by Michael Wood
‘Oh God, no. She’s not far off her due date, is she?’
‘No. I saw her at the weekend. She looked ready to burst.’
‘Does anybody have any good news?’ Matilda asked.
‘Scott and Rory have found an apartment they’re going to share. They’re signing for it this week, apparently, and I won ten pounds on a scratchcard a few nights ago.’
‘And you came into work this morning? Fool.’ Matilda grinned.
The door burst open and Rory and Steve entered. ‘We’ve got the CCTV footage from the foyer if you’re interested,’ Rory said.
‘I certainly am.’
Rory tapped his iPad a few times and passed it to Matilda. All four huddled around the tablet as they watched a nervous-looking man, whose appearance suggested he had spent last night sleeping rough, enter the station. The camera was above the reception desk pointing down into the foyer. There was nobody in the waiting area. He walked up to the desk and waited, impatiently drumming his dirty fingernails on the desk. A few seconds later, he suddenly turned and ran out of the station as if his life depended on it. He pushed the door wide and disappeared.
Matilda put her hand to the back of her head. It was this moment where she’d been floored and landed on the concrete.
‘What was that all about?’ Matilda asked once the video had come to an end. She took the padding from her head and felt the small wound. Her fingers came away clean. She threw the padding away.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Rory said.
‘Maybe he was going to report something, then changed his mind,’ Steve suggested.
‘But why would you run out so fast like that?’ Rory asked. ‘It’s like he’d seen a ghost or something.’
‘Can you play it again?’ Sian asked.
‘Why?’
‘He looks familiar.’
Matilda handed Sian the tablet so she could have the best viewing angle.
‘I know him. I’m sure I do,’ Sian said with a heavy frown.
‘Professionally or personally?’ Matilda asked.
‘Professionally. It’s going to really bug me now.’
‘Don’t we have any facial recognition software?’ Steve asked.
‘You’ve been watching too many James Bond movies, mate,’ Rory said.
‘Not any more, I bloody won’t. Did you see Spectre? What a load of shit!’
‘Do you think so? I liked it.’
‘It wasn’t a patch on Skyfall.’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘Excuse me, Mark Kermode and Simon Mayo! Any chance we could save the film review for the lunch break?’ Matilda said.
‘Rory, can you send me this link?’ Sian said. ‘Let me watch it a few more times and I’ll get back to you.’
Matilda waited until the three were making their way out of her office before she called after Rory.
‘Is James Darke in the building, do you know?’
Rory’s eyes widened. He waited for her to realize her mistake. She didn’t, and he wasn’t going to point it out.
‘Erm, I don’t think James Dalziel is in, no.’
‘Right. No problem.’
Rory closed the door quickly behind him, and Matilda sat back down in her chair. Her error suddenly came to her. Shit!
Chapter Forty-Nine
‘Christian, do me a favour – come and have a look at this CCTV footage and see if you recognize this bloke,’ Sian said. ‘I’ve watched it more than a dozen times, but I can’t put a name to his face. Ooh, you smell like a cheap tart,’ she added when he got closer.
‘I was foolishly walking through reception just as Trisha Abbott came in.’
‘Blimey, is she still going?’
‘She certainly is. Fifty years old and still working the streets.’
‘What did she want?’
‘Apparently, she hasn’t seen one of her fellow street workers for a few weeks and she’s worried.’
‘Oh. She’s probably moved on somewhere else.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Anyway, take a look at this for me,’ Sian said.
Christian pulled a chair up to Sian’s desk and made himself comfortable. He opened her snack drawer and rummaged through the delights wondering what he was in the mood for. In the end, he grabbed for a Snowball and carefully opened the wrapper, so as not to spill any coconut.
‘Let me know when you’re ready,’ Sian said.
‘Sorry, go on,’ he replied with a mouthful of chocolate and marshmallow.
Sian ran the ninety-second footage. Christian frowned and asked her to replay it. And a third time. The fourth time he pressed pause and zoomed in on a close-up of the man standing at the reception desk.
