Hangman

by Daniel Cole

  Wolf took a step back from the front door when he heard running footsteps from inside. A young woman burst out through the open doorway, dropped to her knees and then vomited in the corridor in front of him. He waited politely for an opportune moment to ask her to move when another set of footsteps approached. He instinctively took another step back before Detective Sergeant Emily Baxter came skidding into the corridor.

  “Wolf! I thought I saw you lurking out here,” she roared across the hushed hallway. “Seriously, how cool is this?”

  She glanced down at the woman retching on the floor between them.

  “Could you puke somewhere else, please?”

  The woman sheepishly crawled out of their way. Baxter grabbed Wolf by the arm and excitedly led him into the apartment. Nearly a decade his junior, Baxter was almost as tall as him. Her dark-brown hair turned black under the gloom of the unimpressive entrance hall and, as always, she wore dark make-up that made her attractive eyes appear abnormally large. Dressed in a fitted shirt and smart trousers, she looked him up and down with a mischievous grin.

  “No one told me it was a mufti day.”

  Wolf refused to rise to the bait, knowing that she would quickly lose interest if he only remained quiet.

  “How pissed is Chambers gonna be he’s missed this?” she beamed.

  “Personally I’d take the Caribbean cruise over a dead body too,” said Wolf, bored.

  Baxter’s huge eyes widened in surprise: “Simmons didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  She led him through the crowded apartment, which had been dimly lit in the glow of a dozen strategically placed torches. Although not overpowering, the smell grew steadily stronger. Wolf could tell that the fetid source was close by because of the number of flies zipping about feverishly above his head.

  The flat had high ceilings, contained no furniture, and was considerably larger than Wolf’s own, but was no more pleasant. The yellowed walls were peppered with holes through which the antiquated wiring and dusty insulation bled freely on to the bare floor. Neither the bathroom suite nor the kitchen looked to have been updated since the 1960s.

  “Tell me what?” he asked her again.

  “This is the one, Wolf,” said Baxter, ignoring the question. “A once-in-a-career case.”

  Wolf was distracted, mentally sizing up the second bedroom and wondering whether he was being overcharged for his poxy box of a flat across the road. They rounded the corner into the crowded main room and he automatically scanned the floor, between the assorted equipment and pairs of legs, for a body.

  “Baxter!”

  She stopped and turned to him impatiently.

  “What didn’t Simmons tell me?”

  Behind her, a group of people, standing in front of the large floor-to-ceiling window that dominated the room, moved aside. Before she could answer, Wolf had stumbled away, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above them: the one light source that the police had not brought with them: a spotlight on a dark stage . . .

  The naked body, contorted into an unnatural pose, appeared to be floating a foot above the uneven floorboards. It had its back to the room, looking out through the enormous window. Hundreds of almost invisible threads held the figure in place, which, in turn, were anchored by two industrial metal hooks.

  It took Wolf a moment to identify the most unnerving feature of the surreal scene before him: the black leg attached to the white torso. Unable to comprehend what he was seeing, he pushed his way further into the room. As he drew closer, he noticed the huge stitches binding the mismatched body parts together, the skin tented where the material punctured through: one black male leg, one white; a large male hand on one side, a tanned female counterpart on the other; tangled jet-black hair hanging unsettlingly over a pale, freckled, slender, female torso.

  Baxter was back at his side, clearly relishing the look of revulsion on his face:

  “He didn’t tell you . . . One dead body—six victims!” she whispered gleefully in his ear.

  Wolf’s gaze dropped to the floor. He was standing on the shadow cast by the grotesque corpse and, in this simplified state, the proportions appeared even more jarring, gaps of light distorting the joins between the limbs and body.

  “What the hell are the press doing out there already?” Wolf heard his chief shout at no one in particular. “I swear, this department has got more leaks than the Titanic. If I find anyone talking to them, they’ll be suspended!”

  Wolf smiled, knowing full well that Simmons was only play-acting the part of the stereotypical boss. They had known one another for over a decade and, until the Khalid incident, Wolf had considered him a friend. Beneath the forced bravado, Simmons was in fact an intelligent, caring, and competent police officer.

  “Fawkes!” Simmons strode over to them. He often struggled not to address his staff by their nicknames. He was almost a foot shorter than Wolf, was now in his fifties, and had developed a managerial belly. “Nobody told me it was a mufti day.”

  Wolf heard Baxter snigger. He decided to adopt the same tactic that he had used on her by ignoring the comment. After an uncomfortable silence, Simmons turned to Baxter.

  “Where’s Adams?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Adams. Your new protégé.”

  “Edmunds?”

  “Right. Edmunds.”

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  “Edmunds!” Simmons bellowed across the busy room.

  “Work with him a lot now?” asked Wolf quietly, unable to hide the hint of jealousy in his voice, which made Baxter smile.

