The Death Knock

by Elodie Harper

  ‘So, just to go through the basics,’ says Tom Osmond, licking a finger and flipping through the pages of his pad. He’s a heavy man with burst blood vessels across his cheeks; he looks as though he spends more of his time at a carvery than chasing villains. ‘Any contact with this blogger before?’

  ‘None,’ says Frankie. ‘I mean we did try and send him a message through the website yesterday before the broadcast to give a right to reply. The site has a sort of generic contact form, not a proper email address. But nothing came back, from him or the site.’

  DI Osmond nods. ‘And no sense of who this Slayer person might be?’

  Frankie opens her mouth to speak but Kiera jumps in. ‘Obviously not,’ she says.

  Dan Avery is watching Frankie. ‘Nobody who might have taken offence at a story recently?’ His body language, leaning over towards her, partly blocking Kiera from view, deliberately shuts out her boss.

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘There was one guy we did a piece on recently, Martin Hungate. It was about him turning away from domestic violence. He wrote in and complained about me. And then my boyfriend and I bumped into him in Wells and he made it clear he still wasn’t happy.’

  ‘How did he make it clear?’ Avery asks. ‘Did he threaten you?’

  ‘No, no, not at all. He just got a bit shouty. Really, it was nothing awful.’ She shrugs. ‘It happens.’

  DI Osmond blows his cheeks out like a hamster ejecting nuts. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘I suppose it’s something to go on.’

  ‘Did you report this exchange to anyone in the newsroom?’ asks Avery.

  ‘I wish you’d come to me, Frances,’ Kiera interrupts. ‘You know you can talk to me about anything.’ She turns to the police. ‘The safety of my staff is paramount.’

  To look at her, you’d never think Kiera had been the one urging Frankie to flush out the blogger. The sympathetic tone is so convincing, she can’t help staring at her boss, lips parted with surprise. ‘Not to worry,’ says Osmond, mistaking her confusion for embarrassment. ‘It can be hard to admit you’re upset by these things, it’s tempting to ignore them or try to handle it yourself. Just make sure you report anything like that in future.’

  ‘Anybody else who might have a grudge?’ asks DC Avery.

  ‘A few complaints in the past year,’ says Frankie, thinking of an apoplectic colonel who ranted down the phone at Charlie for ten minutes over a report she had done on the fox-hunting ban. She briefly considers mentioning Brett, then dismisses the idea: studying Schopenhauer isn’t a crime. ‘But nothing really out of the ordinary.’

  ‘If you could make a note of names and send us any emails you’ve saved, that would be useful,’ says Avery, handing her a card. ‘You’ve got all my contact details on there.’

  ‘It was you who interviewed Donald Emneth too, wasn’t it?’ says Osmond, sitting back in his chair and hooking his thumbs into his belt. ‘Now, there’s an angry man. Blames all of you lot in the media for his arrest, as if it wasn’t his own choice to go and shoot his mouth off. Another one that’s worth watching.’

  Frankie remembers the old man gazing at her breasts and pestering her for her number. It feels like every lunatic in Norfolk with a grudge has her on his radar. Her shoulders ache, wound tight by anxiety. She glances at Kiera. She wishes her boss wasn’t here, listening to her fears. ‘The thing I’m most concerned about,’ she says, trying to talk as if she’s alone with the police, ‘is if this blogger is actually mixed up in the murders. Isn’t it possible Feminazi Slayer might be the killer? Whoever the guy is, he seems to be local, he targeted Hanna and now he seems obsessed with the murder case.’ Frankie ticks each point off with her fingers as she goes through the list, then looks at the two officers for confirmation. ‘I mean, isn’t that what killers do, obsess about their own crimes?’ Osmond’s sceptical expression makes her pause but she pushes on. ‘And what if posting my address is just to create more suspects, make it harder to work out who the killer is, if I’m . . . If anything happens to me,’ she finishes, unable to spell out her deepest fear more clearly. ‘I’m not asking as a journalist, and I don’t mean to be melodramatic,’ she adds, seeing Osmond raise an eyebrow. ‘I’m just scared.’

  ‘Is there anything else that’s made you think the blogger might be the killer?’ Avery asks, studying her closely. ‘Or any other messages you’ve been sent beside the blog?’

