The Death Knock

by Elodie Harper

  ‘Not the place for a get-away drive eh, Snoopy?’ The dog doesn’t open his eyes. He seems to have fallen asleep. She carries on along the track for fifteen minutes or so, until the satnav tells her an even narrower turning is Hock Drove. For a minute she sits at the junction, her indicator ticking. She cranes round in the car. The view behind is identical to the one in front; the empty flatness feels uncanny it’s so absolute.

  ‘Sod it,’ she murmurs, turning back and swinging the car onto the lane. ‘We’ll just have a quick scout,’ she says to the still-sleeping dog. ‘See if there’s anyone there, and leave.’ She puts her foot down slightly, speeding up over the rough surface.

  Frankie sees Hockwell Farm long before she reaches it. A small flint house, it’s dwarfed by the squat, dark shape in front of it. A corrugated barn. It looms up as she gets closer and drives into the wide muddy yard. There’s the noise of the handbrake as she yanks it up, then nothing but the sigh of the wind around the car.

  ‘Come on, then,’ she says to Snoopy, who’s woken up, startled by the abruptness of their stop. ‘Let’s be quick. Get it over with.’

  Reaching in her pocket, she flicks on the radio mic. She gets out and opens the passenger door. Snoopy jumps out and she clips his lead on, then leads him round to the boot, opening it and reaching for her camera. She switches on the sister radio microphone and presses record. She glances at the house. The distance should be near enough for the mic she’s wearing to pick up any conversation.

  She slams the boot shut and walks towards the door. ‘Here goes nothing,’ she says, rapping smartly on the wood. There’s no reply. She knocks a second time, louder, waits again. Still no answer.

  ‘Well, this was a waste of time,’ she says to Snoopy, who sits patiently beside her on the doorstep. She looks in through the window, which, she now realises, is coated in grime. There’s a massive pile of unopened post on the kitchen table, and resting on the sink, a jug, half-covered in mould and flies. Nobody can be living there, yet somebody must have moved all those letters.

  Frankie is suddenly uneasy. ‘Come on, Snoopy, let’s be going,’ she says, almost falling over her own feet in her haste to get back to the car. She’s jerked to a stop by the dog, straining against his lead. Snoopy is sniffing the ground, where Frankie now sees there’s a line of boot prints in the mud. They lead to the mouldering structure of the barn. Frankie’s breath hisses through her teeth. She tugs hard and Snoopy lets out a deep growling bark, so loud and unlike any noise she’s heard from him before that she drops the lead in surprise. Instantly, he’s off, careering across the yard, kicking up the mud. He disappears at the side of the barn.

  ‘Fucking hell! Snoopy! Snoopy, come back!’ Frankie looks after him, torn between her growing sense of anxiety and the realisation she can’t charge off in the car and leave Zara’s beloved pet alone in the middle of nowhere. She reminds herself that the killer has been caught, there’s no need to panic. She dithers a moment, torn, then gets her phone out of her pocket. The bars waver between one and two. There’s just enough signal to make a call.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dan, it’s me, it’s Frankie. Listen, I want to give you the address where I am right now. It’s on Hock Drove near Feltwell. I think it might belong to the person hosting the website where Brian’s been blogging.’

  ‘What?’ Dan’s voice goes up a notch with incredulity. ‘What the hell are you doing there? Leave now, you hear me!’

  ‘It’s fine, Dan, I do door knocks all the time. It’s not like Brian’s here, is it?’

  ‘Leave now! I mean it! Get in the bloody car!’

  His tone has her rattled. She looks through the window at the post on the table, her unease icing over into fear. ‘I just have to get Zara’s dog then I’ll go. But I wanted to let you know where I am, it’s a bit weird here.’

  ‘Frankie! Listen to me. You have to leave. We don’t think Brian took the pictures of Ava. Do you understand? The team have been through his computer and photos of Ava and the other victims were shared with him. He didn’t take them himself. He got them through the website.’ Frankie stares at the boot prints in the mud and feels cold. ‘Are you listening? You can’t be anywhere near whoever hosted that site, get in your car and leave now.’

  ‘I can’t. I need to get Zara’s dog.’

  ‘Sod the bloody dog!’ Dan shouts.

