Luke Delaney - A Killing Mind

‘I know the rules,’ Jackson answered, trying to sound confident and in control, despite his pounding heart.

‘Very well,’ the nurse said, turning on his heels and leaving the room, closely followed by the prison officer. Jackson watched the heavy door being pulled shut and listened to the key turning heavy locks and he knew he was now alone with arguably the most dangerous killer of modern times.

‘Sebastian Gibran,’ Jackson struggled to speak, barely able to believe that he was alone in the room with Britain’s most notorious serial killer. ‘Thank you for seeing me. I can’t tell you how much it means.’

‘Geoff Jackson,’ Gibran ignored Jackson’s platitudes. ‘Chief crime editor for The World ,’ he continued, referring to the red-top newspaper Jackson worked for.

‘Britain’s most read,’ Jackson couldn’t help himself saying, although he regretted it almost immediately.

Again Gibran ignored him, his black eyes searing into Jackson, probing him, until he suddenly smiled and seemed to relax – inhaling the tension in the room and replacing it with an atmosphere of cooperation in that way that only the truly powerful and self-confident can. ‘Well, I should congratu-late you on getting permission to see me, Mr Jackson. You appear to have succeeded where many have failed – and, believe me, many have failed, although I would never have agreed to meet them anyway. Half-baked novelists and playwrights looking for titbits to shock and scare the poor unsuspecting members of public. Can you imagine anything more tedious?’

‘I know a couple of the directors here,’ Jackson explained. ‘Promised I’d show this place in a good light, if I was allowed to meet you.’

‘I see,’ Gibran nodded.

‘You said you wouldn’t have seen the others who wanted to meet you,’ Jackson reminded him. ‘So why me? Why did you agree to meet me?’

‘Because you have a pedigree, Mr Jackson,’ Gibran told him. ‘You’ve earned the right.’

‘Please,’ Jackson told him, shaking the confusion from his head. ‘You can call me Geoff.’

‘No,’ Gibran consolidated his control. ‘Mr Jackson will do for now.’

‘Erm,’ Jackson wavered slightly, ‘if that’s what you’re comfortable with. You were saying – I have a pedigree?’

‘You interviewed Jeremy Goldsboro – correct?’

‘Yes,’ Jackson answered. ‘Yes, I did. While he was still at large and the police were looking for him.’

‘That must have taken great courage.’ Gibran’s eyes continued to scrutinize him. ‘To meet a killer. Alone.’

‘It was a great story,’ Jackson tried to explain. ‘A killer with a cause. A man of the people trying to fight back for the little man.’

‘Only it was a lie,’ Gibran reminded him. ‘He killed for his own satisfaction. Tell me, Mr Jackson, would you have still met him if you’d known he was really just a vengeful, jealous killer and not the man of the people he pretended to be?’

‘Probably,’ Jackson admitted.

‘Why?’ Gibran demanded.

‘It would have been a great story in any case,’ Jackson explained. ‘Perhaps even better. A unique insight into the mind of a coldblooded killer while he was on the loose and killing. It would have been huge anyway.’

‘And if you’d ended up becoming one of his victims?’ Gibran asked.

‘Wouldn’t have happened.’ Jackson smiled. ‘Whether I’m dealing with a killer with a cause or a mindless killer, it makes no difference. They’re not going to hurt me.’

‘Why?’ Gibran pushed.

‘If they’re talking to me, it’s because they want publicity,’ Jackson answered. ‘Why kill the person who’s going to give them what they want?’

‘Because not everybody does what’s expected of them,’ Gibran argued. ‘In some people the urge to kill overpowers everything else. Perhaps you should remember that.’

Jackson paused before answering. ‘Would you have?’ he asked. ‘Would you have killed me, if we’d met when you were free?’

Gibran leaned back in his chair, his restraints straining and creaking under the strain. ‘Maybe,’ he smiled, ‘but that’s because I’m mentally ill, Mr Jackson. That’s why I’m in here and not prison.’

‘Right, OK.’ Jackson nodded.

A silence spread between them before Gibran spoke again.

‘So what is it you want to ask, Mr Jackson? I should remind you that I can’t talk about the murder and attempted murder I was charged with.’

‘The uniformed cop and the woman detective,’ Jackson clarified.

‘Exactly,’ Gibran confirmed. ‘I may one day be deemed mentally healthy and fit for trial. It would be foolish of me to hand my enemies a stick to beat me with.’

‘By your enemies, you mean the police?’ Jackson asked. ‘Or more specifically Detective Inspector Corrigan?’

For a second all the fury and anger that burned deep inside Gibran flashed in his eyes, but he immediately dragged it back under control. ‘Corrigan is irrelevant,’ he dismissed the man who’d caught him. ‘What is it that you want me to tell you about, Mr Jackson?’

Jackson cleared his throat before he began. ‘Well, some people – quite a lot of people actually – believe you have committed many murders. That you are in fact one of the most prolific serial killers there’s ever been in this country.’ Gibran went to speak, but Jackson held his hand up to stop him. ‘Obviously I’m aware that even if this were true, you’d hardly be likely to tell anyone about it. But perhaps you would give me your thoughts on what it would be like if you were a serial killer. What do you think might motivate such a person? What would be going through their mind? How would they kill and not get caught? No need to mention any specific crimes that may have happened. We could keep it more … generic.’

Gibran considered him in silence for a few seconds. ‘I see,’ he eventually responded. ‘And what would you do with such … information?’

Jackson shifted in his seat before answering. ‘My intention is to serialize the interviews in the paper. One a week. Maybe more. We’ll see how it goes, but I believe readers will be fascinated.’

‘Even though I’m not discussing details of real crimes?’ Gibran queried.

‘Trust me,’ Jackson smiled. ‘The readers will fill in the blanks for themselves. It’s your … unique background that will sell it. The fact you’re locked up here in Broadmoor won’t hurt either.’

‘And how do you profit from all this, Mr Jackson?’ Gibran asked. ‘To increase your standing with your editor doesn’t strike me as sufficient motivation for a man like you.’

‘No,’ Jackson agreed, once more squirming uncomfortably. ‘The pieces in the paper would be largely to draw people in. A few weeks after they stop I’ll release the book of our interviews. The bigger picture. What it’s really like to be someone like you.’

‘Someone like me?’ Gibran questioned, leaning in as close as the table and restraints would allow. ‘How could you or your readers ever know what it’s like to be me?’

‘They might,’ Jackson argued. ‘If you tell them.’

Gibran leaned back in his chair before changing tack. ‘Why do you want to write a book about me when you’ve already had one published? One that contained a great many unsubstantiated allegations, I may add.’

‘Allegations made by the police,’ Jackson explained. ‘Not me. I was just reporting on the investigation, working on what the police gave me. There was no opportunity to put your side of things across. But there is now – if you want to.’

‘And why would I do that?’ Gibran asked. ‘Why should I care what the police or public think I am or what I’ve done? What makes you think they’re anything to me?’