The Hangman's Hold

by Michael Wood

  ‘I’ve phoned Adele,’ Sian said. ‘She’s on her way over.’

  ‘Good. Tell me about the text messages.’

  Matilda picked up her iPhone from the coffee table and selected the messages. While she had been in the kitchen and making her gruesome discovery, she had received twelve texts, all from the same sender – the killer. She handed the phone to the ACC who scanned the screen. He was taunting her about the serial killer news story. He seemed to be relishing the attention. He alerted her to a third victim in her garden.

  ‘I’m guessing you disturbed him. You were probably meant to get the messages and look out of your window and see the mannequin hanging. It makes me wonder what else he had planned,’ Valerie said, not taking her eyes from the phone.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘He was texting you while he was setting up his display. He wanted you outside. Why?’

  ‘To see my expression, I’m guessing. If he wanted to attack me he could have done.’

  ‘When you went around to the back of the house, did you leave the door open?’

  Matilda thought. ‘I’m not sure. I … probably.’

  ‘Has anything been taken?’ Valerie asked, looking around.

  ‘No. Nobody came into my house. I wasn’t out for more than a couple of minutes. I saw the thing hanging from the tree, screamed, then ran in.’

  ‘Matilda?’ Adele’s worried voice was heard from the entrance of the house.

  ‘In the living room,’ Matilda said.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said, charging into the lounge and pulling her best friend into a bear hug. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit shaken.’

  ‘Go and pack a bag. You’re coming home with me.’

  ‘Matilda,’ Valerie stopped the DCI. ‘Tomorrow morning, I want you in my office first thing. This has gone too far. You can’t solve this on your own.’

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘This is not open for debate, Matilda.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  Matilda had stayed over at Adele’s on many occasions in the past and had enjoyed a comfortable sleep in the spare room. Last night, however, she couldn’t sleep at all. The thought of someone watching her, being so close to her and not knowing who it was, frightened her. She eventually fell asleep just after three o’clock and was woken at six by Adele.

  Matilda knocked on Valerie’s door and was asked to enter straight away. Wearing yesterday’s clothes, Matilda saw the ACC and James Dalziel waiting for her. The strong smell of coffee, mixed with whatever fragrance James had liberally sprayed, filled the room. Valerie was back in her regular uniform. It had been strange seeing her in casual clothing last night, she’d almost looked taller.

  ‘Matilda, how are you? Did you sleep well?’ James said, just as Valerie opened her mouth to ask the same questions.

  ‘Yes. Fine thanks,’ she lied.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Valerie said as she went to pour a coffee for Matilda.

  James offered a sympathetic smile to Matilda. She smiled back but looked away quickly. Every night she wished her husband was back with her. Now it was like her wish had come true, but in a twisted David Lynch kind of way.

  ‘I don’t think we need to worry about a member of your team leaking information to the press,’ James said. ‘It’s more likely to be the killer. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.’

  ‘That is a relief,’ Matilda said. ‘I didn’t think any of my officers would have spoken to the press, but I was certainly looking at one or two of them differently, and I didn’t like that.’

  ‘I can understand. Now, about last night …’ James said, leaving the rest of his comment unsaid.

  ‘I appreciate you’re both concerned, I am, too. However, I’m not going to fall apart. I’m stronger than you realize,’ she said, directing the final comment to the ACC.

  ‘James was questioning his original profile before you arrived, Matilda.’

  ‘I didn’t actually create a profile,’ James corrected her. ‘I’m in two minds as to whether the killer is being a vigilante and targeting the law, or if he’s targeting you directly, Matilda.’

  ‘W-why would he do that?’ she stuttered, taking a long sip of coffee. She had refused breakfast at Adele’s. Sitting in the office, strong caffeine on an empty stomach, she was starting to get the shakes.

  ‘You’ve arrested a large number of people in your career, some of them you’re going to piss off. Who has a grudge against you?’

