The Hangman's Hold

by Michael Wood

  ‘Hello, I saw you come home. A parcel arrived for you this morning,’ Mrs Wilson from two doors down said, handing over a heavy Amazon box.

  ‘Oh, thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Any time.’

  Mrs Wilson stood on the doorstep longer than was necessary, looking over Matilda’s shoulder into the house.

  Matilda closed the door and carried the box into the kitchen. She couldn’t remember ordering anything from Amazon. Using a knife from the block, she cut into the cardboard and recognized the smell of new books before she even pulled back the flaps. The latest hardbacks by some of her favourite authors, plus a few paperbacks she’d seen on sale were carefully packed.

  A smile spread on her lips. Since she had inherited a huge collection of crime fiction novels from Jonathan Harkness, a killer with emotional problems Matilda had been unable to save, she had become hooked. Adele thought she was hiding her feelings and emotions behind reading and building the collection. She’d promised her friend she wouldn’t allow it to take over her life. However, there wasn’t a week that didn’t go by without at least two deliveries from Amazon or the Book Depository.

  Matilda took the box upstairs to her library. She always smiled when she walked into the room and saw the books waiting for her like faithful old friends. She understood why Jonathan Harkness had immersed himself in fiction. The world was a dark and dangerous place, especially the one Matilda inhabited. Why not close the door and hide behind books? Yes, they were all crime fiction, but by the end of the novel, the balance of power had been restored.

  Matilda unpacked the box and added them to her to-be-read pile in the corner. It was threatening to take over the whole room. She looked at the shelves surrounding her. All of them were full to capacity. She placed her hand on the spines of the hardbacks and stroked them. She felt safe in this room. She felt happy.

  ‘A few more to add to the collection, Jonathan.’

  ***

  Sitting in the living room with a plate of an oven-ready lasagne on her lap, she called Adele.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Matilda asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she lied.

  ‘It’s OK not to be fine.’

  ‘It’s also OK to be just fine.’

  ‘That’s fine then,’ Matilda smiled. ‘Are you still sworn off men?’

  ‘Absolutely. They can all take a running jump as far as I’m concerned.’

  Matilda glared at the mantelpiece and the framed photograph of her and James on her wedding day. She had now reached the stage where looking at him no longer opened the floodgates, but she still felt sad.

  ‘Chris and I are going out for a run in a bit if you fancy it?’ Adele asked, quickly changing the subject.

  ‘No thanks. I did ten kilometres on the treadmill this morning. Oh, did I tell you, Scott has asked to join us for the half-marathon. He was doing it anyway but said he’d help us raise more money.’

  ‘That’s kind of him. Can he run?’

  ‘Yes. He spent half an hour at lunchtime showing me photos of all his races. I had no idea he had such muscular legs under those suits.’

  ‘Ooh,’ Adele said, a hint of flirtation in her voice.

  ‘I thought you said all men can piss off?’

  ‘It depends on how hunky their thighs are.’

  Matilda could be clinging on the railings of the Titanic as it plunged into the cold Atlantic Ocean and Adele would still be able to make her smile. Following the Brian Appleby incident, Matilda had thought Adele would withdraw. In a way, she had. However, her sense of humour was too strong to stay hidden and there were warming glimpses of it trying to reappear. It made Matilda smile.

  Good for her. Now why can’t I move on?

  She looked back at the wedding photo. She knew why she couldn’t move on – because she didn’t want to.

  ***

  The disappointing lasagne had given Matilda indigestion. She took a swig of Gaviscon from the bottle and headed upstairs to her library. She made herself comfortable in the Eames chair, put her feet up on the matching footstool and wrapped a knitted blanket around her. She picked up the hardback by Peter James. She was over halfway through. After an hour of reading, her eyes were becoming heavy. Her mobile, sitting on the coffee table next to her, beeped and vibrated, making her jump. She placed the bookmark neatly among the pages and put the book carefully on the table. The message wasn’t from a number she had stored in her phone. She opened the text message:

  2 down.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Has the number been traced?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a pay-as-you-go and no longer in service, as I expected.’

