The tears were back, sliding down her cheeks, leaving streaks in her foundation.
‘All right, and so sorry to have to ask these questions, I know it’s very difficult for you.’
Devon pushed the tissue box towards Gemma again, and she sniffed and nodded.
‘It’s OK. I understand. I just want him to come home,’ she whispered.
‘We’ll do everything we can,’ Helena said. She turned to look at Devon for a moment, and he gave a small nod.
‘OK, let me just get those other details, addresses and date of birth and things, and then we’ll let you go.’
For a few minutes, she listened as Gemma ran through home and work addresses, Danny’s contact details and other basic background information, until she was satisfied she had everything she needed for now. She made a final note on her pad, put her pen down and leaned back in her chair.
‘Look, we’re going to start making some enquiries. The best thing you can do is go home, and let us know the second you hear anything from him, or if you hear anything about his whereabouts from a friend or relative, anything like that, OK?’
‘Thank you.’ Gemma stood up slowly and held out a hand first to Helena and then to Devon, a delicate silver bangle glinting on her wrist.
‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘I really appreciate this.’
‘You’re welcome. And I know this is an easy thing for me to say but try not to worry too much. As I said, most people who go missing do turn up, and usually pretty quickly. We’ll let you know if we find anything. Devon will see you back out to reception. Take care now, OK?’
Gemma gave her a watery smile, and Devon led her out of the room.
When he returned, Helena was still sitting at the table, staring at the wedding photograph.
‘So – what do you think?’ he said.
She turned to look at him.
‘I don’t know. Yes, he fits the pattern, if there is one. Age, appearance. And they live in Clifton, very close to The Downs in fact, so the location fits too.’
She tapped the page where she’d written Gemma and Danny’s address. Devon sat down beside her, and there was silence for a few seconds as they both gazed at the smiling man in the picture, then Helena sighed.
‘Oh shit, I just don’t know, Devon. I mean, this guy’s only just moved here from London, there’s no way he can have any connection with the other two. We haven’t even found any connection between them yet, have we, other than their physical appearance? They worked in totally different fields, didn’t know each other, no friends or associates in common, nothing. This Danny works in IT, different again, and as he’s only just moved in …’
She sighed again.
Devon nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the photograph.
‘I know, I know. It’s just so fricking weird that our murder victims look so alike, and now this guy too … but you’re right, guv. We have nothing at all to go on at the moment, do we? So, what do we do with this?’
She paused for a moment, thinking, then decided.
‘Right. Look, we don’t have a third body right now, do we, just a missing man. For now, anyway, and please God it stays that way. But at the same time, the similarity in appearance, the fact that he’s not contactable … so let’s run this as a sidebar to the main investigation. Mervin Elliott and Ryan Jones must be our priorities, OK? But can you take this on, just for twenty-four hours or so initially, until we see what’s what? And let’s keep everything crossed that he turns up, and that this is all a big coincidence.’
‘Sure. I’ll get onto it right away. Oh … and by the way, Muriel? Really?’ He grinned widely.
‘Shut up. And if that gets out, I’ll know exactly where it’s come from. Now get out of here.’
‘I’m going, I’m going. And your secret’s safe with me.’
Still grinning, he stood up and left the room. Helena’s eyes returned to the photograph on the table in front of her. Yes, it might well be just a coincidence that a man who looked like Danny O’Connor did had now gone missing. But there were suddenly too many damn coincidences floating around, and she didn’t like coincidences. Didn’t like them one little bit.
Chapter 5
I typed a full stop, then read the sentence I’d just written. Urgh, what a load of rubbish, I thought. It didn’t even make sense. I tapped the backspace key furiously, deleting the words, then pushed my wheelie chair back from my desk in frustration.
