The Perfect Couple (ARC)

by Jackie Kabler

  me that. Would he hurt me? He’d just told me he loved me … I took a deep breath and made a

  decision. He was still standing a few feet away, silent, waiting.

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  ‘I want you to get out of this house, now,’ I said. I was surprised at how steady my voice

  sounded, how calm. ‘And then I’m calling the police. I am, Danny, I’m sorry. When I made

  that promise, I had no idea … but I’m going to give you a chance, Danny. For the sake of us,

  for everything we had, I’ll wait before I make the call, give you a head start. You can still get

  away, OK? What do you need, fifteen, twenty minutes, something like that? So call Quinn,

  now, get him to come and pick you up and go, OK? And I’ll wait for a bit, and then I’ll make

  the call.’

  I was lying, obviously. I’d be on that phone the second he was out of the door.

  ‘OK, Danny? That’s fair, isn’t it?’

  No reply. Danny was still motionless, staring at me, his expression unreadable. Then

  suddenly, Albert growled again, a low menacing sound. Danny turned and looked at him, and

  the growling grew louder. My husband looked back at me once more and his eyes narrowed.

  Then he turned, grabbed Albert by the collar and dragged him to the kitchen door, opening it

  and pushing the dog into the hallway. Albert’s rumbling growl became loud, angry barking as

  Danny slammed the door shut. He turned back to me, moving closer, closer, his expression

  calm as the barking became even louder, Albert repeatedly throwing his body against the other

  side of the door, claws scraping the wood.

  ‘That’s better. And now, to answer your question, no Gemma. That’s not OK. You made

  me a promise, and now you’re breaking it, just like that? That’s not OK, not fair. Not fair at

  all.’

  His voice was gentle, his hand caressing my cheek again.

  ‘Danny, look …’

  Had I played this wrong? I shrank away from him, and he gripped my waist with his other

  hand, fingers digging painfully into my flesh. I gulped in some air, trying to stay calm. I just

  needed to get him out, make him go …

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  ‘Sssssh. I trusted you, Gemma. I wouldn’t have told you if I hadn’t. I trusted you, and

  you’ve let me down. So, to use a cliché …’ he said, and then paused, his grip on my waist

  tightening.

  I swallowed hard, and the air in the room suddenly seemed thick, heavy, my breathing

  laboured. SHIT. Shit, shit, shit. I had misjudged this, hadn’t I? Totally misjudged him,

  completely misjudged how unhinged he was. Could he … no, he couldn’t, could he? He

  wouldn’t. Not me … so think, Gemma, think …

  ‘Danny, please, I’m sorry, I’ll …’

  He wasn’t listening, and there was a darkness to his gaze now, a malevolence. My breath

  caught in my throat.

  ‘Danny … please …’

  He shook his head, eyes fixed on mine.

  ‘As I was saying, to use a cliché, I’ve told you my story, and now I’m going to have to

  kill you.’

  And slowly, very slowly, he moved his hand from my face, and slid it inside his jacket

  pocket. And he pulled out a knife.

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  44

  Helena felt sick, her stomach churning. They had buggered this up so badly, and the thought

  was almost unbearable. What a bloody screw-up, she thought. And yet, the discovery of Danny

  O’Connor’s DNA on the hammer used to half kill Declan Bailey in that London alleyway had

  suddenly made everything fall into place. She’d been so focused on Gemma O’Connor, so

  certain that the woman was lying to them, and the circumstantial evidence had all fitted so

  neatly too; the two murders in London, not far from where she’d lived, the two in Bristol,

  happening shortly after she moved in, even the Declan Bailey attack, happening as it did on the

  day she happened to be visiting London, and just up the road from where she’d been having

  her meeting in Victoria. Even the blood in the bedroom of her old apartment, convincing them

  that she’d attacked and probably killed her husband there too. It had all fitted. Except, of course,

  that it hadn’t, had it? Because Danny O’Connor had faked that bedroom attack. And if it was

  Danny who had carried out the Victoria attack, as they now believed he had, then it stood to

  reason that he’d also carried out the others. She wasn’t a hundred per cent certain of that, right

  now, but she was ninety per cent of the way there. Why exactly he had felt the need to murder

  men who looked like him she still hadn’t worked out, but there was clearly a lot the man had

  been hiding from everyone, his wife included, and she was sure that once they found him,

  they’d get the truth out of him. If they found him of course. Because they’d lost him, hadn’t

  they? The man was, very likely, a highly dangerous serial killer, and they’d had him, quite

  literally within their grasp. And now they’d bloody lost him. And that was something they

  needed to put right, and fast.

  ‘Five minutes, boss.’

  ‘Thanks, Devon. He won’t be there, but we have to rule it out just in case.’

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  She was in the passenger seat, Devon at the wheel, as they drove through the already dark

  streets of Bristol, heading for the O’Connors’ Clifton house. The hunt for Danny had only been

  going on for a matter of hours, but already she was beginning to despair. They’d managed to

  keep it from the press so far, but she knew that if they didn’t find him soon, maybe by the

  morning, she’d have to release it, make an appeal to the public for help in finding him. It was

  that, as well as everything else, that was making her feel sick; the wrath of her superiors, the

  scathing newspaper stories that would surely appear in the next few days. She could see the

  headlines already.

