Dangerous Complacency

By Ian McLaren

The fourth book in the Detective Superintendent Jock Anderson crime series. A fast-paced novel set, as are the other books, largely in the Highlands of Scotland. Jock and his team are on the hunt for a sadistic multiple rapist and serial murderer. Although there are few clews, and the trail goes cold, new clues emerge from the outcomes of apparently unrelated crimes, setting Jock back on the hunt, leading to the final apprehension of the killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Sep 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664112544

Ian McLaren

Ian McLaren is a retired Veterinary Surgeon. Though a native of the Highlands of Scotland, most of his professional life has been spent abroad. He currently lives in South Africa where he farms with his wife.

Book preview

Copyright © 2020 by Ian McLaren.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 09/04/2020

Xlibris

UK TFN: 0800 0148620 (Toll Free inside the UK)

UK Local: 02036 956328 ([phone] from outside the UK)

www.Xlibrispublishing.co.uk

818958

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

CHAPTER 1

Howard Gregory gathered some papers together, stacked them neatly, slipped them into a case with his laptop and sat back with a sigh. He looked up as he heard the sound of happy chatter and a girl’s laughter from the corridor outside his office. He muttered to himself as he closed his case. ‘Christmas… bloody Christmas.’ He opened his desk drawer. Sitting on top of a photograph was a small gift-wrapped package. He pulled out both items and laid them on his desk. Picking up the photograph he ran his fingers over the glass, over the mouth of the girl on the picture. ‘That smile… that damn smile.’ He stared at the package for a few moments and pulled it towards him. ‘Another expensive bauble she doesn’t need and won’t bloody-well appreciate.’

Gregory was the financial director for a very large computer software company. He wasn’t in the best of spirits having been called to a meeting in London almost on the eve of Christmas. An important Arab client had insisted on a conference with the design team. Gregory knew he would have no useful role in the proceedings, but he’d been befriended by the leader of the Arab delegation during preliminary negotiations who had insisted that he be present. Gregory assumed bonding had occurred during an extremely drunken night in an exclusive London venue… and perhaps cemented later that night by on orgy with four nubile young women provided – and paid for – by his friend. Gregory had no particular desire to repeat the experience. He seemed to recall that he’d enjoyed himself but, high on alcohol and some drug he’d been fed, he had little accurate recollection. But at least it had been good sex.

He studied the photograph again: it was of his wife Shirley. Sex had once been so wonderful. He felt himself stiffen slightly as he flipped through some mental flash-backs. But now? It had been months… or was it years since she’d last given herself to him gladly. Except of course when she wanted something. A weekend of good sex she knew… and worse he knew would get her the new outfit or the Gucci handbag she had her eye on. For a while she’d at least pretended; currently she just submitted when asked, then she was cold and physically unresponsive leaving him unsatisfied and emotionally degraded.

He ran his hands over his face. He’d been a fool and he knew it. Fifteen years younger than him, at twenty when they’d married, little more than a young girl. A holiday romance which should have been left behind in Turkey. But that smile, that wonderfully athletic body, those nights of wild entrammelled sex… the passion. Gregory swore to himself: ‘The fucking lust.’ And now he was paying the price.

He pulled something from his jacket pocket: two tickets, first class to Florida. Perhaps she’d melt again in the sunshine. He very much doubted it. She’d shown little enthusiasm for his surprise trip.

Gregory slipped the wrapped package into his pocket and looked at his watch. He’d better go or he’d be late for his flight. As he was about to get up there was a knock on his office door and a dapper young man entered: it was Jonathan Weston, Gregory’s new chief accountant. Gregory didn’t like the man. He’d been foisted on him by the owner of the company, and as Weston was the boss’s son-in-law Gregory had no option but to accede to the appointment. Weston, Gregory felt, was overly ambitious, a bully to his juniors, too clever by half – and he was an obsequious little crawler. He was a very recent appointment, replacing old John Butler who had died of a heart-attack in the office next door less than a month before.

When Gregory saw the name on the file in Weston’s hands he felt a flutter of apprehension; it seemed likely that the new broom was at work.

Gregory forced a smile. ‘Afternoon, Jonathan. Not at the Christmas party are you?… What… no funny hat? I see everyone else around the place seems to be wearing one.’

