification gently in his uninjured hand. He knew what he had to do.

‘This needs to be found in Gibran’s home when it’s searched,’ he told Donnelly.

‘I understand,’ Donnelly assured him.

‘It’s best if you don’t find it yourself. Leave it for one of the other searching officers to find. Understand?’

‘Perfectly, guv. Leave it to me.’

‘You’re a good man, Dave.’

‘I know,’ was Donnelly’s only reply.

Gibran sat impassively, his hands resting unnaturally on the table in front of him. Sean and Donnelly sat opposite. There was no one else in the interview room. Sean hadn’t been surprised when Gibran waived his right to have a solicitor present. He was far too arrogant to believe anyone could protect him better than he could himself.

Sean completed the introductions and reminded Gibran of his rights. Gibran politely acknowledged everything Sean asked him.

‘Mr Gibran, do you know why you’re here?’ Sean asked.

Gibran ignored the question. ‘I’ve never been inside a police station before,’ he said. ‘It’s not quite how I imagined it. Lighter, more sterile, not as threatening as I thought it would be.’

‘Do you know why you’re here?’ Sean repeated.

‘Yes, I understand perfectly, thank you.’ Gibran smiled gently, untroubled, at peace with himself.

‘Then you know you’re accused of several murders, including the murder of one police officer and the attempted murder of another?’

‘I am aware of my situation, Inspector.’

‘Yes,’ Sean continued. ‘Why don’t we talk about your situation, Mr Gibran?’

‘Please, call me Sebastian.’

‘Okay, Sebastian. Do you want to talk about the things you’ve done?’

‘You mean the things I’m accused of doing.’

‘Are you denying that you killed Daniel Graydon? Heather Freeman? Linda Kotler? Police Constable Kevin O’Connor? Are you denying you tried to kill Detective Sergeant Jones?’

‘What is it you want, Inspector?’ Gibran asked. ‘A nice neat confession? For me to tell you where, how and why?’

‘Ideally,’ admitted Sean.

‘Why?’

‘So I can understand why those people died. So I can understand why you killed them.’

‘And why is it you want to understand those things?’

‘It’s my job.’

‘No,’ Gibran said, still smiling slightly. ‘That’s too simple a reason.’

‘Then why do I want to know?’ Sean risked asking for Gibran’s opinion.

‘Fear,’ Gibran answered. ‘Because we fear what we do not understand. So we label everything: a nice, neat explanation hanging around a murderer’s neck. He killed because he loved. He killed because he hated. He killed because he’s schizophrenic. The labels take away the fear.’

‘Then what should we put on your label?’ Sean asked.

Gibran’s smile grew wider as he leaned back from the table. ‘Why don’t we just leave it blank,’ he answered. ‘It would be so much more interesting, don’t you agree?’

‘It won’t help you in court,’ Sean reminded him. ‘Life imprisonment doesn’t have to mean life.’

‘I understand you’re trying to help me, Inspector, but from what I can tell, you’re a long way from convicting me of anything.’

‘You will be convicted,’ Sean assured him. ‘Be in no doubt of that.’

‘You sound very sure of an unsure thing,’ Gibran said. ‘But I’ll make you a deal. If I’m convicted of these crimes, then we’ll talk again, maybe in more detail. If your evidence fails you and I walk away a free man, then we shall never discuss the matter again.’

‘Confessions after conviction are worth nothing,’ Sean told him.

‘Maybe not to the court, but to you it would be worth a great deal, I believe.’

Sean sensed Gibran was trying to end the interview. Was he tiring? The effort of attempting to appear sane and polite exhausting him? Sean had to keep going.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said. ‘Tell me about Sebastian Gibran.’

‘The short, abridged history of Sebastian Gibran. Very well. I was born forty-one years ago in Oxfordshire. I am the second oldest of four children: two boys and two girls. My father was something big in agriculture, while my mother was left to raise us. We were quite wealthy, although not rich. I was privately educated at a very good local school, where I did well enough to gain a place at the London School of Economics.

