by Michael Wood
‘A complete hanging for Joe but a partial one for Brian,’ Matilda said. ‘I’ve been reading up.’
‘God bless Google.’ Adele smiled. ‘With a complete hanging, you would expect death to come quickly. As there is evidence of the brain being starved of oxygen, I would say he was strung up slowly rather than dropped from a height.’
‘Joe Lacey wasn’t a little bloke, though, was he? He’s what, five-foot ten?’
‘Five-eleven.’
‘Five-eleven, and his weight?’
‘Fifteen stone, give or take a few pounds.’
‘So, in both cases, the killer has had to subdue his victims in some way, which suggests he’s not as big as them,’ Matilda said thinking aloud, picturing George Appleby and his skinny frame. ‘Hmm,’ she mused. ‘What about the bruising on the neck? Is that similar?’
‘Yes. Very. The noose was placed around the neck and tightened. He was incapacitated before he was hanged. You can see the various points of friction on the neck from the rope.’
‘It’s got to be the same killer,’ Matilda said with a deep frown on her face.
‘Or two killers who know each other well enough to exchange notes,’ Adele said.
‘Please don’t complicate things more than they already are.’ Matilda squeezed the bridge of her nose.
‘Are you OK? You look tired,’ Adele said.
‘I am tired.’
‘So am I. I’m not sleeping much lately.’
‘Still thinking about Brian?’
Adele nodded. ‘I had a dream about him a few nights ago, a really weird and unsettling one.’
‘I suppose me saying something basic like try to ignore it won’t help.’
‘Probably not.’ Adele smiled. ‘A bottle or two of Prosecco might.’
‘Don’t go down that road, Adele. Look what happened to me after James died.’
‘I know. I don’t know why I’m behaving like this. It’s not as if we were married or anything; we had one date.’
‘But you liked him, didn’t you?’
‘I did. I really did. He was lovely. But then I remember he was a paedophile and I can feel my flesh crawling.’
‘Would a hug help?’
‘A hug from Tom Hardy might.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Matilda’s mobile started to vibrate in her pocket. She looked at the screen. It was the ACC calling. ‘Shit, sorry, I’m going to have to take this.’
She squeezed past Adele and left the autopsy suite into the cool corridor outside the double doors.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘We appear to have made the front page of the local newspaper again.’
Chapter Sixteen
HIT-AND-RUN KILLER FOUND DEAD
By Danny Hanson
The killer of eight-year-old Rebecca Branson, the victim of a hit-and-run on New Year’s Day in 1997, has been found dead at his home in Meersbrook, Sheffield.
Joe Lacey was discovered hanging in the garage of his semi-detached home by his five-year-old son, Jason, yesterday, in this, the twentieth anniversary of the tragedy.
Joe Lacey, 37, was five times over the drink-driving limit when he knocked Rebecca off her bike close to her home in Norfolk Park. She suffered massive head injuries and her parents were advised by doctors to turn off her life support machine five days after the incident.
Mr Lacey, then of Jordanthorpe, was sentenced to twelve years in prison for causing death by dangerous driving. He was released in 2004 – just seven years later.
A neighbour, who did not wish to be named, said yesterday, ‘I had no idea he was that Joe Lacey. He seemed like a normal, happy family man. He doted on his kids. He was always taking them out. And you couldn’t have wished for a nicer neighbour either; he’d do anything for anyone. He came into my house many times when I had a problem with my washer. This is going to upset a lot of people around here.’
Scene of crime officers and DCI Matilda Darke, formerly of the Murder Investigation Team, were all at the scene late into the night. Neighbours are wondering if there is more behind the apparent suicide by hanging of Joe Lacey.
Mr Lacey’s death comes just a week after the killing of sex offender Brian Appleby, who was executed in his own home by hanging. With two victims both known to the police and no sign of an arrest imminent, does Sheffield have a serial killer at work?
The Unsolved Murders of South Yorkshire Police. Pages 4 and 5.
‘Who is talking to the press?’ asked the stern-faced Valerie Masterson. She slammed the laptop closed, not wanting to see the story anymore and sat back in her oversized chair. As she arched her fingers, she resembled a diminutive Bond villain.
‘I have no idea. I certainly haven’t. I told everyone in CID this morning to keep it to themselves and not breathe a word to anyone,’ Matilda said.
‘Then either they ignored you or it’s been leaked in some other way.’
‘That leaves uniform or SOCO? I doubt it’s any of them. Maybe it was one of the neighbours. You know what people are like these days, they all want their moment in the sun, no matter how brief. Someone will have got on the phone to the papers as soon as they saw the first cop car arrive. Probably hoping they’ll be on Celebrity Big Brother next year,’ she said bitterly.
‘Yes, I suppose it could have been one of the neighbours,’ Valerie mused. ‘I don’t like this – the press knowing more than they should do. Hang on a minute, no, it can’t have been a neighbour: the article says Joe Lacey was hanged. Surely when questioning the neighbours, one of your officers didn’t reveal that information.’
Matilda thought about who was conducting door-to-door enquiries – Ranjeet and Kesinka.
