The Hanged Man

by Simon Kernick

  He could no longer hear the footfalls on the gravel. He listened. There was just silence. Somewhere off in the forest an owl hooted, and slowly, very slowly, Manning felt himself begin to relax a little.

  And then he heard the sound of someone fiddling with the front door lock. Again the movement was deliberately quiet, as if they were trying not to be heard.

  The door slowly opened. Manning’s whole body went rigid as he heard someone creeping through the hall.

  If it was the police, and they knew he was here, why didn’t they call out and identify themselves? And how could they have found him anyway?

  But someone had found him, and if it wasn’t the police, it was those two animals who’d come for him and Diana in Lincolnshire.

  A shadow fell across the doorway. Manning inhaled audibly and his finger tensed on the shotgun’s trigger. He’d checked it was cocked and loaded before he’d got into bed. He was going to fire.

  ‘Who’s there?’ came a voice from the corridor outside.

  It was a voice Manning recognized immediately.

  ‘Is it you, Hugh?’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Manning, letting all the breath out of his body as the relief flooded through him. ‘Harry?’

  Harry Pheasant appeared in the door, dressed in a check shirt and what, even in the dim light, looked suspiciously like red trousers.

  ‘Bloody hell, Hugh. Glad to see you’ve made yourself at home, but can you put that thing down now?’

  Manning carefully placed the shotgun on the bed and stared at his old friend. ‘What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘Why do you think? Because I saw the news and guessed you’d come here. Come on, get out of bed. It’s been a long drive. I need a drink. And we need to talk.’

  Five minutes later they were sitting in the living room with a bottle of decent Margaux that Harry had brought with him. Manning, who’d been forced to flee Lincolnshire without most of his clothes, was wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms belonging to Harry that he’d found in one of the cupboards and which were way too big for him.

  Everything about Harry was big. His legs; his shoulders; his belly these days; and definitely his personality. He had a kindly face, though, with ruddy cheeks, and the scattering of broken veins that was a testimony to good living. He was, thought Manning, a prime candidate for gout. But he’d always been a loyal friend and Manning was glad he was here now.

  Harry took a drink and eyed him closely. ‘What the bloody hell’s happened, Hugh? Tell me you didn’t kill Diana and that other chap.’

  Manning laughed hollowly. ‘Of course I didn’t.’

  ‘So who did?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Look, you’ve always been a good mate of mine, which was why when I saw you were on the run and had been spotted just down the road in Newton Stewart, I didn’t call the police. I wanted to talk to you myself. But you’ve got to tell me the truth.’

  Manning sighed. ‘A long time ago I started doing legal work for a client. I became friendly with him and he introduced me to other people he knew, and I started doing work for them – helping to move money offshore out of the taxman’s reach, that sort of thing. But it turned out that these people my friend introduced me to were all working for the same criminal gang. And it’s that criminal gang I’ve been working for for most of the past fifteen years. The thing is, I didn’t really know what I was getting involved in until it was too late. I know that’s not a good excuse.’ And it wasn’t. It wasn’t entirely true either. Manning had had plenty of chances to walk away, at least in the early days, before the Kalamans had got a real hold on him – and yet he hadn’t.

  Harry looked at him from behind his outsized wine glass, and Manning thought he saw disapproval in his friend’s expression. ‘You obviously made a lot of money doing it,’ he said.

  Manning nodded. There was no point denying it. ‘I did. But Christ it’s come at a cost.’ He thought back to the house in Lincolnshire, and how he’d been forced to write a suicide note while Diana was being held on their marital bed. ‘I found out something I shouldn’t have so Diana and I went to hide out in Lincolnshire. But they caught up with us.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘I got out. Diana didn’t.’

  Harry took another gulp of his wine.

  ‘You believe me, don’t you, Harry? I could never kill anyone. I promise.’

  ‘You’ve certainly made a pig’s ear of things, that’s for sure. So, what did you find out?’

