by Adam Hamdy
He copied the contents of Death The Romantic’s post about the weird story and used it to run a Google search, but the only relevant result was the ‘Suicide Methodology’ post. With no other obvious options, he created an anonymous email address and used it to register as a ‘Suicide Methodology’ user. His email address and username were DeathDetective. Once he’d confirmed his registration, Wallace wrote Death The Romantic a private message.
Dear Death The Romantic
I’m new to Suicide Methodology. I read your post on the weird suicide story. A friend of mine claims a masked man tried to kill him a few weeks ago. Could you tell me where you heard the story of the man who hanged himself in his garage? I really want to help my friend and prove that someone is out to get him.
Death Detective
He sent the message and received a delivery confirmation from the forum system. He spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening searching, but didn’t find anything as promising as Death The Romantic’s post. Every fifteen minutes or so, he checked his email account and his ‘Suicide Methodology’ profile, but despite his obsessive, hopeful desperation, there was no reply.
Connie arrived home at half-seven. She smiled warmly as she walked into the living room. She was wearing trainers, grey leggings and a pink vest.
‘Sorry, I’m late,’ she said as she slipped her backpack off her shoulders. ‘It was one of those days. I had to go to the gym and then I ran home.’
Wallace looked up from the computer. ‘It’s OK,’ he replied.
Connie’s hair was tied back in a ponytail that only served to accentuate her flushed, sweaty face. Wallace’s memory suddenly flashed with an image of that same blushing face contorted in ecstasy.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
‘Not too well,’ he responded, suppressing the memory. ‘I’ve got nothing so far.’
‘Well, I’m going to have a shower before I stink the place up too much,’ she smiled. ‘Then you can help me with dinner and afterwards we’ll see what the Internet can tell us about your man.’ She picked up her backpack and left the room.
‘Can I do anything?’ Wallace called after her.
‘Chop up an onion and some garlic,’ she shouted from the bedroom.
Wallace went into the kitchen. He searched the cupboards, which were full of Fairtrade, organic foods and mismatched crockery, until he found Connie’s stash of vegetables. ‘How much garlic?’ he yelled.
‘A couple of cloves,’ Connie replied, startling Wallace with her quiet voice.
He turned to see her standing in the corridor, wrapped in a white towel. Her hair fell over her pale shoulders and the tresses trailed down towards her concealed breasts. She looked stunning, and Wallace was only half aware of himself as he walked over to embrace her and plant a passionate kiss on her lips. Connie put her arms around him, and the towel fell away.
Connie lay with her head on Wallace’s undamaged shoulder. They were naked under her duvet, both breathless and glowing with satisfaction. Wallace studied Connie as she stared into the middle distance, and realised that he had been a fool to let her go; she was beautiful, good, kind and smart – a combination most men would kill for.
Connie caught him staring at her. ‘I wasn’t expecting that,’ she said. ‘I thought last night might have been a one-off. We were both pretty out of it.’
He wondered suddenly whether they were making a terrible mistake, but it felt so natural. More than that; it felt right. Connie smiled at him and planted a kiss on his cheek.
‘Don’t overthink it,’ she teased as she slipped out of bed. ‘I’m not expecting wedding bells. Not yet, anyway.’
She stepped into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. Moments later, when Wallace heard the shower, he climbed out of bed and quickly got dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and clean T-shirt. He went into the kitchen and popped a couple of painkillers before carrying on where he’d left off. He peeled two cloves of garlic and an onion, and carefully sliced them on an old wooden chopping board. As he concentrated on finely slicing the layered flesh, Wallace found himself relaxing. Aikido stressed the importance of balance and, while it was natural to be moved by the grand moments of life, he had long appreciated the importance of simple, mundane tasks; the little activities that linked life’s significant events. Living in the insignificant present and truly concentrating on his simple job brought him a degree of peace.
‘Meticulously done,’ Connie noted as she approached. She’d put on a pair of pale blue shorts and an oversized roll-neck pullover. ‘I’d expect nothing less from one of the world’s leading obsessives . . . I mean artists.’
She winked and Wallace smiled back at her, relishing the easy domestic familiarity.
‘What else?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ Connie insisted as she rooted in one of the cupboards. ‘I’ll take it from here.’
He took Connie at her word and leaned against the counter and watched as she produced a stainless steel bowl. She tipped in a couple of tins of broad beans, a handful of flat leaf parsley, some cumin seeds and salt and pepper, and then blitzed the whole lot with a food processor. When it was reduced to a green paste, she added the onions and garlic and a sprinkling of flour.
‘Ta’amaya,’ Wallace noted.
‘One of the only good things you brought back from Afghanistan,’ Connie responded casually, but Wallace could see that she instantly regretted giving voice to the observation.
‘It’s OK,’ he said, putting his hand on her back. ‘You’re not far from the truth.’
She smiled at him gratefully as she filled a frying pan with olive oil. Wallace watched her form the paste into little discs and fry them. While they were sizzling, Connie got out a couple of plates and covered them with whole-wheat wraps that she filled with salad. When the ta’amaya were done, she placed three of the fritters on each plate and drizzled tahini over the contents, before rolling the wraps into neat tubes.
