The Death Knock

by Elodie Harper

  ‘Not another complaint?’ she says, aghast. In her mind she leaps from a snotty email, to a reprimand from Ofcom, to a suit for libel, to losing her job. ‘But I was so careful!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘You were fine. That Luke Heffner on the other hand, skating on very thin ice, I thought. No, this is a follow-up call with a tip-off. About our beardy-weirdy.’

  ‘I don’t have to interview him again, do I?’

  ‘Better than that. We’ve been contacted by one of Lily’s colleagues. A woman called Amber Finn. She’s another of Donald Emneth’s “friends”. Or rather he’s one of her punters.’

  ‘So he was paying Lily and Sandra for sex.’

  ‘Of course.’ Charlie waves a hand dismissively. ‘Would you hang out with Donald Emneth unless you were paid to?’

  ‘What about my barman? And the new blog?’ Frankie asks. She had texted Charlie last night and is disappointed he’s not more enthusiastic about interviewing Brett or going after @Feminazi_Slayer2.

  ‘The YouTube footage of Ava is definitely a good find, we’ll use that tonight,’ he says. ‘And I told Kiera you had a couple of possible leads. She wants to chat about it all when you get back.’ He shrugs. ‘But for now Donald Emneth is the only story in town.’

  Frankie looks at a giant plasma TV above Charlie’s head. There’s a row of them, as big as miniature cinema screens, all playing various news channels on mute. She can see a pre-recorded clip of Mr Emneth taking his bins out that morning, surrounded by a pack of reporters, all thrusting microphones under his nose and shouting questions at him. ‘They’ve got my jacket,’ he keeps repeating, his words coming up in real time one by one as subtitles on the screen. ‘They wouldn’t give it back.’ In the silver flashes of the paparazzi cameras, his eyes look wide with fear.

  ‘I’m not so sure about this. Don’t you think he’s had enough of a grilling? I don’t want to end up in McNae’s Essential Law for Journalists as a case study for the chapter on defamation.’

  ‘Would I do that to you?’ Charlie asks. He has a crocodile grin. ‘Trust me, you’re going to be fine.’

  Amber Finn’s flat is in Costessey, not far from Donald Emneth’s house. Frankie and Gavin sit in her immaculate front room. Two walls are painted grey, while the others are papered in a blue and silver floral print. A large pink poster of the Eiffel Tower hangs above the sofa they’re sitting on and in the corner is a stack of children’s plastic toys. Frankie balances a mug on her leg, trying not to spill any tea on the cream carpet.

  ‘Lily and I weren’t colleagues, not really,’ says Amber, leaning over to hand Gavin his mug. She has her hair in a ponytail and wears coral-pink jeans. ‘I have a very select client list. Lily was a lost soul.’ She sits down in a chair opposite. ‘I only met her the once. At a sex workers’ support group. I think she went along because she thought they might give her methadone. She was an addict. In the industry for all the wrong reasons.’

  ‘But you both knew Donald Emneth?’

  ‘Donnie is well known in the community. He’s a sex maniac.’

  Gavin chokes on his tea. ‘The old guy?’ he asks. He pulls a disgusted face and looks at Frankie, expecting her to share his dismay. Not for the first time, she wishes her cameraman were more discreet. She ignores him, burying her nose in her mug.

  Amber looks unperturbed. ‘Donnie’s a sweet old thing. He’s also very lonely, the sort who wants to imagine you’re friends. You know, have a cuppa, chat about life.’ She leans into the side of her chair, stroking some fluff off the arm of her cardigan. ‘He’s got this whole fantasy that he’s just helping you out. There’s no harm in him. He’d never have hurt Lily. Or the other girl, what was her name?’

  ‘Sandra.’

  Amber nods. ‘That’s why I called your newsroom. There’s a lot of crap talked about sex work, but I’ve been doing it a while, and I can tell you, you get a feel for the dodgy ones. The ones who might want to hurt you. And you stay well clear. I’ve never felt nervous with Donnie.’

  ‘How did he come up in conversation, given you only met Lily the once?’

  ‘We were trying to talk to her about safety, get her to set limits on who she’d take on as a client.’

  ‘You mean not get into strange guys’ cars,’ says Gavin. ‘Isn’t that the nature of the job?’

  Amber looks irritated. ‘It is for a streetwalker. Not for me.’

