Читать книгу The Perfect Couple - Jackie Kabler - Страница 9

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 publishing success stories of the past few years, and I loved the variety of the work. Regular boxes of beauty samples arrived for me to test and review, and a few times a month there was a trip somewhere, maybe a new Pilates studio, the launch of a new fashion brand, or – the most coveted invitations – an overnight visit to a spa hotel or retreat, to try what they had to offer and write about my experiences. It was all a far cry from my early days as a news reporter, when I’d worked my way up through the regional press and finally landed my dream job at The Telegraph. I’d thrived for a while, adoring the buzz of chasing the big stories and landing the major interviews, but after a few years, the long hours and endless stress had begun to take their toll. Unexpectedly, I’d found myself becoming increasingly anxious, developing insomnia so crippling that I’d go days without sleep, panic gripping me as I stared at my blank screen, unable to write a single word. It all came to a head the day I was pulled into the editor’s office for a dressing-down for the second time in two weeks for failing to meet a deadline. That night, I staggered, sweating and shaking, off my tube train home two stops early, gasping for breath and convinced I was having a heart attack. When my doctor informed me the next day that it had most likely been a panic attack and told me frankly that I looked dreadful and needed to take some time off work for the sake of my mental health, I rang the paper and handed in my notice that same afternoon. It had been as if a huge, heavy weight had been lifted off my back, and I’d slept soundly that night for the first time in months. And I’d got lucky. A few high-profile stories during the previous year had boosted my profile, and when I decided to try going freelance and started looking around for work, I’d quickly been signed as a columnist for Camille, one of the UK’s biggest selling women’s monthly magazines. It paid well, very well, and the kudos the job gave me meant that other magazines were keen to commission me too. All the same, the transition hadn’t been easy, not in the early days. I missed the newsroom banter and my work friends, terribly at first, but we’d kept in touch, and very soon the freelance life began to suit me so well that I’d never regretted my decision. And OK, so writing about lipstick and wallpaper wasn’t quite the same as interviewing the Home Secretary or covering a murder trial, but I’d been there and done that, and I realized that I needed this quieter life, one where I could sleep and breathe and live instead of being chained to a news desk, on call twenty-four hours a day, always on alert for the next big story.

It had been when Albert had come into my life too. Before, my hours had been too long and unsociable to even think about dating, never mind consider having a pet. But suddenly, anything was possible, and getting a dog seemed to be the perfect way to celebrate my new lifestyle: a companion at home, lying at my feet as I wrote, and an excuse to get outside daily and walk in the fresh air. Albert had brought me so much joy, and fortunately when Danny had arrived on the scene, he’d instantly fallen in love with my gorgeous, clever puppy too.

‘Gemma, he’s feckin’ perfect,’ he’d said, crouching down to get a better look. Albert had promptly rolled over for a tummy rub, and Danny had laughed and obliged.

‘We always had dogs growing up in Ireland, but since I moved to London I haven’t been able to, you know, with work and everything. Can we take him for a walk, now? He can come to the pub with us!’

His enthusiasm had sent a ripple of happiness through me, and the attraction I was already feeling towards Danny had doubled, instantly. Eighteen months later, I’d never been happier. Well, never been happier until Friday of course. Danny’s face floated into my head again and my throat tightened. Trying to write had kept me from obsessing for an hour or so, but now the fear was returning. It was Monday morning. Day four without a word, my repeated emails unanswered, attempts to Skype him failing, his status still showing as offline.

Where are you, Danny? For God’s sake, this isn’t funny anymore!

I’d thought hard about when to tell my and Danny’s families what was going on, and had decided to leave it just a few more days, a week maybe. Surely he’d be back by then anyway, I reasoned, and I’d have freaked everyone out for no reason at all. Trying to deal with the freaking out I was doing myself was quite enough. Purely for something to do, I flicked the kettle on for what must have been my fifth cup of coffee of the morning and, realizing that, although I’d fed Albert, who was snoozing in his bed, I hadn’t eaten anything myself since the previous day, since before my visit to the police station, pushed a slice of bread into the toaster. I needed to dig out another photo of Danny, I remembered – they’d asked me for one of him on his own, a recent one if possible. They’d been nice, those two police officers, the woman – DCI Dickens, was that her name? – petite but formidable at the same time, her body lean and taut, hair tightly cropped into a blonde pixie cut and those intense, dark blue eyes. And her sidekick, her deputy, DS Clarke, a little quieter and gentler, tall and solid, good-looking with his neatly trimmed facial hair, white even teeth, smooth dark skin. A right handsome pair. Are they romantically involved? I wondered idly, then pushed the ridiculous thought aside. They were police detectives, in Bristol and not in some TV cop drama. They were probably so busy they barely had time to pee, never mind have illicit workplace affairs.

