The Perfect Couple (ARC)

by Jackie Kabler

  1

  It was the silence I noticed first. When Danny was around there was always noise, singing or

  humming, the tap-tapping of a laptop keyboard, the prolonged clatter of spoon against ceramic

  mug as he stirred his black coffee vigorously for far too long, in my view, for a man who didn’t

  even take sugar in it – what was he stirring? But I loved it, his noisiness, despite my regular

  protestations to the contrary. I’d lived alone for far too long before Danny, and the constant

  clamour made me feel connected, alive. Happy. So that evening, as I pushed the front door

  open and slid the key out of the lock, expecting a welcoming yell from the living room or to

  see, within seconds, his grinning face peering around the kitchen door, disappointment hit me

  like an icy wave.

  ‘Danny? Danny, I’m home. Where are you?’

  I could tell even as I spoke that he wasn’t in but, flicking the lights on and dumping my

  overnight bag on the table by the door, I began a quick tour of the house anyway, my footsteps

  echoing on the polished parquet of the hall floor. My frown deepened as I pushed each door

  open, the rooms dark and empty. Where was he? He’d promised, the previous evening when

  he’d emailed to say goodnight, that he’d be here when I got back, that he’d cook dinner. Even

  promised, I remembered as I headed for the kitchen, to have a bottle of my favourite cava

  chilling; a welcome home, Friday night treat. If he’d forgotten …

  ‘Dammit, Danny. Seriously?’

  I glared at the contents of the fridge. It looked exactly as I’d left it on Thursday morning

  – a half-full milk container, a block of cheese with one corner hacked off, a pack of sausages

  with four missing, the four we’d eaten for breakfast before I’d headed off on my latest press

  trip. No cava. No sign of any fresh food. He hadn’t even gone shopping? What was going on?

  Had something happened at work, delaying him? He’d told me he’d be finishing at lunchtime

  that day, for once, that he’d have plenty of time to do the supermarket run for a change, save

  me doing it on Saturday morning as I usually did, while he stayed at home to run the vacuum

  round and flick a duster over the shelves. A break from the little routine we’d quickly fallen

  into, happily fallen into, since we’d moved to Bristol, and into the beautiful house in up-market

  Clifton. It hadn’t always been like that, but when we moved he’d said he wanted to help around

  the house more, do more of the chores I hated, and I hadn’t argued. We’d only been in our new

  home for three weeks, but the words ‘domestic bliss’ pretty much summed things up,

  cringeworthy as it sounded even to me.

  ‘You can have a lie-in on Saturday, Gem. You’ll be knackered after all that debauchery

  at your fancy spa hotel,’ he’d said over our full English, reaching across the breakfast table to

  wipe a splodge of ketchup from my bottom lip, his finger soft against my skin.

  ‘It’s work,’ I’d retorted, waggling my fork at him, then smiling as I speared another piece

  of black pudding. ‘Well … maybe a teeny bit of debauchery too though.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. You journalists, and your hard-livin’, hard-drinkin’ ways.’

  His accent, normally soft west of Ireland, was suddenly full-on Moore Street Market,

  Dublin, and I swallowed quickly and laughed.

  ‘Yeah, right. We’ll have a few drinks, but we’ll all be in bed by eleven, I guarantee it.

  Too many exhausted mummies in the group now. A night away without the kids means they

  can finally get a decent night’s sleep for once.’

  He raised his thick, dark eyebrows – once a monobrow, until I’d finally pinned him to the

  bed one day, brandishing my tweezers – and I laughed again at his comically exaggerated

  expression of disbelief.

  ‘Oh, shut up.’

  ‘I didn’t say a word!’

  2

  He’d leapt from his chair then, dragging me from my seat and into a hug, whispering into

  my hair.

  ‘I’ll miss you. But have a great time. You deserve it.’

  So where are you now, Danny? I slammed the fridge door and reached into the pocket of

  my zebra print coat for my mobile, then remembered. Bugger. There’d been some sort of delay

  with Danny’s new workplace providing him with a company mobile phone – it would, they’d

  promised, finally be ready for Monday – and as he’d handed in his old one when he’d left his

  previous job, he was temporarily phone-less. For a moment, I considered ringing his office,

  asking them if he’d been made to work late, then sighed and decided against it. A bit much,

  probably, when he’d only been in the job for such a short time, to have his wife calling,

  wondering where he was. Email, then? He still had his tablet, and emailing had worked

  reasonably well over the past few weeks when we’d needed to get hold of each other. We both

  had Skype too, for emergencies, although we hadn’t needed to use it so far, and just like calling

  his office, I thought Skyping him might be a bit intrusive. Yes, email.

  I perched on the edge of one of the dining chairs and tapped out a message.

