The Death Knock

by Elodie Harper

  ‘Not just your nose,’ he laughs. ‘You look like you’ve been in a wind tunnel.’

  She rolls her eyes at him and heads into the newsroom. From the newsdesk, Priya beckons her over. She’s wearing a blue fluffy jumper so thick she wouldn’t look out of place on a reindeer sleigh.

  ‘How was our Strangler, then?’ she asks, rolling her chair backwards to give Frankie room to perch on the desk.

  For a moment, Frankie struggles to focus on Donald Emneth, her thoughts still on Brett. ‘He looked like he’s had better days,’ she says at last, pushing aside an empty mug and sitting down. ‘Guilty plea for Amber, not guilty for the rest. And nothing more on Ava Lindsey. Which just feels odd.’ Frankie thinks of Ava’s family, so desperate for her return, and Simon Meadwell still waiting for news.

  ‘Guess the police must know something we don’t,’ says Priya.

  ‘I guess,’ Frankie says without conviction. ‘Are you really sure we can squeeze a report out of this?’

  Priya grimaces. ‘Between you and me? No. But Kiera wants something. I’ve suggested a studio live. Just rehash the basics, that he spoke to confirm his name and address, when his appearance at the Crown Court will be. The usual.’

  ‘Nice easy day for me in that case,’ Frankie says. ‘Though there was one other thing. You know that smug guy from national, Luke Heffner?’ Priya nods. ‘He thinks the police may have fucked up. That Emneth’s not a serial killer.’

  ‘God, he’s so vain, he would think he knows better than a squad of sodding murder detectives.’

  ‘I know, he’s not my favourite person either. But I think he might have a point.’

  ‘Really? Well, only time will tell,’ says Priya, over-enunciating the journalist’s cliché. ‘But that’s a story for another day if these charges don’t stick. We can’t very well float that theory now.’ She doesn’t seem too bothered about whether or not the right man’s behind bars, Frankie thinks. Though why should she be? Nobody claiming to be the killer has been talking about Priya. To her and all the rest of the team, it’s just another court case.

  It takes Frankie about ten minutes to write her studio live, then she sits slumped over her desk, clearing her email. At lunchtime she heads to Tesco and is picking up a sandwich when her phone rings with the boss’s extension.

  ‘Where are you?’ It’s Kiera. She sounds breathless and cross.

  ‘I’m just at the supermarket, I’ll be—’

  ‘Come back now! We’ve had a tip-off.’ Frankie wrestles with her purse, counting the pennies into her palm as her boss barks out of the mobile wedged between her shoulder and ear. ‘A farmer just rang the newsdesk. He’s found a body at the edge of his land. I want you to get over there. Now.’

  ‘Oh God, the police were right, then. Emneth must have killed Ava. Her poor family.’ She notices the cashier looking curiously at her, hands over the change and hurries away from the till.

  ‘Right, my arse,’ says Kiera. ‘Our guy swears the body wasn’t there this morning. She’s only just been dumped. That’s why he called us.’

  ‘Shit,’ says Frankie, breaking into a run. ‘I’m on my way.’

  Gavin is already filming when she arrives. The farm is on a small road, about ten miles from Methwold, deep in West Norfolk. A satellite truck covered with a rival broadcaster’s branding is parked up near the familiar Toyota. Further along the verge, Luke Heffner is filming a piece to camera while forensic officers in their distinctive white boilersuits troop back and forth through the gate behind him. The farmer obviously called a few newsrooms, she thinks. Frankie walks up to Gavin, waits quietly until he’s finished his shot.

  ‘All right, Franks?’ he says. ‘Got lots of action shots. Securing the scene, all the usual. Don’t think we were first on Farmer Giles’s list. That lot’ – he gestures at the truck – ‘were already here when I arrived.’

  ‘Any sense of who it is?’

  Gavin shakes his head. ‘Nah. But I overheard one of them say Gubberts is heading over, which got your friend over there excited.’

  She glances over at where her ‘friend’ Luke is standing. He’s finished filming his piece to camera and is talking animatedly into his mobile. She can hear his voice, but only catches the odd phrase; ‘exciting development’ and ‘top fucking story’ being a couple that stand out.

  She glances at Gavin and sees her own discomfort written on his face. ‘Doesn’t feel right, does it?’ he asks, wrinkling his nose. ‘I thought they’d caught the bastard.’

  ‘Maybe they have, maybe the farmer’s wrong about the body only just being dumped.’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ Gavin replies. ‘They’ve put the tent up right by a public footpath. No way you could have had a body lying there for days and nobody see it.’

  Luke makes his way towards them, keeping off the long grass and striding confidently over the rutted tarmac. ‘What did I tell you this morning?’ he says to Frankie, tapping his nose. His cheeks are pink, either from the chill or adrenalin. ‘Instincts of a bloodhound. The police will be crapping themselves. What a fuck up!’ He looks delighted. Gavin turns back to his camera.

  ‘Did you get a clue who it is?’ she says.

  ‘Yes. It’s Gubberts. He’s coming over.’

  ‘No, I mean, do you know who’s died?’

  Luke flicks through his notepad, scanning scribbles of shorthand. ‘The farmer came out to the fence before you guys arrived. Police warned him away but we had a brief chat off the record. No pink hair he said. So I don’t think it can be the student.’

  ‘But who else could it be?’ says Gavin.

  ‘Wasn’t there that chap you interviewed? With the missing wife?’

