The Perfect Couple (ARC)

by Jackie Kabler

  ‘Arse,’ he said.

  ‘Arse indeed,’ she replied. It would all be worth it though, if Dolan really was their man.

  If. A case like this, so high profile, so well documented in the press, often attracted the crazies,

  the attention seekers, the false confessors; but generally when they came in drunk, their story

  changed dramatically in the cold light of dawn without the buzz of alcohol in their system.

  Dolan’s hadn’t.

  Please, she thought. Please, be the one. Be the killer.

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  ***

  An hour later she was sitting across the table from him, Devon to her right, two other officers

  guarding the door, one inside, one out in the corridor. The duty solicitor, a young woman in a

  bright red jacket which looked two sizes too big for her, sat next to the suspect, back rigid, her

  pen tap-tapping on the pad in front of her. George Dolan was fifty-three, a short, shaven-headed

  brute of a man in a stained blue shirt who lumbered into the room bringing with him the smell

  of stale sweat and bacon. He looked as though he may once have been a bodybuilder or a boxer,

  a ripple of muscle still visible under a layer of blubber, the knuckles of his meaty fists scarred.

  When the formalities had been completed, Helena cleared her throat, and then for a

  moment there was silence. George Dolan looked calm, his small eyes, so dark they were almost

  black, giving nothing away.

  ‘So, Mr Dolan. Last night you walked into this police station and made a confession.

  Because it was clear that you were in an inebriated state, we allowed you to sleep it off and

  then spoke to you again this morning, when you made the same confession. For the benefit of

  the recording, can you repeat that again now?’

  Dolan shuffled in his seat, then leaned forwards, both hands flat on the table in front of

  him.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, and his voice was guttural, roughened by cigarettes, the accent strong

  West Country. ‘What I said was, I killed ’em.’

  He paused, looking from Helena to Devon, then sideways at his solicitor. All of them

  stared back at him, and his lips twitched.

  A smile? thought Helena. Christ, he’s enjoying this.

  ‘I killed all of ’em.’ Dolan was speaking again.

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  ‘The two lads in London, and the two ’ere on The Downs. And the other one too. The

  most recent one, O’Connor, the one you lot ’aven’t even found yet. I did it. I did ’em all. I’m

  the one you’ve been looking for. I’m the serial killer.’

  For a moment nobody spoke, moved, breathed. Then Dolan leaned slowly back in his

  chair, and the smile that had been threatening to appear finally crept over his face.

  ‘So go on, you’ve got your confession. Arrest me. Bang me up. I’ll keep on doing ’em if

  you don’t,’ he said.

  Helena swallowed, and glanced at Devon, who raised an eyebrow. She turned back to

  Dolan, who was gazing at her, a quizzical expression on his bloated face.

  ‘OK, Mr Dolan. Thank you for that. However, now we need to ask you some questions.

  The first of which is … why? Why did you kill five men? And why those five men, in

  particular? What was your motive … your reason?’

  ‘My motive?’ George Dolan laughed, a short, hoarse sound that reminded Helena of a

  barking dog.

  ‘You want to know what my motive was?’ He leaned forwards again, his head jutting out

  across the table, and she could smell his breath, acrid and sour.

  ‘I’ll tell you what my motive was.’

  His voice was low, and full of menace. Then, suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, he

  grinned widely, showing a mouthful of yellow, rotting teeth.

  ‘I just didn’t like the look of ’em,’ he said.

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  23

  On Wednesday morning, sitting at the kitchen table with a half-drunk coffee and untouched

  bowl of porridge, I listened to the latest batch of voice messages I’d been ignoring. The police,

  it seemed, had held a televised press conference on Monday, and my name had come up

  numerous times, the assembled journalists grilling the panel of officers about whether I had

  been questioned about the London murders as well as the Bristol ones and Danny’s

  disappearance. I’d missed that completely; I hadn’t been online or watched or listened to any

  news bulletins for days. Eva hadn’t mentioned it when I’d spoken to her either – obviously

  trying to spare me the grief, bless her, I thought, as I played voicemail after voicemail. Some

  of the messages were kind, as usual; this time even a couple from friends of Danny’s, hoping

  that I was OK, telling me that it would all sort itself out, and not to worry because nobody who

  knew me could possibly think I was guilty of anything like the press were suggesting. Tears

  sprang to my eyes as I listened – I seemed to be making a habit of bursting into tears pretty

  much on an hourly basis in recent days – but this time they were tears of gratitude. Not

  everybody was against me then. The messages from family were different though; my father

  again, still distraught, but with more than a hint of anger in his voice this time.

  ‘You have no idea what this is doing to me and your mother, Gemma. It’s a disgrace,

  what’s going on there. We know you haven’t done anything wrong, but there must be

  something you can do to stop your name … our name … being dragged through the mud like

  this. I mean, to be linked with murder … multiple murder … have you got a solicitor yet? Get

  one, please. Get him to sort this out. We can’t take it much longer, your mother doesn’t even

  want to go out now, she even missed bridge last night, everyone’s staring … look, I’ve got to

  go. Bye.’

