with all the music and chat. Managed to sort it out on the phone though, so nothing to worry
about. Right – where’s the beer?’ he’d said, with a grin.
Suddenly weak with relief, I’d let it go. He was allowed to chat to other women, after all
– I’d been chatting to plenty of men that night, hadn’t I? – and I trusted him, trusted him
implicitly. I hadn’t seen Sylvie again that night and I’d forgotten all about it. But as I repeated
the story to Eva, I wondered. Had I been too trusting? Was Danny all I thought he was, or had
he been making a fool of me all along? How long had he been on that dating website, if his
profile on it wasn’t a joke by one of his stupid mates …
‘Well, I wasn’t at that party, so I just don’t know, Gem,’ Eva was saying. ‘But, well …’
she hesitated, then shook her head. ‘Oh nothing. Look, it’s probably just …’
‘No go on. What were you going to say?’
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She shook her head again.
‘Nothing. We don’t know anything at this stage, Gemma, that’s all. Maybe he has gone
off with some other woman, but maybe it’s something else entirely. There’s no point in working
yourself up and jumping to conclusions until we know, OK?’
I sighed.
‘I know. I’m trying, I really am. But I just can’t understand it. Cheesy as it sounds, I
thought we were the perfect couple, you know? Well, clearly not; he’s been lying to me for
weeks, and now he’s vanished. He could be dead, Eva. Dead like those other two men. Or he
could have just upped and left me. Or he could have been abducted by bloody aliens for all I
know. I have no idea what’s happened to him, none at all.’
Eva closed her notebook, pushed it to one side and put her pen down.
‘I think aliens are unlikely. But, you know what, I don’t think I have any proper idea
either,’ she said. ‘This is going to take more thinking time, a lot more thinking time. So we’re
going to go out now, get some fresh air, walk Albert, go to the supermarket. Get you some
supplies in. And then we’re going to put our heads together, and we’re going to work this out,
OK? The two of us, together. Because whether he’s alive or dead now, he’s definitely been
hiding something, your Danny. That much is pretty clear. We just need to figure out what it
was.’
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12
DS Devon Clarke was staring at the glazed doughnut on the plate in front of him. Normally,
he’d have wolfed it down in a matter of seconds, but today, weirdly, it held no appeal
whatsoever. It was the room that had stolen his appetite; since the moment he’d walked into
that nightmarish, blood-soaked bedroom in Chiswick some twenty-four hours previously, he
had barely eaten, or indeed slept, missing Jasmine more than ever, needing her arms around
him, the comfort of her body next to his. He’d seen crime scenes like that before, of course he
had, many, many times, some with the bodies, mangled and macabre, still in situ. So why had
this one stuck in his mind, haunted his dreams, taken away his desire for doughnuts, for
goodness’ sake? Was it the unexpectedness of it, maybe? After all, they hadn’t been expecting
to find much at all in Danny O’Connor’s former home, so to open a door and see … and see
that …
He shuddered and glanced at the clock in the corner of his computer screen. Just after
two. The forensic report should be arriving any minute.
‘No sign of it yet?’
Helena suddenly appeared at his elbow, peering over his shoulder.
‘Are you reading my mind? I was just thinking about it. No, not here yet. They’re fast-
tracking it for us though, so it should be here soon. Want that doughnut?’
He pointed at the plate, and Helena wrinkled her nose.
‘Thanks, but I’ll pass. Charlotte would kill me. She wants me healthy, if we’re going to
have a baby …’
She stopped talking abruptly, and Devon raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Is that definitely on the cards then? I know you mentioned it before, but that was ages
ago and you haven’t said anything since.’
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Helena shrugged. There was an empty chair at the next desk and she reached for it, pulled
it across and sat down next to him.
‘Nah, nothing definite,’ she said, glancing around the room and keeping her voice low. A
couple of dozen officers were milling around, some chatting, some on the phones, a small
cluster of them standing around the incident board, pointing at the new pictures that had been
pinned there and clearly discussing them animatedly.
‘But she’s certainly keen, and I can’t put it off much longer. I’ve told her that once this
case is done, we’ll sit down and make a decision. I mean, I’m keen too, don’t get me wrong.
It’s just … could I make a good parent, Devon? Seriously, when the job’s like it is? The kid
would never see me. I’m really scared that I’d be shit at it …’
She suddenly looked so vulnerable, so insecure, that his heart twisted a little, and he
reached over and patted her hand.
‘You’d make a brilliant parent,’ he said. ‘Coolest mum on the block, look at you! Hunting
down the baddies … kids love all that stuff. And other cops make it work, loads of them. You
would too.’
He paused, watching her, and was rewarded with a flicker of a smile.
‘She wants to carry it though, which is fine by me,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure pregnancy and
me would get on.’
