by Michael Wood
‘Good evening, Gordon.’
Gordon jumped. He’d gone into the living room and hadn’t noticed a shadowy figure waiting in the dark.
‘Who the bleeding hell are you?’ Gordon slurred.
Standing in front of the window, a man stood tall with his arms folded. There was an air of danger about him. His stance was powerful. The head slightly lowered. The glint from the light through a small gap in the curtains danced in his dark eyes. Gordon shivered.
The figure leaned over to the standard lamp next to the sofa and flicked it on, lighting up the room. Gordon took a step back. He was looking into the face of a complete stranger. He glanced over to the patio doors which were locked from the inside.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing in my house?’ Suddenly Gordon was sober.
‘I’ve come for a little chat.’ The intruder stepped forward.
‘I’ve got nowt to say. Get out of my house.’
‘Why don’t you sit down, Gordon?’
‘Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do in my own home. Now go on, fuck off. How did you get in, anyway?’
‘I’ve been watching you for a while, Gordon. Key under the mat. Not very original.’
‘You bastard.’
‘Do I detect a slight slurring to your words there? Have you been drinking?’
‘What’s it got to do with you?’
‘You’ve always had a problem with alcohol, haven’t you?’
‘What?’
‘Remember what happened to Darren Price?’
That was a name Gordon hadn’t heard for years. It was a name he’d never forget. A name he tried not to think about too often.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Don’t you feel guilty? Don’t you feel pain over what you did to Darren Price?’
‘I didn’t do anything to Darren Price. It was an accident. The inquest ruled it to be an accident. Look, why am I even justifying myself to you? Get out now or I’ll call the police.’
‘I’m not going anywhere, Gordon.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m glad you asked that.’
The intruder leaned down to a rucksack on the floor beside his feet. He unzipped it and took out a length of rope with a noose tied at the end.
‘What the fuck? You’re him, aren’t you? The Hangman.’
‘The penny’s finally dropped, has it?’
‘Fuck you,’ Gordon said, turning and running out of the living room.
At the front door, Gordon was struggling to take the security chain off, his fingers shaking in panic. The intruder, a much younger and more sober man than Gordon, grabbed hold of him by the shoulders, pulled him back then slammed him hard into the door. The sound of Gordon’s head banging on the solid wood resounded around the hallway.
Gordon’s home blurred before him.
The Hangman pushed Gordon hard onto the living room floor.
‘You really need to listen to your conscience,’ he said, looking down on the stricken Gordon.
‘Fuck you,’ he spat.
‘You’re not sorry about what you did to Darren Price at all, are you?’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ he replied, saying every word like it was its own individual sentence.
‘You were drinking at lunchtime; your reflexes were impaired. Your ineptitude caused a twenty-two-year-old man to lose his life. Don’t you think you should pay for that?’
‘Who made you judge, jury, and executioner?’
The Hangman reached for his rope and held up the noose. ‘I did.’
He leaned down to place the hoop over Gordon’s neck, but he wriggled on the carpet. He kicked his arms and legs wildly and, with his left leg, caught his attacker on the back of his knee. The Hangman lost his balance slightly and fell forward. Gordon saw his opportunity and managed to crawl free. He stood up and headed for the hallway. He was almost there when the attacker reached him again. He threw the noose over Gordon’s head and pulled him back, tightening the rope.
‘You bastard,’ Gordon hissed as the life was strangled out of him. He managed to get a couple of fingers under the rope, but it was no use.
The intruder dragged Gordon into the living room.
With one hand under the rope, Gordon reached back to try and hit his attacker.
The intruder stepped forward. Gordon was on the floor on his front, kicking with his legs and his one free arm. Gordon flipped himself over, so he was on his back. His movement was so swift the Hangman let go of the rope, freeing Gordon just long enough for him to headbutt his potential killer in the crotch.
The attacker screamed out in pain and doubled over. Gordon pulled the noose off and stood up. He was gasping for breath but needed to act fast. He pushed his intruder into the coffee table, breaking it into dozens of pieces.
Gordon headed for the front door and managed to get it open. The cold air felt wonderful as it bit into his face. Rubbing his throat, he ran to the car. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys, but they weren’t there. Then he remembered throwing them down on the table in the hallway. Shit.
Behind him, he could hear the sound of the intruder running into the hallway. Gordon turned and sprinted up the road as fast as he could. He had no idea where he was going, but the fact he was free and still alive was all that mattered. He ran, pumping his legs harder and harder. Gordon had never been a fit man, and right now he needed to find the energy from somewhere to stay safe for a few hours until daylight. Then he’d go to the police and tell them he’d had a good look at the person who had been terrorizing the people of Sheffield.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Matilda had phoned Sian at home last night and brought her up to speed on what she and Christian had been talking about. Sian received the news in the same way Matilda had done – with shock and disbelief. An hour later, they were still talking, more rationally now, and Matilda had left her DS with the task of going through the entire team and asking herself if any of them had changed recently. Was their behaviour giving cause for concern; were there any secret phone calls or unexplained absences?
The next morning, as arranged, Matilda and Sian met up in her office at seven o’clock, before anyone else had arrived.