‘Armed with a degree in Business Finance I made my way into the big bad world and became a valued employee of Butler and Mason International Finance. I rose through the ranks to become one of the senior partners. I am married with two adorable children, one of each. Quite an unremarkable life, I’m afraid.’

‘Until recently,’ Sean said, studying Gibran intensely. ‘Until something that is indeed remarkable happened to you. You changed. Something inside of you couldn’t be restrained any longer.’

‘I’m not mentally ill, Inspector. I don’t hear voices in my head telling me to kill. There is nothing in me that cannot be restrained. Nothing I do not control. I am no human monster created by my background. My childhood was a happy one. My parents loving, my siblings supportive and my friends numerous. I didn’t pull the legs off spiders when I was a boy. I didn’t bite my classmates at nursery or torture and kill the family pets.’

‘Then why?’

‘Why what?’

Sean swallowed his growing frustration. ‘Why did you kill those people? Daniel Graydon. Heather Freeman. Linda Kotler. Why was it so important to you that they died?’

‘And you want me to tell you so you can understand me?’ Gibran asked. ‘You want me to take away your fear.’

‘Yes,’ Sean responded.

‘There’s really no point,’ Gibran said dismissively. ‘I have no answer that could satisfy your need to know why. There is nothing I could tell you that could possibly help you understand. In some ways I wish there were, but there really isn’t.’

‘Try me,’ Sean insisted.

More silence, then Gibran spoke. ‘Tell me, Inspector, are you familiar with the fable of the frog and the scorpion?’

‘No,’ Sean answered.

‘One day,’ Gibran began, ‘a frog was basking on the banks of a river when suddenly his slumber was disturbed by an anxious voice. When the frog opened his eyes he saw a scorpion standing only inches away. Understandably nervous, the frog hopped away, then a pleading voice stopped him. “Please, Mr Frog,” the scorpion said. “I simply must get to the other side of this river, but I can’t swim. Could I please crawl on to your back while you carry me to the other side?”

‘“I can’t do that,” answered the frog, “because you are a scorpion and you will sting me.”

‘“No,” said the scorpion. “I won’t sting you. I promise.”

‘“How can I take the word of a scorpion?” the frog asked.

‘“Because if I sting you while we are crossing the river,” the scorpion explained, “we will both drown.”

‘The frog thinks about what the scorpion has said. Won over by his logic, he agrees to take the scorpion to the other side. But as they are crossing the river the scorpion does indeed sting the frog.

‘With his dying breath the frog asks, “Why did you do that, for surely now we both will die?”

‘“I couldn’t help myself,” the scorpion tells him. “It’s my nature.”

‘I always feel sorry for the scorpion,’ Gibran continued, ‘but never for the frog.’

Sean let a few minutes elapse before he spoke. ‘Are you telling me you killed four people for no reason other than you believe it’s in your nature to?’

‘It’s just a story,’ Gibran answered. ‘One that I thought might appeal to you in particular.’

‘Let me tell you why I think you killed these people,’ Sean said. ‘You killed them because it made you feel special. Made you feel important. Without it, your life felt pointless. Making money for other people: pointless. You felt pointless. And you couldn’t stand that empty feeling, every day having to admit to yourself that you were just another nobody, living a nobody’s life. Every single day, the same feeling of emptiness, of nothingness. It drove you insane.

‘You could have been anything you wanted to be. Life gave you all the privileges and opportunities, but you didn’t have the courage to do anything truly special, to do anything that would set you apart from other men. You believe we should all bow down to you merely because of who you are. But nobody did and it made you angry, angry at the world.

‘So you decided to teach us a lesson, didn’t you? You decided to show us how special you are by doing the only thing your feeble mind could conceive. Your twisted sense of self-importance convinced you it was your right, your destiny to kill. It excused your crimes – and crimes are all they are, no matter what you may think.

‘But committing murder doesn’t make you special. It doesn’t make you anything other than one more sick loser, no better than all the other sick losers locked up in Broadmoor. You can talk about scorpions and your nature and any other bullshit you like, but we both know that, deep down, underneath this polished act, this mock menace, you are nothing. Nothing at all.’

