The Death Knock

by Elodie Harper

  ‘My wife Daisy Meadwell. She’s been gone over two days and they’re not taking it seriously, they’re not doing anything. I’m going mad here.’

  ‘Who’s not taking it seriously? Do you mean the police?’

  ‘Yes, the police. We want to do a press conference and they’re not having any of it.’

  ‘Has your wife, has Daisy, ever gone missing before?’

  ‘Yes but I explained to them that was different, that was before she was a midwife. I’m telling you, you don’t get more reliable. She never misses a shift, never, not for anything, and she’s always home when she says she’ll be.’

  The knot between Frankie’s shoulder blades tightens. ‘What exactly have the police said to you?’

  ‘They’ve said I need to give her time to come home, that she’s got form for taking a few days off. But that was years ago. She was practically a teenager then.’

  ‘How many times has she been missing before?’

  ‘You sound like the police,’ he says. ‘For fuck’s sake, why does that matter?’ There’s a pause, which Frankie doesn’t fill. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m under a lot of strain. Two or three times. But like I said, that was years ago.’

  ‘Have the police said what action they’re taking?’

  ‘They’ve told me they’ll issue a missing-person alert to other forces. But they should be doing more than that! They should be getting the message out on TV that she’s missing, see if anybody’s seen her. Why aren’t they?’

  ‘Mr Meadwell . . .’

  ‘It’s Simon.’

  ‘. . . Simon, I’m really sorry your wife Daisy is missing. I honestly can’t imagine what you’re going through. And I can see how frustrating it must be that the police haven’t done an appeal. But could it be for her own safety? Maybe they think it’s less risky this way?’

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Isn’t it obvious what’s going on? They don’t want the embarrassment of announcing she’s missing while they question that Emneth bloke. But what if someone else has her? And how can saying that Daisy’s missing be any worse than the fact she already is missing?’

  Frankie hesitates. If Daisy has been kidnapped the police must think it’s Donald Emneth, and Simon is right: putting out an appeal while they question him would be tantamount to admitting their interrogation isn’t working. She can’t see them holding their hands up to that in a hurry. Or maybe they genuinely don’t think Mrs Meadwell is at risk. She wonders just how flaky Daisy’s past might be. ‘OK. How do you think we can help?’ she says at last.

  ‘I want you guys to put out an appeal on your TV show. If the police won’t do it, you can.’

  She doesn’t need to speak to her boss to know Kiera would be delighted to break the news that there’s another woman missing. Charlie is another matter. ‘OK, Simon, I understand,’ she says. ‘But I’m going to need to speak to somebody more senior about this, to see if we can do it. Are you OK to give me your phone number? I promise we’ll call you back within half an hour.’

  Frankie takes Simon’s details and hangs up. She heads over to the newsdesk and stands next to Charlie. As always he’s on the phone, though since it’s through the headset she can’t tell until she’s up close. He raises his eyebrows at her, and with one hand over the microphone mouths, What’s up? ‘It’s urgent,’ she says, quietly, so that whoever’s on the other line doesn’t hear.

  ‘Ray, I’m going to have to go,’ he says. ‘I know it’s a pain in the arse but just get whatever shots you can. And then have a fag break or something.’ Charlie ends the call. ‘Pissing off cameramen,’ he says. ‘It’s what I do best.’

  ‘We’ve had a tip-off.’ Frankie sits on his desk. ‘I’ve just spoken to a man who says his wife has been missing for over two days. She’s a midwife, very reliable, though he admits she’s gone missing before, several years ago. The police say it’s too early for an appeal.’ She looks at Charlie. ‘He wants us to do it. But after Amber Finn, I don’t know if we should. I don’t want to put anyone else at risk.’

  Charlie glances round. ‘Let’s head to the kitchen for a moment,’ he says.

  They walk across the newsroom, Charlie nearly tripping over a microphone cable. ‘Watch it!’ he says to the reporter, Marcus, whose desk the cable is trailing from, but the hunched figure doesn’t respond, too busy editing at his laptop with the headphones on.

  In the kitchen, Charlie fills the battered kettle at the sink, then flicks its switch on. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘You don’t need to look so worried. We’re just keeping this between the pair of us at the moment.’ Frankie knows, even though he doesn’t say it, that he is thinking of Kiera. ‘What exactly have the police said to this guy?’

