She looked from Helena to Devon, then back again. Helena felt a little shiver of excitement.
‘Go on.’
‘Boss, a man’s just walked into reception downstairs. He says he wants to speak to whoever’s in charge of the so-called serial killer case. And – wait for it – he says he’s here to hand himself in. He says he killed them. All of them. The two in London, Mervin Elliott, Ryan Jones and Danny O’Connor. He says he’s the serial killer.’
Chapter 21
I walked back from the gym on Tuesday morning feeling close to despair. As DS Clarke had promised, I’d been met there at 10 a.m. by DC Frankie Stevens, but he’d seemed distracted, glancing at his watch as he waited for Gerry to load up the CCTV footage. Gerry had taken his time, clearly rather taken with the police officer and giving him coquettish sidelong glances as he tapped keys and clicked on files. When we were finally able to show the detective the shots of the man I was now, on second viewing, even more convinced was Danny, he studied them for a few moments then said doubtfully: ‘They’re not very clear pictures, are they? I mean, that could be anyone really. I know he’s your husband, Gemma, and you’d be the one most likely to recognize him, but with a hat and glasses and a beard …’
‘But that’s his watch, I know it is. Look, there.’ I jabbed a finger at the screen. ‘It’s really unusual – it’s a Nomos Tetra, I bought it for him as wedding gift. And I know the way he moves, the way he walks – look, as he heads away from the desk. It’s him, DC Stevens. This is where he was coming every day when I thought he was going to work. This proves it, can’t you see? It proves he was alive and well until twelve days ago when he stopped coming here and he vanished. It proves I’m telling the truth, you must believe me now? I didn’t bloody kill him in London, did I, because he was here, safe and well!’
My voice was getting louder and louder, my frustration growing. At the words ‘kill him’ Gerry took a step back, a shocked expression replacing the genial one he’d been sporting previously.
‘You … you killed Patrick?’ he said, his voice tremulous.
‘What? No … no, of course I didn’t!’ I reached out a hand to touch his arm, but he backed away, looking scared.
‘He’s just missing, like I told you. And it’s Danny, not Patrick, remember?’ I said. Gerry just stared at me, edging even further away, so I turned back to DC Stevens. I was starting to feel a little panicky. How could I get him to believe me?
‘Please, DC Stevens,’ I began, but he was looking at his watch again.
‘Look, I’m sorry, but I need to go. We have something … well, I just need to get back. But, er … Gerry, is it? Gerry, can you copy that footage onto a disk or whatever and send it to me at the station? Just so we have it on file. Here, my details and the address …’
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card which he handed to a now grinning Gerry.
‘No problem, Frankie,’ he said. ‘I’ll deliver it myself.’
‘Well … thanks. That would be great, if it’s not too much trouble.’
The two men smiled at each other – are they flirting? I thought. Oh, for goodness’ sake! – and then the police officer turned to me.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I really need to go. I don’t think this footage is very helpful, to be honest – it’s just not clear enough. But I’ll show it to the high-ups, OK? Someone will be in touch.’
And then he was gone. As I left the gym, it began to rain; the sky looked bruised, pale with angry violet patches. The weather had turned cold again over the past few days, and I shivered as I trudged towards home, Albert tugging on his lead by my side: I hadn’t had the heart to leave him behind again. Suddenly, I felt desperately alone. Yes, I had my beloved dog, and I could call Tai or Clare, I knew that, but otherwise … I was on my own. When Danny had been around, I’d never felt lonely, even in a new city where I hadn’t yet had time to make many friends. But now …
Even the press had gone, having not returned since they vanished the day before, the street quiet and empty when I’d tentatively opened the lounge curtains earlier. Relief had swept over me at the time, but now I felt curiously abandoned. How had things ended up like this? How could a life, a nice, normal life, unravel so quickly? Less than two weeks ago I was so happy – a new home, a lovely husband, a steady freelance income, and now …
How would I ever be able to trust a man – trust anyone – ever again? Would I … oh God! Would I now even ever have children, become a mother? The thought slammed into my brain with such force that I almost stumbled, reaching out to the nearest lamp post for support, leaning on it heavily, my breathing suddenly laboured. Albert whimpered, looking up at me anxiously, and across the street, a man walking briskly along with his dog slowed for a moment, staring at me, then sped up again, his Labrador pulling at the lead. I stood there for a minute, staring at a stain on the pavement, trying to focus, trying to calm myself. Children. It was the first time I’d really thought about that, since Danny had disappeared. We’d talked about having children, talked about it more than once, but I was only thirty-four, and we hadn’t felt the need to rush into anything.