‘If believing that makes you comfortable,’ Gibran responded, ‘if it takes away your fear, then you should cling to that belief.’

Sean knew then that Gibran wasn’t going to talk, wasn’t going to confess and explain all. He had to come to terms with the fact they might never know why. He felt Gibran studying him, expressionless.

‘What about Hellier?’ he asked, making one last-ditch effort to bring him back. ‘What was his part in all of this? Were you working together?’

‘James could never be anything other than my employee,’ Gibran answered. ‘I would never dirty my hands working with him as an equal. That could never happen. He was a tool to be used by me to achieve what I needed to achieve. He was nothing more than an illusion. James was made by circumstance, a cheap man-made replica. Pathetic, really. I was born to achieve all that I have achieved. The path I was ordained to follow formed while I was still in my mother’s womb.’

‘You used him as a decoy,’ Sean accused. ‘You crafted the murders so it looked like Hellier had committed them.’

‘Murders?’ Gibran feigned surprise. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were talking about corporate finance.’

‘Of course.’ Suddenly it was starting to make sense. Eager to explore the unexplained revelation before it could slip back in to the dark recesses of his mind, Sean continued: ‘I understand now. You gave Hellier his job at Butler and Mason in the first place, didn’t you? As soon as you met him, when and wherever that was, you knew, didn’t you? You knew he was the one you’d been waiting for; the one you could hide behind. And you made sure you had sole responsibility for checking his background, because you couldn’t risk anyone else discovering Hellier was a fraud. Did you even bother to check his references, his employment history, or was it so irrelevant that you didn’t even bother? It wasn’t his financial skills you wanted – you wanted him. You needed to have him where you could watch him, learn everything about him, manipulate him, didn’t you?’

‘Hellier was a subordinate, in every way a subordinate, put on this planet by powers you could never understand to be manipulated by people like me,’ Gibran answered. ‘It’s the law of Nature.’

‘Really?’ Sean replied. ‘So Hellier is inferior to you? Not as smart as you?’

Gibran answered with a shrug of his shoulders and a smile.

‘But if that’s so, how come he out-smarted you in the end? He’s probably already setting himself up with a new life of privilege and luxury, while you’re sitting here with us, preparing to spend the rest of your life rotting in some prison hell-hole. So tell me, Sebastian, who’s the smart one now?’

Sean studied Gibran’s reaction, watching as his smile fell away, his lips narrowing and growing pale, his once relaxed fingers beginning to curl into claws. At last Sean had found a way to peel Gibran’s façade away.

‘I mean, Hellier practically handed me your head on a plate. He read you like a cheap novel, predicted your every move, and when the time was right he served you to me on a platter.’

Sean watched Gibran’s breathing grow shallow and then accelerate. Keep pushing him. Push him until he explodes and fills the room with shrapnel fragments of undeniable truth.

‘He made a fool out of you,’ Sean stabbed at him. ‘He’s made you look like a damn fool. A predictable idiot, and there’s nothing you can do about it. He’s won.’

Sean waited for the eruption, certain he had done enough to provoke the truth out of him. But no arrogant rant of self-importance came; no declaration of the genius of his crimes spilled forth. Instead, to Sean’s horror, the smile returned to Gibran’s face.

‘That’s very presumptuous of you, Inspector, to declare the winner before the game’s even over,’ Gibran replied, calm now.

‘This is no game,’ Sean answered, ‘but it is over. For you, everything is over.’

Sean knew he was wasting his time. All he was doing was providing Gibran with a stage to perform on. Tired of listening to him talking in riddles, he decided to end the interview.

‘Mr Gibran, is there anything you want to tell me? Anything at all?’

‘I know what you are,’ Gibran said without warning.

‘Excuse me?’ Sean asked.

