She knows Jack means Ava and Donald Emneth, but it makes her think of the interview with Hanna in the BBC archive. It’s not the first time she’s known victims of crime to appear on old, unrelated news reports, but it still feels a bit odd that both women have. So far, the fact they’ve both been on TV is the only connection she can see between them. ‘Do you remember seeing either Donald or Ava at the demo that day?’ she asks Jack.
He shakes his head. ‘Nobody stands out at these things. It’s just a mob. Your Mr Emneth’s bloody typical though, claiming we’re causing cancer when we’re trying to cure it. Must say I feel a lot less sorry for Ava knowing she’s part of the socks and sandals brigade.’
‘Jesus, Jack. She hardly deserves to be murdered for shopping organic.’
‘I was joking!’ He flings his hands up in mock defence. ‘Suppose I ought to be grateful to the protestors. It adds a certain frisson to splicing proteins into tomatoes, knowing you’re a target for terrorists.’ He smiles. ‘Nearest I’ll ever get to being James Bond, anyway.’
Waking the next morning before an alarm goes off is pure pleasure. Frankie rolls over sleepily to face the window. Sunlight is shining through the slatted blinds in dazzling stripes, turning the wall an even brighter white wherever it touches the paint. For a moment she just lies there, savouring the time in bed, before coffee calls. Jack is still sleeping and she slides out from under the duvet, padding across the new beige carpet.
She stands for a moment at the living-room window, looking out over the river. The morning light has turned the grey water silver and the willow trees are golden brown. A lone jogger runs along the path opposite, but otherwise it’s so peaceful they could almost be in the countryside. It’s a little cold to step out onto the balcony in her pyjamas, but she can’t wait for summer, all the lazy afternoons she and Jack will spend there together, enjoying a glass of wine and a favourite book.
As she crosses to the open kitchen area, the black and white tiles are cold under her feet. She flips the kettle on to boil and gets out the cafetière, ladling in the coffee. It’s expensive stuff Jack bought at a fancy independent shop on the Norwich lanes. Frankie can’t tell the difference from the cheap supermarket brand she buys, but hasn’t had the heart to tell him. The microwave pings with the hot milk and she pours out two mugs for them both, heading back to the bedroom.
Jack is still sleeping. She leans over and kisses him gently. He stirs and opens his eyes, sees her holding the coffee.
‘What a lovely way to wake up,’ he says, yawning. ‘Thank you.’
She puts his coffee down on the bedside table and clambers back into bed with her own. ‘It looks like it’s going to be another gorgeous day. Such a lovely autumn this year.’
‘I’m so sorry not to be spending it with you,’ he says, taking a sip of coffee. ‘It’s just crazy at work at the moment. I think I’m in for a few Saturdays until we’ve got the project finished. Everyone in the lab is a bit jittery about funding.’
‘It’s a shame,’ says Frankie, snuggling up to him. She had no idea until they moved in together that the lab was so demanding on his time. It feels like his hours are even more unpredictable than hers. ‘But I understand. I’m meeting up with Priya and Zara for brunch after you go out. Anything you want in town?’
‘Some more of this coffee, if you don’t mind,’ he says, raising his mug for another sip. ‘It really is great, isn’t it?’
Priya is already at the Cherryleaf Coffee House on St Giles Street when she arrives. It’s a large open place with shiny wooden floors, farmhouse furniture and floral crockery; Frankie remembers eating cake off similar plates at her grandparents’ house, but the retro design suddenly seems to be fashionable again. Priya’s taken over a table by a window, and is sitting on a bench strewn with velvet cushions. Even on the weekend she can’t switch off from being a producer; at least two of the Saturday papers are scattered amongst the china.
‘Morning,’ she says, standing up to give Frankie a hug. ‘Hope you don’t mind all this.’ She gestures at the French toast and coffee she’s already ordered. ‘Ken has the kids this weekend. I’m discovering one of the upsides to divorce is getting some time to read and drink coffee on my own.’
Frankie knows it’s been a difficult year, however much Priya always looks on the bright side. ‘How were the kids this morning?’
