the two men were. In Ireland, local gardai were checking both Danny’s and Quinn’s family homes, as well as the properties of as many friends and relatives as possible, in case the runaway O’Connor cousins had somehow managed to already cross the Irish Sea despite the all-ports alert. Elsewhere, Danny’s friends and ex work colleagues were being contacted, and photographs had been circulated to police forces across the UK. Helena herself had called Gemma’s number again in the past half an hour, to warn her that her husband was now a wanted man, suspected of multiple murders, but there had still been no reply.
‘Probably out, celebrating her freedom,’ Devon had remarked. ‘I know that’s what I’d be doing. Either that or she’s asleep. Can’t have got much shuteye in that cell. Beds are like wooden planks.’
But not being able to contact the woman had worried Helena, and finally she’d decided they should call round and speak to Gemma in person. She owed her a huge apology too, she thought ruefully, remembering all the occasions when she’d treated Gemma so unkindly, convinced she was lying, convinced she was hiding something. Plus, although the chances of Danny returning to his Bristol home were minimal, it was another box that needed to be ticked in the hunt for him.
‘Here we are. Doesn’t look like anyone’s in though.’
Devon turned the engine off, and for a moment they both sat there, staring at the house, its windows dark. Then Helena reached for her seat belt.
‘Come on.’
She was first up the path and rang the doorbell. From inside, there was the sound of scampering feet, and a dog began to bark frantically, but the door didn’t open. Helena rang again, keeping her finger on the buzzer for a full twenty seconds, the bell sounding shrill and loud even through the sturdy front door. The barking intensified, but still nobody came. Helena felt a little ripple of unease.
‘As I said, out partying, or asleep. Although she’d have heard that racket even if she was dead to the world. Gone away, maybe?’ asked Devon.
‘Not without her dog.’
The uneasy feeling was growing, a tight little knot forming in Helena’s stomach. Something didn’t feel right. Gemma had never struck her as the partying kind, especially after all she’d been through recently. Maybe she’d gone away for a few days, and arranged for someone to look after her pet, but she hadn’t been answering her phone, and that was worrying. She needed to be sure.
‘Let’s go round the back,’ she said.
They made the short journey around the corner, down the narrow lane that skirted the rear of the row of houses. The O’Connors’ back gate was unlocked, and they slipped quietly into the courtyard, Devon heading for the back door, rattling the handle.
‘Locked,’ he said.
Helena was peering in through the kitchen window, hands cupped around her eyes. And then she gasped.
‘Oh my god. Oh my GOD!’
‘What? What is it?’
She rushed towards him, hands outstretched, grabbing at the door handle, shaking it, thumping at the wood.
‘No, no, no!’ she screamed. ‘Devon, we need to get in there, quick!’
He paused only for a second, staring at her, then put both hands on her shoulders and moved her firmly to one side.
‘OK. My shoulder’s still killing me from the last time I did this, but I’ll give it a go. Stand over there,’ he said, then took a few steps backwards, angled his left shoulder towards the door and ran at it, aiming for the lock. There was a sickening thud and, simultaneously, the sound of wood splintering. The door swung open, and Helena rushed past Devon, who was leaning against the doorframe, groaning softly and clutching the top of his arm. Then she stopped abruptly, staring in horror at what was lying on the tiled floor in front of her: the shape she’d seen through the window which had struck her with fear, but which she had desperately hoped would turn out to be something else – a pile of discarded laundry maybe, waiting for its turn in the washing machine; a dropped coat.
It was neither of those things. It was Gemma O’Connor or, probably more accurately, Helena thought, as the nausea rose, the body of Gemma O’Connor. Motionless, curled in the foetal position, a dark pool around her crumpled body. And then she saw it. Saw exactly what had happened to this woman, the woman she now knew, with a sense of overwhelming grief and guilt, that she’d totally and utterly let