  ‘As far as I can tell, they’ve told him that they will put an appeal out to other forces, but they want to give her time to come home on her own.’ She watches the old kettle; the force of the bubbling as it boils is making it lurch about on its base. One of these days, she thinks, it’s going to leap off the counter and splatter hot water everywhere.

  ‘So they’ve not said doing an appeal would put her at risk.’

  ‘Not according to Simon Meadwell, no.’

  Charlie sighs. ‘Well, we’re obviously going to have to put a call in to the police to try and confirm all this. And I imagine we’re not the only news outlet he’s phoned.’ A pop like a gunshot goes off as the kettle flips its switch. It sits there, still continuing to judder, as if recovering from an outburst of hysteria. ‘How would you feel about going to his house and filming a short piece with him? On the understanding that we may not be able to use it if the police come down heavily against the idea?’

  ‘In all honesty? I’d rather not. But I will if you really want me to.’

  Charlie plops a couple of teaspoons of instant coffee from a vast plastic vat into two grubby-looking mugs, then pours the water out. ‘I know the whole business with Amber Finn has hit you hard,’ he says. ‘But this man Simon Meadwell has a right to publicise his wife’s disappearance. And unless there’s a compelling reason why the police aren’t doing that, there’s no law against him airing his concerns on our programme.’

  ‘Did she really say she’d told Donald Emneth about the interview?’ Frankie blurts out. ‘Amber, I mean. Did she really say that to you?’

  ‘Frankie, Amber getting kidnapped was not your fault.’

  ‘But did she say it?’ She stares at Charlie, trying to read his face for clues, the way she would scrutinise an interviewee she suspected of lying.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘She did. So please stop tormenting yourself. And have you ever thought that perhaps Emneth was always going to kidnap Amber, and our interview is what led police to her? It might be the reason she’s alive.’

  Charlie doesn’t blink as he looks at her, but she can see a nerve twitching in his left cheek. She can only try to believe him, for her own peace of mind. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘It’s just all really crap, isn’t it? I wish they’d catch the bastard and have done.’

  Charlie looks surprised. He hands her a mug, keeping one for himself. ‘Don’t you think they already have?’

  ‘I guess so. I hope so,’ she says. ‘But there’s still that bloody blog.’ She realises as she says it that she’s not mentioned the comments below the line. ‘Actually, that’s become even more of a shit show. There’s now a guy on the comments section claiming to be the Norfolk Strangler. Saying he’ll bump me off if things get less hectic for him. And that Emneth isn’t the right guy.’

  Charlie puts his mug down hard, nearly missing the edge of the counter. ‘Oh God, Frankie. I’m sorry. I was really hoping you hadn’t read all that.’

  She stares at him. ‘You knew?’ He nods. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  Charlie rubs a hand over his face. He looks tired. ‘A couple of the Tabs called the newsdesk the day the blog went up. They’d seen the post from the alleged Strangler underneath and wanted a comment. Obviously we couldn’t let that happen. I called hea
d office in London and the Society of Editors got dragged in to it. The company have asked them not to name you, explained it would put you at risk of more hate online, not to mention anything worse. So far they’ve stuck to the agreement.’

  ‘And you didn’t think I had a right to know all this?’

  Charlie sighs. ‘You’ve been under so much strain. I thought the last thing you needed was the added worry of it all ending up in the papers.’ He draws a finger along the line of the countertop. ‘And to top it off, Kiera wasn’t delighted that I went straight to the bosses without consulting her and there was an almighty row. It felt like too much hassle to involve you in.’

  She remembers the morning meeting when he had allowed Kiera to send her off on her own to Lowestoft. It made sense now. He had already stuck his neck out for her, much more than she could have imagined. ‘Thanks,’ she says at last. ‘To be honest, I have been struggling with it all, so it was nice of you to try and spare me that extra worry. Although I’d rather you kept me informed next time.’ She slumps against the kitchen counter, picturing Leonard Smythe from the London Daily Times with his prostitute theory. ‘I hope the Tabs don’t print anything. Fucking hell, that really would be the icing on the cake.’

