The Death Knock

by Elodie Harper

  ‘Right. That’s fine for the set-up shots,’ says Gavin. ‘Simon, are you OK to do the interview now? No need to move, I can frame you up where you are.’

  ‘First, just your name for the tape please,’ says Frankie.

  ‘Simon Meadwell.’

  ‘And Simon, why are you worried about Daisy, what’s happened?’

  ‘The thing you need to understand about Daisy,’ he says, rubbing his hand nervously across his chin, his eyes flicking to the red light on the camera, ‘is that she’s the most considerate, responsible person. I know she did go missing a few times when she was young, but seriously, her family situation was a bit crazy and she’s nothing like that now. She always texts if she’s going to be late, like even from the supermarket if there’s a big queue, she doesn’t like me to worry. And she never misses a shift, you wouldn’t believe how important her job is to her. Being a midwife, they work really long hours, and it’s hard, you know? But she’s only ever missed about three shifts her entire career, and that was only because she didn’t want to give any of her pregnant ladies the flu.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘So that’s how I know something’s happened to her. When she didn’t come home Tuesday, I knew straight away, something bad must have happened.’

  ‘You don’t think the stress of the job has maybe been too much for her.’

  Simon shakes her head. ‘She loves her job. And her patients. There’s one or two I know she’s looking out for right now. No way would she leave them in the lurch. No way would she leave me to worry like this.’

  ‘And what appeal would you like to make?’

  Simon leans forward across the table, his hands clenched. ‘I’d say, let her go.’ He turns from Frankie to stare straight into the camera. She had meant what appeal would he like to make to the public, not to a kidnapper, but seeing the intensity in his face she doesn’t interrupt. ‘Please,’ he says softly, ‘you’ve no idea how precious she is, how much she’s loved. She’s irreplaceable. I would do anything in the world to get her back safe, you can have anything, anything you want, you can have my life instead, please just let Daisy go. You don’t need to hurt her.’ Simon’s voice wobbles, and his eyes are shining with tears. ‘You don’t need to prove anything. Daisy and me, we’re not vengeful people, we will leave you alone. Just don’t hurt her, please don’t hurt her, please . . .’ Simon breaks down. In all her time filming, Frankie doesn’t think she’s ever seen anyone lose it so completely. He is howling, all the anxiety and stress he’s kept pent up, all the sleepless nights, all the agony, has suddenly and completely overwhelmed him. Nathan holds him as he sobs, and they rock back and forth. She realises tears are running down her own face. She touches Gavin’s arm. ‘Stop filming,’ she says. ‘That’s enough.’

  Ava

  ‘And that’s when I knew, I knew the baby was going to be OK, that we’d saved him,’ Daisy says, her face lit up at the memory. ‘After that, there was no question it’s the job I wanted. And every baby since has been special too, but that little boy, he means something else to me. He must be three years old now, and whenever I’m down I think about him, imagine him running around, getting into mischief. Because I know he’s only here because of me.’

  We’ve been recounting our happiest times, things to make us feel better. Daisy’s have made all of mine feel quite small. Her proudest moment is saving the life of a baby boy, after both mother’s and baby’s heart rates dropped through the floor. I’m not sure what my proudest moment is. We are sitting close together, blankets draped over us. It’s so much warmer with Daisy next to me. Last night was the first one I didn’t wake several times from the cold. I’d quite like to sleep soon even though I’ve no idea how late it is. The world outside the grille is dark, but it might just be early evening, not bedtime at all. Adrenalin is keeping Daisy awake, that and having her hands tied. I know having them wrenched behind her like that must be incredibly painful, but she’s barely complained.

  Love is important to Daisy. I’ve heard all about her wedding day to Simon. I’ve heard all about Simon too, from the dull (he works for Aviva, the insurance company) to the beautiful (whatever shift she’s on he gets up extra early or stays up late, just so they can have a cup of tea together). It must be nice to be loved like that, I think. I’ve only had a couple of short, unsatisfactory relationships with guys, but my heart was never in it. And then there was Lina. I think about her, riding her bike next to mine, laughing. I think about kissing her, lying under the trees, the light and shadow on our faces, wanting to stay in that moment always. I haven’t told Daisy about Lina. She looks a bit like her, for a start. And somehow I don’t think a holiday romance would compete well with Simon, even though it meant everything to me.