‘That’s Gordon Berry,’ he said eventually. ‘Remember? That business with the mechanic. We interviewed him after that bloke was—’
‘Of course it is. Gordon Berry. Christian, you’re a star.’ She quickly wrote his name down on a Post-It note before she forgot. ‘Help yourself to a … well, maybe not,’ she said, looking at the mess he’d made of her desk. She decided not to tell him about the bits of marshmallow around his mouth. She needed to get her kicks from somewhere.
‘Do you remember Super Saturday?’ Sian asked Matilda.
‘Is that the day after Black Friday?’
‘No. Super Saturday 2012 was when Team GB won all those gold medals in the space of less than an hour at the London Olympics.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Matilda said, wondering where this was leading.
‘Anyway, on Super Saturday, Gordon Berry was working for a garage on Queens Road. There was only him and a colleague, Darren Price, working. Gordon went to the pub for lunch at one o’clock and came back at half past two.’
‘Long lunch.’
‘Liquid lunch too by the sound of it. Not long after his return, there’s an incident and Darren Price is crushed to death by a car falling on him. Gordon was arrested at the scene because police officers attending could smell alcohol on his breath and he was slurring his words. However, he was never charged with manslaughter or being drunk while operating heavy machinery.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because during his investigations, the coroner claimed the equipment in the garage was so out of date that it was only a matter of time before an incident of this nature occurred. Albie Finkle who owned the garage was charged with negligence and found guilty of manslaughter.’
‘What happened to Finkle?’
Sian flicked through the thick file in her hands. ‘He was fined and banned from owning a business for ten years. He gassed himself three weeks later.’
‘Bloody hell. And what about Gordon Berry?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So the coroner’s report blamed the equipment in the garage for Price’s death?’
‘Yes.’
‘But surely Berry should have taken some of the blame for being drunk.’
‘You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you?’
‘We need to pay this Gordon Berry a visit. He sounds like a prime target for our serial killer.’
‘Do you think he was coming into the station to ask for protection?’
‘It’s possible. It doesn’t explain why he did a runner though. Come on, Sian, let’s go and see what Gordon has to say for himself. You can buy me lunch with your scratchcard winnings afterwards.’
‘Mum, it’s me,’ George Appleby said. He was sitting on his bed in the shared house he refused to move out of. Since the taunting had begun, he had stopped going to university and stayed in his room. He looked a mess. His hair was overgrown, his beard was patchy, and he stank of sweat. For days George had been contemplating calling his mother. Eventually, he worked up the courage.
‘George, what do you want? I’m just about to go out,’ she said in her usual icy monotone.
‘It’s about Dad.’
‘George, I’m not interested,’ she cut him off.
‘Mum, listen.’
‘
No, George, you listen. I had no idea your father had moved up to Sheffield, and I really don’t want to talk about him.’
‘People are talking,’ he said quietly, his voice breaking.
‘Of course they are, it’s what they do.’
‘But people are talking about me, looking at me.’ His voice was soft. He was on the brink of tears.
‘George, you’re nineteen years old, sort it out for yourself.’
George took a deep breath. ‘There’s something else, Mum.’
‘I can’t have this conversation now, I’m running late for work. I’m sorry, George.’
‘Mum, can I come down to visit this weekend?’ he asked before his mother could end the call.
‘I don’t think so, George. I have to go,’ she said. She didn’t say goodbye, just hung up.
George sat on the edge of his bed, the phone still pressed against his ear. He looked out of the window at the view of the steel city. He hated Sheffield. He hated the university. He wished he’d never come here.
While he’d been on the phone to his mother, he’d felt it vibrate a few times. He looked at the screen and saw he’d received more notifications on social media, more taunts, more people making fun of him. Even complete strangers were getting in on the act.
He leaned down and pulled open the drawer underneath his bed. He took out a length of polyhemp rope. The victims of the Hangman were realizing there were consequences for their actions. It was about time others learned that lesson too.
