She and Caz watch the programme from the comfort of the edit suite, then when the national news starts they both walk back into the newsroom for the debrief. Caz holds the door open and Frankie sees Kiera Williams, the new manager of the Eastern Film Company, is already standing by the newsdesk, a sheaf of notes in one hand. She’s a tall, thin woman, with glossy auburn hair, wearing a houndstooth print suit, its tight skirt cut on the bias. She looks over at Frankie and Caz as they file in. ‘Well you two certainly kept us on our toes!’ She’s smiling, but there’s no warmth in her face.
‘Frankie had to drive over from the press conference. There was very little spare time,’ says Charlie. Kiera glances down at him. He’s sitting a couple of feet away from her, his chair pulled back to let her take the floor. Since their old boss David Hall retired, it’s been Charlie’s job to debrief the programme. Frankie wonders if he’s going to have cause to regret not going for the top job himself.
‘So, not a bad show,’ says Kiera, ignoring Charlie’s remark. ‘Perfectly respectable lead, though I think we could all have done with the report being finished a little sooner.’ She nods at Frankie. ‘That’s something I intend to introduce. All packages should be ready fifteen minutes before we go on air.’
‘But that would only have given us forty-five minutes to cut it,’ Frankie says, then immediately wishes she hadn’t.
‘I’m not interested in excuses,’ Kiera replies. She’s still smiling, but only just. ‘Nobody said newsgathering was easy, but good habits are so important. From now on we’ll be operating a three strikes policy on reporters who file late. I’ll exclude today’s programme, obviously.’
Nobody asks what happens after the three strikes. Frankie looks over at Charlie, who appears to be studying his shoes with interest.
‘On to the rest of the show,’ says Kiera. She proceeds to fillet their efforts, ignoring the unwritten rule that new bosses wait at least a week before criticising the programmes they’ve inherited. Frankie comes off comparatively lightly. Neil is told his scripting is pedestrian, Zara’s presenting is ‘stiff’ and even Gavin’s filming doesn’t escape censure – ‘Was it necessary to have so many shots of students’ shoes walking by? Such a cliché.’ Worst of all are her ill-concealed digs at Charlie’s newsgathering skills. No wonder Priya had nothing good to say about the new boss. It’s clear that Kiera Williams doesn’t intend to brook any competitors in her new Norwich fiefdom.
The debrief over, Frankie stuffs scattered belongings on her desk into her bag, getting ready to go home. She bends to pick her mascara up off the floor. A pair of sensible shoes clump into her line of vision.
‘Got time for a drink, old girl?’
Frankie looks up. It’s Zara Hyde, Kiera’s ‘stiff’ presenter. She’s only recently been promoted from reporter, forcing Paul Carter to share his throne. The Eastern Film Company’s long-standing anchor is not at all pleased by the new arrangement, and in fairness to him, Zara is an unconventional choice for the studio sofa, more at home in mac and wellies than a glamorous dress. This evening she had worn a pinstripe trouser suit, a choice almost certainly prompted by Paul’s complaint that she doesn’t wear enough skirts. Now that she’s in jeans and an old T-shirt, obviously having rushed to get changed as soon as the show ended. Frankie is sure Zara only accepted the promotion for the extra money, her heart still on the road.
‘Why not?’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll just text Jack and let him know.’
Frankie swings the bag onto her shoulder, typing out her message to Jack as they head into reception. Before they can make it to the revolving glass door, Ernie the security guard calls them over.
‘Your admirer has been hanging round the car park again,’ he says to Zara, leaning his large frame over the front desk. ‘I saw him on the CCTV. I’ve been out and warned him off, but I suspect he’s still loitering nearby. Are you sure you don’t want me to get the police to have a word with him?’
‘Brian’s been hanging around again?’ Frankie asks.
‘Oh, come on, he’s harmless,’ says Zara. ‘Just after autographs. He’s got to be one of our most loyal viewers.’
Frankie and Ernie exchange glances. They both know who Brian is most devoted to: Zara. He certainly isn’t waiting around for selfies with Paul Carter, the programme’s much more famous presenter.
