The Hanging Time

by Bilinda P Sheehan

  She’d been wrong to assume when she’d first entered that the room belonged entirely to Sian. There was something underlying it all but she couldn’t quite put her finger on just what it might be, yet.

  Leaning over she pressed her fingers in along the edges of the mattress, finding a gap, she pushed her hand into the space; fingers scrabbling for purchase.

  When she found nothing, she straightened up again and moved over to the bedside locker.

  Dropping to her knees in front of the small cabinet, she tugged open the top drawer—careful not to disturb the contents too much—she searched it from top to bottom before moving on to the next one. When she’d completed her search of the second one, she started to close it but the drawer caught on its runner. Harriet jiggled it and the drawer slid shut with an audible click.

  Narrowing her eyes, she pulled the drawer open again and slid her fingers into the gaps along the side of the wood. It wasn’t until she felt across the underside of the wood panel that she found the reason it had refused to shut in the first place.

  Bending down, she peered up at the crisscross of silver duct-tape that made up a kind of pocket shape, the inside of which held a pink sparkly notebook.

  “Bingo!” Harriet said, tugging it free. She flipped open the hard cover and traced her fingers over the stickers that adorned the curling pages.

  Scrawled across the front were the words: This diary belongs to Sian Jones! Keep out! Or ELSE!!!

  With a smile, Harriet settled back against the bed and flipped quickly through the pages. She’d been hoping Sian was the kind of teenager who religiously kept a diary and what she found on the pages certainly seemed to suggest it. However, there was something else. Harriet turned the diary on its side and peered at the top of the book, noting the missing pages by the fraying of the spine.

  “Who else knew about your diary, Sian?” Harriet whispered to herself as she flipped open the diary again and started to read. “Did you tear the pages out yourself, or did somebody not like what you had to say?”

  “Are you talking to yourself?” Drew asked, popping his head around the door.

  “Not exactly,” Harriet said, holding the diary up triumphantly. “This might help shed some light on her state of mind on the run up to her death.”

  “What is it?”

  “Sian’s diary.”

  Hope dawned in Drew’s eyes. “Anything in there about her planning to kill herself?”

  “I’ve only just found it,” Harriet said. “And anyway, someone beat us to it. There are some pages missing.”

  A crease appeared between Drew’s brows as they snapped together. “Missing?”

  “Someone tore them out.” Harriet ran her finger along the ripped edges of the missing pages. “They weren’t exactly careful about it either.”

  “Could Sian have done it herself?”

  “Of course she could. But why bother keeping the diary if you’re just going to rip the pages out? Most teenagers try to cover up their mistakes by scribbling over the top of them, hoping to see them disappear beneath a sea of black ink.”

  “I should take it into evidence,” he said, fishing a clear plastic bag out of the inside of his jacket.

  “Can I have a copy of the pages when you’re done with them?”

  He nodded and Harriet glanced back down at the open page in front of her.

  “You asked me earlier if I thought this was a suicide.”

  The air stilled and she fought the urge to meet Drew’s gaze head on.

  “I’d be remiss to say it wasn’t a possibility that there was foul play involved.”

  “I need more than that to take to the Monk,” Drew said. “He’ll say I’m grasping at straws and wasting resources.”

  “Then I’ll talk to him,” Harriet said, making up her mind. She wasn’t sure that it was anything more than a tragedy, but the coincidences were beginning to mount and if there was one thing she didn’t believe in, it was coincidences. At least not the kind that ended with three dead teenagers.

  “I can make him understand that we need to look at this closer.” A word in the diary caught Harriet’s attention and she paused. “And if it’s not too much to ask, I’d like to meet Nigel Thompson.”

  This time she did look up at Drew.

  “You don’t think he’s responsible for this.”

  “Who knows? But I’d like to know why his name appears over and over in Sian’s diary.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Harriet held the notebook up to the light so Drew could read Sian’s angry words.

  “Aidan told me today he’d kill Nigel for me if I wanted him to and there was a part of me that wanted to say yes!”

  “Christ,” Drew said, crossing the carpet to pause next to the bed. “It’s not exactly a motive for murder. But it’s not good either.”

  Harriet let him take the diary and watched as he slipped it into the plastic evidence bag. He dated it quickly before offering a hand to help her to her feet. She hesitated for just a moment before taking his gloved hand and letting him pull her back onto her feet.

  “Good catch,” he said. “It might be something.”

  “And it might be nothing,” Harriet warned. “But I’d feel better knowing we had at least looked into all three deaths. I can’t put my finger on it but something doesn’t feel right and I’d like to know what it is.”

  “You and me both,” Drew said with a sigh. “You and me both.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “If it’s all right, I’d like to take a look at the place where she died.” Harriet addressed the back of Drew’s head as he moved down the stairs ahead of her.

  “Why?” He paused and she pulled herself up short to keep herself from running into him.

  Harriet shrugged. It was hard to explain to someone who didn’t spend half of their life living inside the heads of others.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “It could be important?”

  Harriet smiled as he turned from her with a sigh and started off down the last three steps.

