The Perfect Couple

by Jackie Kabler

  As if in a trance, I let Eva slip my robe around my shoulders and lead me to the kitchen. But as my body slowly warmed up, and I watched my friend as she bustled around, spooning chocolate into mugs and heating milk, I felt a tiny ping somewhere deep inside my brain, and one word began to run through my head over and over again. Quinn. Quinn.

  Eva and I had talked for hours when we’d got back from the police station, trying to make sense of it all, and we’d both come to the same conclusion. If it was Quinn who had given the police those photos of Danny – and it must have been, who else? – and if it was Quinn who’d told them I’d been physically abusing my husband, then he was doing it for one reason only. Quinn was trying to frame me. He wanted to make it look as if I was the one who had hurt Danny. To lay a false trail, because in reality it was he who was responsible.

  I’d batter him for that …

  The more I thought about it, the more I thought it had to have been Quinn who attacked Danny in our Chiswick bedroom. I still didn’t really understand the reason behind it – him finding out that Danny was cheating on me just didn’t seem cause enough for such extreme violence. But the fact that he didn’t react in any way when I mentioned the blood, as if that wasn’t news to him, as if he already knew all about it … could Quinn and Danny have fallen out over something else, something much bigger? Danny had, apparently, saved Quinn’s life many years ago, and maybe that explained why he had always seemed so devoted to my husband. But maybe something had happened that made even that pale into insignificance. Maybe Danny had got himself into trouble, and somehow dragged Quinn into it too, and Quinn had attacked him out of revenge. Maybe – and we thought long and hard about this, until we convinced ourselves that it was a real possibility too – maybe it was Quinn Danny was hiding from in Bristol. Maybe it was Quinn who had driven him away. Maybe he’d even caught up with Danny, and Danny was now dead at the hands of his own cousin. The dating app, the other murders, they were all a big coincidence, nothing to do with Danny’s disappearance at all. And now, after I’d gone to see Quinn, he’d suddenly decided to reinforce the police’s suspicion that I’d hurt Danny. He wanted them to think it was me.

  ‘He knew, Eva, about that bike accident. He knew all about it. I remember us meeting up with him not long afterwards, and Danny pulling up his shirt to show him the bruises. I have no idea why they took pictures, but Quinn knew what had really happened. So why tell such a different story, unless he’s trying to make the police think I killed Danny?’

  She’d nodded slowly, picking a piece of jalapeno off the slice of pizza on her plate and rolling it between her fingers. And then she’d said what I’d already started to think but hadn’t yet dared to voice.

  ‘And if he’s done that … I think it might have been him who sent that text message too, Gem. He wanted you to show it to the police. It reinforces their theory that you killed Danny. It implies that you did it, and that somebody knows you did it, and they’re trying to make you confess.’

  I swallowed hard.

  ‘I was just thinking the same thing. But it’s just … it’s just so horrible, Eva. I mean, if Quinn really has hurt – or even killed – Danny? They were like brothers … so why turn on him like that?’

  We both sat there for a moment, looking at each other, my despair reflected in her eyes. Then Eva said:

  ‘You should have told the police, you know. This theory about Quinn being the one who attacked Danny. Even if they didn’t believe you, you should have told them. Got it on record.’

  ‘I know. I know. It just suddenly seemed so pointless, all of it. They can’t prove anything, and neither can I. It’s all just theories.’

  We both sat in silence then, the pizza growing cold and greasy on our plates. Finally, Eva spoke.

  ‘Gem. Look, I don’t want you to freak out or anything, but you said just now that the police can’t prove anything against you. You do realize, don’t you, that with all this circumstantial evidence mounting, well … it’s like building a jigsaw. And if they get enough pieces, and they all fit together neatly enough, well, sometimes that can be enough.’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  I pushed my plate aside, the sight of the uneaten food beginning to make me feel queasy.

  ‘Well, it’s just … look, remember Barry George? The man convicted of shooting Jill Dando?’

  I nodded. The BBC television presenter had been murdered on her doorstep in west London in 1999. Barry George, a local man, had been convicted of killing her two years later. It had been a huge story.

