The Death Knock

by Elodie Harper

  There’s only a fucking dead body by the Bure!!! WTF??

  The poster is someone called @M_VanMan but his photo is just a silhouette with no biog. Frankie reads the replies, which are mainly abuse directed at him for tweeting it: Disgusting says one Have some f***ing respect. VanMan’s attempts to defend himself I did call the fucking police FYI, knobhead gain him little sympathy. As always, there are some messages whose nastiness, even though she half expects it, takes her by surprise. Probably just a junkie. Killed for crimes against fashion, lolol, is that top from Tesco??

  She is about to log off, when one tweet makes her pause. OMG I think that’s my flatmate!!!! It was posted twenty minutes ago by @Pixie95. She’s not an egg; her profile shows a heavily made-up young woman, pouting for a selfie, who gives her location as Great Yarmouth. Frankie looks at Pixie’s other recent tweets, all replies to concerned messages. Yeah, Han went missing last week. OMG can’t believe it. So so sad if its her!!!! She seems to be relishing the drama of it all, a bit too much for Frankie’s taste, but it’s possible she really does know the victim. She follows Pixie and sends her a message.

  Hi I’m Frankie a TV journalist, can you follow me so we can chat? Very sorry about what’s been happening.

  A few minutes later she has an interview with Pixie set up in Great Yarmouth and a possible name for the victim: Hanna Chivers.

  ‘Not sure about this, Franks,’ Gavin says, as they drive slowly along the terraced street. It’s behind Marine Parade and several of the houses seem to be B&Bs, with flower baskets and striped awnings. ‘Could be anyone online, couldn’t it? How do we know this Pixie person is who she says she is?’

  Frankie’s cameraman has a deep distrust of the Internet. Gavin is on Facebook, but only, she suspects, because his adult children harangued him into it. He posts something about once a year, if that. ‘She’s not really called Pixie, she’s called Leah Wilcox,’ she says.

  ‘Exactly. That’s my point.’

  ‘Just here.’ She touches his arm. ‘I think it’s this one.’ The house is painted cream, its windows tacked on like boxes in a style the Victorians seem to have favoured for every English seaside resort. Gavin parks up and gets his camera kit out of the boot, refusing Frankie’s offer of help. His short grey hair sticks up in the wind, a frown of concern on his thin face as she knocks on the door.

  ‘You the news people?’

  Leah stands in the doorway, one elbow propped on her hip and what looks like an enormous joint hanging from her fingers.

  ‘That’s right,’ says Frankie. ‘Thanks for having us.’

  ‘Come in, then,’ she says, wafting them over the threshold and padding barefoot through the dark hallway. Frankie follows her without turning round. She doesn’t need to see the furious expression on Gavin’s face to know it’s there. Leah takes them into the front room. A young man sits on a black faux-leather sofa holding a Fosters can. He raises it slightly as they walk in, but says nothing. Leah plops herself down on the sofa without introducing him. She takes a drag from her roll-up. There’s a strong smell of weed.

  The only other place to sit is a small beanbag, so Frankie stays standing. Gavin puts his camera on the floor and leans on the tripod without setting it up. ‘Thanks for seeing us,’ Frankie says again, getting her notepad out of her bag. ‘Before we do any filming, what makes you think the murdered woman is your flatmate?’

  ‘Han went missing about a week ago. I told her work she was sick, just in case she needed some time out, you know?’

  ‘Did she often do that? Go missing, I mean?’

  ‘Dunno. She’s only been here a month, hasn’t she?’ Leah turns to the man beside her. ‘Didn’t know much about her to be fair, did we? Just that she worked at the hairdresser’s across town. What’s it called again? Curly Sue.’

  Frankie jots down the salon name. ‘Why did you tell her work she was sick?’

  ‘So they wouldn’t fire her.’

  ‘You didn’t think to call the police or her family at all?’ says Gavin, not even attempting to make his question sound less like an accusation. Frankie shoots him a look.

  ‘Don’t know her family. And I didn’t want her to get in trouble or anything at work, thought she’d just taken off for a few days.’ Leah looks upset. ‘Fuck. Do you think I should have called them?’

  ‘Well, maybe it’s not her,’ Frankie replies, unsure what to say. No point making Leah feel worse.