  ‘Is that—’ Gavin starts, but Frankie cuts him off before he can ask another question. ‘What did Lily say about Donnie?’

  ‘That he was one of her regulars. She’d got in his car a few times, and then he started seeking her out. We told her to try and only go with people like him, guys she’d met before and trusted.’

  Frankie thinks about previous cases where sex workers have been murdered by men they’ve known for years, wonders if it’s ever possible to know whether a punter is safe. But she keeps her suspicions to herself. Better to ask that on camera, than risk offending Amber now. ‘You must be very fond of Donald Emneth, or think highly of him at least, to be doing this interview.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say I was fond of him. But it’s not fair, all the media coverage making out he’s some sort of dangerous creep. And your news editor said I could be anonymous. And paid.’ She folds her arms, eyeing them both. ‘Though not much. Your company’s a bit tight, isn’t it?’

  ‘We don’t normally pay people anything at all for talking to us. We’d be bankrupt in a week,’ says Gavin. ‘Think about all the hundreds of interviews we do.’ He and Amber stare at each other in mutual dislike.

  ‘As far as making it anonymous,’ Frankie says. ‘How anonymous does it need to be? Unrecognisable to your mum or just casual passers-by?’

  ‘My mum’s dead,’ says Amber. ‘And I’m not ashamed of what I do. Only reason I want to be anonymous is so my little girl doesn’t get a load of shit at school about Mummy being a prostitute.’ She looks at Gavin. ‘Lots of people have very backward views about sex work.’

  They film Amber as a blurred silhouette against one of her grey walls, the ponytail down to disguise her profile even further. It’s an uncomfortable interview. Amber has plenty to say off camera but once the record light is red, many of her answers dwindle to monosyllables. Even worse, although she tries to counteract the negative coverage of Donald Emneth, whenever she does manage a more detailed answer it ends up making the old man sound more, not less, alarming.

  ‘I wouldn’t go round his house in a hurry,’ Gavin says, tucking the last of his camera gear into the car boot. He slams it shut. Frankie can see Amber’s face at the window of the front room, watching them, as she walks round to the passenger side of Gavin’s battered Toyota.

  ‘I know,’ she says, getting in and pulling the seat belt on. ‘Why did she tell us he locked her up once? How can she possibly think that makes him look like Mr Nice Guy?’ They reverse out of the driveway, Amber’s face still in the glass. ‘I can’t imagine what a dodgy punter’s like, if he’s a safe one.’

  ‘Though she says he only locked her up for company, an excuse for extra tea and biscuits,’ Gavin says. ‘A likely tale.’ He pulls into the road, and Amber’s flat slowly disappears in the rear-view mirror. ‘Are you going to use it? It was the best bit of the interview.’

  ‘Guess I’ll have to. Though I’d rather not. We’re meant to be helping clear his name and it just makes him look even crazier. And I know he’s been released without charge, but who knows in a case like this?’

  Gavin glances at her, then turns his face back to the road. ‘If you don’t use it, Luke Heffner will.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘He scooped us on our own interview last time. What was all that about?’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Frankie thumps her head back against the seat in annoyance. ‘You were there, Marks asked us not to record it! I didn’t use it because I’m not a complete wanker.’

  ‘I know that, Franks, and it makes you a nice person. But no
t always a good journalist.’ He raises his voice to drown out her protest. ‘Sorry, but it’s true. I know Charlie always backs you up, but this is the type of story that could make or break you. It’s massive. So you can either get a bit more ruthless, or get used to Luke from national leaving us in the shade.’ He looks over at her again. ‘And don’t forget, Charlie’s not in charge any more. It’s Kiera you have to think about. She’s not somebody you want to disappoint. Seriously.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re telling me to suck up to Kiera. She’s a total cow.’

  ‘All the more reason to suck up to her. Listen,’ Gavin says, tapping his fingers on the wheel for emphasis. ‘I’ve been in the business a lot longer than you.’ Frankie rolls her eyes. ‘No, listen to me, I have. Bosses like that, they come in and they’re looking to get rid of people, put their own stamp on things, make a place their own. It’s not just you, we’ve all got to be careful. Charlie too.’

  ‘Well, cheers for the lecture, Gav,’ she says, turning away from him and watching the houses flash past the window. ‘But for your information, I’m about to go to Kiera with some digging I did at the weekend, so I don’t think she’s going to fire me just yet.’