‘I don’t believe it was any of my officers, but I will have another word.’
‘Yes, you will. I will not have anyone working in this station who is in the pocket of the press. Do you understand?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Good. Make sure your team do too.’
Matilda knew when she’d been berated, and if she was going to be on the wrong side of a dressing-down from the ACC then so were her team. She left Valerie’s office and marched for the CID incident room.
Sian Mills and Scott Andrews left the family interview suite and headed straight for the canteen. They were both physically exhausted, having questioned a tearful and numb Karen Lacey, as well as her three heartbroken children.
‘I think that was one of the hardest interviews I’ve ever had to conduct,’ Scott said when he arrived at the table with a tray laden with hot drinks and slices of chocolate cake. He slumped into his seat and released a heavy sigh.
Sian helped herself to the largest slice. ‘That poor boy. Finding his father hanging like that. I don’t think he’ll ever get over it.’
‘When you get cases like this, Sian, involving children, do you think of your own kids?’
‘All the time,’ she said with a mouthful.
‘How do you switch off?’
‘Years of practice. The trick is, when you get home and lock the front door behind you, you stop being a detective and become a mother. My kids are my kids and I involve myself in their lives. I don’t want them knowing what I’ve done during the day, so I don’t take it home with me.’
‘That can’t be easy.’
‘It’s not, especially when it’s a particularly disturbing case, or, like you said, involving kids. Just keep your eyes open and you’ll be fine. And make sure you have plenty to do outside of work too.’
‘I have. Has Rory told you, we’re looking for a flat to share. Get us both out from our parents’ clutches.’
‘That’s a good idea. Have a look at the ones on the Riverside Exchange.’
‘I hadn’t thought of there. Close to town and work. Thanks, Sian.’
‘Well I didn’t make sergeant on just my looks.’ She smiled, tossing back her shoulder-length red hair.
‘Ma’am, I’ve had The Star on the phone—’ Faith began before Ma
tilda cut her off.
‘I don’t want to hear it,’ she said without stopping, marching through the incident room to her office.
‘They want to know if there’s a connection between Joe Lacey and Brian Appleby.’
‘OK everyone, listen up,’ Matilda raised her voice to the whole room. ‘Phones down. Rory, come out of Facebook.’
Looking sheepish, Rory closed the lid of his laptop.
‘Someone is leaking information to the press. I’m not singling any of you out, but they’re getting their information somehow. They’re already linking Appleby and Lacey. Now, let me know if you hear anything; it can be in the strictest confidence and I won’t name you. We cannot allow the press to jeopardize our work. Do you understand?’
There were nods and mutterings from around the room.
She stared at the blank faces, studying each of them. ‘Good. Now, back to it.’
Matilda turned from her team and went into her office. She closed the door behind her. She usually liked her team to know she operated an open-door policy. They could walk in and discuss anything, personal or professional, whenever they wanted to. However, right now, she needed time to think.
Through the glass walls she looked at the CID incident team, the detectives from the old MIT she knew so well, the new members of her team, the uniformed officers and civilian support staff. One of them was leaking information to the press. Who, and how was she going to be able to find out?
Chapter Seventeen
‘Not at university today?’
Sian and Scott were standing in the communal living room in the terraced house George Appleby shared with four other students. There was an underlying smell of burnt food and body odour, mixed with cheap perfume. The laminate flooring was dirty and sticky, and the furniture mass-produced.
‘No. I don’t feel well.’ George was wearing boxer shorts, a tight white T-shirt and a dressing gown over the top. He didn’t look well, but he was pale and skinny – not the picture of health at the best of times.
‘Hangover?’ Scott asked with a smile.
‘No,’ he replied, falling into the uncomfortable sofa. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’
Sian leaned back and peered into the adjoining kitchen. The sink was filthy and piled high with dishes. The kettle was grimy and covered with fingerprints.
‘I’ve not long since had one, thanks,’ she lied.
‘Is this about, you know, my dad? Have you found anything out?’
‘Not as such, no. George, can you tell us where you were on Saturday from midday onwards?’
‘Why?’
‘Humour me.’
He looked away. If it was possible, his face appeared even paler. ‘I was here,’ he eventually replied.
‘All day?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t go out?’
‘No.’
‘Not at all? Not to the shops or anything?’ Scott asked.
He looked Scott in the eye but turned away before answering. ‘No.’
‘Can anyone verify that?’
‘Well, not until late on when Cassie came home around seven. Why?’
‘Do you know a man called Joe Lacey?’ Sian asked.
He shook his head. ‘Who’s he?’ George asked quickly.
‘Or Rebecca Branson?’
‘Oh my God, please don’t tell me more victims have come forward saying my dad … you know.’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘Then why are you asking?’
‘Just curious. You’ve never heard of these people?’
‘No.’
‘Right, well, we’ll leave you to it then. I hope you feel better soon. Come along, Scott.’
Sian and Scott headed for the front door.
‘Hang on a minute,’ George called out. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me what all this is about?’
Sian slammed the door behind them. ‘Thank God for that,’ she exhaled. ‘Jesus it was rank in there.’
‘It took me back to my student days,’ Scott said with a smile.