  Frankie shakes her head.

  ‘Well, look, off the record’ – DI Osmond makes quote marks in the air – ‘this blogger isn’t our number one suspect. Of course we’d like to know who it is, eliminate them from our enquiries, but there’s not an anonymous silhouette of this man sitting at the centre of a pin board in the Major Crime Unit. It’s more likely a nasty little crank, that’s our feeling.’ His speech is meant to be reassuring, Frankie knows, but she finds it doesn’t have the desired effect. She’d be happier if finding Feminazi Slayer was their number one priority, then they might actually stop him. ‘Right, so on to the safety stuff.’ Osmond turns to Avery, waving a large hand at him. ‘You OK to go over this?’

  Avery hands Kiera and Frankie a couple of print-outs. ‘All our advice is written on here. The main thing, Miss Latch, is to try not to travel alone if you can help it, have a phone with you and always let other people know where you’re going. Also, this Feminazi Slayer guy is online, so if I were you, I’d be particularly wary of social media – don’t post anything for a while, be careful about what you do post, change all your passwords and up your security settings.’

  ‘When do you think you might be able to get the blog down?’ she says. ‘My address is still up there for any violent psycho to see. Not to mention all the other crap.’

  ‘We’re working on it,’ says DC Avery. ‘The website isn’t registered in the UK, so we’re having some problems identifying who owns it as well as who posts there. Unfortunately we have to find out who runs the site before we can take it down.’

  Frankie makes a face. ‘Great,’ she says.

  ‘As for the rest of the newsroom,’ says Tom Osmond, standing up, followed swiftly by Kiera. ‘It’s good you’ve got CCTV and a security guard at the entrance. But still worth everyone here being told they need to be extra vigilant.’

  Kiera opens the door and they all file through. ‘We can show ourselves out,’ says DI Osmond, shaking her and Kiera’s hands in turn. ‘Try not to worry, ladies. It’s very upsetting, but if it’s any consolation, this sort of nastiness online is getting more and more common, and ninety per cent of the time it’s just empty threats. Not to belittle what you’re going through, of course, but it rarely amounts to anything more than a bad taste in the mouth.’

  Dan Avery takes Frankie’s hand. His eyes are dark grey in his sharp elfin face. ‘You have my card,’ he says. ‘Anything that happens, or anything else that occurs to you. Call me.’

  She stands next to her boss, watching Ernie the security guard let the two policemen out of the building. Kiera turns to Frankie, smiling her unfriendly smile. ‘I liked the whole damsel in distress line, getting them to give us that tip-off about the investigation,’ she says. ‘Good work.’

  Frankie tries to smile back. She doesn’t want to tell her boss that being frightened wasn’t a line, it was the truth.

  Ava

  It’s daytime. I know this because of the light falling through the grille, but I no longer move to feel the sun on my face.

  Sometimes I wish it was over. I wish I was dead.

  When he left me I screamed until I couldn’t speak, howling all my grief for Matt into this hideous cell. I want to dissolve, to be nothing, to never wake up. Is this what my brother felt like too?

  Sometimes I think it can’t be true. That he would never do this to Mum and Dad, not with me gone. And he wouldn’t give up on me so soon, he wouldn’t. I keep telling myself this, but I don’t know what to believe. About my brother, about anything. I don’t know if this man might be Peter Marks. I don’t think so, but he’s not spoken in that
voice again, not used his gestures, so I can’t scrutinise him to see if it’s an impression or not. The first time was too much of a shock to judge properly. I wasn’t expecting it.

  The light moves across the cell and I start to feel angry. What good will my death do anybody? It’s just giving this pathetic bastard what he wants. Then I think of Matt and the pain threatens to drown me. If I’m to survive I can’t go down that path. I have to believe Matt is alive, and if he isn’t . . . I dig the nails into my palms so hard it hurts. ‘If you aren’t,’ I say aloud to my brother, speaking to the empty room. ‘Then it’s even more important I get out for Mum and Dad. I love you, but I’m not going to think about you any more.’

  I try to channel my anger, hang on to it. Rage makes me feel more alive, it’s a better emotion than despair. I have to get out of here. I think about the bastard’s head resting against me and I kill him over and over again, replaying all the possible methods in my mind.

