Peter Lovesey - The Secret Hangman

‘Give it a break, Ingeborg,’ he said. ‘I’ve been on the go since six this morning. Bloody phone ringing and a wet bed into the bargain.’

She said no more. Even an enquiring mind like hers didn’t want to know about Diamond’s wet bed.

From across the room Halliwell said, ‘So what do we do, guv? Dismantle this lot?’

‘We wait for the post-mortem report. Meanwhile you and DC Gilbert had better get into his lodgings in Freshford and see if he left any clues. A suicide note is too much to hope for.’

He went through to his office and shut the door. His thoughts had turned away from Geaves and Delia Williamson to the children they had left behind. Deprived of both parents in horrific circumstances, those two small girls couldn’t have faced a worse shock. He hoped they would find inner strength. He picked up the phone and called their grandmother, Amanda Williamson.

Her voice was nervous. She’d heard on the local radio that a body had been found. ‘I didn’t like to think who it might be. They haven’t named him, have they?’

‘It’s not officially confirmed, but I think you should be prepared to hear that he’s the girls’ father, Daniel Geaves,’ he said, trying to break it gently.

There was a pause, and then she said, ‘Dreadful.’

‘It is, ma’am.’

‘You’re certain of this?’

‘I’ve seen the body myself.’

‘Is he… did he kill my daughter?’

‘That’s what we have to find out. There will be an inquest. We should all know more after that. I’m calling you now because you may want to think about the children, what they should be told, and whether you want to take them away for a few days. The press are going to want pictures if they can get them.’

‘Pictures of the girls?’

‘It’s what they call a human-interest story. It will soon blow over. If they aren’t there to be photographed when the story breaks, no one will pester them in a few days.’

‘I understand. I’ll see what can be done.’

She sounded a good woman, calm in a crisis, controlling her own emotions while she was responsible for the children.

Looking at the phone he’d just cradled he tried to understand why Geaves had chosen to hang himself in such a public place. Almost all suicidal hangings are carried out in familiar surroundings, the home, or garage or workplace. This one had been done covertly, at night, but the location couldn’t have been more public. Perhaps, Diamond mused, the man had felt some remorse for the way he’d strung up his ex-wife in the park. Perhaps he’d condemned himself as he’d condemned her, to be a public spectacle after death. Skewed thinking, but then it needs a skewed mind to top yourself.

For Diamond personally this was a grinding anticlimax. Until this morning, he’d had an intriguing murder case with suspects and lines of inquiry. The killer had snatched it away from him. There was only paperwork in prospect now, and plenty of that.

First he’d go downstairs for a late breakfast.

In the corridor he saw Georgina coming. At this minute he didn’t want to be told he was looking peaky, or peakier, so he opened the first door on his right and found himself face to face with a large poster of a dog with teeth bared. To his left was a desk and behind it was seated the sergeant in charge of dogs, head cocked, eyes shining.

‘Sorry, wrong door.’

‘No problem, sir.’

The good manners were being tested again. ‘But now I’m here I’ve been meaning to ask you something.’

‘Yes?’

Something canine, if he could think of it. He dredged deep.

‘Bloodhounds. Whatever happened to bloodhounds?’

The sergeant frowned. ‘We don’t use them, sir. They’re not well suited to the work.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘They pick up a scent faster than anything, but they tire easily.’

‘Good sniffers but poor athletes?’

‘In a nutshell, yes. And their temperament isn’t good. They’re timid by nature. When you’re pursuing a suspect you don’t want a dog that won’t follow through. A German shepherd does the job better.’

‘That explains it, then,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

He opened the door and looked along the corridor. Georgina was not in sight. Deciding it was safe, he stepped out.

As if it were fated, Georgina came out of the room opposite. ‘Peter, there you are.’ She stared at him. ‘Are you all right? You look as if someone just walked over your grave.’

‘My temperament,’ he said. ‘Timid by nature.’

‘I’d never noticed.’

He was going to add that he was a good sniffer even so, but it would have been lost on Georgina. She’d think he was snorting coke.

‘If you’re really all right, can we talk about the hanging?’

She was up with the morning’s developments. She just wanted his take on them. In her office upstairs he settled into a leather armchair and confirmed that it looked as if Geaves had killed himself.

‘Is there any doubt?’ Georgina said.

‘We haven’t had Dr Sealy’s report yet, but at the scene he called it a proper hanging.’

‘That’s straight talking from a pathologist. By that he meant there weren’t any signs the man had been strangled first, as Delia Williamson was?’

He nodded. ‘It’s all about the marks on the neck.’

‘So Geaves killed his ex-wife and then took his own life. Why — because he despised himself for what he’d done?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Or because he didn’t want to face the hue and cry? You were on to him.’

‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that, ma’am.’

‘You were actively searching for him. He’d disappeared from his lodging in Freshford and no one had seen him for days.’

‘I can’t argue with that.’

Georgina drummed her fingers on the desk. She wanted closure on this case and she wasn’t getting much help from the man in charge. At some stage she would have to face her fellow chorister, Amanda. ‘Get a grip, Peter. You must have a view of what happened.’

‘I’m puzzled about the choice of location.’

‘The viaduct? What’s wrong with that? I thought a long drop was the best way to do it. The jerk on the rope must have broken his neck immediately. People who do it by stepping off a chair condemn themselves to slow strangulation.’

‘You’re missing my point, ma’am. This was so public. Why didn’t he hang himself in private as most suicides do?’

She drew in a sharp, impatient breath. ‘Well, the place where he strung Delia up was public. He treated himself the way he’d treated her.’

‘Out of conscience?’

‘Presumably. We don’t know what was going on in his mind.’

‘That’s the problem,’ he said.

‘There was no note?’

‘Not at the scene. I’m having his place searched.’

‘Good. You might find evidence linking him to the murder.’

‘That would be a bonus.’

‘Don’t think of it like that,’ Georgina said in a tone of reproof, actually wagging her finger. ‘Just because the killer and his victim are both dead it doesn’t mean we treat the investigation lightly. We must make every effort to prove he murdered the woman.’

‘I intend to,’ he said.

‘Have you got the motive?’

‘Motive?’

‘The reason he killed her.’

‘Not yet.’

‘I suggest you work on that as a priority instead of waiting for evidence to fall into your lap.’

‘Right you are, ma’am,’ he said, and he stood up as if to prove he wasn’t waiting for anything. If he stayed here any longer being treated like a schoolkid he would say something mutinous.

She flapped her hand and he left the room.

The late breakfast was so late it became lunch. Afterwards he called Keith Halliwell, by now inside the Freshford house Geaves had lived in. ‘What’s it like?’