The Perfect Couple (ARC)

by Jackie Kabler

  and ‘boys’ nights out, and Danny was the type of guy who sometimes just wanted his own

  space, but … I shook my head. If he’d been having an affair, I’d have known, wouldn’t I?

  Whatever was going on, it wasn’t that. Could he have left me for some other reason though? I

  stood up, pulling my cashmere cardigan – the baby blue one Danny had bought me for

  Christmas – more tightly around me, and walked slowly from the lounge and down the corridor

  to the kitchen to peer out into the dark, empty yard again. Albert jumped up too and followed

  closely behind me, his nose butting my shins. He was almost as anxious as I was, I could see

  that, his doggy senses always keenly attuned to mine, and I crouched down beside him, stroking

  his soft head, looking into his dark brown, intelligent eyes, muttering soothing nonsense as my

  mind continued to race.

  If Danny had left me, what possible reason could he have? And he hadn’t taken anything

  with him, had he? I realized with a shiver that I didn’t know. I hadn’t looked, hadn’t even

  thought to check. Suddenly light-headed with fear, I rushed upstairs to the bedroom, pulling

  open drawers, clawing at the clothes in his wardrobe, searching frantically through his bedside

  cabinet, not even sure what I was looking for. But everything seemed untouched, neat, there.

  His passport, still in the drawer where he always kept it. All his clothes, his underwear, his

  watch collection. No gaps, nothing missing, as far as I could tell anyway. Everything looked

  the way it always looked. So what was gone? Just his coat, his laptop, his tablet, the black

  19

  backpack he carried them in, his bike and helmet. The usual things he’d go to work with.

  Everything else was still there, waiting for him, like I was. Like Albert was.

  I slumped onto the unmade bed, breathing heavily, and Albert hesitated for a moment –

  he wasn’t usually allowed on the bed – and then clambered up to join me, seemingly correctly

  assuming that I was currently too distracted to tell him off.

  Is Danny’s stuff all still being here a good thing or a bad thing? I didn’t know, couldn’t

  think straight, panic taking hold, and suddenly I felt very alone. If we’d still been in London at

  least I’d have had old friends nearby, people who could just pop round, people who could

  support me, but here, in this new city …

  I took a few deep breaths, my heart racing again, and wondered if I should reconsider my

  decision not to burden the couple of new friends I’d made so far in Bristol with all of this. I’d

  met Clare on Clifton Down just days after we moved in. I’d actually arrived in the city a week

  before Danny, who’d had work to finish up in London before he joined me, and I’d abandoned

  the mountain of unpacked boxes for an hour to clear my head and give Albert a decent walk.

  Clare had a Standard Poodle, a white curly bundle of energy who had bounded up to Albert,

  nuzzled him enthusiastically and then run off again, looking coyly over her shoulder. Albert

  had hesitated for a moment and then raced gleefully after her, leaving me and Clare standing

  helplessly, leads dangling from our fingers, awaiting their return.

  ‘She’s called Winnie. Winnie the Poodle. Get it?’ She’d grinned, and I’d liked her

  immediately. Clare was tall, five eleven in her bare feet and slender as a hazel twig, with a

  mass of blonde curls.

  ‘And yes, I did choose a dog who looks just like me,’ she added.

  We’d sat on a bench and chatted for a full half an hour on that first day and, when I told

  her I was new to Bristol and was planning to look for a yoga class somewhere nearby, she

  insisted I come to hers the following evening.

  20

  ‘I go twice a week with my friend Tai. It’s Ashtanga and it’s quite full-on, but you feel

  great afterwards. And we sometimes go for a drink in the wine bar across the street when we’re

  done, if you fancy it?’

  I did fancy it, and I’d loved the class, although I’d only returned to it twice in the few

  weeks since, too busy with trying to get the new house sorted out in the evenings when Danny

  was back from work. I’d met up with Clare and Tai – a beautiful, petite Chinese woman with

  an infectious laugh, who’d moved to the UK to attend university and never gone home – several

  times for drinks or coffee though, and I could already sense a solid friendship beginning to

  form. They were my kind of women, feisty and strong, kind and funny, and I could tell they

  liked me too. But it was still early days, and to call them and land something like this on them,

  to tell them my husband had suddenly gone missing and ask for their support? No, I just

  couldn’t.

  I groaned. Where was he? And how soon could you officially report somebody, an adult,

  missing? Wasn’t there some rule? I dragged myself off the bed and back down to the lounge

  and grabbed my iPad, checking my email inbox again – empty – before doing a Google search.

  No, there wasn’t a rule.

  It’s a common belief that you have to wait 24 hours before reporting, but this is not

  true. You can make a report to the police as soon as you think a person is missing. Most

  people who go missing return or are found within 48 hours, with only around 1% stil

  remaining missing after a year …

  A year? Fear swirled in my stomach. But most people came back within forty-eight hours.

  I checked the time. Nine o’clock. That was forty-six hours then. Forty-six hours since I’d last

  heard from my husband.

  Come on, Danny. You’ve got two hours. Be like most people. Come home. Please, Danny.

