Death Rope Read online

  DEATH ROPE

  THE ELEVENTH GERALDINE STEEL MYSTERY

  Mark Abbott is dead. His sister refuses to believe it was suicide but only Geraldine will listen. When other members of Mark’s family disappear, the police start to take notice.

  With three dead bodies and few leads, Geraldine is under pressure. Taking a risk, she finds herself confronted by an adversary deadlier than any she has faced before… Her boss Ian is close, but will he arrive in time to save her, or is this the end for Geraldine Steel?

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Glossary of acronyms

  Preface

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  Also by Leigh Russell

  About the author

  Copyright

  CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR LEIGH RUSSELL

  'taut and compelling' - Peter James

  'Leigh Russell is one to watch' - Lee Child

  'Leigh Russell has become one of the most impressively dependable purveyors of the English police procedural' - Marcel Berlins, Times

  'A brilliant talent in the thriller field.' - Jeffery Deaver

  To Michael, Joanna, Phillipa, Phil, Rian and Kezia

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Dr Leonard Russell for his expert medical advice, and all my contacts in the Metropolitan Police for their invaluable assistance.

  Producing a book is a team effort. I am fortunate to have the guidance of a brilliant editor, Keshini Naidoo. I am very grateful to Ion Mills, Claire Watts, Clare Quinlivan, Katherine Sunderland, Frances Teehan, Jem Cook and all the team at No Exit Press, who transform my words into books. I would also like to thank Anne Cater and her wonderful team for organising my blog tour. I am grateful for their support which has been invaluable.

  My final thanks go to Michael, who is always with me.

  Glossary of acronyms

  DCI – Detective Chief Inspector (senior officer on case)

  DI – Detective Inspector

  DS – Detective Sergeant

  SOCO – scene of crime officer (collects forensic evidence at scene)

  PM – Post Mortem or Autopsy (examination of dead body to establish cause of death)

  CCTV – Closed Circuit Television (security cameras)

  VIIDO – Visual Images, Identification and Detections Office

  MIT – Murder Investigation Team

  Preface

  Reaching her in waves, the shrill sound seemed to come from somewhere inside her head. It was a few seconds before she realised she was listening to her own screams. For an instant she stood transfixed, a helpless spectator, before she ran outside, bawling for help. Thankfully the gardener was there, and he followed her back into the hall where her husband was hanging from the banister. As she fell silent, she could hear him grunting with the effort of supporting the body. His arms clasped around her husband’s legs, he struggled to stop the rope from pulling taut. Above them, Mark’s arms swung limply, and his head hung at an odd angle. She was aware of the gardener’s mouth moving before she realised he was yelling at her to call an ambulance. Trying to nod, she couldn’t move. Her eyes were glued to a ghoulish caricature of a familiar face, bloated tongue protruding between dry lips, tiny red dots of blood speckling the whites of bulging eyes. She stared, mesmerised, at a drop of saliva crawling down his chin, trying to work out whether it was still moving.

  The gardener glared at her, and she realised he was still shouting at her to call for help. As if in a dream, she reached for her phone and dialled 999.

  A voice on the line responded with unreal composure, assuring her that help was on its way.

  ‘What does that mean?’ she gabbled. ‘When will they get here?’

  ‘They’re on their way.’

  Time seemed to hang suspended, like the body.

  They waited.

  Looking down, she struggled to control an urge to salvage her shopping: tomatoes had rolled across the floor, along with other soft foods she had carefully packed on top of packets and tins. One tomato had already been trodden into the carpet. While she was dithering she heard a siren, followed by hammering at the door, and then her own voice, oddly calm, inviting uniformed men into the house.

  Of course they were too late to save him. She had known that all along.

  1

  Geraldine smiled at her adopted sister. Despite her complaints about disturbed nights, Celia looked happier than Geraldine had seen her in a long time. Her month-old baby snuffled gently in his sleep as she rocked him gently in her arms.

  ‘Would you like to hold him?’ Celia asked.

  Still smiling, Geraldine shook her head. ‘It might wake him up. Anyway, I really should get going.’

  ‘It’s still early,’ Celia protested. ‘Even you can’t pretend you’ve got to get back for work tonight. It’s Sunday, for goodness sake. Why don’t you stay overnight and go home tomorrow?’

  As a detective sergeant working on murder investigations, Geraldine’s job was no respecter of the time of day, but she wasn’t on a case just then. All the same she shook her head. Even though there was no pressing reason for her to hurry away, she had a long journey ahead of her, and she was back on call in the morning.

  ‘He’s lovely,’ she repeated for the hundredth time. Privately she thought that her tiny new nephew resembled a pink frog. ‘Don’t get up. We don’t want to disturb him.’

  Celia gave a sleepy smile. ‘You’ll come back soon?’

