The Perfect Couple

by Jackie Kabler

  Chapter 45

  ‘We need to find him. We need to find that bastard, and we need to find him now.’

  Helena was pacing up and down the hospital corridor, her face contorted with anger and frustration, streaks of Gemma O’Connor’s blood on her jacket, a dark smear on her cheek. From his seat on one of the hard plastic chairs lined up along the wall, Devon watched her, his own fury growing, but a fury directed only at himself. He’d had Danny O’Connor within his grasp, had sat and drank tea with him, for Christ’s sake. And he’d let him go. He’d let him go, and so this was his fault. What had happened to Gemma O’Connor was all down to him. He sank his head into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to obliterate the memory of the slumped body on the kitchen floor, the vivid gash across her throat, the blood … so much blood …

  And yet, by some miracle, Gemma wasn’t dead. She had looked dead, so very, very dead, but when a white-faced Helena had bent to take her pulse, to check for any signs of life, she’d crouched there for several moments before suddenly whipping around and screaming at Devon.

  ‘She’s breathing! She’s still breathing! Ambulance, quick! Quick!’

  As he’d dialled the number with shaking hands, Helena had looked frantically around the room, grabbed a tea-towel from a hook on the wall and pressed it to Gemma’s throat. That had been two hours ago. The doctor who’d come out to see them as Gemma was being rushed into theatre had muttered something about her being lucky; her neck had been slashed low down, across the thyroid, but the knife had missed the main veins and arteries.

  ‘Thyroid bleeds like hell, but if you have to have your throat cut, well … he didn’t get the carotids or jugulars, or her windpipe. You must have arrived within minutes of it happening. She’d have died if she’d been left to bleed out much longer. We’re about to operate, and she’s a very ill lady, but we think she’ll get through this. Lucky, as I said.’

  Lucky? Devon shook his head. Gemma O’Connor was probably the unluckiest woman he’d ever met. She’d married a man who had used her, tried to frame her for his own murder. Married a man who might well turn out to be one of Britain’s most prolific serial killers, if the fears they now had turned out to be real. And – and they had no proof of this yet, he thought, but who else would have done it? – a man who had, for whatever reason, taken time out from being on the run to call in on his wife and slit her throat.

  Please, Gemma, please live, he urged silently. For yourself, so you can get over this and live the life you deserve. But for us too. We need you. We need you to help us catch him.

  ‘He said he had a fake passport when you interviewed him, didn’t he?’

  Devon jumped, and looked up to see that Helena had stopped pacing and was standing in front of him.

  ‘Yes … yes, he did. I don’t know what name it was in or what nationality it was though, or anything … oh shit, boss. I’m so sorry.’

  She stood there for a moment, looking down at him, her face blank. Then she shook her head and sat down on the chair next to him.

  ‘I’m sorry too, Devon. Sorry I didn’t listen to her; sorry I didn’t believe her. We’ve all screwed up here,’ she said quietly.

  ‘And now he’s gone. With a fake passport, and a good one, he could be anywhere. I mean, we know he’s an IT wizard, he could probably get the very best, couldn’t he? Dark web, plenty of places to go there, and he’d know how. And if he wore some sort of disguise, even the all-ports alert wouldn’t help us … he probably went straight to Bristol airport after he attacked her and hopped on a plane. Or maybe a boat, from the docks? If it was a private one … we’ve lost him, Devon. His cousin too, most likely. But we’re going to find them, OK? We’re not giving up. We’ll find them, if it’s the last thing we ever do.’

  There was a sudden fiery determination in her voice, and he smiled briefly, then sighed.

  ‘If we keep our jobs,’ he said.

  She was silent for a moment.

  ‘Yes, there is that,’ she said. Another pause. ‘You know what? When all this is over, I’m going to have a baby, Devon. Well, not me. Charlotte. But, same thing really. I’m going to be a mum, a parent. I’ve been putting it off and putting it off, and … well, life’s short, isn’t it? And you never know what’s around the corner, what’s waiting to bite you on the ass. Sometimes you’ve just got to jump, haven’t you? And hope that bloody safety net appears before you land.’

