The Perfect Couple (ARC)

by Jackie Kabler

  police can’t prove anything against you. You do realize, don’t you, that with all this

  circumstantial evidence mounting, well … it’s like building a jigsaw. And if they get enough

  pieces, and they all fit together neatly enough, well, sometimes that can be enough.’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  I pushed my plate aside, the sight of the uneaten food beginning to make me feel queasy.

  ‘Well, it’s just … look, remember Barry George? The man convicted of shooting Jill

  Dando?’

  I nodded. The BBC television presenter had been murdered on her doorstep in west

  London in 1999. Barry George, a local man, had been convicted of killing her two years later.

  It had been a huge story.

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  ‘Of course. He got out though, didn’t he? Served eight years, something like that?’

  ‘Yep. Was released on his second appeal. But my point is that he was convicted basically

  on circumstantial evidence. They said they found a tiny speck of gunpowder in his pocket, but

  everything else was circumstantial. They found witnesses who said he was obsessed with

  celebrities and with guns. They found women who said they’d had unwanted approaches from

  him. He was a loner, and he stalked and photographed women, and he had a grudge of some

  sort against the BBC. None of it proved he’d killed Jill, but the prosecution built a successful

  case on all that stuff, Gemma. No hard evidence. Yes he was cleared in the end, but he went to

  prison for years. And all this stuff that the police keep hauling you in for … it’s making me

  nervous, Gem. I’m wondering if any day now they’re going to think they’ve got enough. That

  they’ll hand it all over to the CPS and charge you with murder.’

  I stared at her, aghast.

  ‘But … but they haven’t even found a body,’ I said, desperately. ‘We don’t even know

  for sure if Danny’s dead.’

  ‘They don’t need one,’ she said. ‘There’ve been loads of convictions in cases where the

  body’s never been found.’

  ‘Oh great. Well, thanks for that, Eva. That’s made me feel loads better.’

  I slumped backwards in my chair, feeling utterly defeated.

  ‘Oh shit, sorry, darling.’

  Eva leaned across the low table, her long hair trailing in the pizza, and patted my knee.

  ‘I’m sorry, OK?? But we have to get real here, and I’m just so bloody worried about you,

  especially after today. It was like yet another nail in the coffin. I mean, look at just some of the

  stuff they have on you – or think they have on you, so far …’

  She sat back again, frowning as she peeled a stringy piece of cheese off a strand of hair,

  then wiped her fingers on her jeans.

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  ‘And I’m just talking about what they think they have on you in relation to Danny now,

  leaving the other murders aside. They’ve found a load of blood in your old apartment. Danny’s

  blood. They only have your word that he ever moved to Bristol – not a single neighbour or

  anyone else around here ever laid eyes on him. Since the end of January he hasn’t contacted

  anyone he knows, he hasn’t used his bank account, he didn’t start his new job. You have no

  emails from him or pictures of him dated beyond the end of January either. And now there’s

  photographic evidence and a witness who says you were physically violent towards him. Hell,

  Gemma, if I didn’t know you and I was faced with that little lot, I’d be pointing the finger at

  you too.’

  A hard knot had formed in my stomach as she’d been speaking, my nails digging into my

  palms.

  ‘You’re not though, are you?’ My voice was a mere squeak. ‘Pointing the finger? Please

  Eva … I hate to ask you this again, but you’re not having doubts, are you? You do believe me?

  Please, please say you do, because I honestly don’t think I could bear it …’

  She leapt from her seat then and knelt at my feet, wrapping her arms around my knees.

  ‘Of course I believe you, you numpty. Stop asking me that. But this is serious now,

  Gemma. We need to do something, to get you out of this. I just don’t know what, and it’s killing

  me.’

  We’d gone to bed shortly after that, and somehow I’d finally fallen asleep, Danny’s face

  rippling through my dreams, until the beep of my damn phone had woken me. As we sat in the

  quiet of the kitchen, sipping our hot chocolates, my mind clearing, the fight returning, a sudden

  impulse struck. I reached into my dressing gown pocket and pulled out my phone.

  ‘I’m going to call him,’ I announced.

  ‘What? Who? It’s not even 5 a.m.!” she said.

  ‘Quinn. That sneaky, possibly murdering, little bastard, Quinn.’

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  My anger was growing, and I stood up, my bare feet thudding on the tiled floor as I

  stomped around the kitchen, clicking onto my contacts file and scrolling through it.

  ‘I’m going to call him, and I’m going to ask him what the FUCK he’s playing at. That’s

  two texts he’s sent now. It is him, I know it is. Does he really think he can get away with

  threatening me like that, the evil little shit? I’m going to tell him we’re on to him, and that

  we’re going to the police first thing to tell them everything. See what he makes of that.’

  ‘Gemma, I really don’t think …’

  I ignored her, stabbing at the phone, finding his number. I hit the call button, and then

  returned to the table and put the phone on speaker.

  It began to ring, and I braced myself, waiting for him to pick up. He didn’t.

  Hi, this is Quinn. Leave a message.

