or guilt. He’d most likely been that way since the day he was born – a killer created by nature or God. Not some sorry case of a normal man turned into a monster by tragic circumstances of child abuse or mental illness. He’d had a privileged background and an apparently happy childhood, although even then he probably knew what he really was. He was well educated and went on to have a successful career, a wife and children, yet it had all been a smokescreen, cultivated to provide cover for the real Sebastian Gibran: a psychopath who killed for the pleasure of killing.
The only way to persuade such a man to play ball would be to convince him that doing so would benefit him.
‘Do it for yourself then,’ Jackson told him. ‘Do it for your own … amusement.’ Gibran said nothing. ‘You would be able to see the final manuscript before it’s published,’ Jackson tried to persuade him.
‘If I was the type of person you think I am,’ Gibran responded, once more changing the subject without warning, ‘why would I have to kill? Tell me, Mr Jackson: why would I feel compelled to kill?’
‘No,’ Jackson answered, the excitement swelling in his stomach. ‘You tell me.’
‘Because, if I was like that,’ Gibran explained, ‘it would be in my nature to kill. It would be as instinctive to me as breathing is to you. I would have to kill to live. I could survive without it, but I wouldn’t be alive. I wouldn’t kill to satisfy some sexual urge, or because voices in my head told me to, or because I’d grown to hate a world that had spited and tortured me. I’d kill simply because it is in my nature to do so. That is, if I was the person you think I am. You see, Mr Jackson,’ he continued, leaning into the table, ‘people like that aren’t mere human beings. They’re superhuman. Gods amongst mortals. It is their right to take the lives of inferior beings at will. Is it not a basic principle of evolution that the superior branch of a species eventually brings about the extinction of the inferior strain? Read Friedrich Nietzsche’s Superman philosophy, Mr Jackson. Since God is dead it is necessary for the emergence of the Overman, who is to replace God.’
Jackson stared at Gibran, opened-mouthed, before recovering his senses. ‘I’ll look it up,’ he answered. ‘Sounds very … interesting.’ Jackson blinked unconsciously as he cleared his mind. ‘So … how would a person like this select their victims?’ he asked. ‘Would they be attracted to a particular type of person? Do their victims unwittingly draw these … Overmen to them?’
‘To the Overmen, everyone is a potential victim, Mr Jackson. But enough for one day,’ Gibran insisted, his mouth suddenly smiling – his teeth straight and white despite years of incarceration in a mental hospital. ‘I’ve enjoyed our chat. Make another appointment and we can speak again. But for now, could you do me a favour and summon my protectors.’ He pointed with his chin to the intercom attached to the wall. ‘I’m afraid I can’t quite reach.’
‘Of course,’ Jackson agreed, getting to his feet while trying to control his excitement at having potentially hit the jackpot. ‘And you can be sure I’ll make another appointment.’
‘Well then,’ Gibran closed the interview. ‘Until next time.’
Sean took one last hard look at the two photographs he’d selected from the files. One from each murder scene – both showing full-length body shots of the prostrate victims lying flat on their backs, arms limp and straight at their sides. He suspected they were dead or as good as dead before the killer set to work removing their teeth – stretching his victims out before him to make the task easier. Or was there some other reason for the positioning of the bodies? Some ritual act of the killer or killers? He shook the thoughts away before they led him to a path he could end up following for hours – trying to get an early glimpse of the man he was now hunting. That was how it happened. He’d woken that morning just another man. A detective investigating serious, but not unusual crimes. Crimes that any good detective could handle. Over the last few months, investigating those everyday crimes, he’d grown calmer; happy to be at home with his family, working to earn money to pay for the mundane things all families need, leaving it all behind when he left the office instead of being haunted night and day by the crimes he was investigating. But the instant Featherstone had handed over those two folders, all that changed. Now he was a hunter of men again.
Already he sensed there was something about this killer. Something that made Sean feel their destinies had been set on a collision course. He took a deep breath before snatching up the files and heading to the office next to his where his two deputies, DS Sally Jones and DS Dave Donnelly, were both staring intently at their computers, swearing and moaning as if they were competing with each other in a profanity contest.
Sean rapped on the open door and instantly their fingers froze over their keyboards as they looked up in unison. ‘I’ve got something for you,’ Sean told them.
‘Saw you with Featherstone earlier,’ Sally told him. ‘Please tell me he gave us a proper investigation. I can’t stand working with Anti-Terror again. It’s doing my head in.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘I’m sick of being shunted around like a stray dog. We need our own job.’
‘Well, we’ve got one,’ Sean announced, ‘and it’s a bad one.’
‘Go on,’ Sally encouraged him.
‘I haven’t got time to repeat myself,’ Sean answered curtly. ‘Get the team together and I’ll brief everyone at the same time.’
Donnelly looked out into the main office and shook his head. ‘Only about half the team here, boss. Rest are busy running errands for the world and his wife.’
‘It’ll have to do for now,’ Sean told him. ‘The rest will have to catch up as and when they can.’ He spun away and marched to the whiteboards that dominated one side of the room, quickly followed by Sally and Donnelly. As Donnelly called everyone to attention, Sean swept the boards clear of any information relating to other investigations and began to pin up photos of the two victims before writing their names above them. Once he was happy with his display, he turned to the gathering audience of detectives and took a deep breath.
‘All right, everyone,’ Donnelly made one last call for attention. ‘Listen up.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Sean addressed them, ‘we have a new case.’ A few nodded their heads in quiet satisfaction; although nobody spoke, Sean could sense their relief. ‘Two victims. One male. One female. Killed ten days apart. The first – Tanya Richards – was a known prostitute and drug user. The second – William Dalton – was a homeless beggar; he too was a drug user. Both were young. Both were vulnerable. Neither deserved what happened to them. We all know how unusual it is for a killer to vary the gender of their victims, but these two are definitely linked. The killer has a very distinct modus operandi and has been kind enough to leave us his calling card.’
‘Which is?’ Sally asked.
‘He takes some of their teeth and most of their fingernails,’ Sean explained, causing his audience to wince.
‘Jesus,’ Donnelly said for all of them. ‘Before or after they’re dead?’
‘Probably after,’ Sean told him. ‘They weren’t restrained in any way, so they would most likely have been incapacitated in order for him to do what he did. The relatively small amount of blood from the wounds to the mouth suggests their hearts had stopped or were close to it.’
‘Trophies?’ Sally asked.
‘That would be
