Frankie puts her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God, how did you know it was Amber?’
‘I didn’t until now,’ he replies. ‘You’re right, you couldn’t possibly have known it was her from watching the report. Except you and your news editor overlooked the fact that one person would have known exactly who it was. And that’s Donald Emneth.’
Ava
My head is pounding and my throat is agony. My mouth is so parched I can barely moisten it with my tongue. Everything hurts. For a few moments I think I have the flu, that I’ve been having the worst possible nightmares, that I’ve just woken up in my bed in halls, seriously ill but safe.
Then I try to move and realise my hands are tied behind my back and I’m not lying down but sitting, cramped against the concrete wall of the basement, propped there like a puppet. The despair that washes over me is so intense I think I’m going to pass out again.
I must be groaning aloud, as I can hear an unearthly moaning. Then with a sense of dislocation I realise it’s not me making the sound. I think I’m going mad, that my senses are playing tricks on me, projecting my terror into delusions. I look round for The Stain, half expecting to see Hanna, dead and rotting, standing in its shadow.
That’s when I see it.
In the corner of the room, there’s a coffin-shaped box. Cardboard, not wood this time. For one crazy moment I think he’s dug Hanna up, that she’s in here with me. Then I realise it can’t be a ghost. He’s kidnapped someone else.
‘Hello?’ I call, or rather croak. My voice sounds scary and rasping to my own ears, God knows what it sounds like to whoever is in there. The moaning stops. I can imagine the fear of the person trapped inside. ‘I’m not him. I’m not the kidnapper,’ I say. ‘I’m like you.’
There’s no answer. I shuffle painstakingly across the cold concrete floor on my bottom, like a baby that can’t crawl yet. It takes a long time. I almost give up when I’m in the middle of the floor, but then I see there is a pile of sandwiches and more cartons of water dumped by the box. Thirst, added to my overwhelming need for company, gives me the strength to continue. My limbs scream with pain from being pressed against the cold concrete and my jeans are wet and sore against my thighs where I must have wet myself again. I know I stink.
I draw up level with the box and hear a scuffling noise. It sounds like rats, clawing at the cardboard from the inside. Perhaps there are rats in there, and this is all part of his hideous experiment. I hesitate. But then I think about how frightened I was when I arrived, and somehow it makes me feel better, imagining I can offer some sort of comfort to somebody else. At least his won’t be the first voice she hears.
‘I think you’ve been kidnapped,’ I say. ‘That’s what’s happened to me. We’re in a basement. I’m tied up, and you’ve been put in a cardboard box.’ I hear the sound of gentle sobbing, and feel tears of sympathy spring to my eyes. I feel guilty at the relief it brings me not to be alone any more, because it means somebody else’s life is over. ‘I’m very sorry this has happened to you, I really am. But perhaps together we can work out a way to escape. My name’s Ava Lindsey.’
‘Ava?’ says a voice from inside the box. ‘Ava Lindsey? The missing girl? Oh my God, oh my God, no, no, no . . .’ She dissolves into weeping again.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘I want to get out of here,’ she wails. ‘Oh God, I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!’ She kicks at the cardboard in panic. It must be industrial strength, because although it buckles with the impact, the seams don’t split.
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Which end is your head? Here, I’ll tap on the box, let me know if it sounds like I’m tapping near your face or your toes.’ I shuffle along to one end of the box, then turn round so my back is to the cardboard. I flex my fingers, flicking at the box with my knuckles. Not the loudest rapping, but enough for her to tell if it’s right next to her head.
‘I think that’s by my feet,’ she says. Her voice sounds a bit stronger. Perhaps concentrating her mind on a practical task is good for her nerves. ‘Can you knock again?’ I flick the cardboard. ‘Yes, that’s my feet.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘What I’m going to do now is sit right on the edge of the box here. If you can kick against the end, perhaps we can make the bottom collapse.’ I manage to heave myself up. The cardboard bulges. She starts to kick frantically. ‘My hands are tied so I’m sorry if I fall on you,’ I say, trying to raise my voice. My throat is hurting from all this talking. She doesn’t answer in any case; all her energy is focused on kicking. I lurch alarmingly as the box starts to crumple. Without my hands to save my fall, I hope I don’t crash head first onto the concrete. The box collapses suddenly, and I land on her feet, the drop cushioned slightly by the buckling cardboard, but we both cry out in pain. I shuffle off her ankles as best I can.
