The Hangman’s Hold: A gripping serial killer thriller that will keep you hooked

Traffic wasn’t usually so bad on her street. There were cars parked bumper-to-bumper on both sides. Somebody must be having a party.

As she walked down the poorly lit road she checked her phone, the brightness lighting up her face. It was just after eleven o’clock, not too late then.

It was a quiet night, and a cold one. The stars were shining in their billions as Adele looked to the pitch-black sky. There wasn’t a cloud visible. She shivered and pulled the collar up on her designer coat. A dog barked somewhere. Its resounding call set off a chain – a cat meowed, another dog barked, an owl hooted.

Adele stopped dead in her tracks and looked about her. She couldn’t make up her mind if she had heard something or if it was her imagination. The loud clacking from her shoes echoed as she took long strides to the safety of her house. For some reason, she wanted to get home, quickly, and lock the door behind her.

As Adele reached her front door the security light came on. She realized her house keys were buried somewhere in her handbag. She grabbed for the keys and struggled to find the Yale to unlock the door. Her fingers were cold and shaking. She pushed it open and almost fell into the house, slamming it closed behind her. She put the safety chain on, locked the top and bottom bolts and came to rest with her back against the solid wood.

‘Chris?’ she called out to the dark, silent house. ‘Chris, are you home?’

She kicked off her expensive but painful shoes and sighed with relief. She headed for the kitchen when a dull thud from the living room caused her to stop in her tracks. There was someone in her house. If Chris was home, he would have made himself known by now.

She turned and studied the door. Her eyes were locked on the handle, as if waiting for it to be pushed down from the other side. She grabbed it, slowly depressed it, and opened the door carefully.

Adele opened it wide enough to put her arm through and flick on the living room light. The yellow glow made her squint. She listened intently but couldn’t hear anything from the other side of the door. She pushed it fully open and froze in horror.

‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ she asked.

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?’

Chapter Two

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.

Matilda stepped into the cold room. A body of white-suited forensic officers were busily dusting for prints on the patio door handles and taking photographs from every conceivable angle. In the corner, one officer was sketching, and another was laying a sheet directly beneath the swaying body.

‘Do we know who he is?’ Matilda asked quietly to Kesinka.

‘Not confirmed yet. Aaron’s upstairs with Ranjeet trying to find some ID.’

‘Who called it in?’

‘The woman next door was hanging some washing out. She just happened to look up and noticed someone hanging in the window.’

Matilda apologized as she squeezed past a forensic officer to peer through the glass. The border between this house and next door was a privet hedge measuring no more than four-feet high. It wasn’t very private, hence why the woman next door was able to make such a gruesome discovery.

‘Does she know who is living here?’

‘Yes.’ Kesinka took out her notebook. ‘First name is Brian. She thinks his surname is Appleton, but not one hundred per cent. He lives alone as far as she knows.’

Matilda looked back to the hanging body. ‘Has Dr Kean been called?’

‘I’ve no idea, ma’am.’

‘She has. There was no answer from her mobile,’ one of the forensic officers said.

Matilda frowned. She had no idea who had spoken to her. As she looked around the room she realized she only knew Kesinka.

‘Where’s my team?’ she whispered.

‘Aaron’s upstairs. Faith is next door with Mrs Fitzgerald. Sian’s still on annual leave, and Rory is off today, hospital appointment. Scott isn’t in until later. Oh, DI Brady left a message this morning. He’s broken a tooth and got an emergency appointment with the dentist.’

‘That’s a relief. For a moment I thought everyone had deserted me.’ She smiled. She walked back to the body and introduced herself to a scene of crime officer.

‘Diana Black, nice to meet you,’ came the reply in a strong West Country accent. Diana had only been living in South Yorkshire for three weeks, but the confidence in which she went about her work showed she had been doing this for a number of years. ‘I’ve taken plenty of photographs and close-ups of the neck and the fingers.’ She lifted up the left hand of the hanging man, which had been placed in a plastic evidence bag. ‘If you look closely you can see there’s some blood under his nails, possibly skin samples too. We should be able to get a match if there is. Now, I know it’s not my job, but I’ve had a feel of the neck and there is no broken bone. Plenty of bruising and rope burns, which suggests he struggled a lot.’

‘So not a suicide?’ Matilda asked. She had been lost in Diana’s accent. It made a change from the gruff thick Yorkshire she was surrounded with on a daily basis.

‘If it is, it’s the first case of suicide by hanging I’ve come across where the person has covered their face and I’ve been in this job almost thirty years.’

Matilda looked at Diana. Although she was wearing a white forensic suit with the hood up and a face mask on, her eyes were still visible. There didn’t appear to be any wrinkles, and her voice sounded light, young. If she had been working for nearly thirty years she had to be in her mid-fifties at least. Matilda wondered what face cream she used.

