The Keeper Read Free

eyes remained locked on Gibran’s as the guards led the defendant from the dock towards the holding cells beneath the old court. Sean knew it would almost certainly be the last time he ever saw Sebastian Gibran.
    The events of the past few months raced through Sean’s mind as he gathered his files, stuffing them into his old, worn-out briefcase that looked more like a child’s oversized satchel. He headed for the exit keen to avoid the handful of journalists who had been allowed into the court, stopping en route to shake the prosecuting counsel’s hand and to thank him for his efforts, as unimpressive as they were. He walked from the courtroom at a decent pace, scanning the second-floor hallway for journalists or family members of Gibran’s victims, neither of whom he wanted to speak to now, at least not until he’d spoken to one of his own. He walked briskly through the main part of the court open to the public and into the bowels of the Bailey, a labyrinth of short airless, lightless corridors that eventually led him to a Victorian staircase that he climbed until he reached an inconsequential-looking door. Sean pushed the door open and entered without hesitation, immediately hit by the noise of the chitter-chatter that could barely be heard from the other side of the door.
    The little ‘police only’ canteen was enshrined in the force’s myth and legend, as well as serving the best carvery meat in London. It didn’t take long for Sean to find Detective Sergeant Sally Jones sitting alone in the tiny warm room, nursing a coffee. She sensed Sean enter and looked straight at him. He knew she would be reading his face, seeking answers to her questions before she asked them. Sean wound and weaved his way through the tightly packed tables and chairs, apologizing when necessary for disturbing the rushed meals of busy detectives. He reached Sally and sat heavily opposite her.
    ‘Well?’ Sally asked impatiently.
    ‘Not fit to stand trial.’
    ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Sally’s response was loud enough to make the other detectives in the canteen look up, albeit briefly. Sean looked around the room, a visual warning to everyone not to interfere. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Sally continued. ‘What’s the fucking point?’
    Sean noticed Sally unconsciously rubbing the right side of her chest, as if she could feel Gibran hammering the knife into her all over again. ‘Come on, Sally,’ he encouraged. ‘We always knew this was a possibility. Once we’d seen the psychiatric reports it was practically a certainty.’
    ‘I know,’ Sally agreed with a sigh, still rubbing her chest. ‘I was fooling myself that common sense might break out in the judicial system. I should have known better.’
    ‘It’s entirely possible he is actually mad.’
    ‘He is completely fucking mad,’ Sally agreed again. ‘But he’s also absolutely capable of standing trial. He knew what he was doing when he did what he did. There were no voices in his head. He’s as clever as he is dangerous, he’s faked his psych results, made a joke out of their so-called tests. He should stand trial for what he did to …’ Her voice tailed off as she looked down at the cold coffee on the table in front of her.
    ‘He’s not getting away with it,’ Sean assured her. ‘While we’re sitting here he’s already on his merry way to the secure wing at Broadmoor. Once you go in there you never come out.’ Some of England’s most notorious murderers and criminals were locked up in Broadmoor; their faces flashed through Sean’s mind: Peter Sutcliffe aka the Yorkshire Ripper, Michael Peterson aka Charles Bronson, Kenneth Erskine aka the Stockwell Strangler, Robert Napper the killer of Rachel Nickell. Sally’s voice brought him back.
    ‘Gibran killed a police officer and damn nearly killed me. He’ll be a bloody god in there.’
    ‘Don’t be so sure.’ Sean’s phone began to vibrate in his jacket pocket. The number said ‘Withheld’ meaning it was probably