The Perfect Couple (ARC)

by Jackie Kabler

  had left me with. He’d been so kind, so supportive, so understanding, right from the start. And

  then, when we’d finally had our first date, when I’d looked into those chocolatey brown eyes,

  there’d been a connection so immediate, so deep that it had almost frightened me. I’d had

  boyfriends before, even a few serious ones over the years, but not for a while and not like that.

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  Not like Danny. That was September; on Christmas Eve, he dropped to one knee in our

  favourite little Italian restaurant and proposed, amid the whoops and cheers of the waiters and

  other diners. We got married just three months later, on the seventeenth of March, St Patrick’s

  Day.

  ‘Always a day for celebrating. And I can’t think of a better reason for celebrating than

  marrying you,’ he’d said, as we left Marylebone register office, holding hands, grinning crazily.

  We’d kept it small, simple, just us and a few friends, plus my parents and, representing the

  O’Connors, Danny’s cousin Quinn, his only relative who lived in London. His mum hadn’t

  flown over from County Sligo for the wedding – Donal, Danny’s father, had died just six weeks

  or so earlier, at the beginning of February, after being ill on and off for years, and his mum was

  full-time carer for their other, disabled, son, Liam, Danny’s younger brother.

  ‘Mum hates travel, and Liam isn’t good with changes to his routine, it freaks him out.

  Even before Dad died, they’d rarely left the county for years, never mind the country,’ Danny

  had told me. ‘It’s a shame, but I’ll send her pictures and videos. She’s not that bothered anyway,

  you know what she’s like. And I’ve told her it’s just a modest do, and she’s not missing much.’

  I’d only met Bridget once, but I knew what he meant. Danny had told me he’d never really

  got on well with either of his parents, and I had seen why when I’d met them. Bridget was

  definitely an odd one, and I hadn’t warmed to his father at all. And he was right, it wasn’t

  much, our wedding reception, but it was perfect for us and I loved it: a knees-up at the local

  pub, champagne and fish and chips, photos snapped on friends’ phones, to be collated and put

  into an album later. It was really how Danny had wanted it – he hated fuss, as he called it – but

  I’d been happy to go along with it, as long as a few key people were there: Mum, Dad, my

  closest friends. I still wore white though, a beautiful Chanel sheath, and insisted he wear a suit

  and cut his wild locks into something resembling a hair style. He’d moaned, but he’d complied,

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  and I’d never seen him look more gorgeous than he did that day. I’d never felt more in love, or

  happier. Never dreamt that just a year later …

  There was a lump in my throat, and I swallowed hard, feeling the nausea rising again.

  We’d been happy, we had. We fitted. And I hadn’t lied when I’d told the police we’d been

  virtually inseparable most of the time. OK, so Danny, very occasionally, would become a little

  withdrawn, wanted to be alone, would head off on his bike for a couple of hours, but that was

  natural; he loved cycling, and he had a stressful job, cooped up in a stuffy office, staring at a

  screen. It was a bit like that for me too, with my writing, and I’d always understood his need

  for a bit of solitude. He’d always come back a few hours later, smiling, relaxed, rejuvenated.

  So this, this complete disappearance – this wasn’t Danny. Or not the Danny I thought I knew,

  certainly.

  He lied to me, I thought again. He lied. And not just a little white lie, a massive one.

  And if Danny had lied to me about something as huge as his job, hadn’t told me what was

  really going on in his life, it suddenly seemed to me that it was much more likely that he had

  just left me, just walked out, despite my previous insistence that he wouldn’t do that. Could he

  have been having an affair? Were those solitary cycle rides not what I thought they were – had

  he been meeting up with somebody after all? Had he now gone off to be with her, whoever she

  was? And yet, I thought, rubbing my throbbing temples, even that didn’t make much sense, for

  why had he taken nothing with him? His passport, toiletries, clothes – everything was still here.

  If you were leaving your partner, and wanted to do it quickly while they were away for a night,

  surely you’d still take the basics? One bag, with a few clothes, bits and pieces to keep you

  going until you could come back and collect the rest? I would. Why leave with nothing …?

  BRRRRR.

  I jumped as the doorbell rang, Albert instantly awake and on his feet, running across the

  room, yelping excitedly. I groaned. Now what? Police, again, with news this time maybe? Had

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  they found him? I pushed the throw off and followed my dog to the front door. I was right. It

  was them again, DS Clarke and DC Stevens and, feeling suddenly shaky, I showed them into

  the sitting room, sending Albert to the kitchen again. We sat down in the same positions we’d

  been in that morning, me on the sofa, DS Clarke on the armchair opposite, his colleague

  remaining standing, hovering. I had the sudden, almost irresistible urge to cover my ears with

  my hands and sing ‘ la la la’ like a child. The police officers’ faces were serious, and whatever

  they were about to say, I could already tell I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t think I could take

  much more.

  ‘Mrs O’Connor, Gemma … is it OK, if I call you Gemma?’

  DS Clarke’s voice was gentle, his eyes kind, and I nodded.

  ‘Yes, fine. Please … is there any news?’ My voice sounded shrill, reedy, not like me at

  all.

