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.
‘I-I.’ I swiped at my damp forehead again. My heart was pounding, as if I’d just sprinted up a long, steep staircase. What was I supposed to say, when everything they’d just said was wrong, was ridiculous? Of course Danny had stayed on in London. Of course he hadn’t been hurt. How did I get them to understand that? I took a deep breath.
Just tell them. Tell them calmly, and firmly.
‘Look, I’m sorry, but none of this is making any sense to me,’ I said at last, trying hard to make my mouth cooperate, to enunciate each word clearly. ‘Danny stayed on in London, at our apartment, for a week after I left, like I told you. And when he arrived in Bristol, he was fine. He wasn’t hurt, or cut, or anything. I’d have noticed – we shared a bed, for goodness’ sake. I don’t what else to say. This is wrong, all of it. None of it is true. Somebody’s made a huge mistake, or is lying to you. That’s the only explanation.’
DCI Dickens stared at me in silence for a few moments, then sighed.
‘Right. Well, let’s look at what else we have here, shall we?’
She tapped a finger on her notepad.
‘None of your Clifton neighbours have ever laid eyes on Danny – they say they believe you moved into the house alone. He accepted a new job in Bristol, and then mysteriously pulled out of it. We’ve now checked his main email account, the one you gave us details of when you first reported him missing, and he sent the email to ACR Security to tell them of his change of plan on the thirty-first of January. No further activity on that account since that date. His bank account also hasn’t been touched since the end of January.’
She turned a page.
‘We’ve also checked your email account, Gemma. You say you last heard from Danny via email on the night of Thursday, the twenty-eighth of February, when you were away on your press trip. There’s no sign of that email, or indeed, as I just said, any other emails between you and Danny after, again, the end of January. I know you mentioned to my colleagues