  ‘Shit,’ I said, and hit the redial button. The phone rang again, and again went to voicemail.

  I tried twice more, and the same thing happened.

  ‘He’s not going to pick up, Gemma,’ said Eva, rather unnecessarily I felt.

  ‘Filthy little coward,’ I replied. I stared at my phone for another moment then cut off the

  call, the screen returning to the phone’s home page, the date and time flashing. I swallowed,

  remembering.

  ‘Eva, it’s the seventeenth of March. St Patrick’s Day. Mine and Danny’s first wedding

  anniversary.’

  She nodded and reached across the table to take my hand.

  ‘I know. I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  It was after six when we finally crawled back into bed, the soft coppery streaks of dawn

  beginning to light up the sky. I fell asleep to the sound of birds trilling, and suddenly I was

  back there, in our apartment in Chiswick, in our old bedroom. The room was dim, illuminated

  only by the orange glow of the streetlights outside, and there was a strange, metallic odour in

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  the air. I moved slowly across the small space, a sick, hollow feeling in my stomach, my palms

  damp, my legs leaden; when I reached the end of the bed I stopped, aware that I was clutching

  something hard and cold in my right hand, and stared at the motionless thing that lay there on

  the mattress, still and silent in a dark pool of something viscous and sticky.

  ‘Danny,’ I whispered. ‘Danny.’

  But he didn’t reply, didn’t move. I looked down then, down at my hands, and realized

  that it wasn’t sweat that was making my palms clammy. It was blood. My hands were covered

  in blood, and the thing I was holding was a knife.

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  30

  The
egg whistled through the air and smashed against the door, inches from Devon’s left ear.

  He ducked back inside as a roar went up from the crowd gathered on the pavement outside.

  ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘Why the hell is it taking so long to get this lot under control?’

  ‘They’re on their way. Shouldn’t be long now. And I did tell you not to go out there.’

  Helena was leaning against the counter in the reception area, the grim expression she’d

  been wearing since she’d arrived, dressed in hastily thrown on sweatpants and hoodie, replaced

  briefly with a wry smile.

  ‘Should listen to you more often. Nearly took my eye out. Do they really have nothing

  better to do on a Sunday morning?’ said Devon, running a hand down the lapels of his dark

  blue jacket, checking for splashes. No sweatpants for him, despite the unexpected call to work,

  Helena thought. Dapper as always.

  ‘And what a waste of food. The whole front of the building’s covered in flour and egg

  yolk. We could make pancakes.’

  She rolled her eyes.

  ‘Is there ever a single minute when you’re not thinking about your stomach? Anyway,

  I’m going back upstairs. You staying to watch the show?’

  ‘Yeah. For a few minutes. From the window, though. Not going out there again.’

  ‘Good. Come up when you’re done, OK? This has gone too far now. We need a plan.’

  She headed for the stairs. Reinforcements were on their way, and the fifty or so protestors

  who’d begun to gather outside the station an hour ago would soon be sent on their way. Mostly

  young men, some had been waving placards bearing slogans written in large, red capital letters,

  streaky as if daubed in blood.

  KILLER ON THE LOOSE AND THE COPS DON’T CARE

  HOW MANY MORE OF US HAVE TO DIE?

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  They’d brought the press with them too, several photographers and three TV satellite

  trucks – those from Sky, ITV and BBC News – all arriving minutes after the first flour bomb

  hit the front door. There’d been no real damage done – a few buckets of water and a scrubbing

  brush would soon return the façade of the building to its usual, tatty but cleanish state – and

  there were unlikely to be any arrests. But Helena was already bracing herself for the phone call

  she knew was inevitable as soon as DCS Anna Miller heard about the fracas. The city was

  getting far too restless, and there was little Miller hated more than bad publicity, and her

  beloved police force being accused of not being up to the job. She’d be demanding answers,

  and making threats, and as Helena had driven to the station earlier, leaving a resigned Charlotte

  to finish her Sunday morning avocado on toast alone, she’d already started planning her

  response.

  ‘It’s time to stop pussyfooting around,’ she said out loud, as she sat down in her chair and

  turned her computer on. Nobody responded; the incident room was empty, the team having

  been given a much-needed day off. Helena knew Devon needed time off too – hell, she was

  pretty desperate for some herself, and some quality time with her wife – but this wouldn’t take

  long. Two hours, tops. Because, she thought, enough was finally enough. As soon as Devon

  came up to join her, they’d go through everything they had on Gemma O’Connor, starting with

  the latest piece of evidence – the statement Quinn O’Connor had given about her violent

  behaviour towards Danny – and working backwards. She was pretty sure they didn’t have

  enough to persuade the CPS to even consider charging her with the four other murders, but her

  husband – they just might have enough now, she thought. OK, so there was still no body. But

  even so, it had been pretty damn clear for some time that something seriously bad had happened

  to Danny O’Connor. And now, with the public demanding action, and the pressure from her

  superiors about to increase tenfold, Helena was suddenly feeling a tiny bit reckless, and a big

  bit determined. She was as certain as she could be that Gemma O’Connor was guilty of

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  something, and it was time to put her money where her mouth was. It was time to do something

  about it.