‘We have time,’ Danny had said. ‘Sure you’re only a spring chicken. Let’s give it a couple of years, enjoy being married for a bit, buy a house, get properly settled. Then – babies!’
I’d agreed, happily. I knew plenty of women who’d fallen pregnant in their late thirties, even early forties. It would be absolutely fine. But now … the police, no matter what I said, no matter what evidence I tried to show them, still seemed to think that I had killed Danny. They clearly didn’t have enough to arrest me, not yet. But what if somehow they did, eventually? What if I went to prison? It could be for years. Or, even if that didn’t happen, if I got through all this, what if I never met anyone else? What if Danny had been it, my one chance of love, of happiness, of a family? What was wrong with me? How could I have been so stupid, so gullible? There must have been warning signs, there had to have been. How could I have missed them? And – the thought suddenly struck me for the first time, and I gasped, horrified – what about diseases? If Danny had been sleeping with other people, possibly many other people … I needed to get tested, didn’t I? Find a clinic, where I’d have to tell them. Tell them that I strongly suspected that my husband had been unfaithful to me, and possibly with multiple partners.
Albert whimpered again, pawing at the leg of my jeans, but I ignored him, my mind racing, yet another thought striking me. How was I going to cope financially, if Danny really was dead, if he really wasn’t coming back? I made good money, and I could probably afford the rent on our current house on my own, just. But to save for a deposit, to buy a house, to have a secure future … it was over now, all of it. A tear rolled slowly down my already-damp cheek. The rain had grown heavier, running down under my collar, drops clumping on my lashes. I blinked and looked up. An elderly woman was approaching, white hair peeking out from under a bright red headscarf, rheumy eyes looking at me curiously.
‘Come on, Albert. Let’s go,’ I whispered.
I pushed myself back to a fully upright position and walked on, suddenly desperate to get home, away from people, out of the rain.
As soon as we got indoors I called Eva.
‘Shit, Gemma. And you’re sure the footage is of Danny?’
‘I’m pretty sure. The police officer just didn’t seem interested though. He asked for a copy, to keep in their files, but it was like he couldn’t wait to get out of there. I just don’t know what to do next, Eva. I’m out of ideas, and I feel like I’m going mad. What am I going to do? What am I going to fucking do?’
I was crying again, my voice cracking.
‘Oh darling, stay strong. I’ll be back down there on Friday evening, OK? Keep thinking. There’s something you’ve missed, something we’ve both missed, there has to be. Don’t give up. We’ll find a way to prove you didn’t hurt Danny, OK? We will, Gem. That’s all we need to do. The rest of i
t, working out who killed those other men and whether Danny’s case is connected or not, is down to the police, so forget all that. Just concentrate on this one thing, OK? We can do it.’
Her words were reassuring, but when I put the phone down I sat very still for a long time, the rain pounding against the window, the sky darkening, the room growing cold around me. What was it? What were we missing? I had a horrible feeling time was running out, and I still had simply no idea. No idea at all.
Chapter 22
The incident room was quiet, but the air crackled with tension. DC Frankie Stevens, who’d just returned from meeting Gemma O’Connor at a gym in Clifton, was briefing Helena on what had happened there, but she could tell even he wasn’t particularly interested in what he was saying, and she was having a hard time forcing herself to listen. They had bigger fish to fry, and the interview room was being readied for the man who could well turn out to be the biggest catch of her career so far. George Dolan, the man who’d walked in the previous day claiming to have killed five men, had told officers he was originally from Bristol but had moved around a lot and was currently of no fixed abode, sleeping on friends’ sofas and picking up occasional shifts as a bar and club bouncer. He had been fairly seriously intoxicated when he’d arrived, stumbling and mumbling, and had been put in a cell to spend the night sleeping it off. When they’d checked his record, they’d found a history of arrests for violent behaviour, including a six-month prison sentence for common assault ten years previously following a brawl outside a nightclub. When, after breakfast, a by-then-sober Dolan had stuck to his story about committing the murders, the news had raced around the building like a greyhound around a track, and Helena’s insides hadn’t stopped churning since.
