The Hangman's Hold

by Michael Wood

  ‘Adele it’s me,’ Matilda said into her phone. ‘Have you done the PM on Karen Lacey yet?’

  ‘Not yet. Why?’

  ‘Are you sure she was murdered, and she didn’t just hang herself over what happened to her husband?’

  ‘Well, no, I’m not one hundred per cent. I just found it odd she would hang herself and put a pillowcase over her head.’

  ‘She could have done that because she thought she should have been killed instead of her husband.’

  ‘True. But if—’

  Matilda had already hung up. She looked through her phone for another number and dialled. It went straight to voicemail. She decided against leaving a message and searched for another number.

  ‘Kate, it’s DCI Darke,’ Matilda said to Kate Stephenson, editor of The Star.

  ‘DCI Darke, nice to hear from you. Have you seen this evening’s edition? We’ve got a profile on all of the victims so far, and I’ve managed to get hold of Paul Britton. You’ll have heard of him, I’m guessing – the renowned criminal psychologist. He’s written a lovely piece for us on serial killers. Our sales have jumped in the past couple of weeks.’ The glee in her voice was unmistakable.

  ‘Great. Fingers crossed the Hangman will be bigger than the Yorkshire Ripper and it’s staff bonuses all round.’

  ‘There’s no need to be flippant. Was there something you wanted?’

  ‘Yes. I’m trying to get in touch with Danny Hanson, but his phone seems to be switched off.’

  ‘Yes, bless him. He’s feeling the strain. I told him to take a couple of days’ leave. He doesn’t seem to have the staying power when it comes to pressure. We may have to let him go.’

  ‘You’re all heart, Kate.’

  ‘I’m running a business here, not a convalescent home. If you want to be a successful journalist, you leave your emotions at the door.’

  Matilda rolled her eyes. ‘Could you give me Danny’s home address?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that. Is this something I should be privy to?’

  ‘No. Just a private discussion between me and your young reporter.’

  Reluctantly, Kate told her where Danny lived. The DCI ended the call while Kate was mid-sentence, trying once more to pump Matilda for information.

  Matilda knew the area where Danny Hanson lived. The traffic wasn’t on her side and she was caught up in a tailback that added an extra thirty minutes to the journey.

  When she finally arrived, the door was answered by a bedraggled-looking young woman in her early twenties. She was dressed in a long pink dressing gown and novelty slippers.

  ‘Do you have to bang so loud? Some of us work shifts,’ she said by way of a greeting.

  Matilda showed her warrant card. ‘DCI Matilda Darke, South Yorkshire Police. I’d like to speak to Danny, please.’

  ‘Well, he’s not here,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve been told he is.’

  ‘He’ll be at work. He spends a lot of time at the paper.’

  ‘His editor has given him a couple of days off. She says he’s at home.’

  ‘Well, you’re welcome to check for yourself,’ she said, standing to one side to allow Matilda to enter. ‘He’s in the attic. Mind the loose carpet on the first few stairs.’

  Matilda took the steps two at a time and wasn’t even breathless when she reached Danny’s bedroom door. Maybe she should consider a full marathon next.

  She knocked on the door and waited. There was no reply. She banged again, louder.

  ‘I’m asleep,’ Danny shouted from inside the room.

  ‘So am I. It’s DCI Darke, Danny, open up.’

  ‘Shit,’ Matilda heard him say under his breath. She decided not to take it personally.

  The door was unlocked and opened. The smell hit Matilda straight away. Stale air and sweat. She walked in and edged carefully around the boxes.

  ‘Is this where you live?’ she asked, noticing the damp patches on the wall, the mould around the Velux window, the threadbare carpets, mass-produced furniture and lack of curtains.

  ‘Yes. What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she lied.

