The Secret Hangman

29

‘W here?’

‘You know the big stone gates at Victoria Park? She’s suspended from one of the arches.’

‘She?’

On the short drive to the scene he was silent. Try as he did to suppress the memory of three years ago, driving to Royal Victoria Park to view his beloved Steph, he could not stop the thoughts crowding in. He told himself repeatedly that he was over the shock, but an event such as this still had the power to ambush his confidence. He folded his arms so that Halliwell wouldn’t see his hands trembling.

Put your mind on the bloody job, he told himself. You’re a professional.

The professional analysis was this. He was faced with one more dead body in the series, no question. The location, a public place, fitted the pattern. Some macabre point was being made each time. The victims had to be exposed to public view, however briefly, before they were discovered and taken down.

The gateway to the Royal Victoria Park consists of two arches on either side of the road that are not arch-shaped at all, but perpendicular. Said to be ‘triumphal’ and in the Greek Revival style, they were built in 1830 to a design by Edward Davis. To Peter Diamond’s eye they had the look of something made from a child’s building blocks. He’d never liked them.

A patrol car with roof light flashing was parked across the road to prevent traffic from entering the park, and diversion signs were in place. Tapes had been drawn across to keep the inevitable gawpers well back. A crime scene photographer was getting pictures.

The dead woman was hanging on white plastic cord from the centre crosspiece of the right-hand arch. Framed by the massive pillars she appeared child-like in size. She was clothed in a pink sweater and white jeans and was without shoes. Because of the twist of the head, forced outwards by the cord, her dark, almost black, hair, covered most of her face.

‘And you are…?’

Diamond found himself addressed by a man in a white paper suit.

‘Diamond, CID. Who are you?’

‘Diamond.’ He was writing the name on a clipboard. ‘Rank?’

‘Didn’t you hear? I asked you a question.’

‘Gledhill, scene manager.’

‘Pleased to meet you. I’m a detective superintendent.’

Gledhill wrote it. ‘The SIO, I take it?’

‘You can take it, yes. And you’re a civilian?’

‘A professional crime scene investigator.’

‘Not one of us, then.’

‘Does that make any difference to you, superintendent?’

‘Just getting it clear in my mind.’ These jobs were often contracted out. Privatisation had become a feature of crime investigation. There were companies equipped to do all the forensic jobs, and presumably Georgina or someone from the nick had called in Gledhill’s lot at an early stage. ‘So what can you tell me?’

‘About the body?’

‘I wasn’t asking how you spent your holidays.’

Gledhill didn’t know it, but this irritability had a lot to do with Diamond’s guilt about getting here late.

‘The call came in at six twenty this morning. She was spotted by the driver of a milk-float. A response car got here at six forty or thereabouts and I may as well tell you they contaminated the scene trying to see if she was still alive, which she plainly was not. We were contacted at seven twenty-five and our arrival was logged at eight ten, more than an hour ago. I assumed CID would be here before this.’

It was like a reprimand and it struck home. Diamond counterpunched. ‘You can assume what you like, Sunny Jim. What have you done in all this time? Why isn’t the corpse screened off? She’s entitled to some respect.’

‘Our equipment isn’t geared to this sort of situation. You’d need screens three metres tall.’

‘Rig up some plastic sheeting. Tie a rope between that lamppost and the tree. You do have plastic sheeting?’

‘I believe so, but by the time we get it in place-’

‘It will be needed. Has anyone told you this is number five in a series of suspicious hangings in this area? Obviously not. You’re going to be here some time. Has the pathologist been called?’

Gledhill nodded. ‘He’s on his way. And the forensic physician came by and certified death before you arrived.’

‘Who did you get?’

‘The pathologist? Dr Sealy.’

‘You’ve made my day. Is there anything to tell us the identity of the body?’

‘Too soon. There was nothing in her pockets. No note.’

‘You’ve searched the area for a bag, I expect?’

‘Without success. We thought her shoes might be recovered, but we haven’t found them.’

Diamond relented a little. Gledhill and his team had not been entirely inactive. ‘Do you have a paper suit my size? I’d like a close look.’

Kitted out, and with Halliwell in support, he approached using the access path Gledhill showed him. That body looked pathetically frail.

The photographer had left a folding set of steps. Before mounting them Diamond examined the hands and feet. The toenails were painted and undamaged, the soles clean. She hadn’t walked here without shoes.

The woman was suspended about a metre clear of the ground on the white cord or cable the thickness of a pencil, like the sort used for clothes-lines — similar to the cord found on the other bodies he’d seen. He looked up to where it was lashed to the stone crossbeam using the eye of a bowline knot. Then he mounted the steps and examined the ligature. He didn’t care to look at the face at this stage.

The cord was tight around the neck, making a deep indentation. There would be no giveaway secondary mark.

‘What do you know?’ he said to himself. ‘It’s another slip knot.’