Dragging over a gleaming stool, Frankie settles down in front of the screen, scrolling through her notes on the different victims. Sandra Blakely, 38, mother of two, crack addict and sex worker, found dead on wasteland in Costessey. Strangled. Lily Sidcup, 26, heroin addict and sex worker, dumped in a layby off the A47. Also strangled. Frankie pauses. She remembers knocking on the door of Lily Sidcup’s parents’ house, their tear-blotched faces as they welcomed her in. Her discomfort at eavesdropping on their grief, perched on the sofa clutching a mug of too-strong tea as Gavin filmed their desolation for posterity. Lily had been found first, even though she was killed second. She had only recently got into sex work, bullied into it by her drug pusher boyfriend, or so her mother claimed. Her family still kept in touch and had quickly noticed she was missing, unlike poor Sandra Blakely, who had long ago disappeared into a vortex of strangers’ cars and quick fixes.
Then there’s Hanna. Frankie closes her eyes for a moment, though it doesn’t help her blot out the memory of the eighteen-year-old lying dead on the mud. Hanna obviously had a difficult background, and anyone stalking her would know she had no family waiting for her to come home at night. But she did have a steady job, and friends at work who would have noticed her absence. The killer had a stroke of luck when her dozy flatmates called Hanna in sick on her behalf.
‘And now there’s Ava Lindsey,’ Frankie murmurs, looking at the photograph of the student with pink hair. Shuffling all the stills together on the screen, Frankie can see nothing that obviously links the women, except their sex. There’s short, blonde Sandra, a little on the gaunt side, dark circles under her eyes. The photo of Lily is an old one, provided by her family, but still, she looks nothing like the other two. Hanna is absurdly young, still childlike, posing in a bathroom mirror in the poor-resolution photo.
Thinking back to the press conference, Frankie remembers the London Daily Times journalist with his prostitute fixation. The police said the women’s professions were irrelevant, but Frankie isn’t so sure. It feels like the killer has been slowly building up to more challenging, high-profile prey. First the sex workers, notoriously easy to kill, less likely to be missed. A practice run for somebody unused to murder. Then the apprentice with no family. And now the middle-class, A-star student, whose disappearance is bound to cause a fuss. She thinks back to Peter Marks, his warning that the killer would be feeding off the media coverage, enjoying the sense of power.
She sits back from the screen. ‘You’re not Donald Emneth, are you?’ she says to the imaginary killer, as if he’s standing before her. ‘You’ve only just got started.’
The sound of the key in the lock makes her jump. Jack comes in looking frazzled, clutching three plastic bags from Morrisons. She jumps off the stool and goes to help him. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean for you to do a big shop after working all day.’
‘Oh don’t worry, it was on the way. But it’s not after work, sadly. I’m really sorry Franks, but can we do the cinema another night? I ought to start writing up my report and could do with a quiet one in. Tomorrow I promise I’m all yours.’
‘That’s fine, there was nothing I was desperate to see at the cinema anyway,’ she says, unloading a block of cheese and giant container of milk into the fridge. ‘Actually, if you don’t mind I might text Zara. She’s alone this weekend. We’ve not had a girls’ night out in ages.’
Frankie
She has no difficulty picking out Brett. Frankie sits at the bar in The Blue Bicycle, around the same spot she remembers Ava sitting in Laura’s photo. The guy serving her is tall and slim, but muscular. He clearly works out. His dark hair is flopped in a casual style she imagines it took some time to arrange, and his shirt collar is pressed into two sharp points. The lights above them ripple in different colours like sunlight on the sea, making it hard to see if the fabric is white or blue. Behind him, her reflection is in fragments, scattered amongst bottles of spirits in the mirrored shelves.
She’s put a smart black dress on, and clipped in some dangly earrings to pass as making an effort for a Saturday night without overdoing it. She smiles at him, but doesn’t say too much. In spite of herself, Frankie has butterflies in her stomach. It’s not the thought of the attractive man in front of her, but the whiff of a possible exclusive in the air.
‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’ he says, as he mixes her Bellini.
‘I work for the Eastern Film Company,’ she says.
‘That’s right.’ He shoots her a dazzling grin. The man really is gorgeous. No wonder Laura is smitten. ‘I’m good with faces. You’re the new presenter, aren’t you?’