  I’m home. Where are you? And, more to the point, where’s my dinner? And my

  FIZZ!? G xx

  I hit send, checked the time, and stood up with a sigh. Just after seven. I’d go and unpack,

  have a nice hot shower, change. We could get some food delivered instead of cooking, and

  maybe Danny could call in at the off-licence on his way home to pick up some bubbly, I

  thought. I glanced around the kitchen, noticing that at least he’d washed up, wiped down the

  surfaces, replaced the chopping knives neatly in their wooden block. Everything was spotless

  in fact, a faint smell of bleach in the air, even the stainless-steel cooker hood gleaming. I felt

  my mild irritation subsiding. It would be work, that was all. It wasn’t his fault he’d been

  3

  delayed. He’d be home soon. Slipping my coat from my shoulders, I headed back down the

  hall to retrieve my bags.

  4

  2

  ‘Holy cow. It’s like looking at brothers. Coincidence, or not? What do you make of that, guv?’

  Detective Sergeant Devon Clarke glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, Detective Chief

  Inspector Helena Dickens nodded slowly, indigo eyes fixed on the two photos on the board.

  ‘I dunno. Not yet, anyway. But yes, they do look spookily similar. Weird, eh?’

  She looked at her watch. Just after seven. She sighed and turned to the room, wincing

  slightly as she felt a twinge in her lower back. Last night’s run had been too long and too fast,

  she thought.

  ‘OK, gather round everyone. I’m sorry to do this to you all on a Friday evening, but with

  a second murder on our hands now I’m going to have to ask you to work right through the

  weekend, as I’m sure you’ve already guessed. Let’s just go through what we’ve got so far, so

  it’s all clear in everyone’s minds, and then I’ll distribute jobs.’

  She waited, turning back to scan the board as chairs scraped and feet shuffled; then the

  room fell silent, the ra
in which had started to fall an hour ago beating an urgent tattoo against

  the windows, the air thick with the smell of stale coffee.

  ‘Thanks. Right, well I know some of you have just been brought into Bristol today to

  swell our numbers, so thank you for that. I’m DCI Helena Dickens, senior investigating officer.

  This is DS Devon Clarke.’

  She waved a hand towards Devon, who dipped his head.

  ‘It’s been a while since Avon Police has had two murders on its hands in such a short time

  frame, so we’re about to get very busy. There’s nothing at the moment to suggest that the two

  killings are linked, although we’re still waiting on the forensics report on the latest. But …’ she

  paused and exchanged glances with Devon, ‘well, let’s start at the beginning. Devon, can you

  take us through what we know about Mervin Elliott?’

  5

  ‘Sure.’

  Devon nodded, and cleared his throat.

  ‘OK. This is Mervin Elliott.’

  He pointed to the photograph on the top left corner of the board.

  ‘Thirty-two years old, men’s clothing shop manager – one of those trendy places in Cabot

  Circus. Single, heterosexual, no children, lived alone in an apartment down at the harbourside.

  His body was found on Clifton Down by a dog walker just over two weeks ago, early on the

  morning of Wednesday, the thirteenth of February. Here, just off Ladies Mile, near Stoke

  Road.’ He pointed at a map of The Downs, the vast public open space to the north of the affluent

  suburb of Clifton. ‘His body was half hidden by shrubs, a bush, something like that. Time of

  death estimated to be about ten or eleven hours earlier, so between seven and eight the night

  before, Tuesday, the twelfth. Cause of death, blow to the head. No other significant injuries.

  No murder weapon found.’

  He paused, rubbed his nose and continued.

  ‘According to everyone we’ve spoken to so far, he was a nice, normal guy. Worked hard,

  single as I said; his mates said he’d been on the odd date recently, usually women he met online,

  but hadn’t found anyone he wanted to get serious with. Sociable bloke though, liked a night

  out by all accounts, but wasn’t a drug user or even a particularly big drinker. He was big into

  fitness, member of a gym – that big 24-hour one at the harbour, near his flat. Looked after

  himself. No criminal record. No obvious motive at all for his murder. Looked like he’d been

  out running the night he was killed – he was wearing trainers and exercise gear when his body

  was found. But he had a pretty nice sports watch on, and a decent phone in his pocket, and they

  weren’t touched. Parts of The Downs get their share of doggers and so on at night, people

  cruising for action, but there was no sign of recent sexual activity on the body, no evidence he

  was there for anything like that. And so far, we’ve not found any witnesses to the attack. It

  6

  would have been dark at that time of course. But so far, we have very little to go on. No

  forensics of any use. Nada.’

  A phone suddenly trilled on a desk at the back of the room, and Devon waited while one

  of the young detective constables sprinted to grab it, answering it in hushed tones then

  grimacing at Devon.

  ‘Nothing major,’ she mouthed.

  Devon nodded and turned back to the board.

  ‘OK, so that’s Mervin Elliott. This …’ he gestured at the photograph to the right of the

  first, ‘is Ryan Jones. His body was found yesterday morning, Thursday, the twenty-eighth of

  February, in a lane between two houses on Berkeley Rise. That’s here, just off Saville Road.’

  He ran his finger across the map.

  ‘Saville Road borders Durdham Down to the east. And, for those unfamiliar with The

  Downs, Durdham Down is the northern part, north of Stoke Road. Clifton Down is the southern

  bit. About four hundred acres in total.’