  ‘We can’t all be earning a DCI’s wage. Do you have any idea how much student debt you carry with you these days? Yes, I’ve got a full-time job, but try getting a mortgage when the banks see how much you earn compared with how much you pay out. Once they’ve stopped laughing it’s “thanks for your interest, Mr Hanson, but not at the moment”,’ he said, almost snapping.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Matilda replied. ‘Your housemate seems nice, anyway.’

  ‘The blonde or the brunette?’

  ‘The blonde.’

  ‘Gina. She’s a bitch. All smiles to your face then once you’re out of the room she’s pulling you to bits.’ He sat on the bed with his head in his hands.

  Matilda studied him. His hair was a mess, stubble was trying to come through in patches. His T-shirt was wrinkled and torn. This wasn’t how a young professional should be living, not even a journalist.

  ‘Couldn’t you move back home with your parents?’ Matilda suggested.

  ‘I’d love to, if there were any jobs going. I’m lucky I got this one. Lucky,’ he sniggered, looking around his room. ‘Journalism’s dead practically. I doubt I’ll reach retirement age in this business. Mind you, there probably won’t be a retirement age once I get to my seventies. Thank you very much, Labour. Or is it the Conservatives I should blame? Difficult to tell these days.’

  ‘Danny, can you focus for me, I need to ask you something,’ Matilda said, perching on the edge of his bed.

  ‘Has there been another body?’

  ‘We think so.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Before I tell you, have you received any more calls from the killer?’

  He shrugged. ‘No idea. I’ve turned my phone off. I’m actually frightened of answering it, can you believe that?’

  Yes I can.

  ‘Can you turn it back on for me, please?’

  Frowning, Danny opened the top drawer of his bedside table and pulled out his iPhone with the cracked screen. He switched it on and waited for it to come to life. He tapped in his passcode. They both sat, staring at the outdated phone. The screen went blank. Matilda sighed. The killer hadn’t made contact. Karen Lacey’s death was suicide, not murder. Suddenly, the screen lit up signalling voicemails and texts.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Danny’s voice was shaking. It had been more than a day since he’d turned off his phone. He was dreading listening to the messages. What if the Hangman realized the phone wasn’t on and threatened him in some way? What if he’d threatened his family?

  ‘Listen to the voicemails. Put it on speaker.’

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered.

  Danny held out the phone in his clammy left hand and listened to the robotic voice telling him he had three new messages. The first was from his mother asking if he was coming home for his sister’s birthday next weekend. The second was from Kate Stephenson asking for his password on his computer as they needed to get some information he’d been working on.

  She’s all heart.

  The third wasn’t a message at all. A couple of seconds of breathing then the caller hung up. Matilda wondered if the killer had contacted Danny and decided against leaving a message.

  ‘What about the texts?’ Matilda asked.

  Danny flicked through them. There were seven unread. Mostly from friends and colleagues. He opened the last one then held up the phone to show Matilda. It was from a number not stored in his phone.

  Oops, my bad!

  ‘What does that mean?’ Matilda asked.

  ‘It means he’s made a mistake. Has he?’

  Matilda shook her head and looked down. ‘I’m afraid he did. But he’s just made up for it.’

  George Appleby was in the bath. The door was closed but not locked. He lay back in the hot deep water. There was nothing about himself he liked – his oversized feet, his red hair, his sunken eye
s. He was ugly.

  He picked up his phone and swiped a wet finger across the screen. He looked at his text messages. He hadn’t received any in days. He had sent his mother six messages in the past twenty-four hours. She had read them all but hadn’t replied. He had finally managed to get through to his sister, who seemed to be shagging her way around Europe. She wanted their mother’s version of what happened, confirming, then made an excuse to end the call. There was no querying about him, his health, his studies, or how he was coping. She was selfish. She was definitely their mother’s daughter.

  Nobody would speak to him. Nobody would listen to him. Even his so-called housemates wanted him out. There were people George could speak to at the university, counsellors, lecturers, but George didn’t want that. He knew his conversation would be private, but how private is private? He couldn’t stand any more humiliation.

