The Death Knock

by Elodie Harper

  ‘Sounds like your boyfriend’s pretty smart,’ Ava says. ‘I ought to thank him too.’

  ‘Ex-boyfriend.’ It still makes her sad, thinking about Jack. ‘In order to get in with the website he shared some photos of me, both on the blog and privately. Nothing sexual,’ she adds, seeing Ava’s face. ‘But it was still too much of a betrayal. I know he didn’t do it to hurt me, he was just trying to help, but I couldn’t get past it, I couldn’t trust him any more.’

  ‘No, I can see that.’ Ava looks down at her hot drink. ‘It’s weird, you know, talking to somebody else that Grant Allen hurt. He did so much damage, but he was such a nothing, wasn’t he? Just a small pathetic person, who made up all these grand-sounding reasons for wanting to inflict pain.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ava looks up and holds her gaze. They sit a moment in silence. The connection between them, through their shared experience of horror that day, feels too intense for words. ‘What are you up to, now it’s all over,’ Frankie says at last.

  ‘I’m starting at a new university in a few months. In Bristol this time. UEA transferred my degree.’

  ‘Really? That’s brilliant.’

  ‘But before that I’m going on holiday with my brother. A long weekend in Amsterdam.’

  ‘Amsterdam’s lovely, you’ll have a great time.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ve spent a lot of the past few months on nappy-changing duties. My friend Zara has had a little boy. He makes a lot of noise for something so tiny.’

  Ava twiddles with her coffee cup, without drinking. ‘I was sorry you’ve not been back reporting.’

  ‘Well, I might do eventually. Haven’t decided yet. Think I’ve had enough of telly though, I’ve been wondering about trying print or more likely radio.’ Frankie sighs. ‘And I’m not too keen on the boss at the Eastern Film Company, so I don’t really want to go back to the old place, much as I miss it.’

  ‘I guess you’re sitting on an exclusive if you wanted to use it.’

  Frankie wonders if Ava is trying to sound her out, whether she would mind either way. ‘I wasn’t planning any interviews about what happened,’ she replies, thinking of Luke Heffner turning up one weekend on her doorstep. It makes her smile to remember. The cheeky bastard had even brought a bottle of champagne. She had happily invited him in, even given him a glass, but he still left without what he came for. Kiera’s disappointment at being turned down was less gracious. ‘I haven’t spoken to anyone,’ she says. ‘Not just because I knew I’d have to give evidence, but also it didn’t feel like my story to tell.’

  ‘That’s the thing, isn’t it? It doesn’t even feel like my story.’ Ava takes a deep breath, willing herself to say their names. ‘Because it’s also Hanna’s story, and Lily’s and Sandra’s. Those three women who died before, Mary, Carol and the nameless one.’ She closes her eyes. ‘And Daisy.’

  Frankie takes her hand. Behind them, a small child is wailing. The hospital café is not a private backdrop for Ava’s grief. It’s full of people dealing with the stress of illness, waiting to visit relatives, or in for treatment themselves, as she once was; there’s a man in a hospital gown in a wheelchair and an elderly woman with a mobile drip in her arm. ‘I met Simon, Daisy’s husband,’ Frankie says. ‘After she died, he didn’t want to do an interview. Because of you. Because the only thing he wanted after that was for you to be found alive.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Ava says. ‘Don’t be kind.’ She withdraws her hand. ‘I’m sorry, it’s the one thing I can’t talk about. I can’t bear to think about her, it’s too much.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault.’ Ava is picking at the skin around her nails, an unconscious gesture, but Frankie notices it must be a frequent one, as her fingers are red. Ava sees her looking and stops. She meshes her hands together. ‘How would you feel about telling the story if I spoke to you too?’

  For a moment Frankie can only stare at her. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘There’s no other journalist I’d speak to.’

  Frankie feels the old familiar tightening of her stomach, the tingle of anticipation at an exclusive. Once a hack, always a hack. ‘That would be . . . Well, that would be amazing. Are you sure though?’

