The Death Knock

by Elodie Harper

  They reach the apartment building and both instinctively scan the car park for loiterers; Frankie with a small nervous flick of the head, Jack spinning round, scowling. They go in, head up the beige communal stairs, but when she opens the door to their apartment, Jack stands back.

  ‘I’m going to the lab,’ he says. ‘Do a bit of work. I think we both need some space.’ He’s about to leave, then hesitates. ‘Don’t forget to lock the door. And call me if you’re worried. I can come straight back.’

  She nods, then locks herself in, leaning for a moment against the newly painted wood. She turns to face the white room. The curtains are still drawn. The Scandi layout, which so impressed her when they first came here, feels bland. It’s a room without personality. They haven’t even had time to put any pictures up. And without the river view to draw the eye, the open-plan room shrinks. It feels like the opposite of space.

  A wave of claustrophobia hits her. She takes a step backwards, meaning to walk back into town again, but fear stops her. What if the blogger and his army of watchers are out there, waiting for her?

  She heads to the sofa, picks up the remote and turns on the TV. It’s a Sunday afternoon film, a Roger Moore James Bond. She can’t remember which one it is, but the sight of him raising an eyebrow, improbably disarming baddies half his age, is oddly comforting. It reminds her of rainy afternoons in childhood, watching whatever Bond film was on with her sister Natalie while their mum made spaghetti in the other room. She sits back on the cushions with a sigh. She thinks about giving her younger sister a ring, but it’s getting a bit late with the time difference. Natalie is in Australia now, spending a year at the Sydney office of the wine company she works for. Her loyal boyfriend Alex is waiting for her in London.

  She thinks of Jack and her heart drops. They’ve only been living together six weeks and already the relationship is unravelling. On the perspex coffee table is the one personal object on display from their life together; a blue glazed bowl from the pottery shop at Clay. It’s empty, as neither of them could think of what to put in it.

  On the screen, Roger Moore fires missiles from a magical speeding car. She met Jack during an afternoon’s filming at the John Innes. Everyone imagines journalists getting dates that way, being asked out by the people they interview, but it was the first time it had ever happened to her. She can still remember the excitement of their first dinner, not much more than a year ago. Jack had looked ridiculously attractive in his glasses, constantly topping up her wine, so eager to impress. And then the texts every night, the minibreak to Scotland three months later. Zara had nicknamed him Clark Kent, a tribute to his geeky charm.

  She had thought a year was plenty of time to get to know somebody, that they were more than ready to move in. But his bad temper this weekend has taken her aback. With a wince, she thinks of him flicking the press officer’s paper as they left the bar, their half-eaten food still on the table. She makes an attempt in her own mind to excuse him, thinking of all the stress he’s been under.

  Her phone vibrates. She reaches for it, hope fluttering in her chest that it might be an apology. It’s a text from Charlie.

  Emneth has been charged. First appearance at court tomorrow. You OK to cover that? Kiera would like you to go.

  Frankie sags with relief. The police must feel secure they have their man. Whoever is posting their bile online, the Norfolk Strangler is off the streets.

  Sure, no problem

  she texts back.

  The closed curtains catch her eye as she leans over to put the phone down on the table. She rises and walks over to the window, opening them with a single firm movement. She looks out. There’s nobody on the path across the river. The sun’s reflection shines on the surface of the water in rippling spots of silver.

  Frankie sighs, leaning her forehead on the cool glass. Without a killer on the loose, the blog has lost some of its power to disturb. But at the back of her relief is still the persistent drip of anxiety, like a tap she can’t quite turn off. She thinks of Amber Finn and her little girl, remembers sitting in the front room with its pile of plastic toys, listening to her defend Donnie. God knows what horrors he put her through. Amber had known Donald Emneth for years, yet as it turned out, she hadn’t known him at all.

  Ava

  I knew Daisy for only two days, but she was more than a friend. She was hope.

  Now she’s nothing but a heap in the corner, dead, and I can’t escape her. I have to do everything in her presence. Eat one of the sandwiches we should have shared. Pee in the awful, stinking, plastic bucket. Sleep.