Priya makes a face. ‘Oh, don’t ask. Neither of them wanted breakfast, no that’s not the coat I want to wear Mummy, why can’t we stay with you, I don’t like those shoes. I couldn’t do anything right.’ She pauses. ‘They’ve still not forgiven me for leaving their dad.’
‘They’ll understand when they’re older,’ Frankie says, thinking of her own parents’ divorce. ‘Trust me. Maybe even before. I was delighted when there weren’t rows every day.’
‘Hello, you pair,’ says Zara, slinging her mac on the back of the chair next to Priya. She looks at the newspapers. ‘Honestly, no time off at all?’ She picks one up, folding it over to look at Donald Emneth’s photo on the front. ‘They’ll be sorry about all this character assassination now he’s been arrested. I heard it on the radio as I drove in.’
‘Really?’ says Frankie. ‘I wonder if they’ve got anything else on him besides the stuff he said to the press. Though I suppose put together it sounded so incriminating the police had to take him in.’
‘What will you ladies be having, then?’ asks the waitress, who has crossed over from the counter.
‘I think the usual,’ says Zara, looking round. ‘Three egg muffins and a big pot of coffee?’ The others nod. ‘And I’ll have some French toast,’ she adds, eyeing Priya’s half-eaten portion.
‘Some bacon with the muffin for me,’ says Frankie. ‘And an orange juice.’
‘So what did you make of him, Frankie?’ Priya asks, when the waitress has gone.
‘Jack asked me that last night,’ she replies. ‘He was creepy, but that doesn’t mean he’s guilty. That nasty look he’s giving her in our archive footage might just have been because she turned down his cup of tea.’
‘Thanks,’ says Zara, making room on the table as the waitress brings over the coffee. ‘Well, it sounds ridiculously petty to us, but I’ve sat in on murder trials that were sparked by sillier supposed slights. Lots of disgruntled men out there who think the world owes them a woman. Usually a young, pretty one.’
‘But he seems a bit, well, dim to be our killer though,’ says Priya, refilling her cup. ‘Don’t you think? I mean the last murder, that Hanna Whatshername, she was dumped in a very public place. Can’t see Beardy having the nous to pull that off. And he’s quite distinctive, surely somebody would have noticed him hanging around campus.’
‘Do you ever think he’s watching us?’ says Frankie. Her two friends look at her in surprise. ‘No, not literally sitting here watching us. I mean on telly? Following us on the news. I mean the killer must be, mustn’t he? He’ll want to find out how much the police know.’
‘Revelling in the fame of being on the Eastern Film Company,’ Zara snorts.
‘Is this case getting to you?’ asks Priya. ‘I can speak to Charlie if it’s a bit much. Get somebody else covering it for a bit.’
‘No, if anything I’m enjoying the challenge of working on such a big story.’ Frankie blushes. ‘God, that sounds awful, doesn’t it? I’m turning into Luke Heffner. Wallowing in all the misery, making it a backdrop to my ego. I bet that smug bastard would do a piece to camera in a morgue—’
‘Behind me is the corpse of victim number three,’ interrupts Zara, putting on a pompous tone. ‘And I can exclusively reveal that she was—’ The waitress cuts off Luke’s imaginary script with their food. ‘Ah thank you,’ says Zara. ‘From murder to muffins. Marvellous.’
There’s a lull in the conversation as the three of them tuck in. ‘So how’s it going, living with Jack?’ Priya asks.
‘It’s great. A bit weird to have somebody always there,’ Frankie says. ‘Although not today, which is
a shame. He’s having to do lots of extra work in the lab. Some special project.’
‘Ah yes, the cancer-curing tomatoes,’ says Zara. ‘Just wait until you’re a pair of old farts like me and Mark. He’s away this weekend, but I still made coffee for two this morning.’ She takes a mouthful of French toast, waving the empty fork at Frankie. ‘And then you’ve got the joys of in-laws to look forward to. Though I guess Mark’s lot aren’t too bad, bless them, even if his mother does like to fuss over what I feed him. When are you meeting Jack’s parents?’
‘I won’t be,’ she says. ‘I’m sure I told you his mum’s dead? And he doesn’t really speak with his dad, I don’t like to ask him about it. Bit of a sore point.’ Frankie’s phone bleeps. ‘Speak of the devil,’ she says, fishing around in her handbag. ‘He said he’d let me know how late he’ll be working.’ She gets the phone out and checks the screen. Her face lights up with excitement as she reads the message. ‘Even better.’