‘I smell it on you the way I smelled it on James. You can hide it from others, but not me. You were made what you are by circumstance, just like James. Only you’re not like him. He controlled his nature, his unacceptable instincts, but you suppress yours. You live in fear of it, never embracing it. Such a waste.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘They trained you like a wild animal in captivity,’ Gibran continued, his voice aggressive now, assertive but still controlled. ‘Taught you to conform, beat you into submission with endless counselling and behaviour-suppressing drugs. You could have been so much more than you are.’

‘You know nothing about me,’ Sean snarled.

‘I know that every time you look at your children you think of your own childhood. It was your father, wasn’t it? Your abuser. It was your father who touched you in those special places, who told you it was a special secret only you and he shared. And as you grew older and didn’t want to be touched, it was your father who forced himself on you, who beat you when you said no.’

Sean could feel the blood draining from his face. How did Gibran know? How did he know?

‘You’re finished.’ He spat the words at Gibran.

‘I was born the way I am,’ Gibran snapped back. ‘You were made by circumstances, but made you were. How long can you deny your nature? How long before your own hands reach out towards your children? How long before you and they share a special secret they must never tell Mummy? That’s why you were able to see James for what he was, because every time you look in the mirror you see James Hellier and all the other so-called killers you’ve locked away staring back at you. But you never saw me, did you? You and he are mere reflections of each other, whereas I am something you could never begin to comprehend.’

Sean tried to jump to his feet, his hand already clenched into a fist. He felt a heavy arm across his chest. Donnelly eased him back into his chair.

‘Play your games, if you like,’ Sean said, back in control of himself. ‘But it’ll take more than games to stop you from going away for a very long time.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Your arrogance is your undoing,’ Sean told him. ‘You didn’t think you could make mistakes, but you have. DS Jones is alive and she will recover. And when she does, she’ll confirm it was you who attacked her. Why? Because she saw your face. You wanted her to see it was you. You wanted her to see her killer. You wanted them all to see your face. Wanted it to be the last thing they ever saw. You were too proud of yourself to hide behind a mask. The moment you allowed DS Jones to escape, it was over for you.’

‘I doubt DS Jones had more than a fleeting glimpse of her attacker,’ Gibran argued. ‘And I understand the attack was at night, probably in poor light. How could she be sure of anything? Her identification would be useless.’

‘And there’ll be security tapes from the underground,’ Sean continued. ‘Tapes that will show you following Linda Kotler. Now we know who to look for, it’ll be only a matter of time before we find you on those tapes.’

‘So maybe you can prove I was in the area. Hardly enough to convict a man of murder.’

‘There’ll be tapes from the club Daniel Graydon was in the night he died. And what about the bouncers there? What if they can pick you out of an identification parade?’

‘What if they can, Inspector?’ Gibran smirked. ‘You have nothing.’

‘You’re forgetting about the visit you paid DS Jones in Intensive Care. The police constable you killed there. You were still wearing his uniform when you were arrested. Mistakes, Sebastian. Too many mistakes. Too much evidence to explain away. Not to mention the syringe taped to your chest.’

‘A harmless, empty syringe,’ Gibran explained.

‘We’ve already spoken to the medical staff. If you’d injected air into Sally’s bloodstream it would have almost certainly caused a heart attack or stroke. She would have died and nobody would have known it was murder. With DS Jones dead, you could have melted into the background, leaving Hellier to take the fall.’

‘Theories and hopes, Inspector. That’s all you have.’

‘And the uniform you were wearing?’

‘Then charge me with impersonating a police officer.’

‘You killed a man and took his uniform.’

‘Prove that, can you? That I killed him? Do you really have indisputable evidence of that? My fingerprints on the murder weapon? My DNA on his body? Maybe CCTV of me in the act, so to speak? But you don’t, do you?’

Sean sat silently considering how best to play his final trump card, trying to guess how Gibran would react. Would he grow angry and reveal his true self? Would he be humbled and confess? Would he continue his calm ambiguous denials? Slowly, deliberately he pulled a transparent evidence bag from his jacket pocket where it hung over the back of his chair. He casually tossed the bag containing Sally’s bloodied warrant card across the table.