‘It’s up to you, Zara, I can let it pass today, but if I see him again this week we really will have to tell the police.’
‘If you have to,’ says Zara, wrinkling her nose. ‘But poor old Brian’s totally harmless.’
Ernie’s far too polite to contradict her directly, but Frankie can tell he’s not convinced. She supposes his former life as a prison officer has made him more suspicious than most. ‘You can never be too careful,’ he says.
‘Honestly,’ mutters Zara, as they push their way round and out. ‘Talk about overkill.’
‘He’s only doing his job,’ Frankie replies. ‘And Brian is a bit weird.’
Zara laughs. ‘When Colin Firth wore a knitted jumper like that on Bridget Jones he was a heart-throb. It’s not Brian’s fault he looks more like Uncle Fester.’
Outside there’s no sign of Zara’s diehard fan or his trademark knitwear anywhere near the premises. Ernie must have succeeded in scaring him off. They cut into the network of Norwich’s narrow alleyways and end up at Frank’s bar. It’s a quietly eccentric place, all wooden floorboards and mismatched chairs with half a fairground horse on one wall. Old books and candles fill its darker corners. Zara shuffles some students along the bench at the back so they can sit down. The pale light from the windows behind them almost makes it feel like a summer evening.
They order tapas and a couple of glasses of white wine. Zara looks much more at home in her scruffy clothes than she did in the pinstripe suit.
‘So how’s it going with Paul, any better?’ Frankie asks.
Zara grimaces. ‘As if. He keeps asking me when I’m going to get pregnant. Think he’s hoping I’ll go off on maternity and never come back.’
‘God, how rude! How does he even know you and Mark are trying?’
‘He doesn’t. He just heard I’ll be hitting the big Four-O soon and seems to think I ought to get a move on. Seriously, every time there’s a report with a cute baby in it, which let’s face it, on regional news is practically every week, he gives me this smarmy look. Last night he even said “tick-tock” and winked.’ Zara starts laughing. ‘It’s funny really. I can never work out if he’s trying to be chummy or just a bastard.’
‘A bastard, I’d say,’ says Frankie, sipping her wine. Zara and Mark are having IVF and she feels like punching Paul. ‘Still, I suppose you have to laugh about it.’
‘Not sure there will be much laughing with Kiera in the hot seat,’ Zara says. ‘I caught Paul oozing his charm all over her earlier. Getting in early.’
Frankie grimaces. ‘Bit of a change from David, isn’t she?’ She pictures their old boss, with his curly grey hair and tweed jacket, always the first in and the last to leave. One of the gentlest souls in the business, he had spent a lifetime building a friendly oasis in a cut-throat industry.
‘Not a promising start,’ says Zara. ‘Let’s just hope Norfolk knocks the edges off her.’ They sit in glum silence, pondering the alternative. ‘Still,’ she adds. ‘There are worse things. Like your report tonight. That story puts it all in perspective. Those poor women. Held captive, then killed. Fuck.’ Their tapas arrives and Zara takes a forkful of spicy potatoes. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she? The missing student. She must be.’
‘It doesn’t look good,’ says Frankie. ‘But I’m not sure he’s killed her. If you think about it, there was a gap between Hanna Chivers going missing and her body turning up. And he dumped her quite blatantly, like he was taunting the police.’ She thinks of Peter Marks and his analysis of the killer. ‘I think if she were already dead, we’d have found her.’
‘Not sure that isn’t even worse.’ Zara shudders. ‘What�
��s he doing with them? The police haven’t mentioned anything about sexual assault.’ She catches sight of Frankie’s face. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘No, it’s fine. Just something about this case really gets to me.’ She runs her finger round the rim of the glass. The bar is filling up, getting louder. The waiter has started lighting candles at tables across the room. ‘Don’t you sometimes worry that we’re part of it? That some of this is for the media?’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, the bravado. Dumping Hanna where he did. Snatching Ava a couple of days later. Not just taunting the police, is he? The killer’s making sure it’s in the news. That we’re all over it.’ She dunks a piece of bread in olive oil, and the black vinegar soaks through, giving it a bitter taste. ‘Makes me feel complicit somehow.’