  I leave the light on in the night and the bulb blows. I think it’s because she’s angry with me. I want to crawl over to her, say sorry again, but I don’t dare.

  The garrotte lies in the bottom of the waste bucket. There are times I wish I had the strength to use it. At least then I would cheat him of my murder. There are so few choices left to me and if I have to die, I would rather die alone than with him watching. I glance at the ceiling. Unless he is watching.

  I keep hearing her scream That’s not who I am! The horror of the images, of him twisting her neck, plays over and over in my mind. I try to think of her living instead. I remember her sitting back on her heels, as we talked together. ‘We ought to have a name for him,’ she said. ‘To make him smaller. He’s pathetic really, hiding behind that puffed-up mask.’ I see her again, the way she frowned, lost in thought. ‘Fat Head!’ she said. ‘That’s what we should call him.’ I think of her laughing. I can’t keep the image of her smile in my mind for long; the replay of her murder starts to drown it out. But this time when I hear her scream, I notice something else. I actually listen to her words, and understand: she didn’t beg. I remember him saying that we all beg and plead to stay alive. But Daisy never did.

  I turn to look at her but I can’t see anything more than a vague shape in the dark. It’s no longer safe to speak aloud in here, even to myself, but I talk to her in my head. I imagine her answering, telling me not to kill myself, that it’s a false choice, that my life has value and I must never forget that. All night I promise Daisy that I will try to be like her: to be strong, to be brave, whatever happens.

  He comes to take her in the morning, and all my resolve to be strong deserts me.

  ‘Are you going to be trouble?’ he asks, pointing the gun at me. The sight of it liquefies my insides; even after all I’ve suffered I still can’t get used to staring death in the face. But although I’m afraid, it strikes me how the gun diminishes him as well as frightens me. Here I am, weak, half-starved, with a dead woman. And he’s still scared of us. Daisy’s right. He is pathetic. He gestures for me to move away from her, then bends down and swiftly slings her over his shoulder.

  ‘Sandwiches are by the door,’ he says. ‘And I’ve treated you to some chocolate. Though I wouldn’t eat it all, I’ve got another visitor planned, and she’s a real fatty. Shouldn’t think she’ll thank you for scoffing the lot. Though the nosy slag could do with going on a diet.’

  Of all the threats he could have made, this is the worst. The thought of another woman, brought here, tortured, while he amuses himself is unbearable. ‘Why are you doing this?’ I say, my voice rising. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Oh it’s like that, is it?’ he shouts. ‘I bring you fucking chocolate and you can’t even say thank you?’

  I’m not playing this game any more. I know being nice isn’t going to save me. I stare at him, looking at Daisy hanging over his shoulder. ‘That’s not who I am,’ I reply.

  The breath whistles through his teeth. ‘We’ll see about that, bitch. Don’t play tough with me. Once the fat slag’s here, you’ll be begging for mercy.’

  He slams the door shut and I’m alone.

  Frankie

  The magistrates’ court is packed for Donald Emneth’s first appearance and Frankie is wedged so close to Luke Heffner she’s almost sitting on his knee. Still, she knows she’s lucky to have a seat; a number of furious hacks ar
e trapped outside after the clerk told them they’d have to rely on Malcolm from the Press Association for copy. Not that there will be much to report at this stage; the hearing is really just a formality so Emneth’s case can be referred to the Crown Court.

  ‘Well, this is fun,’ says Luke, his plummy tones lowered into a gossipy whisper. ‘The Bad Guy getting his comeuppance. And you must be feeling smug after that Daisy Meadwell interview. What a cracking piece of TV. Have you heard anything more?’

  Frankie knows it’s a rare compliment from a competitive hack but Luke’s praise makes her feel guilty rather than pleased. ‘I texted Simon this morning. She’s not home yet.’

