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

Chapter Nine

Doctor Simon Browes was a man who always had a smile on his face and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Even during the more disturbing aspects of his job. For a forensic pathologist, he was jovial, sprightly, and full of life. At thirty-five, he was younger than Adele Kean, and he oozed confidence. There wasn’t anything special in his appearance. He didn’t have film-star good looks, a chiselled jawline or a rippling torso, but his charm made him very attractive to the opposite sex.

Usually working in Nottingham, Simon had received the call to fill in for Adele and arrived in the steel city in record time. He was dedicated to his job and would drop anything if necessary, much to the consternation of his wife and three children.

Lucy Dauman greeted him in the pathology suite and showed him into Adele’s impossibly tiny and cluttered office. Lucy had cleared some space on the desk for him to use to write up his reports and had found him a clean mug with no chips or cracks.

‘So, Victoria has headed for pastures new?’ he asked, taking off his duffel coat and looking around for a hook. He draped it over the back of his chair.

‘Yes. Stockport. I think she has family there.’

‘And what about you?’

‘What about me?’ Lucy asked with a frown.

‘What’s your story?’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘Everyone has a story,’ he said, leaning against the desk and folding his arms. At six-foot one he towered over the five-foot five technical assistant. His steely glare was bewitching.

‘I don’t.’ She blushed, tucking her blonde hair behind her ears. ‘I’m twenty-six, I live with my sister, have a cat called Odie and student debts that would make Greece look well managed.’

Simon smiled. ‘Single?’

‘Ye-es,’ she said slowly. She had already clocked his wedding ring and wondered where this conversation was going. She didn’t want there to be any awkwardness, particularly in such a confined space.

The door to the autopsy suite was pulled open and Matilda Darke entered the room.

‘Ah, DCI Darke is here,’ Lucy said, quickly. ‘Let me introduce you.’

Unfortunately, Lucy didn’t get a chance. She was about to open her mouth to speak when Simon overtook her and approached Matilda with large strides, holding his hand out for her to shake.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Darke, great name for a detective, pleasure to meet you finally,’ he said with a Cheshire cat smile.

Matilda shook his hand. ‘Likewise,’ she said. ‘You are?’

‘Sorry, Simon Browes, forensic pathologist. I believe I’m replacing Adele Kean on this particular case. She has a personal connection, I’ve been informed.’

‘Well, she—’

Simon held up his hands. ‘You don’t need to tell me, none of my business.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Shall we begin? I’ll go and scrub up. Will you be joining us, DCI Darke?’

Dressed in ill-fitting green theatre scrubs, apron, gloves, wellington boots, hat and face mask, Matilda stepped carefully through the footbath and into the small and dimly lit post-mortem suite.

There was one fixed table in the centre of the room. On it lay Brian Appleby covered in a white sheet. Four other people stood nearby – Simon Browes, Lucy Dauman, and two others who looked identical in their scrubs. One was a Forensic Imaging Specialist, to photograph the post-mortem at every stage; the other was the Crime Scene Manager, there to collect trace evidence. Under their protective layers, Matilda couldn’t tell who was who.

In the corner, was a brightly lit anteroom known as the SOCO room. This was where the evidence was passed through to a waiting detective constable. In this case, Faith had made the journey from the police station. Her expression showed that she wasn’t happy about being here, but at least there was a wall of glass between her and the gruesome act of an autopsy.

‘What did the results of the digital autopsy show?’ Matilda asked.

‘We haven’t done one,’ Lucy said.

‘Why not?’

‘I was told this was death by hanging,’ Simon said.

‘It is.’

‘Then we don’t need a digital autopsy. The majority of what we need to know is external. As for internal, bruising won’t show up on the scans. It will save time and money for me to perform a straight invasive post-mortem.’

‘What about the organs?’ Matilda asked.

‘What about them?’ he asked, getting slightly irate at the delay.

‘Don’t we need to do a digital autopsy to see their condition?’

