Gallows Drop

by Mari Hannah

  Mari

  Hannah

  Gallows

  Drop

  MACMILLAN

  For Kate

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  Acknowledgements

  1

  Eight thirty-five a.m. October twelfth. Eerily quiet.

  Mist hung like a thick veil over the countryside, a barren wilderness unchanged for centuries. Not a dwelling or barn in sight. Nothing to suggest civilization existed close by. Except it did: in the pretty village of Elsdon two and a half miles to the north. On any other Sunday morning, Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels would have marvelled at the view, in awe of the peace and tranquillity of the spot on which she was standing. She rode up here often from her Newcastle home, respite from days spent in a murder incident room, or worse, the morgue. Apart from the rustle of wind through surrounding vegetation and occasional birdsong, there was no sound.

  It was ethereal almost . . .

  Beautiful certainly . . .

  Not today.

  The body hung from the gibbet. A grotesque sight, it swirled in the breeze, head lolled to one side, tongue protruding, arms by its side, hoisted by a heavy rope, thick with grease and covered in muck, the kind you’d see in any garage or builder’s yard. Her eyes travelled down the badly beaten torso, coming to rest on white footless tights, caked in blood.

  Tragic.

  A chill pierced Kate’s detective armour. She shivered, forcing herself to look, unable to get her head around what had gone on here or why. That wasn’t unusual. She often struggled to make sense of the grim truths she unearthed. Right now, she wished she were at headquarters, a mug of hot coffee in her hand, listening to banter between team members arriving for work: DCs Andy Brown and Lisa Carmichael sharing a joke; DS Paul Robson moaning about his kid waking him at silly o’clock. Even DC Neil Maxwell’s exploits in the love department would be welcome this morning. Ordinarily they would make her cringe.

  Oh God!

  Something she’d seen produced a sudden flashback: a distinctive skeletal tattoo depicting the bones of the victim’s hand, a clever representation of what lay beneath the skin.

  Kate shivered.

  She’d seen this kid before . . .

  A boy . . . over sixteen . . . not yet twenty-one.

  She shut her eyes, walking herself back in time to the bustle of a country show, its annual festivities in full swing. The memory was as vivid as it was recent. She saw flags and purple heather. Heard the sweet sound of Northumbrian pipes floating on the breeze. The laughter of children, the chatter of stallholders touting for business, a man’s guttural voice, muffled through a loudspeaker . . .

  ‘Well done, Becca Johnson, winner of the ladies’ fell race, joining us today from New South Wales. It’s a long way home, folks, so please put your hands together and give her a great big Northumbrian send-off . . .’

  In her head, Kate heard applause, her thoughts swinging wildly between the present and the past. It was late morning when she’d arrived at the show. That much she knew. Light drizzle hadn’t spoilt the occasion. It must’ve been almost twelve thirty in the afternoon before she’d spotted the boy with the tattooed hand larking about with mates. Or was it later?

  C’mon, think!

  Jo Soulsby had been standing next to her, clapping and smiling, happy in the knowledge that they were due some time off soon, their first holiday together in years – a chance to repair a broken relationship. Relishing the thought of an extended break – much-needed relief from a demanding job – Kate had mentally packed her suitcase and was already in the car on the way to Scotland’s east coast. She’d simply had a gut-full of murder.

  Her leave period was almost here . . .

  Almost.

  The event manager’s voice forced its way into her head. ‘Now, will the under-sixteens Cumberland wrestlers please leave the beer tent and make their way to the main sports ring.’ A mischievous chuckle filled the arena. ‘Only joking, mums and dads – they stopped drinking ten minutes ago. They’re ready to start soon, so off you go and give them your support . . .’

  Kate pulled up her sleeve to check the time. The watch she was seeing wasn’t the one on her wrist. It was the one she’d worn the day before. She tried hard to remember where the hands were pointing when the under-twenty-one competitors took to the arena.

  One o’clock?

  Two?

  The sound of an engine made her open her eyes and glance down the road to the vanishing point. A car loomed out of the mist and sped past, travelling way too fast for the icy conditions. On either side of the thin strip of tarmac, moorland grasses bent towards her in the breeze. They seemed to point accusing fingers in her direction, telling her: not again.

  The thought forced her attention to the figure dangling in front of her. The boy was one of the wrestlers she’d seen yesterday. She was sure of it. His clothes were strewn on the ground – ripped from his body by the looks of it: denim jeans, a grey hoodie, a pair of well-worn trainers, the familiar Nike flash picked out in fluorescent green. He had a few quid and a bit of loose change in his pocket, according to crime scene investigators, but no mobile or ID.

  No ID?

  He belonged to someone.

  Given the community nature of country shows it was a fair bet that his family had been in the crowd, like her, cheering him on. For all Kate knew they could have been standing next to her, smiled or spoken to her as their son squared up to his opponent. She imagined him alive, adrenalin pumping, enjoying the rush of the occasion, an opportunity to take centre stage and impress his mates – a chance to emerge victorious and claim a coveted trophy.