  Matilda was sitting at her desk with a uniformed Valerie Masterson standing in front of it, her arms tightly folded across her chest.

  ‘I don’t like this.’

  ‘I’m not so keen on it myself,’ Matilda said, trying to be flippant. If in doubt, make a joke.

  ‘The killer knows you’re working on the case. How?’

  ‘Well anyone who reads The Star would know I was leading it. It’s on the Internet, too, and Rory told me it was trending on Twitter last night.’

  ‘I bloody hate social media,’ Valerie said to herself. ‘Who has your number?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve had it for years.’

  ‘Anything else comes through, I don’t care if it’s three o’clock in the morning, I want you to tell me straight away. Is that understood?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And I don’t want you replying to him without clearing it with me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I mean it, Matilda. You start a conversation with him without my say-so and I’ll suspend you.’ A look of worry was etched on Valerie’s face.

  ‘He’s taunting us, isn’t he?’ Matilda said, after a silence.

  ‘It would appear so. I’m going to call the university to get a criminal psychologist to have a look at the case.’

  Matilda rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary just yet, ma’am.’

  ‘Well I do. I want this solved before this bastard picks his next victim.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ was all Matilda could say. Once Valerie Masterson had made up her mind about something, it was very difficult to get her to change it.

  ‘So we’re getting a profiler?’ Sian asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I’ve got a fiver on him being a loner who still lives at home with his parents,’ Rory mocked.

  ‘I’ll go with him having a menial job and low intelligence,’ Aaron said, putting his hand up.

  ‘Sexually inadequate, possibly still a virgin, and unable to perform,’ Faith said.

  They all started laughing as the clichés went around the room. Even Matilda raised a smile.

  ‘OK everyone, calm down. Let’s get on. It’s obvious the Brian Appleby and Joe Lacey cases are linked. We need to find out why. I know there’s no connection between the two victims, but the killer has targeted them for a reason. Any suggestions?’

  ‘They’re both criminals,’ Christian Brady said, struggling with the wrapper on a BLT from the canteen.

  ‘Sticking with Brian Appleby for a moment, who knew he had moved to Sheffield?’ Matilda asked.

  ‘Apparently nobody; but me and Sian still aren’t convinced about the son,’ Scott said.

  ‘What’s his alibi for the Lacey murder?’

  ‘He doesn’t have one.’

  ‘We need to keep a watch on him. Christian, can you organize a few plain clothes to tab him?’

  ‘For how long? I’ve already had a roasting this week about overtime.’

  ‘Well fingers crossed George kills his next victim in working hours. Just trail him. I’ll deal with the overtime.’ No wonder I have a permanent headache with all this eye-rolling.

  ‘You do realize you’ve just said that in front of a room full of witnesses, don’t you?’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Yes. Just get it sorted, Christian.
’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, let me just check one more time, none of his neighbours knew he was a registered sex offender?’

  ‘No,’ Faith said.

  ‘So who the bloody hell knew he was here?’ Matilda said, the frustration evident in her voice.

  ‘We could already know who the killer is,’ Christian said, looking at the inside of his sandwich with contempt. He removed a gristly piece of bacon and flicked it into his bin. ‘Maybe we’ve already interviewed them and they’re lying to us.’

  ‘Someone lying to the police? Madness!’ Rory said, heavy with sarcasm. A laughter rippled around the room.

  ‘You really think we’ve already met the killer?’ Matilda asked Christian.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised. He sent you a text. In my eyes, he’s taunting you. He’s probably watching how the case progresses.’

  Matilda looked up at the two large whiteboards on the wall. One for each victim. She sighed. ‘In that case, we need to start again. Interview the Lacey family, especially the wife, Karen, get her to tell us everything about her husband. All the neighbours too, friends, colleagues, go through their entire lives. With Joe Lacey being a Sheffield resident and committing his crime here it would have been easy to find him, but not Brian Appleby. He obviously kept himself to himself, so he wouldn’t have interacted with many people. Once we find out who Brian Appleby knew, it shouldn’t take us long to find the connection with Joe Lacey.’