  Geraldine was quick to reassure her sister that she would return as soon as she could. She made good time, and reached home in time for supper. She had been living in York for nearly three months and, after a miserable winter, she was starting to feel settled. She was even thinking of selling her flat in London and buying somewhere in York, putting a stamp of permanence on her move. The transformation in her feelings seemed to have taken place almost overnight. One evening she had gone to bed feeling displaced and lonely. The following morning she had woken up unaccountably at ease in her new home. Driving to work her spirits had lifted further on seeing a bank of daffodils, bright against the deep velvety green slope below the city wall. Already, early groups of oriental visitors were beginning to throng the pavements. She wasn’t looking forward to an influx of summer tourists clogging up the bustling streets of a city that unexpectedly felt like home.

  A few weeks had passed since then, and she was still undecided what to do. Celia would be disappointed if Geraldine decided to make her move
to York permanent, but the idea of settling there seemed increasingly appealing with every passing week. She had to live somewhere, and York was as good a place as any. She liked it there. Besides, her oldest friend and colleague lived there. She wondered how Ian Peterson would react if he knew she was considering him in making a decision about where she wanted to spend the rest of her life.

  Mid-morning on Monday, Geraldine was summoned to an interview room where a member of the public was waiting to lodge a complaint. As an experienced officer, Geraldine was used to fielding vexatious accusations. With a sigh she made her way along the corridor to the room where the irate woman was waiting for her. Stocky and square-jawed, with short grey hair, she sat with trousered knees pressed together and fleshy arms folded across her chest.

  ‘What seems to be the problem, Ms Abbott?’ Geraldine asked as she sat down.

  The grey-haired woman’s eyes glittered and her voice was unsteady. ‘I want to talk to someone about my brother’s murder.’

  ‘Are you saying your brother’s been murdered?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.’

  ‘And is this a murder case that’s under investigation? What’s your brother’s name?’

  The woman shook her head, and her ruddy face turned a deeper shade of red.

  ‘No, no, no. You’re not investigating it. No one’s investigating anything. Look, my brother was found hanging from a banister nine days ago.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘They said it was suicide, but that’s simply not true.’

  Geraldine frowned, and tried to look interested. She found it was usually best to let aggrieved members of the public have their say.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning. What makes you suspect your brother’s death wasn’t suicide?’

  ‘It’s more than a suspicion. I know my brother – that is, I knew him. There’s no way he would have taken his own life. He wasn’t that sort of a person. He was – he was a robust man, Sergeant. He loved life.’

  ‘Circumstances can have a devastating effect on people, even those we think we know well –’

  ‘Please, don’t dismiss this as the ramblings of a grieving woman. I knew my brother. He would never have killed himself. He was blessed with a cheerful disposition, and, before you say it, he didn’t suffer from depression, and he didn’t have money worries, or any problems with drink or drugs. There was nothing in his life that might have prompted him to end it. And hanging’s not the kind of death that can happen by accident. No, he was murdered, I’m sure of it. I waited as long as I could before coming forward because I thought no one would believe he killed himself, but now she tells me they’re burying him on Wednesday, so we don’t have much time. I came here to plead with you to look into what happened, before it’s too late.’

  Geraldine did her best to pacify the distressed woman, wondering whether Amanda Abbott was simply trying to cause trouble for her brother’s widow.

  ‘Do you have any evidence that your brother was murdered? At the moment, all you’ve given me is supposition.’

  Amanda shrugged her square shoulders. ‘I wasn’t there, but I know – I knew my brother. Why would he have suddenly done away with himself?’

  Geraldine was faintly intrigued. Amanda didn’t strike her as the kind of woman who might be given to hysterical delusions.

  ‘So if he didn’t commit suicide, and it wasn’t an accident, what do you think happened?’

  ‘My sister-in-law did it,’ Amanda answered promptly. ‘It’s obvious. They never got on. And now she gets her hands on everything he worked for.’

  ‘How long were they married?’

  ‘Over thirty years.’

  ‘That’s a long time for a couple who don’t get on to stay together,’ Geraldine said quietly.

  ‘And she finally had enough of him and killed him, only she made it look like suicide so she could get away with it. I’m convinced that’s what happened. Nothing else makes sense.’

  Geraldine almost dismissed what she was hearing as a family disagreement, but Amanda was so insistent that she agreed to look into Mark Abbott’s death.

  ‘Please, you have to find out what happened,’ Amanda said. ‘He was my brother and I’m not going to sit back and see her get away with it, not if I can help it. Will you keep me posted,’ she enquired as she stood up, ‘or can I come back to see how you’re getting on?’

  Geraldine promised she would do her best to find out whether there might have been anything unlawful about the death. Having seen Amanda off the premises, she went to speak to her detective chief inspector, Eileen. A large woman, about ten years older than Geraldine, she had dark hair greying at the temples, sharp features, and an air of solidity that was both reassuring and overbearing at the same time.