‘Is the cardboard broken enough for me to get out?’ she asks.
‘Yes, if you wriggle along, you should make it, you’ll be able to push the flap out with your feet.’
I can hear her puff with exertion as a pair of black sensible shoes appear, with thick rubber soles. My first thought is that they look like a police officer’s boots, but then my heart lurches as I see the blue trousers of medical scrubs. Painstakingly, my companion makes her way out.
She lies there a minute, red-faced, looking up at me, her cheeks wet with tears. Then she smiles. I think I will be grateful to her forever for the effort that smile must have cost her. ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘My name’s Daisy.’
Frankie
Gavin sits white-faced in his car, the engine dead, Frankie beside him. She feels on the verge of hysteria.
‘Oh God, we killed her. We should never have run that report,’ she says. ‘Amber would still be alive if we’d been more careful. We killed her, Gavin.’
‘Come on now,’ he says. ‘That’s not true. She approached us! She wanted to talk about it. And maybe she’s not dead. Maybe some daft punter has locked her up for a bit, like Donnie did.’
‘Shit, Gav. I should never have used that clip about him tying her up.’
Gavin says nothing for a moment, well aware whose idea that was. ‘You had to use it,’ he says at last. ‘It was one of the only things she really talked about in detail. And you used a clip of her saying he was a lovely man too, I remember it. Maybe Amber’s disappearance has nothing to do with us.’
Frankie covers her eyes with her hands, wishing she could blot out reality as easily. ‘God, I hope not,’ she says.
Gavin looks at the clock on the dashboard, turns his key in the ignition. ‘Look, we need to let the newsdesk know what’s happened. And at the risk of sounding heartless, we need to drive straight to Emneth’s house, the police are bound to arrest him.’
Far from expressing dismay at Amber’s disappearance, Kiera is delighted by the idea that they might end up with exclusive footage of the Strangler being arrested. They drive to Donald Emneth’s house in Costessey and sit in Gavin’s battered Toyota, parked several doors down from his bungalow. The house is partly screened by lime trees, but they can see that all the curtains are drawn. Gavin’s camera is out, ready on the back seat if the police turn up.
‘Could be a longish wait,’ he says, finishing off his homemade sandwich, and scrunching the cling film into a ball.
‘Sorry,’ says Frankie.
‘That’s not why I said it. Just worried about you. Been a hell of a week.’
‘I’ve got you for company though, haven’t I?’
Gavin laughs. ‘Flatterer.’
‘D’you reckon Amber really told Charlie she’d spoken to Donnie?’ says Frankie. He had assured her of this several times on the phone and she’s desperate for it to be true. It would go some way to assuage the guilt that’s clamped, vice-like, round her heart.
‘Never known him to be one for lying,’ says Gavin. ‘And it would make sense, wouldn’t it? If she wanted to do the old guy a favour, surely she’d run it by him first.’ He sits back in his seat and looks at he
r, his grey hair backlit from the sun shining behind him. ‘Franks, this really isn’t our fault. I don’t want you driving yourself mad with guilt over whatever’s happened. If anything, the police are to blame. If Captain Birdseye is a killer, they should never have let him go.’
‘I guess so,’ says Frankie. ‘I guess Gubberts was keen to pass the buck when we spoke to him earlier, because he knows he’ll be in for it if Emneth is guilty. But I still find it hard to see old Donnie as the Norfolk Strangler, don’t you?’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, I struggle to imagine him writing that blog, for a start.’
‘But maybe the killer didn’t write the blog?’
Frankie looks at Gavin, then away. She hasn’t told him about the cards or the smashing vase online. Dan and Jack know, and that’s enough. The fewer people she tells, the less real it feels. She stares out at the street. The house they are parked alongside has a floor-to-ceiling window. She can see a toddler sitting on the carpet watching telly, their mum or grandma ironing in the background.
