The Perfect Couple (ARC)

by Jackie Kabler

  police to come and arrest me, waiting to see if I could summon up enough energy to go back

  to the station, to tell someone my theory about Quinn attacking or maybe even killing Danny,

  although what was the point? They wouldn’t believe me anyway. And so I carried on, waiting,

  waiting, waiting.

  By four, to my surprise I suddenly realized I was starving, and I boiled some pasta and

  threw in a jar of readymade arrabbiata sauce I found in the cupboard. I’d just settled down on

  the sofa to eat it when my mobile beeped. My stomach lurched. Another text. I put my fork

  down slowly and reached for the phone.

  Have you confessed yet? This is your last warning. I’m coming for you.

  I read the words, and then looked to see who’d sent them, expecting as usual to see

  ‘number withheld’. And then I smiled.

  ‘YES! Got ya!’ I yelled triumphantly, thumping the cushion next to me. Albert, who’d

  been lying across my feet, jumped violently and gave a short, accusatory bark.

  ‘Sorry, Albert. But I was right. I was right!’

  I was right. And this time, he’d made a mistake. This time, the text hadn’t come from an

  anonymous number. He’d used his own phone. The text was from Quinn O’Connor.

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  ‘Don’t you see? He’s trying to FRAME me! He sent me those other texts, as well as this one,

  from some sort of throwaway phone, burner phone, whatever you call it. Not his phone anyway.

  But then he sent another one, this one, and he screwed up. He used his own phone, look! You

  can tell the texts are from the same person just by looking at them. I think he hurt Danny,

  maybe even killed him, and don’t ask me why, because I haven’t figured that bit out yet, and

  anyway that’s your job, not mine. But he did it, and he’s trying to get me locked up for it! And

  threatening me too. You must see that surely, you …’

  Devon held up a hand.

  ‘OK, OK. Slow down.’

  Gemma O’Connor was standing in front of him, pink-cheeked and wild-eyed, practically

  jumping up and down on the spot in her efforts to persuade him that her missing husband’s

  cousin, Quinn O’Connor, was trying to frame her for murder. He’d been shocked when the call

  had come from downstairs to tell him she had come in yet again and was demanding to talk to

  him; after long discussions with Helena in the empty incident room the previous day, he knew

  she was almost ready to take a chance and charge Gemma O’Connor, and would be just as

  surprised as he was to see the woman already in the station when she got in, which should be

  very shortly. He decided to humour Gemma.

  ‘Look, let me take the phone and check the number of the sender of the message against

  the number we have for Quinn, OK? Take a seat for a moment. I’ll send someone in with a

  coffee, and I’ll be back down in a few minutes.’

  She glanced at the chair he was gesturing at, looking uncertain, then nodded.

  ‘All right. Thank you,’ she said.

  ***

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  He left her and headed back up to the incident room, where he found Helena slipping her coat

  off and hanging it on the overloaded rack on the back wall.

  ‘Morning. Little lie-in today, boss?’

  She turned and scowled at him.

  ‘Oh, shut up. It’s only eight thirty and I have a feeling this might be a long day. Any

  news?’

  ‘A bit, yes.’

  He updated her on the latest visit by Gemma O’Connor, and her eyes widened.

  ‘And she’s still here?’

  ‘Yep. Drinking coffee in interview room number three. How do you want to play this?’

  She rubbed her eyes. She looked tired, Devon thought.

  ‘Well, what do you make of these messages? If they are from Quinn O’Connor, does that

  change anything? I’m almost too tired to think straight.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Well, if they are from him, he clearly shouldn’t be sending threatening messages like

  that whatever the circumstances, and we’ll have to have a word with him. I’ve checked his

  record, by the way. A handful of minor misdemeanours in his youth in Ireland, nothing for

  years though and nothing in this country. But the content of those messages is interesting, isn’t

  it? It sounds like he’s backing up what he told us when he came in – that he believes she’s

  responsible for Danny’s disappearance, death, whatever, and wants her to confess to it. In the

  meantime, she’s now trying to claim he might have done something to Danny and is trying to

  frame her. But that doesn’t ring true to me; would he really have come here of his own accord

  to speak to us if he was the killer?’

  Helena shook her head.

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  ‘Unlikely. If I’d killed someone, the last thing I’d do is go to the police and put myself on

  their radar. So what do we think? That she’s running scared now and is trying to shift the blame

  onto him to save her own skin?’

  He thought for a moment, then sighed.

  ‘Maybe. I just don’t know. As I keep saying, boss, I just can’t call this one. But even I

  can’t deny there’s a ton of evidence pointing squarely in her direction.’

  ‘SHIT! Boss, Devon, come here, quick! You need to see this!’

  They both jumped. Across the room, DC Frankie Stevens was waving frantically at them,

  and pointing at his computer screen. They exchanged puzzled glances and went over to see

  what he wanted.

  ‘What’s up, Frankie?’ asked Helena, and he gestured wildly at the screen with one hand,

  pushing his little glasses further up his nose with the other.

