Michael Wood - The Hangman’s Hold

Brian Appleby hadn’t wanted the evening to end. He had had a wonderful time with Adele. The kiss at the end was beautiful. He thought he’d made a mistake when he tried to go further, but he understood. They had to get to know each other, what they liked, disliked, how quickly they wanted to take this. He was prepared to wait.

He took no notice of his journey home. He drove along Heeley and Woodseats while his mind went over the date and pictured Adele’s blushes and smiles. She really was a beautiful woman. Her hair was soft and shiny, she didn’t cake herself in too much make-up, her jewellery was understated yet elegant. Everything about her was as close to perfect as it was possible to get.

Brian parked in his usual place right outside his detached home on Linden Avenue. He smiled at a neighbour as she let her cat out for the night, then went inside.

It was ten past eleven. He decided to treat himself to a glass of Jameson’s or two in his armchair and go over the date one more time.

He turned on the living room light to find a man sitting in the middle of the sofa.

‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ Brian asked, his voice filled with anger at the boldness of his intruder.

‘Good evening, Brian. How was your date?’

‘What the …? Hang on, I know you, don’t I?’

‘Were you able to control yourself? Or did the old urges come flooding back? On the other hand, this one’s a little older than what you usually go for. Are you trying to be a model citizen? It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?’

‘Have you been following me?’

‘Why don’t you take a seat, Brian. We’ve got a lot to talk about.’

‘How did you get in?’ he asked, not moving from the doorway.

‘If you’ll sit down, I’ll explain everything.’

Tentatively, Brian made his way over to the armchair, not once taking his eyes off his intruder. He sat, perched on the edge. ‘Go on then, explain. And if I don’t like what I hear I’m calling the police.’

‘I don’t think you’re going to want to do that.’

There was a calmness about his strange visitor that frightened Brian. How did he know so much about him? How long had he been following him?

‘Why not?’ Brian frowned.

‘See that bag on the coffee table? Open it.’

Brian looked down at the small tote bag. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s for you. A present.’

‘I don’t want it,’ he said defiantly.

‘Open it,’ the intruder said, more forcefully.

Still not taking his eyes from his visitor, Brian edged towards the coffee table and opened the light cotton bag. He frowned, not making sense of what was inside. He reached in and pulled it out.

‘Jesus Christ! Who are you?’

DCI Matilda Darke couldn’t get used to her new car. The silver Ford Focus she had driven for years had been written off by the insurance company late last year after she’d swerved to avoid a head-on collision and crashed into a tree. Rather than upgrade to something shiny and modern, Matilda had opted for another silver Ford Focus. The only difference was the licence plate. That wasn’t technically true. It felt different. She couldn’t pinpoint why, but Matilda wanted her old car back. There was something familiar about it that couldn’t be replicated in the newer model.

She turned into Linden Avenue and quickly applied the brakes. Nothing wrong with those. Ahead of her was a crowd of onlookers, neighbours in dressing gowns, carpet slippers and hastily put on jogging bottoms and trainers. People who had left their homes and filled the road at the first sighting of a police car.

She climbed out of the car and had an iPhone thrust into her face.

‘DCI Darke, can you tell me what’s happened here?’

‘As you can see, I’ve just arrived.’

‘You must know something.’

‘And you are?’

‘Danny Hanson. Senior Crime Reporter on The Star .’

‘Ah! You’re Danny Hanson?’

He beamed at the fact a DCI knew who he was.

Matilda dug into her inside jacket pocket for her own iPhone, selected the camera and took a photo of the young journalist.

‘Did you just take my picture?’

‘I certainly did.’

‘Any reason why?’

‘I’d like to show my team who not to talk to when they attend a crime scene.’

Matilda reached the garden gate of the house she had been summoned to. Feeling the warm breath of the journalist on her neck she stopped and turned around. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, but looked younger. She wondered if he was still asked for ID when he bought a scratchcard. She gave him the once-over – the neatly messed-up dark brown hairstyle, the plain blue tie, the dark blue shirt, the skinny black jeans. He looked like an interviewee for his first Saturday job.

‘Is this to do with the Starling House case?’ he asked.

‘Not entirely. You’re the journalist who keeps calling me late at night, aren’t you? Where did you get my number?’

‘My predecessor,’ he said.

‘Your predecessor wasn’t at The Star long enough to get my number.’

‘Ah.’ He broke eye contact for the first time.

‘Ah indeed. You know, I admire ambition. However, there’s a fine line between ambition and breaking the law. Right now, you’ve passed the police tape; you’re breaking the law. Don’t worry, I’ll give you this one. Step out of line again and I’ll personally see you locked up. Understand?’

‘But I—’

Matilda held her hand up to silence him. ‘Trust me, you need to pay attention to what I’m saying. You’re young, you’re handsome, you’d be very popular in prison. Now, back on the other side of the tape,’ she said with a sinister smile.

‘You can’t just—’

‘Are you seriously trying to pick an argument with me? Go.’ She pointed. ‘And if you’re quick, you’ll be just in time for your PE lesson.’

Matilda turned away before Danny Hanson could reply. DC Kesinka Rani was waiting in the doorway of the house. She handed her a paper forensic suit, and Matilda flashed her warrant card to the uniformed officer standing guard.

‘Morning, Kes. I do enjoy a good quarrel with a journalist first thing.’ She slipped into the forensic suit, placed on the overshoes and stepped inside the detached house. ‘Make sure he’s shifted, won’t you?’ she said, looking over her shoulder at the lingering journalist.

‘Will do. Steve, could you?’ Kesinka asked the PC standing on the doorstep.

‘No problem.’ Steve left his post and grabbed Danny by the elbow. The reporter tried to shrug him off but winced under the grip of the PC.

It was a cold morning, and although there was no heating on inside the house and the front door was wide open, it was good to get out of the bitter spring air.

‘Why have I been called out to a suicide?’ Matilda asked.

‘It’s not your regular suicide.’

‘Is there such a thing as an irregular suicide?’

Kesinka didn’t reply. She pointed to the entrance to the living room and stepped back, inviting Matilda to see for herself.

‘Oh,’ was all Matilda could say upon entering the room.

The large living room stretched the entire length of the house. Close to the bay window overlooking the road was an oak dining table. On the wall was a display cabinet which housed a collection of silver trinkets. In the middle of the lounge was a cast-iron wood burner. There were a few logs inside but, judging by how clean it was, a fire hadn’t been lit in a while. An expensive-looking Chesterfield sofa and matching armchair pointed to a fifty-inch television in the corner. And, right at the back, in front of the patio doors, was a figure hanging by the neck from an exposed beam, a white pillowcase over his head.