The Death Knock

by Elodie Harper

  ‘What about my brother, was he on the appeal?’ I interrupt.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I think it’s just been your parents.’

  I let out a cry. ‘Oh God, he told me he was dead, he told me he was dead! What if it’s true, he must be dead, Oh God, oh God . . .’

  ‘Hang on, who told you? The kidnapper told you your brother was dead?’ I nod, my breathing ragged as I try not to give in to sobs. ‘Well then, it’s probably a lie. He has been in the news, your brother. It’s in some of the reports about you. How you looked after him when he was ill last year. When he was in hospital. Maybe this guy just read the reports.’

  Her words act as a brake, stop me from falling further. ‘Really?’ I ask, hardly daring to hope it’s true. Daisy nods. ‘Maybe he’s OK, then,’ I say. And I start crying again, this time from relief.

  ‘There, there, sweetheart. I’m sure he’s OK, he’ll be OK. Don’t cry. He’ll be waiting for you. And I remember your mum gave you a message in French. That was the headline on one of the papers: Stay Strong, Sweetheart.’

  ‘Reste forte, chérie,’ I murmur. I think about my mum, waiting for me, believing I will come home. ‘Thank you,’ I say to Daisy. ‘I’m sorry not to be much use. Just crying. Pathetic.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ she says. ‘You got me out of the box, didn’t you?’

  A clanking noise startles us both. I see my own fear reflected in her face. The door handle is turning. I realise we’ve been wasting time. We hadn’t yet discussed a plan for what we should do if he came in and now it’s too late. We stare at one another, frozen with terror.

  He closes the door behind him. I hadn’t warned Daisy about the padded ski mask and feel her stiffen as she takes in the round ball of his head, its strange shape distorting and dehumanising his features. ‘Well this is touching,’ he says, looking at us.

  Daisy scrambles to her feet, standing in front of me, her legs wide and arms slightly out, as if shielding me. The combination of exhaustion, pain and having no hands free means I have no hope of standing on my own. ‘What do you want?’ she says.

  ‘Didn’t Ava tell you? I don’t like questions.’ He takes two steps towards her, and I see a blade glinting in one hand.

  ‘Look out! He’s got a knife!’ I scream.

  He laughs and waves it at us, cutting through the air as if it’s a scythe. Daisy takes a step back, almost treading on me. ‘The thing is, Daisy. I’m going to give you a choice. Either you let me tie you up, or I’m going to kill Ava.’

  Daisy cowers backwards, still blocking him from reaching me, though whether from fear or design it’s hard to say. He strides forward, thrusting the knife in her face, and instinctively she cringes away from its blade. He grabs me by the arm, dragging me roughly to my feet, making me yelp with pain. He presses the knife against my neck. ‘Don’t make me impatient,’ he says to Daisy. ‘Go stand in the corner, bitch, facing the wall, and put your hands behind your back.’

  I think I’m going to pass out. I can feel the cold edge of the metal pressing against my skin, which is already raw from where he choked me. I will Daisy to obey him. She walks slowly to the corner and we shuffle after her. ‘Lie face down on the floor,’ he breathes in my ear. Wobbling, I obey. Immediately he rests his foot on my back, making it impossible for me to rise. I twist my head and watch as he hogties Daisy with one hand, the other pressing the knife at the nape of her neck. She winces as he pulls the cable tie tight. Once she’s tied up, he gets a lighter out of his pocket and melts the ends of the cable tie together. Drops of hot plastic fall on the floor near my face, and Daisy whimpers. I admire her for not screaming.

  ‘Right you,’ he says bending down to me. ‘Are you going to be good? Pull another stunt like last time and I swear this knife is going in your fucking eyeball. Understood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He grunts and cuts the cable tie round my wrists. It hurts as he pulls, but once my hands are free, the relief is enormous. I bring my arms round so the palms are pressed on the cold floor. There’s a sharp pain in my shoulders from the angle they had been pulled into, and I don’t think I could get up yet, even if I tried.