  “Babysitting duty,” she whispered. “He’s the transfer from Fraud, only seen a few dead bodies. He might even cry later on.”

  The young man bumbling through the crowd towards them was only twenty-five years old, stick-thin and immaculately presented, apart from his scruffy strawberry-blond hair. He was holding a notebook at the ready and smiled eagerly at the chief inspector.

  “Where are forensics up to?” asked Simmons.

  Edmunds flicked back a few pages in his book.

  “Helen said that her team still haven’t found a single drop of blood anywhere in the apartment. They have confirmed that all six body parts are from different victims and were roughly amputated, probably with a hacksaw.”

  “Did Helen mention anything we didn’t already know?” spat Simmons.

  “Actually, yes. Due to the absence of blood and lack of constriction of the blood vessels around the amputation wounds . . .”

  Simmons rolled his eyes and checked his watch.

  “. . . we can be certain that the parts were removed post-mortem,” finished Edmunds, looking pleased with himself.

  “That’s some fantastic police work, Edmunds,” said Simmons sarcastically before shouting out: “Could someone please cancel the milk carton ad for the man missing a head? Thank you!”

  Edmunds’ smile vanished. Wolf caught Simmons’ eye and smirked. They had both been on the receiving end of similar putdowns in their time. It was all part of the training.

  “I just meant that whoever the arms and legs belonged to are definitely dead as well. They will know more once they get the body back to the lab,” Edmunds mumbled self-consciously.

  Wolf noticed the reflection of the body in the dark windows. Realising that he had not yet seen it from the front, he moved round to look.

  “What have you got, Baxter?” asked Simmons.

  “Not a lot. Slight damage to the keyhole, possibly picked. We’ve got officers questioning the neighbours outside, but so far no one’s seen or heard a thing. Oh, and there’s nothing wrong with the electrics—every bulb in the apartment’s been removed except for the one above the victim . . ., like it’s on show or something.”

  “What about you Fawkes, any ideas? Fawkes?”

  Wolf was gazing up at the body’s dark-skinned face.

  “I’m sorry, are we boring you?”

  “No. Sorry. Even in this heat, this thing
’s only just beginning to stink, which means the killer either murdered all six victims last night, which seems unlikely, or he’s had the bodies on ice.”

  “Agreed. We’ll get someone to look into recent break-ins at cold-storage units, supermarkets, restaurants, anywhere with an industrial-sized freezer room,” said Simmons.

  “And see if any of the neighbours heard drilling,” said Wolf.

  “Drilling is a reasonably common sound,” blurted Edmunds, who regretted the outburst when three pairs of angry eyes turned on him.

  “If this is the killer’s masterpiece,” continued Wolf, “there’s no way they would risk it dropping out of the ceiling and just being a pile of bits by the time we got here. Those hooks will be drilled into load-bearing metal beams. Someone should have heard it.”

  Simmons nodded: “Baxter, get someone on it.”

  “Chief, could I borrow you a moment?” asked Wolf as Baxter and Edmunds moved away. He pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and lifted a handful of knotted black hair away from the gruesome figure’s face. It was male. The eyes were open, the expression unnervingly calm considering the victim’s clearly violent end. “Look familiar?”

  Simmons walked round to join Wolf by the chilly window and crouched down to better examine the dark face. After a few moments, he shrugged.

  “It’s Khalid,” said Wolf.

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Is it?”

  Simmons looked up again at the lifeless face. Gradually his expression of scepticism transformed into one of deep concern.

  “Baxter!” he shouted. “I need you and Adams—”

  “Edmunds.”

  “. . . over at Belmarsh Prison. Ask the governor to take you directly to Naguib Khalid.”

  “Khalid?” Baxter asked in shock, involuntarily glancing at Wolf.

  “Yes, Khalid. Phone me the moment you’ve seen him alive. Go!”

  Wolf looked out towards his apartment block opposite. Many of the windows remained dark, others contained excited faces filming the spectacle below on their mobile phones, presumably hoping to capture something grisly to entertain their friends with in the morning. Apparently they were unable to see into the dimly lit murder scene that they would otherwise have had front row seats for.

  Wolf was able to see into his own flat, a few windows over. In his hurry, he had left all of the lights on. He spotted a cardboard box, at the bottom of a pile, with the words “Trousers and Shirts” scrawled across it.

  “Aha!”

  Simmons walked back over to Wolf and rubbed his tired eyes. They stood quietly, either side of the suspended body, watching the first signs of morning pollute the dark sky. Even over the noise of the room, they could hear the peaceful sound of birdsong outside.

  “So, most disturbing thing you’ve ever seen then?” Simmons joked wearily.

  “A close second,” replied Wolf without taking his eyes off the growing patch of deep blue sky.