  ‘So … the two bodies were found, what? Less than a mile apart?’

  The question came from somewhere at the back of the assembled group of officers. Devon

  nodded.

  ‘About that, yes. Again, cause of death was probably head injuries but we’re waiting for

  the results of the post mortem – should be with us any minute; they’ve had a bit of a backlog

  down there, couple of nasty car accidents got in ahead of us. He also had a couple of minor

  injuries elsewhere but nothing significant. His head injury was again consistent with being

  attacked with a heavy weapon of some sort. Again though no sign of that murder weapon. Early

  days on this one though, as he was only found yesterday. At the scene time of death was again

  estimated to have been about ten hours earlier, so sometime on Wednesday evening. He was

  found by a local resident who was out for an early morning cycle and took a shortcut down the

  7

  lane. We got an ID from the victim’s wallet, which was still in his pocket with about fifty quid

  in it. Ryan was thirty-one and also single, no kids, dated a bit but again no serious girlfriend as

  far as we know at this early stage. Worked as an accountant for a firm in Queen Square. Again,

  early days but so far he sounds a bit like our first victim – nice, normal guy, no record.’

  He paused and turned to look at Helena.

  ‘No CCTV in the area he was found, I assume?’ she asked.

  Devon shook his head.

  ‘No cameras in that area at all. It’s a lot more built up than where Mervin was found

  though, obviously, so we started doing house to house yesterday afternoon, but so far nobody

  seems to have seen or heard anything.’

  Helena sighed.

  ‘Remind us what he was wearing? Ryan, I mean.’

  Devon turned back to the board.

  ‘Normal clothes. As in, not running gear or anything. Jeans, trainers, a navy jumper, big

  black puffa coat. It was cold on Wednesday night. And no, we haven’t worked out yet what he

  was doing in the area. He lived at an address in …’ he frowned, eyes searching the board, ‘in

  Redcliffe. So two, three miles away from where he was found.’

  ‘Thanks, Devon.’

  Helena cleared her throat and turned to the room.

  ‘OK, so that’s the basics. Two dead men, both with head injuries, both murdered in The

  Downs area within a couple of weeks of each other. Both successful and hardworking, both in

  their early thirties. Two men whom, as far as we know at the moment, had no involvement in

  any sort of criminal activity. And, two men who look …’ she turned back to the board again,

  tapping first the photo of Mervin and then Ryan’s image, ‘who look, quite frankly, like bloody

  twins. The same dark curly hair, dark eyes, thick eyebrows. Similar height and build. Might

  8

  mean nothing but …’she shrugged and turned back to face the assembled officers, ‘kind of

  weird, eh? OK, listen. Let’s not get too hung up on their appearances for now. And of course,

  there may be no connection between these two murders whatsoever. But we can’t rule it out,

  not at this stage, considering the similarities between the two cases. Let’s keep an open mind

  and let the facts guide us.

  ‘Forensics on Ryan might help when we get them, if we’re lucky. But in the meantime,

  let’s talk to as many of their friends and family members as possible, and see if there are any

  common factors – Re
dcliffe and the harbour aren’t that far apart, so did these two hang out in

  the same bars, did they know each other, did they have any mutual friends or common interests?

  And why were they both on – or, in Ryan’s case, very close to – The Downs, on the nights they

  died? OK, so Mervin was there running, and it’s a nice place to run, I run there myself now

  and again. But he’s a member of a gym and, even if he preferred running outdoors, there are

  plenty of routes to choose from around Bristol. So why there, specifically? Was it something

  he did regularly? And why was Ryan in the area? Was he visiting a friend, a relative? We need

  to know everything about these two, and fast.’

  She stopped talking, watching as her colleagues scribbled notes on their pads, many of

  them exchanging glances. She knew instantly what they were thinking. It was something she’d

  thought herself, immediately and with a sudden sick, sinking feeling in her stomach, when

  Ryan Jones’s photograph had been stuck on the board yesterday next to Mervin Elliott’s. If

  these two murders were connected, if they’d been carried out by the same person, well …

  She swallowed hard. It needed to be three, though, officially. Three murders, to fit the

  most widely used UK definition. And so far it was only two. Please God, she thought, let it

  stay that way.

  Two was bad enough.

  But three …

  9

  Three, and she might just have a serial killer on her hands.

  10

  3

  ‘Where the hell are you, Danny? This is getting ridiculous.’

  I stopped pacing up and down the kitchen for a moment to stand and stare out of the rain-

  streaked window into the elegant courtyard at the back of the house, willing him to suddenly

  appear, my fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. It was late Saturday afternoon and,

  despite my best efforts all day to track my husband down, I’d come up with precisely nothing.

  I needed to make some more phone calls, but I’d have to calm myself down first. I took a deep

  breath, trying to slow my racing heartbeat, and rested my forehead against the cold glass, eyes

  flitting across the yard. On two levels separated by a row of pleached hornbeam trees, the

  beautifully designed limestone-paved space had enthralled me from the moment Danny and I

  had first come to view the place. In the centre of the top level nearest the house, water bubbled