Читать книгу The Hangman’s Hold - Michael Wood - Страница 12

‘Am I allowed in?’ Matilda asked, standing on the doorstep of Adele’s home in Hillsborough.

‘Of course you are,’ Chris laughed. ‘She’s in the living room. Go on in. Would you like a glass of wine or something?’

‘Wine would be perfect, thank you.’ She felt as if she could down a whole case of the stuff after the day she’d had.

Matilda made her way into the living room. She peered around the door and saw Adele in the centre of the sofa. Her face was a question mark of confusion. Wearing no make-up, her eyes were red from crying, which made her black eye and worry lines more prominent. She looked older, sadder.

‘Do you know what I love about this time of year?’ Matilda said, walking in with two heavy plastic bags.

Adele was startled at Matilda’s brash entrance and looked up. ‘What’s that?’ She tried to sound like her usual self. She smiled but it was obviously forced.

‘All the boxes of chocolates and Easter eggs on the shelves. I was like a child,’ Matilda said, raising the bags. ‘I’ve got your favourites, Ferrero Rocher.’ She took out a large box of the chocolates and handed them to Adele. ‘I couldn’t decide on Dairy Box or Milk Tray, so I bought both. I’ve got us a couple of giant Easter eggs too. Only a fiver.’

‘Easter isn’t for another month,’ Adele laughed.

‘That doesn’t matter. I thought tonight we could watch a film on Sky, get pissed and give ourselves diabetes with this lot. What do you think?’

Adele’s face lit up and she looked ten years younger. ‘Don’t you have a murder to solve?’

‘I do. But my best friend needs a bit of pampering. Brian’s still going to be dead in the morning.’

Chris walked in with a fresh bottle of wine and three glasses. His eyes widened at the coffee table laden with treats. ‘Ooh, can I join in, or is this girl’s night?’

‘You’re more than welcome, Chris, providing you let me paint your toenails.’ Matilda smiled.

‘I think I’ll give it a miss. I might go round to see Josh. Mum, do you mind if I go out?’

‘Chris, you don’t need to ask my permission,’ Adele scoffed.

‘I know. I meant, are you OK, on your own?’

‘I’m not on my own, Matilda’s here.’

‘OK. Well, I won’t be long.’ He leaned over and kissed his mum on her cheek, said goodbye to Matilda and left the house.

‘He’s a good kid,’ Matilda said.

‘He’s not a kid, he’s a grown man.’ Adele had a faraway look in her eye. ‘He’s not my boy anymore.’

‘He’ll always be your boy. It’s just … he’s grown up. That’s what we do. We evolve and move on. Blimey, Milk Tray have changed since I last had a box. Apple Crunch? You can have that one,’ Matilda said, reading the back of the box.

‘I’m not doing much moving on,’ Adele said wistfully.

‘No. Neither am I. But we’re going to change that.’

‘Are we?’

‘Oh yes.’ Matilda smiled. ‘It’s a bit late for New Year resolutions, but we’re going to grab 2017 by the balls and make it a good year for both of us.’

‘Are we? How?’

‘Well.’ Matilda thought for a moment. After a pause, she said, ‘We’ve got the half-marathon next month, we’re training for that …’

‘Some training,’ Adele nodded at the boxes of chocolate.

‘We’re allowed a night off. Anyway, after the half-marathon and after we’ve been released from hospital, you and I are going on a holiday.’

‘Really?’ Adele asked with a hint of a smile on her face. ‘Where?’

‘I haven’t decided yet. Somewhere warm where the sea is blue, the sand is golden, and women in their forties wearing a swimming costume aren’t sneered at.’

‘Oh. We’re going to Worthing?’ Adele wrinkled her nose before laughing.

***

‘Do you know what I can’t get my head around?’ Adele asked.

They were on their third bottle of wine, though Adele had drunk most of it. The floor was strewn with screwed-up chocolate wrappers, and Matilda and Adele were slumped on the sofa, balancing a box of chocolates on their laps. Captain America: The Winter Soldier was just finishing; the credits were rolling.

‘How Bucky managed to survive that fall from the train in the first place?’

‘No, about last night.’

‘Oh. Go on.’

Their voices were slow and relaxed. Adele’s was slightly slurred.

‘How charming Brian was. He genuinely seemed like the perfect gentleman, yet he turned out to be a sex offender. How could he put on an act and be so convincing?’

‘I don’t know, Adele. I’ve been thinking about that myself all day. Maybe he had atoned for his crimes. Maybe he was moving on from his past and trying to rebuild his life.’

‘I understand prison is all about rehabilitation and once they’re released they should be able to return to normal society, but … I don’t know.’

‘Go on,’ Matilda urged.

‘Say, for example, we went on a second date, and a third, and we started to get close. Would he have eventually sat down and told me what he’d done? If so, how would I have reacted? I like to think I’m a forward-thinking person who could have seen past his crimes to the man he now was, but, what if I wasn’t? What if I was a bigot who thought he should have rotted in jail? This has really made me question what kind of a person I am.’

‘You know what kind of a person you are. You’re kind, gentle, intelligent, honest. You would have approached what he told you with an open mind.’

Adele shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘OK,’ Matilda said, sitting up to be more comfortable. ‘Pass me the Ferrero Rocher. Now, based on your first date, you said he came across like the perfect gentleman. Keeping that in mind, what if he had visited you this morning and said “Adele, you’re a great woman, I had a lovely time, but you should know I served eight years in prison for sex-related crimes”. What would you have done?’

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.