  ‘This,’ he said, his voice high with excitement. ‘It’s just come in from our contact at the

  Met. It’s a serious assault – an attempted murder, they believe, in London early last Thursday

  evening. A man called Declan Bailey was attacked in a side street off Vauxhall Bridge Road,

  but somebody came along and interrupted the attacker, who fled. It all happened too fast for

  the witness to get a look at the attacker – he says he was too concerned about the man bleeding

  on the ground in front of him, but wait for it … two things. First, the EHU app was found on

  his phone, which may or may not be important, but worth noting. And … and this is the most

  exciting bit … the assailant dropped the weapon he or she was using. It was a small, heavy

  hammer apparently. So …’

  ‘Hang on, hang on. OK, last Thursday. Isn’t that when …?’

  The dozen or so people in the room were all moving closer now, listening to the excited

  conversation. Frankie nodded, his eyes bright.

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  ‘It’s the day Gemma O’Connor went to London, to visit Quinn O’Connor in a pub in

  Victoria.’

  ‘And you said a side street off Vauxhall Bridge Road?’ Helena was leaning closer, peering

  at the screen.

  ‘I know that area. That’s literally yards from Victoria station,’ said Devon. His heart rate

  had suddenly increased. ‘Bloody hell, boss. She was there.’

  There was a mass intake of breath from the assembled detectives.

  ‘Wow!’ somebody said.

  Helena straightened up again slowly, eyes still fixed on the message on the screen.

  ‘Why are they only telling us about this now? It’s Monday, for shit’s sake.’

  ‘A couple of the key people who k
new about our cases here and the possible links to the

  London murders were away at a conference at the end of last week,’ Frankie said. He sounded

  a little breathless. ‘So nobody made the connection, until this morning, when our contacts came

  back and saw the crime report. Oh, and looked at his picture. They haven’t sent that over yet,

  but apparently he’s another lookalike … it all fits, boss. It all bloody fits.’

  ‘SHIT.’ Helena spun round and grinned at Devon, then turned back to Frankie.

  ‘So – he’s alive? This Declan guy? And the attacker dropped the weapon? Holy cow.’

  Frankie nodded vigorously, his glasses bobbing on his nose.

  ‘He’s got a bad head injury, but he’s alive, although he doesn’t remember much. But the

  weapon’s being rushed through forensics. I’ll stay across it and get the results to you as soon

  as they come in, boss.’

  ‘Shit, guys. I think we’ve got her,’ said Helena slowly.

  There was a moment of silence, then somebody started to clap, followed by another and

  another. Helena and Devon grinned at each other, then she held up her hand.

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  ‘OK, so yes, it’s looking good. But we still have a long way to go on this. If we can get

  DNA from that hammer though …’

  ‘And Gemma O’Connor? She’s downstairs right now, remember?’ said Devon.

  She smiled again.

  ‘Well, let’s go and see her, shall we? And then let’s arrest her. On suspicion of murder

  and attempted murder.’

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  ‘Think this is it. Yep, number sixteen. Address is Flat 16B.’

  DC Mike Slater, who’d just manoeuvred the car neatly into a space directly opposite

  number 16 Elmwood Road, pointed at the house. It was a shabby semi, the small front garden

  overgrown, a bicycle missing its front tyre leaning against the ramshackle wooden fence that

  separated the house from its neighbour.

  ‘Right. Let me just finish these last few mouthfuls and we’ll see if he’s in.’

  Devon raised his takeaway cup and Mike gave him the thumbs up sign. They were in

  Feltham in west London, after a day spent with their contacts at the Metropolitan Police,

  visiting the scene of the latest – thankfully, foiled – attack and then heading to St Thomas’

  Hospital to see and attempt to interview the victim, Declan Bailey. Unfortunately, the man had

  been asleep, still under mild sedation, and his doctor had been insistent that he not be disturbed.

  ‘We’re confident he’ll recover, but he’s still very ill, and as far as I know remembers

  nothing whatsoever about the attack,’ Dr Mulligan had said. She was a tall, formidable-looking

  woman with a shock of bleached blonde hair piled on top of her head.

  ‘You can interview him when he’s better. You are not waking him up now.’

  Suitably intimidated, Devon and Mike had obeyed doctor’s orders, but they’d managed

  to get a look at the sleeping patient and, even though his face had been bruised and swollen and

  most of his hair covered by the bandages protecting his head wounds, the similarities between

  him and the other four victims – five if you counted Danny O’Connor – were obvious.

  ‘He’s got the same sort of hair, dark eyebrows, same general look,’ Mike had whispered,

  before they’d been briskly ushered out of the room by Dr Mulligan. ‘What the hell is it, Devon?

  I mean, if it is Gemma O’Connor behind all this, why is she attacking men who look like her

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  husband? Does she hate him that much? What on earth can he have done to her to drive her to

  this?’

  They were still waiting, though, for the forensics report on the weapon Declan had been

  attacked with; with profuse apologies, and mutterings about budget cuts and staff shortages,

  they’d been told that there was some sort of backlog and that it might be another twenty-four

  or even forty-eight hours before they might have a result. In the meantime, and with Gemma

  O’Connor in custody since the previous morning, and still denying everything when

  questioned, Devon and Mike had been dispatched to try to carry on gathering as much evidence

  as they could. They’d stopped off in Feltham on their way back to Bristol in an effort to find

  Quinn O’Connor, who hadn’t been answering his phone.

