Michael Wood - The Hangman’s Hold - A gripping serial killer thriller that will keep you hooked

Sitting on his single bed with his laptop open, he was on a forum page about Sheffield life. He was hoping for some gossip about the dead body found at Linden Avenue this morning, but so far, there was nothing.

His mobile started ringing. He looked at the screen, but the caller’s ID had been withheld. He was tempted to ignore it, believing it to be another sales call about his broadband provider.

‘Hello,’ he answered, sounding bored.

‘Danny Hanson?’

‘Speaking.’

‘I hope you’ve got a pad and pen to hand.’

‘Who is this?’ Danny’s ears had been pricked.

‘The bloke found dead on Linden Avenue this morning was Brian Appleby. He’d been executed by hanging. He was a paedophile from Essex.’ The caller hung up.

A smile spread across Danny’s face. He looked at his phone. The screen was blank. Had he just dreamed that phone call? He logged on to Google, typed in ‘Brian Appleby’ and saw stories about a man who had been sentenced for sex offences against underage girls. He opened a blank Word document and began typing, his fingers hammering hard on the keyboard. Once he’d written the basic story, he’d give someone in the police a call, see if they could confirm it. If not, he’d pass it on to his editor. She’d know whether to risk publishing it or not. He could almost smell the print on his first front-page splash.

Danny Hanson left work early Saturday afternoon. He’d been busy since first light trying to get confirmation for his story. He’d spoken to a few detectives in CID who had refused to comment, giving him the stock reply that a statement would be released in time. However, Danny wasn’t satisfied with that. In the end, he decided to use underhand tactics to get through to someone lowly.

‘Hello, my name’s Gerald Wiley. I was mugged last week. I spoke to a lovely girl in uniform who said she’d help find whoever it was stole my watch. I didn’t get the lass’s name. Do you think I could speak to someone, please?’ Danny asked into the phone, putting on his best old-man voice.

He was transferred from the switchboard and a young-sounding PC answered who was more than happy to talk to Danny. He quickly launched into his spiel about how he knew who the dead man in Linden Avenue was and just wanted his research efforts confirming. The PC refused to give his name, but his comments would definitely be enough to use in the paper. It helped that Danny had his iPhone held up to the receiver, recording the conversation.

At just after two o’clock in the afternoon, Danny left work. As he made his way for home, he saw a board outside a newsagent’s advertising the local paper. There it was, his first ever front-page story.

PAEDOPHILE EXECUTED

It was a simple headline, but it packed a punch. He didn’t even attempt to hide his grin upon seeing his byline. He’d post a copy of the paper off to his mum. She’d be very proud.

Matilda and Adele lost the majority of the weekend to a hangover and feeling sick after the amount of sugar they had consumed. It was what they both needed: a chance for them to discuss their futures as two independent, single forty-somethings and for Adele to try and put the whole Brian Appleby incident behind her. Famous last words.

Matilda had called DI Christian Brady and put him in charge of the investigation for the weekend. Fortunately, budget cuts came in handy on occasion and this was the perfect time to blag a couple of days of light duties. Christian kept calling, filling her in on the interviews with neighbours, but nothing dramatic required her attention. She went home on Sunday morning feeling better about herself. She hoped Adele did too.

Matilda woke up early on Monday morning, an hour before her alarm was due to sound. She headed straight for the treadmill in the conservatory and ran 10K in just under one hour. She smiled at the time on the display, happy with how far she had come in the short space of a couple of months. Strangely, she was looking forward to the half-marathon, though she didn’t dare say anything as crazy out loud.

She breakfasted on granary toast and a black coffee before showering. This morning, she decided to put on a bit of make-up. While Matilda sat in her dressing gown and applied a touch of eyeliner, she tried to remember the last time she had done this – probably James’s funeral. That was almost two years ago. When she was finished, she liked what she saw in the mirror. She had definable cheek bones, her face looked smoother and younger. She should do this more often.

With a spring in her step, Matilda went into the living room, picked up her framed wedding photograph and gave James Darke a big kiss, leaving a lipstick mark behind which she refused to wipe off.

‘I love you, James,’ she said with confidence. There was no cracking in her voice, no tearful emotion at losing him so early into their marriage, just a determined statement of love from wife to husband.

‘Is everything all right, ma’am?’ DC Scott Andrews said, entering Matilda’s office.

‘Yes, fine. Why?’

‘You look different. Brighter,’ he mused.

‘I had a good night’s sleep. How’s Alec Routledge?’ she asked, wanting to get off the subject of her appearance.

‘He’s still unconscious, but Forensics have found plenty of evidence in his house. DI Brady said neighbours have identified a couple of people who were seen running away from his home. I think he’s hopeful on making an arrest within the next few hours.’

‘Good. I don’t think there’s a connection with Brian Appleby, but we’ll keep an open mind until it’s confirmed. Any news on who spoke to the press over the weekend?’

‘No. Nothing yet.’

‘I thought not. Any more contact from Danny Hanson?’

‘He’s called the switchboard a few times. And, yesterday, he accosted me in Graves Park while I was on a run.’

‘I hope you didn’t tell him anything.’

‘Of course not.’

‘He’s certainly determined. I’ll give him that.’

Scott went to leave the room, but hovered in the doorway.

‘Do you want to tell me something, Scott?’ she asked.

‘I do, yes.’

‘Go on then.’

‘Can I sit down?’

‘Of course.’

‘Brian Appleby kept a diary and he put all his appointments in it like trips to the dentist and doctors, etc. On Thursday, 15th September last year, there’s a note for him to come to South Yorkshire Police and register himself as living in Sheffield.’

‘Oh,’ Matilda said, her interest suddenly piqued.

‘Aaron said yesterday that Brian was a meticulous man. It appears he really was and had intended to come to the station to report his move.’

‘And did he?’

‘Well we don’t have him listed on our register of known sex offenders. Yet there’s nothing in his diary to say it didn’t happen, or he couldn’t make it, or he’d come on a different day.’

‘Strange.’

‘Very.’

‘OK. Leave it with me, Scott. I’ll have a think. Good work.’

‘Thank you.’

Matilda’s phone started to ring. She waited until Scott closed the door to her office before answering. ‘DCI Darke.’

‘My office, Matilda.’ The line went dead. Only ACC Masterson had that kind of control.

‘I’d offer you a coffee, but my machine started smoking this morning,’ Valerie said, giving a dirty look to the small coffee maker on top of a filing cabinet in the corner of the room. ‘I’m guessing you’ve seen Saturday’s edition of The Star .’

Matilda hadn’t, but she’d read the headlines on her phone. When she saw the physical newspaper in Valerie’s hands her heart sank. She hadn’t had a good relationship with the local newspaper over the past couple of years. At every turn, they seemed to delight in pointing out her errors and questioning her ability to be leading South Yorkshire’s CID.