  ‘Of course. He got out though, didn’t he? Served eight years, something like that?’

  ‘Yep. Was released on his second appeal. But my point is that he was convicted basically on circumstantial evidence. They said they found a tiny speck of gunpowder in his pocket, but everything else was circumstantial. They found witnesses who said he was obsessed with celebrities and with guns. They found women who said they’d had unwanted approaches from him. He was a loner, and he stalked and photographed women, and he had a grudge of some sort against the BBC. None of it proved he’d killed Jill, but the prosecution built a successful case on all that stuff, Gemma. No hard evidence. Yes he was cleared in the end, but he went to prison for years. And all this stuff that the police keep hauling you in for … it’s making me nervous, Gem. I’m wondering if any day now they’re going to think they’ve got enough. That they’ll hand it all over to the CPS and charge you with murder.’

  I stared at her, aghast.

  ‘But … but they haven’t even found a body,’ I said, desperately. ‘We don’t even know for sure if Danny’s dead.’

  ‘They don’t need one,’ she said. ‘There’ve been loads of convictions in cases where the body’s never been found.’

  ‘Oh great. Well, thanks for that, Eva. That’s made me feel loads better.’

  I slumped backwards in my chair, feeling utterly defeated.

  ‘Oh shit, sorry, darling.’

  Eva leaned across the low table, her long hair trailing in the pizza, and patted my knee.

  ‘I’m sorry, OK?? But we have to get real here, and I’m just so bloody worried about you, especially after today. It was like yet another nail in the coffin. I mean, look at just some of the stuff they have on you – or think they have on you, so far …’

  She sat back again, frowning as she peeled a stringy piece of cheese off a strand of hair, then wiped her fingers on her jeans.

  ‘And I’m just talking about what they think they have on you in relation to Danny now, leaving the other murders aside. They’ve found a load of blood in your old apartment. Danny’s blood. They only have your word that he ever moved to Bristol – not a single neighbour or anyone else around here ever laid eyes on him. Since the end of January he hasn’t contacted anyone he knows, he hasn’t used his bank account, he didn’t start his new job. You have no emails from him or pictures of him dated beyond the end of January either. And now there’s photographic evidence and a witness who says you were physically violent towards him. Hell, Gemma, if I didn’t know you and I was faced with that little lot, I’d be pointing the finger at you too.’

  A hard knot had formed in my stomach as she’d been speaking, my nails digging into my palms.

  ‘You’re not though, are you?’ My voice was a mere squeak. ‘Pointing the finger? Please Eva … I hate to ask you this again, but you’re not having doubts, are you? You do believe me? Please, please say you do, because I honestly don’t think I could bear it …’

  She leapt from her seat then and knelt at my feet, wrapping her arms around my knees.

  ‘Of course I believe you, you numpty. Stop asking me that. But this is serious now, Gemma. We need to do something, to get you out of this. I just don’t know what, and it’s killing me.’

  We’d gone to bed shortly after that, and somehow I’d finally fallen asleep, Danny’s face rippling through my dreams, until the beep of my damn phone had woken me. As we sat in the quiet of the ki
tchen, sipping our hot chocolates, my mind clearing, the fight returning, a sudden impulse struck. I reached into my dressing gown pocket and pulled out my phone.

  ‘I’m going to call him,’ I announced.

  ‘What? Who? It’s not even 5 a.m.!” she said.

  ‘Quinn. That sneaky, possibly murdering, little bastard, Quinn.’

  My anger was growing, and I stood up, my bare feet thudding on the tiled floor as I stomped around the kitchen, clicking onto my contacts file and scrolling through it.

  ‘I’m going to call him, and I’m going to ask him what the FUCK he’s playing at. That’s two texts he’s sent now. It is him, I know it is. Does he really think he can get away with threatening me like that, the evil little shit? I’m going to tell him we’re on to him, and that we’re going to the police first thing to tell them everything. See what he makes of that.’

