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

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