‘I know this whole blog thing’s difficult for you, Franks,’ Gavin says, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder when she doesn’t reply. ‘I realise it must be getting to you, it would me. But I mean, there’s nothing to suggest the writer is the killer, is there? It’s just some wanker who happened to gob off about Hanna Chivers. Just because . . .’ Gavin trails off, his attention caught by the rear-view mirror. ‘We’re in business,’ he says, swiftly stepping out of the car and grabbing his camera from the back seat. A police car passes them on the road. It pulls up outside Donald Emneth’s house.
Gavin is already trotting towards the action, camera hoisted up on his shoulder, and she knows he will be in record. He stops, standing back from the house, a respectful distance to let the police do their job, but she’s sure they will still be annoyed to see him there. She takes the keys out of the ignition, then locks up the car, walking along the pavement until she’s standing next to him. Without a word, Gavin hands her the overhead microphone. It’s on an extra long lead so she can angle it and try to pick up any sound from the arrest.
Either the police haven’t seen them, or more likely they’ve decided to ignore them. An argument with the press isn’t going to serve their purposes right now; it will only alert their suspect. Two officers walk up to Donald Emneth’s front door and knock. Gavin and Frankie watch as it opens a crack. They catch a glimpse of a bearded face, then Donald Emneth tries to slam it shut, but the larger policeman already has his foot in the doorway. Together the officers wrestle with Mr Emneth, and get him in cuffs. He’s shouting but they are too far away to hear what he says. They head towards his garden gate, Frankie holding out the microphone, to catch any sound. When he sees them, Donald Emneth aims a kick at Gavin, who steps neatly out of the way.
‘Vultures!’ he shouts. ‘You’ve ruined my life! You’ve fucking ruined my life! I’ve lost everything because of you . . .’
‘Mr Emneth, it’s not advisable to be saying anything to the press at this stage,’ says one of the officers, shooting a warning look at Frankie. ‘If you two could stand back, out of the way. Please.’
They bundle Mr Emneth into the back of the panda car, then one of the policemen heads back to the house. Gavin continues filming, following the man with his lens, though the officer studiously ignores the camera as he walks past them. He’s inside the house for about five minutes, and Gavin switches off record.
‘D’you think that’s our lot?’ says Frankie.
‘Let’s just wait until he comes out,’ says Gavin.
They hear the wail of a siren. Gavin switches his camera back on and an ambulance roars past them, blue lights on. It stops outside Donald Emneth’s house and two paramedics rush in to the bungalow.
‘Oh my God,’ Frankie says.
A short while after the paramedics have gone in the policeman comes out of the house. He’s talking urgently into his radio. He clocks them and stands in the doorway, finishing the call, then tucks it back into his jacket. He walks towards them.
‘A word please,’ he says to Frankie. He gestures at the camera. ‘Not with that recording.’
‘Of course,’ she says.
Gavin switches the camera off but the policeman stands behind him, just to be sure. ‘And you are?’ he asks.
‘I’m Frances Latch from the Eastern Film Company and this is Gavin Starling.’
‘DS John Bellmont,’ he replies, nodding to them both. ‘I know we all have a job to do, but I’m going to ask you to be sensitive and refrain from filming when they come out.’
‘Is she alive? Are there two of them?’
‘We’ve found one victim and she’s alive,’ says DS Bellmont. ‘But very distressed. She certainly doesn’t need to be all over the evening news.’
‘Is it Ava or Amber?’
‘It’s not for me to tell you that,’ he replies. ‘Not until the family have been informed.’ While he’s speaking, Gavin lowers his camera to the floor. The policeman turns round as behind him a woman is led out to the ambulance, supported on either side by paramedics and wrapped in a blanket. There’s little they can see of her but Frankie notices her hair. It’s not pink.
Ava
I smile back. It makes my face hurt. I put my hand up to my cheek and realise it must be badly bruised. It’s hard to remember but I think he punched me. And there’s dried vomit on my chin. I must look a sight.
‘Are you a doctor?’ I ask her, as she scrambles up into a sitting position.
‘A midwife. At the Norfolk and Norwich,’ she says, then notices my arms are behind my back. ‘Here, let me get your hands free.’ She scoots over and pulls at my wrists. I wince as she tugs and something cuts into my skin. ‘Dammit,’ she says. ‘It’s those plastic things, you know cable ties.’ She lies back down on the floor, so her face is level with the restraints. I can feel her breath on my hands as she studies them. Then she pushes and pulls, even gnaws at them with her teeth. This seems to go on forever, and I have to bite my tongue not to cry out, it’s so painful.
