The Hangman's Hold Read online

  The Hangman’s Hold

  MICHAEL WOOD

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Copyright

  KillerReads

  an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

  Copyright © Michael Wood 2018

  Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

  Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

  Michael Wood asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008311612

  Version: 2018-08-31

  Dedication

  To Christopher Schofield

  A genuine life saver, a good friend and a huge supporter. He doesn’t only support me, but The Asses and Donkeys Trust too. Pomegranate anyone?

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  If you enjoyed The Hangman’s Hold, try the previous book in the series…

  About the Author

  Also by Michael Wood

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Day One

  Thursday, 9 March 2017

  The pale grey, or the sky-blue tie? The grey one would go with the jacket, but the blue would match the shirt. Maybe no tie at all.

  With a sigh, he threw both ties at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror and fell backwards onto the bed behind him. He turned to the alarm clock on the bedside table. The harsh digits in a terrible Day-Glo green, which wouldn’t match anything in his wardrobe, told him it was almost six o’clock. He still had time.

  He pulled himself up and looked at his tired reflection once more, something he’d been doing quite a lot of in the last couple of weeks.

  ‘Look at the state of you,’ he said to himself. ‘Forty-five years old and you’re panicking over what to wear. It’s a few drinks, that’s all. Just two people having a drink together. Where’s the harm in that?’ He gazed deep into himself as if expecting an answer. His face was red. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead and a gleam in his eyes.

  Of course, it was more than just a few drinks. It was a date. An actual date. A trial run to see how two people, who, according to a computer seemed ideal for each other, would get on in reality. It was also his first in more than twenty-five years.

  Following his divorce, and a long period of adjustment, Brian Appleby had thought he’d been left with a life of singledom, a life dedicated to himself and the things he enjoyed doing. He’d go on holidays with friends, trips to the theatre, and when he fancied being alone, he could watch a film on the sofa with his feet up and his socks off.

  Unfortunately, life hadn’t worked out that way. All his friends had abandoned him, as had his family. He could understand that. He would probably have done the same in their position. At first, he’d tried to tell himself he didn’t care. Screw them. Yes, he’d made a number of mistakes, but he’d paid his price. Shouldn’t he be able to move on and continue with the rest of his life? Why couldn’t other people see that? Their loss. If they didn’t want him around, he’d find new friends.

  That had been easier said than done. New friends were hard to come by; especially when you were a stranger with a past you refused to talk about. Again, he hadn’t cared, in the beginning. He enjoyed his own company. But evenings in front of the TV eating pizza and not talking to anyone had soon begun to take its toll. The tipping point had come when he’d walked into Domino’s and the young girl with greasy hair serving had looked at him and said: ‘Good evening, Brian. What are you in the mood for tonight?’ She knew his name. He knew her name. He knew the name of every member of staff. How far had he fallen that he personally knew the people who worked in his local takeaway? He had quickly ordered and made his escape, returning home to examine the pathetic existence his life had become.

  His light at the end of the tunnel had come in the form of an advert on late-night television. A new website had been set up for the recently single looking to meet new people ‘for socializing, et cetera’. He hadn’t been too bothered about the ‘et cetera’, but he’d missed having someone to share his interests with.

  He’d logged on, created a profile and spent a full evening trying to find a decent enough photograph of himself. That had been a task in itself as he hadn’t been able to remember the last time he’d had his picture taken. Actually, that wasn’t true. He could remember, but a police mugshot wasn’t something you used to attract a lady. Eventually, he’d resorted to taking
a selfie, his first (and hopefully last) one. He’d surprised himself by how smart he looked in his suit and his neatly combed hair. Fingers crossed he looked completely different from the picture of him that had been slapped all over the tabloids.

  After a week, he had chatted to eleven different women. None of them were his type; he didn’t have a type as such, but he knew that the ideal woman would jump out of the screen at him. Eventually, she did – a professional single woman named Adele Kean, a few years younger than him, attractive, ‘enjoyed the theatre, eating out, and a good film’. She ticked all the right boxes. She was the one.

  Brian had spent an hour with a pad and pen drafting the perfect opening message to send to her. He’d wanted to make sure his spelling and punctuation were correct and tried to be funny without seeming desperate. He mentioned his recent trip to the Crucible (though he didn’t say it was only to watch the snooker) and how one of his favourite films was Rebecca starring Laurence Olivier, even though it was really Die Hard. He sent the email and waited impatiently for a reply.

  His wait was a long one. It was five days before it arrived with an apology for her tardiness but she had been busy with work. She thanked Brian for his lovely message, said she had seen Rebecca, but it was years ago, and promised to look it up online next time she had a free evening. She also complimented him on his photograph and hoped she would hear from him soon. It was a good sign Adele hadn’t recognized who he was from his photograph. He had changed over the years, but he was worried he was still identifiable.

  She heard from him very soon. Within thirty minutes of her reply landing in his inbox he was hitting the send button on his second message, the content of which seemed to come easier this time.

  For a week, messages went back and forth – Brian was itching to suggest a meet but didn’t want to scare her off. On the Wednesday, Adele took the first step and offered her telephone number. His heart almost skipped a beat when he read that one.

  Brian liked her accent – a mixture of Sheffield and Manchester. She was surprised she couldn’t hear any American in his since he’d told her he spent eight years teaching English in the States. He’d forgotten about the accent issue when he came up with that lie. He’d never even been to America. The conversation ran on without any awkwardness or silence and by the end of the chat they had arranged to meet for drinks the following evening outside the City Hall.

  So, which was it to be, the pale grey tie or the sky-blue one? Or maybe no tie at all.

  ‘Damn it, Brian!’