Sean saw Gibran glance down at the bag. For the first time he thought he saw a hint of confusion in his face.

‘DS Jones’s warrant card,’ he said. ‘Found hidden under the lining of a desk drawer in your home. How did her warrant card find its way into your house?’

Gibran lifted the evidence bag and studied the contents. ‘It appears I’ve underestimated your determination,’ he said.

‘How did it get there?’ Sean repeated the question he knew Gibran couldn’t answer.

‘We both know that’s not important,’ Gibran answered. ‘You will try and convince a court that I took it as a trophy. That I took it because of a need to maintain a connection to my victim. That I used it to help relive the night when she should have died. They may believe you. They may not.’

‘And what will you tell the court?’ Sean asked. ‘What will you tell them to convince them you’re not what I say you are?’

Gibran leaned forward, smiling confidently. Sean thought he could begin to smell the same animal musk leaking from Gibran he’d smelled on Hellier.

‘For that, Inspector,’ Gibran said smugly, ‘we’ll all have to wait and see. Won’t we?’

Donnelly joined Sean in his office, where the pair of them sat listening to the recording of Gibran’s interview. When it concluded, Donnelly was first to speak.

‘He told us fuck all.’

‘He was never going to talk,’ Sean said. ‘But I needed to be near him for a while. To watch him. Listen to him.’

‘And?’ Donnelly asked.

‘He’s our man. No doubts this time. Hellier was nothing more than his pawn.’

‘Jesus,’ Donnelly said. ‘He must have spent years planning this. What sort of man spends years planning to kill strangers?’

‘One who never wants to stop,’ Sean answered. ‘He knew we would catch him eventually, unless we weren’t looking for him; and we’d only stop looking for him once we had someone locked up. Someone we were convinced was guilty of the murders. It nearly worked, too. I took the bait like a fool. Let my feelings towards Hellier blind my judgement. I almost sent the wrong man to prison.’

‘No one would have cried too much for Hellier,’ said Donnelly.

Sean shook his head. ‘That’s not what bothers me,’ he said. ‘The only safe place for Hellier is behind bars, but I almost missed Gibran, almost handed him the whole game. If Sally hadn’t survived, who knows? Maybe we would never have caught him.’

‘But we did catch him,’ Donnelly reminded him. ‘You caught him.’

‘I know, but how many people would still be alive if I hadn’t wasted so much time chasing Hellier?’

‘None of them,’ Donnelly answered unwaveringly. ‘Gibran was a bolt of lightning. He came from nowhere. We couldn’t have caught him any sooner. It wasn’t possible. We did what we always do. We followed the evidence, concentrated on the most likely suspect. We shook trees and waited to see what would fall out. And eventually the right man did.

‘If it had been anyone else in charge of the case, Gibran would still be out there and Sally would be dead. You need to know that.’

‘All the same, this doesn’t feel like a success.’

‘Does it ever?’ Donnelly asked.

‘No. I suppose not.’

‘By the way, Steven Paramore turned up.’

‘Who?’ Sean asked, the name wiped from his memory.

‘Remember, the guy recently released after serving eight for the attempted murder of a gay bloke?’

‘Yes. Sorry. I remember now.’

‘Immigration nicked him coming back into the country on a false passport. He’d been enjoying the pleasures of Bangkok for a couple of weeks. Another suspect eliminated – not that you ever thought he was, right?’ Sean didn’t answer. ‘How did you know, by the way? How did you know Gibran would go after Sally?’

‘Something Hellier said: that it could only be one man. Only one man knew so much about him. Then I remembered Sally telling me about her meeting with Gibran, the things he’d said about Hellier, deliberately feeding our suspicions. It suddenly became so clear to me. Clear who the killer was and even more clear that he would have to get to Sally, even if it meant revealing that Hellier wasn’t the real killer. At least he’d have stopped us discovering it was him. You know, if Sally hadn’t survived the night she was attacked, Gibran would still be out there and we wouldn’t have a bloody clue. Sally getting out alive collapsed the foundations of everything Gibran had built.’