  ‘Hmmmm. The midwife went missing before they nabbed Donnie Emneth, didn’t she? Not going to look too good for the police if she’s dead. They’ve had all this time to question him. Though I’m sure the defence team here will be chuffed if they can argue it was someone else.’ He nods at the barristers sitting a few feet away. ‘He’s going down for Amber either way, I suppose. And we’re going to be laughing after sentencing with that interview you did to play with. Though it’s a shame,’ he adds, looking at her reproachfully, ‘that you didn’t get any shots of Amber when she wasn’t disguised. Let’s just hope she agrees to another interview.’

  ‘Yes, sorry about that,’ Frankie says. ‘I should have made a contingency plan for if she got kidnapped or bumped off.’

  Luke either ignores or misses her sarcasm. ‘Always good to plan ahead with a serial killer story,’ he says. ‘Just in case.’

  Frankie wants to jab him in the ribs, but part of her is increasingly wondering if she deserves to feel morally superior. Is he so very different from her and Ray, congratulating themselves on filming Donald Emneth in case he’s guilty? And at least Luke doesn’t have any reason to feel even partially responsible for Amber’s ordeal. They’re all wallowing in the same gutter after all; she just happens to have got her hands dirtier than the rest.

  ‘Cheer up,’ says Luke, patting her arm. ‘It’s not your fault.’ Frankie looks at him in surprise, taken aback that he’s sensitive enough to pick up on her sense of guilt. ‘After all,’ he goes on, looking down at his notebook. ‘Ten to one she’ll talk again and if not there will always be shots of her arriving at court.’

  Frankie can’t help snorting with laughter, but before he can ask her what’s so funny they rise for the entrance of the judge.

  The district judge, Ralph Meyer, greets the court and everyone sits down. As always, when the hearing starts, the dryness of the proceedings helps keep the drama of the crime contained. Even murder feels neutered by the to-ing and fro-ing of the lawyers’ meticulous discussions. In any case, there are severe limits on what Frankie can report. All legal arguments are off limits, and strictly speaking she shouldn’t even include details about the defendant’s appearance, though the press push the boundaries all the time. But even though she can’t mention many of the details, it’s useful background to know ahead of the trial.

  Along with the rest of the hacks she keeps stealing glances at Donald Emneth where he sits, slumped and despondent, behind the glass of the dock. He’s a different man from the eccentric who gesticulated wildly at her in his garden, or leered at her chest. His face is haggard and he’s shaved badly, with red-blotted patches of tissue paper stuck to his chin. Can she mention that in the piece to camera, maybe? His response to the judge confirming his name and address is barely audible. He stares at the floor while his defence brief argues that his client is prepared to plead guilty to the false imprisonment of Amber Finn, but denies any involvement in the murder of Lily Sidcup, Sandra Blakely and Hanna Chivers. There’s no mention of Daisy Meadwell or Ava Lindsey. At the thought of either of them lying dead somewhere, like Hanna on the wasteland, she feels sick.

  The hearing takes less than ten minutes and then Donald Emneth is told his case will be referred to the Crown Court and led out of the dock again. There’s a collective rustle and scraping of chairs as the journalists all get up to file.

  ‘Well,’ says Luke, raising his eyebrows at her as they shuffle along in the queue to leave the court. ‘This could get very interesting. Maybe the police don’t have their man after all.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘He’s obviously not one of those psychos who pleads not guilty to everything, regardless of the evidence. He’s prepared to hold his hands up to the first charge, isn’t he? That means they don’t have overwhelming proof he’s implicated in the murders. Looks to me like he kidnapped Amber because he was peeved at your interview,’ Luke says, with crushing insensitivity. ‘And then PC Plod nobbled him for the killings because those women were abducted too and he’s creepy.’

  ‘Not just because he’s creepy,’ Frankie snaps, her stomach sinking as the weight of Luke’s argument hits her. ‘Keeping a woman prisoner is a tad incriminating, don’t you think? And they must have other evidence, surely? He probably only admitted that one because it’s the least serious charge.’

  Luke shrugs. ‘Perhaps.’ He gets out his mobile from his pocket, despite the court clerk’s furious stare, and starts to type out a message. ‘But where’s the pink-haired student? Or your midwife? I’m going to warn the newsdesk this killing spree might not be over. Just in case.’