  I’ve told her about Matt though, and Laura, and my friends. And my mum and dad. It still feels small in comparison to what she has, and I realise that the six years Daisy has on me have given her so much more time at living. I’ve barely got started, though I’d never thought of it like that before. You don’t really look at your life from the outside, you just live it. Until you realise somebody wants to take it from you.

  I’ve had some dark thoughts, while she’s been talking. About how, if one of us has to live, it ought to be me, because I’m younger, because I’ve had less time. But then that flips on its head and I think she ought to be the one who survives, because her life is so much richer than mine, because she helps so many women; she’s literally out there, saving lives.

  ‘I don’t really want to talk about this,’ I say, sorry to interrupt her, still lost in thought about the little boy she saved. ‘But I think we should. That stuff he said about his experiment, about only one of us . . .’ I can’t finish the sentence. I can’t say the words, can’t admit that one of us is going to die, even to myself. ‘He’s going to try and set us against each other, isn’t he? I just want you to know, whatever he makes us do, whatever happens, I forgive you, OK?’

  We’re sitting next to each other. The Stain is behind our backs; she was understanding about the fact I didn’t want to look at it, though it still bothers me, knowing it’s there. She can’t touch me because her hands are tied, but she moves one foot so it’s resting against mine.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that too,’ she says. ‘The survival instinct is very strong, I’ve seen it in action, on the ward. People do anything to stay alive. So I don’t know what either of us might do, if we’re really pushed to it. But Ava, I think unless we manage to overpower him, or unless the police come, he is going to kill us both. It’s a lie what he said about one of us surviving. So it’s only a question of when, not if. And I don’t want my last moments to be doing something terrible. That’s not who I am.’

  I don’t say anything, just press my foot against hers. I can’t say anything, because I don’t know, I just don’t know, if it comes down to it, if it’s my life or hers, what I will do.

  Frankie

  The report is only just ready in time for Kiera’s newly imposed broadcast deadline. Frankie double-checks it’s been sent to playback, then sits back in her chair with a sigh of relief. She had known as soon as Kiera saw Simon’s emotional interview that she would want to broadcast it. Frankie isn’t sorry. Her earlier worries about airing his appeal were bulldozed by his desperation, and the police didn’t give Charlie any convincing reasons why they shouldn’t go public. But even though she’s pleased to have reported Simon’s story, she didn’t share the general jubilation when the footage of Daisy from the NHS documentary arrived. She finds it creepy, as if the kidnapper wants to maximise news coverage by picking women who’ve been filmed. Unless that’s the reason they were targeted. An idea she can hardly bear to contemplate, given the implications.

  As always after a frantic self-edit at her desk, Frankie’s shoulders have been wound up as if she’s a marionette, and with all the other stress in her life, she has a howling dog of a headache, thumping and scratching against the sides of her skull. She takes the headphones off and turns over h
er phone. Two missed calls and a voicemail show up on her screen. She dials in to listen.

  ‘Hi Frances, it’s Dan Avery here. Just to let you know we’re aware of the second blog and are on to it.’

  Frankie sits forward again with a jerk. ‘Shit,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll call as soon as there are further developments,’ the recording continues. ‘In the meantime, please do take all the precautions we discussed.’ There’s a pause, as if Dan is considering how much to say. ‘I pick up emails from my phone, so you can contact me that way if I’m not at my desk. But really, I meant it about calling 999 if you feel in danger. I think we should treat this as a credible threat, even if it’s nothing to do with the murder enquiry. Take care.’

  For a moment she doesn’t move, wondering whether it would be better not to look at the website, whether there’s any point filling her head with more poisonous hate. But curiosity always wins. She types ‘Killing Cuttlefish’ into the search bar and the site loads onto her browser. @Feminazi_Slayer2’s new blog is hidden part way down the forum. The title reads Stalking Norfolk’s Nancy Drew. She clicks on the link.