  By the time they’re back at the newsroom Frankie and Gavin are friends again. She knows he’s not a tactful man and despite numerous tiffs over the years, they never stay annoyed with each other for long. But his warning has made her more nervous about the meeting with Kiera. She’s desperate to impress the new boss. Charlie suggests they hold their catch-up in the kitchen over a cup of tea.

  ‘So this Brett will definitely talk?’ he says, once they’re all installed at a table. He’s lounging on the bench while Kiera sits stiffly at the end. ‘It’s quite a good line, if he did see somebody suspicious at the bar.’

  ‘Yes, he told me he’d do an interview.’ Frankie glances at Kiera. ‘I can text him and ask if he’s free tomorrow.’

  ‘We should definitely pursue this,’ says Kiera, drumming her pink shellac nails on the table. ‘After all, Brett might turn out to be the killer, and then we’ll be the only ones to have interviewed him.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s a suspect,’ says Frankie, alarmed by Kiera’s lurch in logic. ‘The interview would just be about what he saw, you know, the strange guy watching Ava.’

  Kiera purses her lips. ‘The only man we know for sure was watching Ava that night is Brett. That’s if your little student stalker Laura is to be believed.’ She taps her fingers in an aggressive tattoo. ‘You’ve always got to question why people agree to talk to the press about a murder case. I can think of plenty of times where the guilty party’s gone to the media to point the finger elsewhere. How do we know this creep that Brett claims he saw even exists?’ Kiera pauses to examine a nail. ‘What else do you have?’

  ‘There’s also the blog on that website I found.’

  ‘Oh yes, what was that? Some saddo rambling online?’

  ‘A bit more than that,’ Frankie replies, bringing Killing Cuttlefish up on her laptop. ‘I found this sexist website that a load of weirdos like to vent on. One of the guys who posts on it targeted Hanna, saying she lied in court, and the whole thing was so nasty she had to change her name. Now this same writer, who calls himself Feminazi Slayer, is attacking Sandra, Lily and Ava on the site, saying they all deserved what they got.’

  ‘Lemme see that.’ Kiera gestures impatiently for the computer.

  Charlie and Frankie watch as she reads. A pink flush appears on her cheeks and her eyes widen. Frankie knows that feeling. For the first time since she’s arrived, she feels a flicker of solidarity with her boss.

  Eventually Kiera looks up and turns furiously to Charlie. ‘Why haven’t we been all over this?’

  ‘The lawyers didn’t want us to say too much, they thought—’

  ‘Fuck the lawyers.’ She shoves the laptop over to Frankie. ‘We could have an exclusive insight into a serial killer right here. This is gold dust.’

  Charlie makes a face. ‘Isn’t that a bit of a leap? The blogger’s an arsehole, clearly, but we don’t know he’s the killer.’

  ‘He targeted Hanna, didn’t he? And now he’s saying all the others got what was coming. Pretty damning circumstantial evidence if you ask me. And either way, people are lapping anything up on the Strangler right now, we’d be mad not to run it.’ She jabs a pink fingernail towards them both. ‘Right, Frances, script your piece with Emneth’s prostitute pal as quick as you can, then leave it with Caz to edit. I want you live on the programme talking about this blogger. Who is he? Is he the guy running the website, or just some random nutter who mouths off on there with all the other freaks? He must be local to know all that stuff about Hanna. Call the police, see if you can get any more from them about whether they are investigating his posts or the site.’

  ‘What about the lawyers?’ Frankie says, looking nervously at Charlie.

  ‘You let us deal with that,’ Kiera says, getting up and waving Frankie off the bench. ‘Go after this blogger as hard as you can. I don’t want you pulling any punches. Let’s flush the bastard out into the open.’

  In the studio, the light on camera one is red. They’re on air. Paul Carter has leaned forward, taking charge of the interview and partially blocking Zara from the shot. All that viewers at home will see are her legs, akimbo in her navy trousers. Sit forward! Frankie wills her friend, but Zara stays put.

  ‘So, what have the police said, Frances?’ asks Paul.

  The red eye lights up on camera two as the director changes shot, and Frankie talks into its lens.