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  31

  I slept until nearly ten, waking up feeling groggy, my eyes sore and my head aching. I found

  Eva at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading something on her iPad, the radio playing

  quietly in the background, tuned to a classical music station.

  ‘Very civilized,’ I said, as I slumped onto the chair opposite her. I felt exhausted.

  She looked up and smiled.

  ‘Hey you. Just reading about some sort of riot outside the cop shop this morning. A protest

  about police incompetence by the look of it – the locals are angry that there’s a serial killer in

  their midst and nobody seems to be able to catch him. Anyway, it was something and nothing

  I think. All over now. How are you feeling?’

  ‘A riot? Here, in Bristol? Bloody hell.’

  I leaned across the table and she turned the tablet to show me a photograph of a sea of

  angry faces, placards held aloft. Then, losing interest, I rubbed my eyes, which felt as if

  somebody had poured sand into them.

  ‘I’m knackered,’ I said. ‘Feel like an elephant sat on my head while I was asleep. And I

  had such a horrible dream.’

  An involuntary shudder ran through me, and Eva frowned.

  ‘What sort of dream? What happened?’

  I shook my head and stood up again.

  ‘It was just a dream. Doesn’t matter. I need coffee, urgently. You?’

  ‘Thanks, one more would be good. Look, I need to go soon, I’m so sorry. I hate leaving

  you, especially on your wedding anniversary and everything. But I need to be in the newsroom

  early tomorrow, and the flat’s a tip and I haven’t done any food shopping or washing in a week.

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  I’ll be going to work in my PJs if I don’t get home at a reasonable hour and sort a few things

  out.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be OK. I’m just grateful you managed to get here at all. What story are

  you on tomorrow, do you know?’

  I’d moved to the worktop as I spoke, flicking the kettle on and opening the cupboard to

  find a mug.

  ‘Eva?’

  She hadn’t replied, and I turned to see her staring at me, a wary look on her face.

  ‘What?’

  She clasped her hands in front of her, then pursed her lips and blew out some air.

  ‘OK, look … I was going to tell you this on Friday, but then with the texts and everything,

  and then all the Quinn stuff, it just didn’t seem like … well, you see …’

  I was back at the table, coffee forgotten.

  ‘ What? You’re scaring me, Eva. What is it?’

  ‘Well, it’s just … well, you know how the last time I was here I was joking about “my

  friend the serial killer”? They want me to write it.’

  ‘They want … what? ’

  I sank down onto my chair again, staring at her. She was twisting a strand of hair around

  a finger now, eyes downcast.

  ‘They want me to write a piece about you. About Danny going missing, about the

  similarities between him and the four murder victims. And about the police dragging you in

  repeatedly for questioning. They want a piece about what it’s like to be a suspect in a serial

  killer case, from the point o
f view of someone who’s got the inside track. Me.’

  My mouth had dropped open, and I was gaping at her now, speechless.

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  ‘Obviously, if anyone’s charged, it all changes and we can’t write anything, as you know,’

  she said hastily. ‘But now, well …’

  ‘But you’re not actually going to do it?’ My voice had suddenly returned, and loudly.

  ‘Eva, please! You can’t!’

  She sighed.

  ‘I’ve been trying to put it off for a week, but now they’re insisting. I don’t want to do it,

  Gemma. But you know what it’s like – if I don’t, they’ll do a piece anyway, and whoever writes

  it won’t be sympathetic like I will. I don’t think I have any choice. I’m so sorry.’

  I groaned and sank my head into my hands. She was right, I did know what it was like. I

  could imagine exactly the pressure Eva would be under to deliver the story, picture the delight

  on the face of her news editor when he realized that his top crime reporter was best friends with

  a woman the police appeared to suspect was a serial killer. She was perfectly placed to deliver

  a fascinating story, but the problem was that this wasn’t just a story, not to me. This was my

  life, my own personal hell, and the prospect of an in-depth article written by my best mate, my

  confidante … it didn’t bear thinking about.

  I looked up again, tears filling my eyes, my throat constricting.

  ‘I know. I know you wouldn’t do it if you didn’t have to,’ I whispered. ‘But please … can

  you just put it off a little bit longer? I don’t know if I can handle it. My family, everyone …’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she said, and I realized she had tears in her eyes too. ‘I promise. I’ll try.’

  ***

  After she left, I forced myself to shower and dress, strip her bed and dust the spare room,

  vacuum the house, put a load of washing in the machine, take Albert out for a quick scamper.

  By lunchtime I’d run out of things to do, so I turned the TV on, finding the comedy channel

  and watching reruns of Cheers, Seinfeld and The Office, pushing the thoughts of Danny and

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  Quinn and the police and Eva’s article and all of it, every horrible, terrifying bit of it, out of

  my head every time it tried to wriggle its way in, refusing it entry. I was just waiting now, I

  realized. Waiting for what was going to happen next. Waiting for another text, waiting for the