Read Online The Hanging Club (DC Max Wolfe) by Tony Parsons - Free Book Online
Authors: Tony Parsons
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bigger mess than the first one,’ she said.
‘They secured Mahmud Irani’s hands behind his back,’ I said. ‘They didn’t get the chance to do that with Hector Welles.’
‘It looks like he tried to tear his own throat out.’
‘Yes – and he still couldn’t shift the rope around his neck. Irani never quite believed what was happening to him, but Welles knew exactly what they were going to do – he had probably seen Irani hang on YouTube – so he fought like hell. Before they had his neck in a noose,and then when he was hanging. This one fought for his life, Pat. And that’s what made all the mess in there.’
We had thrown up our perimeter around the traffic island where the body of Hector Welles had been found and it had effectively shut down central London. The POLICE: DO NOT CROSS tape stretched from Park Lane in the south to Oxford Street in the east to Edgware Road in the north to Bayswater Road in the west. The blue lights of more than twenty Rapid Response Vehicles pulsed and shone in the summer morning, brighter than the sun, and beyond them you could see four of London’s great roads, empty of traffic.
Dozens of uniformed officers patrolled the perimeter. Specialist Search Teams fanned out in every direction, fingertip-searching the area around the traffic island and beyond. Somewhere out in the endless city streets, the blare of all that paralysed traffic filled the air.
‘You sure you want to maintain this perimeter?’ I said. ‘We’ve shut down West London and the rush hour hasn’t started yet.’
‘I told you before – I can always bring the perimeter in later,’ she said. ‘But I can’t take it out later. Who found the body?’
‘Owner of one of the Lebanese supermarkets on the Edgware Road. Edie’s taking his statement now. He was coming in to work about five.’
‘But they didn’t dump him at dawn, did they?’ she said. ‘And nobody noticed a dead body in one of the busiest corners of London during the night?’
‘Maybe they thought he was drunk or stoned or another Romanian gypsy getting his beauty sleep. Probably nobody even clocked him. This traffic island’s not lit up at night. They knew what they were doing.’
We stared out across the great green expanse of Hyde Park. Just beyond the perimeter tape at Speaker’s Corner, I could see Professor Adrian Hitchens in conversation with a young uniformed police officer. The professor had a motorcycle helmet under one arm and sat astride what looked like an old 500cc Royal Enfield, its faded blue paint worn down to shiny silver and freckled with rust.
Edie Wren walked up to us.
‘You told that freak the first body was dumped where Tyburn used to be,’ she said. ‘You told him and he wouldn’t listen, would he? Some expert he is.’
‘I wasn’t sure myself. Not until the second body. But now they’re rubbing our noses in it. They want the world to know they’ve brought back capital punishment.’
Edie looked around at the pristine white monolith of Marble Arch, at the start of the West End proper on Oxford Street, at the grand hotels running all the waydown Park Lane, and at Hyde Park, an endless sea of green in the very heart of the city.
‘And remind me – what’s so special about this place?’ she said. ‘Why does it mean so much to them?’
‘There’s probably more history where we are standing than any place in the country,’ I said. ‘For a thousand years, Tyburn was the country’s most celebrated place of execution. More than fifty thousand men, women and children were hanged here. London was always a city of execution – in the eighteenth century you couldn’t enter the city without seeing a line of gibbets – but Tyburn was always special.’
‘Dr Joe says that ritual and ceremony was important to the perps – as important as the punishment.’
I nodded. ‘It matters to them that this was where Tyburn stood. It’s important to them that their victims are hanged, and then dumped
‘They secured Mahmud Irani’s hands behind his back,’ I said. ‘They didn’t get the chance to do that with Hector Welles.’
‘It looks like he tried to tear his own throat out.’
‘Yes – and he still couldn’t shift the rope around his neck. Irani never quite believed what was happening to him, but Welles knew exactly what they were going to do – he had probably seen Irani hang on YouTube – so he fought like hell. Before they had his neck in a noose,and then when he was hanging. This one fought for his life, Pat. And that’s what made all the mess in there.’
We had thrown up our perimeter around the traffic island where the body of Hector Welles had been found and it had effectively shut down central London. The POLICE: DO NOT CROSS tape stretched from Park Lane in the south to Oxford Street in the east to Edgware Road in the north to Bayswater Road in the west. The blue lights of more than twenty Rapid Response Vehicles pulsed and shone in the summer morning, brighter than the sun, and beyond them you could see four of London’s great roads, empty of traffic.
Dozens of uniformed officers patrolled the perimeter. Specialist Search Teams fanned out in every direction, fingertip-searching the area around the traffic island and beyond. Somewhere out in the endless city streets, the blare of all that paralysed traffic filled the air.
‘You sure you want to maintain this perimeter?’ I said. ‘We’ve shut down West London and the rush hour hasn’t started yet.’
‘I told you before – I can always bring the perimeter in later,’ she said. ‘But I can’t take it out later. Who found the body?’
‘Owner of one of the Lebanese supermarkets on the Edgware Road. Edie’s taking his statement now. He was coming in to work about five.’
‘But they didn’t dump him at dawn, did they?’ she said. ‘And nobody noticed a dead body in one of the busiest corners of London during the night?’
‘Maybe they thought he was drunk or stoned or another Romanian gypsy getting his beauty sleep. Probably nobody even clocked him. This traffic island’s not lit up at night. They knew what they were doing.’
We stared out across the great green expanse of Hyde Park. Just beyond the perimeter tape at Speaker’s Corner, I could see Professor Adrian Hitchens in conversation with a young uniformed police officer. The professor had a motorcycle helmet under one arm and sat astride what looked like an old 500cc Royal Enfield, its faded blue paint worn down to shiny silver and freckled with rust.
Edie Wren walked up to us.
‘You told that freak the first body was dumped where Tyburn used to be,’ she said. ‘You told him and he wouldn’t listen, would he? Some expert he is.’
‘I wasn’t sure myself. Not until the second body. But now they’re rubbing our noses in it. They want the world to know they’ve brought back capital punishment.’
Edie looked around at the pristine white monolith of Marble Arch, at the start of the West End proper on Oxford Street, at the grand hotels running all the waydown Park Lane, and at Hyde Park, an endless sea of green in the very heart of the city.
‘And remind me – what’s so special about this place?’ she said. ‘Why does it mean so much to them?’
‘There’s probably more history where we are standing than any place in the country,’ I said. ‘For a thousand years, Tyburn was the country’s most celebrated place of execution. More than fifty thousand men, women and children were hanged here. London was always a city of execution – in the eighteenth century you couldn’t enter the city without seeing a line of gibbets – but Tyburn was always special.’
‘Dr Joe says that ritual and ceremony was important to the perps – as important as the punishment.’
I nodded. ‘It matters to them that this was where Tyburn stood. It’s important to them that their victims are hanged, and then dumped
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