‘Why, what’s up?’
‘It’s from Laura, you know, Ava’s friend? She’s agreed to meet me, she’s free this afternoon, just for a chat, no filming. But we can work on that.’
‘Working on a Saturday?’ asks Zara. ‘Rather you than me. Still I guess it will impress our lovely new boss, Little Miss Sunshine.’
Priya groans. ‘Oh God, she’s awful, isn’t she? Come back David, all your crap football jokes are forgiven.’
‘I reckon I need to earn a few extra brownie points with her,’ says Frankie, typing a reply to Laura into her phone. ‘After that bollocking she gave me yesterday.’
‘At least she seems to be in London quite a bit,’ says Zara. ‘Any luck and Norfolk is just a brief stop on her ascent up the greasy corporate pole.’
Laura’s room in halls makes Frankie nostalgic for her own time as a student. The narrow cell in the breezeblock building is a riot of colour. There’s a pink tie-dye sheet pinned to the ceiling and cheap rag rugs hide almost every scrap of the threadbare orange carpet. The pin board is covered in photos of Laura and her friends. Many are of Ava.
Laura herself is a slight, nervous young woman who keeps fiddling with the end of her mousy blonde ponytail. She looks younger than twenty, or maybe Frankie is just getting old. After all, her own student days are nearly a decade ago, although it doesn’t feel like it. They sit together on the bed, surrounded by mismatched glittery cushions, peering at Laura’s phone.
‘This is Ava and me in Vilnius last year. We went Interrailing.’ Laura swipes through to another picture, showing Frankie holiday snaps. ‘That’s the boarding house where we stayed. Then that’s us out in the countryside. We hired some bikes.’
The photo shows Ava with her familiar pink bob, smiling and squinting in the sun. She’s standing next to another girl with pigtails, one arm round her shoulders. Laura is a little further off, holding two bicycles. Frankie has the same tight feeling in her chest as when she watched the footage of Ava at the demo. She hopes so much she isn’t dead.
‘Who’s the other woman?’
‘Lina. We met her and Marius out there. They’re both students at Vilnius University. Marius took the photo.’
Frankie glances at the posters opposite. So much of the decoration in here is from the trip. Alphonse Mucha prints from their stop in Prague and endless Toulouse-Lautrec, perhaps from a stall alongside the Seine. She has already seen photos of the two girls by its banks in Paris.
Laura swipes through to the end of her camera shots. Her hand is trembling slightly. The screen shows Ava and a male student at a bar, leaning over the counter laughing. Ava’s eyes are shut and her face is slightly blurred. She must have moved when the photo was taken. There’s blue strobe lighting and the place looks vaguely familiar.
‘Where’s this?’ Frankie asks.
‘The Blue Bicycle, you know near Bedford Street? It’s the night that . . .’ Laura trails off.
‘The night she went missing?’
Laura nods. ‘It wasn’t even a late one. Ava hardly had anything to drink, she was really preoccupied with her coursework.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual about the evening at all?’ Laura wipes her eyes and Frankie realises she’s crying. She puts a hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry, you don’t have to talk about it if it’s upsetting.’
‘No, it’s just I feel really guilty,’ Laura says. She stops, wiping her face again, trying to collect herself. ‘I wish more than anything I could go back in time and change things. Ava hardly drank anything, but Jon and I were doing shots. We were both massively pissed by the time we went back to campus. I can’t believe we let her go home on her own. The police asked if Ava might have been drugged, if she behaved oddly, and I honestly couldn’t say. I knew she was quieter than usual but that’s all.’ She flops back, leaning against a print of a black cat on the wall. ‘How shit a friend does that make me?’
‘Laura, I’m sure the police already said this, but you’re not responsible for what happened. Some creep chose to target your friend. That’s got nothing to do with you guys doing shots.’
‘I know that really. But it’s hard, you know? And I just wish I could remember more.’
