The Hangman's Hold

by Michael Wood

  PAEDOPHILE EXECUTED

  It was a simple headline, but it packed a punch. He didn’t even attempt to hide his grin upon seeing his byline. He’d post a copy of the paper off to his mum. She’d be very proud.

  Matilda and Adele lost the majority of the weekend to a hangover and feeling sick after the amount of sugar they had consumed. It was what they both needed: a chance for them to discuss their futures as two independent, single forty-somethings and for Adele to try and put the whole Brian Appleby incident behind her. Famous last words.

  Matilda had called DI Christian Brady and put him in charge of the investigation for the weekend. Fortunately, budget cuts came in handy on occasion and this was the perfect time to blag a couple of days of light duties. Christian kept calling, filling her in on the interviews with neighbours, but nothing dramatic required her attention. She went home on Sunday morning feeling better about herself. She hoped Adele did too.

  Matilda woke up early on Monday morning, an hour before her alarm was due to sound. She headed straight for the treadmill in the conservatory and ran 10K in just under one hour. She smiled at the time on the display, happy with how far she had come in the short space of a couple of months. Strangely, she was looking forward to the half-marathon, though she didn’t dare say anything as crazy out loud.

  She breakfasted on granary toast and a black coffee before showering. This morning, she decided to put on a bit of make-up. While Matilda sat in her dressing gown and applied a touch of eyeliner, she tried to remember the last time she had done this – probably James’s funeral. That was almost two years ago. When she was finished, she liked what she saw in the mirror. She had definable cheek bones, her face looked smoother and younger. She should do this more often.

  With a spring in her step, Matilda went into the living room, picked up her framed wedding photograph and gave James Darke a big kiss, leaving a lipstick mark behind which she refused to wipe off.

  ‘I love you, James,’ she said with confidence. There was no cracking in her voice, no tearful emotion at losing him so early into their marriage, just a determined statement of love from wife to husband.

  ‘Is everything all right, ma’am?’ DC Scott Andrews said, entering Matilda’s office.

  ‘Yes, fine. Why?’

  ‘You look different. Brighter,’ he mused.

  ‘I had a good night’s sleep. How’s Alec Routledge?’ she asked, wanting to get off the subject of her appearance.

  ‘He’s still unconscious, but Forensics have found plenty of evidence in his house. DI Brady said neighbours have identified a couple of people who were seen running away from his home. I think he’s hopeful on making an arrest within the next few hours.’

  ‘Good. I don’t think there’s a connection with Brian Appleby, but we’ll keep an open mind until it’s confirmed. Any news on who spoke to the press over the weekend?’

  ‘No. Nothing yet.’

  ‘I thought not. Any more contact from Danny Hanson?’

  ‘He’s called the switchboard a few times. And, yesterday, he accosted me in Graves Park while I was on a run.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t tell him anything.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘He’s certainly determined. I’ll give him that.’

  Scott went to leave the room, but hovered in the doorway.

  ‘Do you want to tell me something, Scott?’ she asked.

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Can I sit down?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Brian Appleby kept a diary and he put all his appointments in it like trips to the dentist and doctors, etc. On Thursday, 15th September last year, there’s a note for him to come to South Yorkshire Police and register himself as living in Sheffield.’

  ‘Oh,’ Matilda said, her interest suddenly piqued.

  ‘Aaron said yesterday that Brian was a meticulous man. It appears he really was and had intended to come to the station to report his move.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Well we don’t have him listed on our register of known sex offenders. Yet there’s nothing in his diary to say it didn’t happen, or he couldn’t make it, or he’d come on a different day.’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘OK. Leave it with me, Scott. I’ll have a think. Good work.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Matilda’s phone started to ring. She waited until Scott closed the door to her office before answering. ‘DCI Darke.’

  ‘My office, Matilda.’ The line went dead. Only ACC Masterson had that kind of control.