  ‘At the moment, not much. They’ve confirmed that the blog post is forming part of their enquiries, and that Hanna did complain to them about the first post, nearly a year ago.’ Paul has arranged himself into the pose of expectant listener, though she suspects he’s simply counting down the seconds until the shot returns to his face. Zara, she can tell, is genuinely hearing what she says. And all the while she talks, the red light is shining. In Frankie’s imagination it becomes the eye of the murderer, watching her. She knows, instinctively, that she is being observed by the man who killed Hanna and Sandra and Lily, the man who is holding Ava. And that killer, whoever he is, has a cheerleader, or if Kiera’s correct, possibly even an identity: @Feminazi_Slayer2. She holds the printed sheet of her prepared speech so hard it begins to crumple in her hand. It doesn’t matter. She isn’t going to read it anyway.

  ‘The thing about this blog, Zara’ – she says, deliberately turning her shoulders slightly to include her friend – ‘is the viciousness of its tone. Nasty, snide and above all threatening. It even ends with a plea that Hanna gets what’s coming to her. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. And all this about a girl who was fifteen at the time of the assault described, and just eighteen when she was killed. So what was so scary about Hanna that this writer felt the need to try and crush her? We know from her friends she was a brave, strong person, a young woman who managed to stand up to the man who had attacked her and get him put behind bars. This blog post,’ she says, her voice starting to shake with anger, ‘is a cowardly, anonymous attack. Just like whoever killed Hanna, Lily and Sandra was a coward.’ In her earpiece Frankie can hear Priya urging her to wind it up, her tone increasingly insistent, but she hasn’t finished. ‘The writer of this post never dared confront Hanna in person with his sordid little argument. And now he’s passing his time bravely maligning the reputations of murdered and missing women. But perhaps he would care to come on our programme one evening and explain himself? Unless he’s too afraid to show his face.’

  ‘Thank you, Frances,’ says Zara, cutting in. ‘We appreciate you keeping us up to date on the latest in the case. We turn now to another story . . .’

  The red light is off camera two and Zara and Paul are talking to camera one. Frankie is out of shot. Clive the engineer comes up to her quietly and unclips the mic from her jacket. They’re live so he can’t say anything, but he looks at her as he winds up the wire, and shakes his hea
d.

  After the programme Priya is beside herself. She paces up and down during the debrief, wringing her hands. Frankie’s other colleagues avoid her eye, all except Zara, who says nothing but slides into the seat next to her in a sign of solidarity.

  ‘Frankie, what were you thinking? Offering some sort of personal ultimatum to the killer, for God’s sake!’

  ‘It was an ultimatum to the blogger. And it wasn’t personal. I suggested he come on the programme.’

  ‘A blogger who you compared to the killer for being a coward. Jesus, let’s just hope the bastard doesn’t decide to sue for defamation.’

  ‘I think we could say most of it was fair comment,’ says Charlie. ‘Well, the stuff about it being snide and nasty.’

  ‘If she’d left it there, fine, but Frankie went sailing well over the line. Emotional, baiting, what were you doing?’ Priya looks very upset, as if she’s taken her friend’s mistake personally. Frankie bites her lip. The adrenalin from going live is wearing off and guilt and anxiety are creeping in to take its place.

  ‘OK, if we can get over the histrionics here,’ says Kiera, drawing out the word with her throaty smoker’s drawl. ‘I thought we really owned the story tonight. Nice little exclusive from Frances, and a bit of drama.’ She leans back, her houndstooth jacket buckling to reveal the shine of its red lining. ‘Imagine our ratings will shoot up.’

  ‘So you’re happy she just compared a blogger to a serial killer?’ asks Priya.

  ‘Yeah, that was going a bit far, but I’m not going to lose sleep over it.’ Kiera tosses the auburn hair from her eyes. ‘I can’t really see this guy suing us. According to Frankie the IP address of this website and this mystery blogger are so encrypted, PC Plod can’t even get the article removed, let alone find out who wrote it. We didn’t name the website on air. And who knows? Maybe he is the killer.’

  It feels uncomfortable being at odds with Priya and supported by Kiera. She can tell Priya is furious, even though she’s stopped speaking. Frankie turns instinctively to Charlie, willing him to back her. He meets her eye. ‘I think all that about defamation is probably true,’ Charlie says, talking as if there’s just the two of them there. ‘I’m not so bothered about us being sued. I’m more concerned about the fact Frankie just issued a challenge to a potential serial killer, or at the very least a total madman, live on air. I’m not denying it would be a great exclusive if he came on the show,’ he adds sarcastically, with a sidelong look at Kiera. ‘I’m just concerned he might look for a rather more personal showdown.’