The Dangerous Kind Deborah O’ Connor

The Dangerous Kind Deborah O’ Connor

Publisher Zaffre

Published in January 2019

You know who they are.

But you don’t know what they’ve done.
We all know them. Those who exist just on the fringes of society. Who send prickles up the back of our neck. The charmers. The liars. The manipulators. Those who have the potential to go that one step too far. And then take another step.

Jessamine Gooch makes a living from these people. Each week she broadcasts a radio show looking into the past lives of convicted killers; asking if there was more that could have been done to prevent their terrible crimes.

Then one day she is approached by a woman desperate to find her missing friend, Cassie, fearing her abusive husband may have taken that final deadly step. But as Jessamine delves into the months prior to Cassie’s disappearance she fails to realise there is a dark figure closer to home, one that threatens the safety of her own family . 

A small extract 
Friday, 11th November, present day 
I follow him across the garden and out through a gate in the wall. Away from the manor houses it is dark, the night sky bloated with snow that has yet to make itself known.

We keep walking, and before long we reach the foot of a muddy hill. He tackles the incline at speed. I do the same. The hill is steep, and by the time we reach the top we’re both panting. Ahead, a perimeter of ragged orange netting, held taut by iron posts, rings of a copse. He lifts a damaged section of the netting into the air.

The broadband in this part of the country is rubbish. He nods towards the trees. They’ve been digging. New cables.

I duck underneath and he joins me on the other side. The edge of the copse is overgrown with weeds and brambles. Thorns catch on my coat as we push our way into a small clearing. 

That’s better. He breathes in the cold air. I can think out here. The moon is full but the canopied criss cross of branches means that large patches of the clearing are in shadow. I head for the Carcass of a felled tree, covered with moss the brightest available spot. I’ve been waiting thirteen years for this moment. I want to be sure to see the look on his face. 

I don’t notice the hole. 

My ankle twists on the precipice. Unable to take my weight, the cliff ledge collapses beneath me and clods of earth crash into puddles below. I scramble, trying to right myself, but the crumbling soil continues to give way. I am about to topple forwards, into the hole, when I feel his hand clamp my arm. 

Watch it. He yanks me to safety. That’ll be the digging I warned you about. 

About the author Deborah O’Connor

Deborah is a writer and a TV producer. She has completed the Faber Academy novel writing course.Debroah lives in London with her husband and daughter.