‘Also,’ Diana said, picking up an evidence bag from the box by her feet, ‘the contents of his pockets – car keys, loose change, parking stub. And he’s wearing outdoor shoes. I’ve never known anyone to hang themselves and look like they’ve just come home from a day at work.’

‘No wallet?’

‘There was one in his jacket pocket. I’ve bagged it but … sorry, can’t remember his name: tall bloke, looks miserable.’

‘DS Connolly?’ Matilda smiled at the perfect description of one of her sergeants.

‘That’s the one. He took it upstairs with him.’

‘Thanks, Diana. Any chance we can get our mystery man cut down and the hood removed?’

‘Sure. By the way, it’s a good old-fashioned hangman’s noose.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘Thirteen twists in the rope – a proper hangman’s knot, or a “forbidden knot” they used to call it. I’m a bit of a geek when it comes to facts about killings. Too gruesome for Mastermind probably.’

Matilda walked away while the forensic officers set about carefully cutting the rope to lower the body to the floor. She dug out her mobile phone and rang Adele. It went straight to voicemail.

In the background, she heard Diana Black ask a colleague if he knew the name of the last man to be hanged in Britain. Matilda would have bet her salary Diana knew.

‘Adele, it’s Matilda. Can you give me a call when you get this message, please?’ She hung up and looked at the screen with a frown. It wasn’t like Adele to have her phone switched off.

‘Ma’am, you’re going to want to see this,’ Aaron Connolly called. By the sound of the heavy footfalls he was bounding down the stairs. Following him was the incredibly tall and unnecessarily handsome DC Ranjeet Deshwal.

‘Morning, Aaron, how’s Katrina?’ Matilda asked.

Aaron’s wife was eight months pregnant. She was suffering with endometriosis and pre-eclampsia and needed careful monitoring. Aaron had been full of excitement upon finding out he and his wife were finally going to become parents after years of trying. When her illnesses had been uncovered the dour expression he usually carried returned. All he needed was a long grey coat and he could be Idris Elba’s stand-in on an episode of Luther.

‘She’s at her mother’s, in Rhyl, for a couple of weeks, resting. I’ll be glad when she’s had this sodding baby. I’m going grey.’

Matilda smiled. ‘How long does she have left?’

‘She’s not due until April. I’ve told her, there’s no way we’re having a second.’ He swallowed and tried to laugh it off, but the stress and strain of an expectant father was etched on his face.

‘What am I going to want to see?’ Matilda was keen to enquire how Aaron was feeling and show she cared but felt uncomfortable whenever the topic strayed from anything work related. She’d also chosen the wrong time, as usual. Aaron was a very private man; he wasn’t going to want to talk about his personal issues surrounded by his colleagues. She wished she could be more like Sian Mills, the surrogate mother of the group who took everyone under her wing, including Matilda.

‘I’ve found a diary. Look at his appointments for yesterday.’

Matilda took the diary from him. Her eyes widened as she read down the page:

12:00 – hairdressers

13:30 – collect jacket from dry cleaners

19:00 – Adele Kean @ City Hall

Matilda turned back to the body, which was carefully being lowered into a body bag. ‘Jesus Christ! Who the hell is he?’

Chapter Three

Matilda dialled Adele’s number as she sat in traffic on Chesterfield Road, but again it went straight to voicemail. Matilda immediately thought the worst. Once the traffic began to clear, she slammed her foot down on the accelerator and headed for the city centre. She had to pass Adele’s office on the way to her house in Hillsborough, so turned off to see if she’d arrived late for some reason.

Matilda was let into the building and ran along the corridor to the post-mortem suite. She pulled open the door and was hit by how bright it was compared to the dull morning outside. There was a woman in the corner of the room she had never seen before.

‘Hello,’ Matilda called out. ‘I’m looking for Dr Kean. Is she in yet?’

‘No. Can I give her a message?’

Matilda frowned. ‘Who are you?’

‘Lucy Dauman. I’m Dr Kean’s assistant,’ she said, flicking her blonde hair back.

‘What happened to Victoria?’

‘She left last week. She’s moved to Stockport.’

‘Oh I see.’ Another new face. ‘If she comes in make sure she rings me straight away, even before she takes her coat off.’

‘OK,’ Lucy said, looking perplexed. ‘And you are?’

‘I’m DCI Matilda Darke,’ Matilda replied testily.

‘And she has your number, does she?’

‘Just get her to call me,’ Matilda replied with anger, already halfway out of the door.

Now Matilda was panicking. It was unusual for Adele not to be in work. It was almost unheard of for her to be out of work and not answering her phone. Matilda’s mind raced ahead and came up with all kinds of scenarios. Did she go to sleep last night and not wake up this morning? They had been training hard for the half-marathon next month. She tried not to think about the worst-case scenario, but it wasn’t possible. An image entered her mind of Adele hanging lifelessly from a light fitting, a noose tied around her neck.