  Immediately a photo of her comes up in the crosshairs of a gun. It’s a snapshot of her smiling in the studio, taken from a TV screen. There’s a caption running alongside it: Yoo-Hoo Nancy Drew! Rather than an article underneath, she’s confronted with a montage of pictures of herself. Many are screen grabs from reports or lives she’s done, but all with a nasty digital addition. In several her face is blacked out, in others her head’s been replaced with a pig’s, and one has a red line of blood drawn round her neck. Some are shots of her on screen that have been zoomed in so far she’s just a body part; a little more thigh than she had meant to show sitting down in an interview, or a tiny flash of cleavage.

  The worst photos are the ones that aren’t doctored. There’s a shot of her leaving the flat, another of her getting into Gavin’s car, and one from yesterday, sitting on the bench on the cathedral green. A single line of text sits beneath the montage.

  Thanks to everyone who supplied photos! We’re watching you, BITCH.

  Frankie scrolls down to check the comments. She’s hit by a barrage of obscenities and rape threats. She doesn’t read complete messages, her eyes skip over them, but individual words and disjointed phrases jump out at her before she can un-see them. There’s only one commenter she’s looking for, and in the middle of all the ‘fucking cunt’s, ‘throttle the bitch’s and ‘LOL’s, one post chills her more than all the rest: The fat bitch’s days are numbered. Fancy giving her some love online before I visit? Beneath is a screen grab of her Twitter account. It’s posted by @The_Norfolk_Strangler.

  ‘Bloody hell, what is that?’

  She turns round to see Zara standing by her shoulder, her face screwed up in a frown.

  ‘It’s that website,’ she replies, her mouth dry. ‘There’s been another post about me.’ She scrolls back up to the top, to the hideous montage. Her cheeks feel like they’re burning and she doesn’t feel able to stand up or move out of the way so her friend can see better as she leans over to read the screen. Instead she gets her phone out. 187 notifications on Twitter. With a feeling of dread, she clicks on the icon. A string of messages merge before her eyes into incoherent babble of abuse: die in a fire feminazi bitch make sure you film it when you kill the cunt hope you get raped to death in your posh fucking flat die slowly fat waste of space . . .

  She gasps, sucking in the air as if she’s been punched.

  Zara spins round in alarm. ‘What is it?’ Frankie passes the phone over, her hand shaking. ‘God, that’s awful! Do the police know about all this?’

  ‘About the blog. I don’t know about the other stuff. God, it’s so public.’ She gestures at the phone. ‘Anyone can see this shit.’

  ‘Is Jack home now?’ Frankie notices Zara’s eyes are fixed on the computer. She follows her line of vision. It’s the photo of her leaving the flat.

  She shakes her head. ‘He’s working late. I mean if I call him, I’m sure he’d come straight home, but I’d rather not when he has a deadline.’ She doesn’t like to add that she feels guilty about Brett and knows Jack has already been staying up all hours trying to crack the blog.

  ‘In that case you’re coming home with me. I mean it, no arguments,’ Zara says when she opens her mouth to protest. ‘There’ll be more than enough dinner to go round. In fact, stay the night. It would do you good to be somewhere else for a change.’

  Frankie feels like she might cry. ‘Thanks. I’d love that,’ she says.

  In Zara’s house on the Wellington Road, Frankie sits on her friend’s familiar dog-haired sofa. The Hydes’ black Labrador, Snoopy, has finished charging round the room barking with glee, and is now slumped against Frankie’s knee, occasionally thrusting a wet nose at her for a sniff. Zara hands over a large glass of red wine and flops down beside her.

  ‘Stew’s on the hob,’ she says. ‘Mark’s back in half an hour or so, and we can eat then.’

  Frankie takes a gulp from her glass. ‘I really appreciate this. It’s all a bit stressful right now.’

  ‘God, it must be. Fucking awful.’

