The Hangman's Hold

by Michael Wood

  ‘Cute girls. Yours?’

  ‘Yes. Martha and Karen.’

  ‘Twins?’

  ‘No.’ He laughed. ‘They went through a stage where they wanted to dress alike. Martha’s eight now. Karen’s six.’

  ‘You must really miss them.’

  ‘I do,’ he said, taking the frame from her and looking longingly at his daughters before putting it in exactly the same place on the table. ‘I’d love to have them living with me, but it wouldn’t be fair to take them away from school, and their friends.’

  ‘Couldn’t you move back up to Scotland?’

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ James asked, pointing at his own glass of whiskey on the coffee table to change the subject.

  ‘Better not, I’m driving. I’ll have a coffee, if it’s not any trouble.’

  ‘Sure. How do you take it?’

  ‘Black, no sugar, thanks.’

  ‘OK. Well, make yourself at home.’

  Matilda sat down and looked at the paperwork on the coffee table James had obviously been engrossed in before she interrupted. Judging by the title, it wasn’t anything to do with the case. Although, Matilda couldn’t make sense of the title, so she had no idea what it was about.

  In the background, the sound of smooth classical music was pumping out of the speakers. He was so much like her husband, it was frightening. She wasn’t sure if she should mention that – probably not. He entered the living room carrying a small tray with two matching cups and saucers. Villeroy & Boch – they weren’t cheap either.

  ‘Would you like anything to eat? I could whip up an omelette if you’re hungry.’

  Matilda tried to remember the last time she’d eaten – a muffin with Sian while they were waiting for Forensics to finish in Gordon Berry’s house. How many hours ago was that?

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘Are you sure? Anything to go with the coffee? I’ve got some biscuits somewhere.’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘So, what can I do for you?’ he asked, sitting on the armchair opposite and crossing his legs.

  He reminded Matilda of her former therapist, Sheila Warminster. She used to sit with her legs crossed and stare at her with a questioning look made up of forty per cent genuine interest, forty per cent concern, and twenty per cent condescension. It must be a psychologist thing. Maybe they learned that expression on their first day at therapy school.

  ‘The killer is personally targeting me and, well, I’m worried about what’s going to happen. How it’s going to end. About the people around me; my team. I’d like your advice.’

  ‘OK. Well, why do you think he’s targeting you?’

  Typical answer from a psychologist. Never directly answer a question but answer with a question.

  ‘Well, he’s calling me. He left the mannequin in my garden and he clearly wants my attention. Is he actually targeting me?’

  ‘If it was just you getting the phone calls, I’d say yes, but he’s also phoning Danny Hanson.’

  ‘So what does that mean?’

  ‘He’s proud of what he’s doing. He’s killed and he is keen for his name to be attached to his crime, a bit like an artist who signs their paintings.’

  ‘But we don’t know his name.’

  ‘It’s “the Hangman” as far as he’s concerned. You know he’s killed three people. Once you have his real name you’ll catch him and the element of surprise, the shock factor, will vanish. However, he will have a legacy of being the Hangman, the person who killed three people. Until that time, the whole country is waiting with bated breath for him to strike again. He’s got Sheffield scared and he’s loving it.’

  Matilda leaned forward and carefully picked up her coffee cup. She breathed in the aroma. It was strong, just how she liked it. ‘So he’s not purposely targeting me?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s targeting you because you’re in charge of the case. I mean, you haven’t heard from him in over a week, have you?’

  How did he know that? ‘No. But, well, I have been off for a week.’

  ‘True. But you’re back now. Nothing’s happened, has it?’

  ‘Sort of.’ She swallowed and banished her doubts about James. ‘I think the killer has made his first mistake.’

  ‘Go on,’ he instructed.

  Matilda filled him in on Gordon Berry, who he was, what he’d done and the noose they had found in his living room.

  ‘It sounds like the killer met his match. Where is this Gordon Berry now?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. We’ll start a full search for him in the morning.’

  ‘And you’ve had no contact with the killer?’

  ‘No. Well, I’m not likely to, am I? He’s messed up. He’s not going to call me to brag about it, is he?’

  ‘Hmm.’ James thought.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you’ve been off work for a week. The day you’re back, he goes after his next victim.’

  ‘So he is targeting me for some reason?’

  ‘It’s possible he wants you on the case. He sees you as his intellectual match. Only you can investigate what he’s doing.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. There are two people who can answer that – the killer, and you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I keep going back to this. I really do think you know the killer, Matilda. You’ve had dealings with him before. To him, every day that passes where you don’t identify him, you’re failing, and he’s winning.’

  ‘He’s delighting in watching me fail?’

  ‘I think so. From his point of view, he’s got the upper hand because you have no idea who he is. There is a chance the Hangman is enjoying himself so much that he’ll become complacent and slip up. However, if you sit around and wait for that to happen, the body count will increase.’

  ‘How do I find out who he is?’

  ‘You look into your own past. Who have you put away? Who have you pissed off so much they want to see you in such torment?’

