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

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Chapter One (#u310d9ca7-58c7-5f38-ab02-035ea38ef6c4)

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.’