his neatly trimmed facial hair, white even teeth, smooth dark skin. A right handsome pair. Are
they romantically involved? I wondered idly, then pushed the ridiculous thought aside. They
37
were police detectives, in Bristol and not in some TV cop drama. They were probably so busy
they barely had time to pee, never mind have illicit workplace affairs.
I took my coffee and toast into the sitting room and sank onto the sofa. It was a lovely
room – big and bright and high-ceilinged, with a huge working fireplace, cushioned window
seats and a polished, dark wood floor. We’d bought a new sofa in yellow velvet and, after
checking that the owners wouldn’t mind us doing a little decorating, had found a delicate,
trellis-patterned wallpaper in the softest dove grey to cover two of the walls. I’d put it up myself
in an afternoon, and I loved it. The place was in immaculate condition but if we were going to
live in it for a year or more, we wanted to put our own stamp on it.
‘It’s a parterre pattern,’ I’d explained to Danny, when the wallpaper sample had arrived.
‘You know, you see it in Victorian-style gardens? When they plan the flower beds so that they
form a beautiful pattern. It’s in keeping with the house, but sort of a modern interpretation.’
He’d frowned at me in an exaggerated fashion, clearly bemused, and I’d laughed and
given up. To say that Danny wasn’t very interested in home décor was an understatement, but
the upside of that was that I could basically do what I liked. He’d help, happily, if I asked him
to, but I called the shots, and that was fine by me.
I sat there for a moment, gazing around the room, then remembered what I’d gone in there
to do and pulled out my phone. I clicked onto the photos file and started to scroll, looking for
a decent snap of Danny. He’d never really liked having his photo taken – for such a gorgeous
man he was remarkably camera shy – but we’d taken a few pictures since we’d moved and I
thought one of them would be perfect for the police: a close-up shot of Danny lost in thought,
standing in the middle of the lounge, staring at the wall as he tried to help me work out which
of our several large pieces of art would look just right above the fireplace. I’d taken the photo
before he’d even noticed I was there, and he’d growled and leapt on me, pulling me down onto
38
the Persian silk rug, telling me I was ‘worse than a bloody paparazzo’ and then kissing me so
hard I could barely breathe.
Oh Danny, I miss you so much. Please come home.
I paused, finger resting on the screen of my phone. I’d gone back through a month’s worth
of pictures without finding what I was looking for, and I frowned and started scrolling forwards
again. Where was it? In fact, where were lots of the photos we’d taken since we’d come to
Bristol? There were a few of my work ones from recent weeks, shots of pots of moisturisers
and faded jeans and a vibrant pink orchid in a glass bowl. And there were a couple of the house,
pictures of some of the rooms, images I’d taken to try to visualize the walls in different colours,
to plan my decorating. But where were the photos of Danny gamely attempting DIY, putting
up a decidedly wonky shelf? Or the selfies we’d taken, the two of us crashed out on our bed
after a full day of trying to sort the bedrooms out and lugging boxes up and down the stairs,
sweaty and exhausted but grinning ear to ear? The picture of us both cuddled up in one big
armchair, clinking glasses of champagne? I tapped each photo in turn, slowly now. I must have
been going too fast, missed them. But no – once again, I was back onto pictures from London,
shots I’d taken before we moved. Where the hell were the photos I wanted, the ones from the
past few weeks? And why were only some of the recent pictures missing, and not all of them?
Some sort of blip with my camera app? They’d all be backed up though, on the cloud, wouldn’t
they? I tapped the cloud storage app and started scrolling again, but it was the same photos, the
ones I’d just gone through several times in my photos file.
‘What? This makes no sense,’ I said aloud. I put the phone down on the cushion beside
me and sat still, thinking. They must be somewhere, but where? Had they been saved into a
different file or something? But didn’t photos automatically get saved into the photos file?
Something had clearly gone wrong, and while I wasn’t too bad with technology, I didn’t know
enough to know where to look next. And the police had asked for a new photo today, if possible.
39
on my phone, and they’d be recent enough. I took a deep breath, trying to quell the anxiety,
then picked up the phone again, checking for emails this time. Maybe, just maybe. But just like
the previous twenty or fifty or a hundred times I’d checked, there were no new messages in my
inbox. Tears suddenly sprang to my eyes. I couldn’t take this much longer. Four days. FOUR.
Where was he? Was he lying injured somewhere, unable to get help? Had he just left, without
saying a word? Left me, for somebody else, as people kept suggesting? Or … was he … was
he dead? My heart began to pound, my breath suddenly coming in ragged gasps.
Stop it. Stop it, Gemma.
Thinking like that wouldn’t help anyone. My hand shaking slightly, I scrolled down my
messages, looking for the last email Danny had sent me, the one from Thursday night, feeling
a sudden desperate urge to read his words again, wondering if I’d missed something, some sub-
text, some clue as to where he might have gone. Shit, where was his last email? I couldn’t find
that now. Surely I hadn’t deleted it by mistake? Pretty sure I hadn’t – soppily, I never deleted
messages from my husband – I clicked onto my deleted messages folder, putting Danny’s name
into the search box.