‘As far as I have been made aware, there are no gunshot or stab wounds. We’re not looking for the trajectory of a bullet or a snapped-off point of a knife. May I begin?’

‘By all means,’ Matilda said, reluctantly stepping back so as not to get in the way. She doubted if radiologist Claire Alexander would be happy.

Lucy removed the sheet and was presented with a body bag lying on the table. She broke the lock and opened the bag revealing a pale Brian Appleby inside.

Matilda angled her head to one side and studied Brian’s face. She could understand why Adele had been attracted to him. He had thick, dark brown hair, a firm jawline, smooth skin and just the hint of grey in his stubble, giving him a distinguished look. Matilda had to remind herself this man had sexually assaulted three young girls. There could even have been more. He had used his charms to convince Adele he was an upstanding member of the community, just unlucky in love. What did he need to do to win over a fifteen-year-old girl?

‘Did you hear me?’

Matilda looked up to see all eyes on her. ‘Sorry?’

‘DCI Darke, if you’re not comfortable viewing a post-mortem you don’t have to stay,’ Simon admonished.

Matilda stole a glance at Faith in the SOCO room who was hiding a smile. ‘I’m fine. I was … thinking.’

‘Well, have a think about this. Your man here was strangled before he was hanged.’

‘Really?’ she asked. ‘He didn’t die by hanging?’

‘He may well have been unconscious when he was finally strung up but if you look at the rope marks on his neck, they run horizontally.’ Simon beckoned her closer to the body. ‘As you can see, the rope was tied around his neck, but it’s not a firm mark at the back. I think he was subdued in a stranglehold, so the killer would have more control.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Matilda frowned, trying, but failing, to picture the scenario.

Simon let out a heavy sigh. ‘Imagine the killer standing behind you. He has his arm wrapped around your neck squeezing hard to render you unconscious, or on the cusp of passing out. He lets go. You fall to the floor, gasping for breath, and he throws the noose over your head and hangs you up with it. The rope cuts into your throat and goes up the side of your neck around the back of your ears. It’s a very slow and painful death.’

‘Right,’ was all Matilda could say. She changed her mind on what type of person could overpower someone of Brian Appleby’s build. They needn’t be stronger, taller, fitter; the element of surprise was more than enough.

‘Do you know the signs of ante-mortem hanging, DCI Darke?’ he asked.

‘The presence of ecchymosis around the ligature and the dribbling line of dried saliva down the front of his shirt,’ Matilda replied with a slight smile on her face.

‘Very good,’ he said, a slight condescending tone to his voice. ‘Not just a pretty face, DCI Darke,’ he added, for want of something better to say.

Or maybe I called Adele this morning and she told me what to look for.

‘Judging by the crime scene photographs, this is a partial hanging as his toes were found to be touching the floor. Is that correct?’

‘They were just touching the ground, yes.’

‘The weight of the head, arms and chest provide the fatal pressure on the neck. Mr Appleby was a well-built chap. His own muscle was his killer. I’m going to cut through the rope and leave the knot intact. I’m sure your Forensics are capable of tracing the rope and finding skin samples within the fibres.’

‘How long would he have taken to die?’ Matilda asked.

‘I’m surprised you don’t already know the answer to that, DCI Darke,’ he smiled at her through his face mask, his eyes twinkled. ‘It depends on how long he was struggling with his assailant. The usual time period for death by hanging is three to five minutes. He will have lost consciousness fairly quickly. However, when you’re dying, those few minutes can seem like an eternity.’

Dr Browes cut through the rope. ‘As I expected, a simple slip knot. A decent enough rope too, not too thick, not brittle. Your hangman wasn’t an opportunist. He, for argument’s sake let’s call him a he, knew the size of his victim and brought along the adequate tools required.’

‘Thirteen twists too,’ Matilda said, remembering Diana Black’s comment from Thursday morning. ‘A typical hangman’s noose, I believe.’ She was enjoying being smug.

Simon Browes ignored her. ‘I’m going to cut him open and take a look at his organs now. Not squeamish are you, DCI Darke?’