  ‘I don’t think they will. That last Strangler post went up after Emneth was arrested, and they’ve all decided he’s guilty if their front pages are anything to go by.’ Charlie looks at his shoes, pained, and she wonders what’s coming next. After five years of working together, she knows he hates anything that resembles emoting; he’d much rather trade good-tempered insults. ‘I’m really sorry I didn’t say anything, but when you didn’t mention that post to me, I honestly thought it meant you hadn’t seen it,’ he says. ‘And I’m sorry this is so hard for you. I wish there was somebody else we could send to film Simon Meadwell. If you really don’t feel up to it . . .’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she says, realising she would rather be busy than mope around the newsroom. ‘I’ll do it.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘After all, no point pissing off Kiera any more than we have to. You’ve obviously done a brilliant job of that already.’

  Charlie snorts. ‘Thanks,’ he says, the familiar tone of sarcasm back in his voice. ‘That makes me feel much better.’

  Gavin is waiting for her in the Toyota, its engine running and fumes belching from the exhaust as she heads across the car park.

  ‘Lunch in the fast lane again then, is it?’ he says as she jumps in the passenger seat.

  She smiles at the familiar joke, snapping the seat belt shut. ‘I’m afraid so. Right.’ She fishes out a scrap of paper from her pocket. Gavin’s finger hovers over his satnav. ‘It’s on Trinity Street, just off the Unthank Road.’

  The journey only takes a few minutes. The Meadwells live in Norwich’s ‘golden triangle’, a short distance from the Eastern Film Company’s offices in the city centre. When they arrive, they’re forced to drive up and down the narrow Victorian terraced street, with its privet hedges and rose bushes, trying to find a parking space. Gavin eventually manages to squeeze the Toyota into a minuscule spot several doors away from the address they want.

  There’s nobody else about as they walk along the pavement. The houses on Trinity Street always make Frankie think of a child’s impression of a home: two large windows at the front, each with a single cross for a frame, and a wooden door with a glass arch at the top. They reach the Meadwells’ front path. Somebody has planted a row of white Japanese anemones in pots the same shade of deep blue as the front door. They’re so unashamedly bright and cheerful, it seems at odds with the tragedy she knows is lurking within.

  ‘Are you Frances Latch?’ A tall man with dreadlocks looks down at her.

  ‘Yes, and this is my cameraman Gavin.’

  ‘You’ll be wanting Simon.’ He waves them into the hallway. ‘Need a hand with that?’ he asks as Gavin clatters past with the gear.

  ‘No, I’m all right, mate, thanks.’

  ‘Just through to the kitchen.’

  They walk along the hallway, past the stairs to a small room at the back, where a man who must be Simon is sitting slumped over a wooden table. He looks up at them as they walk in, his eyes puffy.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he says, without getting up. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in a long time. There are bags under his eyes, and his top is rumpled. Whatever fight Frankie heard in his voice earlier seems to have been extinguished by exhaustion.

  ‘Here, take a seat, I’ll put the kettle on,’ says the first man, heading to the sink. Frankie and Gavin cram round the table.

  ‘I just don’t know what to do,’ says Simon. ‘I can’t go into work, I can’t concentrate, I can’t do anything. I feel so helpless. I just want to find her, I just want her to be OK.’ He looks over at his companion making the tea. ‘My brother Nathan’s been doing everything, I’d have gone to pieces otherwise.’

  ‘Don’t do yourself down,’ says Nathan.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Frankie says. ‘I can’t imagine what it’s like.’ Her eyes wander over to a pink handbag and fluffy white scarf dumped at the end of the table.

  ‘They’re not Daisy’s,’ says Simon, seeing the direction of her gaze. ‘That’s Kelly’s stuff. We live in a house share, she’s a junior doctor, works with Daisy at the hospital. Actually, Nate.’ He looks over to his brother. ‘Are you OK to shut the door? We don’t want to wake her, she’s on nights at the minute.’

  ‘I hope I explained properly on the phone,’ says Frankie, lowering her voice, as Nathan closes them into the small room. ‘We’re not a hundred per cent sure yet that we can put out the appeal. My news editor is on to the police but they’ve been a bit slow getting back to us. The thing is, if they feel it would endanger Daisy – even if they’re not right about that,’ she adds, seeing Nathan’s disgusted expression as he puts down her tea, ‘ – then we can’t run it. I’m really sorry, I know that sounds frustrating, but we can’t take that sort of risk. We have to be guided by what they say.’

