The Perfect Couple

by Jackie Kabler

  He looked at me questioningly, then carried on talking.

  ‘That fucking app … it was too easy, finding people who fitted, who had the right look, and when the urge struck again in Bristol … well, you know. Used the fake female profile, met them early evening, when it was dark. The first one was a keen runner, so I said I was too and suggested we meet up on The Downs for a run and then go on for a drink. Told the second one I lived round the corner and suggested we meet in that side alley. Only took a few minutes each time. Made sure the weapons I used were dumped where they’d never find them. Easy, easy, easy. Somehow, I was able to come home to you and just carry on as normal. It was too easy to stop the police finding me too. I wiped the emails and texts from the guys’ phones, and I was able to crash the app site, EHU, remotely too, wipe all their search data, just in case anyone somehow linked the murders to the app. Look, I saw the news, I know that the police suspected you of those too, of all of those murders in fact, and I am sorry about that, Gem, honestly. It wasn’t fair to put you through that. I wanted them to think maybe you’d hurt me, but I didn’t think … I’m so sorry. Still, all’s well that ends well, isn’t it? You’re in the clear, and the cops want to charge me but they won’t find me. Gemma. I’m way ahead of them. I’m going to get away and start afresh, and I won’t have to hurt anyone ever again. I’m done now. You probably don’t believe that, not after what I’ve just told you, but I am. I’ve finally got my bastard of a father out of my system, and it’s all over, and …’

  He smiled, then his brow crinkled.

  ‘There’s just one little thing, which I hope won’t be a problem. Had a bit of a cock-up, last week. Was having a bad day, the day Quinn met up with you. I was nervous, wondering why you’d called him and what you and he were chatting about, wondering if the cops were getting close to finding me. I’d seen the press, I knew they were linking the London and Bristol murders, and I needed to do something, to calm the nerves and, bad idea in retrospect, I decided to have one more go on the app. Found this guy, yet another Daddy lookalike – there are so many of them, Gem, so many! – and persuaded him to meet me, or my female persona I should say, there and then. But just after I’d hit him, this bloke comes into the alleyway. My own fault, it was far too risky, meeting up at that time in a place like that … so I ran, but the hammer I’d used slipped out of my hand, and I thought they’d probably twig that was what had been used to attack him, and maybe that they’d be able to link it to me. I’d worn gloves, but I was hot, sweating, and some of it might have dripped, I don’t know, maybe not … but also, I didn’t have time to delete the app from his phone, you know, the EHU app, so maybe …’

  He was talking quickly again, a crazed look in his eyes, and I shrank back against the worktop, the wood digging into my back. He was sick, really, really sick, I realized now. Mentally ill, deranged. How could I have lived with a mentally ill man for so long and not known it? How? My head was buzzing, words rushing through it on repeat.

  My husband is a serial killer, my husband is a serial killer …

  ‘Quinn did well, when he met you. Put on a good show, by the sound of it. He’s been so good to me, Quinn. He was shocked, of course he was, when I first told him about the men I’d hurt … killed. Was still killing. I mean, who wouldn’t be shocked? He nearly lost his shit, told me he loved me and he’d always had my back but this, this was way beyond what he could help me with. But when I explained why, he got it, eventually, you know? Quinn’s a funny one, really. Got some real morals when it comes to adultery, to infidelity. He would have gone bloody mental if he knew I was shagging around. I didn’t tell anyone, none of my friends knew about that. The shame again, I suppose. And Quinn would have gone ballistic at me. But this … even though this was a million times worse, a billion times worse, he knew what had happened to me as a kid, what had happened to my ma, and he got it. It took time, but he finally agreed to help. Help me get away.’

  Quinn’s reaction when I mentioned Bridget, I thought. That makes sense now too. He knew about everything, he knew why she hated Danny so much.

  Danny was still talking.