  Manning shook his head. ‘Harry, the less you know about any of this the better. And I’m sorry that you’re involved now.’

  ‘That’s what friends are for. You did me a big service once, so I’ll help if I can. Talking of friends, who was the bastard who introduced you to this gangster in the first place?’

  ‘Again, you don’t want to know.’

  ‘Why? It’s not going to make any difference.’

  ‘Because you’ve met him before, that’s why. I introduced you to him a long time back.’

  ‘It’s not Alastair Sheridan, is it?’

  Manning stared at him, and suddenly his heart was beating hard again. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘He left me a voicemail message today, asking if I still had this place.’

  Thirty-one

  Manning put down his wine and got to his feet. He felt like he was going to be sick and paced the room trying to calm himself.

  ‘What did you tell him?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘I haven’t called him back yet,’ said Harry. ‘Why are you looking so scared? Is he still involved with this gangster?’

  ‘Very much so. How does he know about this place anyway?’

  Harry shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘After you introduced me to Alastair, we kept in touch. I thought he might be useful in business. I’ve had money invested in some of his funds for a while and occasionally I see him at client days. I think I must have mentioned this place to him and said he should come up here and stay some time.’

  ‘But he’s never been?’

  ‘No.’

  Manning stopped pacing. ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘He doesn’t know where this place is, and remember, you made me put it in the name of an offshore company, so Alastair and his gangster friends have no way of finding it.’

  Manning couldn’t believe Harry’s naivety. Like so many people, he had no idea how powerful the Kalamans were. ‘It doesn’t work like that, Harry,’ he said. ‘They’ll narrow down the search to somewhere round here and they’ll be looking for places owned by offshore companies.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I can do,’ said Harry, looking pleased with himself. ‘I can phone Alastair back, or send him a text, telling him my house is up in Inverness. That’ll throw them off the scent.’

  Manning shook his head. ‘It might give us a bit of breathing space, but at some point they’ll look into your background and find out where this place really is. Then they’ll also realize you were protecting me, and that’ll put you in real danger. I appreciate you thinking of ways to help, Harry, but I can’t do that to you.’

  ‘Can’t you talk to Alastair? Get him to call the dogs off?’

  ‘No. He’s as much involved as anyone. He wants me dead, Harry.’

  Harry looked confused. ‘To be honest, that’s not the Alastair I know. He’s always seemed a pretty decent chap to me.’

  Manning picked up the wine, and took a long gulp to steady his nerves. ‘Alastair Sheridan’s a monster. I’ve seen him do things that you can’t imagine.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Manning remembered the night at Alastair’s house all those years ago and the young Moldovan woman lying with her head bashed in. Alastair had been naked above her, the bronze sculpture in his hand, dripping blood. But it had been the wanton excitement on his face that had been truly shocking.

  ‘Seriously Harry,’ he said, ‘stop asking questions. Suffice it to say, Alastair and this gangster friend of his a
re involved in some really dark stuff.’

  ‘All right. Point taken. Just tell me one final thing though, and be honest with me: have you been involved in any of this dark stuff?’

  Manning shook his head emphatically. ‘No. I did wrong, I’ll admit that. I broke the law to help some bad people. But I’ve never been involved in anything else.’ He didn’t like the distasteful look on Harry’s face. ‘I’m telling the truth, Harry,’ he said, putting on the most sincere expression he could muster. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Then what on earth are you going to do?’

  Manning sat back down. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘The way I see it, you have two choices. You can either keep running, and if you want to do that I’ll drive you out of here in the boot of my car, drop you off somewhere, and then you’re on your own.’ He leaned over and poured himself some more wine, offering the bottle to Manning, who decided he had little to lose and topped himself up close to the rim of the glass. ‘Or I drive you into the police station at Newton Stewart first thing tomorrow morning and you give yourself up.’