I took my coffee and toast into the sitting room and sank onto the sofa. It was a lovely room – big and bright and high-ceilinged, with a huge working fireplace, cushioned window seats and a polished, dark wood floor. We’d bought a new sofa in yellow velvet and, after checking that the owners wouldn’t mind us doing a little decorating, had found a delicate, trellis-patterned wallpaper in the softest dove grey to cover two of the walls. I’d put it up myself in an afternoon, and I loved it. The place was in immaculate condition but if we were going to live in it for a year or more, we wanted to put our own stamp on it.

‘It’s a parterre pattern,’ I’d explained to Danny, when the wallpaper sample had arrived. ‘You know, you see it in Victorian-style gardens? When they plan the flower beds so that they form a beautiful pattern. It’s in keeping with the house, but sort of a modern interpretation.’

He’d frowned at me in an exaggerated fashion, clearly bemused, and I’d laughed and given up. To say that Danny wasn’t very interested in home décor was an understatement, but the upside of that was that I could basically do what I liked. He’d help, happily, if I asked him to, but I called the shots, and that was fine by me.

I sat there for a moment, gazing around the room, then remembered what I’d gone in there to do and pulled out my phone. I clicked onto the photos file and started to scroll, looking for a decent snap of Danny. He’d never really liked having his photo taken – for such a gorgeous man he was remarkably camera shy – but we’d taken a few pictures since we’d moved and I thought one of them would be perfect for the police: a close-up shot of Danny lost in thought, standing in the middle of the lounge, staring at the wall as he tried to help me work out which of our several large pieces of art would look just right above the fireplace. I’d taken the photo before he’d even noticed I was there, and he’d growled and leapt on me, pulling me down onto the Persian silk rug, telling me I was ‘worse than a bloody paparazzo’ and then kissing me so hard I could barely breathe.

Oh Danny, I miss you so much. Please come home.

I paused, finger resting on the screen of my phone. I’d gone back through a month’s worth of pictures without finding what I was looking for, and I frowned and started scrolling forwards again. Where was it? In fact, where were lots of the photos we’d taken since we’d come to Bristol? There were a few of my work ones from recent weeks, shots of pots of moisturisers and faded jeans and a vibrant pink orchid in a glass bowl. And there were a couple of the house, pictures of some of the rooms, images I’d taken to try to visualize the walls in different colours, to plan my decorating. But where were the photos of Danny gamely attempting DIY, putting up a decidedly wonky shelf? Or the selfies we’d taken, the two of us crashed out on our bed after a full day of trying to sort the bedrooms out and lugging boxes up and down the stairs, sweaty and exhausted but grinning ear to ear? The picture of us both cuddled up in one big armchair, clinking glasses of champagne? I tapped each photo in turn, slowly now. I must have been going too fast, missed them. But no – once again, I was back onto pictures from London, shots I’d taken before we moved. Where the hell were the photos I wanted, the ones from the past few weeks? And why were only some of the recent pictures missing, and not all of them? Some sort of blip with my camera app? They’d all be backed up though, on the cloud, wouldn’t they? I tapped the cloud storage app and started scrolling again, but it was the same photos, the ones I’d just gone through several times in my photos file.

‘What? This makes no sense,’ I said aloud. I put the phone down on the cushion beside me and sat still, thinking. They must be somewhere, but where? Had they been saved into a different file or something? But didn’t photos automatically get saved into the photos file? Something had clearly gone wrong, and while I wasn’t too bad with technology, I didn’t know enough to know where to look next. And the police had asked for a new photo today, if possible. What was I going to do? Give them one from our London days, I supposed. I had a few of those on my phone, and they’d be recent enough. I took a deep breath, trying to quell the anxiety, then picked up the phone again, checking for emails this time. Maybe, just maybe. But just like the previous twenty or fifty or a hundred times I’d checked, there were no new messages in my inbox. Tears suddenly sprang to my eyes. I couldn’t take this much longer. Four days. FOUR. Where was he? Was he lying injured somewhere, unable to get help? Had he just left, without saying a word? Left me, for somebody else, as people kept suggesting? Or … was he … was he dead? My heart began to pound, my breath suddenly coming in ragged gasps.

Stop it. Stop it, Gemma.

Thinking like that wouldn’t help anyone. My hand shaking slightly, I scrolled down my messages, looking for the last email Danny had sent me, the one from Thursday night, feeling a sudden desperate urge to read his words again, wondering if I’d missed something, some sub-text, some clue as to where he might have gone. Shit, where was his last email? I couldn’t find that now. Surely I hadn’t deleted it by mistake? Pretty sure I hadn’t – soppily, I never deleted messages from my husband – I clicked onto my deleted messages folder, putting Danny’s name into the search box.