‘That’s a relief. You’re bad enough first thing. Can’t imagine you with morning sickness
as well,’ he said, and she laughed and punched him lightly on the arm.
‘OK, back to business. What are you thinking, Devon?’
He glanced at his computer screen again – still no report from the lab – and turned back
to face her.
‘I’m thinking, guv, that things have taken a pretty dramatic turn in the past few hours,
that’s what I’m thinking. I’m thinking that when Danny O’Connor vanished last week, for
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some reason he went back to London to his old apartment. And I’m thinking that now, well,
he’s probably dead. Almost certainly dead, in fact. I can’t imagine whoever lost all that blood
in that room walked out of there alive. I mean, obviously we don’t know yet if it was his blood,
but seeing as it was his former home, and he’s missing and everything … shit, guv, if it’s his
blood, I’m dreading telling his wife.’
He ran a hand across his face. When he’d looked in the bathroom mirror earlier his eyes
had been bloodshot, his dark skin tinged with grey. The images of that damn Chiswick bedroom
were suddenly back in his head again, making his stomach churn. He wondered if he might
actually throw up. He took a deep breath, and then another, trying to focus.
Helena was silent for a moment, clearly realizing he was struggling. She rested a hand on
his knee briefly, then said: ‘I know, that’s going to be tough. And I’m so sorry you had to see
it. It’s always shitty, coming across things like … well, like that, especially when you’re not
expecting it. Are you OK?’
He nodded, the nausea subsiding a little.
‘I’ve seen worse, you know. Not sure why this one has got to me so much. Been thinking
about it all night, playing out scenarios. I’m assuming the apartment keys had been returned to
the landlord when the O’Connors moved out, so did Danny have a spare set cut? And why go
back there anyway? How would he know the place was still empty?’
Helena shrugged.
‘Don’t know. Lots of unknowns right now. You’re right, we still don’t know if the place
is covered in Danny’s blood or someone else’s. But assuming for now it is his, we’re thinking
what? What would send him back there? If we go with Tara’s theory for a minute, a date maybe,
with someone he met online, taking advantage of the fact his wife’s gone away on her press
trip? And then what … the date goes horribly wrong and she slashes him to death?’
She was looking doubtful.
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‘It’s one theory. Long way to go for a hook-up though.’
‘It is. And of course, a very long way from our first two murder scenes. Although of
course we’ve been assuming our killer is local, seeing as we have two bodies in Bristol, but
that’s not necessarily the case, is it? Could be London based. Could be from anywhere, and
willing to travel. That’s if there’s any connection at all between these three cases, which is
something we’ve yet to establish, as we all know.’
Devon had picked up a pen and was poking the doughnut, cracking the shiny glaze.
Helena watched him for a moment, then closed her eyes and started swinging her chair slowly
from side to side.
‘This is BLOODY DRIVING ME MENTAL. It just feels as if there’s a connection
though, doesn’t it? Even if we don’t have the evidence to prove it yet. If they didn’t all look so
similar, and if they weren’t all on the EHU site, it would be different.’
‘I know, I know. If Danny O’Connor has been murdered though, which is now very likely,
it’s a very different MO. The other two scenes were really clean – this one was a freaking
bloodbath. And where’s the body?’
Helena stopped swinging and opened her eyes.
‘No idea,’ she said flatly. She was silent for a few moments, then said: ‘The papers don’t
know about Danny yet, but they’re bound to get hold of it any minute, you know. If they keep
up with the news, one of Danny’s friends is bound to notice the similarity between him and our
two murder victims any day now, and could easily go to the papers, even though we’ve asked
them not to. And we’ve been talking to Ryan Jones’s and Mervin Elliott’s friends and families
over the past day or so too, even shown some of them Danny’s photo, trying to see if our
victims might have known him. No joy there at all, but one of them could easily speak to a
reporter too, let it slip that there’s another possible victim. If we really do have three dead men,
the serial killer stuff is going to go through the roof.’
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Devon poked the doughnut again, watching as the glaze cracked further, little pieces of it
slowly dropping onto the plate in a manner he found strangely satisfying.
‘Hope not. That’s all we need,’ he said.
PING.
‘Shit. It’s here.’
At the sound of the email notification Devon dropped his pen and sat bolt upright,
grabbing his mouse and clicking on the message that had just dropped into his inbox.
‘Forensic report in!’ Helena raised her voice, and the room fell quiet, all heads turning
towards Devon’s desk.
He tapped the cursor to move down through the report, aware that Helena had moved
closer, her breathing quickening, conscious that he was breathing more heavily too, his hands
shaking slightly.
‘Come on, come on … where is it?’
He scanned the screen, looking for the crucial line of information. Then:
‘SHIT. And … what? Seriously?’
Helena had seen it at the same time he did. Frowning, she leaned in closer, reading the
line again, then looked at Devon.
‘How can that be right?’ she said softly.
He shook his head.