  ‘She has a top like the one in that photo. And it did look like her hair.’ Leah’s voice quavers. ‘What if it really is her?’

  ‘Hopefully it’s not. What’s she like?’

  ‘Bit stuck up, I thought,’ says the man with the Fosters can. ‘Kept herself to herself. Except that time she went mental over some stupid fucking parcel.’

  ‘A parcel?’

  ‘Yeah, somebody sent her broken glass in the post. She freaked out.’

  ‘That sounds pretty weird,’ Frankie says. ‘And they sent it here, even though she’s only just moved in?’

  ‘It was a bit creepy,’ Leah says. ‘I don’t think there was a note or anything, just bits of glass. I chucked it out for her,’ she adds, tossing her head. ‘So she didn’t have to deal with it.’

  Gavin nods towards the window. ‘I think we may have company.’

  Through the netting Frankie can see two uniformed officers are getting out of a police car. The doors slam and they walk out of sight. A moment later, there’s a knock at the door.

  ‘Shit,’ says Leah, grabbing her companion’s can and dropping the joint in it. ‘Open the bloody window, Jez!’ The young man leaps to his feet.

  There’s another knock and a scrape that sounds like the letterbox being pushed open. ‘Anybody home?’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Leah calls, hurrying out of the room.

  Frankie and Gavin look at each other but say nothing, keen to overhear whatever the police have to say. Jez is flapping the netting out of the open window, trying to disperse the smell.

  ‘Leah Wilcox? I’m DS Ian Darlow from the East Anglian Constabulary, this is PC June Wright. Can we come in please?’

  ‘It’s Han, isn’t it? Oh my God, oh my God!’

  ‘Careful, love. Let’s just go inside where you can sit down.’

  A moment later, Frankie is facing the police officer she met that morning. PC June Wright looks far from delighted to see her. ‘You again!’

  ‘We were just here to do an interview,’ Frankie says, gesturing unnecessarily at Gavin’s tripod. ‘Leah said she thought the victim you found this morning might be her flatmate.’

  ‘I’d strongly advise you not to have the press here right now.’ DS Darlow turns to Leah, who looks terrified. ‘Your choice, of course, but I wouldn’t advise it. Not at this stage.’

  ‘It is Hanna, isn’t it?’ Leah says. ‘Oh God, Jez, I didn’t think it would be her, not really. Jesus.’ She slumps down on the sofa.

  The two police officers are staring pointedly at Frankie and Gavin, clearly waiting for them to leave. Frankie knows there are plenty of journalists with enough brass neck to try to tough this out but she isn’t one of them. ‘We’ll just be going,’ she says. ‘Very sorry, Leah,’ she adds as she passes her. Leah doesn’t seem to hear. PC June Wright moves to sit down beside her, putting an arm round her shoulders.

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ says DS Darlow.

  There’s a scuffle as Gavin’s camera clips the police officer and they nearly get stuck in the narrow hallway. ‘We had no idea you were coming,’ Frankie says as he opens the front door. ‘We weren’t trying to intrude. I didn’t even know for sure if it was her flatmate.’

  ‘I realise that,’ he replies. ‘And I’m not going to take you for fools, you’ve clearly worked out who the victim is. But I’d ask you to wait until it’s official before making that public.’

  ‘Of course,’ Gavin says.

  ‘Is her death being linked to the other two murders?’ Frankie adds. ‘I’m asking off the record.’
<
br />   Ian Darlow gives her a long, hard look. ‘No comment,’ he says, pulling the door shut and leaving them standing on the doorstep.

  ‘Blimey!’ says Gavin. ‘That was bloody awkward!’

  But Frankie doesn’t reply; she’s already calling Charlie on the newsdesk.

  Ava

  ‘I know you’re awake.’

  I can’t answer, I can’t even scream. I think I’m going to black out from the terror. My mind can’t accept this is happening; maybe if I say nothing it will stop, I will wake up. The denim shifts out of sight as he gets off the box. There’s a scuffling noise and I think he’s getting down onto the floor. Then a shadow looms over me. I see it’s a face, encased in a padded ski mask, dissected by the slats. An eye presses against one of the gaps, and it stares, unwinking, into my own. Fear squeezes my chest.