  Outside the court Luke wanders off to his sat truck without saying goodbye. She watches him cross the road, already combing his hair, getting ready for his lunchtime live. Luke’s nothing to her, but it’s still galling the way he drops her at the end of their conversation as if she were an empty Coke can. She starts trudging up the road to the office. It’s a grey day and the wind quickly freezes her legs through too-thin tights. She dismisses Luke from her mind. She still feels exhausted after the stress of last night. Jack got home after she had gone to bed and they had lain next to each other under the duvet with the lights out, both obviously tense and awake, but neither breaking the silence. She passes the cathedral close, trying not to think of whoever it was in the duffle coat and whether they took her photo.

  On the road opposite she can see the sandwich shop where she last bumped into Brett. She thinks about Feminazi Slayer’s pick-up blog. Its tips do seem a bit crude for Brett; he has much more charm than that. But that doesn’t mean he’s not involved with Killing Cuttlefish. She visualises the website’s homepage, the slick graphics, the James Bond-style opening montage. Perhaps she needs to be braver. Frankie gets out her phone, checks the time, then calls Brett’s number.

  He is waiting for her outside The Blue Bicycle, no cigarette this time; instead he is scanning the street and smiles when he spots her walking towards him. He leans in to kiss her on both cheeks. She stands stiffly.

  ‘I was hoping you might call—’ Brett begins.

  ‘What’s your Schopenhauer dissertation on?’ she interrupts. He parts his lips in surprise. ‘I can check with the UEA if you won’t tell me.’

  ‘It’s not a secret,’ he says, perplexed. ‘It’s about Schopenhauer’s influence on the early animal rights movement, if you must know. Why the urgency?’

  His answer is not what she expected. For a moment she hesitates, worried she might be about to make a fool of herself, then ploughs on. ‘Have you ever seen this website before?’ She hands him her phone, the homepage of Killing Cuttlefish. He takes it from her with a frown, then hands it back.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘What’s this all about? I was hoping you were here to—’

  ‘That site I just showed you takes its name from Schopenhauer’s essay On Women. I believe I mentioned it before,’ Frankie says, interrupting him again. ‘The site’s very sophisticated, the police can’t find out where it’s hosted. It’s also full of hateful posts about women, including Ava Lindsey, saying she deserved what she got.’

  Two red spots appear beneath Brett’s perfect cheekbones. ‘And what exactly does this have to do with me?’

  ‘You told me Ava and her friends were drunk, that you’re not surprised somebody “with an agenda” might t
ry and pick them off. Just the sort of victim-blaming crap that’s spouted on that site. And what did you mean by an agenda?’ she says, gaining in confidence as she allows anger to take hold. ‘That sounds like the sort of word one of the bloggers on Killing Cuttlefish might use for their warped world view. So I’m asking. Are you hosting that website?’

  ‘OK, I’ve had enough of this,’ Brett says. His face is taut with fury. ‘I like a challenge in a woman but not a fucking fruit loop. You’re not even that hot.’ He steps back towards the door of the bar, looking her up and down. ‘And don’t even think of calling me again or I’ll make a formal complaint.’

  Frankie isn’t sure if her face is flaming from embarrassment or the cold by the time she swipes herself into reception. Mortification doesn’t even begin to cover her feelings about the confrontation with Brett. To make matters worse, she’s not even sure it achieved anything, as nagging doubts about his involvement remain. Of course he would be angry if he’s innocent, but wouldn’t he also deny it even if he were involved? And it’s not like he didn’t say all those things about Ava drinking. She doesn’t know what to think.

  ‘Cold out there?’ Ernie the security guard greets her as she heads past his desk, breaking her reverie. He’s always friendly, but since the blog post, all the guys on the security desk have gone out of their way to be extra supportive.

  ‘Just a bit. Why, my nose the same colour as my jacket?’ she asks. She’s wearing her bright red winter coat, easy to spot when doing lives in the dusk. Almost every female reporter she knows owns one, except for Zara who won’t be parted from her ancient Barbour.