‘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 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.
‘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.’
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 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, d
on’t we?’
Chapter 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 anxious – 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 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 police officers, and scrutinize it, scrutinize me? And yet, I thought, did it matter if they did? I had nothing to hide, whatever they thought, for it seemed clear to me that they thought something now, something they hadn’t thought before. DS Clarke was looking at me with a new interest, the gentleness I’d seen in his eyes previously replaced with something more piercing, as if I was a fascinating exhibit in a museum. DCI Dickens wasn’t looking at me at all, instead staring intently at a page of notes in front of her. Suddenly, she cleared her throat, the rasping sound in the silent room making me jump. She raised her dark blue eyes to mine.
‘Gemma, as you know, yesterday morning DS Clarke here, and another colleague, DC Stevens, who I know you’ve also met, visited your previous address, at number 10 Homefield Avenue, Chiswick.’
She paused, looking at me, and I nodded.
‘Yes, I know. I haven’t heard anything though, so I assume … well, was it any help?’
DCI Dickens glanced down at her notes again, then returned her cool gaze to my face.
‘It was certainly interesting, Gemma. I’m now going to show you some photographs, OK?’
‘Errr … yes, fine.’
The DCI reached for a large envelope which had been lying on the table to the left of her notebook and slid two prints out of it. Slowly, she pushed first one and then the other across the smooth wood.
‘These were taken in the master bedroom of the apartment yesterday. Can you take a look please, and tell me about what you see?’
I glanced down at the two photographs, confused, for a moment not sure what I was supposed to be looking at. Then my stomach lurched.
What the …?
Yes, this looked like our old bedroom, the one we’d spent those heady, early days of our relationship in, wrapped around each other, planning our lives together. But at the same time, it wasn’t the same room at all. The pictures showed some twisted, nightmarish version of our cheerful bedroom, the walls, carpets, even the bed streaked and stained and polluted with something dark and sinister, something that looked viscous and evil. My vision blurred, and I gripped the edge of the table for support, my stomach contracting violently. I was going to be sick, I was sure I was, but first I had to ask, had to know …
‘Is that … is that blood?’
My voice was a strangled whisper. There was a brief silence, then the cup of tepid water was pushed towards me.
‘Have a drink, Gemma.’ DS Clarke’s voice.
Slowly, eyes still glued to the horrific images in front of me, I let go of the table edge with my right hand, reaching for the cup, trying to steady it as I moved it to my lips, swallowing a little water, the liquid spilling over the sides as I shakily put it down again.
‘Are you all right to continue?’ DS Clarke again.
I nodded, the nausea subsiding a little as the water slid down my dry throat.
‘I’m OK, but … these pictures. What … please, what happened there? Has something happened to Danny?’
There were a few moments of silence. Then DCI Dickens spoke, her voice low and calm.
‘That’s what we’d like to know, Gemma. Because, yes, that is blood. A lot of blood. And we know now that it’s Danny’s blood. So, the question is, do you know what happened in that room?’
Danny’s blood? I dragged my gaze away from the photographs. What does she mean, Danny’s blood?
‘What? How would I know? I moved out weeks ago, I haven’t been back … oh God, what’s happened? Please …’
My chest was tightening, a trickle of sweat running down my back, my stomach rolling again. What were they trying to tell me? My brain felt fuzzy. Danny’s blood? Did that mean …?
The DCI was speaking again.
‘Yes, we know you moved out weeks ago, Gemma. On Friday the first of February, you said? And you also told us that your husband stayed on in London and moved here to join you a week later. The thing is, we have a very, very good forensics laboratory here, Gemma. And they’ve told us that that blood, Danny’s blood, was most likely splattered all over your former bedroom approximately five weeks ago.’
She paused, as I stared at her. Five … what?
‘Five weeks ago, Gemma. Which, by my calculations, would mean that Danny did a hell of a lot of bleeding in that room on or around the first of February. Around the time you packed
up and moved to Bristol, in fact.’
I shook my head, aware that a low hum had now started up inside my skull. Was I going to faint, instead of vomiting? It was so hot, unbearably hot, and my brain didn’t seem to be working properly, DCI Dickens’s words not making any sense.
‘No. No, that didn’t happen,’ I said. I was finding it hard to move my mouth, I realized; as if some external force was slowing the movements of my lips, my tongue. ‘It must be a mistake. Danny was fine, when he moved down here. He wasn’t hurt … I don’t understand, what’s going on?’
Sweat was beading on my forehead now, running into my eyes, and I wiped it away with my sleeve, wondering as I did so why I was the only one who seemed to be feeling the heat in the small, stifling room. The two officers weren’t sweating. Why aren’t they sweating? What’s wrong with me?
‘We’re confused too, Gemma.’ DS Clarke this time.
I looked at him, trying to focus.
‘We spoke to your former landlord, after we discovered the blood in the bedroom. Mr Evans? He was kind enough to come and let us in to the place. He told us that you both vacated the apartment on the same day – that Mr O’Connor didn’t stay on for a week after you left, as you claim. He says he thought that was originally the plan, but that in fact the keys were left at his office – posted through the letterbox, so he wasn’t sure which of you left them – sometime on Friday the first of February, with a note saying that you’d both moved out after all. Unfortunately, he didn’t keep the note, and there aren’t any CCTV cameras on his premises, so we haven’t been able to verify which of you dropped off those keys, or at what time. But we believe it was you, Gemma. Because it’s pretty clear that something terrible happened in that apartment, on or around that date. And it’s Danny’s blood. So whatever that terrible thing was, it happened to him.’
He stopped talking and leaned back slightly in his chair, but his eyes were still locked to mine. The humming in my head had grown louder. I stared back at him for a moment, then looked at DCI Dickens. She was watching me too, and I realized they were both waiting for me to speak.
The Perfect Couple Page 12