The Hangman’s Hold. Michael Wood

this room. I don’t want anyone talking to the press about a sex offender being murdered. Speaking of which,’ Matilda said, pointing to a photograph on the wall, ‘you will notice we have a new addition to our wall of shame. That is Danny Hanson. He’s a journalist on The Star and fancies himself as some kind of maverick reporter. Memorize that face. If you see him, ignore him. Now, ladies, he’s young, he’s good-looking, don’t let him bewitch you with those puppy eyes. Understand?’

      There were sniggers from around the room.

      ‘Ma’am,’ Faith asked, raising her hand slightly. ‘Shouldn’t we contact other people on the sex offender’s register in the area, see if they’ve been followed or noticed anything suspicious lately?’

      ‘Not yet. We’ll put that on the back burner.’

      The door to the CID suite burst open and a flustered DC Kesinka Rani charged into the room. ‘Ma’am, you’re not going to believe this. I’ve just had a call from the Northern General. Alec Routledge has been admitted to intensive care in the early hours of this morning. He’s been badly beaten and stabbed.’

      ‘Who’s Alec Routledge?’

      ‘He’s a sex offender.’

       Chapter Six

      The journey to the Northern General Hospital was conducted in silence. DC Faith Easter had volunteered to drive Matilda, and Kesinka Rani was in the back, reading through Alec Routledge’s file that Scott had emailed to her phone.

      ‘Alec Routledge is a paedophile,’ Kesinka punctured the silence with the disturbing statement. ‘Released from prison in 2013 and has lived in Sheffield ever since. He was a football coach and abused eight boys on his team between 1994 and 1997. Sentenced to twenty years and released after sixteen. Parole was refused three times before eventually convincing a panel he had been rehabilitated.’

      ‘What is so attractive about Sheffield to sex offenders?’ Faith asked.

      ‘Have there been any other incidents involving attacks on him recently?’ Matilda asked, ignoring Faith. She didn’t turn around in her seat to look at Kesinka. She sat facing forward, watching the outside world blur past her at forty miles per hour.

      ‘No. Well, if there have been he hasn’t reported them.’

      ‘So why now?’

      ‘No idea. According to uniform, neighbours heard a commotion during the night but, to be fair, when isn’t there a commotion on Gleadless? Alec was found by his sister when she came to pick him up this morning. He didn’t answer the door, so she let herself in with her key.’

      ‘Pick him up? Where were they going?’

      ‘To visit their mother in a nursing home.’

      ‘Do you have a photograph of Alec Routledge?’

      Kesinka handed her phone to Matilda. Alec was in his mid-sixties. He was only five-foot seven inches tall, slight build, grey hair, what was left of it, and a harsh, weather-beaten face.

      ‘Is this a recent photograph?’

      ‘Last couple of years or so.’

      ‘Hmm,’ Matilda mused.

      ‘What is it, ma’am? Don’t you think it’s related?’

      ‘No. Brian Appleby was hanged. He was over six foot, well-built and broad, yet someone managed to hang him. Why couldn’t they do the same to Alec Routledge? He wouldn’t have taken any time to overpower.’

      Standing outside the room in ICU was PC Steve Harrison. He stood tall and cut a dashing figure in his uniform. The impression his face was giving was one of boredom.

      ‘Any news?’ Matilda asked.

      ‘None whatsoever. A fine way to spend your birthday.’

      ‘Is it your birthday?’ Kesinka asked, a grin on her face. ‘Happy birthday. How old are you?’

      ‘Twenty-nine.’

      ‘Are you doing anything to celebrate?’

      ‘I’m going out for a meal with my girlfriend. With any luck,’ he said, stealing a sidelong glance at Matilda.

      Matilda wasn’t listening. She was staring through the window at a comatose Alec Routledge, hooked up to tubes and wires leading to breathing machines and heart rate monitors. His face was a mess of purple bruises, red marks and white padding. His features were unrecognizable. A woman sat by his bed, who Matilda took to be his sister, looking down at the floor and dabbing her eyes with a crumpled tissue.

      ‘Kes, go and have a word with her. I want to know everything about him, especially who he interacts with. Faith, speak to the nurses, see what his chances are.’

      ‘What about me, ma’am? Do I have to stay here?’ PC Harrison asked.

      ‘For the time being, yes,’ she replied while walking away to the end of the corridor.

      Last November, DC Rory Fleming had been attacked by a convicted killer while he was being interviewed at the station. The teenager had leapt across the table and began senselessly pummelling Rory with his fists, raining down blow after blow. By the time Matilda reached him Rory was unconscious. He was rushed straight to theatre where he underwent an operation to relieve swelling and internal bleeding on his brain. When he eventually woke up, the first thing he was concerned about was his hair, which had been shaved.

      He had been signed off work for the rest of the year and returned at the end of January. The bruises had gone, and his hair had grown back. The once well-built and toned detective was now slightly thinner and had a gaunt look about him. He took this as an excuse to raid Sian’s snack drawer at every opportunity.

      While on her way to the Northern General, Matilda had sent Rory a text asking where he was. She found him in a large waiting room staring up at a silent television screen showing a dull mid-afternoon antiques programme with subtitles. She sat down next to him.

      ‘How’s it going?’

      ‘Hello, boss. I’m OK. I had enough of daytime TV when I was at home recovering, now I’ve got it here too.’ He nodded towards the television.

      ‘Just a routine check-up, is it?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Any problems?’

      ‘No.’

      Matilda blamed herself for Rory’s attack. She should have kept a closer eye on him. He had taken the Starling House case to heart, was eager to know what turned a teenage boy into a killer. His questions had led to him being beaten, and Matilda would never forgive herself.

      ‘Is everything OK?’

      ‘Yes, everything’s fine. I’m expecting to get discharged today. If they ever call me in.’

      ‘Running late?’

      ‘Yes. Forty minutes. I’ve been X-rayed, had my blood pressure checked, and spoken to a psychiatric nurse. I’m just waiting to see the consultant. They don’t rush, do they?’

      ‘They don’t have to. I had a call yesterday about Callum Nixon.’

      Callum Nixon was the teenage killer who had attacked Rory. He had been sentenced to life in prison for murdering two teachers in Liverpool. He had recently been moved to a YOI yet spent most of his days isolated from the rest of the inmates.

      ‘He’s had another ten years added to his sentence.’

      ‘Considering he was in prison for life it’s hardly going to make any difference, is it?’ he shrugged.

      ‘Not really. Are you still living at home?’ Matilda asked. Rory had moved back home late last year