‘Why do you think he chose Hellier?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Somehow he knew what Hellier was. The moment he met Hellier, he knew. There was no way he could have pinned his crimes on some clean-living man on the street. He needed someone we would believe in. Hellier was perfect. Maybe he even found out about Hellier’s real past. Who knows? But once he found him, he showed his patience, his control. He spent years watching him, learning all he could about him. Even made sure he was employed by Butler and Mason so he could keep him close. And Hellier never suspected a thing, not until right at the end.

‘I can’t prove it yet, but I’m pretty damn sure Hellier’s solicitor will turn out to be a company man too. Butler and Mason would have been picking up his tab, not Hellier. No doubt he was all too happy to keep Gibran informed of the investigation’s progress.’

‘That would have been useful,’ Donnelly said.

‘Very,’ Sean agreed. ‘All we have to do is try and prove it, somehow.’ He shook the doubts away, for now at least.

‘The hairs from Linda Kotler’s flat?’ he asked. ‘I’m still waiting for someone to explain how Hellier’s hairs found their way into the crime scene.’

‘Aye,’ Donnelly said sheepishly. ‘I was meaning to tell you about that. Remember when we met Hellier at Belgravia?’

‘Of course.’

‘We took his body samples …’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Including some head hair …’

‘Oh dear,’ Sean said with a wry smile. ‘Whose idea was that?’

‘Mine. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to keep a couple of hairs for ourselves, leave them at an appropriate scene if things started getting desperate.’

‘So you planted them at the Kotler scene for Dr Canning to find? Very nice.’

‘No,’ Donnelly said, ‘not me. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t convinced about Hellier, so I held them back, but …’

‘But what?’

‘I gave them to Paulo to look after, just until we needed them …’

‘And Paulo was convinced about Hellier and decided not to wait?’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘He told you all this?’

‘Aye. Once you nailed Gibran, Paulo ’fessed up. No need to panic, though – I’ve already made it look like an administrative balls-up. As far as anyone will ever know, Paulo accidentally sent the wrong samples to the lab. He mistook the samples taken from Hellier for hairs gathered from the Kotler scene, so no surprise they found a match. But it’s covered. Trust me.’

‘I take it he understands he’ll have to explain this administrative balls-up in court at the trial?’

‘Aye,’ Donnelly answered. ‘He doesn’t really have much choice.’

‘Has he learnt his lesson?’

Donnelly knew what he meant. ‘He was trying to do the right thing, but he won’t do it again, not without checking first.’

‘Fine,’ Sean said. ‘I’ll deal with it myself, before anyone has a chance to make more of it. I’ll make sure he knows when to and when not to give an investigation a helping hand.’

‘I owe you one,’ said Donnelly.

‘No you don’t,’ was Sean’s reply.

‘And what do we do about Gibran?’

‘Run it past the CPS. Tell them we think we’ve got enough to charge him with two counts. The attempted murder of Sally and the murder of PC O’Connor.’ Sean leaned back in his chair. ‘At least we’ve got a decent chance of getting a conviction there. While he’s banged up on remand, we’ll keep digging on the other murders. Maybe we’ll get lucky.’

‘And if we don’t?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Pray we get a friendly judge with the brains to read between the lines. If we do, then Gibran will spend the rest of his natural behind bars.

‘Changing subjects, is PC O’Connor’s family being looked after?’

‘As best we can,’ Donnelly said. ‘Family liaison’s with them already, for what it’s worth.’

‘Any kids?’

‘Three.’

‘Christ’s sake.’ Sean couldn’t help but imagine his own family sitting, holding each other, crying in disbelief as they were told he’d never walk through the front door again. He felt sad to the pit of his stomach. ‘Having a dead hero for a father isn’t going to be much use to them, is it?’

Donnelly shrugged an answer.

‘Last but not least,’ said Donnelly, ‘what do we do about Hellier? Or rather, Korsakov?’

‘Leave him to DI Reger at Complaints. He can have Hellier and Jarratt as a package, assuming he can find him. And good luck to him there.’

