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

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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

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