‘Not at all,’ she lied.

‘Ms Dauman?’

‘Of course not,’ another lie.

Chapter Ten

‘Are you all right now?’ Lucy Dauman asked as she stood over DCI Darke with a glass of water.

Matilda looked around her, wondering how she had got from the autopsy suite to Adele’s office.

‘Yes, I’m fine. It’s been years since I’ve collapsed at a post-mortem.’

‘I haven’t been doing this job long. I always think I’m going to faint. I get warm and feel sick, but I’ve managed to control myself so far.’ She smiled.

It wasn’t the sight of the scalpel cutting into the body, the smell coming from the internal organs or the sounds of ribs being broken: it was Dr Simon Browes’s haphazard manner and lack of respect for the man on his table. He ran the scalpel down Brian Appleby’s chest like he was opening a parcel from Amazon. He tore back the skin and cracked open the ribcage like a starving cannibal. The fact Matilda hadn’t eaten since first thing hadn’t helped either.

‘Have some more water, you still look a little flushed.’ Lucy handed Matilda the glass.

‘Is he always like that?’

‘I’ve no idea. Today’s the first time I’ve met him. He’s good at his job though, you can’t deny that.’

Matilda took another large slug of water and a deep breath. ‘Is the post-mortem complete?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘I’m guessing Dr Browes is waiting for me to do the post-autopsy briefing.’

‘He is.’

‘I hope he’s changed his clothes,’ she said, slowly getting up from the chair. ‘I don’t think I could stand the sight of any more blood today.’

By the time Matilda saw natural daylight she had been in the Medico-Legal Centre for over six hours. Faith had returned to the station, probably telling everyone how Matilda had fainted during a post-mortem. A DCI collapsing at the sight of blood would be comedy gold among the uniformed officers. They were just getting over the video Rory filmed on his mobile phone last year of Matilda being lifted over floodwater by a hunky fireman.

The post-autopsy briefing was conducted in the windowless family room. The heady smell of different fragrances of air freshener, coupled with Dr Simon Browes delighting in giving Matilda all the details in glorious technicolour, made her want to vomit all over his designer shirt and tight trousers.

In the end, he summed up what Matilda had already surmised: Brian Appleby died by strangulation. The blood and skin samples under his fingernails were evidence he struggled. Unfortunately, the samples belonged to him. He had pulled at the rope as it tightened around his neck and squeezed the life out of him.

As Matilda made her way, delicately, to the car park, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for Brian. Then she remembered who he was, how he had fooled Adele, and his victims. She felt sick. She needed something to eat.

A tentative knock on the glass door caused Matilda to look up from her cluttered desk.

‘Ma’am, can I have a word?’

‘Of course, Ranjeet, come on in.’

DC Ranjeet Deshwal had recently transferred from West Yorkshire Police. He was in his mid-twenties, slim with the shiniest black hair Matilda had ever seen. He wore rimless glasses and a stud in each ear. She wanted to ask him how he managed to get the knot in his tie so big but, when she looked at his neck, all she could picture was the lifeless body of Brian Appleby hanging from his ceiling.

‘DI Christian Brady is observing an interview,’ he began in a thick West Yorkshire accent. ‘He wanted me to tell you that three lads have been arrested in Gleadless for the assault on Alec Routledge. One of them has admitted it and landed his two mates in it too. They don’t know anything about Brian Appleby, though.’

‘I never thought they were linked. Thanks for telling me, Ranjeet.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘How are you settling into South Yorkshire Police?’ she asked as he was heading for the door.

He stopped in the doorway and turned around. Matilda was pretty sure his smile was fake. ‘I’m enjoying it. Great bunch of people.’ He nodded several times before leaving the office.

Matilda tried hard not to smile. A great bunch of people? Was that true? She looked through the window at the officers going about their duties. There was only Scott and Faith she knew by first name. The room was packed yet she didn’t know a single one of them. You’re to blame for that. Invite them out for a drink.

