The Perfect Couple (ARC) Page 11

  about relationships at the moment anyway, not if they really had a serial killer on their hands.

  The theory had definitely gained ground among the team since the discovery of all three men’s

  profiles on the EHU app; there’d been much talk of historical cases in recent days, and not just

  those from the UK. The classic serial killer was male, and targeted the vulnerable – the elderly,

  sex workers, hitchhikers, young women. But there was another, significant group of male serial

  killers too – those who targeted other men, although they tended to be homosexually motivated

  murders. Dennis Nilsen, who killed at least twelve men in the UK in the late seventies and

  early eighties, and the American serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer who murdered seventeen men and

  boys, were two of the best-known examples. Although they only had two bodies so far, the

  thought that they might, just might, now have a serial killer on the loose in Bristol had sent a

  ripple of horror through the incident room, and the DCI had been quick to quash the theory.

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  ‘Come on, get a grip, guys,’ she’d said. ‘We have zero evidence at the moment that the

  deaths of Mervin and Ryan are linked, and we don’t even have a third body yet. Yes, the dating

  app connects the three, but it’s the only thing that does, and that could still be coincidence.

  Probably is, in fact, seeing as tens of thousands of people seem to be using the flipping thing.

  So calm down on the serial killer theory, OK? We deal in facts, and facts only.’

  Her tone hadn’t been entirely convincing though, and Devon knew Helena well enough

  to know that, deep down, she was thinking the same as the rest of them. The team had stopped

  their discussions, but the sense of unease had remained. They all knew, from the latest available

  research on serial killers, that most had a vision of their ideal victim, and that that was often

  based on characteristics like gender and physical appearance. In America, the so-called ‘Green

  River Killer’ chose prostitutes as his victims, because he felt the police ‘wouldn’t look for them

  as hard as they’d look for other women’. Anders Breivik, the man who killed seventy-seven

  people at a Norwegian summer camp in 2011, selected victims who had a ‘leftist’ look, in his

  own words. Was it so far-fetched, then, to think that somebody in Bristol was, for some bizarre

  and unknown reason, tracking down and bumping off dark-haired, dark-eyed men in their

  thirties, when they already had two victims who fitted the bill and another who had vanished?

  But then again, some of them had argued, would Danny O’Connor really turn out to be

  victim number three? His disappearance had some distinctly odd elements to it, Devon thought,

  as he gazed out of the window at the stationary lorry in front of them on the motorway, ‘WASH

  ME’ smeared in the grey dirt that covered its chassis. Yes, Danny’s disappearance had features

  that the previous two cases didn’t, and nobody could quite put the pieces together just yet. He’d

  clearly been up to something in the weeks before he vanished, but what? Why lie to his wife

  and pretend to be working in a new job when he wasn’t? Where had he been spending his days?

  And he’d obviously been keeping a very low profile even when he was at home, if both sets of

  immediate neighbours had never laid eyes on him, and assumed that Gemma had moved in

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  alone. Was he hiding from somebody? Was he in some sort of trouble that he couldn’t share

  with his wife, with anybody? Why had he not been using his bank account in recent weeks?

  And, the biggest question of all in some ways, why was a man who was fairly recently and

  seemingly happily married popping up on a dating website? Using phone numbers provided by

  Gemma O’Connor on the missing person information sheet, Mike had managed to speak to a

  few of Danny’s friends the previous night, and each one had expressed first amusement, and

  then absolute bafflement, at the very idea of him ‘playing away’ as Mike had delicately put it.

  ‘As requested, I didn’t mention the EHU app,’ he’d told Devon. ‘But I did ask them if he

  might ever have been unfaithful to Gemma, if he was a bit of a lad, you know? Emphatic “no”

  from every one of them. They all said that, like most blokes, he’d had his share of girlfriends

  and one-night stands in the past, but that as soon as he met Gemma that was it, he was ready to

  settle down. Interestingly none of them has spoken to him in weeks though – said they assumed

  he was busy with his new job and the move et cetera. Looks like this low profile he seems to

  have been keeping extended to his mates too.’

  No, none of it made any sense whatsoever, but Devon knew from years of experience

  that, eventually, it was possible to unravel most mysteries. It was just a matter of perseverance,

  and that elusive lucky break. As he thought that, the traffic suddenly started moving again, and

  ten minutes later Frankie was sliding the car into a parking space outside number 10 Homefield

  Avenue, just off Chiswick High Road.

  ‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Landlord should be meeting us here with the keys any minute now.’

  Number 10 was halfway along a tidy looking Victorian terrace. Period houses lined one

  side of the street, but the other was a mix of old and ultramodern, and the former home of

  Danny and Gemma O’Connor was a two-storey, white-painted apartment block with

  chrome-framed windows and a large number ten in shiny stainless steel fixed to the wall. The

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  railings that separated the property from the street had been painted red, and aluminium planters

  filled with yellow crocuses lined the short path to the front door.

  ‘Nice place,’ muttered Devon.

  ‘Gents? Good morning!’