  This was a nightmare. When his father was first arrested, and word had got out about him being a paedophile, George’s life had changed. He had been constantly bullied at school, and it didn’t matter where he moved, the gossip followed him. He begged and pleaded with his mother to be homeschooled, but she refused, told him to get used to it. She hardened overnight, turned from sympathetic to a hard-faced, unemotional bitch. That was the only way to describe her. George often felt like he had lost two parents.

  He looked at his phone one more time, before dropping it on to the towel on the floor. Screw it. Screw his family. Screw his housemates wanting him to leave. Screw the university. Screw the police. Screw Sheffield and screw life.

  He leaned over the bath and picked up the razor blade he’d bought that morning. Holding it firmly in his right hand he pointed it towards a bulging vein on his left wrist. George had looked on the Internet for the best, and quickest, way to kill yourself by slashing your wrists.

  He decided not to look. He had never liked the sight of blood. He rested the blade on his left wrist and closed his eyes tightly shut. As it dug deep into his skin and the blood started to flow, he felt himself relax. His whole body began to float and rapidly weaken. He quickly swapped the blade to his left hand and cut open his right wrist. The release was orgasmic.

  George Appleby, nineteen years old, felt a smile spread across his face as his life ebbed away from him.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  ‘THE HUNT FOR THE HANGMAN CONTINUES

  Sheffield residents are living in fear as a serial killer claimed his fifth victim yesterday…

  STEEL CITY KILLER CLAIMS VICTIM No. 5

  The Hangman of Sheffield has struck again as a fifth victim was found in the leafy suburb of Meersbrook…

  HANGMAN’S REIGN CONTINUES

  A serial killer dubbed ‘The Hangman’ has claimed a fifth victim in Sheffield, England as police begin to lose control of the situation…

  LIVING IN FEAR

  Sheffield residents tell of their fears as the killings continue…

  POLICE CLUELESS

  South Yorkshire Police are coming under intense pressure to replace DCI Matilda Darke as the serial killer plaguing the Steel City claims a fifth victim…’

  ACC Valerie Masterson scrolled through the email sent to her by the chief constable. Snippets from online news agencies, national and international newspapers. She closed the email. She couldn’t read on. This was a nightmare. Her mobile rang, and she recognized the number of the chief constable. He hardly ever called her on her mobile. This was not going to be a good conversation. She took a deep breath, smiled, and answered the phone.

  ‘Martin, how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he replied, stressing the ‘I’m’. ‘Yourself?’

  How could she answer that? ‘I’m coping.’

  ‘Really? The press doesn’t seem to think so. I’m assuming you’ve read my email.’

  ‘I have, yes.’

  ‘You have five murder victims on your hands, Valerie. Not to mention twenty-six unsolved murders within South Yorkshire. Do I have to place South Yorkshire Police under special measures?’

  Valerie paled. ‘No, absolutely not, sir. The press has blown this out of all proportion.’

  ‘So you don’t have five victims?’

  ‘We have—’

  ‘In that case, whether they’ve written the truth or a pack of lies, you still have five victims and no hint of a suspect,’ the chief constable interrupted.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, sir.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you? So, you do have a suspect?’

  Valerie ran her fingers through her grey hair, firmly pulling at it. ‘We are pursuing several lines of enquiries.’

  ‘You’re not giving a bloody press conference, Valerie, you’re talking to me. The sooner we get a Major Crime Unit with a new team set up in South Yorkshire the better.’

  ‘You’re bringing in a new team?’

  ‘Surely you didn’t think we’d recruit from within? You really do need to read the papers more, Valerie.’

  The line went dead. Valerie stared at her phone and leaned back in her chair.

  The morning briefing went on longer than usual as Faith, Kesinka and Ranjeet took everyone through their interviews with Karen Lacey’s neighbours. This time they asked about the neighbours themselves. Did they get on with the Laceys? What was their relationship like? How did they feel when they found out what Joe Lacey had been convicted for in 1997?