Weston, a man with a poorly developed personality and a totally undeveloped sense of humour looked seriously at his boss. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about, Mr Gregory.’

Gregory managed to retain his smile. ‘Surely it’s not so important that it can’t wait until the New Year. I think the Christmas bash is already under way downstairs. Go off and enjoy yourself man. I’d be there but for this damn trip to London.’ In all honesty Gregory was glad to have an excuse to avoid the festivities.

Weston looked uncomfortable. ‘Eh… not my sort of thing, Mr Gregory.’

Gregory was sure that it wasn’t, and lifted his hands. ‘OK, what have you got there? I don’t have long, got to catch my plane… please Jonathan, take a seat.’

Weston did as instructed and placed the file on Gregory’s desk. He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably on his chair. ‘Something a little eh… odd sir.’

Gregory looked at his watch. ‘Come on Jonathan… out with it or I’ll have to be seeing you next year.’

Weston opened the file and pondered for a few moments. ‘This file. It refers to all the work done for the company by Tab-Tec.’

Gregory felt his guts twist but managed a frown. ‘So? Tab-Tec is just one of many outside operations we use for specialist stuff.’

‘Indeed Mr Gregory. It’s just that I, eh… my wife and I, we were at a dinner party last night with an old friend of mine… with Herbert Spencer.’ Weston fiddled with a pen he’d pulled from his pocket.

‘Yes, Jonathan, I remember Herbert. He used to work for us then branched out on his own. He was good, so we subcontract to Tab-Tec, Herbert Spencer’s company. So what’s your problem?’

‘Well sir, Herbert no longer has a company. He told me he wound-up Tab-Tec over four years ago.’

Weston rotated the file on the desk and pushed it towards Gregory. ‘So my problem is, sir, that Tab-Tec had been invoicing us, and we’ve been paying them for almost four years… you’ll see that the last payment was only last month. And you’ll also see that that payment was authorized by Mr Butler… as have they all. And sir, the total invoiced amount is almost two hundred thousand pounds.’

The flutter in Gregory’s stomach became a beating with large heavy wings, but he managed to retain his cool outward composure. He took the file and flipped through some pages. ‘It would seem that you’re right Jonathan… yes you’re right. So what do you make of it?’

‘I think sir, that there can be only one explanation: Mr Butler was fabricating invoices, authorizing payments and diverting funds, presumably to his own account.’

Gregory ran his hand over his mouth. ‘That, certainly, would seem to be the case. Being as poor John Butler’s no longer with us, and as the banks, unfortunately, are closed now there’s not much you can do at the moment is there?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘John Butler: a good man. He was with the company for almost twenty years… I just can’t believe… there must be some other explanation.’

Gregory closed the file and pushed it back over the desk. ‘Well done Jonathan, very well done. But there’s nothing to be done for now… nothing. And you’re off yourself for a week are you not? Going somewhere nice?’

‘Yes sir. To Barbados with my in-laws.’

Gregory consulted his watch. ‘Well have a wonderful time. But I really must go. We’ll have a meeting on my first day back. We’ll get to the bottom of this… don’t you worry about that.’

Weston nodded, picked up the file and headed for the door. As he was leaving he turned and looked levelly at his boss. ‘I’m not worried, Mr Gregory… I know I’ll get to the bottom of it.’

Gregory stared at the closed door for several minutes. His guts had turned to water and his hands were shaking. Jonathan Weston would get to the bottom of it all right. When he got back, in just over a week’s time, it would take only a few phone calls to discover that the misappropriated funds, from Tab-Tec, and many other ghost companies, were being directed to the accounts of several companies whose beneficiary, with some investigation, will be traced to Howard James Gregory.

It was all over, his perfectly arranged scheme would be blown; he was finished. He looked down at the photograph on the desk in front of him and despair was slowly replaced with a blinding anger. He smashed his fist down on the smiling face of his wife, shattering the thin glass. ‘You bitch… you fucking bitch… it was all because of you – it’s all your fucking fault!’ He angrily tipped the glass fragments into his waste-paper basket and returned the photograph to his drawer.

Gregory was still swearing to himself as he stood up, put on his coat and picked up his case. ‘I’m fucked – so fuck London; and the slimy fucking Arabs can go and fuck themselves as well.’