No messages found.
I knew I hadn’t deleted it. But where was it then? I returned to my inbox and did the same
search. This time, a string of emails from Danny appeared, but the most recent was dated
Wednesday, the thirtieth of January, weeks ago. What was going on? We’d exchanged dozens
of emails since we’d moved to Bristol, since Danny had been phone-less. Where were they all?
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I threw the phone hard onto the carpet, and sat back, covering my
face with my hands, the tears flowing freely now. I needed to read Danny’s last email, I needed
to. What was wrong with my phone? Or was it my email provider? Was it having some sort of
problem? I’d have to phone, ask …
40
I jumped as a sharp ringing sound interrupted my frantic thoughts. The doorbell. Danny?
Could it be Danny, back home, keys lost somewhere? From the kitchen, an excited yelp seemed
to imply that Albert was hopeful too.
‘Danny!’ I rushed from the room, pounding down the hallway, almost tripping over Albert
who was suddenly scampering past me, my fingers fumbling with the keys, my heart thumping
painfully against the wall of my chest.
‘Dann— oh!’
‘Mrs O’Connor, we’re sorry to disturb you … are you OK?’
DS Devon Clarke was standing on the doorstep, broad-shouldered in a black coat, his
brow creas
ing as he looked at me quizzically. Beside him, a smaller, younger man with a sharp
nose and small rectangular glasses was also staring at me. I took a step backwards, catching a
glimpse of myself in the hall mirror, suddenly aware that I was still crying, yesterday’s un-
washed-off mascara streaking my cheeks, my hair wild and unbrushed.
‘Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry. I thought … I thought you might be Danny. I still haven’t heard
anything, and I was getting myself into a state … and oh no, please, please don’t tell me you’re
here with bad news, please …’
I suddenly realized that two police officers on my doorstep was probably not a good thing,
and the panic began to rise again.
‘ Please …’
DS Clarke was shaking his head, stepping into the hall and reaching out a hand towards
me, patting me on the shoulder.
‘No, no, nothing like that. Don’t worry, OK? We’ve just been making some enquiries and
discovered something a little odd we need to talk to you about, and we thought it would be
easier to chat face to face. But it’s nothing to panic about, so calm down, all right? Come on,
let’s go and sit down. This is DC Stevens …’ he gestured behind him at the smaller man, who
41
nodded, giving me a hint of a smile, ‘and if you point him in the direction of the kitchen he’ll
go and make us a nice cup of tea and then we’ll have a chat, OK? Is your dog all right with
strangers, by the way?’
I looked down at Albert, who was standing protectively in front of me, gulped in some air
and nodded.
‘Sorry, I’m just … yes, he’s fine. Albert, go to your bed. It’s not Danny. Go, Albert.
Kitchen’s down there, just follow the dog. I was just in the sitting room, I’ll show you.’
After a moment’s hesitation Albert obeyed and trotted off down the corridor, his head
low, his disappointment clear. DC Stevens followed him as instructed, and I staggered back
into the lounge and slumped onto the sofa again, my legs feeling weak and wobbly. DS Clarke
perched on the chair opposite, and for a couple of minutes made small talk, asking me if I’d
heard anything at all from Danny, then changing the subject entirely, admiring the large bay
windows, commenting on the bronze sculpture that sat on a side table and asking me to remind
him how long we’d lived in Bristol. But when DC Stevens reappeared, bearing three steaming
mugs balanced on the tray we kept on the kitchen counter, the mood suddenly changed.
‘Mrs O’Connor, we’ve been making some enquiries this morning, into your husband’s
disappearance, as promised. We started by visiting his workplace, ACR Security?’
His tone was suddenly serious, and a chill ran through me. I nodded.
‘OK? And?’
He paused. ‘Well, this is the weird thing. It’s not his workplace.’
I stared at him, not understanding.
‘What do you mean? Of course it is. I mean, he hasn’t been there long, but certainly a few
weeks. He would have started on the …’ I thought for a moment, trying to remember the exact
date. ‘Well, I actually moved down to Bristol a week before Danny did, because he had stuff
to finish up in London; I can’t remember if I told you that? But he came to join me on the
42
evening of the eighth of February, that was a Friday. He started at ACR on the Monday, so that
would have been the eleventh. I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean by it not being his
workplace?’
DS Clarke glanced at his colleague for a moment, and then both turned back to look at
me.