  ‘Right then, girls, a bit of swapsies for you. Let’s see how you share the food now it’s your turn without hands, Daisy.’ He looks between us both, then claps his own in a parody of glee. ‘Isn’t this fun? You two must have lots to chat about, my little TV stars. Though Daisy’s got the edge on you, Ava, she’s been swanning around on some Nazi Health Service documentary, spouting a load of nonsense. And I wouldn’t get too fond of each other,’ he adds, nodding at Daisy. ‘Just like the NHS, I’ve got limited resources, not sure how long I can keep you both. But then, you must be used to those decisions all the time on the ward, bitch.’ He moves to the door. My cheek is still resting on the concrete and I can hear Daisy crying softly. ‘Only one of you can pass the experiment. That’s just how it works.’

  Frankie

  In the newsroom Kiera is jubilant. Their network is the only broadcaster to have shots of the Strangler’s arrest. They share the rushes with Luke and after the footage has appeared on Commercial Television’s lunchtime bulletin, it gets played over and over on 24-hour news, their rivals having to run it with the company’s EXCLUSIVE banner burned into the picture. One of the channels seems to be playing Donald Emneth aiming a kick at Gavin on a loop, Frankie has seen it so many times.

  Her relief that Amber is alive dwarfs almost every other emotion. If she had been murdered, Frankie isn’t sure she could have handled the guilt. She knows Gavin and Charlie also feel a sense of reprieve. The only one who appears unmoved is Kiera. ‘Well at least we have an “in” with Amber when she decides to talk,’ is all her boss says, as she leans against the newsdesk, one elbow skewering the newspaper Charlie had been reading. ‘Given she’s spoken to us before.’

  Charlie raises an eyebrow at Frankie, but she doesn’t respond. She’s still annoyed he let her self-shoot the job in Lowestoft, even though he has no idea about the stress she went through as a result. ‘Police have yet to charge Emneth,’ he says, rolling his chair away slightly from Kiera. ‘But it can only be a matter of time, given you saw Amber being taken out of his house.’ He glances at one of the screens. They had abided by the police request and the only sign there had been a victim is a shot of the ambulance doors slamming and the vehicle pulling away.

  ‘I guess they might only charge him with abduction,’ Frankie says. ‘Maybe he’s not the Strangler.’

  Kiera makes a face. ‘Of course he is,’ she says. ‘The police say they’ve arrested him on suspicion of three counts of murder, why on earth wouldn’t they charge him?’

  ‘Well, even if he’s only done for kidnap,’ says Charlie. ‘He’s still looking at life. We’ll run the footage and say there’s been an arrest, but I think it’s best we hold off on a report.’

  ‘What about Ava Lindsey?’ Frankie says. ‘She’s never been found. Shouldn’t we ask the police what they’re doing to track her down?’

  ‘I imagine they’re asking Emneth about her as we speak,’ says Charlie. ‘But yes, we should definitely press them on that. I suspect our friend Donnie has already left her remains somewhere, it seems to be how he operates. Luke and the national crew are staying up here, hoping that’s the case. They’re banking on the police finding another body.’

  Frankie sits at her desk, in the rare position of having not much to do. The police, unsurprisingly, won’t tell her anything about their search for Ava. She ought to feel delighted they’ve taken in Donald Emneth, not only for Amber, but for herself too, but there’s a good reason she doesn’t. Shortly after news of the arrest broke, Jack texted her to say there’s been another comment from the poster calling themselves @The_Norfolk_Strangler.

  Best not count your chickens too soon.

  She tries to tell herself it’s exactly what a hoaxer who had seen the arrest would say, but she still feels frightened. She’s about to wander over to the kitchen to get a cup
of tea, when the phone on her desk rings. The extension flashing isn’t her personal line but the main newsroom number. She looks around to see if anyone else might be free, then picks it up.

  ‘Eastern Film Company?’

  ‘Grant Allen here, from Justice for Jailbirds. I’m after Frances Latch.’

  Her heart sinks. Not him again. ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Miss Latch, I thought I recognised your voice. How about you keep your promise and have me on the show now Donnie’s been arrested again?’

