Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

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 said calmly, trying to somehow wrest 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 again, 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 toward 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 said, beaming. “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 toward 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 parking lot, 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. Good-bye, Sean.”

“James,” Sean called, the distance between them growing ever greater.

Hellier turned toward 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. Good-bye, 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 making 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 toward 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 inquired.

“That Gibran goes down for what he did to her.” Sean nodded toward 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 jewelry, even an elastic headband, and the thing Sean sought most-her identification.

“Is the bag sealed?” Donnelly asked in hushed tones.

“No.” Sean almost whispered the answer. “Her ID’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, impassive, 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 an attorney 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 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.”