‘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 you think?’
‘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 justify his 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 theory is 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