‘I’ll think about it,’ she said quietly to herself, before rolling her eyes.

Sitting in Matilda’s office, Aaron Connolly and Scott Andrews were squeezed into the small space. All three had a cup of coffee balanced somewhere on Matilda’s untidy desk and they’d raided Sian’s snack drawer. She was due back tomorrow, so someone was going to have to run to the supermarket to replenish the stolen items.

‘It turns out Brian Appleby did have kids,’ Scott said, opening a Boost. ‘Alicia is twenty-one. She’s currently on a gap year in France. George is nineteen, and, get this, he’s studying at Sheffield Hallam University.’

‘Why am I only learning this now?’ Matilda asked.

‘I only found out myself this lunchtime. Brian had an address book, but all the names were initials. I’ve been looking them up, and George Appleby lives in a shared student property on Penrhyn Road.’

‘Maybe that’s why Brian moved to Sheffield then. To be closer to his son. I think we’re going to need a word with this George. Scott, go along with Faith and bring him in.’

‘Tonight?’

Matilda looked out of the window and noticed it was dark. A glance at her phone told her it was just past eight o’clock. ‘First thing in the morning then. You can go with Sian, Scott.’

‘Will do.’

‘Who spoke to the wife?’

‘Unfortunately, I did,’ Aaron said. ‘She was very short with me and blamed me for bringing him back into her life. She practically slammed the phone down when I asked where she was on Thursday night.’

‘Did you get an answer?’

‘Sort of. I’ve been on to the local police in Southend. They’re going to send someone round to have a more in-depth chat with her. I don’t think she’s a suspect.’

‘Did Essex Police go to speak to Brian Appleby’s old neighbours?’

‘They did. None of the neighbours have been in contact with Brian since he left for Sheffield. They were glad to see him go. I think they were worried house prices would drop.’

‘OK. What about his neighbours on Linden Avenue?’

‘Faith and Ranjeet are back there with a team of uniforms. They’re trying to catch anyone who was out during the day,’ Aaron said. ‘So far, none of them are aware of Brian’s past. They thought he was the ideal neighbour.’

‘Jesus, it just shows you we have no idea who lives next door, do we?’

‘So where do we go from here?’ Aaron asked.

Matilda leaned back in her chair and blew out her cheeks. She had no idea. ‘Well let’s see if anything comes up once the son and all the neighbours have been questioned. If not, we’ll have to rely on Forensics to pull something out of the hat.’

‘I thought you might like to know,’ Aaron said, ‘the phone lines have been ringing off the hook.’

‘Oh! Witnesses?’

‘No. Since The Star printed that story about paedophiles in Sheffield, we’ve had people calling in and reporting anyone they suspect to be child molesters.’

‘Bloody hell. Aren’t people lovely?’

‘I know. The calls are going to have to be followed up though.’

‘Right,’ Matilda said. ‘I’ll have a word with Christian. We’ll put a team together. This is all we need.’

Adele Kean was doing something she hadn’t done since Chris was a baby – she was watching a soap opera. She recognized the character of Eric Pollard (just), but everyone else was a mystery to her. Wearing tracksuit bottoms and an oversized sweater, her hair uncombed and her face without make-up, she sat on the sofa staring into the distance. How could she have been so naive as to trust a stranger, especially one she had met on the Internet. Never again.

She had spent the afternoon deleting her profile on the three websites she had registered with and the apps from her mobile phone. From now on, her mobile would be just for making calls, sending texts, and playing solitaire between post-mortems. The game for the lonely. How apt.

The landline started to ring. She decided to ignore it. It would only be a company trying to get her to claim for PPI. It stopped ringing and started again almost immediately. She looked at the display – unknown number. If the caller couldn’t identify themselves, then she didn’t see why she should answer. It stopped then started again.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Adele exclaimed. She picked up the handset and pressed the green button. ‘Hello?’ she asked, an annoyance in her voice.

‘Dr Adele Kean?’

‘Yes.’