Frankie thinks of Zara with her unsexy pinstripe and nearly snorts. Maybe she should have worn the low-cut top. ‘No, that’s a friend of mine. I’m a reporter. My name’s Frances Latch.’
‘Brett Hollins.’ He holds out a hand, damp with Prosecco. ‘Sorry, I get confused between the two jobs. Obviously you’re not the older woman on the sofa.’ He glances at a couple waiting by her elbow, the man holding out a tenner. Brett hands over her drink. ‘Excuse me a second. Don’t go anywhere.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t.’
Frankie watches him assemble two Mojitos, crushing the mint and lime. His movements are deft and practised. She can tell he’s aware of her watching.
Brett finishes serving the couple and leans on the counter to talk to her again. ‘So. A journalist.’ His eyes linger on the skin at the base of her throat. ‘Should I be worried? Everyone says the media can’t be trusted.’
‘Depends if you’ve got anything to hide,’ she says.
‘You’ve been covering that serial killer, haven’t you?’ he says. ‘I’ve watched some of your reports.’ He flashes another smile. ‘You’re pretty good.’ He’s flirting but she senses something needling behind his compliment. Frankie decides it’s safest to play this one as close to the truth as possible.
‘Thanks. I heard the last woman came drinking here sometimes.’ She takes a sip of her Bellini. ‘So I thought I’d pop along and get a feel for the place, chat to a few people.’
‘I saw her around.’ He shrugs. ‘The dead girl.’
‘Dead?’ says Frankie, her stomach dropping. ‘She’s just missing at the moment.’
‘Sorry, I can’t keep track,’ he says. ‘Is she the one that’s not been found yet?’
‘Yes. Ava Lindsey. Still missing.’
‘Well, I hope she turns up alive. Though it doesn’t seem likely, does it? A shame. She was pretty.’
‘Do you know her?’
He shakes his head. ‘Saw her and her friends come in here the week she went missing. They all got trollied.’ He mimics throwing back a hand and downing a drink. ‘Practically cleared the bar out of shots.’
‘Are you sure it was Ava?’
‘I wouldn’t miss the pink hair,’ he says. Then he leans further over the counter. ‘Or the pretty face.’
His words remind Frankie of Donald Emneth. Though at least Brett has better manners and looks into her eyes. His are dark brown. He stares with an intensity that’s supposed to be flattering but feels unsettling.
‘Hello old girl, sorry I’m late.’ Zara thumps a bag down on the stool beside her; it’s a battered canvas tote, a freebie from one of the years she’s covered the Chelsea flower show. Frankie hadn’t lied about a girls’ night out to Jack, she just hadn’t thought he needed to know exactly why she picked this particular bar.
‘No problem, I was just talking to Brett. Brett, this is Zara.’
He leans over the bar to shake Zara’s hand. ‘Two ladies off the telly. I should be asking for autographs.’
‘Oh, you do know how to flatter an old trout!’ laughs Zara. ‘I’ll have a dry Vodka Martini, thanks.’
‘Of course.’ He looks below the bar. ‘Though we’re a bit low on olives, if you’ll excuse me a minute.’
Brett heads off, and as he swings his narrow hips past the counter, Zara whispers loudly, ‘Blimey! He’s fit!’ It’s part of their
cover act, two women on the prowl, but from the smirk on Zara’s face, she seems to have embraced the role with gusto.
‘Well, he definitely heard that,’ says Frankie when Brett has disappeared from view. ‘Be amazed if the whole bar didn’t.’
‘Good. He was meant to.’ Zara rummages in her canvas bag, bringing out a men’s wallet with a burst seam. She scans the room, taking in the French posters on the walls, including, of course, La Bicyclette Bleue with its pouting 1940s heroine gazing at bomber planes in the sky. It’s early but the place is already filling up; young couples and gaggles of students sit at small chrome tables in dimly lit corners or lounge on the blue velvet banquettes. ‘Christ,’ she says. ‘I’m at least ten years too old for this place. How’ve you been getting on?’
Brett’s back with the olives before she has a chance to answer. ‘I was just telling Zara you saw Ava Lindsey and her friends here the week she disappeared,’ Frankie says as he slips behind the bar.
‘Shocking case, isn’t it?’ says Zara, plumping herself down on the stool. ‘Maybe a splash more vodka,’ she adds, watching Brett dole out an over-generous helping of vermouth into her glass.