  ‘He made me promise that when I did go, that I wouldn’t hurt anyone else, obviously. When I slipped up, when the Bristol ones happened, he went mad again, nearly pulled out. Two was bad enough, but four … but he was committed by then, and he was already helping a killer, I told him. Did it really make that much difference, whether it was two bodies or four? So he stayed with me. He was struggling with it by then, really struggling, but he stayed with me. But things had obviously got pretty serious at that point, and after the cock-up in the alley that was when Quinn started sending you messages. I didn’t want to scare you, Gemma, I didn’t. But we knew I’d screwed up, and we hoped you’d show them to the police … he just thought if the cops thought that somebody else thought you were the killer, and was threatening you, that might keep their attention on you and give me more time to get away. Except then Quinn fucked up, didn’t he? The stress got to him. Used his own phone for that last message instead of the cheap throwaway one he was meant to use. And that brought the cops round to our door, and, well, here I am. Clearly they haven’t linked me to that bloke in the alley, not yet anyway. But I might not have much time, Gemma. I need to get out of here.’

  He took another step towards me, and reached out a hand, running a finger gently down my cheek, his eyes fixed on mine. I glanced at Albert, and he growled softly, his hackles raised. He took a few steps towards us and I swallowed hard as Danny continued to stroke my cheek, trying not to flinch. I needed him to go, I needed to get to my phone, I thought frantically. I needed help, fast.

  Get him out of here, then call the police. Go, Danny. Go. Please.

  ‘So, are we OK, Gemma? I’ve told you everything now, and it’s over, OK? And I promise, I promise, that I’ll never do anything like that again, Gem. So we’re OK, aren’t we? You promised not to say anything, and you won’t, will you? You’ll keep your promise?’

  He moved even closer, his lips brushing my earlobe, his voice lowering to a whisper.

  ‘Quinn’s been driving around, waiting for me. I’ll call him in a minute, and he’ll come and get me, get us both to the airport,’ he said. ‘It’s just the two of you now, who know what really happened these past few months. And I can trust Quinn. He’s family. He’s decided to come with me for now, and I know that whatever happens in the future, he’ll never tell what he knows. He hates it, what I’ve done. But he’s part of it now. He’s always had my back and he always will. And you will too, Gem, won’t you? You’re family too, and we still love each other, don’t we? Despite everything? So promise me again. Promise me one more time that you’ll say nothing, that you’ll forget all about what I’ve just told you. Please. Promise me. And then I’ll go.’

  For a moment I stood there, frozen, horrified, incredulous. Yes, I’d promised not to tell anyone his little secret, but that was before, that was when I thought the secret was that he’d met some other woman or something … something small, something stupid, something inconsequential. Not this. Not this … this horror story. He expected me to keep quiet about this? How could anyone …?

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, a white-hot flood of rage surged through me, and in one swift moment I raised my hands and pushed him hard in the chest, so hard that, taken by surprise, he staggered backwards, almost falling over.

  ‘NO!’ I screamed.

  His eyes widened, shock registering on his face.

  ‘What?’

  ‘NO!’ I yelled again. ‘NO, I WILL NOT KEEP QUIET ABOUT THIS! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, DANNY?’

  He opened his mouth to speak, taking a step towards me, but I held up a hand.

  ‘Stay away from me, Danny.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Stay away from me.’

  My mind was racing. How to play this? He must know, he must, that I couldn’t keep this quiet. That I wouldn’t. But how far would he go to stop me? He’d killed peopl
e, he’d just told me that. Would he hurt me? He’d just told me he loved me … I took a deep breath and made a decision. He was still standing a few feet away, silent, waiting.

  ‘I want you to get out of this house, now,’ I said. I was surprised at how steady my voice sounded, how calm. ‘And then I’m calling the police. I am, Danny, I’m sorry. When I made that promise, I had no idea … but I’m going to give you a chance, Danny. For the sake of us, for everything we had, I’ll wait before I make the call, give you a head start. You can still get away, OK? What do you need, fifteen, twenty minutes, something like that? So call Quinn, now, get him to come and pick you up and go, OK? And I’ll wait for a bit, and then I’ll make the call.’

  I was lying, obviously. I’d be on that phone the second he was out of the door.

  ‘OK, Danny? That’s fair, isn’t it?’

  No reply. Danny was still motionless, staring at me, his expression unreadable. Then suddenly, Albert growled again, a low menacing sound. Danny turned and looked at him, and the growling grew louder. My husband looked back at me once more and his eyes narrowed. Then he turned, grabbed Albert by the collar and dragged him to the kitchen door, opening it and pushing the dog into the hallway. Albert’s rumbling growl became loud, angry barking as Danny slammed the door shut. He turned back to me, moving closer, closer, his expression calm as the barking became even louder, Albert repeatedly throwing his body against the other side of the door, claws scraping the wood.