  Interviews with Gordon Berry’s colleagues and family were still ongoing and being processed. As was tracking down everyone identifiable from the Banker’s Draft CCTV footage on the night of Gordon’s birthday celebrations.

  It was no longer victim apathy the detectives seemed to be suffering from. It was complete apathy in general. There were so many people to interview, and all the questions were exactly the same.

  The look of defeat was on every face as, once again, Christian Brady took everyone through each victim in the incident room. What had they missed? By lunchtime, everyone felt like they had done a full day’s work; their patience was wearing thin.

  There was a knock on Matilda’s door. She looked up to see Sian on the other side and beckoned her in. There was laughter in the background.

  ‘What’s the joke?’

  ‘Scott and Rory are watching Innuendo Bingo online. Don’t ask,’ she replied, rolling her eyes. Sian closed the door behind her and sat down. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.’

  ‘I don’t think I can handle any more, Sian.’

  ‘George Appleby killed himself yesterday.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His housemates found him in the bath last night. He cut his wrists.’

  Matilda’s face turned white. ‘Oh my God!’ Did we push him too hard?

  ‘He left a note. It wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular. It stated that he couldn’t go on living with who his family was. He felt isolated and alone and thought it would be better for everyone if he was dead.’

  ‘That is tragic,’ Matilda said, looking genuinely sorry.

  ‘I know. Students have a hard time at university, people don’t realize that. Poor sod.’

  A burst of hysterical laughter from outside jolted them back to the present. People are being murdered. People are killing themselves. People are dealing with anxiety and anguish and bottling up their emotions, but for others, life went on.

  By the end of the day, Matilda was resting her head on her desk in her tiny, messy office. She was staring blankly out of the windows into the incident room.

  Scott and Rory were having a private conversation by text, even though their desks were within spitting distance of each other. Matilda frowned as she watched the intense drama play out. Eventually, Rory stood up and went over to DI Brady’s office. Matilda shrugged. Knowing Rory and Scott they were probably discussing who was having the bigger bedroom in their flat.

  A few minutes later, Christian tapped on the glass. ‘Mind if I interrupt?’

  ‘No, come on in.’

  He closed the door behind him and sat in front o
f Matilda’s desk. He spoke in quiet tones, barely above a whisper. ‘I’ve had Rory and Scott working on a little job for the past day or so. It’s to do with when Gordon Berry came into the station.’

  ‘Go on,’ Matilda said, rubbing the spot on the back of her head that still hurt slightly.

  ‘There are a few cameras in the foyer, but none of them show a good view of the office behind the front desk. Rory and Scott have been going over the footage and they’ve finally found a decent angle. They know who Gordon Berry saw when he came into the station.’

  ‘Who?’ Matilda said, sitting up. She could feel the energy return to her tired body.

  Christian reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a folded-up photograph. He unfolded it and handed it across to Matilda.

  ‘Is this it?’

  ‘It’s not the best photograph, I grant you. Don’t forget, those cameras have been there for many years and technology has come along so far since—’

  ‘This is pathetic. All we can get from this is he’s tall, got dark hair, wears a uniform and—’ She stopped, squinted, and held the photograph closer to her eyes.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Have you got a magnifying glass?’

  ‘Not personally. Hang on.’ Christian opened the door and asked Sian. Obviously, she had one. Sian was equipped for most eventualities.

  Matilda went over to the window, angled the photo to catch the light and studied it through the magnifying glass.

  ‘I know who the Hangman is,’ she said, looking up at Christian and Sian.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  A full half an hour passed as Matilda contemplated her next move. She sat at her desk in silence, mulling over the entire case. She should have seen it sooner. This was no ordinary killer she could walk up to and arrest. She would have to be smart. She needed a plan. Picking up the receiver, she pressed an extension button and waited for a reply.