  Neither choice suited Manning. The first would almost certainly result in capture at some point soon, and so lead to the second one anyway. But giving up was something he desperately wanted to avoid. He was genuinely touched by how Harry was trying to help, though. Manning didn’t have many real friends. Like so many wealthy professionals, he’d cultivated associates, people who were of use to him in some way. And all that had done was get him to where he was now: on the very edge of the precipice looking straight down.

  ‘If you know so much about Alastair and his friends and their, er, dark stuff, you might be able to do some sort of deal with the police,’ Harry pointed out.

  ‘I know. But this gangster I’m talking about has some very good contacts. He’ll have me killed, even in protective custody.’

  The two of them were silent while they pondered the very limited options available.

  It was Harry who broke the silence. ‘Would it work if you handed yourself in to someone high up in the police, someone who’s incorruptible and who can do what it takes to make sure you stay safe?’

  Manning thought about this. He didn’t think anyone could help him against Cem Kalaman, but right now anything was worth considering. ‘Possibly. Do you have someone in mind?’

  Harry nodded. ‘I think I might.’

  Thirty-two

  ‘Did your cunning disguise work?’ Dan asked me as I got back into the car.

  ‘Believe it or not, it did,’ I said, handing him back his glasses. ‘Drive, and I’ll tell you all about it. We don’t want to keep Olaf waiting too long.’

  Dan turned the car round, and as we took off in the direction of Ealing nick I started talking.

  ‘Ugo pimped some girl Kristo Fisha liked to one of his clients, who happened to be Alastair Sheridan. From what I can work out, Sheridan got too rough and killed her, then brought in Cem’s people to make the problem go away. Ugo was told to forget the girl ever existed, which he says he did, but then apparently Fisha found out what happened and broke into Alastair’s house and ended up finding the DVD of Tracey Burn’s murder and taking it with him. Ugo admitted that when he found out what Fisha had done he told the Kalamans, and they got rid of Fisha and the woman he lived with. I don’t know why the killers didn’t find the DVD under the floorboards. Maybe there were a lot of DVDs. Maybe he made copies, and he forgot about this particular one when they were torturing him.’ I shrugged. ‘But now at least we know where the DVD came from.’

  ‘Do you have an ID on the girl Sheridan murdered?’

  I shook my head. ‘Ugo doesn’t remember her name.’

  ‘He pimped her out and sent her to her death and he can’t even remember her name? He really is a classy guy.’

  ‘But that’s not all. According to Ugo, Alastair had a friend with him the night he killed the girl. None other than Hugh Manning.’

  ‘Shit, you’re joking.’ Dan shook his head. ‘That’s gold dust. No wonder they want Manning dead so bad.’ He blew out a long breath. ‘By the way, I’ve just been on the phone to Sheryl.’

  ‘She’s still in the office?’

  ‘Of course she is. She says there’s still no word on Manning.’

  ‘What about Tracey Burn? Has anyone come up with any sightings of her from when she went missing?’

  ‘Nothing useful yet. HQ have set up a dedicated twenty-four-hour hotline to take calls from the public because the Welsh police haven’t got the resources. They’re going to collate the info, and if any decent leads come through they’ll get in touch directly with me or you.’

  I looked out of the window at the night-time streets, wondering how many other people had disappeared since Tracey had gone in search of a better life all those years ago. And how many of them had been preyed upon by Alastair Sheridan and Cem Kalaman.

  ‘Have you ever come across someone called Mr Bone?’ I asked Dan.

  ‘I’ve heard the name mentioned a few times over the years, yeah,’ he replied. ‘Mainly by very minor associates of the Kalamans, people right out on the fringes. Supposedly he’s one of Cem’s top hitmen, been part of the outfit since the early days. Someone told me once they reckoned he’d killed thirty people.’

  ‘So why haven’t I heard about him?’

  ‘Because there’s never been any proof that he even exists. Certainly no one using that name’s ever been ID’d, and during the one time Cem was under twenty-four-hour surveillance back in the early 2000s there was no mention made of him.’