  ‘I can’t,’ says Frankie, thinking of the empty nursery at Mark and Zara’s, of all Snoopy means to them. ‘I’ll call you in fifteen minutes. Probably less than that. OK? In the meantime this is the address. No, listen, take the postcode.’ She recites it to him and ends the call before she can change her mind.

  Without looking back at the house, she runs over to the barn. Her heart is beating so quickly it makes her feel shaky. She walks swiftly alongside the corrugated wall, which bulges outwards, khaki paint peeling from the ridges. Round the corner, the wide doors are open. She stands looking at the empty space. It smells of must and creosote. The dirty concrete floor rolls out in front, and some rotting hay bales have been dumped at the back. She can see muddy paw prints leading towards them across the dry floor. There are older boot prints too, where the mud has dried.

  ‘Snoopy!’ she hisses. ‘Come back!’ No Snoopy appears. Feeling sick to her stomach, she clatters across the empty space, her footsteps echoing in the rafters above.

  There’s no sign of the black Labrador behind the bales; instead there’s the dark opening of a stairway into a basement. Dread squeezes her heart. She doesn’t want to go down there.

  ‘Get back here! Snoopy!’ she shouts. He barks in answer but doesn’t return. ‘Fucking hell, you fucking stupid dog!’ Frankie says. She heads down the concrete stairs, breathing in the cold stale air. At the bottom, Snoopy is wagging his tail, tongue lolling, delighted to see her. She grabs his lead and yanks it. ‘We’re going! Now!’

  That’s when she hears it. A muffled banging. Frankie turns and looks back. Snoopy is barking at a wooden door. It’s locked by a massive rusty bolt and a Yale latch. There’s another thump.

  She jumps. All her instincts are screaming at her to leave, but instead, as if she’s watching herself in a film, Frankie walks forward and places her head against the cold, heavy wood. She thinks about the photo of the concrete cell on Brian’s phone. ‘Hello!’ she shouts. ‘Anyone in there?’

  In answer Snoopy barks wildly, leaping at the bolt, drowning out any reply. ‘OK, OK,’ Frankie says. ‘We’ll check it.’ She winds his lead around her wrist, to stop him charging off into whatever’s behind it, and draws the bolt back with a scrape, then presses down the latch with a click. Immediately the door pushes open, and something or someone falls into her arms, almost knocking her over. She screams in shock and scrambles back, brushing the person off.

  And there on the floor in a heap, covered in filth, is a woman. She raises her head to look at Frankie, who gasps. ‘Ava!’ she says.

  Ava

  There’s a blonde woman staring down at me, her eyes wide, her mouth opening and closing as if she’d like to say something but can’t.

  I’m flooded with relief. For a moment we stare stupidly at each other. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m out. Then the terror surges back.

  ‘We have to get out of here! We have to leave! He’ll come back, he’s got a camera in there.’ My voice is a hoarse croak, it’s so long since I’ve spoken aloud. But I see the fear cross her face. She’s understood me.

  She reaches down and drags me to my feet. The dog is barking, snuffling at my legs with its wet nose, making it hard for me to stand up. I feel so shaky and weak.

  ‘Lean on me,’ she says. ‘Here, put your arm round my waist.’ I do as she says and she drags me towards a concrete staircase. ‘One step at a time, there we go.’ She’s going too quick for me, and I almost fall. ‘Sorry, it’s OK. Catch your breath.’ It’s agony to wait, knowing he might come back. I’d rather she dragged me bodily across the concrete.

  ‘It’s fine
, I’m fine,’ I lie, and somehow we manage to hobble up the rest of the stairs. We’re in a huge dark cavern, but even this is too bright for me after the place where I’ve been kept.

  ‘Right, my car’s just outside and I’ve already called the police,’ she says as we shuffle as fast as we can. The barn seems to stretch on forever in front of us. ‘I’m Frankie, by the way, and I know you’re Ava Lindsey. I’m a journalist.’

  I don’t have the breath to reply, but squeeze her hand where she’s holding me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so reassuring as the warmth of her flank against mine. At last we reach the entrance, and step out into the bright grey light of an autumn day. I’m so overwhelmed I’m afraid I might faint. In front of us, nothing but wide flat green. I was right about my location. There’s nothing for miles.

  ‘Nearly at the car,’ the woman says, hustling me along the corrugated side of the barn. I can hear her panting and I don’t think it’s just the exertion of helping me along. I can see she’s terrified. Beside us the dog trots happily, nose in the air, tail wagging.

