The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) (26 page)

‘I was waiting for the pathologist, sir. I didn’t think there was any rush. Suicides don’t normally get high priority.’

‘Were you aware that two other people have hanged themselves in this city in the past fortnight?’

‘Ah. Way I hear it we get about two hangings a week, sir. No’ that unusual a way fer folk to top themselves.’

‘Like that?’ McLean nodded in the direction of the
dead man, hidden round the corner of the building, and now, finally, by a hastily erected screen. Carter didn’t answer, instead shifted his weight from foot to foot like a schoolboy needing to be excused.

‘And no doubt you were aware that I was investigating whether they were in fact suicides at all. I seem to recall DCI Brooks making some derogatory comments about it during his briefing yesterday morning.’

‘Sir, I’m sorry. I …’

‘Forget it. Just bring me up to speed, OK?’ McLean itched to tear him off a strip, preferably in front of as many junior officers as he could find, but that had happened more than enough to him in the past, and he knew just how counterproductive it was. Carter paused a while, as if considering whether to apologize or just get on with his job. He wasn’t a bad detective, McLean knew, just a touch on the lazy side. And he’d been cosying up to Spence, Brooks and the rest of the cabal whose mission these days seemed to be to make life as difficult as possible. As if the job wasn’t hard enough already.

‘Suicide … That’s to say the victim’s name is John Fenton. Local boy as far as I can tell. Lived here all his life.’

‘How was he found?’

‘Neighbour.’ Carter nodded towards the house on the other side of the garage. ‘Said he dropped round for his bike. Fenton was the local repair man. Mad keen cyclist. Worked as a cycle courier until about six months ago when he had an argument with a Transit van and came second.’

McLean looked back at the body, still dangling from its rope. Was that stout hemp? The same as the other two?
‘He didn’t try to get him down, this neighbour. Most people would do that, wouldn’t they?’

‘He’s one of ours, sir. Constable Stephen. Works with traffic and knows his way round a crime scene. He could tell Fenton was dead, thought it best not to disturb anything.’

‘That’s something at least. He at home now?’

‘Had to go for his shift. We can get in touch with him easily enough.’ Carter pulled a hefty Airwave set from his jacket pocket.

‘Jesus. You actually carry one of those things around?’

‘We all have to now, sir. And they’re not so bad, really. Not the new ones, anyway. Save a fortune on the mobile, too.’

‘Well, set up an interview for the end of his shift. His clock, not ours. I’ll square it with his sergeant if there’s any kickback. Now grab us a couple of monkey suits and let’s go look at poor old John Fenton.’

‘PC Stephen, sir. I was told you wanted to see me.’

McLean looked up at the noise, seeing an officer standing at the open door to his office, one hand held up high where he had knocked quietly on the door jamb. Police Constable Kenneth Stephen was not what he had been expecting. Truth be told, he’d not really been expecting anything at all, but if he had been, this surely wasn’t it. He was young, for one thing; mid-twenties at the most. And he was dressed in police-issue cycling gear, a helmet stowed under one arm. Traffic, that’s what DS Carter had said. Well, traffic cops rode bikes, especially in the city centre. He knew that but had somehow failed to consider
exactly what it meant. Sweat, mostly, it would seem. Had the man just cycled here at full speed?

‘Yes. Thank you. Ummm. Have a seat, if you can find one.’ McLean nodded in the direction of where a seat might be, were it not covered in a mound of boxes and paperwork.

‘I’m OK standing, sir. I take it this is about John.’

‘Fenton, aye. You knew him, I understand.’

Stephen shook his head. ‘Thought I knew him. Never thought he’d be the type to … well … you know.’

‘So he wasn’t depressed then?’

Stephen paused before answering, a frown wrinkling his damp brow. ‘Actually, now you mention it, he had every reason to be depressed, just didn’t seem to show it.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Well, sir. See, John’s a bicycle nut. That’s why I was away round his place this morning, to fetch my road bike. He’d been fixing the brakes and making me a new wheel.’

‘Yes, I saw the bikes in his garage.’