‘I wouldn’t stress about it. I know what you mean, but you can’t help that. We’re just doing our jobs.’ Zara punches her on the arm. ‘Don’t eat all the tapas while I go to the loo.’
Frankie takes out her phone when Zara has gone, starts idly flicking through tabs on the Internet. She hesitates, then logs onto the forum on Killing Cuttlefish. Ever since she found the site, she keeps going back to it; she’s not entirely sure why. She’s already checked it once today to make sure there’s nothing about Ava, and so she isn’t really expecting the post that appears at the top of the page.
MSM cream their pants over Norfolk Strangler.
Frankie stares at the title. It’s written by @Feminazi_Slayer2. After a moment she clicks on the link.
The Brainless Wonders of our beloved Mainstream Media have been outdoing themselves today. It seems we have a serial killer in our midst – oh joy for the hacks – but he’s going after hookers – oh horror for the PC brigade!
Seeing fuckwit reporters tying themselves in knots about how to say PROSTITUTE KILLER was a particular pleasure. Where do they learn these phrases? ‘Women who were employed as sex workers’ – that’s PROSTITUTE to you and me – or even better describing that raddled old tart Sandra Blakely as ‘a mother of two’. Some mother. Her children must be delighted to see the back of the revolting old junkie.
But it’s worth suffering through all the useless reports to see that HANNA THE SLAG got her just deserts in the end. For all you put Jamie Cole through, for all the lies you told in court, for all the pricks you teased, I hope you rot in Hell, BITCH.
‘Frankie! Are you OK? What’s the matter?’
She hadn’t realised her friend had already got back. Zara is leaning over the table towards her in concern.
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ She closes the tab and places the phone face down on the wood. ‘Just that awful website I told you about. There’s been a post saying vile things about the victims in the Strangler case.’
‘What are you doing reading that crap? Seriously, woman, put it away.’ Zara pushes the wine bottle towards her. ‘Have a drink, please. That website’s for sad, nasty men typing away in their mums’ spare bedrooms, winding each other up and pining for the girlfriend they’ll never have. Promise me you won’t keep reading it, OK?’
‘OK,’ says Frankie, without much conviction. ‘I’ll try.’
Frankie
‘We go live now to Norwich, where retired electrician Donald Emneth says he knew all the women reported missing in the investigation police are calling Operation Magna. Our reporter Katie Greenaway is with him . . .’
The television blares out as Frankie makes breakfast. Her eyes are burning. She woke too early this morning, fury stopping her from sleeping. She butters her toast aggressively at the white countertop. An especially violent scrape sends half of it flying across the room.
‘Bollocks!’
Jack looks up from his coffee. The toast lies, butter down, on the living room’s new slate grey carpet. With a sigh he ambles over to pick it up and drops it in the bin. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he says.
She knows he’s not talking about the toast. Ever since she saw Luke Heffner’s report on the late news last night, Frankie has talked about little else but what a bastard he is. In spite of her email, Luke had run the precise section of Peter Marks’s interview that the professor had asked her not to record. She had watched it air on television in outraged disbelief. ‘I just can’t believe he’d do something like that,’ she says. ‘It’s such a crappy trick. Really unprofessional.’
Across the living room, breakfast telly is still yammering away. Frankie has had it on all morning, nervous that the overnight team might also have used Professor Marks’s interview clip for their morning reports. But the only story in town seems to be a local eccentric called Donald Emneth claiming to have an ‘affinity’ with the case. She’s already heard what he has to say and so points the remote at the TV to turn the sound down.
‘I’m sure if you explain what happened Professor Marks will understand it was an accident,’ says Jack.
