The Perfect Couple. Jackie Kabler
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, 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?’
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 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.
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?’
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