‘He was an off-road racer. Semi-pro. Endurance stuff mostly. Don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as fit. Used to work for a cycle courier firm in the city. Wheel Deliver, I think they’re called. Told me it was his ideal job. He kept race fit, and they gave him time off to compete. Sponsored him for a while too, I think.’

‘Sounds like a man with every reason to be happy.’ McLean leaned back in his seat until his back hit the wall. He still had to crane his neck rather more than was comfortable to look the standing PC in the eye.

‘Well, he was. I mean it was sad when his mum died, but
that was a few years back. Told me he’d never known his dad, but he and his mum were close. I guess that’s why he kept the house. Could’ve sold it for a fortune if my rent’s anything to go by.’

‘So if he was happy enough in his job and he’d got over his mum’s death, why was he depressed? Sorry, that’s not what you said. Why did he have every reason to be depressed?’

‘He was in an accident, sir. About six months ago I think. No, more like eight. Got hit by a Transit van that pulled out of a side street without looking. We got the bastard, lost his licence for two years. You ask me, they should’ve locked him up and thrown away the key.’

‘Fenton was badly injured, I take it.’

‘Broke his pelvis in three places. Right femur too. Doctor reckoned he was about a millimetre away from severing the artery. Would’ve killed him in seconds. He’d’ve bled out.’

McLean made a mental note to tell Cadwallader, then realized that the pathologist would look up Fenton’s medical file long before he started examining the dead body.

‘How long did he take to recover?’

‘He wasn’t really back to full mobility yet, to be honest, sir. He was in hospital for three months, then a wheelchair and crutches for a couple more. But I saw him out on his bike recently. Going slow, but steady. Thought he was doing OK. And he was always cheerful when you talked to him.’

McLean scratched a little question mark in his notebook underneath the line where he’d written ‘John Fenton’. He hadn’t actually taken any notes. He hastily added ‘Wheel Deliver. Cycle Couriers’.

‘Thank you, Constable. You’ve been very helpful.’ He snapped the notebook shut and stood up. ‘We’ll need a proper written statement, too. Let’s see if we can find DC MacBride and get that done before your shift’s over.’

Stephen nodded, then stepped aside to let McLean out of the office. He fell into step alongside as they walked up the corridor towards the CID room.

‘Can I ask a question, sir?’ Stephen asked after a few seconds.

‘Of course.’

‘John hanged himself. I could see that clear enough when I found him this morning.’

‘That’s not a question, Constable.’

‘No. I mean, well, it is. Sort of. Only I called it in, soon as I found him. SEB were on the scene pretty sharpish, and that DS Carter arrived with a couple of constables to check everything over. But they didn’t seem all that interested.’

‘Still not an actual question.’

‘No. Sorry. What I’m trying to say is, if this is just another suicide, then why’s a DI looking into it? I mean, I’d expect a report to go across your desk. You might even read it before signing off the investigation costs. But asking questions? Getting involved?’

They had reached the door to the CID room, and McLean pushed it open, ushering PC Stephen inside. MacBride looked up from his desk in the far corner, saw them and picked up his notebook in readiness.

‘You go speak to Detective Constable MacBride there.’ McLean pointed him out. ‘And if you ever fancy a change to plain clothes, give us a shout. I’m always on the lookout for officers not afraid to ask questions.’

He was on his way back to his office and the ever-renewing stack of paperwork when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He managed to get it out before it switched to voicemail.

‘McLean.’

‘Ah, Detective Inspector. Good. Jemima Cairns. From the forensic labs. We met briefly at the hanging crime scene in Colinton. John Fenton.’

McLean tried to remember who he’d spoken to that morning. Failed.

‘What can I do for you, Miss Cairns?’

‘You asked for someone to look at the rope used in the earlier two hangings. I’ve been comparing them with the one we found this morning.’

‘Are they all from the same length?’ He paused mid-stride, all too aware how much hinged on the answer.

‘It’s … complicated. I really think you should see for yourself.’

‘So this is what you wanted me to see then? Would it not have been easier just to send me some photos?’

