All because of him.
John’s death would become infamous.
And so, started the story of The Hanging Tree.
Chapter 1
GRAHAM
Bethgelert, Wales, 2025
Graham takes his freshly brewed, stronger than average coffee and stands by the open barn-style back door of Rosemore Cottage, looking out at the picturesque fields and countryside beyond. Every morning for the past ten months, no matter the weather or occasion, he stares at the grassy hill opposite.
An ancient oak tree dominates the hill. In fact, it dominates the whole area, like an enormous lone statue standing guard. But what is it guarding? There isn’t another tree or building anywhere near it. It’s only a tree, yet it draws his attention every time he glances out of the kitchen window or steps foot outside the back door and into his yard. This morning is no different.
His home, Rosemore Cottage, sits on a small patch of land, once belonging to a larger development of Rosemore Farm. Over the years, the land had been sold off to neighbouring farms and the farmhouse itself was turned into a quaint cottage, which Graham bought almost a year ago after selling his place in Cherry Hollow. Living in that infamous town hadn’t been an option for him any longer, not after theharrowing events of 2024 when he decided to retire from the police force early.
Now, he’s enjoying his retirement, living in the rural village of Bethgelert in Wales, having put away a cosy nest egg to live on until his pension kicks in. He’s never needed anything fancy. Just a roof over his head, food in his fridge and perhaps a nice whisky to enjoy in the evening while sitting by the open fire in his sitting room. He managed to buy Rosemore Cottage at a steal because it had been reduced in price several times, yet no one wanted to take on such a large project. The land and buildings in Wales weren’t exactly hot property, especially when the nearest large town was over an hour away. It suited Graham perfectly.
He had even taken up a spot of gardening, since Rosemore Cottage came with its own vegetable patch. When he first arrived, it looked like it hadn’t grown anything decent in years, so Graham decided to bring the patch back to life. He rolled up his sleeves and picked up his digging fork, ready for a challenge. His first attempt at channelling his inner Monty Don over the summer had gone surprisingly well with an abundance of runner beans, kale and oddly shaped carrots, not to mention enough courgettes to feed the whole village for the next few months. He’d had to resort to giving them away, taking them to the local farmer’s market every Saturday and handing them out to the stalls. He didn’t charge anythingfor them. He just couldn’t face eating another courgette for dinner.
Now that the autumn has well and truly set in, there isn’t a lot left to do, gardening wise. Gone are the light, warm evenings where he could stay outside working, picking through the weeds and pruning the straggling growth. The cold, late October wind whips around him and through the open door into the kitchen. He’s letting out all the heat, but he’s never been one to feel the cold. Graham tilts his head to the clear, grey sky, watching as a flock of birds circle overhead, having taken off from the branches of the large tree on the hill. He listens to sounds around him; the chatter of the birds, the babble of the nearby stream, a farm dog barking in the distance.
Is this heaven?
It sure as hell feels like it.
His eyes are drawn to the hill ahead, roughly a hundred or so yards away from the back door. The hill and the tree aren’t part of his property, but they used to belong to Rosemore Farm. He’s not sure who the land belongs to now, but Graham often sees local farmers and dog walkers up there, so presumably it’s now part of a national right of way.
Graham has only climbed the hill once before to see the view from the top, but once had been enough, thank you very much. He isn’t as fit as he used to be, having spent the past ten years or so chained to a desk, drinking vast amountsof coffee and binge-eating biscuits. Long gone are the days of his youth, running around solving cases and burning more calories than he can consume. Those damn biscuits have caught up with him. That hill is his nemesis. If his knees were in better shape, then he might be able to climb it a little easier.
Graham does like to walk, though. It’s just the elevation that he struggles with. He walks every day without fail, come rain or shine. His body may ache more after a day on his feet, but it still allows him to get from A to B, albeit at a more leisurely pace.
Today, a Tuesday, is a crisp, late autumn day and he’s already looking forward to a long walk along the river that flows through the village. There’s a perfect path too, which stretches for several miles before circling back around on itself, crossing over the river via a delightful footbridge.
He finishes his coffee, rinses the mug in the sink and places it on the draining board to dry. Then, he grabs his flat cap and a waterproof jacket (one can never be too careful with the weather in Wales) before locking the back door behind him with his key; a proper old, rusty-looking one. He begins his trek across the field towards the hill where the path starts.
A friendly dog-walker waves at him from across the way, his golden cocker spaniel frolicking in the long grass, its ears flapping like it’s about to take off in flight. Graham tips his cap to the man. Maybe he should get himself a furry companion. His two goldfish, Fred and Wilma, are great; easy,quiet, no hassle. Still, he thinks that when he has a glass of Scottish whisky of an evening in front of the roaring fire with his feet up on the ottoman, a warm lapdog wouldn’t go amiss. He’ll think about it. Or maybe a cat could be a more appropriate choice, since they need less looking after. They can even keep down the local mouse population.
‘Bore da, Mr Williams!’ calls the dog-walker as he strolls towards him through the long dew-laden grass.
‘Bore da,’ Graham replies, using roughly the only phrase or greeting he knows in Welsh. ‘Lovely morning for a dog walk,’ he adds, bending to stroke the excited dog. He’s a little embarrassed that he can’t seem to recall the man’s name. He’s seen him around, mostly from a distance. Everyone knows Graham’s name, though. For what reason, he has no idea. He’s still considered thenew guy, he supposes, even if he has lived here ten months.
‘This one gets me up at six every morning,’ replies the man in his strong Welsh accent. A lot of the locals tend to speak Welsh with each other, but are happy to use English with the outsiders. ‘You should get yourself a dog. Keeps you fit!’
‘I was actually just thinking the same. It’s not a bad idea.’
‘Well, I won’t keep you. Need to get to the butcher’s bright and early before they sell out of all the good cuts.Hwyl Fawr.’
Graham smiles in response and watches the man walk away, his little dog running in circles around his feet and barking. He adjusts his cap as he looks towards the oak tree, squinting against the sun still sitting low on the horizon. It’s taking its time rising this morning. He doesn’t blame it. Sometimes an extra minute or two in bed is warranted. He brings his hand up to shield his eyes from the dazzling light, but the more he looks, the more he convinces himself that something isn’t quite right with the tree.
Has a branch snapped overnight and fallen?
Curiosity gets the better of him and he veers off the path, beginning his slow ascent. Maybe his eyes will figure out what they are seeing the closer he gets. But he quickly realises he’s wrong. With every step, his eyes continue to deceive him, continue to relay to his brain that there’s something in the tree that shouldn’t be there.
Graham’s breathing becomes laboured as the hill gets steeper towards the top, more rugged and uneven. A narrow, well-worn path leads all the way up the hill, used by countless walkers and runners. Graham has sometimes seen the local running club doing hill sprints. He’ll be damned if he’s going to break into a jog to get up the hill. He’ll probably drop dead of a heart-attack before he reaches the top.
Slow and steady, he climbs, his eyes never leaving the tree. Its cracked and fallen limbs make the perfect rustic bench, but the rest of it still stands tall and proud; an oak treethat must be at least eight hundred or so years old, considering its size. The bark has knarred, deformed and twisted over many years of enduring the notoriously bad weather in Wales. It could even be the oldest oak tree in Britain.