  “Fine. We’ll go out around the front and into the back garden that way.”

  “What route did Sian take?”

  “I don’t know,” Drew said. “Forensics didn’t decide on a particular path, just the most likely route.”

  “And that is?”

  “Out through the back door.”

  Harriet chewed her lip and paused on the stairs. “Do you have a key for the backdoor?”

  Drew rolled his eyes and held aloft a set of keys. “I’ve got a set here. What does it matter what route she took?”

  “Retracing her steps tells me what she saw before she died.”

  “And what does that prove?”

  “Something and maybe nothing. Look, I don’t tell you how to do your job. The moment I do, feel free to tell me how to do mine.” She stared pointedly at him and he sighed but handed the keys over to her.

  “Let’s just get this over and done with.”

  Harriet nodded and took the keys. He stepped aside to let her pass on the stairs. There wasn’t a whole lot of space and Harriet was acutely aware of the heat of his body as she slipped by.

  Reaching the hallway, she peered into the darkened room that waited for her at the end of the illuminated corridor. Taking her time, so as not to miss anything, she moved into the kitchen.

  Typically, kitchens were considered the heart of the home. It was usually where a family spent the most amount of their time together. After all there was something communal in the act of eating together. Food brought people together. Without it, without nourishment, we would die.

  There was a part of us, deep down, that remembered that ancient drive. The primitive inside us all. Some scientists called it the reptile brain. It understood that food was life and that having it was the difference between living and dying.

  The first humans were hardwired to not share their life-giving food.

  However, our basic instincts evolved and the animals
that we are learned quickly that the act of sharing meant survival for the tribe. If we hunted together—if we sacrificed together—then our chances of eating multiplied exponentially and all those thousands of years ago we understood this fundamental truth.

  The sharing of food was sacred. Sitting down to break bread with your brother was an act of community, a coming together. Religions traded on this knowledge and Christianity had certainly gotten it right when they used the iconography of Christ breaking bread with his disciples as a means to bring their flock together.

  Whether we admitted it or not the sharing of food was vitally important and so without realising it our kitchens became the hub for this sacred act.

  As she stepped into the kitchen, Harriet could almost imagine it as the warm and welcoming room Sian would have known it to be.

  Three of the walls were painted a warm latté. The largest of the four was painted in what could only be described as raspberry. It was this wall that was dominated by the large family table which was piled high with papers and books.

  As she stood there in the fading evening light, Harriet could picture the family sitting together; talking over one another in an attempt to be heard. And in the middle of it all was Sian.

  “Did you feel they weren’t listening to you?”

  Harriet moved further into the kitchen and noted the large calendar near the back door. There were all kinds of notes and dates circled. Letters dotted the surface and it took Harriet a moment to work out this special code that the family had shared.

  PJ stood for Paul Jones, Sian’s younger brother. CT was her baby sister. JT was obviously Janet, her mother. NT was Nigel. Harriet scanned the letters and found only one instance of SJ.

  There was so much going on with the rest of the family but Sian was the only odd duck in the group.

  “Were you alone amongst them, Sian? Did you feel neglected? Ignored, perhaps?”

  “Do you always talk to yourself like this?” Drew’s voice broke through Harriet’s concentration making her jump. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “You didn’t,” she said, sounding flustered. “I was just miles away.”

  “I can see that.” He paused and Harriet could almost see the wheels inside his head ticking over. “So, do you always talk to yourself out loud like that?”

  “Sometimes,” she said. “It depends. I’m so used to having someone to ask the questions too. But in this case, I can’t ask Sian. It still helps to say it aloud.”

  He looked unconvinced. Obviously, he hadn’t exaggerated when he described the work she did as psycho-babble bullshit.

  “Are you learning anything?”

  Harriet indicated the calendar with a tilt of her head. “Everyone else is on here multiple times,” she said. “Everyone else’s life is busy and full. After school activities, doctor’s appointments, hairdressers, dentists. You name it, they’re doing it.”

  “But that’s typical for a busy family, isn’t it?”

  Harriet nodded. “Yeah, except Sian is only on there once.”

  “So maybe she didn’t need to go to the doctor, or dentist?”

  Harriet could tell that Drew wasn’t understanding the importance of what she was trying to say.

  “According to the list that was the one thing Sian was going to do this month. She had an appointment to see the family GP on Wednesday afternoon at half-four. Aside from that, there was nothing else.”

  Harriet sighed and let her fingers trace over Sian’s initials.

  “As though she wasn’t really a part of the family at all.”

  Realisation dawned on Drew’s face and he moved over to look at the calendar a little more closely.

  “Everything in this house set her apart from the others. She was an outsider in her own home.”

  “Are you saying they deliberately isolated their own daughter?”

  Harriet shook her head. “I’m not saying that at all. There’s a certain amount of isolation bound to happen with all teenagers. In most cases it’s cause is combined; the teenager pulls away and the family adjusts without them.”

  “And here?”