  ‘Give him a warning about sending threatening text messages,’ Helena had said, while

  simultaneously scanning the front pages of Tuesday’s papers, all with excited headlines about

  Gemma’s arrest.

  IS THIS THE FACE OF A FEMALE SERIAL KILLER?

  WIFE ARRESTED – IS SHE THE BRISTOL MURDERER?

  ‘But also get a statement about last Thursday when he met up with Gemma,’ she said, and

  pushed the pile of papers aside.

  ‘We need details – exact timings, precise locations. We didn’t get those when he came in

  to talk to us because it wasn’t relevant then. It is now. There were no cameras in the side street

  Declan Bailey was attacked in but lots in the general area. Someone at the Met’s looking at

  CCTV footage from that afternoon to see if he can spot her, but it’s a massive job. We can help

  him a lot if we can give him more details about time and place.’

  When numerous attempts to call Quinn to arrange another interview had failed, Devon

  and Mike decided to try his home address in Feltham, just west of Twickenham.

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  ‘Pretty much on our way home, anyway,’ Mike had commented, as they’d battled through

  the evening traffic, heading west.

  Finally parked outside the house, Devon swallowed the last of his tea.

  ‘Lights are on. Might be in luck,’ he said, as they got out of the car. They crossed the road

  and opened the rusty metal gate, which creaked loudly. At the front door, Devon studied the

  two unnamed bell pushes for a moment, then randomly pressed the top one. Silence. They

  waited a full minute. This close to the house they could smell a faint odour of greasy food and

  stale cigarette smoke. Devon pressed the bell again. This time there was a bang from

  somewhere inside the building and then the thud of feet on the stairs.

  ‘Jesus, Quinn. Did you forget your keys again?’ said a male voice. The accent was Irish,

  and the speaker sounded irate.

  Seconds later the door was wrenched open.

  ‘Hello, we’re looking for—’

  Then Devon looked properly at the man who was standing in the doorway, and his mouth

  dropped open.

  ‘What the …?’

  Beside him, he heard Mike gasp.

  ‘Ahh, SHIT,’ said the man.

  Devon stared at him, looked at Mike, who had suddenly turned pale, and then returned

  his gaze to the man. The man he had instantly recognized. The man who everyone thought was

  highly likely to be dead, but who was actually clearly very much alive. The man who’d opened

  the door was, without any shadow of doubt, Danny O’Connor.

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  I sat on the edge of the thin, plastic mattress, shivering. I’d spent the past hour pacing up and

  down the tiny space trying to keep warm, but now I felt sick, exhausted, my heartbeat pounding

  in my ears. I was terrified, I realized, as I pulled the tatty blanket the custody sergeant had given

  me tighter around my shoulders. I was terrified because it had finally happened, and I could

  see no way out of it. I’d been arrested
and was sitting in a police cell. Me, Gemma O’Connor,

  journalist, magazine columnist, of previous excellent character – not even a parking ticket, for

  God’s sake – had been arrested, on suspicion of murder and attempted murder. It would have

  been absolutely hilarious if it hadn’t been so utterly horrifying. I’d lost track of how many

  questions I’d been asked, how many times I’d been walked to and from the small, overheated

  interview room, since that surreal moment when they’d suddenly appeared in the room I’d been

  waiting in and read me my rights, and I’d stood there, open-mouthed with shock, unable to

  believe what was happening. I hadn’t uttered a word as they emptied my pockets, took my bag

  and shoes from me, took my photograph from different angles, took my fingerprints. Processed

  me, they told me it was called. I’d been half expecting it, the arrest, for days, but when it finally

  happened it was overwhelming, unreal, and I seemed to have been struck dumb, unable to form

  words, mutely obedient. And then, after I’d been in my tiny cell for an hour, or maybe it was

  two, or ten, who knows, sitting there numb and shaking, they’d finally taken me to an interview

  room, and it had begun.

  It had been the same old stuff all over again – the blood in the bedroom, the fact that

  nobody except me seemed to have seen Danny since the end of January, and so on and so on

  and so on. My voice returned, thin and reedy, and I tried, tried so hard to argue, tried to remind

  them again of the CCTV footage at the gym, the footage I was convinced showed Danny, tried

  to tell them over and over again that he’d been alive and well and living with me in Bristol

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  until two and a half weeks ago. They listened, and then swiftly dismissed all my arguments,

  their eyes cold.

  If he was using the gym, if he was travelling around Bristol every day, why wasn’t he

  using his bank account?

  Why didn’t he contact anyone, not even his own mother? Why do you have no photos of

  him, no emails from him, after the thirtieth of January? Why are you lying to us, Gemma? What

  did you do to Danny?

  And then they asked, again, about the other men, the two killed in London, the two in

  Bristol. And about somebody else, somebody I’d never heard of, a man called Declan who’d