  ‘What if there is no connection?’ Scott asked.

  ‘You’re not helping, Scott,’ Sian said.

  Matilda turned back to the murder boards. What if there was no connection? The very thought made her blood run cold.

  ‘Danny Hanson,’ Danny said as he answered his mobile. He was sitting at his desk in the cluttered newsroom of The Star. He had been going through his emails, hoping to find a reply from a university criminologist he’d emailed, when his phone rang.

  ‘I’ve got some information on your killer,’ the caller’s voice was low and deep.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Danny asked, he ducked so nobody around him could see his face.

  ‘I know who the killer is. Nine o’clock tonight. Weston Park, by the bandstand.’

  ‘How do I …?’ Danny was speaking to the dialling tone. He looked at his phone. The caller hadn’t left their number.

  Danny sat up straight. He didn’t think of the worry or the dangers of going to a park at night to meet a complete stranger. As nonchalantly as he could, he glanced over the top of his computer screen at the other reporters in the newsroom. Had they overheard his conversation? No, they were busy on their own stories. Should he tell anyone? Better not. He returned his attention back to his keyboard and began typing. He couldn’t fail to hide his grin. All he thought about was who he was going to thank in his acceptance speech when he won the Journalist of the Year award.

  ‘Meet the Bransons.’

  Matilda joined Rory in the observation bay overlooking interviews one and two.

  ‘In room one we have the lovely Amanda Branson, who called me a young upstart. I have no idea what that means, but I don’t think she was being pleasant. In room two we have Clive Branson. He’s monosyllabic and he smells. Would you like to conduct the interviews, ma’am?’

  ‘And rob you of the pleasure, Rory? No, you go ahead.’

  Rory tutted and left the room.

  Neither of the Bransons had been arrested. At first they had resisted going to the police station for a formal chat, but when Aaron told them they could be charged with obstructing an investigation, they exchanged glances and waddled to the waiting police cars. Both had declined to have a solicitor present.

  Rory’s face soured as he entered the room and was hit with whatever odour emanated from Clive Branson. He sat down beside Scott who wore a similar expression. This was an interview they would both want to get through quickly. Rory turned on the recording equipment and stated the preliminaries.

  ‘Clive, you told us you were out with your brother on Saturday and didn’t get back until late. Your wife told us you were both at home all day. Which one of you is lying?’ Rory asked.

  Clive Branson was slumped in his chair, head down, studying the badly stained and scratched table. Rory and Scott were looking at the top of his head. His hair was thick and wavy and dark grey. There were flecks of dandruff on the shoulders of his wax jacket and he gave off a musty smell, as if his clothes hadn’t been washed for weeks. He slowly lifted his head up and stared at his interviewers. His face was weather-beaten. Since the death of his only child, he’d obviously found very little to smile about.

  ‘I did,’ he eventually surrendered. ‘Well, we both did really. I wasn’t at home and I wasn’t with my brother. I told Amanda I was with my brother, but I wasn’t.’

  ‘Where were you?’ Scott asked.

  ‘I’m going to get into so much trouble.’

  Rory leaned forward, breathed in a lungful of Clive Branson’s rancid odour then quickly sat back. ‘Look, Mr Branson, if you’re having an affair that’s nothing to do with us. It’s not a police matter and we have no need to tell your wife.’

  ‘I’m not having a bloody affair,’ he called out. ‘Me and Amanda, we don’t have much money.’ He swallowed hard. He was obviously finding it difficult to tell his story. ‘After Rebecca died, we both sort of fell apart. We were on medication for years. I started drinking and we split up for a while but managed to sort ourselves out. Unfortunately, trying to get a job when you’ve a gap on your CV of a decade isn’t easy. Getting any kind of benefits is a joke too. I’ve worked since I was sixteen, I’ve paid my taxes and national insurance and I couldn’t get a penny. Bloody council. They’d have given me everything if I’d been a sixteen-year-old girl with two kids by different blokes and a drug habit.’