‘Let’s eat,’ she said, handing Wallace his food. She led them into the sitting room and they sat at the small dining table.
Facing the window, Wallace could see a group of Hasidic Jews leaving the synagogue opposite. Even though he couldn’t understand the thought process that enabled people to surrender themselves to ancient fairy tales, he envied them their certainty. In their final moments they would have no doubts about where they were going. He took a bite of his wrap and was rewarded with a powerfully fresh umami taste.
‘Well?’ Connie asked expectantly.
‘Good,’ he admitted. ‘Really good. For vegetarian food.’
‘Pig!’ Connie laughed.
They spent the rest of the meal talking, conscientiously avoiding anything too deep. Connie’s work at Suncert provided the perfect topic – endless politicking, a cast of strange, eccentric characters, and the all-encompassing, eternal pursuit of profit – giving them the illusion of a meaningful conversation without any of the tricky substance.
After dinner, Connie took the plates to the kitchen. Wallace could hear her putting them in her half-sized dishwasher as he picked up the laptop and placed it on the dining table. He brought the machine to life and typed in Connie’s password.
‘What’s a bootle?’ he called out.
‘Bootle was my first cat,’ Connie replied as she entered the room. She joined Wallace at the table and immediately noted the website he was on: ‘Suicide Methodology’.
Wallace registered the concern in her eyes. ‘It’s a lead, nothing else,’ he said as he logged on to the forum, where a tiny yellow flag indicated that he had a message. He went to his private mailbox and saw a reply from Death The Romantic.
Hi DD
Welcome to SM. Sorry to hear about your friend. My day job involves logging coroners’ reports, so I get to see a lot of strange things. I’ve attached the relevant verdict. Hope it helps.
DTR :o)
Wallace clicked the paperclip symbol and Connie’s computer downloaded and opened the attached PDF.
Miranda Miles LLB
HM Coroner for the County of Staffordshire
INQUEST TOUCHING THE Death of
Stewart Huvane
Narrative Verdict
Mr Stewart Huvane died from asphyxiation after he hanged himself in his garage. At the time of his death, Mr Huvane had been receiving psychiatric counselling after an earlier attempted suicide, also by hanging. Mr Huvane claimed to have been attacked by an unknown assailant wearing a mask and body armour. Police inquiries found no evidence of an assailant and Mr Huvane was sectioned. After treatment, Mr Huvane was released into an outpatient programme. His case officer, wife and psychiatrist testified that Mr Huvane continued to exhibit signs of paranoia and became increasingly convinced that someone wanted to harm him. A message posted on social media that was discovered following Mr Huvane’s death seemed to suggest he was having difficulty with a number of personal issues. Following police evidence presented to the court, which found no signs of struggle or intrusion, a verdict of suicide is returned.
Wallace typed Stewart Huvane Staffordshire into the Google search bar and received a handful of results from local newspapers.
‘Look at that one,’ Connie advised, pointing to the third link down the page.
Wallace clicked and opened an article from the Staffordshire Star, a local paper. Dated the twenty-third of June, the article was topped by a photo of Stewart Huvane, a slight man with receding grey hair and luxuriant sideburns. Huvane had the rosy glow and stupefied smile of a man who’d had too much to drink. He had his arm around some unknown person who’d been cropped out by the picture editor. Huvane was standing in front of a pub bar that was covered with empty glasses.
LOCAL MAN CLAIMS VICTIMISATION CAMPAIGN
By Graham Parkes
Leek resident Stewart Huvane has sensationally claimed he was the victim of an assassination attempt. Huvane was recently found by his wife, Cynthia, hanging from the rafters in their Leek home after she’d returned home early from a dinner engagement. In an effort to clear his reputation, Huvane, a livestock farmer, has given an exclusive interview to the Staffordshire Star.
‘Cynthia was out,’ Huvane said. ‘I was watching TV. There was a knock at the door. I went to answer and the next thing I knew, I blacked out. I came round in the barn with a bloody noose around my neck and this fellow in a black mask was hoisting me on to the rafters.’
Huvane credits his wife with his survival. ‘If Cynthia hadn’t been feeling ill, I wouldn’t be here today,’ he said. ‘Everyone thinks I tried to top myself, but why would I want to do that? I’ve got a great life.’
Staffordshire Police have refused to respond to Huvane’s allegations, stating that it is Force policy not to comment on ongoing investigations.
Wallace felt a wave of relief. It seemed that the same man who had attacked Stewart Huvane had tried to kill him.
‘That sounds like what happened to you,’ Connie observed.
‘Yeah,’ Wallace replied as he stared at the image on-screen and wondered what on earth he had in common with a farmer from Leek.
11
Wallace stirred when he felt someone touching his head, and opened his eyes to see Connie leaning over him. She was made up, her hair was done and she was dressed in a dark green trouser suit.
‘Hey,’ she said gently. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to wake you.’
Wallace sat up, ignoring his collarbone, which was no longer screaming, but merely shouting pain. His brain took a moment to click into gear.
