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, don’t we?’