  ‘Before he killed himself, I would have said Ben Hales,’ Matilda said. She drained the last of the coffee and placed it on the table. ‘I can’t think of anyone else.’

  Matilda leaned back in the sofa and looked into the distance. Her mind raced through her past cases. Yes, she had sent many murderers to prison and some would indeed be free now. However, she couldn’t think of a single one of them who had the mental capacity to put so much research into finding these victims just to get back at her.

  ‘Matilda, I finished reading the book about Carl Meagan this afternoon,’ James said, sitting forward and crossing his fingers. ‘Have you thought maybe the killer is targeting you because of Carl? By your own admission, you failed to find him. The book certainly paints a very bad picture of you. Technically, you’re a potential victim for the killer.’

  ‘Do you think the killer could be related to Carl’s family?’

  ‘I don’t know the family. I can’t answer that.’

  ‘Philip and Sally Meagan are suffering. They want to know where their son is. They wouldn’t put other families through the pain they’re going through.’

  ‘Do you know that for sure?’

  Matilda thought for a long moment. ‘I …’

  ‘When was the last time you had any contact with Carl’s parents?’

  She blew out her cheeks. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Grief does strange things to some people. We never know how it’s going to affect us until it happens.’

  You don’t need to tell me that. I’m the perfect example of a normally rational person falling apart at the seams when they’ve lost the only person they’ve ever loved.

  Matilda shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t see Philip and Sally Meagan becoming serial killers to get at me. They wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Matilda, I don’t know the Meagan family. I don’t know the case at all. I’m just telling you my opinion based on this case. Sometimes it’s helpful to get an o
utsider’s perspective. There’s no way you’d think the Meagans capable of this crime whereas I have no qualms in putting their names into the hat.’

  ‘No,’ Matilda said firmly. ‘No. I refuse to believe that.’

  James shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t hurt to find out their alibis for the time of the murders.’

  She took a deep breath. She felt sick. ‘Do you think I could use your bathroom?’

  ‘Sure. Upstairs, first on the left.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Matilda couldn’t leave the room fast enough. As much as she respected James’s opinion and professional acumen, there was no way the Meagans were suspects in this case. She walked slowly up the stairs and entered the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and rolled her eyes.

  God I look old. Old and tired.

  Matilda splashed her face with cold water. She could feel a headache coming on. Trying to remember every case she’d worked on, everyone who had ever wanted to torture her.

  She patted her face dry with a very thick and luxurious towel and left the bathroom. On the wall was a framed picture of an old map of Scotland. Along the landing, the door to the master bedroom was ajar. She pushed it open with her foot and stuck her head inside. The bedroom was as neat and tidy as a hotel room. Nothing on the surfaces, nothing out of place. It was perfect. On the bedside cabinet was a paperback novel, Messiah, by Boris Starling. So James did read crime fiction. This made Matilda smile.

  The next room along was a spare bedroom with two single beds in it. His daughters probably slept in here when they visited. It looked like it hadn’t been used for months; it was cold and there was a fusty smell of dust.

  The third bedroom was a box room James used as a study. There were filing cabinets along the back wall and a desk under the window with a laptop, desktop computer and a charging tablet. She turned to leave the room when she paused. On the desk was a hardback copy of Carl, by Sally Meagan. There were Post-It arrows sticking out of the top of various pages. Matilda opened it at random and saw James had highlighted or underlined certain passages. She frowned, placed the book on the desk and turned to leave the room.

  On the back wall was a chart of all the victims in Matilda’s hanging case. Staring at her were black-and-white photographs of Brian Appleby, Joe Lacey, and Katie Reaney. A map of Sheffield below marked the areas they lived in. A whiteboard offered information on the victims, details on hangings, including the best way for a person to die by hanging, and profiles on potential suspects. There was a colour photograph of the noose used to kill one of the victims. He’d commented on the thirteen turns in the rope. His notes were more detailed than the ones she had in her dining room at home. There was even a glossy photo of Matilda.

  ‘Matilda, would you like another coffee?’

  The call came from downstairs. The words didn’t seem to register with her. Then she remembered where she was. Christian Brady’s words about James possibly being the killer echoed through her head. She was stupid to have come here alone, especially without telling anyone.

  ‘Oh, no thanks. I’d better be going home.’

  Matilda wanted to leave the house quickly and be with someone she knew, someone she could trust. She ran down the stairs to find James waiting for her in the doorway of the living room.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he asked, smiling.

  ‘Yes. Fine,’ she replied, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground. ‘I should be getting on. I promised Adele I’d pick up a takeaway. She’ll be wondering where I am,’ she lied.

  ‘OK. Well, I’ll probably see you tomorrow. I’ve been asked to pop in to see Valerie.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ she said, struggling to put on her shoes without rushing. ‘Thanks for the coffee and the chat.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Any time.’ James opened the door for her and let in a blast of cool night air.

  ‘Goodnight then,’ she said, practically running out of the house.

  She didn’t look back as she made her way down the drive, but she knew he was watching her from the doorway.