‘My name is Danny Hanson, I’m a reporter on The Star. Is it true you were on a date with a known paedophile the night before he was found murdered?’

Adele was struck dumb. She could hear her heart beating loudly in her chest. She gripped the phone tight and pressed it hard against her ear.

‘Dr Kean? I’ve heard you’re good friends with DCI Matilda Darke. How do you feel knowing that South Yorkshire Police were not aware there was a paedophile living on their patch? Surely if your best friend had known, she could have saved you all this heartache.’

Adele ended the call. ‘Bastard,’ she said, throwing her phone onto the seat beside her. She picked up a sofa cushion and hugged it tight to her chest. She wondered how he had managed to find out all that information about her.

Chapter Eleven

‘Is your house back to normal then, Sian?’ Scott asked from the driver’s seat of the pool car.

‘Yes, thank goodness, but at the expense of these,’ she said, showing off her dry, calloused hands. ‘I used to have lovely nails.’

‘They’ll soon grow back.’

‘Yes, I’ll just get them nice for the summer and they’ll be ruined again. Stuart wants to irrigate the garden, so the house doesn’t flood if we get more heavy rain.’

Scott tried to hide his smile.

They parked in the last available space in the small car park near the main entrance to Sheffield Hallam University. Sian stepped out and took her long black coat from the back seat. The stiff breeze whipped her shoulder-length red hair. She shivered and trotted to keep up with Scott who was a good eight inches taller than her.

They were in luck; George Appleby was on campus and currently in a lecture. A heavily pregnant administrator led the way. While Sian was asking questions about the impending birth, Scott was taking in his surroundings. University seemed so long ago to the twenty-six-year-old DC. He enjoyed his time at Nottingham University. It had been liberating. Although, looking at the students now, he was probably better off where he was. He didn’t remember being so bloody miserable. Yes, they would be leaving university with three times the debt he left with, but while he was studying he didn’t care about that. He had a ball.

Sian and Scott waited in the corridor while the administrator went to collect George from a lecture hall.

‘It won’t be long until your kids are coming to uni, will it?’

‘How old do you think I am?’ Sian asked. ‘My eldest is studying for his GCSEs. There’s plenty of time before he comes here.’

‘What does he want to do?’

‘I’ve no idea. I don’t think he knows either,’ she replied, looking into the distance.

‘From an early age I knew I wanted to be a detective. I think it was Sherlock Holmes that got me interested.’

Sian smiled. ‘Real-life police work is a bit of an eye-opener, isn’t it?’

‘Just a tad.’ He smiled back. ‘Also, I don’t play the violin or smoke opium.’

The door opened, and the administrator stepped out followed by a tall skinny George Appleby. His pale pallor, his mound of unruly dull-red hair, his oversized clothes, made him appear in urgent need of a hot meal.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ the administrator said before she waddled off down the corridor.

‘George Appleby?’ Sian asked.

‘That’s right.’ He looked nervously at the two detectives.

‘I’m DS Sian Mills from South Yorkshire Police. This is DC Andrews. We’d like to ask you a few questions about your father, if that’s OK?’

‘My father?’ he asked in wide-eyed surprise. His eyes darted nervously from side to side to make sure they weren’t overheard.

‘Yes. When was the last time you saw him?’

The nervous look was replaced with one of disgust. ‘I’ve no idea. It was years ago. Why?’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘Yes. He’s in Ashfield Prison,’ he said, lowering his voice.

Sian and Scott exchanged glances.

‘What’s going on?’

‘I think it would be better if we continued this conversation back at the station. This isn’t really the place.’

George Appleby sat in the interview room, guarded by PC Steve Harrison, looking up at the crime prevention posters. In the observation bay, Sian and Matilda were studying the skinny young man.

‘So, he had no idea his father was out of prison?’

‘Unless he was a very good liar,’ Sian said. ‘How do you want me to play this?’

‘Break the news that his father’s dead first, then mention he’s been living in Sheffield for over a year, see what reaction you get.’