by Luke Delaney
‘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 y
ou 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.’