McLean stood in the middle of the Scene Evaluation Branch main lab, trying not to touch anything in case it brought yet another scowl from the short, round woman beside him. She had introduced herself as Jemima Cairns, but he had a feeling she was always going to be Miss Cairns to him. Either that or Ma’am. She didn’t have the look of a Jemima.

‘Photographs can only show so much, Inspector. Much easier if you can actually handle the objects. Here.’ Miss Cairns handed him a pair of latex gloves, which he dutifully
pulled on. She was already wearing a pair, and bent down over the bench to pick up the first of the three objects that had brought him all the way across town at her summons.

It was a noose, expertly tied. Good hemp rope. Three-quarter-inch stock, but then that much he already knew. The knot was still intact, a neat cut through the loop showing how it had been removed from its last user. This one had come from either Mikhailevic or Fenton, as it wasn’t stained with the juices of decomposition.

‘It’s a noose,’ he said, aware that he was stating the obvious but needing something to say.

‘It’s not just a noose, Inspector. This is a hangman’s knot. Thirteen loops, see. Makes sure it doesn’t slip, and it’s unlucky.’ Miss Cairns carefully twisted the rope around until the intricate loops could be seen in the best light. ‘It’s been tied by an expert. Someone who’s done it many, many times before.’

‘I can barely tie my shoelaces, so I’ll take your word for it. These are all from the same piece of rope?’ McLean pointed at the other two knots on the bench. Miss Cairns carefully put down the one she was holding and picked up the next, again angled it so that the knot itself was easy to see.

‘As far as we can tell, yes. Which is to say the chances of them not being the same piece of rope are vanishingly small. A lawyer might try reasonable doubt if a trial hinged on it, but I’d be happy to square up to him if he did.’

I bet you would. McLean stopped himself from taking a step back. Miss Cairns might have been short, but she made up for it with girth and an indefinable presence that set his self-preservation alarms ringing.

‘That’s not the interesting part though. See?’ She held up the second rope for a closer inspection. Judging by the reek coming off it, this had been the one that had seen Patrick Sands through into the next world.

‘Like I said, not an expert in knots.’ McLean backed off this time. Miss Cairns gave him a look that was a mixture of disappointment and pity, then shook her head and put the noose back down again. She didn’t bother picking up the third, but as far as he could tell it was exactly the same as the other two.

‘Well, as it happens, I am. Member of the International Guild of Knot Tyers and a registered forensic expert in knots and ropes. Dad was a trawlerman, worked out of Crail. He taught me a thing or two about tying rope. They’re a bit like signatures, you know. Knots. Sure, the knot might be the same, but everyone ties it differently. A twist here, a bit tighter there. I could always tell when I was mending the nets who’d tied them before. And I can say with absolute certainty that these three knots weren’t tied by three different people.’

‘You’re sure of that?’ McLean saw the scowl, raised his hands in defence. ‘I mean, of course you’re sure of that. But is there any, I don’t know, objective way of measuring this? I don’t mean to be sceptical, but I’ve never heard of the science of knots before.’

‘I’m sure of it, and, yes, I have done an objective analysis. And that’s where it gets complicated.’ Miss Cairns turned her attention to a computer nearby, clicking away until three photographs of the three nooses were lined up.

‘This works better if you’ve got the 3D goggles on, but you’ll get the picture.’ She clicked again and the first noose
shifted on top of the second. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it was damned close. Another click and the third noose shifted onto the other two. If it weren’t for the discolouration on one of the ropes, courtesy of the late Paddy Sands’ decomposition fluids, McLean might have thought he was looking at the same rope photographed three different times.

‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it before, Inspector. In all three dimensions these knots are virtually identical. That’s after they’ve been tied and then used to standard-drop hang three very different people.’

‘That’s pretty impressive,’ McLean said, not really knowing what Miss Cairns was getting at. The SOC officer glared at him as if he were an imbecile, which given the circumstances was perhaps fair enough.

‘No, it’s not. Not impressive at all. What it is is impossible.’