‘I’ve hardly slept a wink,’ Sian said, slumping down in the seat opposite Matilda.
‘I didn’t get much sleep either.’
‘Do you honestly think one of us is a killer?’ Sian said. They had discussed this question over the phone last night, but Sian preferred face to face so she could get a true reaction from the DCI.
‘No I don’t,’ Matilda replied honestly.
‘Neither do I. So then why are we doing this?’
‘To put our minds at rest.’ She shrugged.
‘My mind is at rest. Well, it was until you called last night.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No. Don’t apologize. We need to cover every angle.’ Sian dug in her oversized handbag for her notebook. ‘I wrote down everyone’s name last night and started to go through them. I immediately crossed off Rory, Scott and Aaron, as I’ve known them for years. But then I thought, should I really cross them off? What do you think?’
Matilda put her head in her hands and let out an audible sigh. ‘If one of those three ended up being a killer I’d … well … I couldn’t continue in this work anymore. It would just destroy everything.’
‘I know what you mean. Now, based on the assumption that the killer is the same person who broke into Elizabeth Ward’s car, we’re looking for someone white, tall, and slim. I know that’s not much to go on, but it’s a start. I’ve crossed off the majority of the women, especially the smaller ones. Also, based on general consensus, I’ve stuck to the men, as they are more likely to be serial killers.’
‘OK. And?’
‘I’ve come up with nothing.’
‘Sorry?’
‘We’re left with four DCs, three DSs and one DI, and that’s Christian. Out of those eight, I can’t see any of them being the kil
ler.’
‘To be honest with you, Sian, I don’t think it’s one of the team either. However, when you look at the evidence: who would have known Brian Appleby was living in Sheffield? That Katie Reaney was really Naomi Parish? Only a police officer.’
‘I don’t like this,’ Sian said, on the verge of tears.
‘I shouldn’t have asked you, I’m sorry. Look, why don’t I go out and get us a couple of lattes before we start the day proper?’
‘I’d like that.’ She tried to smile.
As Matilda was leaving the office, she placed a reassuring arm on Sian’s shoulder, squeezing it tight. This really was a nightmare.
Walking towards the car park, she past uniformed officers and plain-clothed detectives, all of whom she had seen at crime scenes and in the canteen. They smiled at her, some said hello, a new recruit asked her where the toilets were. Before, she wouldn’t have given any of them a second thought. Now, she registered them all, cataloguing their height, build, skin colour.
Gordon Berry had spent the night shivering in a bus shelter. He hadn’t slept. He couldn’t call anyone because his mobile was at home. It was on the table in the hallway, along with his car keys and his wallet. The only change he had in his back pocket amounted to less than a pound. He had thought of going to a colleague’s house, but that would have led to questions. He didn’t want to have to start lying again. So, once he’d felt a safe distance away from the Hangman, he found a bus shelter off a main road, and curled up in a corner, out of sight.
Throughout the night, Gordon had gone over every little detail of the man who had broken into his home and tried to kill him. When he closed his eyes tight he pictured his hair, the colour and style, the paleness of his skin, his small ears (the left one had been pierced at some point). The small scar above his left eyebrow, his slightly crooked teeth, his smell (a designer fragrance he had smelled before but couldn’t remember where). He would be able to describe the Hangman perfectly to the police.
It seemed to take ages for darkness to fade into light. The low cloud didn’t help. Just after six o’clock, when the traffic began to build, people came out to walk their dogs, deliver newspapers and set off early to work, Gordon left the bus shelter. He wondered if people were staring at him. He must look a mess. He could feel two days’ worth of stubble, his mouth tasted foul and stale. He could smell himself too, and it wasn’t pleasant. Although, there was a hint of the fragrance his attacker had been wearing clinging to his shirt. Maybe somebody at the police station would be able to identify it.
Gordon was shattered. He tried to walk quickly into town, but his legs wouldn’t allow it. They felt heavy. He dragged his feet with as much energy as he could muster, all the while looking around, wondering if the killer was searching for him. He tried to remember the other victims from the newspaper. He’d killed them in their own homes, hanged them. Last night, he had failed for the first time. Would he give up on him and go for his next victim, or were his sights still firmly fixed on Gordon? After all, the killer hadn’t been wearing a mask. Surely he knew that. Surely he wouldn’t want Gordon going to the police. So, where was he?
Carrying a large latte in each hand, a flapjack in one pocket and a brownie in the other, Matilda made her way towards the police station. It was almost eight o’clock and traffic was building up on the roads. Matilda had been up for hours. It seemed like the working day should already be underway.
Matilda climbed the few steps and was about to pull open the door to the main entrance, when it was flung open from the other side with force. It hit her in the face and she fell backwards, down the steps and on to the cold concrete, landing with a thud. The cardboard Costa cups splattered beside her, spilling their contents.
The man coming out of the station ignored Matilda. He jumped down the steps, over Matilda and ran at speed across the forecourt.
‘Ma’am, are you all right?’
Matilda looked up to see a blurred uniformed officer standing over her.
‘What the hell?’
‘I’ve no idea, ma’am. He just shot out of the station, before I had time to say anything to him.’