  BUNGLING POLICE LET SERIAL KILLER GO FREE

  IS THIS THE GREATEST COP COCK-UP OF ALL TIME?

  FEAR ON THE STREETS OF BRITAIN AS SERIAL KILLER ESCAPES POLICE

  So far, the media blackout had been successful, but it had been the only thing that had.

  She’d done everything she could in the past few hours, but it all felt like too little, too late. In

  London, officers had searched Quinn O’Connor’s flat, just in case, and were visiting his known

  hangouts, local bars and snooker halls, trying to find someone who might know where either

  of the two men were. In Ireland, local gardai were checking both Danny’s and Quinn’s family

  homes, as well as the properties of as many friends and relatives as possible, in case the

  runaway O’Connor cousins had somehow managed to already cross the Irish Sea despite the

  all-ports alert. Elsewhere, Danny’s friends and ex work colleagues were being contacted, and

  photographs had been circulated to police forces across the UK. Helena herself had called

  Gemma’s number again in the past half an hour, to warn her that her husband was now a wanted

  man, suspected of multiple murders, but there had still been no reply.

  ‘Probably out, celebrating her freedom,’ Devon had remarked. ‘I know that’s what I’d be

  doing. Either that or she’s asleep. Can’t have got much shuteye in that cell. Beds are like

  wooden planks.’

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  But not being able to contact the woman had worried Helena, and finally she’d decided

  they should call roun
d and speak to Gemma in person. She owed her a huge apology too, she

  thought ruefully, remembering all the occasions when she’d treated Gemma so unkindly,

  convinced she was lying, convinced she was hiding something. Plus, although the chances of

  Danny returning to his Bristol home were minimal, it was another box that needed to be ticked

  in the hunt for him.

  ‘Here we are. Doesn’t look like anyone’s in though.’

  Devon turned the engine off, and for a moment they both sat there, staring at the house,

  its windows dark. Then Helena reached for her seat belt.

  ‘Come on.’

  She was first up the path and rang the doorbell. From inside, there was the sound of

  scampering feet, and a dog began to bark frantically, but the door didn’t open. Helena rang

  again, keeping her finger on the buzzer for a full twenty seconds, the bell sounding shrill and

  loud even through the sturdy front door. The barking intensified, but still nobody came. Helena

  felt a little ripple of unease.

  ‘As I said, out partying, or asleep. Although she’d have heard that racket even if she was

  dead to the world. Gone away, maybe?’ asked Devon.

  ‘Not without her dog.’

  The uneasy feeling was growing, a tight little knot forming in Helena’s stomach.

  Something didn’t feel right. Gemma had never struck her as the partying kind, especially after

  all she’d been through recently. Maybe she’d gone away for a few days, and arranged for

  someone to look after her pet, but she hadn’t been answering her phone, and that was worrying.

  She needed to be sure.

  ‘Let’s go round the back,’ she said.

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  They made the short journey around the corner, down the narrow lane that skirted the rear

  of the row of houses. The O’Connors’ back gate was unlocked, and they slipped quietly into

  the courtyard, Devon heading for the back door, rattling the handle.

  ‘Locked,’ he said.

  Helena was peering in through the kitchen window, hands cupped around her eyes. And

  then she gasped.

  ‘Oh my god. Oh my GOD!’

  ‘What? What is it?’

  She rushed towards him, hands outstretched, grabbing at the door handle, shaking it,

  thumping at the wood.

  ‘No, no, no!’ she screamed. ‘Devon, we need to get in there, quick!’

  He paused only for a second, staring at her, then put both hands on her shoulders and

  moved her firmly to one side.

  ‘OK. My shoulder’s still killing me from the last time I did this, but I’ll give it a go. Stand

  over there,’ he said, then took a few steps backwards, angled his left shoulder towards the door

  and ran at it, aiming for the lock. There was a sickening thud and, simultaneously, the sound

  of wood splintering. The door swung open, and Helena rushed past Devon, who was leaning

  against the doorframe, groaning softly and clutching the top of his arm. Then she stopped

  abruptly, staring in horror at what was lying on the tiled floor in front of her: the shape she’d

  seen through the window which had struck her with fear, but which she had desperately hoped

  would turn out to be something else – a pile of discarded laundry maybe, waiting for its turn in

  the washing machine; a dropped coat.

  It was neither of those things. It was Gemma O’Connor or, probably more accurately,

  Helena thought, as the nausea rose, the body of Gemma O’Connor. Motionless, curled in the

  foetal position, a dark pool around her crumpled body. And then she saw it. Saw exactly what

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  had happened to this woman, the woman she now knew, with a sense of overwhelming grief

  and guilt, that she’d totally and utterly let down. She saw, very clearly even in the darkness of

  the unlit kitchen, that Gemma’s throat had been cut.

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  ‘We need to find him. We need to find that bastard, and we need to find him now.’

  Helena was pacing up and down the hospital corridor, her face contorted with anger and

  frustration, streaks of Gemma O’Connor’s blood on her jacket, a dark smear on her cheek.