  ‘I’d offer you a coffee, but my machine started smoking this morning,’ Valerie said, giving a dirty look to the small coffee maker on top of a filing cabinet in the corner of the room. ‘I’m guessing you’ve seen Saturday’s edition of The Star.’

  Matilda hadn’t, but she’d read the headlines on her phone. When she saw the physical newspaper in Valerie’s hands her heart sank. She hadn’t had a good relationship with the local newspaper over the past couple of years. At every turn, they seemed to delight in pointing out her errors and questioning her ability to be leading South Yorkshire’s CID.

  Valerie slapped the newspaper down in front of Matilda. She leaned forward, refusing to pick it up, as if it was covered with some kind of flesh-eating bacteria. The bottom of the front page said the story was continued on page five. Matilda couldn’t resist. She opened the paper and continued reading.

  ‘Who the hell leaked all this?’ Valerie fumed. ‘Murder hasn’t been confirmed yet, and how did they know he was a paedophile? And where did this execution part come from?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Matilda said, reading the rest of the story. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This other story at the bottom. Are we getting a Major Crimes Unit?’

  ‘It’s being mooted.’

  ‘Why? It’s not been a year since the Murder Room was abolished.’

  ‘We have twenty-six unsolved murders on our books at present. We need a team whose sole purpose is major crimes and cold cases. Look, we’re deviating from the point. Who leaked this?’

  ‘I don’t know. I will find out though, trust me.’

  ‘When you do, I want them handed over to me,’ she said. Her wrinkled face was red with fury. ‘I will not have any officers on my force spilling information to the press for the price of a few pints.’

  As Matilda left the room she started thinking of the new faces she’d seen around the station lately. When the Murder Investigation Team was up and running, she had her own small team of faithful, dedicated officers – Sian, Aaron, Rory and Scott. When it closed and they merged with CID, she had welcomed Faith and Christian into her fold. Now there was Kesinka Rani and Ranjeet Deshwal, who she didn’t know at all. And every time she saw a uniformed officer it seemed to be a different face. Then there were a whole new bunch in the forensic team at Brian Appleby’s house. It was a fact of life that things changed, people moved on, and new ones arrived. Matilda wasn’t well known for allowing many people into her confidence. For the sake of her own sanity, she would need to adapt, trust, and bond. The very thought filled her with dread.

  Chapter Nine

  Doctor Simon Browes was a man who always had a smile on his face and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Even during the more disturbing aspects of his job. For a forensic pathologist, he was jovial, sprightly, and full of life. At thirty-five, he was younger than Adele Kean, and he oozed confidence. There wasn’t anything special in his appearance. He didn’t have film-star good looks, a chiselled jawline or a rippling torso, but his charm made him very attractive to the opposite sex.

  Usually working in Nottingham, Simon had received the call to fill in for Adele and arrived in the steel city in record time. He was dedicated to his job and would drop anything if necessary, much to the consternation of his wife and three children.

  Lucy Dauman greeted him in the pathology suite and
showed him into Adele’s impossibly tiny and cluttered office. Lucy had cleared some space on the desk for him to use to write up his reports and had found him a clean mug with no chips or cracks.

  ‘So, Victoria has headed for pastures new?’ he asked, taking off his duffel coat and looking around for a hook. He draped it over the back of his chair.

  ‘Yes. Stockport. I think she has family there.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘What about me?’ Lucy asked with a frown.

  ‘What’s your story?’

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  ‘Everyone has a story,’ he said, leaning against the desk and folding his arms. At six-foot one he towered over the five-foot five technical assistant. His steely glare was bewitching.

  ‘I don’t.’ She blushed, tucking her blonde hair behind her ears. ‘I’m twenty-six, I live with my sister, have a cat called Odie and student debts that would make Greece look well managed.’

  Simon smiled. ‘Single?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ she said slowly. She had already clocked his wedding ring and wondered where this conversation was going. She didn’t want there to be any awkwardness, particularly in such a confined space.