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  He’s embarrassed, I thought. Embarrassed. My life’s falling apart and my parents are

  worried about what their friends at the bridge club think. Thanks, Dad. Thanks so bloody much.

  The next and final message was from Bridget. She sounded bored, as if she was just

  calling me for something to do.

  ‘Don’t suppose there’s any update on the police investigation,’ she said. ‘I assume you’ll

  let me know if there is.’

  Her tone was calm, disinterested, and it struck me again how strange her reaction to all

  this had been. She didn’t seem concerned about Danny at all, no hint of emotion in her voice.

  Fleetingly, I resurrected the possibility I’d briefly considered that Bridget knew where Danny

  was, that somehow he’d made his way to Ireland and that she was helping him to stay hidden,

  calling me to see if the police might somehow be on his tail. Then I put the theory out of my

  mind again. I couldn’t for a second imagine Danny turning to Bridget, or indeed her agreeing

  to help him if he did. Still, her reaction to his disappearance was weird. Weird, weird, weird. I

  put the phone down, picked up my cold coffee mug and slowly made myself a fresh drink. I

  felt lethargic, unmotivated, exhausted, but I knew I had to somehow snap myself out of this,

  keep going, find some other way of proving that I had nothing to do with whatever the hell had

  happened to my husband. The street outside had again been empty of press when I’d looked

  earlier, a fact which, combined with the apparent complete lack of interest from the police in

  the footage from the gym, was starting to concern me a lit
tle. Had something else happened,

  something I didn’t know about? Was their attention – press and police – currently being

  directed elsewhere, I wondered? I was pretty sure that if it was to do with my case, with Danny,

  that somebody would have told me, but I’d have a quick look at the news websites later, I

  thought, as I poured boiling water into my mug and stirred. But first, there was something I

  needed to do.

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  I sat down again, picked up my phone and started scrolling through the address book. I’d

  had a sudden thought earlier – Quinn, Danny’s cousin. Having now accepted that I hadn’t really

  known my husband at all, I’d lain in bed that morning wondering if there was anyone out there

  who really did, someone who might be able to shed some light on his recent behaviour,

  someone who might even know the truth behind some of the secrets he had clearly been

  keeping. His mother? No, definitely not. His brother Liam? Danny was probably far closer to

  him than he was to his mother, but Liam would clearly not be capable of being a reliable source

  of information. And then it had come to me – Quinn. As his first cousin, son of his late dad’s

  brother Michael, and of a similar age to Danny, they’d known each other all their lives. Quinn

  had moved to London from Ireland around the same time as Danny had, and although their

  careers and lifestyles had been very different – Quinn worked on building sites and spent most

  of his spare time drinking in west London pubs – the two had remained close. Quinn had been

  on Danny’s stag night and had been the only one of his family to attend our small register office

  wedding. If anyone knew Danny, he did.

  It had struck me, once or twice, especially after Danny’s family had finally heard about

  his disappearance, that it was slightly odd that Quinn hadn’t been in touch with me. Living in

  London, surely he would have seen the newspaper headlines? Then I’d realized that although

  he obviously had Danny’s old mobile number, and our old apartment landline, he wouldn’t

  have had a number for me. He could have got hold of it if he’d tried, through Danny’s mother,

  but maybe the family were keeping him up to date with developments, I’d thought, and let him

  slip from my mind. I probably should have called him myself, really, but I’d never been a

  hundred per cent sure what to make of Quinn. I knew, from Danny, that he’d regularly got

  himself into trouble with the police growing up, minor stuff like vandalism and pilfering from

  shops, although he’d apparently grown out of that in his late teens, training as a bricklayer,

  moving to the UK when work in Ireland proved hard to come by. He was currently single, as

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  far as I knew, having split with a girl he’d been seeing for a while the previous summer, and

  although Danny had always described him as ‘great craic’ and ‘a real decent fella, deep down’,

  on the few occasions we’d met he’d seemed pleasant enough but always a little reserved,

  chatting mainly to Danny and seemingly reluctant to engage in any form of lengthy

  conversation with me.

  ‘He’s a bit intimidated, I think,’ Danny had said, as we’d walked to the tube hand in hand

  after an evening spent with Quinn at a pub near Victoria station a few months before we’d

  decided to leave London. ‘He left school with no qualifications, failed all his Leaving Cert

  exams. He doesn’t really hang out with brain boxes like you. He doesn’t know what to say.’

  I’d squeezed his hand, laughing.

  ‘But you’re even more of a brain box than I am, and he chats away to you! How does that

  work then?’

  ‘Ahh, sure we’ve known each other since we were kids, it’s different. We’re family. He’s

  like a second brother to me. He likes you fine though, don’t be worrying about that.’

