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Canning’s words set Sean’s mind on fire as he cursed himself for not having seen it himself – the victims trying to scream, to call for help, but only able to make sickening gurgling sounds as the air from their lungs mixed with the blood from their wounds.
‘That’s why no defence wounds,’ he announced. ‘He cut their throats so he could watch them struggling in fear for as long as he dared until it was necessary to kill them. They had no chance to recover from the shock and horror of what was happening to them and fight back.’
‘Fight-or-flight instinct,’ Canning nodded. ‘Even the gravely wounded can inflict significant damage once the body’s flooded with survival endorphins. But surely that contradicts rather than explains the lack of defence wounds?’
‘Their hands’ – Sean turned to him, seeing it clearly in his mind now. ‘Their hands would have been clawing at their own throats. They were too busy trying to stop the flow of blood to fight back. He wanted to watch them. Watch them in silence.’
‘And before the fight instinct took over,’ Canning went on, ‘he cut the carotid artery, giving them only seconds to live.’
‘He watched the life drain out of them,’ Sean continued, ‘and then he went to work on their teeth and nails.’
‘Interesting,’ Canning admitted. ‘But you realize it’s all guesswork – I’ll never be able to say for sure which wound was inflicted first.’
‘No,’ Sean accepted. ‘The crime scene should help though: blood-spray patterns, footprints in the blood, anything else we can find.’
‘Build up a picture, eh?’
‘Try to, at least,’ Sean told him. ‘If you just give a jury a long list of evidence, you’ll lose them.’
‘Not sure that would be the case here,’ Canning argued. ‘The viciousness of these attacks would keep most juries interested, not to mention his distinctive modus operandi.’
‘I suppose,’ Sean reluctantly agreed.
There was a moment’s silence, then Canning spoke again. ‘Does it worry you?’
‘Does what worry me?’
‘That he wants to leave you in no doubt that the crimes are his.’
‘It does,’ Sean admitted. ‘It tells me he wants the world to take notice of him and that’ll he’ll never stop until it does.’
‘Why does he want the world to take notice of him?’
‘Don’t we all?’ Sean answered with a question. ‘But that’s too general – not specific enough to him. I don’t think killing is the thing that drives him. I think it’s a means to an end. The way he can achieve whatever it is he’s trying to achieve.’
‘Are you sure?’ Canning asked doubtfully.
‘No,’ Sean shook his head. ‘Not really.’
‘Well, one thing we can be sure about,’ Canning told him, ‘is the type of victim he seems drawn to. Young and vulnerable.’
‘Victims of society become the victims of killers,’ Sean explained.
‘Indeed,’ Canning agreed sadly.
‘And there’ll be more of them,’ Sean warned. ‘Unless I can find him and find him quickly.’
‘Then you’d better get on.’ Canning turned to his tray of torturous instruments and removed a lethally sharpened scalpel. ‘And so had I.’
5 (#u1874dcf4-f5f4-5e4c-b502-07a120d0e604)
Back at his desk, Sean carefully read through statements from Dalton’s friends and associates – those who’d seen him on the day he died and those who had not – hoping to find some piece of information that could put him on the tail of the killer. He was confidant that he had formed an accurate sense of the killer’s mind, but that wasn’t going to give him a name and address. His instincts alone were never enough. He needed solid physical evidence too.
There was a single loud knock on his open door and he looked up to see Addis standing in the doorway, a folded copy of a newspaper under his arm. Immediately recognizing this as a bad sign, he sat bolt upright. ‘Sir.’
Addis entered and placed the newspaper on Sean’s desk, opening it at the centre pages and smoothing it out. He took a seat and waited in silence while Sean took in the double-page spread beneath the headline Broadmoor: The Mind Map of Murder. A large photograph of Sebastian Gibran, taken shortly after his committal, dominated the pages along with smaller photographs of other infamous Broadmoor residents. A small picture of a grim-faced Geoff Jackson appeared next to his byline. He sighed deeply inside. Jackson, he thought to himself, what the hell are you up to now?
Addis heaved a sigh. ‘I suppose we should be thankful he didn’t mention you by name. Neither I nor the Commissioner approve of having the names of Metropolitan Police officers spread across the pages of national newspapers.’
‘Why would they mention me?’
‘You caught him, didn’t you?’
‘In a way,’ Sean agreed, ‘although he was more handed to me than caught.’
‘Don’t underestimate the part you played,’ Addis told him. ‘Which is why the likes of Jackson have an unhealthy interest in you. He may yet try to drag your name into this – according to the final paragraph, this is merely the first of a series.’
‘Gibran wouldn’t be too happy if he dropped my name in.’
‘Why not?’ Addis asked.
‘He feels the way I caught him was somehow unfair, that I wasn’t worthy of catching him.’
‘The strange mind of Sebastian Gibran,’ Addis said, shaking his head. ‘Well, catch him you did. And now he’s giving interviews to The World from bloody Broadmoor.’
‘How the hell did Jackson get access?’ Sean asked. ‘Gibran’s always refused to cooperate with journalists.’