  The door to the autopsy suite was pulled open and Matilda Darke entered the room.

  ‘Ah, DCI Darke is here,’ Lucy said, quickly. ‘Let me introduce you.’

  Unfortunately, Lucy didn’t get a chance. She was about to open her mouth to speak when Simon overtook her and approached Matilda with large strides, holding his hand out for her to shake.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Darke, great name for a detective, pleasure to meet you finally,’ he said with a Cheshire cat smile.

  Matilda shook his hand. ‘Likewise,’ she said. ‘You are?’

  ‘Sorry, Simon Browes, forensic pathologist. I believe I’m replacing Adele Kean on this particular case. She has a personal connection, I’ve been informed.’

  ‘Well, she—’

  Simon held up his hands. ‘You don’t need to tell me, none of my business.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Shall we begin? I’ll go and scrub up. Will you be joining us, DCI Darke?’

  Dressed in ill-fitting green theatre scrubs, apron, gloves, wellington boots, hat and face mask, Matilda stepped carefully through the footbath and into the small and dimly lit post-mortem suite.

  There was one fixed table in the centre of the room. On it lay Brian Appleby covered in a white sheet. Four other people stood nearby – Simon Browes, Lucy Dauman, and two others who looked identical in their scrubs. One was a Forensic Imaging Specialist, to photograph the post-mortem at every stage; the other was the Crime Scene Manager, there to collect trace evidence. Under their protective layers, Matilda couldn’t tell who was who.

  In the corner, was a brightly lit anteroom known as the SOCO room. This was where the evidence was passed through to a waiting detective constable. In this case, Faith had made the journey from the police station. Her expression showed that she wasn’t happy about being here, but at least there was a wall of glass between her and the gruesome act of an autopsy.

  ‘What did the results of the digital autopsy show?’ Matilda asked.

  ‘We haven’t done one,’ Lucy said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I was told this was death by hanging,’ Simon said.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then we don’t need a digital autopsy. The majority of what we need to know is external. As for internal, bruising won’t show up on the scans. It will save time and money for me to perform a straight invasive post-mortem.’

  ‘What about the organs?’ Matilda asked.

  ‘What about them?’ he asked, getting slightly irate at the delay.

  ‘Don’t we need to do a digital autopsy to see their condition?’

  ‘As far as I have been made aware, there are no gunshot or stab wounds. We’re not looking for the trajectory of a bullet or a snapped-off point of a knife. May I begin?’

  ‘By all means,’ Matilda said, reluctantly stepping back so as not to get in the way. She doubted if radiologist Claire Alexander would be happy.

  Lucy removed the sheet and was presented with a body bag lying on the table. She broke the lock and opened the bag revealing a pale Brian Appleby inside.

  Matilda angled her head to one side and studied Brian’s face. She could understand why Adele had been attracted to him. He had thick, dark brown hair, a firm jawline, smooth skin and just the hint of grey in his stubble, giving him a distinguished look. Matilda had to remind herself this man had sexually assaulted three young girls. There could even have been more. He had used his charms to convince Adele he was an upstanding member of the community, just unlucky in love. What did he need to do to win over a fifteen-year-old girl?

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  Matilda looked up to see all eyes on her. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘DCI Darke, if you’re not comfortable viewing a post-mortem you don’t have to stay,’ Simon admonished.

  Matilda stole a glance at Faith in the SOCO room who was hiding a smile. ‘I’m fine. I was … thinking.’

  ‘Well, have a think about this. Your man here was strangled before he was hanged.’

  ‘Really?’ she asked. ‘He didn’t die by hanging?’

  ‘He may well have been unconscious when he was finally strung up but if you look at the rope marks on his neck, they run horizontally.’ Simon beckoned her closer to the body. ‘As you can see, the rope was tied around his neck, but it’s not a firm mark at the back. I think he was subdued in a stranglehold, so the killer would have more control.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Matilda frowned, trying, but failing, to picture the scenario.