CHAPTER 2

The traffic in Leeds city centre, because of the pre-Christmas rush, was infinitely worse than usual. Ordinarily Howard Gregory would be seething with frustration; today he sat quietly in his Range Rover feeling totally numb. It was Friday. Christmas was on Sunday… he had one week, two days and probably about thirty minutes maximum before Jonathan Weston blew the whistle. His original set of reactions: fear, panic, despair… and finally rage had dissipated to be replaced by a calm acceptance of his situation. There would be no reprieve. The company was ruthless. There would be no mercy. He would be thrown to the wolves. Escape wasn’t an option. To where could he run? Embezzler of many hundreds of thousands of pounds of his company’s money he may be, but he had little to show for it: a few thousand… he was virtually penniless. A fugitive needs money – lots of money. Prison was inconceivable. Which left only one way out.

The traffic cleared and the flow speeded up as he took the road for Ilkley. A large truck was heading towards him on the other lane. One twist of the steering wheel and he’d be under it… all over. Or would it? He could end up simply being injured – or worse, badly maimed.

Shirley. She wasn’t to blame. If he had chosen to indulge her every whim why blame her? More fool him. He’d earned a good salary, a very, very good salary. But it just wasn’t enough… not nearly enough – never enough. The Mercedes sports car she wanted, the designer clothes, the expensive holidays – five-star, first class all the way – the move to a huge house in the country, her insistence that he drive a car in keeping with their status. In retrospect he realized that she’d been seduced by his apparent affluence and his pride would never have allowed him to confess his financial inadequacy.

And it had all been so easy. As the financial director he had access to all company computers – he’d set it up that way. Figures could be changed, documents doctored. Small amounts: a few thousand here and there which could never be found in any audit. As a former company auditor himself he knew all the tricks.

But a few thousand went nowhere, so when Tab-Tec folded he saw how he could significantly increase his takings – just keep the invoices coming… and he simply created other ghost companies as his situation – his needs – demanded. It was a failing in the company structure which allowed this. The design teams were oblivious; there was no cross-checking. If a team required to sub-contract, or out-source work, no questions were asked. As long as a request was made and invoices were presented, the accounts department was happy. Gregory needed only to produce a spurious request from one of the many departments and create a ghost company to fulfill their requirement. It was, he thought, virtually fool-proof. To authorize an invoice payment, his old friend John Butler was there. His responsibility was to check a request against an invoice. Poor John was an accountant; he knew nothing about computer software production, and Gregory made sure that his bogus requests were made in convincing computer gobbledygook. John had done nothing wrong. With the departure of John Butler, however, he knew that a re-think would be required and he’d already devised a system to fool even Jonathan Weston… all now academic.

Gregory was annoyed. He had played the system so well his scheme really did work… it should have been fool-proof. If he’d screwed up he could at least blame himself. It was that bitch, lady luck, who’d let him down in the shape of Jonathan fucking Weston. A thought briefly crossed his mind: if Weston could be silenced… permanently? He’d be no great loss to society. But that wasn’t an option. The arrogant little shit would have told somebody by now how dreadfully clever he was; he would almost certainly have trumpeted the news to his old pal Herbert Spencer of Tab-Tec… and he’d never be able to resist creeping up his father-in-law’s arse over Christmas dinner… if he hadn’t already notified him.

Which brought Gregory back to his only remaining option – and the sooner he got it over with the better.

He amazed himself by how calmly he was facing the prospect and was already considering possible methods as he pulled up in front of his local pub: a fine old traditional place in the small village of Birkthwaite, a comfortable few miles into the countryside east of Ilkley. He needed a drink.

Gregory sat for a few minutes in his car. The King’s Head. The pub was his watering hole, a fairly regular stopping-off place on his way home. He mused that it was one of the things he’d miss… his little of island of sanity. A strong gust of wind shook the car and blew the suspended pub sign almost to the horizontal. As it settled he admired, and not for the first time, the well-crafted painting depicting a crowned severed head. From his knowledge of history he knew that the head was that of the unfortunate Charles the First, giving a fairly accurate date for the age of the old tavern: the mid sixteen-hundreds. And there it had sat, virtually unchanged since then, now nestled comfortably between a small newsagents on one side and – a new addition to the village – an antique shop on the other.