  ‘I’ve put away many murderers in my time, most are still behind bars – I hope so anyway. I don’t think anyone hates me enough to kill two people.’

  ‘Matilda.’ Valerie leaned forward on her desk and glanced at James. They had obviously been talking at length about her. ‘The killer is communicating with you. He’s taunting you. From his point of view, he has a very good reason for doing this. I need you to think about who that might be.’

  Matilda thought. She didn’t like where this was going – back to the sad detached house in Worrall. Then she wondered if this had something to do with Carl Meagan, then dismissed it. Not everything was about Carl Meagan, no matter what her disturbed mind assumed.

  ‘What are we doing about finding this killer?’ Matilda asked, louder than she had expected. She could feel a rage beginning to boil inside her.

  ‘Like I said, I’m wondering if the killer is targeting you for a specific reason. What I cannot put together is the victims and you. Why these victims? Do you know any of them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you work on any of their cases?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, what could the killer be trying to say to you by these particular victims?’

  ‘Isn’t that a question we should be asking you?’ Matilda asked James. She looked to Valerie and raised her eyebrows. I said we didn’t need a bloody profiler.

  ‘I’m going to need more time,’ he replied.

  ‘Of course you do. More time and maybe another victim or two. Meanwhile the press is out there saying there’s a serial killer on the loose and you’ve got more than half a million people living in Sheffield scared. Not to mention me being spied on in my own home. No rush, you take your time.’

  Matilda slammed her coffee cup down on Valerie’s desk and stormed out of the room, leaving the door open.

  ‘Walpole, Compton, Pelham, Pelham-Holles, Cavendish, Pelham-Holles, Stuart, Grenville, Wentworth …’

  Matilda uttered the names of the British prime ministers under her breath then stopped herself.

  ‘Shit!’ she called out, kicking a vending machine. She had been told to recite the names of prime ministers by her former therapist, Sheila Warminster, whenever she was having an anxiety attack in order to regain control of her breathing. She thought she was better. She thought she was past this. Now her anxiety had reared its ugly head once again and she was back to a time when her husband had recently died and the whole country was blaming her for Carl Meagan going missing. So much for fucking therapy.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Following a thousand and one questions by people asking how she was, Matilda went into her untidy office and closed the door firmly behind her. She didn’t know whether to burst into tears or scream. By the end of the day she expected to do one of them in front of her team and that would lose all the respect she had spent years building up.

  ‘Any chance of a word?’ Christian asked, knocking on the glass door.

  ‘Of course, Christian. Come on in.’

  ‘There are rumours you’re being targeted by the killer. Are you still in charge of this investigation or is someone else being drafted in?’

  Matilda blew out her cheeks. ‘Until I’m told otherwise I’m still leading this. Why?’

  ‘Well,’ he began, sitting down, ‘I’ve spoken to Kate Stephenson, she’s the editor of The Star. Apparently one of her journalists has had a phone call from someone claiming to be the killer and wants to come in for a cha
t. She’s phoned several times already this morning.’

  ‘Will you do me a favour?’ Matilda eventually asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I haven’t eaten since last night. Could you get me a bacon sandwich and a strong cup of tea? Then give me ten minutes and I’ll be fighting fit.’ She wondered if she was trying to convince Christian or herself.

  Christian smiled. ‘Coming right up.’ He left the office, closing the door carefully behind him.

  Matilda turned in her chair to look out of the window at the uninspiring view of the Sheffield landscape. Bloody hell the steel city had some ugly buildings. With her back to the main incident room she started to cry. They weren’t tears of sadness or fear, they were tears of anger.

  Aaron and Faith once more pulled up outside the depressing-looking house in Norfolk Park, home to Clive and Amanda Branson. Neither of the detectives were looking forward to this interview. They had received a frosty reception last time and after Clive’s revelation that he and his wife were living on what he could steal from the back of supermarkets, a great deal of sympathy was felt for the parents who were still grieving for the loss of their only child twenty years ago. Nobody wished to put them under more stress.