  ‘It sounds like family politics,’ Eileen said, when she had listened to Geraldine’s account. ‘The sister of the deceased is going out of her way to make trouble for his widow. Perhaps she was expecting to be mentioned in his will and is disappointed to have been left out of it?’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But there’s one more thing. The deceased took out a fairly hefty life insurance policy with a two-year suicide exclusion clause.’

  Eileen nodded. ‘And you’re telling me the two years ran out –’

  ‘A week before his death. Of course, that doesn’t mean he didn’t kill himself. He might have waited so his wife would benefit from the policy,’ she added, speaking more to herself than to her senior officer. ‘But there’s something about it that doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘If you want to make a few discreet enquiries, that’s up to you. I can’t see we’ve really got anything to investigate, but you can take a look if you like, as long as it doesn’t distract you from your work here.’ Eileen paused. ‘If every widow was accused of murdering her husband when she inherited his estate, we’d have more suspects than police officers.’

  2

  Sometimes Charlotte forgot about her new circumstances. After more than thirty years of marriage, she still woke up expecting to hear her husband snoring beside her. She was used to lying awake at night, listening with growing irritation as each sonorous inhalation was followed by a brief hiatus before the sigh of air released from his lungs. Now it was the silence that disturbed her sleep. Somewhere overhead a pipe rattled and wheezed, a faint echo of the noise she had endured every night for decades, ever since they had moved into their spacious property. She flung one arm out sideways, savouring the empty expanse of bed beside her, the sheets cool and unwrinkled. Tentatively she stretched her leg out as well, until she was occupying half of her husband’s share of the mattress. It didn’t matter. There was no one to kick her back on to her own side of the bed. There were no longer any sides. The whole bed was hers.

  The funeral had been set in motion. In two days’ time mourners would gather to mumble hymns, someone would recite a eulogy, and everyone would talk about what a devoted husband and father Mark had been to her and Eddy. The thought of it irritated her, but there was no point in exposing his occasional lapses now he had gone. No one would want to hear about her dead husband’s philandering, least of all his son. She drew her arm and leg quickly back on to her own side of the bed and wrapped her arms around her body, wondering who would attend the ceremony. Her stepson, Eddy, would be there, of course, accompanied by his wife. Her own sister was unable to travel all the way over from New Zealand with her family, but they had all sent their condolences.

  A few of Mark’s work colleagues would show up out of a sense of duty, as would the handful of friends she and Mark had kept in touch with over the years. She wasn’t close to any of them, but they had all known one another for a long time and that counted for something. It was partly pride that had prompted her to contact them. She didn’t want people thinking she had no friends now that Mark was gone, although the truth was that she had no real friends of her own. She never had. But the main reason she had invited as many people as she could, was that it w
ould be easier to avoid her sister-in-law in a room full of people. Much as she hated the prospect of seeing her, she could hardly have kept the news about Mark’s death from his only sister.

  ‘I suppose Aunt Amanda will have to be there,’ Eddy had said, voicing his mother’s feelings.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Charlotte had told him. ‘I’ll deal with her.’

  She had felt nowhere near as confident about speaking to her sister-in-law as she had pretended. An overbearing woman, Amanda had understandably been shocked on hearing the news of her brother’s death.

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ she had barked, as though it was impossible to believe that an overweight man in his sixties could possibly have died. And that was before she had learned about the circumstances surrounding his death.

  Charlotte could almost feel her sister-in-law glowering at her down the phone line. She hesitated, but there was no easy way to answer the question. Her one-word reply had prompted a cry of outrage.

  ‘Suicide?’ Amanda had repeated, her voice rising in a horrified shriek. ‘What do you mean, it was suicide? How could it be? Mark would never have killed himself. I don’t believe it.’

  Charlotte had drawn in a deep shuddering breath and tried to sound sympathetic. Of course it was terrible for Amanda to lose her brother in that way, and Charlotte was devastated to have to pass on such terrible news. But she couldn’t help feeling the tragedy was far harder for her to cope with. Not only had she lost her husband of over three decades, but she had been the one to find him, suspended from the banister. For the rest of her life she would be haunted by the memory of his swollen face, his dead eyes glaring at her in wordless accusation.

  She had gritted her teeth as Amanda proceeded with her enquiries. Doing her best to avoid focusing on the horrible memory, Charlotte had tried to describe what had happened in a detached way, as though she was talking about a scene in a film. Amanda had a right to know and besides, until she was satisfied she would never stop bombarding Charlotte with questions. Amanda had never been sensitive to other people’s feelings. As accurately as she could, Charlotte described how she had found Mark hanging in the hall and had rushed outside, screaming for help, and how the startled gardener had dropped his rake, narrowly missing injuring himself. To his credit he hadn’t hesitated to run all the way up the length of the garden to go inside with her. Although clearly shocked, he had taken control of the situation, yelling at her to call an ambulance while he righted the upturned chair, clambered on to it, and flung his arms around Mark’s legs to support him. All the time he had continued shouting at her to summon help.