speculating crazily, but on most levels, it did make some sort of sense. Danny had been through something horrifying and was scared something even worse was going to happen to him, and he needed to hide, and so he did. He hid, in plain sight, hid without me even realizing what he was doing, because he was terrified. Terrified that this man, this person who’d attacked him so viciously in London, was going to track him down in Bristol. And then, maybe it all got too much, so he ran. Or … nausea rose again, my body growing clammy, little beads of cold sweat running down my face. Did he run? Or was he caught? Had whoever he was so scared of finally found him?
I swallowed hard. I didn’t know if any of this was true, but it worked. It made some sort of weird, twisted sense. But who could I tell? Could I take this to the police? How would I get them to believe it, to start investigating my version of events, when they thought Danny died weeks ago, in our Chiswick bedroom? When they didn’t believe he ever moved to Bristol at all? How could I prove he was here? How could I get them to stop looking at me, and start looking for the real perpetrator?
I could hear Eva banging her suitcase down the stairs. I needed to talk to her about this, run all of it past her again with all the detail I’d just added. And then I needed to find some sort of evidence that I could show the police. Somehow, I had to prove to them that Danny had been here, living in this house with me, until just over a week ago. I needed to find out where he’d been spending his days, work out what he’d been doing. Where he’d been hiding. And I needed to do it myself, because the police were, it seemed, on completely the wrong track and unless I could somehow prove all this, unless I could convince them … and I could do this, couldn’t I? I’d been an investigative journalist for years, and a good one. And after all, Danny was my husband. I knew him better than anyone, didn’t I? I stood up, walked slowly to the door and stepped into the hallway. Then I stopped again, gripping the doorframe for support as a fresh wave of dizziness struck. Who was I kidding? I knew my husband better than anyone? I didn’t know him at all, did I? I had absolutely no idea what had been going on with him, for months. Maybe longer. Maybe, for as long as I’d known him, Danny had been lying to me. He was getting himself in trouble, he was using a dating app so presumably seeing other women while he was married to me, he was making passes at my friends. And now he was gone, and now it was me that was in trouble. Potentially huge, life-changing trouble. As I stood there, my whole body starting to shake, Eva appeared, walking down the hall towards me, her smile fading as she got closer.
‘Bloody hell, Gem, you look terrible! Has something else happened?’
I shook my head. My lips felt dry, cracked, and I moistened them with my tongue.
‘Gemma? What is it, you’re scaring me?’
She reached towards me, her hands warm on mine.
‘I think my whole life with Danny has been a lie,’ I whispered.
Chapter 18
On Sunday, the headlines were still all about the so-called serial killer, but the press had finally made the London connection, the photos of the four lookalike men emblazoned across the front pages.
TWO MORE VICTIMS OF WEST COUNTRY KILLER?
LONDON MURDERS – WAS BRISTOL SERIAL KILLER RESPONSIBLE?
Helena pushed the Mail on Sunday and the Sunday Mirror off her desk with a groan. They landed on the worn carpet with a soft thump, and Devon, who’d been scribbling some new notes on the board, crossed the room and picked them up.
‘Shit. They’ve linked the four murders. How?’ he said.
‘Don’t ask me. There’s a leak somewhere now, presumably, because this certainly hasn’t come from anywhere official.’
Helena ran both hands through her blonde crop, her eyes narrowing.
‘And that leak had better be in London. Because if I find out that one of our team is talking to the press …’
‘It won’t be from here. No way. They wouldn’t.’
She sighed.
‘I bloody well hope so. What were you putting up just then? Anything new?’