Chapter Fifty
It took longer for Matilda and Sian to find somewhere to park than it did to find Gordon Berry’s house. Eventually, they found a space in the next street and walked back.
‘How are your legs?’ Sian said.
‘Fine now they’ve stopped throbbing. You should have seen my thighs on Sunday night, Sian. They looked like someone had been at them with a cheese grater.’
‘It was worth it though, surely.’
‘Oh God, yes, absolutely. And it was lovely of Scott to come on board too. You know, he got his sister to hand around his sponsor form at the school where she works. He raised over a grand on his own, bless him.’
‘He’s a good lad, Scott. He thinks the world of you, too.’
‘Does he?’ Matilda asked, looking surprised.
‘Yes. Him, Rory and Faith, they won’t hear a word said against you. All three of them see you as a career template.’
‘Oh. I’m not sure if I like being seen as a role model. I certainly don’t feel like one.’
‘Well they have a lot of respect for you. The whole team does. Don’t let it go to your head though. For every Scott, Rory and Faith, I’m sure there are a dozen who can’t stand you.’
‘Ah, thanks, Sian. I can always trust you to keep me grounded.’
They reached Gordon Berry’s house. It was in darkness, curtains closed, no sign of anyone.
‘You wouldn’t think anyone lived here,’ Sian said. ‘Look at the state of those windows. They haven’t been cleaned in months.’
‘Probably why he keeps his curtains closed.’
When Matilda knocked on the door it swung open slightly. They looked at each other with blank faces. Sian took her telescopic truncheon out of her back pocket and extended it to its full length with a flick of her wrist. Matilda pushed the door wide.
‘Hello!’ she called out. ‘Mr Berry.’
There was no reply. Matilda poked her head into the house. It was dark. There were no sounds of movement.
‘Mr Berry? I’m DCI Darke from South Yorkshire Police.’ When she didn’t hear anything, she raised an eyebrow to Sian and stepped into the house.
The first thing Matilda noticed was the freezing cold. Two rooms led off from the dark hallway – a kitchen and a living room. She chose the lounge first. Sian stayed behind, baton held aloft.
Matilda walked inside and turned on the light switch next to the door. There was an obvious sign of a disturbance – broken coffee table, armchair pushed into a bookcase, sofa cushions on the floor.
‘I don’t like this,’ Matilda turned to Sian.
‘No. Me neither. Shall I check upstairs?’
‘Sure. Be careful.’
Sian left Matilda alone in the lounge. Matilda made sure she didn’t touch anything. On the mantelpiece, there were an array of framed photographs. She leaned in to get a good look at them. They were the standard school pictures of young children, holiday snaps. One of the men she recognized from outside the police station, presumably Gordon Berry, in a holiday pose – his arm around another man on a sun-kissed pub terrace.
‘There’s nobody upstairs,’ Sian said, entering the room, baton now firmly back in her pocket. ‘The main bedroom is very untidy, and the bed hasn’t been made. It doesn’t look like there’s been a burglary because there’s some expensive music equipment up there.’
‘So whatever happened was isolated to the living room then?’
‘It would appear so.’
‘OK, Sian. Get onto Forensics. I want a full team here to give this house a serious going over.’
‘Will do.’
Sian pulled her mobile out of an inside pocket and moved over to the window to make a call. ‘Matilda, you’re going to want to see this,’ she said, looking down at something behind the sofa.
‘What?’
Sian pointed.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ Matilda asked following Sian’s gaze and seeing a thick rope with a noose tied at the end.
***
‘Who was working on where the rope came from?’ Matilda asked. She and Sian were back in the car while a forensics team made a full sweep of Gordon Berry’s home. Sian had splashed her lottery winnings on two takeaway medium lattes and two muffins.
‘Rory.’
‘And?’