  ‘There’d be some conditions. You’d have to report it, obviously. No obsessing about Grant Allen and his motivations. And we’d have to get Simon to agree. I can’t talk about Daisy for him, that would have to be his decision.’ Ava sits back in her chair. ‘Also I’d want to be editorially involved. It would be us telling our story, not me being the subject.’

  In spite of herself, Frankie visualises a prime-time TV documentary taking shape before her eyes, imagines filming with Gavin again, the look on Luke Heffner’s face when she asks him to give the perspective of ‘the press’. ‘Sounds reasonable,’ she says. ‘But are you really sure you want to do this? There’d be a lot of publicity. Other media would want to talk to you too.’

  ‘They already do,’ she says. ‘I think they always will, it’s another thing I can’t escape. I’d rather own the story than just be it.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘So what do you think?’ Ava is watching her, the grey eyes direct and challenging, just as she remembers in the missing-person photo at the police press conference all that time ago. But to Frankie she no longer looks like a victim. Instead she sees a young woman who has been through hell and is starting to grow stronger in spite of it.

  Frankie smiles. ‘I think you just persuaded me to go back to work.’

  Acknowledgements

  I wrote the first couple of chapters of this book a few weeks before my son was born and the rest on maternity leave. Babies don’t take a starring role in its pages, but for me this novel will always be associated with the seismic shift that is new motherhood. The author Stephen King suggests writers work on their first draft with the study door closed, but in this case it was while the baby slept – or my mother took him to the park.

  It was a truly wonderful year, if an exhausting one. A huge thank you to everyone who helped me through it. My family – in particular my husband Jason Farrington and my mother Suzy Kendall – all the new parents and babies in my NCT and pregnancy yoga group (who put up with endless cancellations), also Jo Jacobson, Andrea Binfor, Rosie Andrious and everyone who came to visit while I stuck to the house like a limpet. Most of all, thank you to Jonathon: just like in your favourite story, ‘the world is much more lovely since the day you came along.’

  I’m indebted to many people for giving me feedback on earlier drafts. Thank you to Joyce Eliason, Geoffrey Case, Linda Agran, Jason Farrington, Eugenie Harper, Ruth Grey Harper, Tom Harper, Alexander Harper and Suzy Kendall. Thank you to David Old from Bedfordshire Police who has helped me out many times as a journalist, and did so again for this book. A big thanks to Maca, aka DS Graham McMillan of Beds, Cambs and Herts Major Crime Unit, for giving up his time to answer endless questions about policing. Thanks also to DCI Christopher Beresford and Garry Dix of Bedfordshire Police for pointers on cyber crime. Any liberties I’ve taken with procedure are entirely my own.

  I owe a huge debt to my second family – my colleagues at ITV News Anglia who have been unendingly supportive both personally and professionally. I am so lucky to work with you. By rights everyone should be listed here, but I have to single out news editor Andy Thomson, who has spent years checking my TV scripts for errors and then advised on the final draft of this book. He also supplied the gun. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

  Thank you to Nathalie Hallam at Caskie Mushens, all the writers at #TeamMushens and to everyone at Hodder – to Cicely Aspinall, Rachel Khoo in marketing, Helen Parham for the copy-edit, and Tom Duxbury for the cover art. To Rosie Stephen for the hours you spent on publicity and supporting me at events – not to mention all the conversations about feminism! To Ruth Tross for making this book the best version of itself, for always making the editing pr
ocess rewarding and for being so thoughtful in every way; it is such a huge pleasure working with you.

  And of course thank you to Juliet Mushens. Ever since I waddled into your office as the fattest pregnant writer ever to sign with an agent, you have been there for me. Your agenting style combines Elle Woods and Dorothy Parker – with a dash of The Terminator – and as a friend, you are the kindest and the best.

  If you enjoyed The Death Knock, you’ll love

  Welcome to HMP Halvergate.

  If you're lucky, you'll get to leave.

  Dr Janet Palmer was glad to take a new job as lead psychologist at a remote Norfolk prison. She may live to regret it . . .