  There was a tap at the passenger side window, making him jump. He turned to see a short,

  rotund man in a black leather jacket, the zip straining over a rounded belly. He was clutching

  a large bunch of keys, which he waved at Devon.

  ‘I’m Edgar Evans, the landlord?’ he said loudly.

  Devon and Frankie got out of the car, and for the next thirty seconds or so were subjected

  to a monologue delivered in a broad Welsh accent by a slightly breathless, pink-cheeked Edgar

  Evans.

  ‘I’ve not been in at all since they left – been on a few weeks’ holiday. I wasn’t worried

  though – they were model tenants, the O’Connors. Place was always immaculate when I

  popped round, not that I did very often, I’m not that sort of landlord, but you know, if they ever

  had a problem, the boiler playing up or something. Oh yes, good tenants, the O’Connors.

  They’ll have left it spick and span, no doubt about that. Now that I’m back, a quick fresh coat

  of paint and maybe a carpet clean and it’ll be ready for some new renters. I’ve got two nice big

  apartments here, one upstairs and one down, the downstairs people moved out just before the

  O’Connors so I thought it was a good time to smarten the whole place up, you know? I was

  sorry to hear about Mr O’Connor going missing though. That’s a worry, isn’t it? Anything I

  can do to help … shall we go in then?’

  ‘Please,’ Devon said, with some relief, as Frankie smirked beside him. Moments later, Mr

  Evans was sliding a key into the front door and pushing it open, kicking aside a large pile of

  envelopes on
the doormat.

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  ‘Bloody junk mail,’ he said. He turned to the two officers and proffered a key, holding it

  clear of the rest of the bunch.

  ‘You go on, do what you have to do. It’s the upstairs apartment you want. I’ll just clear

  this lot and then join you.’

  Devon thanked him, took the keys and led the way up the wide, carpeted stairway.

  Moments later they were entering the apartment, Frankie flicking on lights as they moved down

  the hallway, peering into each room.

  ‘Let’s do a quick sweep first, then go through each room properly,’ Devon suggested, and

  Frankie nodded.

  The place had clearly been let part-furnished; in the big, open-plan living and dining area

  the walls, one an expanse of exposed red brick, were bare of pictures, and no curtains hung at

  the floor-to-ceiling windows, but a huge, denim-blue suede sofa and low white coffee table

  remained in the centre of the expanse of polished oakwood flooring, and in the stylish,

  battleship grey kitchen three tall bar stools with red leather seats were lined up against the

  breakfast bar.

  The bathroom had a walk-in double shower and shiny chrome fittings, and in a bedroom

  which had clearly been used as a home office a desk sat against one wall, opposite a large

  empty bookcase.

  ‘So this last room must be the master bedroom,’ Frankie muttered, as he pushed open the

  final door.

  ‘HOLY SHIT!’

  ‘What the …?’

  The two men gasped simultaneously, Frankie reflexively grabbing onto Devon’s forearm,

  as a faint metallic tang hit their nostrils and they stared uncomprehendingly at the scene in front

  of them.

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  ‘Is that … is that what I think it is? Sorry,’ Frankie stuttered, and slowly released Devon’s

  arm.

  Devon was still staring, suddenly feeling a creeping, cold sensation like an icy hand

  running over his skin. The room was large and bright, light streaming in from French windows

  through which he could see a balcony or terrace, enclosed by glass walls. He stared out into

  the sunshine for a moment, then slowly, reluctantly, dragged his gaze back to … to what? Was

  this … was this what he thought it was too? Could it be? The bedroom looked like a scene from

  a horror film. White walls, streaked with sweeping brownish-red stains; a jagged, brown river

  trailing across the carpet; a dark, dry pool on the mattress. His stomach lurched, and he cast his

  eyes around the room, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. It was. It couldn’t be

  anything else. He turned to Frankie, who was standing stock-still, white-faced, transfixed.

  ‘It’s blood,’ he whispered. ‘Blood. Pints of it. Everywhere. What the hell has happened

  in this room?’

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  11

  ‘Cereal? Oh … hang on, no milk. Sorry, Eva …’

  Eva, who’d just plonked herself down at the kitchen table, waved a hand dismissively.

  ‘Just black coffee for now, honestly. We’ll go out in a bit and get you stocked up. Take

  Albert for a stroll. He was rather too full of energy this morning when he barrelled into my

  room and tried to lick me to death, he needs to walk some of it off. And I don’t really do

  breakfast anyway, you should know that.’

  She grinned at me, flicking her long red hair back over her shoulders, and winked one of

  her greeny-brown eyes.

  ‘Yeah, I remember, sorry,’ I said, smiling back at her, then turned to put the kettle on and

  find a clean mug. I had forgotten, briefly, the events of the previous few days clearly turning

  my brain to mush. For most of the years I’d known her, Eva had been strictly a black-coffee-

  and-cigarettes-only-before-midday kind of girl. The cigarettes had vanished in recent times,

  but the coffee habit remained.