‘I’m really sorry,’ she says at last. ‘I’m not sure I’m going to be able to get them off. He seems to have melted them closed as well. Your wrists look like they might be a bit burned.’
I try not to scream with frustration. ‘Never mind,’ I reply, my voice heavy with disappointment. ‘Maybe we can try again later.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ Daisy says again. I notice she has blood on her bottom lip where the plastic must have cut her when she tried to bite through, and my anger evaporates. It’s not her fault.
‘There’s water over there, if you’d like some.’ I gesture with my head. ‘I’d really love it if you could get some for me too.’
‘Of course.’ She scrambles up, grabs a bottle and sits cross-legged in front of me, unscrewing the top. ‘I’m used to helping women drink water,’ she says. ‘But normally under happier circumstances, when they’re in labour.’
She has such an earnest face. Dark messy curls are all out of shape on the side of her head where she’s been lying in the box, and as I drink she looks at me with wide grey eyes. Her kindness makes me feel better and worse at the same time. I start to cry.
She puts an arm round me, the way she must have put her arm round a hundred other crying women. ‘There, there,’ Daisy says. ‘It’s OK. It’s going to be OK.’
Neither of us has any idea if that’s true or not, in fact our odds must be pretty poor, but then I suppose medical professionals are trained to inspire calm, even in the dying.
‘I guess you’ve seen a lot of death,’ I say.
‘Well, yes. Doesn’t make me relish the thought though,’ she says. ‘And my job is mainly about life, fortunately.’
‘He’s mad,’ I say, as she wipes tears and snot from my face with her sleeve. ‘The guy who’s keeping us here. He’s completely insane. Got this massive grudge against women, he hates us. I’ve been trying to connect with him, to make him me see me as a person
, but it doesn’t seem to be working. And now I’ve gone and blown it anyway by attacking him, by trying to escape . . .’ I trail off, thinking of his hands round my neck. ‘He says he’s running a fear experiment. I don’t know why he’s put both of us together but it must be for something awful.’
I see the flash of terror in her eyes. Then she swallows hard, makes an effort to stifle it. ‘There’s two of us and one of him. We must be able to out-think him. Overpower him even.’
‘Not with my hands tied up,’ I say, a little bitterly.
‘They’re so tight. I’m really sorry, Ava. Even if we made the decision to take chunks of skin off your wrists, the plastic’s not going to fit over your hands. And I’m worried that the more we cut you, the bigger the risk of infection.’
She’s a midwife, I suppose she must know about these things, though I can’t help feeling she’s given up a little easily. I look at her, suspicion pricking my heart, wondering if those pale eyes are as open as they seem, wondering if I can trust her. It’s not her hands that are tied after all; perhaps it suits her to be the one free.
Then it hits me.
‘That’s why you’re here. He’s going try and set us against each other. Survival of the fittest.’ We look at each other appalled. ‘He might even have done it already. To some of the other women.’ I start shaking, I can’t stop myself, my whole body is shivering with fear.
‘We don’t know that,’ says Daisy, putting a hand on my shoulder, trying to hold me still. ‘We don’t know what he’s thinking.’
‘I didn’t even watch the news properly when I was free, I don’t know anything about him. I don’t know anything.’ The reassurance I felt from Daisy’s presence is starting to drain away. I wish she’d move her hand. Being tied up and trapped in the room is making me doubly claustrophobic, I want to pace about, and am moments from another panic attack.
Perhaps Daisy senses this. She grips my shoulder tighter. ‘That’s a really good idea,’ she says, though I haven’t suggested anything. ‘We can go through what we know about him. I can remember quite a lot about the news reports, I’m a bit of a current affairs junkie.’ She runs a hand gently over my forehead, smooths my hair, bringing me back to myself. ‘Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Deep breaths. Good girl.’ I do as she says and start to feel better, though my throat and chest hurt when I breathe in. ‘Right, according to the news he’s killed three women. It’s OK, stay calm. And he’s kidnapped you. You must have been here quite a few days now, though I can’t remember exactly when it was first reported. Your mum and dad have done an appeal, they seem really lovely—’
The Death Knock Page 19