  ‘Hello, in there. Cat got your tongue?’

  I open my mouth but no sound comes out. Don’t antagonise him! screams the voice in my head. Half-remembered stories about kidnap victims who survive flash through my mind. It’s the ones who don’t annoy their captors, who don’t panic, that make it through. The ones who play nice. I know I have to answer him. The effort of speaking makes it feel as if I am dragging the word out of my throat with sandpaper.

  ‘Hello.’

  He laughs. ‘Feeling comfortable in there?’

  ‘Not really. Can I get out please?’

  The brown eye stares at me, until I feel naked beneath its gaze. ‘Hmmm, not today. Today, I think you can stay where you are.’

  I’m desperate to ask why I’m here, plead with him to let me go, but I know deep in my bones that this would be useless. It would only make him feel more powerful, feed his cruelty. I try to keep the conversation unthreatening.

  ‘My name’s Ava. Ava Lindsey. I’m studying at the University of East Anglia.’

  ‘I know who you are. Cool customer, aren’t you, Ava? I thought you might be. I’ve been watching you for a while. My prim little psychology student.’ The hideous eye winks at me. ‘Got an even better view now.’

  ‘Are you interested in psychology, then?’ It’s a ridiculous question, but I want to change the subject, I can’t bear that black dot of a pupil boring into me.

  ‘Come on, Ava. That’s not really what you want to ask me, is it? You want to ask why I’ve brought you here, what I’m going to do with you. Why haven’t you?’

  ‘Well, I figure that if you want to tell me those things, you will.’

  The eye shifts suddenly out of sight, the voice echoing as he moves away. It must be a near empty room I think, maybe a basement. ‘Clever girl,’ he says. ‘You’re right, I don’t like questions. For that you get some water.’ For one wonderful moment, I think he’s going to open the box, then I feel cold liquid splash down hard on my face. I gasp, spluttering, then realise that if I want to survive, I will have to try to drink. Knowing I may only have a few seconds, I close my eyes and open my mouth, swallowing as the water falls. It’s mixed with dust from the wood, I can taste the tang of creosote, and lying on my back, keeping my mouth open with the water tipping down my throat, I nearly choke. I manage a few swallows before he stops. I blink the water from my eyes, trying not to cry.

  ‘Better?’

  Anger, more bitter than the chemical taste on my tongue, fills my mouth. I hate this man. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘I’m glad. As a reward for being a good girl about the water, I’m going to tell you a little bit about why you’re here.’ There’s an alarming creaking noise in the joints of the box as he lies face down on its lid, his body directly above mine. My small space grows darker. I can see both eyes through the slats now, and traces of his wet pink lips as he speaks close to the wood. It’s suffocating, the sense of him lying on top of me. ‘Do you watch the news, Ava, or is it just Freud for you?’

  ‘I don’t really watch the news, no.’

  ‘So you haven’t seen anything about dead women being found in Norfolk?’

  Oh God, please no. ‘I . . . I’m not sure,’ I stammer.

  ‘Well, it’s a shame you’ve not been watching me as closely as I’ve watched you. That’s a bit disappointing. The police aren’t helping frankly, it’s not entirely your fault, they could have made more of it. I think you’ll help me there. I’m doing a little experiment, you see, Ava. An experiment in fear. None of the others passed, I’m afraid. I’m hoping you might be different.’ He laughs again, and I can feel his hot breath on my face, blowing dust and drops of water into my eyes. ‘That would be nice, wouldn’t it? If you were the one who lived. Shall we try that?’

  I feel as though the scream trapped inside my lungs is going to tear me apart. I open my lips to speak but no sound comes. This can’t be happening. My breath catches in my throat. ‘Yes,’ I hear myself say.

  Frankie

  Walking through the door of her flat, Frankie nearly stumbles over Jack’s shoes and flings her keys on the bench. Bags that neither of them has bothered to unpack yet form a mini obstacle course on the path to the open-plan kitchen. They’ve only just moved in together. She can’t help thinking of Leah and Jez’s dark front room, where Hanna lived for the last month of her life. It’s very different to the flat she and Jack are renting. Light and modern, right on the riverside off King Street, it’s in one of her favourite spots in Norwich.