  Typically, it was raining. Typically, Brian was caught in traffic. Typically, Brian was five minutes late arriving at the City Hall.

  He expected to get there and find the steps completely deserted. But was pleasantly surprised when he spotted her standing under the shelter of a large umbrella looking stunning and elegant in a long black coat.

  He called out to her and she turned to him and smiled. She was so attractive, with a wonderful smile. She was perfect – exactly what he had been looking for.

  ‘Brian Appleby?’ she asked.

  ‘I am so sorry for being late. What is it with traffic when it rains? I was over twenty minutes on Chesterfield Road. I couldn’t believe it,’ he mumbled.

  ‘You don’t need to apologize it’s fine, honestly. I was a minute or two late myself.’

  He smiled. ‘Shall we go into Lloyd’s for a drink?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ she replied.

  The short walk to the pub was made in silence, but it wasn’t awkward. Out of the corner of his eye, Brian stole glances at the woman beside him. The slight breeze carried a hint of her scent – a subtle sweet perfume mixed with her natural aroma. He wanted to touch her, to feel her smooth skin on his fingers. No. Not yet.

  ‘What will you have?’

  ‘Gin and tonic, please.’

  ‘OK. Do you want to try and find a table while I get the drinks?’

  For early Thursday evening, the pub was busy. Sheffield, undergoing a seemingly never-ending period of regeneration, was trying to get people to stay in the city centre after work rather than head straight home. A council campaign had been launched and a new cinema and several bars had opened. So far it seemed to be working.

  Adele found a spot by the window and waited for Brian to return from the bar.

  ‘Don’t you drink?’ she asked, looking at the orange juice he’d brought for himself.

  ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So, you’re a pathologist, you were saying on the phone last night? That must be interesting.’

  ‘It is,’ Adele beamed. ‘It’s a great job. Very time-consuming, but I do enjoy it.’

  ‘And you have a grown-up son?’

  ‘Chris. Yes, he’s twenty-one. He’s not long since left university and started his first job this week.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Same line you were in: teacher. It’s only temporary, to cover maternity leave, but who knows? It’s good experience too.’

  ‘Definitely. How’s the training going? I noticed you were limping slightly,’ Brian said.

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing, it’s these shoes,’ she smiled. ‘A friend of mine and I are training for a half-marathon. We’re raising money for a brain tumour charity. I lost someone close to me a couple of years ago. His wife and I are doing the race to raise money in his memory.’

  There was a brief pause in the conversation as the topic slowly died and neither knew where to go next. They both took lingering sips of their drinks.

  ‘Do you run?’ Adele asked.

  ‘No. Dodgy knee. I walk a lot though. I like to get out into the country when I can.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember you saying that’s why you chose to move to Sheffield.’

  ‘Yes, a large city but right on the doorstep of the countryside. It’s ideal.’

  ‘So why did you decide to return to England after eight years in the States?’

  ‘Well I was made redundant and rather than try to find work I thought I’d come home. I never intended to stay out there as long as I did.’

  ‘Why did you go in the first place?’ Adele asked, leaning forward. She seemed genuinely interested.

  ‘Well,’ he said, blowing out his cheeks. ‘I’d just split from the wife and wanted a clean break of things. I thought an ocean between us might help the healing process.’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he smiled. ‘It did.’

  ‘I can still detect a London accent.’

  ‘Oh I’ll never lose that,’ he grinned. ‘Would you like another drink or shall we go for something to eat?’

  Adele looked at her watch. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. There was plenty of time for a meal. They decided on another drink. Adele told him more about her work and her friends. Brian mentioned about his ex-wife and how he found her in bed with another woman. In the toilets he refused to look at his reflection; he genuinely liked this woman; how could he tell her so many lies?

  ***

  By nine o’clock they were sitting at a table by the window in a restaurant in Leopold Square waiting for their starters.

  Adele had been in here many times with Matilda and felt relaxed.

  Brian looked around him like an excited child on his first trip to a theme park. The delight in his eyes soon disappeared when he noticed a woman staring at him. Her lingering glances were unsettling. Had she recognized him? If he’d taken Adele’s seat, his back would have been to the restaurant and he could have concentrated on his date. Shit.

  ‘Go on,’ Adele prompted.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You were saying about your surprise visitor.’

  ‘What? Oh … yes.’ He tried to ignore the woman across the room, but it wasn’t easy. Why did she keep looking at him? ‘We were told there was going to be someone important visiting the school. We all thought it would probably be some reality TV so-called celebrity the kids would go crazy over but none of the teachers would recognize. I wa
s halfway through my lesson when there was a knock on the door and in walked Michelle Obama.’

  ‘You’re joking!’ Adele gasped.

  ‘No word of a lie. It was incredible. She had all these security people with her with their dark glasses.’

  ‘Did you actually talk to her?’

  ‘I did. She sat in on the lesson for a while and watched the kids read then she came over and spoke to me. She asked where I was from and joked about my accent.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘She was lovely. Very warm, welcoming, easy to talk to. She genuinely seemed interested.’

  ‘That’s brilliant. I love Michelle Obama,’ Adele said. ‘I’ve never met anyone famous. Well, no one alive anyway,’ she said, thinking back to a former soap star she once had on her pathology table.

  ‘No one alive? What are you, pathologist to the stars?’

  ‘Something like that.’ She smiled.

  ‘I bet you have a few stories to tell.’

  ‘Plenty. And not a single one of them appropriate over dinner,’ she said as the waitress arrived with their first course.

  He looked over again at the woman. This time, she gave a hint of a smile and nodded her head at him. It was a knowing smile and he didn’t like it. Then, the penny dropped. Of course, she’d trimmed his hair this morning. Crisis averted.