‘Christian, do me a favour – come and have a look at this CCTV footage and see if you recognize this bloke,’ Sian said. ‘I’ve watched it more than a dozen times, but I can’t put a name to his face. Ooh, you smell like a cheap tart,’ she added when he got closer.
‘I was foolishly walking through reception just as Trisha Abbott came in.’
‘Blimey, is she still going?’
‘She certainly is. Fifty years old and still working the streets.’
‘What did she want?’
‘Apparently, she hasn’t seen one of her fellow street workers for a few weeks and she’s worried.’
‘Oh. She’s probably moved on somewhere else.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Anyway, take a look at this for me,’ Sian said.
Christian pulled a chair up to Sian’s desk and made himself comfortable. He opened her snack drawer and rummaged through the delights wondering what he was in the mood for. In the end, he grabbed for a Snowball and carefully opened the wrapper, so as not to spill any coconut.
‘Let me know when you’re ready,’ Sian said.
‘Sorry, go on,’ he replied with a mouthful of chocolate and marshmallow.
Sian ran the ninety-second footage. Christian frowned and asked her to replay it. And a third time. The fourth time he pressed pause and zoomed in on a close-up of the man standing at the reception desk.
‘That’s Gordon Berry,’ he said eventually. ‘Remember? That business with the mechanic. We interviewed him after that bloke was—’
‘Of course it is. Gordon Berry. Christian, you’re a star.’ She quickly wrote his name down on a Post-It note before she forgot. ‘Help yourself to a … well, maybe not,’ she said, looking at the mess he’d made of her desk. She decided not to tell him about the bits of marshmallow around his mouth. She needed to get her kicks from somewhere.
‘Do you remember Super Saturday?’ Sian asked Matilda.
‘Is that the day after Black Friday?’
‘No. Super Saturday 2012 was when Team GB won all those gold medals in the space of less than an hour at the London Olympics.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Matilda said, wondering where this was leading.
‘Anyway, on Super Saturday, Gordon Berry was working for a garage on Queens Road. There was only him and a colleague, Darren Price, working. Gordon went to the pub for lunch at one o’clock and came back at half past two.’
‘Long lunch.’
‘Liquid lunch too by the sound of it. Not long after his return, there’s an incident and Darren Price is crushed to death by a car falling on him. Gordon was arrested at the scene because police officers attending could smell alcohol on his breath and he was slurring his words. However, he was never charged with manslaughter or being drunk while operating heavy machinery.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because during his investigations, the coroner claimed the equipment in the garage was so out of date that it was only a matter of time before an incident of this nature occurred. Albie Finkle who owned the garage was charged with negligence and found guilty of manslaughter.’
‘What happened to Finkle?’
Sian flicked through the thick file in her hands. ‘He was fined and banned from owning a business for ten years. He gassed himself three weeks later.’
‘Bloody hell. And what about Gordon Berry?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So the coroner’s report blamed the equipment in the garage for Price’s death?’
‘Yes.’
‘But surely Berry should have taken some of the blame for being drunk.’
‘You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you?’
‘We need to pay this Gordon Berry a visit. He sounds like a prime target for our serial killer.’
‘Do you think he was coming into the station to ask for protection?’
‘It’s possible. It doesn’t explain why he did a runner though. Come on, Sian, let’s go and see what Gordon has to say for himself. You can buy me lunch with your scratchcard winnings afterwards.’
‘Mum, it’s me,’ George Appleby said. He was sitting on his bed in the shared house he refused to move out of. Since the taunting had begun, he had stopped going to university and stayed in his room. He looked a mess. His hair was overgrown, his beard was patchy, and he stank of sweat. For days George had been contemplating calling his mother. Eventually, he worked up the courage.
‘George, what do you want? I’m just about to go out,’ she said in her usual icy monotone.
‘It’s about Dad.’
‘George, I’m not interested,’ she cut him off.
‘Mum, listen.’
‘No, George, you listen. I had no idea your father had moved up to Sheffield, and I really don’t want to talk about him.’
‘People are talking,’ he said quietly, his voice breaking.
‘Of course they are, it’s what they do.’
‘But people are talking about me, looking at me.’ His voice was soft. He was on the brink of tears.
‘George, you’re nineteen years old, sort it out for yourself.’
George took a deep breath. ‘There’s something else, Mum.’
‘I can’t have this conversation now, I’m running late for work. I’m sorry, George.’
‘Mum, can I come down to visit this weekend?’ he asked before his mother could end the call.
‘I don’t think so, George. I have to go,’ she said. She didn’t say goodbye, just hung up.
George sat on the edge of his bed, the phone still pressed against his ear. He looked out of the window at the view of the steel city. He hated Sheffield. He hated the university. He wished he’d never come here.
While he’d been on the phone to his mother, he’d felt it vibrate a few times. He looked at the screen and saw he’d received more notifications on social media, more taunts, more people making fun of him. Even complete strangers were getting in on the act.
He leaned down and pulled open the drawer underneath his bed. He took out a length of polyhemp rope. The victims of the Hangman were realizing there were consequences for their actions. It was about time others learned that lesson too.