DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 6-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network, The Toy Taker and The Jackdaw. Luke Delaney
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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,’