  ‘What do you want?’ Clive Branson asked when he opened the door. His greeting was cold and laced with tension.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you again, Mr Branson, would it be possible for us to have another quick word?’ Aaron asked, putting on his most placatory voice.

  It was obvious from his taut facial expression that Clive was on the brink of erupting. He shook his head and eventually relented, stepping back from the doorway and allowing both detectives to enter.

  It was colder inside than it was outside, and Faith shivered. The hallway was dark and dingy. There was a filthy mirror on the wall, peeling wallpaper, and the surrounds of door handles and light switches were dark with years of dirty fingerprints. The Bransons had no pride left. They didn’t seem to care how they lived. It was as if they were merely existing.

  Amanda Branson was sitting in an armchair by the fire. She was knitting and didn’t drop a stitch as she looked up and rolled her eyes at the unwanted visitors.

  Clive sat in his usual armchair. There was no other seating left for the detectives. They were not being encouraged to stay long.

  ‘I’m sorry to call unannounced but I was wondering if I could ask you some more questions about the murder of Joe Lacey?’

  ‘I don’t know how you have the nerve to mention that man’s name in my home,’ Amanda said, almost under her breath. The speed of her knitting had increased.

  ‘Just say what you want to say then leave us in peace,’ Clive said.

  ‘I’m not here to accuse you of his murder, Mrs Branson. I want to know if you are aware of anyone who may have wanted him dead; someone connected to your daughter, perhaps.’

  Amanda stopped knitting.

  ‘What?’ Clive asked, struggling to keep hold of his pent-up aggression.

  Aaron struggled. ‘Is there anyone, apart from yourselves, who took Rebecca’s death particularly badly who you think may be seeking retribution?’

  ‘There is no one else,’ Clive said slowly and clearly. ‘There’s just me and Amanda. It’s always been just me and Amanda for twenty years. What are you getting at?’

  ‘We’re trying to find a motive for Joe’s death and—’

  ‘And you want our help,’ Clive finished Aaron’s sentence. There was a smirk on his face. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve. Where were you when Rebecca was killed, eh? Where were you when it came to the aftercare? What kind of support do you think we got from South Yorkshire Police? None. Absolutely none. You were fucking useless. If you think I’m going to do your work for you, you’ve another thing coming. Now, go on, get out. I don’t want you bothering me or my wife ever again. Go on. OUT!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Aaron said quickly. ‘I’m sorry to have caused—’

  ‘Just go,’ Amanda said.

  Aaron and Faith backed out of the living room. They hurried to the front door and were soon in the cold fresh air of a March afternoon. They both took deep breaths.

  ‘That poor couple,’ Faith said.

  Aaron remained silent, his face a map of worry.

  ‘Aaron, you OK?’

  ‘Me and Katrina have taken years to conceive. What if anything happens to our child? Will we turn into the Bransons?’

  ‘Oh Aaron,’ Faith said, reaching up and putting a comforting arm around his broad shoulders. ‘You can’t think like that or you’ll end up a nervous wreck.’

  ‘You want to protect your kids, to look after them and keep them safe, but eventually you have to give them some freedom to go out into the world on their own. What happens if they don’t come back?’

  ‘Aaron, I’m sure every new parent thinks that at some point. It’s called being responsible. You and Katrina are going to love your baby and he or she will grow up knowing what’s right and wrong. You’ll be great parents. I know it.’

  Faith gave Aaron her most sympathetic smile. He smiled back, though he looked more painful than reassured.

  ‘Do you ever think about having kids?’

  ‘Eventually. One day. Come on, let’s get back to work and you can buy me a coffee.’ She quickly headed to the car.

  As they drove away, Faith looked at the Branson’s house and saw Clive staring at them from the living room.