‘Through his lawyers, I’m told.’ Addis saw the look of suspicion on Sean’s face. ‘I have a lot of contacts,’ he explained. ‘Not much I can’t find out with a couple of phone calls. Anyway, he agreed to meet Jackson. Some nonsense about how he respected him for having the balls to meet with that murdering bastard Jeremy Goldsboro while he was still at large.’
‘Well,’ Sean acknowledged, ‘that did take some balls.’
‘Maybe,’ Addis waved a dismissive hand, ‘but whatever the reason, Jackson has access to him now and there will be further interviews to follow.’
Sean shrugged. ‘So long as he’s not interfering in anything current, why should we care if Jackson wants to spend his time shuttling backwards and forwards to Broadmoor? Might actually be doing us a favour – keep him out the way of our new investigation.’
‘And if Gibran starts talking about his own case?’ Addis asked. ‘Starts making accusations of wrongdoing by the investigation team? Apparently, he continues to maintain that crucial evidence was planted at his home address by the police. What if Jackson splashes that all over his rag?’
Sean’s face remained deadpan. ‘Is he, though – talking about his own case?’
‘No,’ Addis conceded. ‘Not yet.’
‘And he won’t,’ Sean insisted. ‘He can’t. As soon as he starts arguing lucidly about his own case, we can push to have him declared sane and tried for murder and attempted murder. He’s too smart for that.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Addis told him. ‘But once Jackson finds out about these new killings he’s unlikely to leave it to some junior reporter. He’ll be all over it. If only the MIT South hadn’t let it be known that Dalton’s death was linked to another murder.’
‘The media would have found out soon enough. We need them onside for press conferences and appeals,’ Sean reminded him. ‘So long as we can keep Jackson at arm’s length, there won’t be a problem.’
‘I suppose so,’ Addis admitted, buoyed by the chance to increase his own public profile. ‘And what about the current investigation?’ he asked, changing tack. ‘Any significant breakthroughs? If he kills again, people will start to get concerned. Especially if he moves away from prostitutes and the homeless to someone who actually …’
‘Who actually matters?’ Sean finished for him.
‘You know what I mean,’ Addis frowned.
‘It’s early days,’ Sean moved on. ‘The MIT in charge of the first investigation had no idea what they were dealing with so went off in the wrong direction – chasing down pimps, dealers, loan sharks.’
‘What are we dealing with?’ Addis asked, his eyes narrowing.
‘Someone who’s as organized as he is vicious. Someone who’s probably been waiting for this moment for a long time, and now that it’s here it’s as good as he imagined it was going to be and he won’t stop. The first two killings were ten days apart and there’s no reason to think we have any more than eight days until he feels the need again. We may get lucky, but I doubt it. Other than that, it’s all in my report.’
‘I’ve read your report,’ Addis told him, ‘and I’m aware of the killer’s viciousness and timescale, but what I want to know is: what do youthink?’
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Sean lied.
‘I’m sure you do,’ Addis insisted. ‘After all, it’s the very reason you’re here, isn’t it? Your instinct. Your imagination. Tell me: why do you think he’s doing this?’
‘His motivation?’ Sean was reluctant to give away too much. In time, Addis would learn everything he believed he knew about the killer, but he was conscious of the need to drip-feed the information. If Addis knew how quickly he could read a killer, fathom out his reasoning and desires, it would put him and his team under pressure to wrap up cases in no time at all. He needed Addis to believe it was a slow, step by step process; that it took time to evaluate and justifyhis observations and profile the killer.
‘Not just his motivation,’ Addis made himself clear. ‘His reason for killing.’
‘It’s too early to go beyond saying he’s vicious, organized and careful – and that’s he’s most likely on a constrained time cycle.’ He waited for Addis to react, but those lifeless blue eyes merely stared back at him like the sky shining through an empty skull. ‘It’s too early for me to say more.’
‘I see.’ Addis decided to let it go – for now. ‘Then perhaps Anna can help you. I have a lot of faith in her.’
The mention of her name made Sean’s whole body tense. ‘She’s better than most,’ he managed to say.
‘She seemed to help you in the last investigation,’ Addis reminded him.
‘I bounced some ideas off her,’ he replied, considering the unpleasant idea that Addis knew he’d turned her around and that now, instead of reporting to Addis about him, she’d be reporting to him about Addis. Maybe Addis was now playing them both. ‘But she didn’t solve anything,’ he said, maintaining his mirage of indifference to her. ‘Psychiatrists, criminologists, psychologists – they don’t solve crimes. Never have done. Never will. Detectives solve crimes.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ Addis told him, barely disguising his irritation that Sean had said detectives instead of police, ‘but it is my wish that she assists you, so assist you she will.’
‘Fine,’ he shrugged.
His business concluded, Addis got to his feet. ‘Well, if your theoryis correct, you don’t have long till he kills again – so I’ll leave you to get on. Any media work or appeals you need doing, let me know. I’m aware you have an aversion to handling that side of things yourself. But get this solved quickly, Sean,’ he warned. ‘We don’t want another Sebastian Gibran on our hands.’ He spun on his polished heels and was gone.