‘That’s the thing I don’t get about Hellier,’ said Donnelly. ‘He had the money and the means to disappear whenever he wanted. Why didn’t he run when we first came sniffing around him? Why didn’t he just fuck off to the tropics then? Come to think of it, why was he working for Butler and bloody Mason in the first place? He didn’t need the money, he already had a small fortune stashed where the sun don’t shine. He could have put his feet up on a beach someplace where the sex is cheap and the booze is cold, and stayed there happily for the rest of his natural. Why fuck around in London, pretending to be a financier? He may have been a fraud, but he was still working for a living. It doesn’t make sense.’

But it did to Sean. The more he knew about Hellier, the more he understood him.

‘It wasn’t about the money with Hellier. For him it’s the game, always the game: proving he’s smarter than everyone else.’

‘Proving it to who?’ Donnelly asked.

‘To himself,’ Sean answered. ‘Always to himself. Proving to himself that everything they said about him was wrong.’

‘“They”?’ Donnelly asked. ‘Who are they?’

Sean had said enough. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s not important.’

‘Whatever,’ Donnelly dismissed it. ‘Anyway, speaking of Hellier, Korsakov, whoever the bloody hell he really is, how do you suppose he got to the hospital so soon after we did?’

‘Nothing surprises me when it comes to Hellier. Maybe we should check to see if any of our fast response cars are missing.’ Sean managed a slight grin.

‘Indeed,’ Donnelly replied and stood to leave, but stopped in the doorway. ‘What was all that about, by the way?’ he asked. ‘In the interview, when Gibran started saying all that shit about your childhood and how you and Hellier were the same?’

‘It was nothing,’ Sean told him, his voice a little too loud. ‘It meant nothing. Just rantings. Gibran’s last chance to try and do some harm.’

‘Aye,’ Donnelly responded. ‘That’s what I thought.’ As he turned to leave Sean’s office, he almost walked into Featherstone. ‘Guv’nor,’ he acknowledged.

Featherstone nodded his appreciation and watched Donnelly leave before turning to Sean. Without speaking, he closed the door and took a seat. Sean had no idea whether he was about to be praised or pilloried.

Finally Featherstone spoke. ‘Ordinarily, I’d say congratulations – but I’m betting that would feel rather hollow right now.’

‘It would,’ Sean agreed.

‘No one could have done a better job,’ Featherstone reassured him. ‘You displayed some, shall we say, unusual insights. Had you not, Gibran would still be out there. I think you’ve saved some lives today, Sean.’ He didn’t answer. ‘Anyway,’ Featherstone continued, ‘the real hard work starts now, yes? So I’ll leave you to get on with it, but don’t kill yourself. This would be a good point to practise the art of delegation. Your team’s capable. You need to get that hand seen to and to get some rest. Spend a little time at home. You’ll feel better for it.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Sean promised.

Featherstone rose to leave, then sank back into his uncomfortable chair. ‘One more thing you should know.’ His words made Sean lean away from him. ‘Your … shall we say, special talents have been noticed. Certain people have begun to take an interest in you.’ Featherstone wasn’t smiling.

‘Such as who?’ Sean asked.

‘People within the service, mainly. Our seniors, sitting in their ivory towers at the Yard.’

‘Mainly?’ Sean asked.

‘Sorry?’ Featherstone replied.

‘You said people mainly in the service. Who outside would be taking an interest?’

‘Nobody who wants to do you any harm,’ Featherstone answered. ‘We all work together these days. Partnership approach, remember? My advice – if you want it – is to play the game when you have to and don’t be surprised if a few high-profile, interesting cases start finding their way to your door. Well, I’ll let you get on, but don’t forget what I said about getting some rest.’

Sean watched silently as Featherstone rose and left, his eyes following him until he could see him no more.

He knew what Featherstone was telling him – he was about to become a tool, a commodity not to be wasted on tick-the-box murder investigations, where husband kills wife, drug dealer kills drug dealer. They would use him. A freak to catch freaks.