  Frankie smiles at her. She always appreciates Zara’s bluntness, and right now it feels especially comforting. Snoopy yawns and leans more heavily against her leg. She sighs and takes another sip of wine. The living room is a jumble of Mark and Zara’s different tastes; Victorian prints of birds cover the walls – Mark is a twitcher – but all the fabrics are from Zara’s travels, most with the distinctive bright pink, earth shades and llamas of Peru. The furniture might politely be described as antique, but is really just old and scuffed. A wicker chair, which Frankie can’t remember anyone but Snoopy ever sitting in, takes up too much room by the fireplace and various curiosities crowd the mantelpiece. There’s a nineteenth-century jug, an Indian horse and a set of orange candlesticks. It ought to look a mess, but she always finds this room enormously homely and relaxing. Frankie realises with surprise that she feels more at ease here than in the new white flat she shares with Jack.

  ‘I’m not sure what’s going to happen with it,’ she says. ‘The police seem a bit useless.’ They had called the station to report the Twitter abuse and received an underwhelming response. The officer answering the phone said Dan had left but advised her to take her account offline. That was it.

  ‘You’d think they’d take it a bit more seriously since we’ve got a guy online calling himself the Norfolk Strangler, bloody hell,’ Zara says, then sees Frankie’s face. ‘I mean I’m sure it’s a hoax,’ she adds quickly.

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  Zara nods. ‘Obviously it’s fucking scary, of course it is. But I do think it’s somebody messing around, trying to upset you.’ Frankie isn’t sure how convincing she sounds. Zara leans over to scratch the top of Snoopy’s head. The dog yawns and stretches. ‘Do you want to talk about this though? Maybe you’d just like a night off from it all.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ she says. ‘It probably helps to talk about it, rather than it being locked away in my head.’ She draws her legs up onto the sagging sofa, dislodging Snoopy, who whines and resettles on the floor, plonking his head down on Zara’s feet. ‘I ran my theory about Grant Allen past the police. Apparently he’s a bit of a nightmare, very litigious. They don’t want to disturb that particular hornet’s nest unless they have enough evidence.’

  ‘All the more reason to investigate, then,’ says Zara. ‘We could always pay him a visit, if they won’t.’

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ Frankie says. ‘What, just rock up and ask him if he or his son have been blogging about me?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Zara reaches for a laptop that is resting precariously on a pile of cushions, papers and rumpled jeans. ‘People like that have massive egos, always think the press want to cover their every fart, why do you think he keeps calling?’ She opens the PC and brings up the Justice4Jailbirds website. She scrolls down the page, squint
ing to read the tiny font crammed into the dated layout. ‘God, what a shonky site,’ she mutters, clicking on the Contact Me section. ‘How about we ping him a message? Say we’re doing a bit of background digging ahead of Donald Emneth’s inevitable trial. I’ll write it, say I’ve spoken to you, and that we don’t want to miss out on his expertise. I’ll ask if he’d like to meet to discuss coming into the studio as an expert to talk about it all.’

  ‘You’re awful!’ says Frankie, leaning over to look more closely at the website. ‘But actually it’s not even that unlikely. He’s exactly the sort of clickbaity idiot Kiera would have in the studio.’

  ‘Right then. What shall I say?’ Zara clicks on the button that reads ‘send message’ so a small box pops up on the screen. ‘Shall I suggest we could pop round for a chat this weekend?’

  Frankie hesitates. She had been caught up in the rush of Zara’s mischief-making, but the reality of facing the man suddenly seems less appealing when she thinks about actually going through with it. ‘What if he is Feminazi Slayer though? He was definitely at Jamie Cole’s trial. Or maybe he knows who it is? Is it safe for us to turn up?’ Particularly me, she wants to add, but feels too embarrassed to admit it. ‘Dan Avery thinks the blogger might pose a threat even if he’s not connected to the killer.’

  ‘Is that what you’ve been thinking? That this Feminazi guy might be the Strangler?’ Zara puts her wine down with a thump. ‘Surely that’s not likely? I know he’s making your life a misery, but that doesn’t mean he’s bumped off a string of women.’