‘What I mean, Mrs O’Connor, is that ACR say your husband was offered and did accept
a job with them, which he was indeed due to start on the eleventh of February. But a couple of
weeks before that date, he emailed them to say that he wouldn’t be taking up the position after
all, due to a change in circumstances. Needless to say they weren’t very happy about him
changing his mind, especially at such short notice, but there wasn’t much they could do about
it. Therefore, you see, ACR Security was not your husband’s workplace. So … can you help
us out with that, at all?’
43
6
‘And she had no explanation for it whatsoever? She really didn’t know?’
Helena, sitting on the edge of Devon’s desk, looked down at him and frowned. He
swallowed a mouthful of tea, grimaced, and put his mug down carefully on the coaster next to
his computer keyboard.
‘Nope. She looked absolutely gobsmacked, to be honest. She said as far as she knew he
was excited about the new job and really enjoying it. Left for work early every morning, came
home usually after six, sometimes a lot later. Been doing it every weekday since they moved.
Which begs the question, if he wasn’t going to work at ACR Security, what was he doing?’
Helena nodded slowly.
‘Another job somewhere, that for some reason he didn’t tell his wife about? Or was he
doing something else entirely? We need to check his bank account, Devon. See if he was being
paid by someone else? Although if he’d only been working in Bristol for three weeks, he may
not have had a payday yet, I suppose. It would probably be end of the month, wouldn’t it?’
‘Probably. But I’m already on it – well, Frankie is, anyway. We should have his bank
records this afternoon.’
He gestured at the neighbouring desk, where DC Frankie Stevens was chatting animatedly
on the phone.
‘OK, good. Did we get hold of a more recent photo of him, by the way?’
Devon nodded.
‘She’s emailed one over, yes. Couldn’t find any from the past few weeks – says her
phone’s playing up, her recent emails and pictures haven’t saved or something. But it’s only a
couple of months old. I’ve printed a few copies off. Should be fine.’
44
‘OK. All right, well, stay on it for a little bit longer, and keep me posted, OK? And I want
this kept quiet for now – no missing person appeals in the papers or on social media or anything.
This possible connection to our other two cases is still worrying me, and I don’t want any more
speculation out there. Today was bad enough.’
She glanced at the front-page splash on the copy of that morning’s Bristol Post, which
was lying on Devon’s desk, and sighed. It had been just as she’d feared.
SERIAL KILLER FEARS AFTER DOUBLE MURDER ON THE DOWNS
‘Bloody reporters. So hush, hush, right? And I know you’re working really long hours at
the moment, Devon. I do appreciate it, thank you.’
‘Sure boss. Got nothing better to do these days, so that’s fine by me. Joys of being young,
free and single, eh?’
Helena gave him a sympathetic smile, pushed herself off the desk and straightened her
jacket. Poor old Devon had been dumped by his girlfriend of the past year just weeks ago, and
while he didn’t seem outwardly broken-hearted, she had the sense he was feeling the loss far
more keenly than he was letting on. She’d take him aside, maybe for a drink, at some point and
have a chat, but there was too much work to be done at the moment, and now with this added
complication … she shook her head slightly as she crossed the room, weaving her way between
the desks piled high with scruffy stacks of paperw
ork. She was starting to get a feeling that
there was something strange about the disappearance of Danny O’Connor, especially with the
revelation about the job that never was, but without a body he was still just a missing person,
and right now she had more important things on her mind, namely two actually dead men
whose murders may or may not be connected, and a distinct paucity of leads. With a sigh, she
reached her own desk and sat down, pushing aside a plastic container of half-eaten mozzarella
and tomato salad and tapping her keyboard to wake up her computer screen.
45
The files for both sets of forensic results were open on her desktop and she flicked
backwards and forwards disconsolately between them for the tenth time. There was nothing
there, basically; the killer had either been very careful or very lucky, leaving no trace of his
identity on either of the victims. Or her identity, Helena thought. No assumptions, not at this
stage, even though right now her money was on a male killer. Although no murder weapon had
been found in either case, both Mervin Elliott and Ryan Jones had been attacked with some
considerable force with some sort of heavy object – both, it had now been confirmed, had died
from their head injuries. Both were young, fit men, and it seemed unlikely that a woman would
have been able to take either of them down so easily. Although … Helena thought about some
of the women she saw at her local gym, on the rare occasions when she chose indoor exercise
over running. Those bodybuilder types, the ones who entered those Miss Bikini Fitness contests
or whatever they were called – they’d definitely be able to take a man down if they wanted to.
So, don’t rule anybody out, she thought. It was far too early in the investigation to start doing
that. Keep an open mind, about all of it.
She stood up again and crossed the room to the incident board, hands massaging the
aching small of her back as she walked. Maybe she’d ask Charlotte to give her a back rub later,
if she was still awake when she got home, she thought, then smiled wryly to herself, realizing
how unlikely that was. Her wife, head teacher of a fairly challenging city centre secondary
school, came home from work as exhausted as she did.
‘Will you be home for dinner? Or is that a stupid question?’ she’d asked sleepily as Helena