The room was stuffy, too warm, and I felt nauseous, my stomach churning, another night of little sleep leaving my head muzzy and my eyes sore. I’d dragged myself into the spacious bedroom I was using as a home office an hour earlier, really needing to get my article finished by lunchtime, but how could I concentrate on writing about the heavenly massages and delicious, fresh food I’d experienced at the spa on Friday when I was so desperately worried about my husband? I’d still heard nothing from him, my phone silent, my email inbox empty, and when I’d called the police first thing that morning, desperate to find out if they’d come up with anything, I’d been told, gently, that there was no news as yet, but that they’d be in touch as soon as they had something to report. And so I’d taken Albert out for a quick walk and then come home and tried to work, to distract myself, but it was impossible. I just couldn’t. I stood up, running my hands through my hair, thinking. Would Rebecca, the editor at Fitness & Style magazine, extend my deadline if I told her what was happening? Maybe. I walked back to the desk, grabbed my phone and, before I could change my mind, dialled her number. Two minutes later, I ended the call, relief flooding through me. She’d been lovely: shocked to hear that Danny was missing, and totally understanding my panic about my deadline.
‘Honestly, Gemma, don’t worry about it at all,’ she said. ‘I can easily move that piece to next week’s issue or even the week after that. Do it when you can. And if you need anything, anything at all, give me a buzz, OK? I’m sure he’ll come back soon though. Keep me posted, yes?’
I turned my laptop off and headed downstairs to the kitchen, thanking my lucky stars that I had such an understanding boss. Well, she wasn’t technically my boss – I was freelance, so I didn’t really have one – but for the past six months or so about fifty per cent of my work had been for Fitness & Style, which had been great. That, combined with the monthly column I wrote for Camille magazine, was more than enough to pay the bills, and I was lucky enough to pick up other commissions here and there too – the occasional travel feature for Red, or a health piece for Woman & Home. I hadn’t been sure about working for Fitness & Style at first; it was an online magazine, which made me a little nervous, having spent my career to date on ‘real world’ newspapers and magazines, publications you could hold in your hand. I’d been silly to worry though – with a rapidly growing readership, and a host of celebrity contributors, Fitness & Style was one of the biggest publishing success stories of the past few years, and I loved the variety of the work. Regular boxes of beauty samples arrived for me to test and review, and a few times a month there was a trip somewhere, maybe a new Pilates studio, the launch of a new fashion brand, or – the most coveted invitations – an overnight visit to a spa hotel or retreat, to try what they had to offer and write about my experiences. It was all a far cry from my early days as a news reporter, when I’d worked my way up through the regional press and finally landed my dream job at The Telegraph. I’d thrived for a while, adoring the buzz of chasing the big stories and landing the major interviews, but after a few years, the long hours and endless stress had begun to take their toll. Unexpectedly, I’d found myself becoming increasingly anxious, developing insomnia so crippling that I’d go days without sleep, panic gripping me as I stared at my blank screen, unable to write a single word. It all came to a head the day I was pulled into the editor’s office for a dressing-down for the second time in two weeks for failing to meet a deadline. That night, I staggered, sweating and shaking, off my tube train home two stops early, gasping for breath and convinced I was havi
ng a heart attack. When my doctor informed me the next day that it had most likely been a panic attack and told me frankly that I looked dreadful and needed to take some time off work for the sake of my mental health, I rang the paper and handed in my notice that same afternoon. It had been as if a huge, heavy weight had been lifted off my back, and I’d slept soundly that night for the first time in months. And I’d got lucky. A few high-profile stories during the previous year had boosted my profile, and when I decided to try going freelance and started looking around for work, I’d quickly been signed as a columnist for Camille, one of the UK’s biggest selling women’s monthly magazines. It paid well, very well, and the kudos the job gave me meant that other magazines were keen to commission me too. All the same, the transition hadn’t been easy, not in the early days. I missed the newsroom banter and my work friends, terribly at first, but we’d kept in touch, and very soon the freelance life began to suit me so well that I’d never regretted my decision. And OK, so writing about lipstick and wallpaper wasn’t quite the same as interviewing the Home Secretary or covering a murder trial, but I’d been there and done that, and I realized that I needed this quieter life, one where I could sleep and breathe and live instead of being chained to a news desk, on call twenty-four hours a day, always on alert for the next big story.
