something. Anything. We’re being accused of doing nothing and getting nowhere, Dickens,
and I won’t have it. Sort it out.’
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And so, with the greatest reluctance, Helena had called a press conference for midday.
She hated press conferences with a passion; not normally a shy person, she always wanted to
curl up under a rock when forced to endure the glare of television lights, the flash of cameras
and the volley of questions being fired from the press pack. It wasn’t that she wanted to be
obstructive; she totally understood the need for the public to be kept informed, especially with
rumours of serial killers floating around.
‘They’re just so … so relentless,’ she said, opening her eyes again and looking up at
Devon. ‘And if they don’t get what they want, they just make stuff up half the time. Or
speculate and exaggerate at least, and dress that up as fact. It drives me mad.’
‘I know.’ He sighed. ‘They’re totally fixated on this serial killer thing now though, aren’t
they? No talking them out of it, no matter what we say. And their fascination with Gemma
O’Connor seems to have grown too. Plenty of questions about her and whether we think she’s
involved.’
Helena’s eyes widened. ‘Well, I can’t blame them for that. They know she’s the only one
we’ve called in for questioning so far. And I still think she might have done it, Devon. Killed
Danny, at least. Even if I did insist rather firmly this morning that she’s only ever been
questioned with regards to background information about her missing husband. I don’t want
them focussing on her too much, not right now. I know they’ve been hanging around outside
her house, and we can’t stop them doing that, but I don’t want to give them anything more than
we have to on her for now. She’ll clam up, and at the moment she’s still talking to us. Talking
bollocks, but still talking. And I still think one of these days she’ll talk too much, let something
slip.’
Devon shrugged. ‘Maybe. I still can’t make up my mind on that one.’
PRRRR.
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There was a low purr from the breast pocket of his shirt. He slid his mobile phone out of
it, looked at the screen and gave a short laugh.
‘Talk of the devil,’ he said, and answered the call.
‘Mrs O’Connor? How can I help you?’ he asked.
Helena sat up straight, suddenly feeling a little less gloomy. Gemma O’Connor, calling
Devon direct? What did she want then? To confess, maybe, finally? She leaned a little closer
to Devon, but he was giving little away.
‘Really? OK. OK. Well, I suppose it won’t hurt to take a look. Sure. OK. I’ll try to get
someone down there tomorrow morning. Around 10 o’clock? OK. Someone will meet you
there unless you hear otherwise. Great. Bye.’
He ended the call then grabbed a pen and a pad from Helena’s desk and scribbled down
an address.
‘Well?’ she said impatiently. ‘What was all that about?’
He put the pen down and ripped the page from the notepad.
‘Not sure, really. She says she’s seen some CCTV footage from a gym in Clifton and she
thinks it’s Danny. Apparently she decided to try and find out where he’d been spending his
days while he was apparently here in Bristol …’
‘Pah!’ Helena couldn’t help herself.
‘Yes, yes, I know you don’t believe he ever made it this far. But she’s still insisting, so
… anyway, she says she had a brainwave that he might have been hanging out in a gym because
he was always into his fitness and so on, so she checked out a couple nearby, and at one of
them the staff said there was a bloke who came in every weekday for a few weeks. He said his
name was Patrick, not Danny, but she asked to see CCTV and she says this guy’s wearing some
sort of disguise so she can’t be totally sure, but what she is sure about is that he’s wearing her
husband’s watch, which has convinced her that it’s hi—’
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‘A disguise?’ Helena snorted. ‘And you’re sending someone down there? Are you sure?
It sounds like a load of old—’
‘Boss! BOSS!’
DC Tara Lemming was running across the room towards them, her black ponytail
bouncing. She skidded to a halt, slightly out of breath, her eyes bright.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ she said.
‘What now?’ said Helena. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. And you will be too, when you hear what’s just happened.’
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.’
193
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.
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‘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
195
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 …
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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 it, working out who killed those other men and whether Danny’s case is
197
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.
198
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 behav
iour, 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.
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‘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.’
The Perfect Couple (ARC) Page 22