No messages found.

I knew I hadn’t deleted it. But where was it then? I returned to my inbox and did the same search. This time, a string of emails from Danny appeared, but the most recent was dated Wednesday, the thirtieth of January, weeks ago. What was going on? We’d exchanged dozens of emails since we’d moved to Bristol, since Danny had been phone-less. Where were they all?

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I threw the phone hard onto the carpet, and sat back, covering my face with my hands, the tears flowing freely now. I needed to read Danny’s last email, I needed to. What was wrong with my phone? Or was it my email provider? Was it having some sort of problem? I’d have to phone, ask …

I jumped as a sharp ringing sound interrupted my frantic thoughts. The doorbell. Danny? Could it be Danny, back home, keys lost somewhere? From the kitchen, an excited yelp seemed to imply that Albert was hopeful too.

‘Danny!’ I rushed from the room, pounding down the hallway, almost tripping over Albert who was suddenly scampering past me, my fingers fumbling with the keys, my heart thumping painfully against the wall of my chest.

‘Dann— oh!’

‘Mrs O’Connor, we’re sorry to disturb you … are you OK?’

DS Devon Clarke was standing on the doorstep, broad-shouldered in a black coat, his brow creasing as he looked at me quizzically. Beside him, a smaller, younger man with a sharp nose and small rectangular glasses was also staring at me. I took a step backwards, catching a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror, suddenly aware that I was still crying, yesterday’s un-washed-off mascara streaking my cheeks, my hair wild and unbrushed.

‘Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry. I thought … I thought you might be Danny. I still haven’t heard anything, and I was getting myself into a state … and oh no, please, please don’t tell me you’re here with bad news, please …’

I suddenly realized that two police officers on my doorstep was probably not a good thing, and the panic began to rise again.

‘Please …’

DS Clarke was shaking his head, stepping into the hall and reaching out a hand towards me, patting me on the shoulder.

‘No, no, nothing like that. Don’t worry, OK? We’ve just been making some enquiries and discovered something a little odd we need to talk to you about, and we thought it would be easier to chat face to face. But it’s nothing to panic about, so calm down, all right? Come on, let’s go and sit down. This is DC Stevens …’ he gestured behind him at the smaller man, who nodded, giving me a hint of a smile, ‘and if you point him in the direction of the kitchen he’ll go and make us a nice cup of tea and then we’ll have a chat, OK? Is your dog all right with strangers, by the way?’

I looked down at Albert, who was standing protectively in front of me, gulped in some air and nodded.

‘Sorry, I’m just … yes, he’s fine. Albert, go to your bed. It’s not Danny. Go, Albert. Kitchen’s down there, just follow the dog. I was just in the sitting room, I’ll show you.’

After a moment’s hesitation Albert obeyed and trotted off down the corridor, his head low, his disappointment clear. DC Stevens followed him as instructed, and I staggered back into the lounge and slumped onto the sofa again, my legs feeling weak and wobbly. DS Clarke perched on the chair opposite, and for a couple of minutes made small talk, asking me if I’d heard anything at all from Danny, then changing the subject entirely, admiring the large bay windows, commenting on the bronze sculpture that sat on a side table and asking me to remind him how long we’d lived in Bristol. But when DC Stevens reappeared, bearing three steaming mugs balanced on the tray we kept on the kitchen counter, the mood suddenly changed.

‘Mrs O’Connor, we’ve been making some enquiries this morning, into your husband’s disappearance, as promised. We started by visiting his workplace, ACR Security?’

His tone was suddenly serious, and a chill ran through me. I nodded.

‘OK? And?’

He paused. ‘Well, this is the weird thing. It’s not his workplace.’

I stared at him, not understanding.

‘What do you mean? Of course it is. I mean, he hasn’t been there long, but certainly a few weeks. He would have started on the …’ I thought for a moment, trying to remember the exact date. ‘Well, I actually moved down to Bristol a week before Danny did, because he had stuff to finish up in London; I can’t remember if I told you that? But he came to join me on the evening of the eighth of February, that was a Friday. He started at ACR on the Monday, so that would have been the eleventh. I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean by it not being his workplace?’

DS Clarke glanced at his colleague for a moment, and then both turned back to look at me.

‘What I mean, Mrs O’Connor, is that ACR say your husband was offered and did accept a job with them, which he was indeed due to start on the eleventh of February. But a couple of weeks before that date, he emailed them to say that he wouldn’t be taking up the position after all, due to a change in circumstances. Needless to say they weren’t very happy about him changing his mind, especially at such short notice, but there wasn’t much they could do about it. Therefore, you see, ACR Security was not your husband’s workplace. So … can you help us out with that, at all?’