  ‘That’s better. And now, to answer your question, no Gemma. That’s not OK. You made me a promise, and now you’re breaking it, just like that? That’s not OK, not fair. Not fair at all.’

  His voice was gentle, his hand caressing my cheek again.

  ‘Danny, look …’

  Had I played this wrong? I shrank away from him, and he gripped my waist with his other hand, fingers digging painfully into my flesh. I gulped in some air, trying to stay calm. I just needed to get him out, make him go …

  ‘Sssssh. I trusted you, Gemma. I wouldn’t have told you if I hadn’t. I trusted you, and you’ve let me down. So, to use a cliché …’ he said, and then paused, his grip on my waist tightening.

  I swallowed hard, and the air in the room suddenly seemed thick, heavy, my breathing laboured. SHIT. Shit, shit, shit. I had misjudged this, hadn’t I? Totally misjudged him, completely misjudged how unhinged he was. Could he … no, he couldn’t, could he? He wouldn’t. Not me … so think, Gemma, think …

  ‘Danny, please, I’m sorry, I’ll …’

  He wasn’t listening, and there was a darkness to his gaze now, a malevolence. My breath caught in my throat.

  ‘Danny … please …’

  He shook his head, eyes fixed on mine.

  ‘As I was saying, to use a cliché, I’ve told you my story, and now I’m going to have to kill you.’

  And slowly, very slowly, he moved his hand from my face, and slid it inside his jacket pocket. And he pulled out a knife.

  Chapter 44

  Helena felt sick, her stomach churning. They had buggered this up so badly, and the thought was almost unbearable. What a bloody screw-up, she thought. And yet, the discovery of Danny O’Connor’s DNA on the hammer used to half kill Declan Bailey in that London alleyway had suddenly made everything fall into place. She’d been so focused on Gemma O’Connor, so certain that the woman was lying to them, and the circumstantial evidence had all fitted so neatly too; the two murders in London, not far from where she’d lived, the two in Bristol, happening shortly after she moved in, even the Declan Bailey attack, happening as it did on the day she happened to be visiting London, and just up the road from where she’d been having her meeting in Victoria. Even the blood in the bedroom of her old apartment, convincing them that she’d attacked and probably killed her husband there too. It had all fitted. Except, of course, that it hadn’t, had it? Because Danny O’Connor had faked that bedroom attack. And if it was Danny who had carried out the Victoria attack, as they now believed he had, then it stood to reason that he’d also carried out the others. She wasn’t a hundred per cent certain of that, right now, but she was ninety per cent of the way there. Why exactly he had felt the need to murder men who looked like him she still hadn’t worked out, but there was clearly a lot the man had been hiding from everyone, his wife included, and she was sure that once they found him, they’d get the truth out of him. If they found him of course. Because they’d lost him, hadn’t they? The man was, very likely, a highly dangerous serial killer, and they’d had him, quite literally within their grasp. And now they’d bloody lost him. And that was something they needed to put right, and fast.

  ‘Five minutes, boss.’

  ‘Thanks, Devon. He won’t be there, but we have to rule it out just in case.’

  She was in the passenger seat, Devon at the wheel, as they drove through the already dark streets of Bristol, heading for the O’Connors’ Clifton house. The hunt for Danny had only been going on for a matter of hours, but already she was beginning to despair. They’d managed to keep it from the press so far, but she knew that if they didn’t find him soon, maybe by the morning, she’d have to release it, make an appeal to the public for help in finding him. It was that, as well as everything else, that was making her feel sick; the wrath of her superiors, the scathing newspaper stories that would surely appear in the next few days. She could see the headlines already.

  BUNGLING POLICE LET SERIAL KILLER GO FREE

  IS THIS THE GREATEST COP COCK-UP OF ALL TIME?