‘You sure you’re doing the right thing?’ Connie asked with genuine concern.
After the revelations of the previous night, she had tried to talk him into going to the police, but Wallace remained convinced that the safest course was for him to gather more evidence. A newspaper article that outlined the ravings of a perceived lunatic would not be sufficient to open a criminal investigation, and Wallace reminded her that police betrayal had led to the second attack on him. Until he knew more about what was going on, he couldn’t be sure who to trust. As long as he stayed off the grid, there was no way for either the police or the killer to find him. After extracting a promise that he would be careful, Connie had accepted his plan to investigate Stewart Huvane’s death himself.
‘I’ll be OK,’ Wallace reassured her. ‘Thanks.’
Connie tilted her head the way she always did when she was puzzled.
‘Thanks for everything,’ Wallace continued.
‘Don’t overdo it,’ she cautioned light-heartedly. She opened her dresser drawer and produced an envelope that she tossed on the bed. ‘This is for you.’
‘What is it?’ Wallace said, tearing the flap. He saw the familiar image of the Queen’s face staring up at him.
‘You’ll need money, right?’ Connie said.
‘I can’t take this,’ Wallace protested. ‘It’s too much.’
‘There’s a thousand pounds,’ she replied. ‘It’s no big deal. I know you’re good for it.’
‘I’ll pay you back,’ he promised.
‘I know,’ Connie said, glancing at the Wedgwood alarm clock on her bedside table. ‘I’ve got to run.’ She leaned forward and kissed him. ‘Make sure you call me. And be careful.’
With that final instruction, she left the room, and, moments later, Wallace heard the front door slam shut. He got to his feet, took a couple of painkillers and headed for the shower.
Wallace forced himself on to the packed 08:46 from Stoke Newington to Liverpool Street. Rush hour had never previously bothered him, but after two attempts on his life, the proximity of others invading his personal space in a confined compartment made him anxious. In addition to the psychological toll the journey exacted, Wallace endured sixteen minutes of physical discomfort. Every time the rattling train started, stopped or clattered over a junction, one of his neighbours would collide with him and trigger shooting pain from his collarbone.
Released into the bustle of a City morning, he found a TK Maxx off Camomile Street. In addition to the clothes Connie had bought him, which were in a thick carrier bag, Wallace selected a couple of casual tops, walking boots, a jacket and a backpack. He caught the tube to Euston and purchased an off-peak return to Stoke-on-Trent. He checked the large clock that hung over the concourse: 10:23. With seventeen minutes until his train, he paid a visit to Boots and stocked up on civilising essentials: toothpaste, toothbrush, shower gel and deodorant.
The train north offered a stark illustration of what life could be like when there weren’t eight million people competing for space and resources. A dozen travellers peppered a carriage designed to carry six times that number. Wallace chose the seat nearest the door so that he had a complete view of the carriage. Nobody could sneak up on him and he could see anyone coming. Not paranoid, Wallace reassured himself, just prudent. When the train pulled out of the station on time, he relaxed into his seat as they started their journey through an architectural history of London. The Georgian terraces of Camden were followed by the converted red-brick warehouses of Islington, then came the Victorian streets of West Hampstead and Finchley, before the post-war semis of Wembley and Harrow slipped past, and the train finally started to gather real speed as twentieth-century retail park Watford came and went in a blur and they shot into open countryside.
As he hurtled north, Wallace tried to think of connections he might have to Stewart Huvane. He had never been to Leek. He had never heard Huvane’s name before and could not recall anyone ever mentioning it. Wallace’s family was too small and withered to have overlooked any relations, no matter how distant. He was an only child, and before they died his parents made sure he had a full family tree. More of a weed than a tree: a second cousin in Canada and another in South Africa. Wallace had never seen or spoken to either. He had drifted away from the few friends he had. His work was unpredictable and required a great deal of travel, qualities that put a strain on any relationship, and his failed crusade to get the Masterson Inquiry to accept the truth of his testim
ony had completed Wallace’s transformation into something of an angry loner.
If he had a connection to Huvane, it was one he was unaware of. As rich green fields rolled by, he considered other theories. His first was that the attacker was selecting victims at random, but if that was the case, why would he risk capture by making a second attempt on Wallace’s life? His next theory was that there was more than one killer and that any similarities with Huvane’s story were pure coincidence. Another possibility was that his own would-be killer had chanced upon Huvane’s outlandish description and used it as inspiration for a costume.
Wallace tormented himself with theories for the entire eighty-five-minute journey north, but the only thing he was able to conclude was that there were more possibilities than certainties and he needed evidence if he was going to get any answers.
The train drew into Stoke-on-Trent at six minutes past twelve, and Wallace grabbed his backpack and disembarked. The large red-brick station had a glass roof supported by an intricate wire lattice, a grand Victorian structure that spoke of more prosperous times. No more than a dozen people left the train, and around an equal number boarded, heading north to Manchester. The meagre numbers did not merit such an impressive building, and Wallace guessed that whatever rationale there had once been for the impressive station was lost to history. He followed the signs for the taxi rank, which was situated down the street from the old station.