  She stifles the urge to put the phone straight down again. ‘Hello, Mr Allen,’ she says, trying not to let her irritation show. ‘Firstly, I didn’t promise, and secondly I meant we might be able to interview you after the killer is convicted. The case is still active, there’s not even been a trial yet.’

  ‘Whether he’s guilty or innocent, Donnie still has the right to be treated fairly by the press.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, which is why we can’t interview you.’

  There’s a pause on the line. ‘Slippery customer, aren’t you?’

  Frankie’s patience is at an end. ‘For somebody who wants to get on telly, Mr Allen, you have a funny way of going about it. Good day.’ She puts the phone down with a clunk. ‘Idiot,’ she mutters. Her curiosity piqued, she types his organisation into the search engine on her computer. A link to Justice4Jailbirds appears. She opens it. The website looks like it was built a decade ago and never updated. There are no pictures and the font is tiny. She clicks on the About Me section.

  Grant Allen is the director and founder of Justice4Jailbirds. He has helped countless men on their journey through the criminal justice system, from arrest all the way to support on the inside. Grant’s passion for justice was born when his 17-year-old son Zach was sentenced to 12 years. He saw the way Zach was treated and vowed no other boy – or man – should go through the same. Click here if you’d like to get me on board your case!

  None the wiser, Frankie googles Grant’s name. Immediately dozens of results pop up, including several press clippings. She clicks on the most recent, an article from the Norfolk Times.

  Time on the PlayStation, guv? The life of a con at HMP Halvergate

  Prison campaigner Grant Allen has spoken out about the conditions newly convicted sex pest Jamie Cole can expect inside Norfolk’s HMP Halvergate.

  Cole, who is 22 and from King’s Lynn, was convicted of raping one woman and indecently assaulting three more at Norwich Crown Court last month. He’s been sentenced to 6 years in prison.

  ‘It’s a joke,’ says Allen, 58, from Brandon. ‘They don’t have the staff there to look after people. When my son Zach was inside, they left him to rot away in his cell all day. Rehabilitation programmes? Don’t make me laugh.’

  Allen’s son Zachary Allen was convicted of manslaughter in 2002 at the age of 17, after killing his girlfriend, 15-year-old Cathy Spencer, in a drug-fuelled row. He served 8 years. Aged just 16 at the time of the crime, Zachary Allen is now living under a new identity.

  Inspired by his son’s experiences, Grant Allen runs a support group for recently convicted prisoners, Justice4Jailbirds. He has attended the trials of several notorious villains, as self-described ‘back-up support’.

  Mr Allen says Jamie Cole can expect to spend lots of time on his PlayStation inside. ‘At Halvergate they just leave you to your own devices, locked up in your cell for hours on end,’ he says. ‘I know people don’t have any sympathy for prisoners, but it’s an outrageous form of neglect. And you can forget about staff caring if you get beaten up – in fact they might join in.’

  HMP Halvergate has strongly denied Mr Allen’s claims, saying in a statement that it maintains ‘the highest standards of care towards its inmates and takes seriously violence of any kind.’

  Cathy Spencer’s aunt, Amy Wrexham, has condemned Mr Allen for his remarks. ‘The fact Grant Allen goes to the trials of men like Jamie Cole and offers them support just sickens me,’ she told the Norfolk Times. ‘What about support for the victims? Zachary Allen only did 8 years, and now he’s out in the world somewhere, living his life with a new name and no real punishment for what he did. Cathy is dead and we are all living a life sentence without her. Where’s the justice in that?’

  Mr Allen, who is now estranged from his son, says Zachary accepted responsibility for his actions many years ago. He maintains all criminals deserve to be treated with respect. ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right,’ he told us.

  Frankie reads the article again, frowning. Grant Allen attended Jamie Cole’s trial and so must have heard Hanna give evidence. She wonders who else is involved in his Justice4Jailbirds organisation. Curious about his son, she types ‘Zachary Allen + Cathy Spencer’ into the search bar, looking for clippings on his trial. She opens the first to pop up.

  Schoolboy pleads guilty to killing girlfriend.