  We round the corner and she stops with a gasp. The dog starts barking again. I can see two cars. A silver one parked across the entrance of the yard. And another in the middle of the tarmac. Leaning against it is a familiar, wiry figure. I let out a whimper. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, it’s him, it’s him.’ Frankie grips me so tightly it hurts. He’s not wearing the puffball mask and the wind blows tousled grey hair from his scalp. He’s older than I expected.

  Neither of us moves. With a slow casual movement, he stands up from the car. That’s when I see the rifle resting by his leg. He raises it so it’s pointing at us, and walks across the yard. ‘Nice to see you ladies,’ he says.

  ‘Grant Allen?’ Frankie’s voice is incredulous.

  He grins at her. ‘Nosy little bitch, aren’t you?’ He takes a step closer, pointing the gun at me. ‘You’ve saved me the trouble of fetching you. But you can let that one go. She’s mine.’

  ‘Let’s be sensible about this.’ Frankie puts her arm in front of me. ‘You need to put that gun down.’

  ‘Or what? You’ll set your ferocious dog on me?’ We all look down at the black Labrador, which gazes stupidly back, its tail thumping the floor in celebration at all the attention. He laughs and turns to Frankie. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘The police are on their way,’ she says, her voice wavering. ‘But it doesn’t have to be like this. Really, it doesn’t. We can say you let Ava out yourself, that you were feeling remorseful, that you were going to turn yourself in. It would count, you know, at sentencing, I’m sure it would count.’

  I see his eyes narrow, sense his change of mood. I want to warn her to stop talking but she ploughs on, oblivious. ‘Look, Grant,’ she says, somehow flashing him a smile that doesn’t look entirely insincere. ‘I mean it. If we get our stories straight, I’m sure we can make you look more sympathetic . . .’

  ‘Frankie,’ I whisper, clutching at her arm. I can see she’s used to taking charge, getting people to do what she wants, but that’s not how he works. His face is expressionless, but I sense the rage coming off him in waves.

  ‘It’s OK, Ava will back you up,’ she continues. ‘Won’t you, Ava? She’ll say you let her out. That you were really sorry about what you’d done, that you—’

  He points the gun and fires. She collapses. I sway on my feet as she falls but somehow I’m still standing. On the ground her face is turned from me, but I see the blood already spreading across the tarmac.

  ‘She was getting on my nerves.’ He’s not even looking at her; instead his eyes hold mine. ‘That’s better, isn’t it? Just the two of us again.’

  Neither of us notices the dog before it springs. He’s knocked backwards, the gun flying from his grasp as the dog claws, growling, at his throat. Its jaws snap in his face and he seizes its muzzle, giving the furry head a sharp twist. Immediately, it goes limp. He pushes the lifeless animal away from him, then puts his hand out, feeling for the gun. It’s not where he dropped it. He looks up to where I’m standing, shaking so hard he must be able to see the gun trembling, as I point it at his head.

  ‘Give the gun to me, girl,’ he says, making an impatient gesture. I’m so used to obeying him, my hand twitches to do as he asks. But I stay where I am. With a sigh, he leans his weight onto the ground to stand up.

  ‘Stay where you are.’

  ‘Don’t be a silly girl. We both know you’re not going to shoot.’

  He shifts himself upwards again and this time I yell at him. ‘Don’t you fucking move!’

  ‘Or you’ll do what, Ava? Shoot me?’ he says. ‘You don’t even know how to use it. And besides you don’t want to. I’ve been watching you, you’re a good girl. You listen, not like the others. You’re even better than Hanna. You know you belong to me, there’s no way out, that bitch was lying about the police . . .’

  I can’t bear him talking, I can’t bear his voice, I have to make him stop. The scream that’s been trapped in my chest ever since he took me prisoner bursts out of my lungs and I run towards him, firing the gun. I don’t stop running until I’m standing over him.

  ‘I said don’t move!’ He’s writhing on the ground, clutching his leg. There’s a red stain spreading out along his trousers from where I hit him. I gesture at him with the rifle. ‘Or I’ll shoot you in the other leg.’ He stares up at me, this man I’ve feared and hated for so long, his unknown face twisted with pain. Without the puffball head he looks pathetic. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I told you not to move. At all. Do you understand?’