  Gradually the idea moves from fantasy to planning. I’d have to take him completely by surprise. Even then, I don’t think I could overpower him. He looks strong, and I’m only going to get weaker on a diet of apples and egg sandwiches. If I’m going to have any chance at all, I have to try soon. Debris from the box was the only weapon to come my way so far and I was too weak and stunned to make use of it. Though there are also the plastic bags.

  I look at one folded on the floor, underneath the apples. I allow myself to imagine wrestling it over his head, holding the plastic tight while he gasps his last, the gaping mouth visible through the blue and red label, his legs kicking and thrashing on the floor, until he’s not moving. My mind leaps to rifling through his pockets, finding the keys, opening the door – just a few yards in front of me – then escaping and screaming for help. I want to get out so desperately and my imagination is so vivid that thinking about it, my heartbeat accelerates as if it’s really happening.

  Then the images in my head take a darker turn. Rather than overpowering him, he easily manages to take the plastic bag off me, grabs me round the throat and then . . . I screw my eyes shut, shaking my head, not wanting to picture my own death. Arms round my shoulders, I rock back and forth, taking deep breaths, proving to myself that it’s only my imagination; in reality I am still alive.

  Suffocation. Is that how the other women died?

  I stare at The Stain. That’s all that will be left of me, a smudge, a lingering smell in this hideous room for the next woman to find. Or it will be if I don’t try something. The risks involved are so huge I can barely comprehend them. If I make an attempt on his life, I might be bringing forward my own death. But if I don’t? I want to believe the police will find me, but in my gut I know I’m on borrowed time, waiting for him to kill me.

  Unless I kill him first.

  Frankie

  Brett is waiting for her outside The Blue Bicycle, taking a drag from a cigarette. He’s a very different smoker from her cameraman Ray, who snatches his nicotine in angry shameful huffs, wolfing down cigarettes like candy in between filming jobs. Brett has his eyes half closed, and leans against the wall as if he’s the leading actor in a film, savouring a moment between takes.

  ‘Fancies himself a bit, doesn’t he?’ Gavin whispers, thankfully not quite loudly enough for Brett to hear. ‘Bet he’s a player.’ She wonders if he’s wistful. Gavin has been married to Monica for more than thirty years and has three adult children who, it seems to Frankie, are forever tapping him for cash.

  ‘Imagine you broke a few hearts in your day,’ she says, although she isn’t sure that’s true.

  ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘Only ever one girl for me. Wouldn’t change it.’

  Gavin hasn’t mentioned the blog, a rare example of tact that she’s grateful for. At the moment all she wants is to feel like a professional, not an object of pity.

  Brett spots them walking down the street and extinguishes the cigarette, grinding it out under the heel of his shoe. He holds a hand out to Gavin, his eyes lingering on the camera. Surely he can’t have set up Killing Cuttlefish, Frankie thinks, still less be Feminazi Slayer.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t film inside the bar after all,’ he says. ‘The manager wasn’t too happy at the idea. Not ideal, the place being associated with a serial killer.’

  ‘Never know, might be good for business,’ says Gavin. Frankie snorts. ‘What? No need to laugh. People are ghoulish.’

  ‘Well, either way, he’s not budging,’ Brett says.

  Frankie and Gavin exchange glances. That’s going to complicate their filming. They had imagined lots of shots of Brett going about his business, mixing a drink, looking meaningfully over the bar. ‘Any chance I could speak to him?’ she asks. ‘We’d be careful how we filmed it.’

  Brett shakes his head. ‘There’s no point, he won’t agree. And I’d rather not push it.’

  In Frankie’s experience, there’s always a point in asking twice. On the other hand, she doesn’t want to annoy Brett before they’ve shot a frame. ‘OK. Well, we’re on the edge of Tombland.’ She turns to Gavin. ‘We could do the interview on a bench near the river, and get some set-up shots now, maybe walking along the street by the bar?’

  Gavin shrugs. ‘It’ll have to do, I suppose.’ He puts down the camera and starts setting up his tripod. ‘If the pair of you head back up there’ – he points up the hill – ‘then walk down the street towards me, I’ll pan off the front of the bar and get a few shots. And make sure you chat a bit, don’t just plod along saying nothing.’