  FEAR ON THE STREETS OF BRITAIN AS SERIAL KILLER ESCAPES POLICE

  So far, the media blackout had been successful, but it had been the only thing that had. She’d done everything she could in the past few hours, but it all felt like too little, too late. In London, officers had searched Quinn O’Connor’s flat, just in case, and were visiting his known hangouts, local bars and snooker halls, trying to find someone who might know where either of the two men were. In Ireland, local gardai were checking both Danny’s and Quinn’s family homes, as well as the properties of as many friends and relatives as possible, in case the runaway O’Connor cousins had somehow managed to already cross the Irish Sea despite the all-ports alert. Elsewhere, Danny’s friends and ex work colleagues were being contacted, and photographs had been circulated to police forces across the UK. Helena herself had called Gemma’s number again in the past half an hour, to warn her that her husband was now a wanted man, suspected of multiple murders, but there had still been no reply.

  ‘Probably out, celebrating her freedom,’ Devon had remarked. ‘I know that’s what I’d be doing. Either that or she’s asleep. Can’t have got much shuteye in that cell. Beds are like wooden planks.’

  But not being able to contact the woman had worried Helena, and finally she’d decided they should call round and speak to Gemma in person. She owed her a huge apology too, she thought ruefully, remembering all the occasions when she’d treated Gemma so unkindly, convinced she was lying, convinced she was hiding something. Plus, although the chances of Danny returning to his Bristol home were minimal, it was another box that needed to be ticked in the hunt for him.

  ‘Here we are. Doesn’t look like anyone’s in though.’

  Devon turned the engine off, and for a moment they both sat there, staring at the house, its windows dark. Then Helena reached for her seat belt.

  ‘Come on.’

  She was first up the path and rang the doorbell. From inside, there was the sound of scampering feet, and a dog began to bark frantically, but the door didn’t open. Helena rang again, keeping her finger on the buzzer for a full twenty seconds, the bell sounding shrill and loud even through the sturdy front door. The barking intensified, but still nobody came. Helena felt a little ripple of unease.

  ‘As I said, out partying, or asleep. Although she’d have heard that racket even if she was dead to the world. Gone away, maybe?’ asked Devon.

  ‘Not without her dog.’

  The uneasy feeling was growing, a tight little
knot forming in Helena’s stomach. Something didn’t feel right. Gemma had never struck her as the partying kind, especially after all she’d been through recently. Maybe she’d gone away for a few days, and arranged for someone to look after her pet, but she hadn’t been answering her phone, and that was worrying. She needed to be sure.

  ‘Let’s go round the back,’ she said.

  They made the short journey around the corner, down the narrow lane that skirted the rear of the row of houses. The O’Connors’ back gate was unlocked, and they slipped quietly into the courtyard, Devon heading for the back door, rattling the handle.

  ‘Locked,’ he said.

  Helena was peering in through the kitchen window, hands cupped around her eyes. And then she gasped.

  ‘Oh my god. Oh my GOD!’

  ‘What? What is it?’

  She rushed towards him, hands outstretched, grabbing at the door handle, shaking it, thumping at the wood.

  ‘No, no, no!’ she screamed. ‘Devon, we need to get in there, quick!’

  He paused only for a second, staring at her, then put both hands on her shoulders and moved her firmly to one side.

  ‘OK. My shoulder’s still killing me from the last time I did this, but I’ll give it a go. Stand over there,’ he said, then took a few steps backwards, angled his left shoulder towards the door and ran at it, aiming for the lock. There was a sickening thud and, simultaneously, the sound of wood splintering. The door swung open, and Helena rushed past Devon, who was leaning against the doorframe, groaning softly and clutching the top of his arm. Then she stopped abruptly, staring in horror at what was lying on the tiled floor in front of her: the shape she’d seen through the window which had struck her with fear, but which she had desperately hoped would turn out to be something else – a pile of discarded laundry maybe, waiting for its turn in the washing machine; a dropped coat.

  It was neither of those things. It was Gemma O’Connor or, probably more accurately, Helena thought, as the nausea rose, the body of Gemma O’Connor. Motionless, curled in the foetal position, a dark pool around her crumpled body. And then she saw it. Saw exactly what had happened to this woman, the woman she now knew, with a sense of overwhelming grief and guilt, that she’d totally and utterly let down. She saw, very clearly even in the darkness of the unlit kitchen, that Gemma’s throat had been cut.