‘Please don’t tell me you were as untidy as that.’
‘Well, first time away from home, you let yourself go a bit, don’t you?’
‘No, you bloody do not. It’s called having some self-respect. And did you see his boxer shorts? They didn’t leave much to the imagination, did they?’ She turned on her heel and headed down the gennel to the car. Scott followed, smiling to himself.
George Appleby sat with a heavy frown on his pale face. He was going over the questions the sergeant had asked him. Why was she asking them? It made no sense. He swiped a pile of newspapers and magazines off the coffee table and found his iMac underneath. Balancing it on his lap, he turned it on. He tried to remember one of the names the female detective said, Rebecca something. He’d heard it before but couldn’t think where. Rebecca. Rebecca. He smiled to himself. Branston pickles. Rebecca Branston. Google asked him if he was looking for Rebecca Branson, he clicked on the correct spelling and up came her life story, her cut-short life story.
He clicked on a link for the site of the local newspaper and read a story by Danny Hanson all about Joe Lacey’s death on Saturday. Towards the bottom of the page was a list of other stories the reader may be interested in. George’s father’s name was mentioned. He clicked on the first story and his father’s face popped up on the screen. It was an old picture taken before he was sent to prison. All the raw emotions came flooding back. His father was a paedo, how was that possible?
George logged on to Facebook and typed in Danny Hanson’s name. He planned on messaging him, asking him how he slept at night when he was putting people through hell with his sensationalism, when a message popped up. He didn’t recognize the sender:
George, I hear your dad was a nonce. Is that why no one’s ever seen you with a girlfriend? Like kids yourself, do you?
George recoiled. So the vitriol had started. He had expected it to be sooner than this. He deleted the message. Internet trolls were cowards anyway; too scared to say what they thought in real life, so they hid behind their computers.
He noticed he had several notifications, more than usual. He clicked on the icon.
You have been tagged in a post.
You have been tagged in a photograph.
Martin Baker and eight others have mentioned you in a post.
Sally Klein and twenty others have tagged you in a post.
‘Jesus,’ he said to himself, once again running his bony fingers through his hair. Should he read what everybody seemed to be saying about him, or should he ignore them, hoping they’ll stop eventually when something better comes along? ‘Fuck it,’ he said, looking at some of the comments.
Becky Wainwright: I went out with George Appleby a few times. I wondered why he kept wanting to go to parks and push me on the swings. His idea of a romantic date was a kid’s happy meal at Maccy D’s. Like father like son. LOL.
George shook his head. He’d never even heard of a Becky Wainwright before. Looking at her photograph, he’d never seen her either. Just that one comment was enough for him to slam his laptop closed. He heard the sound of a key in the lock: one of his housemates coming home. He didn’t want them to see him crying so ran upstairs, laptop under his arm, cursing Danny fucking Hanson for starting all this in the first place.
‘The Bransons are hiding something. They both gave different alibis for where they were on Saturday,’ Aaron Connolly said.
‘Let them stew for the rest of the day then bring them both in tomorrow morning.’
Normally, Matilda would take the softly-softly approach, maybe send Sian around to have a friendly chat, but with the press seemingly leading this investigation, she wanted to get the upper hand.
The evening briefing had failed to reveal any new leads. Kesinka and Ranjeet had been back to Meersbrook to interview the remaining neighbours. Typically, nobody had seen anything suspicious at all on Saturday. Just when you want the neighbours to be nosey they tu
rn a blind eye.
Forensics hadn’t found anything of interest at the Lacey house. Once again, the killer had managed to gain access and not leave a single trace of himself behind. The similarities between the Joe Lacey and Brian Appleby murders were startling, but there was nothing to link the two victims. Brian had only been in Sheffield a matter of months, before that he lived in Essex and never visited Yorkshire. Joe was Sheffield born and bred and had only left the county to go on holiday, and that was always abroad. The furthest south he’d ever travelled in England was Nottingham. They had nothing in common; they didn’t belong to the same bank or gym; they didn’t shop in the same supermarket. The only thing they shared was the fact they had criminal records.
Matilda left the station early. It was only six o’clock, but it was pitch-black. The heavy clouds over Sheffield were releasing a fine drizzle turning the steel city grey and dank.
While sitting in traffic, Matilda looked out into the dark Sheffield night. She saw people heading home after a hard day’s work. They were wrapped up against the elements and held themselves stiff as the wind cut through them. Their faces all had the same expression – harsh, defeated, tired, sad.
This winter had been a long one. It seemed never-ending. November and December were fine because there was Christmas to look forward to – the parties, the presents, the get-togethers. Once New Year was out of the way, all you had left were three months of dark nights, freezing temperatures and bad weather. Add to that the fact you were fatter from the excesses of Christmas, the dreaded credit-card bill arriving through the post, and a sense of emptiness, you could understand why people walked around looking like members of a funeral procession.
Matilda opened the garage door with the remote she kept in the glove compartment. It closed behind her and plunged her into a cavernous black. She gingerly made her way into the main part of the house. It was cold. The heating hadn’t come on. The doorbell rang and she went to answer it.