  He looked sideways at her, raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Good for you, boss. OK. You do that and I’ll start dating again. See if I can do it properly this time, not mess it up. Deal?’

  He offered her a fist, and she smiled and bumped hers against it.

  ‘Deal.’

  Then she stood up abruptly, as the doctor who’d spoken to them earlier suddenly appeared in the corridor.

  ‘She’s awake,’ he said. ‘And she says she needs to talk to you, urgently.’

  Chapter 46

  It was morning. At least, the light outside the small, square window opposite my bed made me think that it was probably morning; I had long since lost all track of time, drifting in and out of sleep, men and woman in white uniforms constantly checking on me, prodding me, asking me questions in low voices. My head was muzzy from the drugs which had been dripping into me all night through a needle in my arm, but the pain which had been so agonizing and terrifying was now reduced to a dull, tight ache. I moved my right hand slowly up the smooth bedspread, cautiously touching my throat, feeling not skin but bandages, tight and soft. The knife, the blade, the pain, the awful, shocking pain … a sudden rush of fear ran through me, and I tried to breathe deeply, tried to remember. I was safe. I was in hospital, and Danny was gone, and I was safe. Danny … the fear rose again. My husband, the serial killer. My physical injuries would, I’d been told, heal – but the rest of it? How did anyone, could anyone, recover from that? I’d been married to a monster, and I’d had absolutely no idea. How stupid did you have to be, how dim, to be married to a man who spent his spare time murdering people, and not realize it, any of it? To be married to a man who was so clearly deranged, and not know? I groaned. What was wrong with me?

  But none of it was my fault, that’s what they’d told me, the two officers, and I had to believe them. The woman, DCI Dickens, had pulled her chair close to my bed, looking stricken, telling me how desperately sorry she was, had even, briefly, held my hand, her touch cool and strangely comforting against my hot, dry skin. DS Clarke had remained standing, shifting from foot to foot, making rapid notes on a pad he pulled from his pocket as I, slowly and hesitantly, through the acuteness of the pain and the haze of the medication, told them everything, everything Danny had told me. Everything he’d done, why he’d done it, and what he planned to do next.

  They had remained silent for a long time when I’d finished, staring at each other, horrified expressions on their faces. Then DCI Dickens had turned back to me, gripping my hand again.

  ‘I can’t even imagine what he went through as a child. It’s horrendous, and no kid should ever have to experience an upbringing like that. But it doesn’t change what he’s done, Gemma. He’s clearly a very sick, and very dangerous man. He’s killed four men, tried to kill a fifth, and nearly killed you too. And I promise you, we’re going to stop him hurting anyone else. This ends now.’

  And then they’d gone, telling me that everything would be OK. Would it though, really? How could it be? I’d asked them that, and they’d looked at each other, and then she’d squeezed my hand gently. One day at a time, one hour at a time, that was the only way to get through this, she said. Get well first, worry about the rest later. But it would get easier. Hour by hour, day by day. I’d find happiness again, she promised.

  ‘You’re strong, Gemma. You’re so bloody strong. Look at how much you’ve gone through already. You’ve had your throat cut, for goodness’ sake, and you’re still here, you’re still fighting. You can do this, and we’re going to make sure you get all the help you need, O
K? And we’re going to find Danny and make him pay for what he’s done to you, and to all those men. We’re going to leave here and make an urgent press appeal, and within hours his face is going to be on every TV news bulletin, in every paper, on every news website, not just here but across Europe, across the world. We’re going to find him, Gemma, OK? And his cousin too. He’s going to pay for this as well, they both are.’

  She’d told me, to my great relief, that Albert was fine, distressed but unhurt, and had been taken again to the local kennels to be cared for until I was better. She made some phone calls for me then too, breaking the news, and Eva was coming today, and my parents too, I remembered. Tears suddenly sprang to my eyes, and I moved my hand from my throat to wipe them away. My parents … how would they ever understand all of this, how could I explain …?