‘No idea. But … well, it’s there in black and white. And they very rarely get it wrong,
boss.’
She looked back at the computer screen, then slowly stood up and turned to the room.
‘Right, well, we have a development. First, as we suspected, it’s a match – the blood all
over that bedroom in Chiswick is Danny O’Connor’s. They used the DNA they found on the
toothbrush and comb taken from his current address to confirm it. So we know now that
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something terrible happened in that room, which must have left Danny very seriously injured
or, very possibly, dead.’
A low murmur ran around the room, officers exchanging glances. Helena raised a hand.
‘But there’s something else. And this is the bit that doesn’t quite make sense. Because
Danny O’Connor has only been missing for seven days. But the forensics guys have dated the
bloodstains, and they say – wait for it – they say that blood has been there for approximately
five weeks. Five weeks. Whatever happened to Danny O’Connor in that room happened right
back at the end of January.’
For a few seconds there was complete silence. Then, from his desk on the far side of the
room DC Frankie Stevens said: ‘But … boss, that’s not possible. He only disappeared last
Friday. He was living here in Bristol from the eighth of February, alive and well. At least that’s
what his wife …’ His voice tailed off.
‘Exactly, Frankie. That’s what his wife told us.’
Helena’s tone had turned hard, and there was a steely look in her dark blue eyes.
‘So, I think we need to have a rather urgent chat with Mrs Gemma O’Connor, don’t we?’
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13
The interview room was small, and far too hot. A table, old-looking, rickety, with four chairs.
Another, smaller table against one wall, upon which were a glass jug full of water and a tower
of brown paper cups. They’d made me wait, on my own, for a good half an hour before they
finally came in and sat down opposite me, and in that time I’d started to feel headachy, my
temples beginning to pulsate. Why was it so hot? I couldn’t see any radiators – was it underfloor
heating, maybe? There was a cup of water on the table in front of me but when I’d taken a
cautious sip it tasted stale, tepid. I’d put it down again, aware that my palms were beginning to
sweat. I was so tired too, my head fuzzy. I hadn’t told Eva, but I’d had another bad dream the
previous night, another nightmare. The details had faded now, the dream melting away with
the daylight, but I could still remember running, running fast in the dark, stumbling, picking
myself up and running again, gripped by a terrible fear, heart pounding, breath catching in my
throat. I could hear, somewhere far behind me, the terrible sound of wailing, a low keening
sound, the sound of somebody in dreadful pain, and yet I kept on running, terrified, desperate
to get away. When I woke up I was again drenched in sweat, the bedclothes twisted around my
legs, and my sleep for the rest of the night had been fitful and disturbed. The last thing I needed
now was to be sitting in a police station, especially when I had no idea what this was about.
Why did they need to talk to me again so urgently, and – and this was what was making me
feel so anxiou
s – why had their attitude towards me seemingly changed suddenly, from
sympathetic and concerned during our previous encounters to abrupt and matter of fact?
When DS Clarke and another officer – yet another I’d never met before – had arrived at
the house earlier Eva and I, supermarket run done, had been curled up on the sofa, picking at
some cheese and crackers, trying with little success to come up with new explanations for
Danny vanishing, for his lies. The police had simply told me that new information about my
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husband’s disappearance had come to light, and that I must accompany them to the station
immediately for questioning. But they’d spoken to me in brusque tones, DS Clarke informing
me that no, it wouldn’t be possible for Eva to come with me, the other officer simply suggesting
tersely that I get a coat and put some shoes on and asking me if I had a solicitor I wanted to
call.
‘A … a solicitor? Why would I need a solicitor? What’s happened? No, I don’t have one,
does that matter?’ I’d asked, my stomach starting to flutter uneasily.
The officer had muttered that no, it didn’t matter, that a duty solicitor would be made
available to me if I wanted one, but I shook my head, telling him that wouldn’t be necessary.
My husband was missing – maybe, as Eva and I were now thinking, in some sort of trouble,
maybe in hiding because of something he had done, someone he had upset, or maybe, just
maybe, he’d run off with another woman, something I was still barely allowing myself to think
about. So why on earth would I, his wife, the one he’d abandoned for whatever reason, need a
solicitor? Had they found out what he’d been up to, and thought we were in it together, maybe?
If so, what was it? What the hell was I about to find out about my husband?
It seemed I wouldn’t have to wait much longer for the answer, because there they were,
finally sitting in front of me – DS Clarke and his boss, DCI Helena Dickens, formalities
concluded, about to start the interview. It was being recorded, videoed too, and the thought
made me even more anxious. I felt scruffy in jeans and trainers and a sloppy sweatshirt, my
hair scraped back into a messy ponytail; not how I would have dressed if I’d known I was being
interviewed by the police today. Would they sit down together later, maybe a room full of
The Perfect Couple (ARC) Page 13