  21

  And if he wasn’t, if he didn’t come home? What then? I’d have to do it, wouldn’t I? Yes,

  I thought. I’d do it, first thing in the morning. I’d go to the police and report him missing.

  22

  4

  ‘Boss, sorry to disturb but there’s somebody just called in downstairs you might want to have

  a quick chat with.’

  Helena dragged her eyes reluctantly from her computer screen, where she was once again

  reading through the latest on the two murder cases. The usual incident room buzz had dulled

  to a low hum on this grey Sunday morning, and she suspected that she wasn’t the only one

  feeling disheartened and exhausted. It had been a long, and largely fruitless, weekend, and

  she’d slept badly the previous night, waking every hour, her mind racing. In the end she’d

  crawled out of bed at 5 a.m. and gone for a long run on The Downs, making sure her route took

  her past the scenes of both murders, hoping for some flash of inspiration, some inkling as to

  why on earth two young men had been bludgeoned to death for no apparent reason. She rubbed

  the aching small of her back – I really need to go and see an osteopath or someone if I’m going

  to be able to keep running, she thought – and sighed. Forensics had come up with nothing on

  the latest killing, and while she still didn’t know for sure if the two deaths were linked, the

  similarities between the two men were just so damn striking …

  She knew it wouldn’t be long before the papers picked up on it too, and she was dreading

  the possible Monday morning headlines:

  TWO SLAIN – TERROR ON THE DOWNS

  DOUBLE MURDER: THE LOOKALIKE VICTIMS OF THE DOWNS KILLER

  She shuddered. She needed
sleep, and a decent cup of tea, but neither seemed to be

  forthcoming any time soon.

  ‘What is it, Devon?’

  She turned to her DS, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.

  ‘It’s a woman who wants to report her husband missing. She says—’

  23

  ‘A missing person? Shit, Devon, I’ve got a double murder on my hands here. Why the

  hell would I be interested in a missing person? Give me a break.’

  She saw him flinch, and immediately felt guilty.

  ‘Oh, mate, I’m sorry. Knackered, you know. Go on, tell me.’

  He gave her a small smile.

  ‘No worries, I had the same reaction when the front desk called me. But I’ve had a quick

  chat, and honestly, there’s something … look, can you just trust me on this, and come down

  and have a quick word? It’ll take five minutes, tops.’

  Helena stared at him for a moment and then sighed. He was a good copper, Devon – a

  good friend too – and she trusted his judgement. He’d been through a bit of a tough time in his

  personal life recently, but not once had it affected his work, and she wondered if he realized

  how much she appreciated that, and him. Probably not. She’d have to tell him, one of these

  days. For now though, if he thought she needed to see this bloody woman, then fine. It would

  do her good to get out of the overheated incident room for a few minutes, if nothing else. She

  pushed her chair back from her desk and stood up.

  ‘OK, you win. But you’re buying me a large mug of the canteen’s finest on the way back

  up.’

  He grinned, his teeth white and even.

  ‘Deal.’

  ***

  The woman, waiting in an interview room, was probably in her early thirties, slender with

  shoulder-length, wavy brown hair, her pretty face pale and drawn. She shook hands nervously,

  her palm clammy, and introduced herself as Gemma O’Connor.

  24

  Across the table, Helena smiled, trying to put the woman at ease, noticing that despite her

  obvious distress she’d made an effort with her appearance, a slick of crimson lipstick matching

  the oversized red leather bag on her knee, her smart black wool coat accessorised with a leopard

  print scarf draped around the neck.

  ‘And you want to report a missing person? Your husband?’ she said.

  Gemma nodded.

  ‘Yes. His name is Danny. Full name Daniel Ignatius O’Connor.’ She grimaced slightly.

  ‘His parents are Irish, Catholic. Ignatius is some obscure saint, apparently.’

  Helena smiled again.

  ‘I got Muriel as my middle name, after my grandmother. I feel his pain. Go on.’

  Gemma gave her a small smile back, then took a deep breath.

  ‘Right, well, I was away on a business trip on Thursday night; we had breakfast together

  that morning, and last thing that night he emailed me to say goodnight. When I got home on

  Friday evening he wasn’t there, and I thought at first he’d just had to work late, because he

  sometimes does, you know? Has to pull an all-nighter. But I couldn’t get hold of him, and when

  I woke up on Saturday morning, yesterday, and he still wasn’t home and I still couldn’t contact

  him I started to panic. I spent all day calling everyone I could think of, his work, the hospitals,

  friends … even took Albert out and we walked along his route to work, to see if I could find

  him, in case something had happened. That sounds silly, I know, but he cycles to work, and

  this is just not like him, not at all, and he hasn’t taken anything with him, just his bike and his

  laptop and the usual stuff he’d go to work with, and now it’s Sunday and I still can’t get hold

  of him and I’m just … I’m just so scared …’ Her voice cracked, and her eyes filled with tears.

  Helena, feeling for the woman but still wondering why Devon had asked her to leave her

  double murder investigation for this, looked around for tissues, saw a box on a side table and

  got up to retrieve it.