  And then another thought struck me, and I gasped. Danny had tried to kill me to stop me telling anyone what I now knew, what he’d done. But I wasn’t dead, and I had told. And very soon, he’d know that, because the police would make their appeal, the appeal that would see his face being beamed from TV screens and on social media sites around the world, naming him as chief suspect in the UK serial killer case. Danny would see that, there was no way he wouldn’t, and he would know. He would know I was still alive, and what I’d done. And what would he do then?

  Fear began to sweep over me, and suddenly my breaths were coming fast and shallow, black spots dancing before my eyes. When Danny had pulled out that knife, in our kitchen, it had been so quick, so unexpected, that I hadn’t had time to feel real fear before the sharp blade whipped across my throat. I’d felt the blood spurting, oozing, felt the weakness in my body as I sank to the floor, heard Danny’s footsteps crossing the room, pausing, moving on again, heard Albert howling in the hallway, heard the front door slamming, closed my eyes as the darkness descended. But fear … not fear, not really, not then. Now it was there though, in every rasping breath, in the tremor running up my spine, in the pain shooting across my throat, in the sweat running down my forehead into my eyes, blurring my vision.

  ‘Mrs O’Connor? Mrs O’Connor, are you awake? Are you OK?’

  I jumped in terror, then took a shuddering breath as I recognized the doctor who’d been treating me. He was peering down at me, a concerned expression on his kind face.

  ‘Fine. I’m fine,’ I managed.

  ‘Well, good. Because I have some news for you,’ he said.

  Chapter 47

  Seven months later

  ‘Gemma, are you coming in? We’re pouring the bubbly!’

  Clare’s voice rose above the hubbub of chat and laughter coming from the living room. They were all there today – Clare, Tai, Eva and a whole group of other women too, ones I’d met over the previous months at the classes I’d unexpectedly found myself attending, women who were now firm friends, my support group, my Bristol family. Women I could laugh with and cry with in equal measure; there’d been plenty of the latter but, thankfully, enough of the former to keep me sane, to keep me moving forwards, to stop me from looking back too much. I still did, of course, in the dark, silent hours, when the fear would grip me and I’d cling to Albert, shaking, desperate for dawn when the sunlight would drive away the shadows. But I was trying, and I was winning, most of the time.

  Out in the hallway, I bent to scoop a small pile of letters from the doormat.

  ‘Be there in a mo. Just checking the post!’

  I flicked through the envelopes, most of them clearly greetings cards. I’d had so many in the past week, from friends, former colleagues, even from strangers, all sending me love and wishing me well as I embarked upon this new, unforeseen journey.

  As I put the pile down on the hall table, there was a burst of laughter from the living room, and then the pop of a champagne cork followed by a yelp from Albert and a booming ‘well done!’ I smiled. Dad. My parents were in there too, had come to stay for a few days, instantly hitting it off with my neighbours, Jo, Jenny and Clive, who I now saw almost daily and who were currently buzzing around in the kitchen, laying out neat triangular sandwiches and dainty fairy cakes on platters, food they’d insisted on providing for the party. There were balloons too, tied to the backs of chairs and to door handles, bobbing on their long strings. Blue balloons, to greet the guest of honour.

  I turned to stare at him, and he stared back at me, wide awake, alert. I reached out and gently stroked his forehead, then moved my hand slowly to my throat, running my fingers across the livid scar that ran across it, less painful now, less raw, but still raised and ugly, a permanent reminder of the day my life changed forever.

  He was still out there somewhere. Danny, and Quinn too. The police kept me updated on a weekly basis, but each time they called, there was less and less to say, less information to give me. At first, police forces across the world had been inundated with sightings, people who believed they’d seen Danny in a restaurant in Marbella, or Quinn working in a supermarket in Manhattan, or both of them hitchhiking at the side of the road at Bondi Beach. But none of the sightings had come to anything, and slowly the reports began to dry up. Helena and Devon – that’s what I called them, these days, the formality of DCI and DS long behind us – were in the living room too, taking time out from work to attend the celebration, and I was glad, not just because I’d come to think of them as friends, but because somehow they made me feel safe. They had, after all, saved my life. Saved two lives, because if I had died, he would have too.