  “Second? Do I even want to know what tops this—this thing?” Simmons took another reluctant look at the hanging collection of dismemberments.

  Wolf gently tapped the figure’s outstretched right arm. The palm looked pale in comparison to the rest of the tanned skin and the perfectly manicured purple nails. Dozens of silk-like threads supported the outstretched hand and a dozen more held the extended index finger in place.

  He checked that no one was listening in to their conversation and then leaned across to whisper to Simmons.

  “It’s pointing into my apartment window.”

  Author Q&A

  1. Baxter takes center stage in this novel. How has she changed since the events in Ragdoll?

  Hangman picks up the story almost eighteen months after the Ragdoll murders. In that time, Baxter has made valiant efforts to get on with both her personal life and her career; although, it becomes apparent that these attempts to forget about Wolf are in fact driven by him and the void that he has left in her life. She’s as irritable and blunt as ever, and yet her friendship with Edmunds has somehow blossomed into something special.

  2. Tell us about Rouche. Was it hard introducing a new lead character? How did his character develop?

  Writing Hangman, I realized that these are actually Baxter’s books. She’s the real lead. Ragdoll was Wolf’s story and Hangman may be driven by Rouche and his secrets, but Baxter is the constant. She’s the one getting swept up in these characters’ imploding lives.

  Rouche himself is a very different protagonist to Wolf. He is affable and relaxed, spiritual and selfless . . . and perhaps just a little bit odd.

  3. Much of the action is set in New York, with those dramatic set pieces. How much research did you do? Did you visit?

  I have been to New York in the past but it was important to me to make it feel as though Baxter was a tourist in an unfamiliar place. Truth be told, when I first started thinking about writing a sequel to Ragdoll, I decided from the outset to make life as hard for myself as possible: I wanted to know whether I could drop my main character, do a cringe-worthy relocation to New York City, and still write a book that was better than the first.

  4. How hard was it to write a story that connected to Ragdoll but also entertained new readers too?

  Very hard. I am writing these (first?) three Ragdoll books as a trilogy. They are all interconnected and overlap and reference each other. There’s no way to get round the fact that people will get far more out of the book if they’ve read Ragdoll but it does work as a self-contained story as well. It’s a difficult balance to bring new readers up to speed, remind casual readers of Ragdoll of certain things, while not alienating the fans who already know these characters inside out. That is, of course, the dilemma faced by every sequel, of any medium, ever made.

  5. Humor plays a large part in Ragdoll. How do you weave this humor into Hangman?

  In exactly the same way. I’d say there’s even more humor in Hangman, but I suppose there would have to be to balance out the darkness and despair. I really put these characters through the wringer in this book but that just makes those sparks of genuine warmth and camaraderie and affection all the brighter.

  6. You write cinematically. Are you inspired by film and TV?

  I am and I don’t think that these books would work otherwise. I don’t like to get too bogged down by the constraints of reality and I feel that although gruesome, those are moments of “movie gore.” The entire point of these books is to entertain, not to upset or disturb anybody.

  7. How has life changed for you since Ragdoll? What are the highlights of being a successful author? Any drawbacks?

  Life’s been great, thank you. Cliché answer—but I’ve met so many really great people ever since this all started, and I mean that—like genuinely only one person who I thought was a bit of a nob . . . Well, maybe two. Definitely no more than three. But that’s pretty good going for a year and a half of being a writer. I get to travel, which is fantastic. The downside being that after getting flown out, put up in a hotel, fed, and watered, people tend to expect me to do some form of public speaking at the end of it, which never ceases to strike me as unreasonable.

  8. Have you started book three? Do you know how the series will end?

  I have started book three. As mentioned earlier, I’ve planned these books as a trilogy so do actually have a pretty good idea of how I want it to end. Beyond the trilogy, who knows?

  About the Author

  DANIEL COLE is the author of Ragdoll, an international bestseller published in nearly forty countries. He lives in Bournemouth, England.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Also by Daniel Cole

  Ragdoll

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
<
br />   HANGMAN. Copyright © 2018 by Daniel Cole. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Cover design by Daniel Rembert

  Marionette © Urfinguss/iStock/Getty Images

  Originally published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by Trapeze.

  FIRST U.S. EDITION

  Digital Edition JULY 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-265400-7

  Version 06262018

  Print ISBN: 978-0-06-265398-7

  About the Publisher

  Australia

  HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.

  Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street

  Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia

  www.harpercollins.com.au

  Canada

  HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower

  22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  M5H 4E3

  www.harpercollins.ca

  India

  HarperCollins India

  A 75, Sector 57

  Noida

  Uttar Pradesh 201 301

  www.harpercollins.co.in

  New Zealand

  HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand

  Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive

  Rosedale 0632

  Auckland, New Zealand

  www.harpercollins.co.nz

  United Kingdom

  HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF, UK