  I hadn’t been worried, not really. You can’t get on brilliantly with everyone in life, I

  reasoned, and Quinn was just a very different sort of guy to the ones I was friendly with – a

  gruff, macho in an old-fashioned-sort-of-way bloke, who had four sugars in his tea and had

  looked slightly horrified at the sight of the pink rose buttonholes I’d organized for the male

  guests at our wedding. But he’d always been there for Danny, a link to his past, a solid,

  hardworking, loyal presence, and that was fine by me.

  I had his number in my phone – I’d asked Danny for it before the wedding, wanting to

  make sure I had contact details for all of the guests, just in case of any last-minute changes –

  and, after a moment’s hesitation ( What if he has seen all the press coverage, and thinks I’m

  responsible for Danny’s disappearance? What if he just puts the phone down on me? ) I hit the

  call button.

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  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi – Quinn? It’s Gemma. Danny’s Gemma.’

  For a few seconds … three, four … there was silence on the line. But just as I’d opened

  my mouth to speak again, he said:

  ‘Gemma. Howah ya?’

  ‘I’m … well, I’m not sure how I am, really, to be honest. I presume you’ve heard, about

  Danny?’

  Another couple of seconds’ silence.

  ‘I have, yeah. I was sorry to hear … Bridget told me da, he’s been keepin’ me up to date.

  I was going to call, but I didn’t know what … well, you know, it’s hard, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is, yes.’ I paused for a moment. ‘Although Bridget didn’t seem too bothered when I

  spoke to her. She was acting a bit weird, like she just wasn’t very interested.’

  There was another silence, a longer one this time.

  ‘Quinn? Quinn, are you there?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. Look, you know what Bridget’s like. I wouldn’t worry about her.’

  He sounded gruff, an edge to his voice suddenly.

  ‘I’m not, really. Just thought it was strange,’ I said. Was he being short with me because

  he thought I had something to do with Danny’s disappearance, as I’d feared he might, I

  wondered?

  ‘Look, Quinn, whatever the papers have been saying, you know I have nothing to do with

  this, right? I’m heartbroken, I miss him so much, and I have no idea what’s happened to him.’

  ‘Yeah. No, I’m sure it must be shite. Listen, I need to go in a minute, I’m at work.’

  ‘Sure, of course, sorry,’ I said quickly. ‘Look, Quinn, I need to see you. Can we meet?

  I’m happy to hop on a train and come to you. It’s just that since Danny’s been gone I’ve found

  out a load of weird stuff that I didn’t know about him, and he was doing some kind of odd

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  things in the weeks before he vanished. I need to speak to someone who’s known him for a

  long time, and you’re the only one I could really think of. Please, it won’t take much time. I

  could meet you for lunch maybe, or after work? Tomorrow?’

  The silence again, and then the sound of muffled muttering. Is he talking to someone else?

  Then he said:

  ‘OK, well, I don’t know what I can tell you, but if you can come here … I’m busy in the

  evening but if you meet me at one, I get an hour for lunch. There’s a pub just down the road

  from the site, we can go there.’

  He gave me the address and we ended the call. Good, I thought. Suddenly, and quite

  unexpectedly, I felt a pang of hunger. Had I eaten yet th
at day? Or even the previous night? I

  couldn’t remember. I’d even gone off wine in the past week or so, coffee about the only drink

  I’d been able to stomach, and I knew I’d lost weight; I’d had to look for a belt that morning,

  my jeans loose around my waist. Food, then. I needed to start looking after myself. The police

  were clearly still completely on the wrong track about Danny, and so it was down to me to get

  to the bottom of it, and quickly. I’d eat, and then I’d make a list of everything I wanted to ask

  Quinn. And maybe, just maybe, I thought, I’d be coming back from London with some

  answers.

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  24

  ‘How much longer are we going to keep him?’

  Devon’s question made Helena jump, even though she’d been quite aware he’d been

  standing next to her for a full minute.

  ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. I think we’re right … but what if we’re wrong, Devon?

  Can you even imagine …?’

  He grimaced and shook his head.

  ‘Don’t even want to think about it,’ he said.

  They were both leaning on the sill of the window that ran the full length of the incident

  room. Outside the sky was grey, a light rain spattering the pavement three storeys below. It

  was rush hour, the traffic crawling past, pedestrians scurrying, umbrellas bobbing, the

  occasional irate blast of a horn penetrating the Victorian building’s ancient single glazing with

  its peeling wooden frames. For a moment, Helena wished she was out there, hurrying to work

  in a shop or an office, somewhere safe and easy, somewhere where her toughest decision of

  the day would be whether to have a cheese or a tuna sandwich for lunch, or whether to put the

  black dress or the red one in the window display. Or maybe that she’d chosen a career like

  Charlotte’s. Being a teacher wasn’t easy, she knew that. But at least Charlotte didn’t generally

  have to make life or death decisions during the working day. The decision she’d have to make

  today could, if she got it wrong, mean even more men could die.

  She turned away from the window, arched her aching back and walked slowly back to her

  desk, leaving Devon still staring down at the street. They had questioned George Dolan for

  hours the previous day and, technically, having applied for the full ninety-six hours permitted