  I looked down at him again, his eyelids fluttering wearily now, the soft white blanket tucked under his chin, a rainbow-striped teddy bear nestling at his feet. I reached for the pram’s handle and began to rock it gently. My baby. My son. When the doctor had told me, that day in the hospital, that I was pregnant, the shock had been so immense I’d been unable to speak for a full minute. Pregnant? I’d actually lost weight in the previous few weeks. And yet it explained so many things; the tiredness I’d been feeling, the frequent waves of nausea, things I’d assumed at the time were simply reactions to the situation I was in, the stress and my grief at Danny’s disappearance. I’d conceived, it seemed, just a few weeks before the move to Bristol, back in January. Back in January, when Danny had already killed two men and was planning his escape. The thought of it chilled me. How could he have made love to me then, knowing what he’d done, what he was about to do? Knowing the hell he was about to put me through?

  As I lay in hospital, recovering after the father of my new baby had slit my throat, had tried to kill me, I’d considered, briefly, terminating the pregnancy. How could I bring a child into the world when one day I’d have to tell him that he was the offspring of a serial killer, one of the world’s most wanted men? But almost immediately, I dismissed the thought. I could already feel my child’s presence, his life force. There had been enough killing.

  And now he was here, my baby, born just a few days ago, and we were about to celebrate his arrival. The only significant person in his life who wasn’t there was Bridget, and although we were now slowly building some sort of relationship by phone, I knew we still had a very long way to go, me and this damaged woman who had suffered so much. It was as if she’d spent so many years keeping the secret about her abusive husband, shutting the world out, that it was just too hard for her to let anyone in, even now. Or maybe especially now, when the world knew she was the mother of a serial killer. She seemed to be dealing with that the same way she’d dealt with everything that had gone before – quietly, and alone. But at least she took my phone calls, asked a few questions about how I was, had even sent a ‘new baby’ card. We would never be close, I knew that, but I hoped that maybe one day I might be able to visit, let her meet her grandchild, the child I’d now be rearing alone.

  We’d manage though, the two of us, wouldn’t we? The three of us, I corrected myself, as I heard another excited bark from Albert. For a while, I’d wanted to move from the Clifton house, terrified that Danny would come back, shaking every time I walked into the
kitchen, remembering the horror of his words, the knife, the pain. And then, quite suddenly, I’d changed my mind about that too. I loved this house, loved my courtyard, loved my neighbours now too. And Danny had taken so much from me. He wasn’t taking this place as well. One day, when I could afford it, I would buy somewhere, but for now this was home, and to my surprise, I could afford to live a comfortable life in it. The money Danny had claimed he’d put away for me never materialized, not that I would have taken it if it had. But far from drying up, as I had feared, work offers had doubled, trebled, after my ordeal, and although I knew that this was due to my newfound notoriety as the wife of an on-the-run serial killer, I was grateful for it. The Lookalike Killer, that’s what they’d dubbed Danny. The murderer who’d killed men who looked like him, trying to slay the ghosts that haunted him. At first inundated by requests for interviews, for the inside story, I turned every single one down, and in the past couple of months things had returned to near normality.

  ‘And I’m lucky enough to have a job I can do at home, with you,’ I whispered. I turned away from the pram for a moment to check that the front door was double locked, that the chain was secure. I’d heard noises again last night, as I had the previous couple of nights too, scraping, tapping noises that chilled my blood, noises that made me sit bolt upright in bed, rigid, gasping for breath, shaking finger poised over the panic button the police had installed, just in case. But the noises had stopped, or maybe they’d never been there at all, and I’d fallen back into an uneasy sleep, the baby’s hungry cries waking me again what seemed like just minutes later.