  From his seat on one of the hard plastic chairs lined up along the wall, Devon watched her, his

  own fury growing, but a fury directed only at himself. He’d had Danny O’Connor within his

  grasp, had sat and drank tea with him, for Christ’s sake. And he’d let him go. He’d let him go,

  and so this was his fault. What had happened to Gemma O’Connor was all down to him. He

  sank his head into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to obliterate the memory of the

  slumped body on the kitchen floor, the vivid gash across her throat, the blood … so much

  blood…

  And yet, by some miracle, Gemma wasn’t dead. She had looked dead, so very, very dead,

  but when a white-faced Helena had bent to take her pulse, to check for any signs of life, she’d

  crouched there for several moments before suddenly whipping around and screaming at Devon.

  ‘She’s breathing! She’s still breathing! Ambulance, quick! Quick!’

  As he’d dialled the number with shaking hands, Helena had looked frantically around the

  room, grabbed a tea-towel from a hook on the wall and pressed it to Gemma’s throat. That had

  been two hours ago. The doctor who’d come out to see them as Gemma was being rushed into

  theatre had muttered something about her being lucky; her neck had been slashed low down,

  across the thyroid, but the knife had missed the main veins and arteries.

  ‘Thyroid bleeds like hell, but if you have to have your throat cut, well … he didn’t get the

  carotids or jugulars, or her windpipe. You must have arrived within minutes of it happening.

  She’d have died if she’d been left to bleed out much longer. We’re about to operate, and she’s

  a very ill lady, but we think she’ll get through this. Lucky, as I said.’

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  Lucky? Devon shook his head. Gemma O’Connor was probably the unluckiest woman

  he’d ever met. She’d married a man who had used her, tried to frame her for his own murder.

  Married a man who might well turn out to be one of Britain’s most prolific serial killers, if the

  fears they now had turned out to be real. And – and they had no proof of this yet, he thought,

  but who else would have done it? – a man who had, for whatever reason, taken time out from

  being on the run to call in on his wife and slit her throat.

  Please, Gemma, please live, he urged silently. For yourself, so you can get over this and

  live the life you deserve. But for us too. We need you. We need you to help us catch him.

  ‘He said he had a fake passport when you interviewed him, didn’t he?’

  Devon jumped, and looked up to see that Helena had stopped pacing and was standing in

  front of him.

  ‘Yes … yes, he did. I don’t know what name it was in or what nationality it was though,

  or anything … oh shit, boss. I’m so sorry.’

  She stood there for a moment, looking down at him, her face blank. Then she shook her

  head and sat down on the chair next to him.

  ‘I’m sorry too, Devon. Sorry I didn’t listen to her; sorry I didn’t believe her. We’ve all

  screwed up here,’ she said quietly.

  ‘And now he’s gone. With a fake passport, and a good one, he could be anywhere. I mean,

  we know he’s an IT wizard, he could probably get the very best, couldn’t he? Dark web, plenty
>
  of places to go there, and he’d know how. And if he wore some sort of disguise, even the

  all-ports alert wouldn’t help us … he probably went straight to Bristol airport after he attacked

  her and hopped on a plane. Or maybe a boat, from the docks? If it was a private one … we’ve

  lost him, Devon. His cousin too, most likely. But we’re going to find them, OK? We’re not

  giving up. We’ll find them, if it’s the last thing we ever do.’

  There was a sudden fiery determination in her voice, and he smiled briefly, then sighed.

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  ‘If we keep our jobs,’ he said.

  She was silent for a moment.

  ‘Yes, there is that,’ she said. Another pause. ‘You know what? When all this is over, I’m

  going to have a baby, Devon. Well, not me. Charlotte. But, same thing really. I’m going to be

  a mum, a parent. I’ve been putting it off and putting it off, and … well, life’s short, isn’t it?

  And you never know what’s around the corner, what’s waiting to bite you on the ass.

  Sometimes you’ve just got to jump, haven’t you? And hope that bloody safety net appears

  before you land.’

  He looked sideways at her, raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Good for you, boss. OK. You do that and I’ll start dating again. See if I can do it properly

  this time, not mess it up. Deal?’

  He offered her a fist, and she smiled and bumped hers against it.

  ‘Deal.’

  Then she stood up abruptly, as the doctor who’d spoken to them earlier suddenly appeared

  in the corridor.

  ‘She’s awake,’ he said. ‘And she says she needs to talk to you, urgently.’

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  46

  It was morning. At least, the light outside the small, square window opposite my bed made me

  think that it was probably morning; I had long since lost all track of time, drifting in and out of

  sleep, men and woman in white uniforms constantly checking on me, prodding me, asking me

  questions in low voices. My head was muzzy from the drugs which had been dripping into me

  all night through a needle in my arm, but the pain which had been so agonizing and terrifying

  was now reduced to a dull, tight ache. I moved my right hand slowly up the smooth bedspread,

  cautiously touching my throat, feeling not skin but bandages, tight and soft. The knife, the

  blade, the pain, the awful, shocking pain … a sudden rush of fear ran through me, and I tried