  Poor sod.

  ‘What’s the sketch?’ Detective Sergeant Hank Gormley stepped gingerly from the slab of stone he’d been standing on, the base of a Saxon cross that marked the highest point on the old drove road. In centuries past, it was the route down which cattle were driven to market in Hexham and Newcastle from beyond Scotland’s border twenty miles away. No less violent then than now. This was an area fought over many times.

  ‘You tell me,’ Kate said. ‘Looks like someone gave him a right going over before they finished him off. Who found him and when?’

  ‘Witness’s name is Tom Orde. He was driving by at dawn on his way to work. Thought it was someone’s idea of a joke and stopped to take a photo. Don
’t worry. He had the good sense not to share it – except with the control room. Lucky for us he hates social media.’

  Hank accessed the photos on his mobile phone, turning the device to face her. Against the grey mist, the gibbet stood out, black and forbidding. It would have drawn Orde’s eye as if to say: Look here.

  The image spoke volumes.

  Hank shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘Why bring him here to string him up? Risky strategy if you ask me. Whoever did this would have been totally exposed to anyone driving by.’

  Kate had no words.

  Looking past him, she tried to ascertain what the scene was telling her. The answer was, not much. Or was it? When the gibbet was built, hangings were a public spectacle. Was that the case here? Was there a hidden meaning behind this macabre display? A message of some sort . . . If so, who was the intended recipient?

  The police?

  Someone else?

  ‘There’s only one certainty in play here,’ she said. ‘We can safely rule out suicide.’

  ‘There must’ve been more than one involved,’ Hank said. ‘It would’ve taken some effort to hoy a rope over the crossbar at the top, let alone winch him up there. I’m not sure I could do it. Not on my own, anyway. One of the lads found vehicle tracks beyond the fence.’ He pointed to an adjoining field. ‘They appear to be fairly recent. Small wheelbase—’

  ‘Not a tractor then?’

  ‘More like a quad bike – the tracks go off down there . . .’ He indicated barbed-wire fencing that ran alongside the gibbet. Early morning dew hung off it like tiny jewels, the weight of the water making them drip onto the heather beneath. ‘It could’ve been the farmer checking his boundary. The tracks have been photographed. I’ve requested casts and sent a couple of uniforms to search for an access point.’

  ‘Ask Lisa to check out whose land it is.’

  ‘Already taken care of.’

  Kate nodded towards the CSIs. ‘Tell them to cut him down.’

  She noticed how drawn Hank was as he gave the order and took his mobile from his pocket. It worried her. Against her advice, he’d insisted on signing himself off the sick – too early, in her opinion. A villain they had chased to Spain put a bullet in his chest. She wasn’t with him when it happened but saw it later on video. Leaving him single-crewed, exposed and vulnerable, haunted her as much as the shooting.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked. ‘You look a bit pasty.’

  She nodded, the memory receding. It was a question she should be asking him. She wasn’t OK – far from it – she was still reeling from that case. Almost losing him had shocked her to the core, the experience acting as a stark reminder of how precious and fragile life was. She felt guilty too for having fallen apart in the middle of the case.

  Not like her.

  The truth of it was, her confidence had taken a dive long before they reached La Manga. Since then, details of the enquiry she’d tried so hard to forget had kept bubbling to the surface, picking away at her, a prompt, if one was needed, to take time off with Jo – if only to get her shit together.

  If Jo were here, how would she read the scene?

  Jo’s expertise as a criminal profiler had played a crucial part in some high-profile cases over the years, but it was Kate’s remit to find the person or persons responsible for this latest killing and bring them before a court of law. She was the one with a duty of care to the boy and his family, whoever they were.

  As was always the way in the first few hours of a new investigation, she had more questions than answers. Already she felt the heavy burden to provide them. Her eyes drifted back to the victim as forensic personnel moved in to cut him down. Kate felt an urgent need to get the boy out of the cold. To lay him in a warm place and cover him up. Much as she’d like to, she couldn’t do that. Protocol demanded that she step aside while others got to work.

  Standing by as her instructions were carried out, she reminded those doing the cutting to stay well away from the knot, even though, strictly speaking, it was the job of the crime scene manager to advise them. What she needed most was an estimated time of death; a preliminary examination would give her a rough timescale to work on.

  ‘What kind of moron would do such a thing to a young man in the prime of his life?’ she said under her breath.

  Hank ignored her.

  ‘Where the hell is the on-call pathologist?’ he muttered, mobile stuck to his ear, his frustration on display. ‘Goes without saying that we’d like Stanton if he’s available.’ Tim Stanton was trustworthy and expeditious. He got the job done with minimum fuss, didn’t waste time on power play. Some Home Office bods delighted in making the cops feel like idiots. Not Tim. There were more important things at stake than bigging himself up to the Murder Investigation Team.

  Hank’s face dropped as he hung up.

