searching for his paperwork.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ the nurse assured him, keen to move on. ‘And you have agreed to this interview?’ he asked the man in restraints.
‘I have,’ the man answered, his cold, black eyes never leaving Jackson. His voice was calm and assured.
‘Mr Jackson,’ the nurse told him, ‘I strongly recommend that you have myself and Officer Brenan here throughout the interview – in the best interests of everyone.’
‘No, no, no,’ Jackson argued. ‘The agreement was that the interview is to be conducted in private. I’m a journalist and therefore anything I’m told is journalistic material and subject to journalistic privilege,’ Jackson reeled out the well-practised spiel. ‘This has all been arranged and agreed in advance with the hospital directors. The agreement was for the interview to be conducted in private – as I’m sure you have been informed.’
The big nurse took a deep breath as he looked back and forth from Jackson to the prisoner in restraints. ‘Very well,’ he submitted, ‘but we’ll be right outside watching everything on CCTV. If you need us, we’ll get to you fast.’
Jackson swallowed hard as he noticed the concern in the big nurse’s eyes. ‘Fine, so long as there’s no sound on the monitor,’ he managed to say while hiding his fear, ‘and no bloody lip readers either.’
The nurse ignored him. ‘In order to allow this interview to be conducted with no hospital staff present it has been necessary for the patient to consent to wearing restraints at all times. That consent has been given.’ He looked at the man in the leather handcuffs, who gave a single nod. ‘Sit down please,’ the nurse ordered. Gibran did as he was told and slid into a seat opposite the spot where Jackson remained standing, his eyes never leaving the journalist – studying him. ‘I’m going to remove your hands from the waist restraint now,’ the nurse explained, ‘and secure them to the table fastenings. If you resist in any way we’re authorized to use whatever force is necessary to make you compliant. Do you understand?’
‘I understand perfectly,’ Gibran answered politely, turning his wrists as much as he could to make it easier for the prison officer to release them. After a nod from the nurse, the officer stepped forward and released one arm, securing it to the table then doing the same with the other, before stepping back a little too quickly, betraying his fear.
‘He’s all yours, Mr Jackson,’ the nurse told him, ‘but remember – don’t get too close or touch the patient in any way. And under no circumstances are you to give him anything whatsoever. All items the patient receives must be submitted to the hospital staff first for clearance. Do I make myself clear?’
‘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