It had been when Albert had come into my life too. Before, my hours had been too long and unsociable to even think about dating, never mind consider having a pet. But suddenly, anything was possible, and getting a dog seemed to be the perfect way to celebrate my new lifestyle: a companion at home, lying at my feet as I wrote, and an excuse to get outside daily and walk in the fresh air. Albert had brought me so much joy, and fortunately when Danny had arrived on the scene, he’d instantly fallen in love with my gorgeous, clever puppy too.
‘Gemma, he’s feckin’ perfect,’ he’d said, crouching down to get a better look. Albert had promptly rolled over for a tummy rub, and Danny had laughed and obliged.
‘We always had dogs growing up in Ireland, but since I moved to London I haven’t been able to, you know, with work and everything. Can we take him for a walk, now? He can come to the pub with us!’
His enthusiasm had sent a ripple of happiness through me, and the attraction I was already feeling towards Danny had doubled, instantly. Eighteen months later, I’d never been happier. Well, never been happier until Friday of course. Danny’s face floated into my head again and my throat tightened. Trying to write had kept me from obsessing for an hour or so, but now the fear was returning. It was Monday morning. Day four without a word, my repeated emails unanswered, attempts to Skype him failing, his status still showing as offline.
Where are you, Danny? For God’s sake, this isn’t funny anymore!
I’d thought hard about when to tell my and Danny’s families what was going on, and had decided to leave it just a few more days, a week maybe. Surely he’d be back by then anyway, I reasoned, and I’d have freaked everyone out for no reason at all. Trying to deal with the freaking out I was doing myself was quite enough. Purely for something to do, I flicked the kettle on for what must have been my fifth cup of coffee of the morning and, realizing that, although I’d fed Albert, who was snoozing in his bed, I hadn’t eaten anything myself since the previous day, since before my visit to the police station, pushed a slice of bread into the toaster. I needed to dig out another photo of Danny, I remembered – they’d asked me for one of him on his own, a recent one if possible. They’d been nice, those two police officers, the woman – DCI Dickens, was that her name? – petite but formidable at the same time, her body lean and taut, hair tightly cropped into a blonde pixie cut and those intense, dark blue eyes. And her sidekick, her deputy, DS Clarke, a little quieter and gentler, tall and solid, good-looking with his neatly trimmed facial hair, white even teeth, smooth dark skin. A right handsome pair. Are they romantically involved? I wondered idly, then pushed the ridiculous thought aside. They were police detectives, in Bristol and not in some TV cop drama. They were probably so busy they barely had time to pee, never mind have illicit workplace affairs.
I took my coffee and toast into the sitting room and sank onto the sofa. It was a lovely room – big and bright and high-ceilinged, with a huge working fireplace, cushioned window seats and a polished, dark wood floor. We’d bought a new sofa in yellow velvet and, after checking that the owners wouldn’t mind us doing a little decorating, had found a delicate, trellis-patterned wallpaper in the softest dove grey to cover two of the walls. I’d put it up myself in an afternoon, and I loved it. The place was in immaculate condition but if we were going to live in it for a year or more, we wanted to put our own stamp on it.
‘It’s a parterre pattern,’ I’d explained to Danny, when the wallpaper sample had arrived. ‘You know, you see it in Victorian-style gardens? When they plan the flower beds so that they form a beautiful pattern. It’s in keeping with the house, but sort of a modern interpretation.’
He’d frowned at me in an exaggerated fashion, clearly bemused, and I’d laughed and given up. To say that Danny wasn’t very interested in home décor was an understatement, but the upside of that was that I could basically do what I liked. He’d help, happily, if I asked him to, but I called the shots, and that was fine by me.