  ‘I knew it would have been a waste of time coming here,’ she said. ‘Why are we putting so much effort into this? A paedophile and a drunk driver have been killed. Whoever did it has done the world a favour.’ She folded her arms and turned to look out of the window at the depressing Sheffield suburb.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Valerie Masterson had stepped out from behind her desk and rearranged the small seating area to accommodate the editor of the local newspaper, Kate Stephenson, Danny Hanson, James Dalziel, Matilda and herself. As Valerie approached carrying a small tray of coffees, she noticed how uncomfortable they all seemed.

  Matilda looked tired sitting in the middle. To her left was James Dalziel who was wearing a very expensive black suit. Matilda kept stealing glances at him, but she always appeared awkward in his presence. Was there something going on between them? Surely not, Valerie thought. She knew how devoted Matilda was to her dead husband. To Matilda’s right was the painfully young Danny Hanson. He seemed uncomfortable being among people higher up the chain of command than he was. He probably never thought he’d be having coffee with the editor, the ACC and DCI of South Yorkshire Police, and a highly respected criminal psychologist – not so early in his career anyway. Then there was Kate Stephenson – a tall, stylish woman in her late thirties. She was wearing a long black coat and had shoulder-length flowing dark brown hair and bright red power heels. She didn’t look uncomfortable at all. She had no reason to be; there was a serial killer in Sheffield and he was telling his story direct to one of her journalists.

  ‘Kate, Danny, thank you for coming in to see us,’ Valerie said, placing the tray on the coffee table in front of them and telling them to help themselves. She took a seat. ‘You could so easily have just published the stories and made life very difficult for us, but I appreciate you being so open.’

  ‘You’re very welcome, Valerie. As you know The Star is a great supporter of the police. If there is any way in which we can help your investigation, we will do so.’

  Matilda bit her tongue hard. The placatory sentiment was almost embarrassing.

  ‘Now, Danny, tell the ACC what’s been happening,’ Kate said.

  At the mention of his name, the nerves struck Danny. He was about to take a sip from his coffee and looked up. He placed the cup down on the saucer, his shaking hand causing the china to rattle and spill some of its contents.

  He cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. ‘Right, OK. Well, I received the first call the night after Brian Appleby was found dead—’

  ‘First cal
l? How many of them have there been?’ Matilda interrupted.

  ‘Four,’ Danny said quietly.

  ‘What?’ Matilda almost screamed. ‘You’ve had four phone calls and you’re only coming to us with this now?’

  ‘DCI Darke,’ Kate began. ‘I only found out about the calls yesterday. I don’t think you can apportion any blame here. Danny is a young and very ambitious reporter. Any of us in his position would have kept this a secret.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Matilda said, fuming. ‘You do realize we could charge you with obstructing a murder investigation.’

  ‘OK. Let’s calm down. Nobody is going to be charging anyone,’ Valerie said, placing a hand on Matilda’s arm. ‘Now, Danny, tell us what happened.’

  ‘OK.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Well, the killer called and told me that Brian Appleby was a paedophile from Essex and that he’d been hanged. There was a bloke on my journalism course who was from Southend. It turns out he knew someone in Essex Police. I gave them a ring and asked if they could confirm Brian Appleby was a known paedophile, and they did,’ he said, not looking at any of the other four.

  ‘The second occasion?’ Matilda asked. Her voice was loud. It was obvious from her facial twitching that she was struggling to control her emotions. She had been blaming members of her own team, looking at each and every one of them and wondering which one was a betrayer.

  ‘The day the story was printed,’ Danny said quietly, his head still lowered. ‘He called to congratulate me.’

  ‘What did you say to him in return?’

  ‘Nothing. I didn’t get a chance. He hung up.’

  ‘What number was he calling you from?’

  ‘It was an unknown number.’

  ‘Did he call you on your mobile?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A work phone?’

  ‘No. My own personal one.’

  ‘How long have you had that number for?’

  Danny flustered as he tried to think under the quick-fire barrage of Matilda’s questions. ‘I don’t know. Years.’