‘Of course.’ He smiles. ‘Yes, it’s very sad. That group of students came in quite regularly, not just that week. I’ve seen them around on campus too.’ He hands over Zara’s cocktail. ‘I’m a post grad at the same uni.’
Zara takes a swig. ‘Spot on. Thanks,’ she says, salt on her upper lip.
‘That’s interesting,’ says Frankie. ‘What are you studying?’
‘Philosophy. I’m majoring in Schopenhauer.’
‘Schopenhauer?’ says Frankie, frowning. ‘Wasn’t he the guy who said men fall in love with a pretty face but end up tied to a hateful stranger?’
Brett looks surprised. ‘Alternating endlessly between a workshop and a witch’s kitchen. Yes, that’s the one,’ he says. ‘Although that’s a paraphrase, not a quotation. Why, are you a fan?’
‘Never read him, I’m afraid. But I remember that quote from The Female Eunuch.’
Zara rolls her eyes, but Brett is staring at her intently. ‘As I say, that’s a paraphrase. Germaine Greer must have put it into her own words. She does that quite often.’
Frankie shrugs and sips her Bellini. ‘Well, I’ve not read him.’ She glances at Zara, whose eyebrows have shot up.
‘Me neither,’ says Zara. ‘Don’t think we have too much call for German philosophers in regional news.’
Brett taps Frankie lightly on the arm. ‘Philosophy isn’t just for university. It’s for everyone. All the time. It’s a cliché about the unexamined life not being worth living, but still true.’
She glances down. His hand is still resting on her skin.
‘Hey! Am I going to have to get this drink myself?’ They turn towards a spotty youth, leaning across the bar, scowling, with an embarrassed-looking girl in tow. Brett excuses himself to serve them.
They spend the next couple of hours at The Blue Bicycle, chatting on and off with Brett, whenever he has a free moment. Zara takes on the role of inquisitor, grilling him on his memories of the last time he saw Ava. Frankie finds herself measuring everything he says against how Kiera might react when she reports it back. She suspects that Brett might be adding details and embellishments to impress them, though she won’t tell her boss that. He talks to both women, but it’s clearly Frankie who’s caught his attention.
After her third Bellini, she’s feeling a little light-headed, and Zara has started recounting one of her previous exploits, the time she single-handedly brought down the management of a prison.
‘It was drugs,’ Zara says, her cheeks flushed. ‘The place was awash with them. And I never really got to the bottom of whether the bosses were merrily letting prisoners get high and top themselves, or if that was just an unfortunate side effect.’
‘That’s why she got the promotion to presenter,’ Frankie says loudly. ‘It was such a great exclusive.’ She looks at Brett. ‘So if you’re serious about wanting to see me glammed up in the studio, reading an autocue, you’ll have to help out.’
‘How would I do that?’ He smiles at her. ‘I’ve not been giving drugs to anybody.’
‘No, but you could tell us everything you remember about the last night Ava Lindsey was here. Nobody’s run an interview like that yet.’
Brett holds his hands out in a gesture of surrender. ‘But there’s nothing to say. They came here, they drank, they left.’
‘I thought you said there was a creepy guy. You noticed some guy you hadn’t seen before, watching them.’
‘You definitely said he was creepy,’ Zara chimes in.
He looks uncomfortable. ‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean anything. Lots of creeps hang out in bars. Both the girls were pretty. And very drunk. I suppose several men in here might have been looking at them.’
‘S’fine,’ says Frankie. ‘Say that then. Still interesting.’
‘No harm, I suppose.’ Brett shrugs. ‘Anything to help a lovely lady.’
‘Fab!’ says Frankie, getting her phone out of her bag. She fumbles and nearly drops it. ‘What’s your number? I’ll call you.’
‘All the girls say that.’ Brett looks at her from under his floppy fringe. He makes an unconvincing ingenu.
‘No, she really will call you,’ says Zara.
They pay up and totter out of the bar. Brett offered to call them a taxi, but Frankie wants to walk home to clear her head and Zara decides to catch a cab in the Forum. They clatter along the cobbles and part at the back of Jarrold’s department store on Bedford Street.
‘The words fish, shooting and barrel spring to mind,’ says Zara as she hugs Frankie goodnight. ‘Poor bastard. At least lemon-faced Kiera will be pleased.’