I sat there for a moment, gazing around the room, then remembered what I’d gone in there to do and pulled out my phone. I clicked onto the photos file and started to scroll, looking for a decent snap of Danny. He’d never really liked having his photo taken – for such a gorgeous man he was remarkably camera shy – but we’d taken a few pictures since we’d moved and I thought one of them would be perfect for the police: a close-up shot of Danny lost in thought, standing in the middle of the lounge, staring at the wall as he tried to help me work out which of our several large pieces of art would look just right above the fireplace. I’d taken the photo before he’d even noticed I was there, and he’d growled and leapt on me, pulling me down onto the Persian silk rug, telling me I was ‘worse than a bloody paparazzo’ and then kissing me so hard I could barely breathe.
Oh Danny, I miss you so much. Please come home.
I paused, finger resting on the screen of my phone. I’d gone back through a month’s worth of pictures without finding what I was looking for, and I frowned and started scrolling forwards again. Where was it? In fact, where were lots of the photos we’d taken since we’d come to Bristol? There were a few of my work ones from recent weeks, shots of pots of moisturisers and faded jeans and a vibrant pink orchid in a glass bowl. And there were a couple of the house, pictures of some of the rooms, images I’d taken to try to visualize the walls in different colours, to plan my decorating. But where were the photos of Danny gamely attempting DIY, putting up a decidedly wonky shelf? Or the selfies we’d taken, the two of us crashed out on our bed after a full day of trying to sort the bedrooms out and lugging boxes up and down the stairs, sweaty and exhausted but grinning ear to ear? The picture of us both cuddled up in one big armchair, clinking glasses of champagne? I tapped each photo in turn, slowly now. I must have been going too fast, missed them. But no – once again, I was back onto pictures from London, shots I’d taken before we moved. Where the hell were the photos I wanted, the ones from the past few weeks? And why were only some of the recent pictures missing, and not all of them? Some sort of blip with my camera app? They’d all be backed up though, on the cloud, wouldn’t they? I tapped the cloud storage app and started scrolling again, but it was the same photos, the ones I’d just gone through several times in my photos file.
‘What? This makes no sense,’ I said aloud. I put the phone down on the cushion beside me and sat still, thinking. They must be somewhere, but where? Had they been saved into a different file or something? But didn’t photos automatically get saved into the photos file? Something had clearly gone wrong, and while I wasn’t too bad with technology, I didn’t know enough to know where to look next. And the police had asked for a new photo today, if possible. What was I going t
o do? Give them one from our London days, I supposed. I had a few of those on my phone, and they’d be recent enough. I took a deep breath, trying to quell the anxiety, then picked up the phone again, checking for emails this time. Maybe, just maybe. But just like the previous twenty or fifty or a hundred times I’d checked, there were no new messages in my inbox. Tears suddenly sprang to my eyes. I couldn’t take this much longer. Four days. FOUR. Where was he? Was he lying injured somewhere, unable to get help? Had he just left, without saying a word? Left me, for somebody else, as people kept suggesting? Or … was he … was he dead? My heart began to pound, my breath suddenly coming in ragged gasps.
Stop it. Stop it, Gemma.
Thinking like that wouldn’t help anyone. My hand shaking slightly, I scrolled down my messages, looking for the last email Danny had sent me, the one from Thursday night, feeling a sudden desperate urge to read his words again, wondering if I’d missed something, some sub-text, some clue as to where he might have gone. Shit, where was his last email? I couldn’t find that now. Surely I hadn’t deleted it by mistake? Pretty sure I hadn’t – soppily, I never deleted messages from my husband – I clicked onto my deleted messages folder, putting Danny’s name into the search box.
No messages found.
I knew I hadn’t deleted it. But where was it then? I returned to my inbox and did the same search. This time, a string of emails from Danny appeared, but the most recent was dated Wednesday, the thirtieth of January, weeks ago. What was going on? We’d exchanged dozens of emails since we’d moved to Bristol, since Danny had been phone-less. Where were they all?
The Perfect Couple Page 4