It was now dark and it had started to rain: a miserable evening. He wondered whether a white Christmas would have been a nicer send-off for him or not. As he got out of the car and hurried to the pub he hoped that it wouldn’t be too crowded… he wasn’t in the mood for company.

The interior of the pub reflected its exterior, almost a caricature of the traditional English pub: oak panelled, heavy oak beams – supposedly from a wrecked French ship – some solid wooden tables and comfortable chairs that had seen better days. A huge log fire blazed in the big old fireplace and Gregory was immediately aware of the warm, welcoming ambience.

The pub was fairly busy and he acknowledged the nods of greeting from some of the regulars as he took the only remaining stool by the bar, his favourite in the corner. Beside him in the motion of draining his pint was old Bert Entwhistle. Bert could be found there any evening on the same stool and Gregory had spent many an hour listening to the old man’s stories. Gregory nodded at his neighbour’s empty beer glass. ‘Another one Bert?’

‘Aye lad… another would go down just a treat.’

The landlord grinned at the pair as he pulled a pint of local ale for Bert. ‘And for you, Mr Gregory… the usual?’

Gregory nodded. ‘Thanks George; but can you make it a double.’

A pint was placed in front of both men and a large Talisker whisky poured for Gregory. The landlord checked that the young barmaid was attending the other customers and smiled at Gregory. ‘I don’t detect much season of good cheer about you Mr Gregory. Hard day eh?’

Gregory gave him a wry smile. ‘You could say that George; hasn’t been one of my best.’

‘Ah well, take my advice: put work behind you for a bit… it is Christmas after all. And you’ll be looking forward to your jaunt to Florida are you not? You lucky beggar.’

Gregory managed a nod and a smile.

The landlord was George Tetley, an Ilkley man by birth – a fact seriously taken into account by the locals – but a mostly southerner by upbringing. A very successful businessman in London, he’d sold up early and followed his life-long ambition: to own his own country pub in his native Yorkshire. George had often confided in Gregory that the place didn’t earn him any sensible money… but Tetley could well-afford to subsidize his passion.

George was too busy to engage in further conversation and Bert, to Gregory’s relief, was distracted by some long-winded ramblings of an elderly man on a neighbouring stool.

Gregory looked round the bar. There were a few Christmas trappings: some party-balloons and colourful paper decorations. There was no room for a large Christmas tree and a rather pathetic small plastic replica blinked forlornly in a corner. He downed his drinks and was refilled by the barmaid Wendy, a very friendly, pretty, busty little thing in a very low-cut dress. George had told Gregory that pretty busty little things were good for business. Gregory believed him; he himself enjoyed a good ogle.

So Gregory was left to his own thoughts. As his second large whisky began to take effect they turned to his father: he always thought about him at Christmas time… his father had blown his brains out with a shotgun on Christmas Eve about thirty years before.

Gregory had lost his mother early. She’d died when he was only eight years old. Unable to cope, his father had sent him off to prep school, and he’d lived out his young life in the public school system. He had, however, fond memories of his father: a jovial, loving man who, Gregory believed, tried to do the best for his son. He’d remarried… a bad move from Gregory’s standpoint. She didn’t like him – and he loathed her. The result was a distancing of himself from the woman, and by a sad extension, his dad.

His father had been a successful stockbroker in the City of London, until a succession of bad investments had ruined him… and several of his clients. His wife leaving him had been the final straw. He’d taken out his old shotgun, stuck the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger with his toe. Gregory had never considered his father to be capable of suicide. He’d been an endlessly optimistic, Micawber-like character, who’d taken real pleasure from life.

Gregory ordered more drinks; he knew he’d had enough but didn’t care. The pub had filled up further; it was getting noisy and all around him people were laughing and joking. Someone had produced a bag of Party-Poppers and he flinched as one went off behind him. He frowned as he pulled a strand of red paper from his hair and crumpled it in his hand.

Suicide. Who was capable of suicide? Gregory mused that probably most people were… but few had the courage to go through with it, preferring, in so many cases, to opt for some dreadful alternative. Life to be worth living had to have some purpose – some quality. How could anyone contemplate a life in prison, or years of disgrace, shame and penury when there was an alternative available?

Suicide could be, should be, quick and painless. A shotgun taking a head off was certainly that, but the thought of his headless corpse and a brain and blood- spattered wall did not appeal to Gregory’s sensitivities. And besides, he didn’t own a shotgun.