  ‘Gemma, I really don’t think …’

  I ignored her, stabbing at the phone, finding his number. I hit the call button, and then returned to the table and put the phone on speaker.

  It began to ring, and I braced myself, waiting for him to pick up. He didn’t.

  Hi, this is Quinn. Leave a message.

  ‘Shit,’ I said, and hit the redial button. The phone rang again, and again went to voicemail. I tried twice more, and the same thing happened.

  ‘He’s not going to pick up, Gemma,’ said Eva, rather unnecessarily I felt.

  ‘Filthy little coward,’ I replied. I stared at my phone for another moment then cut off the call, the screen returning to the phone’s home page, the date and time flashing. I swallowed, remembering.

  ‘Eva, it’s the seventeenth of March. St Patrick’s Day. Mine and Danny’s first wedding anniversary.’

  She nodded and reached across the table to take my hand.

  ‘I know. I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  It was after six when we finally crawled back into bed, the soft coppery streaks of dawn beginning to light up the sky. I fell asleep to the sound of birds trilling, and suddenly I was back there, in our apartment in Chiswick, in our old bedroom. The room was dim, illuminated only by the orange glow of the streetlights outside, and there was a strange, metallic odour in the air. I moved slowly across the small space, a sick, hollow feeling in my stomach, my palms damp, my legs leaden; when I reached the end of the bed I stopped, aware that I was clutching something hard and cold in my right hand, and stared at the motionless thing that lay there on the mattress, still and silent in a dark pool of something viscous and sticky.

  ‘Danny,’ I whispered. ‘Danny.’

  But he didn’t reply, didn’t move. I looked down then, down at my hands, and realized that it wasn’t sweat that was making my palms clammy. It was blood. My hands were covered in blood, and the thing I was holding was a knife.

  Chapter 30

  The egg whistled through the air and smashed against the door, inches from Devon’s left ear. He ducked back inside as a roar went up from the crowd gathered on the pavement outside.

  ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘Why the hell is it taking so long to get this lot under control?’

  ‘They’re on their way. Shouldn’t be long now. And I did tell you not to go out there.’

  Helena was leaning against the counter in the reception area, the grim expression she’d been wearing since she’d arrived, dressed in hastily thrown on sweatpants and hoodie, replaced briefly with a wry smile.

  ‘Should listen to you more often. Nearly took my eye out. Do they really have nothing better to do on a Sunday morning?’ said Devon, running a hand down the lapels of his dark blue jacket, checking for splashes. No sweatpants for him, despite the unexpected call to work, Helena thought. Dapper as always.

  ‘And what a waste of food. The whole front of the building’s covered in flour and egg yolk. We could make pancakes.’

  She rolled her eyes.

  ‘Is there ever a single minute when you’re not thinking about your stomach? Anyway, I’m going back upstairs. You staying to watch the show?’

  ‘Yeah. For a few minutes. From the window, though. Not going out there again.’

  ‘Good. Come up when you’re done, OK? This has gone too far now. We need a plan.’

  She headed for the stairs. Reinforcements were on their way, and the fifty or so protestors who’d begun to gather outside the station an hour ago would soon be sent on their way. Mostly young men, some had been waving placards bearing slogans written in large, red capital letters, streaky as if daubed in blood.

  KILLER ON THE LOOSE AND THE COPS DON’T CARE

  HOW MANY MORE OF US HAVE TO DIE?

  They’d brought the press with them too, several photographers and three TV satellite trucks – those from Sky, ITV and BBC News – all arriving minutes after the first flour bomb hit the front door. There’d been no real damage done – a few buckets of water and a scrubbing brush would soon return the façade of the building to its usual, tatty but cleanish state – and there were unlikely to be any arrests. But Helena was already bracing herself for the phone call she knew was inevitable as soon as DCS Anna Miller heard about the fracas. The city was getting far too restless, and there was little Miller hated more than bad publicity, and her beloved police force being accused of not being up to the job. She’d be demanding answers, and making threats, and as Helena had driven to the station earlier, leaving a resigned Charlotte to finish her Sunday morning avocado on toast alone, she’d already started planning her response.