  ‘Ugo said that it was a Mr Bone who was at Alastair Sheridan’s house that night getting rid of the girl and clearing up the mess.’

  ‘Did he describe him?’

  ‘He said he was an old guy wearing a hat.’

  Dan grunted. ‘That narrows it down.’

  ‘The man who escaped from me at the farm in Wales, the one who set the place alight? He was an old guy in a fedora. And Tina reckoned it was an old guy in a hat who shot Charlotte Curtis in France. It sounds to me like he exists.’

  Dan sighed. ‘Then we’d better start looking for him. Is Ugo prepared to testify?’

  ‘No. I recorded the conversation but it’s inadmissible.’

  ‘So, what do you want to do about the attempted murder charges, Ray?’

  ‘Ugo’s a piece of shit, and my first instinct is to make him suffer, but I gave him my word. And if a man can’t keep his word, he’s nothing. Also, he’s the one person we have who’s got concrete information. He might not want to testify in court now but it’s still possible we could use him again at a later date.’

  ‘I think you’re being too kind to him, Ray. Plus he tried to kill both of us.’

  ‘I agree, but I’m going to let the fact that he tried to kill me slide because he’s given us a load of information that we didn’t have. And I told you, I made him a promise.’

  Dan didn’t look too convinced. ‘Well, in the spirit of generosity, I’ll let it go too. So we lose the film and make out that the gun went off by accident, yes? Olaf’s not going to be pleased.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’ll be the second kick in the balls he’s had tonight.’

  Thirty-three

  It had just turned nine a.m. when Tina walked through the front door of her cottage. The overnight ferry crossing from St Malo had been smooth and quick and she’d slept well, so as soon as she’d made a coffee she sat down in her back garden with her laptop and lit a cigarette, enjoying the morning sunshine and the view up to the hill in the distance where she sometimes liked to walk with Ray.

  She was intrigued by what she’d learned yesterday on her trip to France and wrote down what she’d got so far.

  In July 1975, Janet Sheridan, the mother of suspected serial killers Alastair and Lola Sheridan, dies in a car accident in Italy. Her sister Mary Sinn suspects that Janet was murdered by her husband. Even though the Italian police have ruled it an accident, at some point in 1976 Mary hires a private detective
to find out whether her suspicions are true. The private detective, Brian Foxley, takes the case, but if he discovers anything suspicious it’s not made public, and then in that same year he allegedly stabs his wife to death and hangs himself afterwards. The police conclude that it’s a murder/suicide and close the case.

  Tina stopped typing. So what did Mary Sinn do next? The deaths of Brian Foxley and his wife would surely have made her even more suspicious that her sister’s death was no accident. Unfortunately, Tina couldn’t ask her. Mary had died in 1992, having never recovered from the disappearance of her only child Kitty in 1990, and her husband had died in 1988, having divorced his wife some years earlier.

  Tina shook her head slowly. A whole family – mother, father, daughter – all gone. If Robert Sheridan had killed his wife and got away with it, then he was a very cruel man, and that cruelty had extended to his children, Alastair and Lola.

  The problem with a case like this was that most of the people involved in it were now dead, and any survivors were unlikely to remember enough to help. And even if she did find out what had really happened to Janet Sheridan, or the Foxleys, it wasn’t going to do much to bring Kitty Sinn’s killers to justice.

  But Tina prided herself on one thing more than any other. She wasn’t the type to give up.

  Pauline Foxley, Brian’s sister, had sent her a text message last night saying she couldn’t find a number for Brian’s old friend Ken Wignall, who’d been a police officer at the time, but apparently he was still alive and, in Pauline’s words, ‘living up round Brackley somewhere’.

  So that was her first task. Find Ken Wignall.

  It’s not hard to find anyone if you know their name. People can’t hide very easily any more, and if you have access to the number of databases Tina did in her role as a private detective it’s only a matter of time before you track someone down. In Ken Wignall’s case, it took Tina just over twenty minutes to find an address and a landline phone number for him.