  ‘Mr Branson,’ Scott interrupted, getting him back on track.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s just this country drives me mad sometimes.’ He paused while he composed himself. He took a deep breath. ‘I nick food.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Scott asked.

  ‘I nick food, and other things that they throw away, from the back of supermarkets. It’s perfectly safe to eat. They just can’t sell it to the public when it’s past it’s gone-off date. It’s their own faults anyway. If their prices weren’t so high in the first place there wouldn’t be so much waste. Are you going to do me for it?’

  Rory looked to the two-way mirror. He couldn’t see Matilda, but he knew she could see him. He raised his eyebrows for her to answer Clive’s question.

  Matilda stared through the glass at the sad and desperate Clive Branson. ‘They’ve suffered enough over the years. Give them the details of the local food banks and tell him to cut back on the stealing and be more vigilant. Give them both a lift home, too.’

  Matilda sighed and left the room, heading to her office. Rebecca had been killed more than twenty years ago. Joe Lacey had been swiftly caught and served seven years in prison. Once released he had continued with his life, got a job and a family. The Bransons had been in limbo since 1997. Matilda felt sorry for them. She wondered how she would be after twenty years without James. She might have stopped crying every time she thought of him, but she would still miss him, she would always miss him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Matilda, I’d like you to meet Dr Dalziel.’

  ‘Where’s Pascoe?’ Shit, did I say that out loud? ‘Sorry.’

  ACC Valerie Masterson had called Matilda and politely summoned her to her office to meet the criminal psychologist.

  ‘I get that all the time, no need to apologize.’ Dr Dalziel stood up from the seat in front of Valerie’s desk and turned to face Matilda, holding his hand out for her to shake.

  Matilda froze. The intensely ice-blue eyes were reminiscent of her dead husband, James. She always thought James’s were his best feature and they were what had first drawn her to him. She had not seen any like that on anyone else before or since. Now
she was standing opposite a tall man in a tailored black suit with neatly cut blond hair, who was looking at her with her husband’s eyes.

  ‘Matilda.’ Valerie brought her back to reality.

  ‘Sorry.’ Matilda closed her eyes tightly shut. ‘Sorry, just thinking about something.’

  She looked at Dr Dalziel and realized he still held his hand out. She shook it and felt a frisson as his warm right hand gripped hers. Her gaze dropped to the pale skin and the manicured nails.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Dr Dalziel,’ Matilda said with a dry mouth.

  ‘Please, call me James.’

  Matilda’s eyes widened and she took a deep breath. The room around her began to blur. She held out for the chair in front of her and went to sit down, hoping the doctor and her boss hadn’t noticed her odd behaviour.

  ‘Coffee, Matilda?’ Valerie asked.

  I think I need a large brandy.

  ‘No, thank you, ma’am.’

  From the corner of her eye, Matilda saw James Dalziel take the seat next to her. She didn’t dare look at him. Was she imagining this? Dr Dalziel (she couldn’t bring herself to call him James, not yet) didn’t resemble her husband, the colouring was all wrong, but those eyes. Had he filled in a donor card?

  ‘Matilda, are you with us?’ Valerie asked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Then you agree then?’

  ‘Oh yes, absolutely … to what?’

  Valerie let out an audible sigh. ‘To Dr Dalziel taking a look at the murder case and trying to identify a potential suspect.’

  Shit! No I do not agree to that.

  ‘While I’m sure Dr Dalziel is perfectly qualified, I don’t think we are quite at that stage yet. We have had a link between the victims confirmed in the text I received last night, but we need to look closer at the victims and see what connects the two of them.’ Matilda was floundering. Her hands were firmly pressed together, and she played with her wedding ring.

  ‘DCI Darke, it is early days in your investigation,’ James Dalziel began. Matilda noticed his accent had a hint of Scottish, along with something else. It was deep and strong, yet smooth and relaxing. ‘I have only worked on two cases of serial murder in the past and I’m usually brought in at a much later stage in the investigation. However, I was told it was of paramount importance that a suspect be identified as soon as possible to avoid a third victim. If I can help in any way, I am more than prepared to do so.’