The heat, the crowds, the noise – and too many drinks – finally got to him. He pushed his empty glass away and a little unsteadily dismounted his stool. As he exited the bar he heard someone wish him a Merry Christmas. He didn’t respond and stepped out into the cold night.

The rain had stopped, but there was still a cold, gusting wind. Gregory took a few deep breaths, felt a little better and decided, despite the cold, to walk-off some drink with a stroll up the road of the village. He didn’t feel drunk. In his state of mind he doubted if he’d be able to get properly drunk, to find some release in alcohol. But he knew he’d need more. Beyond some red wine which his wife drank, Gregory kept no alcohol in the house. Not because he didn’t like alcohol – but because he liked it too much. He tended to be a maudlin drunk which was bad enough. Worse, he was a potentially violent drunk. Normally a mild-natured man, when drunk, one small incident could trigger off an uncontrollable rage. His wife had banned whisky from the house after one such incident when he’d only narrowly prevented himself from hitting her with a bottle.

On a corner at the end of the street was a small off-license cum supermarket. As he turned to enter the bell on the door tinkled and a red-faced man loaded with a cardboard box laden with beer pushed his way out.

‘Ev’nin’ Mr Gregory. Nasty snap o’ weather we’re havin’… a Merry Christmas to you.’

Gregory smiled. ‘And the same to you Harry… and my regards to your wife.’ Harry’s wife was Gregory’s cleaning lady.

The middle-aged woman behind the counter was already reaching for a bottle from under the counter as Gregory entered. ‘Mrs Gregory’s favourite is it? I got a few bottles in for her.’ She placed two bottles of red wine on the counter.

‘Thank you, Mrs Hardcastle. She’ll appreciate that. And can I please have a… no better give me two bottles of Talisker.’

‘Quite right Mr Gregory. You just stock up. We’ll be closed until a week Monday. We’re off down south to my mother’s for Christmas and New Year.’ The woman grinned. ‘But there will be plenty of whisky in Florida I’m thinking. Off on Saturday I hear.’

‘Saturday it is Mrs Hardcastle, we’ll be in Miami for Christmas day.’

‘Oh, you lucky things… all that lovely sunshine.’

Gregory paid, wished Mrs Hardcastle a Merry Christmas and headed back to his car, a plastic carrier bag suspended from each hand.

Before unlocking his car he took a quick look up and down the street. The police had issued very serious local warnings about drink-driving. Gregory shrugged. If he got caught what the hell… but he was in no mood for the hassle of it all. His house was only a few hundred yards from the village down a small, little used road… he’d be safe enough.

Brookside Manor: Gregory’s home. It was the old Georgian manor house where once resided the ‘’Lord of the Manor’’, ruler of serfs and master of all he surveyed.

At the head of his long driveway Gregory pulled the car to a halt, the full beam of his headlights partially illuminating the ivy-clad face of the building. He’d never liked the look of the house: a two storey, red brick, square, functional building – with more chimneys than he’d ever found fires for. But she’d liked it. She’d wanted it. It was way over large for their need, with more bedrooms than he cared to count… but each had had to be decorated and furnished. At almost two hundred years old, maintenance costs alone were crippling. Fortunately the previous owner had done a fairly thorough house renovation so there was little further required. But she now wanted to renovate the old coach-house. Just why, Gregory was unsure.

The house was in darkness and his wife’s Mercedes was not there… he hadn’t expected it to be. She’d told him that after the party at the fitness centre in Ilkley where she was a member, and as he’d be in London, she would be staying over with a friend in town. That suited Gregory just fine… there would be a bit of a surprise for her when she got back. He drove his car to the back of the house and parked it in his open garage.

The heat hit him when he entered the house. She always insisted that the temperature be twenty eight degrees. She liked to waltz around the place scantily clad… but she didn’t have to worry about paying the heating bill. He hung up his coat, shed his jacket and loosened his tie as he went into the large fully-appointed kitchen. He found a glass in a cupboard, pulled a bottle of whisky from the carrier bag and poured himself a generous measure. He dumped the carrier bags in the bin, put the wine on the already well-charged rack and hid the second bottle of whisky in the store cupboard. He smiled to himself as he did it… force of habit he supposed. The whisky ban had not been religiously observed.