Frankie laughs and sets off down the dark street. Saturday night is still young – it’s only half past ten – and drinkers are spilling out of bars to stand with bottles and pint glasses in the dull orange light. The air is thick with loud voices and music. It would have been much quieter than this when Ava last walked home. She remembers Brett’s smile and feels a pang of anxiety. It must be guilt at reeling him in that’s making her uncomfortable. She tries to think of Kiera, of how pleased she will be that they’ve got an interview, a new line about a possible suspect. At least this should get her off Frankie’s case for a bit. Over the sound of Norwich on a Saturday night she can hear the clack of her own heels along with the beating of her heart, loud in her ears from an uneasy feeling that won’t go away.
Ava
After he left, it took me a while to move. It wasn’t just that he hurt me; hearing Professor Marks’s voice coming from that monstrous round head felt like a punch to my soul. Even now, I keep wondering if it might be him; whether the person who’s doing this to me, the person who’s killed other women, might be a man I trust, someone I admire even. I can’t believe it’s possible. Professor Marks has put so many of his lectures on YouTube; this bastard must have studied them. It must have been an impression, it must have been.
When I finally felt strong enough, I got up and prised the sandwich off the floor. Most of it was inedible, not because I couldn’t stomach the dirt – I’m too hungry to waste precious food over that – but because he had squashed so much of the filling out, grinding the mayonnaise into the concrete. It made me want to scream with rage. I don’t feel like a dog for eating it, whatever names he calls me. I’m not ashamed of wanting to survive. I keep telling myself that he is the one who is inhuman, not me. It makes me feel better to say it aloud, even though it’s not to his face. You’re the dog, you bastard! Not me!
There were other sandwiches in the bag too. Five. I laid them out against the wall in a line, made a small picnic blanket out of the Tesco bag and sat the apples on it. At least none of the food is going to go off in here, it’s so cold. It made me feel slightly more in control seeing the food set out like that. I can choose when I eat it. I can still make decisions.
But it’s exhausting trying
to keep my own spirits up. In the end I wrapped myself in the horse blankets and tried to get comfortable on the stone-cold floor. Lying there made me cry again. The concrete is so hard and I’m so bruised. Everything is cold, nothing feels soft, or safe or warm. Yet somehow I slept. Despair saps your will to stay conscious I guess, you just want to escape from yourself. It makes me think of Matt, all those times he wouldn’t get out of bed and I snapped at him or rolled my eyes. I wish I’d been more sympathetic.
Light coming through the grille woke me. For a second I wasn’t sure where I was.
Then it hit me.
I couldn’t breathe. I sat up but my legs were tangled in the blankets, which made me panic even more. I kicked and kicked, then flung them off and ran to the door, hammering and screaming. I ran to the grille and yelled at that, but there was only silence. I knew there would be nothing, just as I knew the door wouldn’t open, yet the disappointment still felt crushing.
It was still hard to breathe. I thought I might be having a heart attack, and as my breath whistled in and out, it looked like The Stain was moving at the same time, though I guess it was just me shaking. I don’t know how I came back to myself, but at some point the air seemed to fill my lungs again and I slumped down on the blankets. It’s impossible to get comfortable on them, and the only way to stay warm is to walk, but I needed to rest. I’m encrusted with dirt, sweat and dried pee and every part of me feels cold or hurts. I’ve never longed for a hot bath so much in my life.
I’ve no idea of the time in here, but I decided it was breakfast and ate an apple and half an egg sandwich. It’s not like there was anything else to do, and after the panic subsided, I was ravenous.
Then I waited. And waited.
I hadn’t thought it was possible to feel bored and terrified at the same time, but now I know you can.
I can’t get the other women out of my mind, the ones who must have died in here. I only have names for two. I say them out loud as an exorcism. Lily, Hanna. Did they think what I’m thinking? Feel what I feel now? Did they die in here? I’ve stared at The Stain so long, I feel like it’s changing shape. At one point it came into my head that Lily or Hanna is standing here in the room, watching me, and all I can see is her shadow on the wall. That’s what The Stain is. That’s why it keeps changing. I tried to tell myself if one of them was still here, she’d be wishing me well, siding with me against him, not tormenting me. But there’s nothing good about The Stain. I can feel the evil flow from it like an electric pulse. Sometimes I worry I’m going mad.
The Death Knock Page 10