‘Hang on, I’ve got it on my phone somewhere,’ Sian said, searching through her emails. ‘Here we are. It’s a twelve-millimetre polyhemp rope. It has the look and feel of natural fibres, but it isn’t. It’s fully weatherproof and doesn’t shrink when wet.’
‘Where can it be bought from?’
‘Absolutely everywhere. Rory looked online and there are more than a thousand stockists in South Yorkshire alone. It’s also sold on Amazon. You know when you buy something from Amazon you can ask other buyers a question about the product?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, quite a few people asked if it’s a good enough rope to hang yourself with.’
‘Blimey. And what were the replies?’
‘They all said it was. What’s more surprising is that not one person tried to talk the buyer out of hanging themselves. They just told them it was fine for the job, and that’s it.’
‘Nothing surprises me anymore,’ Matilda said, looking out of the window.
Sian sipped at her drink, all the while not taking her eyes from her boss. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘Are you scared?’
Matilda looked at her. ‘Of what?’
‘Whoever the killer is has obviously got you in their sights for whatever reason. He could be watching you right now. Doesn’t that frighten you?’
Matilda took a while to answer. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to answer, she didn’t want to admit it to herself. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m petrified, Sian.’
Chapter Fifty-One
By the time Forensics had finished at Gordon Berry’s house it was getting late, and dark. Matilda and Sian searched the house looking for clues as to where Gordon Berry might be. They found a wage slip in a drawer which gave his employer as KKE Engineering in the Wicker. It wasn’t far from Attercliffe, but it was almost seven o’clock and the place would be closed. Sian drove Matilda back to the station. Matilda told Sian to go straight home.
Matilda didn’t usually mind entering the incident room alone after office hours. She stood in the doorway and turned on the lights. They buzzed and blinked into life. She looked around the open-plan ro
om. Tonight, she felt apprehensive. It had been a long time since she had hunted down a serial killer. In this case, the killer was targeting her personally, for some reason. Why?
She made her way into her small office and closed the door behind her. It was just how she left it, even the computer was still on, but in sleep mode. She hit the keyboard and the screen lit up. Her homepage was the BBC News website. The main headline was of a terrorist attack in Turkey which had left twelve people dead.
Matilda checked her emails. There was nothing of interest. She didn’t open a single one of them. She knew what they would contain by looking at the sender’s name.
She picked up her phone and saw five text messages, all from Adele. Matilda sent a quick reply to pacify her friend, before throwing the phone down on the table and leaning back in her chair.
What Sian had said had unsettled her. Why was he contacting her? Was it just because she was leading the investigation? But he was contacting Danny Hanson at The Star too. Maybe she wasn’t being targeted. Maybe this was just a killer who enjoyed being the centre of attention. A narcissist. A sick, twisted, narcissist. There was one person who could put her mind at rest. She looked at her watch. It was almost eight o’clock. It wasn’t too late to make a house call.
‘I hope you don’t mind me coming around unannounced,’ Matilda asked, shivering on the doorstep.
‘Of course not, come on in.’
James Dalziel stepped back so Matilda could enter. She smiled and stepped into the warmth. A stiff wind had picked up, and, as usual, Matilda wasn’t dressed for the weather.
She stood in the hallway and looked around at the tasteful decoration. The floor had the original Victorian tiles, the wood of the bannister on the stairs was stripped oak. The Tiffany lightshade heavy and expensive. James Dalziel was a man of taste.
‘Has another body been found?’ he asked.
‘No. Well, not as such. I was wondering if I could pick your brains.’
He smiled. ‘I’ve been lecturing teenagers all day, there may not be much left, but you’re more than welcome to try.’
He ushered her into the living room.
When Matilda saw the thick pile cream carpet, she stopped in the hallway and kicked off her shoes before entering. The heat from the wood burner wrapped itself around her and she felt relaxed. The room was as tastefully decorated as the hallway: large leather sofas, tall, oak bookcases filled with academia and research – not a single crime fiction book in sight. She picked up a framed photograph of two young girls from a small table next to the door.