Gregory’s favourite seat in the house was an old, deep comfy chair – which she hated – by the Aga. He took the bottle and the glass and flopped down gratefully. He had his termination plans to think about.

So what were his options? Shooting was out… he didn’t own a gun. A drug overdose would be nice… but he’d got no drugs.

Drowning? There was a sizable river at the bottom of the large garden. But he didn’t like cold water. He could wear his old wetsuit he supposed, but he’d heard that drowning wasn’t very pleasant so he scored that one off.

Throw himself off the roof? He was afraid of heights so the thought of that terrified him… and besides the outcome wasn’t guaranteed. He’d read in the local paper only recently that some poor man had tried that method, only to add quadriplegia to his other problems.

A hose-pipe from the exhaust? A fairly pleasant, easy, and popular way out for a car owner… a possibility he couldn’t yet dismiss.

Wrist slashing? He hated the sight of his own blood and he knew he’d never be able to do it.

Rat poison. He got up from his chair, went into the adjoining scullery and raked under the sink. He knew he’d bought some rat bait only a few months ago. He found the tin, pulled it out and prized open the lid: empty, or as good as. He didn’t know how much he’d need to take but a couple of teaspoonfuls he suspected wasn’t enough… half-dead wasn’t acceptable. He sighed as he dumped the can in the rubbish bin. Rat poison would have been good. He knew that it caused internal heamorrhage, that death was from blood loss, and that it was painless otherwise they wouldn’t be allowed to sell the stuff to kill rats.

So what did that leave him? He wasn’t going to go out and lay his head on a railway track or throw himself under a bus which left him with the good-old favourites: the rope… or perhaps the hose-pipe from the exhaust. He heaved himself out of his chair, pulled on his jacket and went outside to the store shed.

He knew there had to be a hose-pipe somewhere. After searching around for a few minutes he cursed, remembering that the gardener had asked to borrow it… but that was in the summer. The bastard must never have brought it back.

The gardener: another bloody expense. He didn’t like gardening, she refused to do any beyond her bloody roses… she insisted on home grown organic vegetables, a well cut lawn and no weeds so she had to have a gardener.

Gregory shrugged. No hose-pipe. So it would have to be the rope. Hanging on a hook on the wall was just what he needed… a good length of stout nylon cord. He unhooked it and returned to the kitchen.

The method decided on, he felt that a little of his courage and determination was deserting him; he sat down again and refilled his glass. Hanging wasn’t so simple; it had to be done right. Gregory was a perfectionist; he suspected that all accountants were… there were no half-measures when it came to figures. Everything Gregory did had to be done right; and if he got this wrong the outcome he knew could be very unpleasant. Some desperate people simply suspended a rope, stood on a chair then kicked it away. That, Gregory knew, lead to a very slow strangulation and he didn’t want that. There had to be a drop. But the length of the drop had to be right: too short, slow strangulation again – but too long and the head would be pulled clean off… messy. He’d be dead and it would be someone else who had to clean up… but he didn’t want that either. So it had to be somewhere in between, whereby the neck was broken, quickly, cleanly – and he hoped painlessly. He suddenly sat up. Somewhere among his many books there was a one on the history of punishment and executions. He remembered that some old English hangman had worked it out: it was all to do with the body weight of the victim. He downed his drink and headed for his library.

After only a few minutes search he found it. Gregory’s library was fully catalogued, every book in its proper place. He flipped through the old paperback and found what he was looking for: the drop length:

11.00 stone… 9 feet.

11 stone 7 pounds… 8 feet 10 inches

12.00 stone… 8 feet 8 inches

12 stone 7 pounds… 8 feet 6 inches

13 stone… 8 feet 4 inches

He went to the bathroom and weighed himself: 12 stone ten pounds. He was in between. He poured himself another drink as he contemplated his problem. Between 11 stone and 13 stone there were only 8 inches of difference. He didn’t think that gave much margin for error; 2 inches for every half stone didn’t seem much. He settled for 8 feet seven inches, drained his drink and went in search of a tape-measure.

He now knew how; he needed to find where… and he thought he knew the perfect place.

Leading down to the old servant’s quarters was a stairway with an upper landing. Above the stairwell was a stout wooden beam over which he could throw the rope. Below was a corridor leading to an empty store room; the drop was more than adequate.

Throwing the