  25

  Offering it to Gemma, she said gently: ‘OK, try not to get upset. We’ll need to take some

  more details, if that’s all right, and then we can start looking into it for you. But there’s every

  chance he’ll turn up in a day or so, most missing people do, OK? So take a breath, and then

  we’ll do a bit of paperwork. Who’s Albert, by the way? Your son?’

  Gemma, who’d ignored the proffered tissues and had started fumbling in her handbag,

  looked up with a surprised expression and shook her head.

  ‘Oh, sorry, no! We don’t have kids yet, we’ve only been married less than a year. Albert’s

  our dog. He’s a black Miniature Schnauzer. Bit like a child though, I suppose. They’re super

  clever.’

  Helena smiled.

  ‘Ahh, I see. Cute dogs, yes. A friend of mine has one.’

  Gemma, who was rooting in her handbag again, didn’t seem to be listening.

  ‘Where is it, dammit! This bag … sorry. I wasn’t sure what you’d need, but I thought a

  photo …’

  She raised her eyes to Helena, finally pulling an envelope from her bag and sliding a

  picture out of it.

  ‘I showed your colleague here when he came down earlier. I don’t know why I put it away

  again, I can never find anything in this stupid bag at the best of times. This is the first one I

  could find. I’m in it too as it’s a wedding photo, obviously, but I can get you a better one, one

  of him on his own, later, I have loads on my phone, I just need to look through them and find

  a good one, but I thought you might need a hard copy one and I just wanted to get the ball

  rolling, do something …’

  Her words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other, and she stopped talking abruptly,

  eyes still glistening with tears. Devon reached out and took the photograph, placing it on the

  table between himself and Helena.

  26

  ‘Thanks, Gemma. Guv, take a look.’

  He looked meaningfully at Helena, and she glanced at the photo, then looked again,

  properly. Shit. SHIT. Now she understood. Her stomach lurched. There was Gemma, glowingly

  pretty in a simple white satin shift dress, hair piled high in an elaborate up-do, one hand

  clutching a bouquet of white lilies, the other gripping the hand of a smiling young man. Dark

  hair, curly. Thick dark eyebrows, dark brown eyes. A man who appeared, like his wife, to be

  in his early thirties. A man called Danny O’Connor. But a man who, at a quick glance, could

  quite easily have been Mervin Elliott. Or Ryan Jones. Or their brother, at least. The same build,

  the same colouring, the same look. Christ, what’s going on here? She took a deep breath, trying

  to stay calm. No point in jumping the gun, she thought. Danny O’Connor was, according to his

  wife, missing. Not dead. There was no body, no evidence he’d come to any harm. So, treat this

  as a standard missing person, then. For now, anyway. She pushed the photo aside and turned

  to Devon, nodding slowly.

  ‘Thanks for calling me down, Devon. OK, Gemma, let’s get some details. You said you

  last saw him on Thursday morning, the twenty-eighth? What time did you leave?’

  Gemma took a deep breath.

  ‘About seven. We had breakfast together at six, got up extra-early to make it a special

  one, before we both went off to work … Danny cooked a fry-up. I had to go on a press trip, to
/>
  a new spa hotel in the Cotswolds. I’m a journalist, a feature writer, freelance. I used to do hard

  news, but I prefer mostly lifestyle stuff nowadays. You know, fashion and beauty and travel,

  that sort of thing? I have a monthly column in Camille magazine but I do other bits and pieces

  too. It’s mostly from home but a few times a month I get a chance to get out for a bit, go away

  for a night, so I’d really been looking forward …’ Her voice tailed off, and the animated

  expression that had appeared briefly on her face as she talked about her work faded, the

  anguished look back in her eyes.

  27

  ‘OK, great. So you said goodbye and headed off and then what? When did you next speak

  to Danny?’

  Helena was scribbling in her notebook.

  ‘Well, I didn’t speak to him, not exactly. We only moved into our new place a few weeks

  ago, we just moved down here from London, and we haven’t got a landline phone, and there

  was a delay with Danny’s new company getting him a mobile, so he hasn’t got a phone at all

  at the moment. So we’ve been communicating by email for the past few weeks. Bit of a pain,

  but it works most of the time. He emailed me late on Thursday night, about eleven, just to say

  goodnight. Reminded me he’d be cooking dinner when I got home on Friday, that sort of thing.

  Just a normal email. I replied, told him I loved him, and that was it. I haven’t … haven’t heard

  from him since.’

  The tears were back. She reached for a tissue, her hand shaking.

  Helena nodded.

  ‘Right. So you came home on Friday night, that’s the first of March, and there was no

  sign of him? And you said as far as you know he hasn’t taken anything with him? Passport,

  clothes? Nothing he wouldn’t normally take on a work day? No note left or anything, I

  presume?’

  Gemma shook her head.

  ‘No note. And yes, everything’s still there, passport, clothes, the lot. So he probably hasn’t

  skipped the country at least.’

  She smiled weakly.

  ‘And you said you’ve called his office, his friends, family? And the hospitals too?’

  Gemma nodded.

  ‘Yes, everyone I could think of. I couldn’t get hold of anyone at his office, it’s closed,

  and I don’t have numbers for all his friends, but I called all the ones I had. Nobody’s seen or