The Hangman’s Hold. Michael Wood

      Adele thought for a while. She had another sip of her wine, then finished the whole glass. ‘Honestly? I would have admired him for telling me the truth. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t have felt safe being alone with him. I wouldn’t have wanted him touching me. If he’s raped someone, how do I know he’s not going to rape me?’

      ‘That’s a very honest answer.’

      ‘But does that make me a bad person?’

      ‘No. It makes you human.’

      ‘We’re taught from an early age to forgive and move on. But there’s no way I could have made any kind of life with Brian, knowing he was a sex offender.’

      ‘There are some crimes that are unforgiveable, Adele. Even when they’ve served their time, criminals can’t expect to fully return to a normal life. There is no excuse for what Brian did. He may have been trying to put his past behind him, but that’s not always possible. Don’t beat yourself up for having a normal, human reaction.’

      ‘He was charming, but he was scum,’ Adele said.

      ‘Was that on his dating profile? If so, you’ve only got yourself to blame.’

      For the first time that evening, Adele threw her head back and let out a loud laugh.

      ‘Captain America: Civil War?’

      ‘Definitely. Hawkeye’s in this one.’

      Danny Hanson, only crime reporter on The Star, lived in a shared terraced house just off Ecclesall Road overlooking Endcliffe Park. He hated his attic room. It was cold in winter and boiling in the summer. All his possessions were in cardboard boxes and he couldn’t move without having to stride over them. His housemates were two trainee nurses he hardly ever saw and a student from China who had very limited English. Unfortunately, this was all Danny could afford, and on his meagre wages, it was all he was likely to be able to afford for years to come.

      Sitting on his single bed with his laptop open, he was on a forum page about Sheffield life. He was hoping for some gossip about the dead body found at Linden Avenue this morning, but so far, there was nothing.

      His mobile started ringing. He looked at the screen, but the caller’s ID had been withheld. He was tempted to ignore it, believing it to be another sales call about his broadband provider.

      ‘Hello,’ he answered, sounding bored.

      ‘Danny Hanson?’

      ‘Speaking.’

      ‘I hope you’ve got a pad and pen to hand.’

      ‘Who is this?’ Danny’s ears had been pricked.

      ‘The bloke found dead on Linden Avenue this morning was Brian Appleby. He’d been executed by hanging. He was a paedophile from Essex.’ The caller hung up.

      A smile spread across Danny’s face. He looked at his phone. The screen was blank. Had he just dreamed that phone call? He logged on to Google, typed in ‘Brian Appleby’ and saw stories about a man who had been sentenced for sex offences against underage girls. He opened a blank Word document and began typing, his fingers hammering hard on the keyboard. Once he’d written the basic story, he’d give someone in the police a call, see if they could confirm it. If not, he’d pass it on to his editor. She’d know whether to risk publishing it or not. He could almost smell the print on his first front-page splash.

       Chapter Eight

      Danny Hanson left work early Saturday afternoon. He’d been busy since first light trying to get confirmation for his story. He’d spoken to a few detectives in CID who had refused to comment, giving him the stock reply that a statement would be released in time. However, Danny wasn’t satisfied with that. In the end, he decided to use underhand tactics to get through to someone lowly.

      ‘Hello, my name’s Gerald Wiley. I was mugged last week. I spoke to a lovely girl in uniform who said she’d help find whoever it was stole my watch. I didn’t get the lass’s name. Do you think I could speak to someone, please?’ Danny asked into the phone, putting on his best old-man voice.

      He was transferred from the switchboard and a young-sounding PC answered who was more than happy to talk to Danny. He quickly launched into his spiel about how he knew who the dead man in Linden Avenue was and just wanted his research efforts confirming. The PC refused to give his name, but his comments would definitely be enough to use in the paper. It helped that Danny had his iPhone held up to the receiver, recording the conversation.

      At just after two o’clock in the afternoon, Danny left work. As he made his way for home, he saw a board outside a newsagent’s advertising the local paper. There it was, his first ever front-page story.

      PAEDOPHILE EXECUTED

      It was a simple headline, but it packed a punch. He didn’t even attempt to hide his grin upon seeing his byline. He’d post a copy of the paper off to his mum. She’d be very proud.

      Matilda and Adele lost the majority of the weekend to a hangover and feeling sick after the amount of sugar they had consumed. It was what they both needed: a chance for them to discuss their futures as two independent, single forty-somethings and for Adele to try and put the whole Brian Appleby incident behind her. Famous last words.

      Matilda had called DI Christian Brady and put him in charge of the investigation for the weekend. Fortunately, budget cuts came in handy on occasion and this was the perfect time to blag a couple of days of light duties. Christian kept calling, filling her in on the interviews with neighbours, but nothing dramatic required her attention. She went home on Sunday morning feeling better about herself. She hoped Adele did too.

      Matilda woke up early on Monday morning, an hour before her alarm was due to sound. She headed straight for the treadmill in the conservatory and ran 10K in just under one hour. She smiled at the time on the display, happy with how far she had come in the short space of a couple of months. Strangely, she was looking forward to the half-marathon, though she didn’t dare say anything as crazy out loud.

      She breakfasted on granary toast and a black coffee before showering. This morning, she decided to put on a bit of make-up. While Matilda sat in her dressing gown and applied a touch of eyeliner, she tried to remember the last time she had done this – probably James’s funeral. That was almost two years ago. When she was finished, she liked what she saw in the mirror. She had definable cheek bones, her face looked smoother and younger. She should do this more often.

      With a spring in her step, Matilda went into the living room, picked up her framed wedding photograph and gave James Darke a big kiss, leaving a lipstick mark behind which she refused to wipe off.

      ‘I love you, James,’ she said with confidence. There was no cracking in her voice, no tearful emotion at losing him so early into their marriage, just a determined statement of love from wife to husband.

      ‘Is everything all right, ma’am?’ DC Scott Andrews said, entering Matilda’s office.

      ‘Yes, fine. Why?’

      ‘You look different. Brighter,’ he mused.

      ‘I had a good night’s sleep. How’s Alec Routledge?’ she asked, wanting to get off the subject of her appearance.

      ‘He’s still unconscious, but Forensics have found plenty of evidence in his house. DI Brady said neighbours have identified a couple of people who were seen running away from his home. I think he’s hopeful on making an arrest within the next few hours.’

      ‘Good. I don’t think there’s a connection with Brian Appleby, but we’ll keep an open mind until it’s confirmed. Any news on who spoke to the press over the weekend?’

      ‘No. Nothing yet.’

      ‘I thought not. Any more contact from Danny Hanson?’

      ‘He’s