‘So I asked the bloke at the gym – quite cute, actually – to send us a copy of it anyway. But honestly, I’m pretty sure it’s of no use whatsoever. Too unclear to be admissible, in my view,’ Frankie was saying.
‘Err … cute? Mind on the job please, DC Stevens!’ Helena said, but she smiled. ‘Look, thanks for doing that, it’s a box ticked. But Gemma O’Connor has strangely suddenly stopped seeming like such a high priority. Christ, Frankie, I’m nervous.’
‘You? Really?’
He looked genuinely surprised, and she raised her eyebrows.
‘Yes, me, really! I am actually human, you know. And if this Dolan guy is the real deal, well …’
‘I know. Massive,’ he said. ‘Good luck, boss. You’ll smash it. DS Clarke doing it with you?’
She nodded.
‘Yep. Think he’s on his sixteenth builders’ tea of the day over there. I’ve been drinking herbal tea, some sort of calming mix Charlotte brought home for me last night, thought I might need it. Smells vile and tastes worse and hasn’t worked at all. And Devon, who should be wired to the moon after all that caffeine, seems calm as you like.’
She gestured with a hand, and Frankie turned to look at Devon, who was sitting at his desk, elbows on the desk, fingertips steepled, eyes closed.
‘Looks very zen,’ said Frankie. ‘Right, good luck, again. See you later. We’ll all be waiting. Oh – and when I came in just now the press were outside, by the way. Loads of them. All shouting questions about the serial killer suspect we have in custody. How do they know?’
Helena sighed. ‘Bloody parasites. Can’t blame a leak this time though. When Dolan came in last night, pissed as a parrot, there were half a dozen scallies in reception, and they’d all have heard him claiming to be the Bristol serial killer – apparently he wasn’t exactly being quiet about it. It was on social media within ten minutes. Not much we could do this time, Frankie.’
‘Arse,’ he said.
‘Arse indeed,’ she replied. It would all be worth it though, if Dolan really was their man. If. A case like this, so high profile, so well documented in the press, often attracted the crazies, the attention seekers, the false confessors; but generally when they came in drunk, their story changed dramatically in the cold light of dawn without the buzz of alcohol in their system. Dolan’s hadn’t.
Please, she thought. Please, be the one. Be the killer.
***
An hour later she was sitting across the table from him, Devon to her right, two other officers guarding the door, one inside, one out in the corridor. The duty solicitor, a young woman in a bright red jacket which looked two sizes too big for her, sat next to the suspect, back rigid, her pen tap-tapping on the pad in front of her. George Dolan was fifty-three, a short, shaven-headed brute of a man in a stained blue shirt who lumbered into the room bringing with him the smell of stale sweat and bacon. He looked as though he may once have been a bodybuilder or a boxer, a ripple of muscle still visible under a layer of blubber, the knuckles of his meaty fists scarred.
When the formalities had been completed, Helena cleared her throat, and then for a moment there was silence. George Dolan looked calm, his small eyes, so dark they were almost black, giving nothing away.
‘So, Mr Dolan. Last night you walked into this police station and made a confession. Because it was clear that you were in an inebriated state, we allowed you to sleep it off and then spoke to you again this morning, when you made the same confession. For the benefit of the recording, can you repeat that again now?’
Dolan shuffled in his seat, then leaned forwards, both hands flat on the table in front of him.
‘Sure,’ he said, and his voice was guttural, roughened by cigarettes, the accent strong West Country. ‘What I said was, I killed ’em.’
He paused, looking from Helena to Devon, then sideways at his solicitor. All of them stared back at him, and his lips twitched.
A smile? thought Helena. Christ, he’s enjoying this.
‘I killed all of ’em.’ Dolan was speaking again.
‘The two lads in London, and the two ’ere on The Downs. And the other one too. The most recent one, O’Connor, the one you lot ’aven’t even found yet. I did it. I did ’em all. I’m the one you’ve been looking for. I’m the serial killer.’