  Simon and Nathan exchange glances. ‘What my brother and I don’t get,’ says Nathan, ‘is why all these other women are considered worthy of an appeal but Daisy isn’t? They’ve been off with us from the start.’ He jerks a thumb at Simon. ‘D’you know they even told him to calm down at one point?’

  ‘Seriously?’ says Gavin. ‘What do they expect when your missus is gone?’

  ‘That must have been very annoying,’ Frankie agrees.

  ‘It’s more than annoying. It’s racist,’ Nathan replies. ‘Daisy is God knows where and all they give a shit about is whether he raised his voice or not. I’ll tell you why there’s no appeal.’ He thumps the table with the flat of his hand. ‘It’s because they don’t think anyone wants to see an angry black man on the TV. They don’t think people will have any sympathy, they clearly don’t have any fucking sympathy themselves.’

  ‘Nate,’ says Simon. ‘Please. It’s not helping.’

  ‘It sounds like the police haven’t been great,’ says Frankie. ‘But even if that is the reason they’re not doing an appeal, we’re still stuck if they tell my editor it would endanger Daisy’s life.’

  Simon shakes his head, defeated. ‘Whatever. Let’s get on with the filming and hope you can use it. I have to do something.’ His voice cracks. Nathan puts his arm round him, squeezing his shoulders. ‘I just want her home. I just want her back.’

  ‘Do you have any photos of Daisy?’ says Gavin, sipping his tea. As always, Frankie thinks, she and Gavin are left navigating the shoals of other people’s grief and despair with the cold practicalities of filming.

  ‘Of course,’ says Simon, standing up. ‘I got some out for you.’ He crosses to the pine welsh dresser, picking up a sheaf of photographs. He flicks through them. ‘Some of us on holiday, that’s a really nice one of her graduation, and that’s our wedding.’

  ‘That was a great day, wasn’t it?’ Nathan smiles, looking at the picture over Simon’s shoulder.

  ‘Can I see?’ Frankie
asks.

  ‘Sure.’

  Simon pushes the pictures to her across the table. The one on top is the graduation photo. Daisy’s mortarboard is slightly askew on her mop of mousy brown curls. She looks shyly at the camera with wide grey eyes, standing slightly stiff and awkward in her robes. Frankie feels a catch in her throat as she flips through the other images. Daisy grinning in her wedding dress, holding Simon’s arm as he gazes down at her, Daisy in a pub garden with Simon and friends. The last photo is slightly over-exposed, on a beach somewhere. She’s holding a cocktail glass and has thrown her head back with laughter.

  ‘She looks lovely,’ Frankie says.

  ‘She is,’ says Simon, taking the photos back and stroking his fingers gently across the image of his wife’s face.

  ‘Have you got any home video of Daisy, on your phone maybe?’ Gavin asks. ‘That always helps too.’

  ‘Probably,’ Nathan replies. ‘But you guys can get lots of video of her from Commercial TV. That’s your channel, isn’t it? She was in an NHS documentary recently, they filmed it at the Norfolk and Norwich. A day on the maternity ward.’

  ‘Daisy’s been on TV?’ Frankie says, going pale, thinking of Hanna filmed in the hairdressing salon and her own newsroom’s footage of Ava at the demo. All the most recent women have been on television.

  ‘Why? Is that worrying?’ Simon has picked up on her concern and looks anxiously between her and Gavin. ‘Does it mean anything? Anything bad?’

  ‘No, no, not at all,’ Frankie says. After all, it might be nothing and it’s not her job to alarm him. ‘I’ll call the channel and get them to send us some clips from the documentary.’

  Gavin stands up. ‘If it’s OK I’ll just get some shots of the three of you chatting and looking at the pictures.’ Simon nods and Gavin gets to work, swiftly pulling up the legs of his tripod and clipping the camera onto its base.

  She’s filmed this sequence a hundred times before; it’s one of the biggest clichés of the TV news report, going through photographs with relatives. But this feels different. It’s not that long since she was sitting with the Sidcups, looking at pictures of their dead daughter, Lily. She hopes that Daisy has just taken off; perhaps the stress of working on an NHS maternity ward has got to her, and she needs some time out. But if not, she can’t bear to think of what might be happening to her right now, even as her husband and brother-in-law reminisce about her happiest moments.