  He paused, glanced at DC Stevens, then looked back at me.

  ‘Well, sorry to disturb you twice in one day, but there is news of sorts, yes. We haven’t

  found your husband though, not yet. I’m sorry.’

  I nodded again, feeling tears pricking my eyes once more.

  ‘OK. So – what’s the latest?’

  DS Clarke looked down at the notebook he had pulled from his pocket and placed on his

  lap when he’d sat down.

  ‘Well, we’ve done a little more digging, since discovering that Danny hadn’t started his

  new job in Bristol after all. Checked out his finances a little. His final salary payment from his

  previous company, Hanfield Solutions, went into his bank account at the end of January, as it

  seems to have done every month for the past few years – correct?’

  ‘Yes. He’d worked there for, I don’t know, four years maybe?’

  At least that hadn’t been a lie, I thought.

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  ‘Right.’ DS Clarke cleared his throat then continued. ‘So that money went in as usual.

  And we noticed some other big payments into the account too, a few times a year over the past

  few years, also from Hanfield Solutions. Would that have been bonuses, maybe?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Yes, he got bonuses every few months. A few thousand at a time, they were pretty

  generous. The company was doing well and they shared the profits with their staff.’

  ‘OK, well that’s all fine then.’

  The DS paused for a moment.

  ‘The thing is, since that last salary payment at the end of January, there’ve been no further

  payments into his account of any kind. And – and this is the really interesting bit –
no money

  taken out either. Other than a direct debit to a letting agency, which we’ve assumed is the rent

  payment on this house … actually, can I confirm that? It’s rented via Pritchards?’

  My head was starting to spin again, but I blinked and replied.

  ‘Pritchards Lettings Agency, yes. Danny was covering the rent and I was doing the bills,

  electricity and so on. But what do you mean, no money’s been taken out? Do you mean since

  Friday, when he went missing?’

  DS Clarke shook his head.

  ‘No, Gemma. I mean no money’s been taken out of his account for weeks. Since …’ he

  looked back down at his notes, running a finger across the page, ‘since Thursday the thirty-first

  of January. So that’s, what? Four, four and a half weeks ago. Does that make sense to you?’

  I stared at him. What? Of course it doesn’t make sense. That can’t be right.

  ‘No. No, that’s not possible. He took money out, of course he did … he paid for lots of

  things since we moved in.’

  I looked around the room, starting to feel frantic.

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  ‘That, look.’ I pointed to the coffee table in front of the sofa, its dark oak top piled high

  with interiors magazines. ‘He paid for that, for example. I saw it in an antiques shop in Clifton

  Village a couple of weeks ago. I took a photo of it and showed it to him when he came home

  from work that night …’ I paused, realizing what I’d said. ‘Well, when he came home from

  wherever he’d been. And he said he’d buy it for me, if I liked it that much, told me to order it,

  get them to deliver it. I mean, I could have bought it myself, but he insisted. He gave me the

  cash right there and then. It was a hundred and fifty pounds, but he said he’d just been to the

  cash machine.’

  DS Clarke was listening carefully.

  ‘There haven’t been any cash withdrawals, Gemma, not for weeks as I said. No debit card

  purchases either. Not a single one, not from his current account. He has a savings account too,

  and we’ve checked that, but it’s empty …’

  ‘Well, yes. We both emptied our savings accounts to pay for the move, and buy new

  furniture, stuff like that. We haven’t really saved that much up until now, we spent Danny’s

  bonuses on trips away and nice dinners and stuff, treated ourselves, but we were going to start

  saving seriously from now on, get a deposit together to buy a house. Look, Danny must have

  been using his bank account. I don’t understand. He paid for loads of stuff …’

  I raked my fingers through my hair, my mind racing, aware of two pairs of eyes fixed on

  my face.

  ‘I mean, takeaways. He always paid for those with cash when we had them. And he came

  home with a new cycle helmet he’d bought only last week. He was making withdrawals, paying

  for things, of course he was. The bank must have made a mistake. I’m sorry, but you’re wrong,

  DS Clarke.’

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  His dark eyes were still glued to my face, and for a moment we just stared at each other,

  my brow furrowed with fear and confusion, his expression calm, unreadable. Then he turned

  to DC Stevens again.

  ‘Can you show Gemma the app, Frankie?’

  He looked back at me.

  ‘We’ll forget about the bank account for now. I’m not sure what that all means, but we’ll

  come back to it later. DC Stevens is going to show you something on his tablet, and I want you

  to tell me if you’re familiar with it.’

  The DC, who’d been clutching the tablet under his arm since he’d arrived, was opening

  it up, tapping the screen. He crossed the room and sat down beside me on the sofa. He smelled

  faintly of cigarettes, and I began to feel sick again.

  ‘What is it?’

  He angled the screen towards me.

  ‘It’s a site called EHU. Have you heard of it?’ he asked. He had a soft Scottish accent,

  and I realized that this was the first time I’d heard him speak more than a couple of words.

  ‘EHU? That’s that dating app, isn’t it? The one everyone says is going to be as big as

  Tinder soon?’