  “It feels a little more extreme here. And if this isn’t a suicide then whoever murdered Sian knew she was an outsider in her own home. They knew it and took advantage of it.”

  Drew sucked a deep breath in through his teeth. “Do you think the same is possible for the others?”

  Harriet nodded. “If it’s the same person involved in all three cases then I would look for telltale signs that they were isolated from their loved ones too.”

  Drew nodded, pursing his lips. Harriet took the opportunity to jiggle the back door handle and it popped open easily.

  “I thought you said the family hadn’t been back since Sian’s death?” Harriet said, as she paused with her hand on the door.

  “They haven’t. Why?”

  “Then one of your people must have left the door unlocked when they closed up. Not exactly the smartest thing to do if we’re thinking this is a murder and not a—,” Harriet cut off as she noticed the pinched expression on Drew’s face. “What is it?”

  “I locked up,” he said. “That’s why I have the keys. And that door was definitely locked when I left here.”

  “Maybe you were mistaken. I mean it must have been a shock—,”

  “And what?” He snapped, his face contorting in rage. “You think I left the door open on purpose?”

  “That’s not what I was about to say.” Harriet tried to keep her voice level.

  “Well that’s what it sounds like to me. You’re accusing me of incompetence.”

  “I’m saying it’s easy enough to make a mistake in such an emotional case, DI Haskell. I’m not accusing you of incompetence at all.”

  “The door was locked. I checked and double checked.”

  “Well then how do you explain the door being open?”

  “Perhaps the family did come back?”

  “Well before you decide to snap at anyone else, I’d suggest you check with the family. Otherwise we’ve got a situation on our hands here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Harriet sighed and pushed her hand back through her hair. “It’s not uncommon for murderers to return to the scene of their crime to—" She gestured to the air as though for inspiration. “—re-live it.”

  “They’d need to have a key,” Drew said, his face turning white. “Shit. We’ve been through here. If the killer did return, they might have left prints or some other forensic traces.”

  “I don’t think so.” Harriet stepped out through the backdoor and surveyed the garden. The trees that lined the bottom fence swayed rhythmically in the sharp breeze.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “If they were going to leave traces, they’d have done so when they murdered Sian. With their adrenaline pumping they were most at risk for making a critical mistake. If you didn’t find anything unusual then, you’re definitely not going to find it now.”

  Drew swore under his breath as Harriet made her way onto the deck that sat outside the backdoor.

  Was this the last thing Sian saw? Had she planned her end out here; staring up at the tall trees that protected the house? Was she lulled by the rhythmic creak of the limbs as they reached toward the sky and danced in the wind?

  Or had someone else stood here and, mesmerised by the sheer force of nature, decided to act? Had they watched Sian? Stalked her, even? And seeing her unhappiness, had they pounced?

  “Was it mercy, or just your own perverse desire to inflict your power and control over others that drove you to this?”

  “It was the third from the left,” Drew said from close behind her. This time Harriet had heard him approach and so she only flinched inwardly.

  Her gaze snagged on the tree he’d pointed to and she turned to stare back at the house.

  “That’s Sian’s window up there, isn’t it?” Harriet pointed to the dormer style window above their heads.

/>   “Yeah. Looks like it.”

  “Did they watch her from there and that’s why they chose that window?” Harriet’s breath caught in the back of her throat as she let her gaze drop to the kitchen window.

  “Wait, who found Sian’s body first?”

  Drew tugged a notebook from his pocket and flicked through pages upon pages of illegible handwriting. “According to the interview Nigel said he was the first to find her.”

  “Did he say how he found her?”

  Drew cocked an eyebrow in Harriet’s direction. “I don’t understand?”

  “Well did he check her room, or did he come down to the kitchen and spot her from the window?”

  “I never asked him.”

  Harriet nodded and moved back toward the house. She pressed her back to the wall, imaging the glass between her and the outside wall.

  “I think he saw her through the window.” Harriet lowered her voice and crossed the garden to the spot directly in front of the tree. She turned and gazed back up at the house. “They placed her here deliberately, in full view of anyone in the kitchen.”

  “They wanted her found.”

  Harriet shrugged. “I think they wanted to shock. To wound. Perhaps Sian wasn’t the only victim in all of this. Who was usually the first one up in the mornings?”

  “Nigel,” Drew said without hesitation. “That’s how I know he was the first to find her. I asked him who was usually first up.”

  Harriet nodded. “Then the person we’re looking for knew all of this. They took their time, planning their crime. Observing and watching the family.

  “The coroner found no defensive wounds on Sian, did he?”

  Drew shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “So, she didn’t put up a fight and that’s unusual.”

  “I’m just going to play devil’s advocate here for a moment,” Drew said. “If someone has made up their mind to end it, why would you expect to find defensive wounds on them?”

  “Because people fight. It’s instinctual. Even those who plan to commit suicide fight back. Their bodies don’t know any better. Long after they pass out, their bodies writhe and fight until the bitter end. We’re programmed for survival and Sian was a young healthy teenage girl. Finding nothing on her tells me she wasn’t the one in control.”