For a moment nobody spoke, moved, breathed. Then Dolan leaned slowly back in his chair, and the smile that had been threatening to appear finally crept over his face.
‘So go on, you’ve got your confession. Arrest me. Bang me up. I’ll keep on doing ’em if you don’t,’ he said.
Helena swallowed, and glanced at Devon, who raised an eyebrow. She turned back to Dolan, who was gazing at her, a quizzical expression on his bloated face.
‘OK, Mr Dolan. Thank you for that. However, now we need to ask you some questions. The first of which is … why? Why did you kill five men? And why those five men, in particular? What was your motive … your reason?’
‘My motive?’ George Dolan laughed, a short, hoarse sound that reminded Helena of a barking dog.
‘You want to know what my motive was?’ He leaned forwards again, his head jutting out across the table, and she could smell his breath, acrid and sour.
‘I’ll tell you what my motive was.’
His voice was low, and full of menace. Then, suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, he grinned widely, showing a mouthful of yellow, rotting teeth.
‘I just didn’t like the look of ’em,’ he said.
Chapter 23
On Wednesday morning, sitting at the kitchen table with a half-drunk coffee and untouched bowl of porridge, I listened to the latest batch of voice messages I’d been ignoring. The police, it seemed, had held a televised press conference on Monday, and my name had come up numerous times, the assembled journalists grilling the panel of officers about whether I had been questioned about the London murders as well as the Bristol ones and Danny’s disappearance. I’d missed that completely; I hadn’t been online or watched or listened to any news bulletins for days. Eva hadn’t mentioned it when I’d spoken to her either – obviously trying to spare me the grief, bless her, I thought, as I played voicemail after voicemail. Some of the messages were kind, as usual; this time even a couple from friends of Danny’s, hoping that
I was OK, telling me that it would all sort itself out, and not to worry because nobody who knew me could possibly think I was guilty of anything like the press were suggesting. Tears sprang to my eyes as I listened – I seemed to be making a habit of bursting into tears pretty much on an hourly basis in recent days – but this time they were tears of gratitude. Not everybody was against me then. The messages from family were different though; my father again, still distraught, but with more than a hint of anger in his voice this time.
‘You have no idea what this is doing to me and your mother, Gemma. It’s a disgrace, what’s going on there. We know you haven’t done anything wrong, but there must be something you can do to stop your name … our name … being dragged through the mud like this. I mean, to be linked with murder … multiple murder … have you got a solicitor yet? Get one, please. Get him to sort this out. We can’t take it much longer, your mother doesn’t even want to go out now, she even missed bridge last night, everyone’s staring … look, I’ve got to go. Bye.’
He’s embarrassed, I thought. Embarrassed. My life’s falling apart and my parents are worried about what their friends at the bridge club think. Thanks, Dad. Thanks so bloody much.
The next and final message was from Bridget. She sounded bored, as if she was just calling me for something to do.
‘Don’t suppose there’s any update on the police investigation,’ she said. ‘I assume you’ll let me know if there is.’
Her tone was calm, disinterested, and it struck me again how strange her reaction to all this had been. She didn’t seem concerned about Danny at all, no hint of emotion in her voice. Fleetingly, I resurrected the possibility I’d briefly considered that Bridget knew where Danny was, that somehow he’d made his way to Ireland and that she was helping him to stay hidden, calling me to see if the police might somehow be on his tail. Then I put the theory out of my mind again. I couldn’t for a second imagine Danny turning to Bridget, or indeed her agreeing to help him if he did. Still, her reaction to his disappearance was weird. Weird, weird, weird. I put the phone down, picked up my cold coffee mug and slowly made myself a fresh drink. I felt lethargic, unmotivated, exhausted, but I knew I had to somehow snap myself out of this, keep going, find some other way of proving that I had nothing to do with whatever the hell had happened to my husband. The street outside had again been empty of press when I’d looked earlier, a fact which, combined with the apparent complete lack of interest from the police in the footage from the gym, was starting to concern me a little. Had something else happened, something I didn’t know about? Was their attention – press and police – currently being directed elsewhere, I wondered? I was pretty sure that if it was to do with my case, with Danny, that somebody would have told me, but I’d have a quick look at the news websites later, I thought, as I poured boiling water into my mug and stirred. But first, there was something I needed to do.
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