  Frankie and Brett set off. She hopes Gavin doesn’t want to film them walking from behind; her backside must be twice the size of Brett’s. Would somebody that suave come up with a childish nickname like Fatty? She looks up at him, feeling a little nervous. She wishes the blog hadn’t made her so paranoid. They pause at the top of the hill, then start walking towards Gavin after he gives a wave. ‘So you saw Ava and her friends around a bit,’ she says. ‘Did you know any of them well?’

  ‘One of them.’

  ‘The guy who was there that night or the girl?’

  Brett shoots a sharp glance at her. ‘The girl. Laura,’ he says. ‘Actually we had a thing. Nothing serious, but she got a bit intense. I think we only went for drinks a couple of times, that was the extent of it, but she got the wrong idea.’

  They walk past Gavin and carry on. ‘OK, that’s good,’ he yells, grabbing his tripod and crossing the street. ‘Now if you can walk past me I’ll shoot it from the side.’ The pair of them troop part way back up the hill.

  ‘What do you mean, the wrong idea?’ Frankie asks as they set off again.

  ‘OK, stop and turn back,’ Gavin shouts. They obey, turning round as if in the world’s slowest, most eccentric dance.

  ‘She wanted a boyfriend,’ says Brett. ‘And I’m a mature student. It’s flattering, but I’m not going to have masses in common with an undergraduate. I’m nearly thirty.’

  ‘I think lots of thirty-year-old guys would be delighted by the idea,’ Frankie says.

  ‘Well, I’m not most men.’ He smiles at her, holding her gaze for a moment, then looks away. ‘I prefer a woman who’s lived a little. It’s sexier.’

  Frankie’s glad he isn’t looking at her. She’s not sure how to reply.

  ‘OK. That’s enough. I got the shot,’ Gavin calls. ‘You two can just stay there while I film the outside of the bar.’

  They stop and Brett catches her arm. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, but you’re very pretty, that’s all.’ He looks straight at her, making it hard to avert her eyes. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying so.’

  This is the moment Frankie should tell him she’s flattered but she has a boyfriend. She hesitates. They haven’t filmed the interview yet, and she knows Kiera doesn’t want Brett talking to any other news outlets. She can’t afford to piss him off. She looks down at the floor in what she hopes might be taken as shyness. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she mumbles. After what seems an age Brett moves his hand. She gl
ances up at him again. A chill runs through her. Rather than the smirk she’s expecting, his expression is hard and calculating. He looks like he’s sizing her up. She takes a step back. ‘I’d better see if Gavin needs a hand.’

  She has never had a boss sit in on an entire edit before. It’s not a comfortable feeling. Kiera keeps looming over the keyboard, taking control of the playback. Frankie had thought she might soften up after the police visit, but if anything she seems to be pushing her even harder.

  ‘Let’s hear that last bit again,’ Kiera says, frowning. Caz duly obliges, and Brett’s stunning face becomes mobile on the screen.

  ‘I don’t want to make too much of it. But I did notice a guy watching them. He was slim, dark, I didn’t get the best look at his face, the lighting’s pretty dim in the bar. But he had definitely clocked them.’

  ‘And you thought this man looked a bit sinister? Why?’

  ‘Just a bit off. Creepy if you like. But like I said before, it’s not that unusual. It’s a bar after all, guys get pissed, check women out and . . .’

  Kiera waves a hand. ‘We can come out after he says the guy was creepy. Jesus, your barman could be a lawyer for all the caveats he keeps offering.’ She shoots a dirty look at Frankie. ‘And you don’t exactly press him too hard.’

  ‘Well, he’s not a suspect. Just a witness. I didn’t think it was appropriate.’

  ‘He’s not a suspect yet,’ says Kiera. ‘But if he does turn out to be the killer, that’s when all this material will really be worth something. He’s still our only witness for this supposed creepy guy. Could just be a ruse to throw suspicion elsewhere.’ She takes a sip of tea, leaning back in her chair. The fact her team has been talking to a potential murderer doesn’t seem to perturb her at all. ‘But even if he is the killer, he’s still a dull interviewee. The only other vaguely interesting remark was when he said the girls were pissed. Can you find that for me?’