  The staff are hostile, violence can break out at any time, no one will tell her what happened to her predecessor, and there are rumours of an eyeless woman stalking the corridors, driving the prisoners to suicide.

  Janet is determined to find answers. But the deeper she digs, the more she realises: something is rotten in Halvergate. And it's nothing as simple as ghosts . . .

  Read on for the first chapter of Elodie Harper’s chilling novel

  Prologue

  The break in the trees told him nothing. Ryan had no idea how far he had travelled or in what direction. He longed to sink down into the mud, rest just for a moment, but instead he scuttled across the open patch of long grass, bent double like a crab. He tried not to think about the lorry he’d left behind, the warm seat, the friendly driver. Perhaps if he’d stayed, he could have hitched a lift out of Norfolk. But it had made him nervous when his companion turned up the radio. At every ad break he started to sweat, wondering when his description was going to blare out over the news.

  He stumbled as he re-entered the wood. The ugly grey day was getting darker, the trees’ outlines bleeding into the dusk, making it hard to see where he was going. He blinked water from his eyes. A fine mist of rain coated his hair and ran like sweat down his face. Every inch of his skin felt damp. Ryan took a few steps deeper into the wood, seeking out a clump of trees that bunched together more closely than the others. Leaning his back against a trunk, he slid down its length, finally coming to rest on the earth. Even if the entire East Anglian Constabulary came crashing through the woods behind him, he couldn’t bring himself to walk any further.

  With his head against the bark, he listened. Nothing but the wind and the patter of light rain on needles and bracken. Perhaps it was safe to stop for a while. He got out the chocolate bar he had stolen from the trucker, its plastic wrapper rustling as he broke off a piece. Eating some now and saving the rest for tomorrow would give him a little energy, maybe even enough to make his way to the port at Felixstowe.

  Focused on the taste, he nearly missed the stooped figure flitting by, some distance away in the wood. It was a woman, small and thin, making no noise as she passed. She seemed to know her way, moving with purpose. Ryan inched himself up on his haunches, trying to make out where she was heading. As soon as he moved, she stopped. He flattened himself against the trunk. The woman turned towards him. She was too far away for him to make out her expression; only the white of her face flashed back through the darkness. For a moment, he thought she had seen him. Then she turned and moved on.

  Something about the paleness of her face recalled the dread of Halvergate. Like a flare sent out at sea, it briefly illuminated his thoughts, then sank into the unknown. Inside Ryan had laughed at the other men, but now, alone in the wood, he felt uneasy. He watched the woman continue her journey. A little further and she would be out of sight. Twilight was setting in, so she must know her way. Perhaps she was heading to another road – if so, he could get a sense of his bearings. Deciding to follow her, he scrambled to his feet.

  He tracked the woman, treading as quietly as he could. It seemed to him that while she made no noise at all, every twig that snapped under his feet went off like a gunshot. Ryan took out the broken shard of CD from his pocket, sharpened like a knife. He turned it over in his fingers; the keen edge felt reassuring. He didn’t plan on hurting her, not unless he had to, but the weapon reminded him that outside Halvergate all things were possible.

  Darkness seeped into the wood and it became more difficult to follow his prey. She seemed to be walking faster now, still not making any sound. He struggled to keep up, his only guide the silver bark of the trees, dim in the moonlight. She became nothing more than a shadow at the edge of his vision, a movement that frayed and split in different directions. He stumbled first one way, then the next, before giving up. He stopped. The press of the trees, the silence and the darkness, all stretching out in unknown directions, felt more claustrophobic than prison.

  Then he saw it. The woman’s pale face. She was watching him through the branches, the white of her skin lit up by the moon. But no light shone in her eyes. Like holes gaping in a mask, her eyes were completely black.

  Ryan gasped and stumbled backwards, dropping the broken CD. The image disappeared. Looking back at him was a white strip of bark, two shadowy knots cut like eyes in its peeling skin. You could almost mistake it for a face.