‘That’s not the point! He specifically said he didn’t want to talk about it because it would be bad for Ava.’ She bangs the butter back into the fridge. ‘That’s the worst bit. Even if Marks is wrong, Luke’s made it look like the press don’t give a stuff about her.’ She heaves herself up onto a stool by the worktop and starts eating the remains of her toast. ‘Why would he do that? Just for a slightly snappier line in a report.’ She takes a swig of coffee, aware that she needs to give it a rest. Even Jack’s sympathy will run out eventually. And at the back of her anger lurks a nugget of anxiety, not just for Ava but for herself. Luke hadn’t only run the clip in his report, he had really milked it, using it to discuss the psychology of serial killers at length in his live. If Kiera was watching she will be wondering why on earth Frankie didn’t use it too. Charlie’s always been supportive of her scruples, but she has no idea if the new boss is going to be so accommodating. The last thing she needs is a ruthless hack like Luke tramping all over her patch and scooping her on her own material, making her look bad.
‘Honestly, try not to worry,’ says Jack, pouring them both some more coffee. ‘Maybe the professor wasn’t even watching.’
The newsroom always feels different in the morning, even a grey one like today. There’s a semblance of order. The long-suffering cleaner has repaired some of the daily damage and newspapers are stacked in a pile on Charlie’s desk rather than spread across the room in a hurricane of pages. He’s working steadily through them when Frankie arrives, his head buried in one of the tabloids, trying to glean a story that might fit in their programme.
‘Morning,’ she says.
‘Hello you.’ He looks up, pulling his glasses down from the top of his head. ‘We need to chat. There’s been a complaint.’
Frankie thinks of Professor Marks and her stomach lurches. ‘Really? Oh shit.’
He waves a hand. ‘Nothing serious. Get yourself a cup of tea and come join me in a minute.’
They sit huddled in front of Charlie’s computer screen, reading through the email together. It has a dismaying amount of caps lock in it.
‘He thinks I made him look bad?’ she says. ‘The guy went on television and told the world he used to bite his girlfriend!’
‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’ says Charlie, who seems to be enjoying the email much more than Frankie. ‘Self-delusion is always such a treat. I think I’ll have fun sending the reply.’
‘And what’s this bit? “Your reporter Francesca Larch clearly has HER OWN DUBIOUS AGENDA.” He even got my name wrong. What a dick.’
‘All very entertaining. What’s this business about you and Gavin trashing his front room?’
‘It was stuffed full of hideous trinkets and cuddly toys. We could barely move.’
‘You didn’t break anything though? The company’s not going to get an invoice for the replacement of some priceless porcelain cherub he inherited from Great Aunt Jenny?’
‘No, I just moved a giant teddy bear out of the way of Gav’s tripod so we could film. That was literally it.’
‘That’s fine then. Just d
on’t touch his bears in future.’ Charlie is laughing and she can’t help joining him, even though the email has made her feel uncomfortable. She can normally tell when people are going to be difficult, but Martin Hungate had gone out of his way to be charming. Then she thinks of the flicker of animosity when she asked him a question he didn’t like. The warning was always there, she just hadn’t paid attention.
‘Seriously though,’ she says. ‘I’m a bit worried now that we broadcast a report saying he was a reformed character. Far from making him look bad, perhaps we’ve gone and given an unhinged wife-beater some credibility.’
‘Yes, that had occurred to me too. But I think you asked sufficiently challenging questions. And as far as I remember from your report, you barely used any clips with him, it was mainly an interview with his girlfriend.’
‘Maybe that’s what got up his nose,’ Frankie says, thinking of the pale-eyed woman, trapped in a house full of kitsch, passive-aggressive love tokens. ‘Poor Debbie.’
‘Well,’ says Charlie, spinning in his chair to face her. ‘You’ll be delighted to know that’s not the only madman I’ve got lined up for you today.’
Frankie groans. ‘Not that guy on telly this morning?’ she says, thinking of the scrawny, wild-eyed man with a shaggy beard claiming he had ‘helped’ all the missing women. ‘He’s just some crank, desperate for attention. Shouldn’t we leave well alone?’
Charlie tuts. ‘Hardly. He’s all over the nationals. You can’t go soft on me now, I’ll have to report you to the new boss.’
She knows it’s a joke but Frankie looks round. ‘Where is she?’
‘London. Some meetings with head office.’
The Death Knock Page 7