As she drove out of the centre of town, Matilda remembered the texts they had sent to each other following Adele’s date. They’d had a lovely evening. They’d kissed. They’d gone their separate ways. That was the last she heard from her. She was in the taxi on her way home. What if she hadn’t got there? Taxi drivers were at the centre of the Rotherham abuse scandal. What if Adele had been attacked in the back of the taxi and was lying dead in a ditch somewhere?

Matilda knew it was selfish, but all she could think about was what would happen to her if Adele was dead? She was all she had. Since Matilda’s husband, James, had died she had relied on Adele to keep her sane. She was always there whenever she needed her. Without her, she was completely alone.

‘You selfish bitch,’ she chastised herself as she ran through a red light.

Matilda turned into Adele’s road at speed, almost mounting the kerb. She pulled into the first available parking space without indicating, ignoring the four-letter tirade from the driver of a BMW behind her. She ripped off her seatbelt, slammed the car door behind her and ran to Adele’s house. She looked up and saw closed curtains in all the windows. The house seemed to be in silence.

‘Shit,’ Matilda said to herself.

Matilda had had a copy of Adele’s key for as long as she could remember, but, until now, she had never had cause to use it.

Shutting the front door behind her, she stood in the hallway and listened tentatively for some sign of life. There was nothing. All she could hear was a distant clock ticking, the hum from the fridge in the kitchen and the sound of the central heating rattling through the house. And her own heart pounding in her chest. As she stepped along the hallway she dreaded what she was going to find.

‘Adele, Adele,’ Matilda called out. ‘Are you in?’

‘Of course I’m in,’ Adele replied, stepping out of the kitchen into the hallway.

‘Oh my God, what the hell’s happened to you?’ Matilda asked noticing the black eye on her friend’s face.

‘I’ve been burgled.’

‘What?’

‘I got home last night and there was a man in the living room. I must have disturbed him. He ran past, gave me a backhander, and left.’

‘Why didn’t you call?’ Matilda asked. Her voice was full of concern. She leaned in to get a better look at Adele’s face. Her left eye was purple.

‘I dialled 999 and was told to report it to my local police station. I called 101 and they gave me an incident number to give to my insurance company.’

Adele made her way into the kitchen, and Matilda followed. She looked around but there was no mess in here, apart from a glass panel missing from the back door. There was a small piece of plywood nailed over the hole.

‘Has anything been taken?’

‘Fortunately, no. It looks like he came through here and went straight into the living room. He opened some drawers but left empty-handed.’

A tear fell down Adele’s face, and Matilda pulled her into a tight hug. ‘You should have called.’

‘I was going to, but Chris came home not long after me and we started to tidy up. When we realized the police weren’t coming out, we made the back door secure. By then it was after two o’clock.’

‘Where’s Chris now?’ Matilda released Adele and walked her to the breakfast table. She sat her down and went to make them both a coffee.

‘He’s gone to get some locks.’ She sniffed hard and wiped her eyes. ‘I’ve never been burgled before.’

‘Neither have I.’ Matilda filled two mugs from the boiling water tap and took the coffee over to the table. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Sick. Why do people think they can just come into someone else’s house and help themselves?’ Adele’s voice broke as the emotion got the better of her.

‘I don’t know, Adele.’

‘And why don’t you investigate anymore? I’ve been given an incident number. Nobody’s coming out to check for prints or anything.’

Matilda turned to her friend with a blank expression. She had no idea what to say.

‘I’m sorry,’ Adele said. ‘It’s like you asking me why people die.’

‘Do you want to come and stay with me for a few days?’

‘No. Thanks, but I have to carry on as normal. If I went to stay at your house I wouldn’t come back. It’s a good job my date was last night and not tonight with this shiner.’

Matilda’s face dropped as she suddenly remembered the hanging man at a house in Linden Avenue. She looked to the floor, not sure how to proceed.

‘What’s wrong?’ Adele asked.

Matilda and Adele had known each other for twenty years, give or take. They were more than colleagues, they were best friends. Together, they were strong enough to cope with anything. What Matilda was about to say would test that strength.

‘Adele, the bloke you went out with last night—’

‘Brian,’ Adele interrupted.

Matilda took a deep breath. ‘He wasn’t called Brian Appleby, was he?’

‘Yes. How did you …? Oh God. What’s happened?’

‘Adele, I was called out to a house this morning in Linden Avenue. A man was found hanging in his living room.’

‘Hanging? You mean he committed suicide? Jesus! What does that say about me? He went home after our first date and hanged himself?’ Tears rolled down Adele’s face.

‘No. Adele, he didn’t kill himself.’

‘What?’

‘We think he was murdered.’