  ‘It’s time to stop pussyfooting around,’ she said out loud, as she sat down in her chair and turned her computer on. Nobody responded; the incident room was empty, the team having been given a much-needed day off. Helena knew Devon needed time off too – hell, she was pretty desperate for some herself, and some quality time with her wife – but this wouldn’t take long. Two hours, tops. Because, she thought, enough was finally enough. As soon as Devon came up to join her, they’d go through everything they had on Gemma O’Connor, starting with the latest piece of evidence – the statement Quinn O’Connor had given about her violent behaviour towards Danny – and working backwards. She was pretty sure they didn’t have enough to persuade the CPS to even consider charging her with the four other murders, but her husband – they just might have enough now, she thought. OK, so there was still no body. But even so, it had been pretty damn clear for some time that something seriously bad had happened to Danny O’Connor. And now, with the public demanding action, and the pressure from her superiors about to increase tenfold, Helena was suddenly feeling a tiny bit reckless, and a big bit determined. She was as certain as she could be that Gemma O’Connor was guilty of something, and it was time to put her money where her mouth was. It was time to do something about it.

  Chapter 31

  I slept until nearly ten, waking up feeling groggy, my eyes sore and my head aching. I found Eva at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading something on her iPad, the radio playing quietly in the background, tuned to a classical music station.

  ‘Very civilized,’ I said, as I slumped onto the chair opposite her. I felt exhausted.

  She looked up and smiled.

  ‘Hey you. Just reading about some sort of riot outside the cop shop this morning. A protest about police incompetence by the look of it – the locals are angry that there’s a serial killer in their midst and nobody seems to be able to catch him. Anyway, it was something and nothing I think. All over now. How are you feeling?’

  ‘A riot? Here, in Bristol? Bloody hell.’

  I leaned across the table and she turned the tablet to show me a photograph of a sea of angry faces, placards held aloft. Then, losing interest, I rubbed my eyes, which felt as if somebody had poured sand into them.

  ‘I’m knackered,’ I said. ‘Feel like an elephant sat on my head while I was asleep. And I had such a horrible dream.’

  An involuntary shudder ran through me, and Eva frowned.

  ‘What sort of dream? What happened?’

  I shook
my head and stood up again.

  ‘It was just a dream. Doesn’t matter. I need coffee, urgently. You?’

  ‘Thanks, one more would be good. Look, I need to go soon, I’m so sorry. I hate leaving you, especially on your wedding anniversary and everything. But I need to be in the newsroom early tomorrow, and the flat’s a tip and I haven’t done any food shopping or washing in a week. I’ll be going to work in my PJs if I don’t get home at a reasonable hour and sort a few things out.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be OK. I’m just grateful you managed to get here at all. What story are you on tomorrow, do you know?’

  I’d moved to the worktop as I spoke, flicking the kettle on and opening the cupboard to find a mug.

  ‘Eva?’

  She hadn’t replied, and I turned to see her staring at me, a wary look on her face.

  ‘What?’

  She clasped her hands in front of her, then pursed her lips and blew out some air.

  ‘OK, look … I was going to tell you this on Friday, but then with the texts and everything, and then all the Quinn stuff, it just didn’t seem like … well, you see …’

  I was back at the table, coffee forgotten.

  ‘What? You’re scaring me, Eva. What is it?’

  ‘Well, it’s just … well, you know how the last time I was here I was joking about “my friend the serial killer”? They want me to write it.’

  ‘They want … what?’

  I sank down onto my chair again, staring at her. She was twisting a strand of hair around a finger now, eyes downcast.

  ‘They want me to write a piece about you. About Danny going missing, about the similarities between him and the four murder victims. And about the police dragging you in repeatedly for questioning. They want a piece about what it’s like to be a suspect in a serial killer case, from the point of view of someone who’s got the inside track. Me.’

  My mouth had dropped open, and I was gaping at her now, speechless.

  ‘Obviously, if anyone’s charged, it all changes and we can’t write anything, as you know,’ she said hastily. ‘But now, well …’