The Perfect Couple (ARC)

by Jackie Kabler

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  heard from him. I didn’t call his family though. Most of them live in Ireland and his mum’s

  elderly and … well, I didn’t want to worry them, not yet.’

  ‘Yes, probably a good idea not to panic his family, for now at least.’

  Helena gave the woman a brief smile.

  ‘I’ll get a list of the hospitals you’ve tried and Danny’s work address from you in a

  moment, Gemma, and we’ll need his date of birth, what he was wearing when you last saw

  him, your current address and where you recently moved from, some specifics like that, OK?

  But first just a few more general questions, if you can bear it? Did Danny’s behaviour change

  at all recently? I mean, did he seem worried about anything, distracted, anything like that? Was

  he having any problems – medical, financial, that sort of thing? Was he misusing drugs, or

  alcohol?’

  Gemma was shaking her head and frowning.

  ‘No, nothing like that at all. We’ve been really happy – it was his idea initially to move

  here from London, and I can work from anywhere so I was fine with it too, delighted in fact,

  and he’s been really excited about his new job, and a better lifestyle. We’ve been busy non-

  stop since we moved in, of course, just getting the house sorted, but it’s really lovely. We’re

  renting for now, just until we decide exactly where we want to live, but it’s such a great place,

  big rooms and this beautiful courtyard, we both love it, and … well, no. None of those things.

  He was fit and healthy and happy, and I honestly can’t think of a single reason why … why

  …’ She stopped talking and swallowed hard.

  Helena was still making notes.

  ‘Does he use social media? Facebook, Twitter, Instagram? Any of them?’

  Gemma shook her head again.

  ‘No. Neither of us do really. He doesn’t at all, and I have an Instagram account for work

  purposes but I don’t post very often. Danny’s quite anti-social media actually. Says it’s

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  damaging, that people end up comparing themselves to all these other people who seem to have

  these perfect glamourous lives, and it’s all rubbish really. I’m not so extreme – I think it can

  be quite useful, if you follow things you’re really interested in. And it’s kind of part of the job

  when you work in the media, it’s expected. But to answer your question, no, I’ve never known

  Danny to have a social media account.’

  Devon, who’d been sitting quietly, cleared his throat.

  ‘How long have you been together, Gemma? You said you’ve only been married a year

  or so?’

  She turned to look at him.

  ‘We haven’t been together long at all really. It all happened quite quickly. I hate the term

  “whirlwind romance”, but it was, kind of.’ She gave a little laugh, her cheeks flushing. ‘We

  met online, about eighteen months ago. We’d only been dating for four months when he

  proposed, and we got married three months later, in March last year. It’ll be our first wedding

  anniversary in a couple of weeks. So, as I said, all pretty quick really. But when you know, you

  know, I guess.’

  ‘I suppose so, yes.’ Devon smiled, then his face turned serious again.

  ‘So … well, I hate to ask this, but … is there any chance that he was seeing somebody

  else, having an affair? It’s just that sometimes when people go missing …’

  Gemma was shaking her head again, vehemently this time.

  ‘Absolutely not. One of my friends asked me that too, and I’ve really thought about it,

  you know; even though it’s an awful thing to think, I’ve tried to genuinely consider it as an

  option. But no, no way. He was at work all day, sometimes until quite late, but he pretty much

  always came straight home afterwards, and we haven’t had a single night apart since we moved,

  or a single weekend – I didn’t have a press trip booked until Thursday, so that was the first

  night since we came to Bristol. And we were together most of the time in London too. I mean,

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  we’d both have the odd night out with friends, separately, do the occasional thing on our own,

  you know; he’d go off on his bike and so on, he’s a keen cyclist. But we spent the vast majority

  of our time together. I’d know, too. I just would. Nothing’s changed between us, we’re the same

  as we’ve always been, better in many ways since we moved …’

  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?’

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  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

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  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.

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  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?’

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  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 having a heart attack. When

  my doctor informed me the next day that it had most likely been a panic attack and told me

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  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.

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  ‘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