  Kate peered at him through rolling mist. ‘I take it he’s not available?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he said. ‘They’ve allocated the SIO.’

  ‘So why the long face?’

  He looked at her.

  ‘I’m guessing he or she doesn’t meet with your approval,’ she said.

  ‘Or the rest of the team.’

  ‘You got Cameron?’

  ‘Worse. We got Atkins – a useless dickhead no one has any time—’

  ‘James Atkins?’

  ‘The one and only.’

  The name sucked oxygen from Kate’s lungs. She focused on keeping her back ramrod straight, her shoulders squared, but inside she was fighting a wave of nausea. Thankfully, Hank was busy issuing orders and hadn’t picked up on it.

  ‘I’m stuck with him for bloody ages,’ he huffed as he turned to face her. ‘Who takes a month off? It’s not as if you’re going to the southern hemisphere, is it? That I could understand – but Crail? Blink and you’d miss it.’

  ‘I’m not off a month—’

  ‘As good as. You’ll be bored witless.’

  No she wouldn’t.

  His tirade of objections faded out of her consciousness. As if she were reading a time-slip novel, Kate felt like she’d stumbled into a previous decade, a previous self, her mind on Atkins. As a young copper operating in a predominantly male environment, she’d been forced to adopt a tough persona and quick wit in order to survive against guys like him. She’d learned to be on her guard at all times, rarely disclosing anything personal. She might have come across as cold, but she’d rather have that armour than not.

  Irrational? Probably.

  Necessary? Absolutely.

  Now her nemesis was back – persecution his specialist subject – and she wasn’t looking forward to renewing their acquaintance.

  ‘Kate?’ Hank waved a hand in front of her face. ‘You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?’

  ‘Sorry . . .’ She focused on the corpse, rather than meet his gaze. ‘You’ll have to cope without me this time. There’s no way I’m cancelling my trip . . . Jo would kill me.’

  She would too.

  Leaving Hank to the mercy of Atkins wasn’t ideal, but nothing was going to derail Kate’s leave. She had one shot to make her peace with Jo – to decide, once and for all, if they had a future together. It was down to her that their relationship had stalled in the first place. She had an awful lot to make up for.

  Hank had misread her silence. ‘You know Atkins?’ he asked.

  She ignored the question by looking the other way. The victim was being lowered with great care onto plastic sheeting, the crime scene manager instructing his crew to erect a screen so the victim couldn’t be seen from the main road. A tent wasn’t necessary unless it began to rain, and none was forecast.

  ‘You obviously have history,’ Hank pushed.

  ‘With Atkins?’ Kate shot him a disparaging look. ‘Not the kind you mean.’

  He waited for her to spill but she clammed up. DCI James Atkins was not a man she wanted to mess with, talk about, or even acknowledge. He was shit on her sh
oe. She wouldn’t waste a breath on him. Defiantly, she met Hank’s gaze, her unwavering silence piquing his interest further. She made a move for her car. Their conversation was over.

  2

  ‘Eat up, Beth. It’s getting cold.’

  It was an order rather than a request, one Beth Casey wouldn’t argue with if she knew what was good for her, except she didn’t always and that caused her problems from time to time. She glared at her dad, wishing he’d remember he wasn’t talking to his subordinates at work.

  She took a sip of water. It was tepid and tasted vile. He’d not run the tap before bringing it to the table. Even worse, the fried breakfast on her plate was swimming in fat. The smell alone made her gag.

  Holding on to her nausea, she asked to be excused, telling her father she wasn’t hungry and rarely bothered with breakfast, never before nine thirty.

  Here it comes.

  She’d seen his black look.

  ‘Eat,’ he said. ‘I’m not busting a gut to put food on the table so you can waste it.’

  Beth looked away. Her hands felt hot and clammy. It was way too early to be up and about, let alone eating. She wished she were somewhere else, anywhere but here. It would never cross his mind that she’d prefer to bunk in with a mate or do her own thing. That she’d grown up faster than most kids. She’d had to – and that was down to him. She tried telling him she was watching her weight but he didn’t listen. Once her father made up his mind, he rarely changed it.

  Unaware of her gaze, he was wolfing down his food like it was the last meal of a condemned man.

  Beth glanced around her. She hated the soulless ground-floor flat he insisted on calling an apartment. Situated on High Grove in the market town of Morpeth, it was a prestigious address, in keeping with his status, or so he thought. High Grope, her mum called it, mainly because he lived there, but also because of the top-of-the-range cars parked in the courtyard outside, bought with the sole intention of impressing the opposite sex. Their male owners, mostly bachelors, hardly spoke unless you happened to possess tits the size of Texas. Fortunately for Beth, she was born flat-chested.

  ‘Can I go to my room?’ she asked. ‘I don’t feel well.’

  ‘When your plate’s clean.’ He eyed her over a coffee mug. ‘And when it is, get dressed.’ He used his fork to point at her. ‘You can’t sit around the house all day like that.’