  She climbed into her car, locked herself inside, and breathed a sigh of relief to be out of the house. Why did he feel the need to have so much information on the case? The thought sent an ice-cold shiver down her spine.

  As she drove past, James was still standing in the doorway. He raised a hand to wave goodbye. She returned a painful smile. She was just turning the corner when she noticed the garden posts in his front garden and the rope used to link them. Was it twelve-millimetre polyhemp? She bloody hoped not.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Danny Hanson couldn’t sleep. He’d spent most of the evening on the Sheffield forums reading people’s comments on the killer. Since his double-page feature on the three victims and their pasts, anyone with a chequered history was panicking. Danny had made notes, potential interviewees he could contact to add background, on the off-chance there was a fourth victim.

  SheffGal80: My brother spent three years in prison for armed robbery. Is that enough? Should we be worried?

  SUFC2000: Who did he rob? Did he get much?

  SheffGal80: He did a few petrol stations in 2002.

  SUFC2000: A few and he only got 3yrs? What’s his neck size? LOL

  Oooooowls: People get away with murder these days. This bloke is doing everyone a favour. If you can’t do the time don’t do the crime. I know a few people he can hang if he’s running out of victims.

  PinkJill: My sister reckons she knows the killer. She used to date a bloke who was dead keen on hanging being brought back.

  BADGER76: I knew Joe Lacey. He was a good bloke. His family are in bits. What he did was a mistake, and he paid for it. The law is there to punish people, to dish out the sentence, not for people to turn vigilante. The police do nothing. Even if this killer is caught he’ll only get a few years. This country is a joke.

  CaptainSheffield: Anyone fancy a game of hangman?

  Danny had messaged a few people who he thought he could get some information out of. Some seemed genuinely frightened. Maybe this would deter people from committing crimes in the first place. Is this what the killer wanted?

  He heard a noise outside of his bedroom door. He stopped what he was doing and looked at the gap underneath his door. There was a yellow light from the landing. The strip was broken by someone standing outside. Danny’s heart skipped a beat. There was a knock.

  ‘Danny, do you mind if I use some of your milk? I’ve run out.’

  Danny swallowed. His paranoia was practically off the scale. Even in the relative safety of his own room he was scared of a shadow under the door or a creak of a floorboard. ‘No, it’s fine, Gill, go ahead.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll replace it tomorrow.’

  Danny watched as she moved away down the corridor. He went to check the door was locked before going back to bed.

  It was gone midnight by the time Danny turned his laptop off. He could have spent the whole night scrolling through the message boards. Some of the arguments between people were interesting, especially the ones who thought the killer was doing Sheffield a favour. When he was studying to be a journalist he’d dreamed of a career at a daily national, getting scoops on political scandals and being on the front line with British troops in the Middle East. He didn’t expect the excitement to come straight away, and not on a local paper that usually had more adverts than stories.

  It took him a while to fall asleep. His mind refused to settle. He was just nodding off when his mobile started vibrating on his bedside table. He reached out from under the duvet, grabbed the phone and pulled it into the warmth of his cocoon. He looked at the display. Once again, the caller had withheld their number.

  ‘Shit,’ he said to himself. He watched the screen flash at him, felt the vibration in his clammy hand. He really didn’t want to answer it. He pictured his attacker fleeing from the park. Why was he doing this? Yes, these people had committed crimes in the past, but they’d been to prison and were livin
g normal lives. What gave him the right to act as an executioner?

  The phone stopped ringing and Danny visibly relaxed. It started up again straight away.

  ‘Fuck.’

  He licked his lips, took a deep breath, and answered the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Hanson. Gordon Berry is hanging around in between the train station and the bus station.’

  The call ended before Danny could ask who Gordon Berry was and why his next victim was outside rather than in his house.

  He threw the duvet back and jumped out of bed. He scrambled around for some clothes. It didn’t matter whether they were clean or dirty, he just needed to get to the train station before anyone else found the body.

  While driving through the quiet streets of Sheffield, Danny wondered whether he should call Matilda or wait until he’d checked it out for himself. It could be a hoax. He went over the phone call in his head; did it sound like the killer? He couldn’t remember. Maybe this was a hoax. Matilda wouldn’t appreciate being called out. He smiled grimly to himself.

  There wasn’t anywhere to park around the train station, so he pulled up on the pavement and flicked on the hazard lights. He slammed his car door closed behind him and looked at his watch: 12.45. There was very little traffic about and no people in the nearby vicinity. Suddenly, he felt afraid. Had he been set up again? Was he about to be jumped on and attacked? Or worse.

  From the entrance of the train station there was a main road to cross then a covered walkway to the bus station. All the time Danny was crossing the street, his eyes were firmly fixed on the narrow walkway. Was there really a dead body in there? He hoped not. He’d never seen one before. He remembered his nan dying when he was eight years old. At the funeral, the coffin was open for people to say a final goodbye, but his mother wouldn’t allow him to go up to her. While she was busy chatting with other mourners, he tiptoed close enough to see the edge of her face – she was white and looked as if she was sleeping. He didn’t know what all the fuss had been about, the dead weren’t scary at all.