  He nods. I turn, desperate to get back to Frankie, to try to save her, but then I see him shift himself out of the corner of my eye and think better of it. I swing round and shoot him in the other leg. ‘I don’t trust you,’ I say.

  I leave him then, howling in pain, and stumble back to where the blonde woman, Frankie, is lying on the tarmac. I flop down, placing the gun beside me, and feel for a pulse in her neck. It’s there but very faint. ‘It’s OK, Frankie,’ I say, pushing the hair from her face. I’ve no idea if this is true or if she can hear me. She murmurs and her eyelids flutter. ‘You’re going to be OK, I’m with you, you’re safe. The police are on their way.’ I’m terrified of moving her but know I have to try to put some pressure on the wound. Red has already seeped out from underneath her body onto the earth. I roll her gently. She’s been shot in the ribs on her right. Her coat is already soaked from the inside. I have nothing to try to staunch the bleeding but my own filthy top. I take it off and press down hard. I’m worried it isn’t hard enough. My hands are shaking, it’s freezing in just my bra, and I’m so weak. I hope to God she was telling the truth about the police. Pressing down with all my body weight onto my left hand, trying not to think about the wetness between my fingers or what organs I might be squashing, I rifle through her pockets with my right hand, and bring out a mobile phone.

  I swipe across the screen to call 999. ‘I need an ambulance!’

  ‘Go ahead, caller, where’s the emergency?’

  ‘Oh God,’ I falter. ‘Oh God, I don’t know where I am. I don’t know! Can you track me from the phone? Please, please come quickly, please, I need an ambulance, she’s been shot. And police. We need the police.’

  ‘We’ll find you, don’t worry. You say someone’s been shot. Are you in a safe place to make this call?’

  I hear a groan and look over to where he’s curled up on the ground. ‘Safe enough. Please, please just come quickly. You can’t let her die, not again, not again, he can’t kill her again. Oh God . . .’ My hand is shaking so much, I can hardly keep a grip on the phone. If I start crying now, I’m going to be swallowed up by hysteria. The operator seems to sense my distress, pulls me back from the brink with his calm voice.

  ‘It’s OK. Take a deep breath, you’re doing really well. Help’s on the way. What’s your name?’

  ‘Ava.’

  ‘Ava, I’m Tony. Now, can you tell me the casualty’s name and where the
y’ve been shot?’

  ‘Frankie. And she’s been shot in the right side. There’s a lot of blood. But it’s in the side of the ribs, not the centre. I don’t think . . . I don’t think he hit her heart.’

  ‘She’s been shot in the side?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you checked her pulse?’

  ‘Yes, and she’s breathing. Or she was just before I called, I’m not sure now.’ I peer down at her ribs. It’s hard to tell if they are rising or falling. ‘I think she is.’

  ‘You did just the right thing. Now without moving her, can you apply pressure to the wound. If there’s any material like some clothing handy, fold it and press it down on the place where she’s been shot, to try and stop the blood flow as much as you can.’

  ‘I am, that’s what I’m doing, but oh God I moved her already, I moved her! I had to, she fell on the wound, and I knew I had to put pressure on it.’

  ‘That’s OK, Ava, you did the right thing. You’re doing really well, I know this must be very difficult. Help will be with you soon. Just keep applying the pressure to Frankie’s wound. Are there any more casualties at the scene?’

  Any more casualties. I look over to where he’s lying, not moving now. I suppose he is a casualty, as well as a killer. Thanks to me. ‘There’s the man who shot her. He’s injured. I had to shoot him in the leg. Both legs.’ It hits me that the bastard’s going to take precious medical resources away from Ava when the ambulance arrives and I almost regret that second shot. ‘I had to shoot him. He killed Daisy.’ My voice starts to break; talking about her, I’m back in that room, trapped, and I can’t stop the tears. ‘He killed her, he just killed her like she was nothing, and then he left us alone. Oh God, I thought I was going to die, I thought I was going to die. He killed Daisy.’ I take a gasp of air. I’m drowning, I’m going to pass out. Perhaps sensing the change in pressure, Frankie shifts very slightly. I grip the phone. I have to stay in the present, I can’t abandon her, not again. ‘My name’s Ava Lindsey,’ I say. ‘I’ve been held prisoner. I don’t know how long for. And when Frankie found me, he shot her.’