  I leaned forwards, puzzled. Why was he asking me about a dating app? He tapped the

  screen and a myriad of smiling faces began to spin around a logo, and then a log-in box

  appeared.

  ‘Hold on, I’ll just …’ the DC tapped in a password, ‘and you’re right, yes, it’s a dating

  app. EHU, acronym for Elite Hook Ups. I want to show you something.’

  ‘OK.’

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  I frowned, squinting at the screen. DC Stevens had clearly logged in and was now swiping

  rapidly up and down a list of what looked like dozens of profiles. Photographs of men, some

  close-up head shots, others full-length, men in football kit, in tennis whites, in suits. The …

  ‘Oh my GOD. What … that’s … that’s Danny!’

  DC Stevens stopped swiping, and tapped on the photograph, enlarging it, then turned to

  look at me. I ignored him, my heart beginning to pound, staring at the screen, my whole body

  suddenly feeling weak. The name next to the photograph said it was somebody called Sean.

  But … it was Danny. My Danny, smiling at me from the tablet, wearing his favourite red

  T-shirt. A selfie, by the look of it, the top of his arm visible, outstretched, chin tilted towards

  the camera. My husband, Danny.

  ‘I-I-I’m sorry, I just don’t understand. Why is he on there? I mean, we met online, on

  Tinder, but that was the only site either of us had ever used, and we both came off it as soon as

  we started dating …’

  Even I could hear the desperation in my voice. I swallowed hard. Please, please, let all

  this be a horrible mistake. A joke. Call it a joke. It’s not funny, but I’ll laugh anyway. Just tell

  me …

  DS Clarke was talking again, quietly, his tone soothing.

  ‘Gemma, we know all this is a lot to take in. I need to explain something to you, and it’s

  going to be worrying, OK, but I don’t want you to panic, because we don’t know anything for

  definite, right? It’s just one avenue we’re going down, just something we’re looking into. So

  just stay calm, OK? Take a deep breath.’

  I tried to do as he’d asked, but my breath caught in my chest, jagged and painful. I rubbed

  my eyes, trying to focus.

  ‘I’m OK. Just tell me, please, whatever it is. I’m having a hard time trying to process all

  this … the job, the bank account stuff, and now this website … it’s just making no sense. None.’

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  The DS grimaced.

  ‘Trust me, we’re struggling almost as much as you must be. OK, so this is our concern.

  Have you heard about the two recent murders in the Clifton area? One about a month ago, one

  last week? Two young men?’

  I frowned, trying to think, my mind blank. I hadn’t watched the television news in weeks,

  and I rarely checked the online news sites anymore. I shook my head.

  ‘No, sorry. I don’t keep up with the news as religiously as I used to – I used to be a news

  reporter, but it just makes me anxious now, with all the horrible things going on in the world.

  And we’ve been so busy, since we moved in …’ I gasped, as my brain finally took in what he’d

  said, and what it might mean. ‘Hang on – two murders? Men? Do you think Danny’s been

  murdered?’

  The shiver
ing had started again, my hands suddenly freezing cold.

  No. Please, no.

  DS Clarke was shaking his head.

  ‘No, look, honestly, it’s just a theory, a possibility. We’ve just discovered that the two

  men who died, who were killed, were both users of this EHU app. That could just be a

  coincidence, we have nothing concrete to link the two murders at the moment, other than a few

  vague similarities between the two crime scenes. But …’

  He was fumbling inside a flap at the back of his notebook, pulling out two photographs.

  He held them up. They were pictures of two men, both maybe early thirties, both with dark

  hair, dark eyes. I stared, the cold creeping up into my chest now, and then dragged my eyes

  back to the tablet, to Danny’s face.

  ‘Is that them?’ My voice was barely a whisper.

  ‘Yes. Do you see why I’m showing you these?’ DS Clarke’s voice was low too,

  compassionate. ‘It’s because they look … well, they all look quite similar, don’t they?’ he said.

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  ‘A certain … well, a certain type, I suppose. And when we saw the photo you gave us, of your

  husband, well, we noticed the resemblance immediately. So, even though it was a long shot,

  we thought we’d just check, just in case. Check the website I mean, to see if Danny might be

  registered too. To see if it might be more than a coincidence. And, as you can see …’ He

  gestured towards the photo of Danny on the screen.

  I swallowed again. My throat felt as if it were closing up, as if, if they told me anything

  else, piled any more of this incomprehensible information into my brain, I might actually stop

  breathing.

  ‘Hang on, so you think … you think that somebody might be killing men who use this

  app? Men who look like that … who look like Danny? And two have been killed already, and

  now Danny’s gone missing, and you think that he might … might have been killed too? Why

  though? Why would somebody do that?’

  DS Clarke was shaking his head, splaying his hands in a vague gesture I somehow

  interpreted as who knows?

  ‘As I said, we just don’t know. We have no proof, no evidence. And, of course, no third

  body. Danny is, we hope, still alive and well and out there somewhere. But it’s a possibility,

  that’s all. It’s not something we’d normally … well, normally I wouldn’t worry the family with