  She crosses to the kitchen, moves to dump her bag on the laminated worktop that doubles as a breakfast counter, then thinks better of it and lowers it to the floor. All the surfaces in this flat are alarmingly white and Scandi-looking. Frankie imagines herself leaving a trail of mess wherever she puts down her belongings. At least Jack is too much of a geek to notice he’s moved in with a dust devil.

  He often works late, and she knows he’ll be staring at plants at the John Innes Centre for a good hour yet. Of all the professions she imagined for her life partner, food technologist was never one of them. She smiles. At least if climate change ruins all the regular crops, Jack will be safely on hand making a genetically modified variety.

  She goes to the fridge and pours herself a large glass of white wine. It’s wonderfully cold. She stands for a moment, letting out a deep breath, trying to let the stress of the day drop from her shoulders. Soon after she had spoken to DS Ian Darlow, the police had confirmed Hanna Chivers’ name to the press. Thanks to Leah, they had a head start on the rest of the local media. Charlie sent her straight to Hanna’s hair salon, Curly Sue, for that most hated errand in journalism: the death knock. Even the hardest of hacks feels their heart sink when dispatched, like the Angel of Death, to disturb a grief-stricken family.

  Frankie had called first, but nobody answered the phone. It took her a while to psych herself up into walking to the door, phrases like ‘paying tribute’ and ‘dreadfully sorry to disturb you’ waiting on her lips. The manager of the salon had spied her and Gavin through the glass, walked swiftly to the door and pulled it open before Frankie had a chance to knock. Frankie had stared at the woman’s face, seen her red-rimmed eyes, and the image of Hanna Chivers lying barefoot on the wasteland flashed into her mind. She saw Hanna’s hair, tangled over her face, and wondered if this woman had cut it, if she had run her fingers through the highlights that had been left to blow uncared for in the wind. Her pre-prepared speech deserted her.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  The other woman burst into tears.

  They got their interview, so Charlie was pleased, but by the time Frankie left the salon she felt drained, and a little tainted from playing voyeur to another’s pain. Maureen Grey, Hanna’s old boss, alternated between shock and tearful grief. Hanna was eighteen years old, she told them, and had just finished her apprenticeship at Curly Sue, where she was one of Maureen’s best stylists. ‘She was so alive, just so alive,’ Maureen kept repeating. ‘When the police told me she was dead I couldn’t believe it. You must have the wrong girl, I said, it can’t be Hanna, it can’t be. She had real spirit, you know? A prope
r bright spark. She was always here early, always laughing. A bit cheeky maybe, if I’m honest. Not afraid to answer back. She wanted to run her own salon one day. I’m sure she could have done.’ At the thought of all Hanna would now never accomplish, Maureen had been unable to continue, and Gavin turned off the camera while she cried. Frankie had thought that was quite enough to put Maureen through, but she insisted on continuing. Frankie asked if all seemed well in Hanna’s private life. ‘She didn’t gossip much,’ Maureen told her. ‘No chat about any boyfriends, which I guess is unusual. Though I know she’d had a bit of trouble in the last month. Didn’t like her new flatmates much. She mouthed off about them a few times.’

  In Frankie’s experience, calling on the bereaved either results in being turned away immediately, or finding yourself with someone desperate to be heard. Maureen was the latter. It felt heartless abandoning her, she clearly could have spent the rest of the day talking about Hanna and drinking sugary tea, but Frankie had to do her live. She left it as late as she could, almost missing her slot. She was so flustered she forgot to mention the exclusive line from Leah about Hanna being sent glass in the post.

  Standing now in the flat, she can hear the sound of footsteps passing in the hallway. Her neighbours must be back. Sure enough, she hears the sound of keys jangling, the gentle thunk of a closing door and then, after a pause, the muted strains of the Goldberg Variations. Just as well they’re not living next to heavy metal fans, the walls are a bit thin for the price she and Jack are paying. She pulls up a stool and sits down at the breakfast counter, massaging her temples. The glass of wine is in front of her, condensation forming on its surface. She shouldn’t get too comfortable. Dinner isn’t going to make itself. A day of horror washed down by nothing but alcohol is no way to spend the evening. Still, she doesn’t move yet, instead staring at a small drop of water as it runs down the side of the cold glass.