Frankie nods, wishing the same. Laura still won’t agree to talk on camera, and if she can’t get much more useful information out of her, she’s going to be torn between going back empty-handed or having Kiera push her to run the drunken friends line, regardless of her reassuring little speech that Laura is not to blame. ‘Did you notice anybody else there at the bar?’
‘Well,’ Laura says, twisting her bracelet round her wrist, a string of amber beads on ribbon. ‘I don’t know if he’d thank me for putting you in touch, but Brett was there that night. He might have seen something, he knows all the regulars.’
‘Who’s Brett?’
‘Brett Hollins. He’s a postgraduate student here but he works at the bar on Saturdays and some weeknights. I think he was with a friend that evening, I noticed him at a table, so he wasn’t serving,’ Laura says, blushing slightly. ‘I’m not a stalker or anything, but he’s quite fit. And I think he likes Ava.’
‘Do you think she likes him too?’
‘No.’ She fiddles with the bracelet again, not looking at Frankie. ‘Ava has been finding stuff out about herself lately. Brett’s definitely not her type.’
‘How do you know he likes her?’
‘Well, Ava had some time off last term when her brother Matt wasn’t well, he has depression, and Brett kept asking me where she was whenever I went to the bar.’
‘Ava took time off uni to look after her brother? They must be very close then.’
‘Oh God, I shouldn’t have said that,’ Laura says, clapping a hand to her mouth. ‘Shit, I’m such an idiot. One of the local papers in Sussex put something online about Matt being depressed and Ava’s mum’s asked all her friends not to say anything. I wasn’t thinking. Please don’t mention it.’
‘Of course I won’t,’ Frankie says, trying not to imagine Kiera’s disapproval at her lack of ruthlessness. ‘Anyway, you were telling me about this guy, Brett.’
Laura sighs, twiddling with the ponytail again. ‘It’s obvious he fancies her.’ Her eyes fill with tears again. ‘Sorry,’ she says breaking off, and wiping her face with a trembling hand. ‘It’s just I was a bit jealous at the time, and now I don’t give a crap if Brett fancies her or not, I just want her back.’
‘Honestly, you’ve nothing to feel guilty about.’
‘That’s not the bit that bothers me. It’s that when he kept asking me about her I told him he didn’t have a chance, Ava’s gay.’ Laura catches her breath. ‘Please, please don’t repeat that either. She’s not out yet, it’s been a confusing year for her. I should never have told him, I still can’t believe I did.’
Frankie shifts on the bed, feeling awkward. So far this interview feels more like a counselling session, there are so many things she’s not allowed to report. Behind Laura, she can see photos of the two girls, laughing, on their adventures acro
ss Europe. Female friendship is always complicated but the young woman in front of her doesn’t deserve to be torturing herself. Frankie is a journalist not a therapist and she knows it’s not her role to be offering comfort, but as is so often the case when faced with intense emotion, the lines feel blurred. She squeezes Laura’s arm. ‘You sound like a brilliant friend,’ she says. ‘Don’t blame yourself for anything, it’s bad enough for you that she’s missing.’ To her consternation Laura leans over to give her a hug and starts crying into her hair. Frankie pats her carefully on the back, wondering whether it will seem crass later to ask for a copy of the photo of Ava at the bar that night.
Back at the new flat, the grown-up white lines are a shock after Laura’s multi-coloured student bedroom. It makes her feel old. Frankie picks up the fliers lying on the mat – there’s something about recycling and another postcard of the vase from that nameless antiques store – and dumps them straight into the bin. She heads over to the kettle and flicks it on. Jack is supposed to be back any minute and promised to pick up dinner on the way back.
The meeting with Laura was disappointing. She got the photo – that’s something to offer Kiera, the last picture taken of the missing girl – but no interview. Brett might be an interesting voice, but she’s no idea if he will talk yet. Of course if Donald Emneth is charged, none of it is relevant. But somehow she doesn’t think he will be. She reaches over to her laptop, which she left lying on the breakfast counter, and powers it up.
The police must have something that’s made them think it’s the same killer, most likely forensic evidence that links the three murdered women. But is Donald Emneth really a serial killer? She can imagine him luring Lily and Sandra into his house, but Hanna is more of a stretch. He’d surely have to abduct her, which would be much harder for an old man to pull off.
The Death Knock Page 9