‘We’ll never have another Sebastian Gibran,’ Sean said under his breath. From the corner of his eye he saw Donnelly enter the main office looking dishevelled in his cheap suit and coat, tie hanging loose around his neck and unkempt moustache bushier than ever. He’d looked like that ever since Sean first met him, but what gave him cause for concern was the missing spring in Donnelly’s step. Despite his size, he always used to move like a much lighter, fitter, younger man, but now it was as if he carried the weight of the world on his back.
Sean moved to the doorway and stood staring into the main office, waiting to catch Donnelly’s eye as he headed slowly towards his own office. Eventually, he was so close he couldn’t avoid Sean’s gaze any more and was summoned into his office by a jut of his chin. Sean returned to his chair and waited for Donnelly to reach the entrance to his office.
‘You want me for something?’ Donnelly asked without entering. He sounded irritable and annoyed.
‘I want to know where the hell you’ve been,’ Sean told him. ‘This is no time for you to be going AWOL.’
‘I wasn’t. I went straight from home to check on the door-to-door. I get off the train at London Bridge anyway.’
Sean didn’t believe a word of it and knew that a quick phone call could prove Donnelly wrong, but he could see no value in stirring up conflict or embarrassment when he could least afford the team to be fractured in any way. ‘Fine,’ he played along, ‘but the door-to-door teams will be OK without you from now on. Paulo can keep an eye on them. I need you for other things.’
‘Like what?’ Donnelly asked grumpily.
‘When I know, you’ll know,’ Sean told him. He would have said more, but the desk phone began to ring and Donnelly took the opportunity to slip away while he grabbed the handset from its base. ‘DI Corrigan.’
‘Detective Inspector Corrigan,’ Geoff Jackson replied with barely disguised glee. ‘Still on the same number, I see. Haven’t they given you a shiny new office away from the Yard?’
It had been a long time, but Sean recognized his voice immediately. ‘Jackson. What do you want?’
‘There are a couple of things I think you can help me with,’ Jackson answered in a friendly tone, despite the fact he knew Sean despised him. ‘Why don’t we start with these murders I hear you’re investigating. Sounds interesting. Very interesting.’
‘You know nothing about what I’m investigating,’ Sean insisted.
‘I know they’re linked,’ Jackson replied.
‘So what?’ Sean argued. ‘We’re making no secret of that. You know nothing other than what you’ve been told by us.’
‘I know he pulled their teeth out,’ Jackson persevered, ‘but something tells me this isn’t some drug turf war. We’re talking about a serial killer who takes his victims’ teeth. Sounds like something the public have a right to know about.’
‘I’ll decide what’s in the public’s interest for them to know,’ Sean told him. ‘Not you.’
‘Come on,’ Jackson encouraged. ‘Give me something the other hacks don’t know. Something exclusive. I promise to show you and the SIU in a good light.’
‘You seriously think I’d trust you?’ Sean asked, his voice full of disbelief. ‘Go to hell, Jackson.’
‘Well then maybe you can help me with something else?’ he quickly said before Sean could hang up.
He took the bait. ‘Like what?’
‘I take it you’ve seen today’s edition of The World?’
Sean looked down at the newspaper Addis had left on his desk, still open at the centre pages. ‘No,’ he lied. ‘Why would I want to read that garbage?’
‘To take a look at the centre-page spread,’ Jackson told him, ‘my interview with Sebastian Gibran. Thought you of all people would be interested in seeing what he has to say.’
‘Gibran’s got nothing to say that could interest me,’ Sean answered. ‘Unless he wants to confess to any other murders. He’s locked up in Broadmoor, bored out of his brains, looking for cheap thrills – and that’s what you are to him: a cheap thrill.’
‘I don’t think so. If you read the story, you’d see for yourself.’
‘Listen,’ Sean warned him, ‘you don’t know what you’re dealing with. Gibran’s dangerous. More dangerous than you can imagine.’
‘Why, Inspector,’ Jackson mimicked sentimentality, ‘I didn’t know you cared.’
‘I don’t,’ Sean told him, although it wasn’t entirely true. He disliked Jackson and knew he was potentially dangerous to any investigation, but he admired his guts and tenacity. If Jackson was a detective, Sean would want him on his team. ‘But if he pulls a razor blade out of his arsehole during one of your little chats and cuts your throat, I’ll be the one clearing up your mess. Literally.’
‘I’m no fool, Corrigan,’ Jackson replied. ‘If he tries anything, I’ll see it coming before he has the chance.’
‘Now you’re lying to yourself,’ Sean said calmly, ‘as well as to me.’ There was a longer silence between them than Sean could ever remember. It was enough to let him know that, underneath all the bravado, and despite the bravery he’d shown in the past, Jackson was genuinely scared of Gibran.
‘I thought maybe you’d want to get involved,’ Jackson told him, recovering his composure. ‘Seeing as you’re “the cop who caught the killer”. Help foster better relations between the Met and the media. Would be a great fucking story.’
‘Take care, Jackson,’ Sean replied and hung up. He stared at the phone for a moment then headed to Donnelly’s small office next door.