  ‘Stupid bastard!’ Ryan spoke the words aloud for comfort, but felt none. The trees closed inwards, silencing him, a hostile force. He had to get out into the open. He squatted down in the mud, feeling for the CD. The pounding of his heart beat loud in his ears and his fingers shook as he scrabbled through leaves and mud. The knife was gone.

  Behind him Ryan heard the crack of snapping wood. He swung round. Nothing. He turned back, unsteady on his haunches, and there, crouched in front of him, was the eyeless woman. He saw the white veins standing out in her neck, her face contorted with rage. She screamed.

  The sound expanded in Ryan’s head, shattering his mind. He tried to stagger upright, but instead he fell, crashing into the mud, the soft side of his neck landing heavily on the upturned spike of his CD. Blood filled his mouth. He tried to pull himself upright, to crawl away, but found himself choking. Above him, the trace mark of branches faded.

  Ryan couldn’t see the woman, but he sensed her white face, leaning downwards, close to his own. The stranger’s dark eyes stared into his, the black spreading outwards as he lost consciousness.

  Chapter 1

  There’s nothing comfortable about stepping into another person’s shoes, particularly when you don’t know why they were left empty. Janet slowed her car as she approached the prison’s outer gate. A drumbeat of rain played on the roof. She had taken John Helkin’s job without asking why he’d left. It seemed too obvious to ask. But now, on her second day at HMP Halvergate, his absence felt like a shadow. The outline of a man with all the rest left blank.

  Through the bars of water on her windscreen, the wavering figure of a security guard took shape. She hurried to get her ID card up to the window so he didn’t have to wait. ‘Dr Janet Palmer,’ she said, raising her voice over the rain’s heavy tattoo. Water dripped on to her knee as the guard took her temporary pass and peered at it. Underneath his hood, the man’s nose was red from the cold, his skin cracked and peeling.

  ‘Just temporary then?’ he asked, turning the card over in his wet fingers.

  Janet smiled. ‘Well, hopefully only the pass, not me.’

  The guard said nothing and drew back, his face no longer visible above the line of glass. He handed Janet her ID back through the window, then turned and disappeared into his cubbyhole. Janet stared after him as the barrier rose. He didn’t look at her as she passed through.

  She drove beyond the disused outbuildings of what had once been RAF Breydon, before turning in to the former airfield. Its wide expanse stretched out in an official no-man’s-land, unused by the prison and unleased by the government. Massive grey clouds spread overhead like a blanket hung on a low ceiling. Janet imagined the sky’s vastness must once have given a sense of freedom to the airmen who could take to it and escape, but it gave her the opposite feeling. It was oppressive, making her feel exposed, watched from all sides. In the distance, the crumbling control tower brought home th
e silence.

  It had been made clear to her that she was inheriting a department in disarray, but still, she had a feeling HMP Halvergate would plumb new depths of chaos, even for Her Majesty’s beleaguered Prison Service. She drew her shoulders back against the seat, gripping the wheel. There was no point worrying now. Being the sole psychologist in charge had been part of the job’s attraction, the promotion she had been waiting for.

  A row of cars nestled against the outer perimeter fence, sheltering from the rain driving across the barren airfield. Janet parked alongside them and scurried into the cover of the gate lodge, a breeze-block cube with the Queen’s insignia above the door. Water pooled beneath her feet on the concrete floor. Behind a wall of glass sat an unfamiliar prison officer. He gestured for her to come over to the desk where he sat, boxed in.

  Janet held up her ID. ‘It’s my second day,’ she said, speaking loudly so he could hear. ‘I think I’m picking the keys up this morning, if you have them.’

  In answer he nodded towards the glass door to his left, which slid open with a thud. Janet headed in, hearing the gate buzz shut behind her. For a moment she stood sealed into the small space, waiting for the next gate to open. She never liked this time in the prison’s fish tank, muffled between doors as if passing from one world to the next. She glanced over to the officer and was surprised to see he was watching her through the glass without making a move to let her through. She stared back, her cheeks getting hotter, until he pushed the button and the door in front of her buzzed open.