The PC slowly helped Matilda up. They both turned in the direction of the fleeing man, who, in his haste, didn’t check for any traffic and ran straight into the path of a red Fiat Punto. Fortunately, the car wasn’t speeding. He was hit a glancing blow and thrown onto the pavement.
‘Get after him,’ Matilda instructed the PC.
‘What’s going on?’ DC Rory Fleming asked, coming out of the main entrance. ‘Ma’am, are you all right? Have you fallen?’
‘No I haven’t bloody fallen, Rory. Get me up, will you?’ She held out her hand.
‘Are you injured?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so,’ she said. She was dazed from the fall and hitting her head. Her hands were grazed and her pride dented.
‘Who was that?’ Rory asked PC Harrison.
‘I’ve no idea. He just got up and ran, well, limped, off.’
Rory and Steve made their way back into the station. Matilda heard Rory mention something about a first aid kit and an accident book. She remained in the doorway looking out over the traffic.
In the distance, the man stopped and turned back to the station. He and Matilda made eye contact over the sea of passing cars. She tried to read something from his facial expression, but he just appeared to be exhausted and confused.
Gordon Berry turned away first and hobbled off.
Matilda put her hand to the back of her head. It came away covered in blood.
Chapter Forty-Eight
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Sitting in Valerie’s office with heavy padding taped to the back of her head, Matilda picked at the pieces of gravel in the palms of her hands.
Valerie brought her a coffee and went to her chair. ‘Why are things never simple around you?’ Valerie asked with a hint of a smile in her voice.
‘I must ooze bad luck.’ Matilda tried to smile.
‘Are you sure you shouldn’t go to the hospital?’
‘No. It’s just a flesh wound. No stitches needed and there is no sign of concussion.’
‘Good. Who was that man?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’ve got Rory and Steve going through CCTV of the foyer. See if we can get a look at him.’
‘And you’ve never seen him before?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Bizarre.’
‘Very.’
‘Anyway,’ Valerie said, pulling out a file from her top drawer, ‘I’ve got some good news and some not-so-good news for you.’
‘I don’t like the sound of this.’
‘The good news is we will be getting a Major Crimes Unit at some point this year. The chief constable has said I can put forward any ideal candidate for the role.’ She smiled.
‘Me?’ Matilda looked shocked.
‘No. Rory Fleming. Of course, you.’
‘Wow, I don’t know what to say.’
‘Don’t say anything yet. It’s still very early days and there will be other candidates too.’
‘Thank you. So, what’s the not-so-good news?’
‘I’ve had Kate Stephenson on the phone almost every day since Ben Hales was found dead in your house. Apparently, the killer called Danny Hanson and said he wished he could take credit for this one, but he couldn’t. At least we know he didn’t kill Ben Hales.’
‘Adele told me it was a suicide. Ben left me a note too. He blames me for everything that’s happened to him.’ She shook her head. ‘I know he wanted my job, but it wasn’t my fault I was promoted ahead of him, was it?’
‘Are you saying he should have hanged himself in my hallway?’ Valerie smiled.
Matilda stifled a laugh. ‘I’ve never known anyone with so much hatred in them.’
‘Well, the inquest is still ongoing, obviously. And I get the fe
eling the press will be sniffing around this for a while. It won’t be the last we hear from him.’
Matilda froze. She thought of what Ben had written in his note to her. Even after the inquest, after his funeral, after years of him being buried, Matilda doubted she would ever be free of former DI Ben Hales.
Acting DCI Christian Brady had finished the morning briefing and the incident room was dispersing when Matilda entered.
‘I thought you’d have gone home. How are you feeling?’
‘I don’t have a home at the moment, Christian,’ she said, walking into her office and closing the door behind her. He was going to follow her in, but the door closed in his face.
Valerie had instructed her to go home and take a few days to come to terms with everything, before even thinking about taking over the case again. How could she assume Matilda would be able to live in her home after a man had taken his own life in her hallway?
She slumped into her chair and stared through the glass door into the incident room. Valerie may have a skin like an elephant where the turmoil of someone blaming you for their suicide didn’t penetrate, but Matilda wasn’t like that. She soaked everything up like an emotional sponge. Rory walked past her door, glanced in and smiled. He’d almost been beaten to death last November. He seemed to have made a full recovery, physically and mentally. Sian had been a detective longer than anyone on the team. She’d faced all kinds of horrors over the years yet there was always a smile on her face and a bounce in her step. James had always told her she was a good detective because she cared. Maybe that was the problem: she cared too much.
A knock on the door made her jump. Sian entered.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Rory told me what happened outside the station. I thought you might like a cup of tea.’
‘Thanks, Sian. I’m afraid I spilt our coffees.’ She took the tea and had a lingering sip. It tasted good. She placed her hands in her jacket pockets and pulled out some damaged snacks. ‘Would you like a squashed flapjack or a battered brownie?’
‘I’ll pass, thanks.’ Sian smiled. ‘I thought you’d like to know, I’ve had a call from Aaron. Katrina’s been rushed into hospital. She’s bleeding. He thinks she’s losing the baby.’