  17-year-old schoolboy Zachary Allen has pleaded guilty at Cambridge Crown Court to killing his girlfriend Cathy Spencer in an argument last year.

  The court heard that Allen, who was 16 at the time of the offence, had been smoking super-strength cannabis – known as skunk – with 15-year-old Cathy Spencer at his family home in Brandon, on 12th August 2001.

  Mr Edward Collins, acting on behalf of the defendant, told the judge that the pair had an argument on the landing, and in a moment of madness Zachary Allen hit Cathy Spencer over the head with a jug of flowers. She fell down the stairs and suffered serious head injuries, dying at Addenbrooke’s Hospital two days later. In mitigation Mr Collins said that the 16-year-old boy was suffering from trauma following his mother’s unexplained disappearance last year and that this, together with the effect of the drugs, had led him into being uncharacteristically violent. Mr Collins asked the judge to consider the defendant’s age and early guilty plea when deciding the sentence.

  Outside Court a solicitor read a statement on behalf of Cathy Spencer’s family. ‘We are pleased that Zachary Allen has finally admitted his guilt. However, nothing can bring Cathy back. She was a clever, funny girl with her whole life ahead of her. She loved Zachary Allen, who abused that trust in the most cruel way imaginable. We are all devastated by her loss, and have no idea how we are now to face life without her.’

  The article includes a photograph of Cathy, a plump blonde teenager, laughing on a swing, but nothing of Zachary. Frankie supposes that as a minor, his image must have been protected.

  She searches for anything about Zachary in her company’s own archive, but there’s nothing that adds to the press clippings: they don’t have any images of him either. She stares at the picture of Cathy Spencer, trying to dispel the anxiety that’s taking hold. The detail about how she died, hit over the head by a jug of flowers, makes her think of the gif of the smashing vase on Lily’s Facebook page and the cards she’s been getting in the post. She tells herself it’s just coincidence but the fear lingers.

  Eventually she stands up and wanders over to Zara’s desk. She taps her friend on the shoulder. ‘D’you fancy a proper coffee before you go into the studio? I’m heading into town to get some air, I might nip to that new place opposite the cathedral.’

  ‘Oh lovely, thanks,’ says Zara, rooting about in her bag for change. She’s got her late-afternoon make-up on, ready to present the programme, and is wearing far too much eye-liner. As somebody who never normally ‘does her face’ Zara has yet to crack the art of applying cosmetics for the studio lights. Paul Carter’s foundation is much more evenly spread.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Frankie says, walking away. ‘I can stand you a coffee.’ As she heads out of the door, she tells herself she’s almost abided by Dan’s rule to say exactly where she’s going.

  Frankie walks into the city, head down, hurrying towards the cathedral close. The pavements seem particularly full, and she pushes past people in her agitation. Zachary Allen has made her very nervous. He must be just a little older than her, out for around seven years now, living under a new name. If anyone has a reason to hate w
omen, surely it’s him, the boy abandoned by his mother, whose life was wrecked by a row with a girl. She passes under the ancient stone archway into the green, away from the traffic, and takes a deep breath, feeling a little better to be out of the rush. The vast honey coloured spire rises in front of her, its edge hard against the clear blue sky. She sits down on one of the benches by the grass. There’s a chill in the air and she pulls her coat higher up her neck.

  Dan picks up almost straight away. ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘It’s Frances Latch here.’

  ‘I was just about to call you,’ he replies. She wonders if that’s as false as when a journalist says it. Probably not, Dan seems an extremely earnest young man. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve seen there are more comments under the blog,’ he continues.

  ‘It wasn’t all of them that worried me,’ says Frankie. ‘Or not enough to call. It’s the one claiming to be . . .’ She hesitates, looking round the cathedral green. An elderly couple are walking by on the path opposite, and not far behind them, a young mother with shopping hanging from her pram. ‘The one claiming to be from the killer,’ she says, her voice low.

  ‘Yes, I know exactly which one you mean,’ he says. ‘Where are you, by the way? Somewhere safe to talk?’

  ‘I’m at the cathedral green,’ she replies. ‘There’s nobody nearby.’