  In the end, she hadn’t arrived until nearly midnight the previous night, two cancelled

  trains and then long delays on the one that did arrive making her journey from London a long

  and tedious one. Restless and unable to settle down to work or even watch television, I’d filled

  the waiting time by doing something that in retrospect I slightly regretted – I’d paid my

  neighbours a visit. Unable to stop thinking about what the police had said about my immediate

  neighbours thinking I’d moved into our house alone, I’d checked the time – just before nine,

  so late but not too late to knock on a stranger’s door, I hoped – pulled on a jacket and headed

  out, knocking first on the door of the house to the right, where I’d occasionally seen and waved

  to an older woman when our arrivals and departures had coincided. She opened the door slowly,

  peering around it with a frown, her face relaxing as she recognized me.

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  ‘Hi, I’m Gemma – I live next door?’

  She nodded, pushing a loose strand of hair back off her forehead. She looked about sixty,

  long greying hair pulled back into a low ponytail.

  ‘Yes, hello. Sorry, I’m Jo. What can I help you with?’

  I paused, not really knowing how to explain. Just say it, I suppose, I thought.

  ‘It’s just … well, I know the police have been to see you? My husband, Danny, has gone

  missing. I haven’t seen him since last Thursday. And the police said that when they came to

  ask if you’d seen him around at all recently, you said … well, you said you’d never seen him.

  That you thought I’d moved in next door alone. Is that right?’

  Jo narrowed her eyes slightly, then nodded.

  ‘Well … yes,’ she said. ‘I mean, I’ve seen you coming in and out a few times. But there’s

  never been anyone with you. So I just assumed, you know … I mean, I’m sorry, I just did.’

  Her accent was broad Bristolian. I thought for a moment. It was true that Danny did

  generally come and go via the back door, because of his bike. Maybe I hadn’t ever been with

  him when I’d seen Jo.

  ‘He comes and goes through the back mostly,’ I said. ‘He cycles, and he keeps his bike

  out in the courtyard; there’s a little bike shelter thing out there. You never saw him out there,

  or in the lane behind? He’s tall, dark curly hair.’

  She was shaking her head.

  ‘I don’t use that lane. Spooks me a bit, especially at this time of year – no lights, you

  know? Silly, I know, I mean it’s a nice area and everything and nothing’s ever happened to

  anyone along there, but it’s just me. I always use the front door. I’m really sorry, I’ve just never

  seen him. I’m sorry he’s gone missing, though. If there’s anything I can do?’ She shrugged.

  ‘Oh, that’s very kind, thank you. And sorry to knock so late. I’ll leave you in peace. Do

  you know the names of the people on the other side, there? It’s a couple, isn’t it?’

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  I gestured to the house to the left of ours, and Jo peered out into the darkness, then nodded.

  ‘Yes, that’s Jenny and Clive’s. They’re away quite a lot but you might be lucky.’

  I thanked her and walked the short distance down the path, along the pavement and

  through a creaky metal gate to Jenny and Clive’s door. I’d seen them less frequently than I’d

  seen Jo since we’d moved in, on maybe just three or four occasions, and again it had just been

  a friendly wave or ‘good morning’. Suddenly feeling that all of this was a little pointles
s, I

  pressed the doorbell and waited. Thirty seconds or so later a light came on in the hallway and

  the door was opened by a short, completely bald man in a checked shirt.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, tersely.

  ‘Oh, hello, I’m Gemma O’Connor – I moved in next door a few weeks ago? I was just

  wondering …’

  ‘Oh, yes. Sorry, I didn’t recognize you,’ he interrupted. ‘We’ve had the police round here,

  asking about you. Well, about somebody called, what was it? Daniel?’

  ‘Danny. My husband, Danny. He’s gone missing,’ I said.

  He stared at me for a moment, giving me time to note that he had very long eyelashes for

  a man who otherwise seemed to be distinctly follicly challenged.

  ‘Yes, so I hear.’ His tone was less terse now, warmer. ‘That must be horrible. We couldn’t

  help though, I’m afraid. We remembered seeing you a couple of times in the past few weeks,

  but not your husband, I’m afraid. To be honest, we’re not around that much – I travel a lot for

  work and Jenny, that’s my wife, she doesn’t like to be in the house on her own, so she often

  goes to stay with her sister in Winchester when I’m away. So we couldn’t recall seeing him,

  your husband I mean, at all. Not much help, sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK. If you’re away a lot … and we’ve only been here a few weeks. It’s nice to

  meet you properly, anyway. Sorry to disturb.’

  He smiled, showing crooked front teeth.

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  ‘Not a problem. I hope he turns up soon. We’ll have to get together, maybe? Have a

  drink?’

  I smiled back, even though my stomach was twisting.

  Danny, where are you?

  ‘That would be nice. And thank you.’

  Back in the house I walked straight to the kitchen and unlocked the back door, stepping

  out into the dark courtyard, my mind racing. How often did Danny use the front door? Never

  on a week day, when he used his bike to go to work … I corrected myself. To go wherever he

  was going. And in February, it had still been dark when he’d left in the morning, often before

  seven, and was dark again when he arrived home, rarely before six, sometimes several hours

  later. Unless somebody was looking out of one of the rear windows of their house, and peering

  down into our yard, at those exact moments of his departure or arrival … and even if they were,