  Simon let out a heavy sigh. ‘Imagine the killer standing behind you. He has his arm wrapped around your neck squeezing hard to render you unconscious, or on the cusp of passing out. He lets go. You fall to the floor, gasping for breath, and he throws the noose over your head and hangs you up with it. The rope cuts into your throat and goes up the side of your neck around the back of your ears. It’s a very slow and painful death.’

  ‘Right,’ was all Matilda could say. She changed her mind on what type of person could overpower someone of Brian Appleby’s build. They needn’t be stronger, taller, fitter; the element of surprise was more than enough.

  ‘Do you know the signs of ante-mortem hanging, DCI Darke?’ he asked.

  ‘The presence of ecchymosis around the ligature and the dribbling line of dried saliva down the front of his shirt,’ Matilda replied with a slight smile on her face.

  ‘Very good,’ he said, a slight condescending tone to his voice. ‘Not just a pretty face, DCI Darke,’ he added, for want of something better to say.

  Or maybe I called Adele this morning and she told me what to look for.

  ‘Judging by the crime scene photographs, this is a partial hanging as his toes were found to be touching the floor. Is that correct?’

  ‘They were just touching the ground, yes.’

  ‘The weight of the head, arms and chest provide the fatal pressure on the neck. Mr Appleby was a well-built chap. His own muscle was his killer. I’m going to cut through the rope and leave the knot intact. I’m sure your Forensics are capable of tracing the rope and finding skin samples within the fibres.’

  ‘How long would he have taken to die?’ Matilda asked.

  ‘I’m surprised you don’t already know the answer to that, DCI Darke,’ he smiled at her through his face mask, his eyes twinkled. ‘It depends on how long he was struggling with his assailant. The usual time period for death by hanging is three to five minutes. He will have lost consciousness fairly quickly. However, when you’re dying, those few minutes can seem like an eternity.’

  Dr Browes cut through the rope. ‘As I expected, a simple slip knot. A decent enough rope too, not too thick, not brittle. Your hangman wasn’t an opportunist. He, for argument’s sake let’s call him a he, knew the size of his victim and brought along the adequate tools requ
ired.’

  ‘Thirteen twists too,’ Matilda said, remembering Diana Black’s comment from Thursday morning. ‘A typical hangman’s noose, I believe.’ She was enjoying being smug.

  Simon Browes ignored her. ‘I’m going to cut him open and take a look at his organs now. Not squeamish are you, DCI Darke?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she lied.

  ‘Ms Dauman?’

  ‘Of course not,’ another lie.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Are you all right now?’ Lucy Dauman asked as she stood over DCI Darke with a glass of water.

  Matilda looked around her, wondering how she had got from the autopsy suite to Adele’s office.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. It’s been years since I’ve collapsed at a post-mortem.’

  ‘I haven’t been doing this job long. I always think I’m going to faint. I get warm and feel sick, but I’ve managed to control myself so far.’ She smiled.

  It wasn’t the sight of the scalpel cutting into the body, the smell coming from the internal organs or the sounds of ribs being broken: it was Dr Simon Browes’s haphazard manner and lack of respect for the man on his table. He ran the scalpel down Brian Appleby’s chest like he was opening a parcel from Amazon. He tore back the skin and cracked open the ribcage like a starving cannibal. The fact Matilda hadn’t eaten since first thing hadn’t helped either.

  ‘Have some more water, you still look a little flushed.’ Lucy handed Matilda the glass.

  ‘Is he always like that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Today’s the first time I’ve met him. He’s good at his job though, you can’t deny that.’

  Matilda took another large slug of water and a deep breath. ‘Is the post-mortem complete?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘I’m guessing Dr Browes is waiting for me to do the post-autopsy briefing.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘I hope he’s changed his clothes,’ she said, slowly getting up from the chair. ‘I don’t think I could stand the sight of any more blood today.’