  ‘Oh God, I hope not. Poor Simon.’ Any relief Frankie felt at hearing the victim didn’t have pink hair evaporates. She thinks about Simon in his kitchen on Trinity Street, imagines him getting the news, making the final journey to identify the body, still hoping it isn’t Daisy. Then the crushing realisation.

  ‘Any chance you could give him a bell now, see if he’ll talk to us?’

  ‘Not today, Luke, seriously,’ she says. ‘Give the poor bastard a break. This’ll be the worst day of his life. You could at least pretend to have a heart.’

  Luke flushes. Behind him she sees Gavin shake his head. For once it seems she’s hit home, though whether it’s the insult or the prospect of a major interview evaporating that’s annoyed Luke, she can’t say. ‘No, you be serious,’ he retorts, jabbing a finger in the air before her. ‘Simon Meadwell has been royally shafted by the police. They obviously left his wife exposed to the real killer, while they pissed about with the wrong guy. Don’t you think he might want to talk? That he has a right to? They denied him a press conference and now look what’s happened!’

  ‘So that’s why you want to interview him? For his own good?’

  ‘Don’t come across all holier than thou with me,’ Luke says. ‘You’re no better than the rest of us, you just want to feel superior. Well, too bad. If you don’t want to make difficult phone calls, don’t be a fucking hack.’

  ‘All right, that’s enough!’ says Gavin. ‘It’s not a good look, you know,’ he says to Luke. ‘Bickering like you’re in the playground rather than standing yards away from a dead woman. Have some respect.’ Luke is about to reply, but Gavin raises his hand to cut him off. ‘And Franks, I’m sorry, but he has a point. Maybe just text Simon, say you’re around if he wants to talk.’

  ‘But we don’t even know if it’s his wife in that field!’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. You need to make contact, give him the option.’ She knows he’s right but can’t bear to admit it in front of Luke. Gavin lays his hand on her arm. ‘You’ll find the words.’

  She nods and walks a little away from them both to text. She can see Gavin leaning in to Luke, hears him say ‘remember the blog, she’s under a lot of pressure’ but turns away again when Luke looks towards her. She gets out the phone, unlocks it and stares at the blank screen. Self-loathing
sits in her stomach like curdled milk, bobbing against her insides. Maybe Luke’s right, maybe she is in the wrong job. She starts to type.

  Hi Simon, I’m so sorry to bother you at such an incredibly difficult time. Please know I’m always here to talk if there’s any message you want to give. Thinking of you, Frankie.

  She presses send before she can think better of it, then walks back to her colleagues. Gavin nods at her.

  ‘Look,’ says Luke, inclining his head and staring down his nose like an especially patronising teacher. ‘Maybe I was a bit . . .’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ she says. ‘I’ll let you know if he gets back. And obviously share any interview.’

  ‘Thanks. Well, I’ll just . . .’ He waves in the direction of his own cameraman, who is still filming, and sets off. They watch him go.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ says Gavin.

  ‘I don’t,’ she replies.

  It’s a long day standing by the roadside. The cars pile up as more and more journalists get a whiff of what’s going on. Once the 24-hour news channels start broadcasting their first lives, police have to close off the road, making them all park further away. It means nobody has the chance to shout their questions at DSI Gubberts when he arrives. Instead he drives past the pack and gets out of his car several metres behind the police cordon. But even though he’s safe from their shouts, his grim expression, zoomed in and caught by Gavin’s camera, tells its own story.

  The chat amongst the reporters is that this is the Norfolk Strangler’s latest victim, either Ava Lindsey or Daisy Meadwell, and although the police press office won’t confirm this, they don’t deny it either. Frankie keeps checking her phone but Simon never answers her text message.

  Sky News is the first to throw their hat into the ring. ‘This discovery,’ Frankie hears their presenter say, ‘throws open the awful possibility that Norfolk’s serial killer is still at large. So far police are refusing to comment . . .’ After that everybody piles in on the speculation. The farmer’s tip-off that there had been no body in the field first thing that morning, the likelihood the police have let a killer slip through their fingers with ‘devastating consequences’; all of it is aired, picked apart and mulled over.

  Through it all Frankie finds herself distracted, thinking about the posts below Feminazi Slayer’s blog. Claims to be the Norfolk Strangler ring less hollow now. She doesn’t even know if anything has been found on Donald Emneth’s computer that might give her reason to relax. Dan’s landline rings out when she calls him, but she leaves a voicemail. She thinks about the gif of the smashing vase, the message to her appearing across it in red letters, and feels afraid. If Emneth isn’t the killer, it’s a bigger news story, but one she doesn’t want to become part of herself.

  When it’s time for her own live on the evening news, Frankie puts her professional face on and stands solemnly in front of the illuminated blue and white police tape in her bright red coat, listening to Paul Carter intone his ponderous throw into her earpiece, ‘. . . this grim discovery raises many questions. Questions that the police are so far refusing to answer. Our reporter Frances Latch is live at the scene. Frances.’ And then she’s off. Relaying the smattering of facts, gesturing into the blackness behind her, the crime scene now obliterated by the winter dark. She finishes speaking and stands, her expression serious, waiting for the clear. ‘Thanks, Frankie,’ the director says in her ear. ‘That’s all we need from you. You can head home.’

  Her face relaxes, showing the exhaustion she’s feeling, and she yanks out the earpiece. ‘That’s it, Gav,’ she says. ‘We’re good to go.’

  They walk back to their cars. ‘Long old day,’ Gavin says as he swings himself into the battered Toyota. ‘Hope you’ve got Jack waiting at home for you with a hot dinner.’

  Frankie gives a tight smile. ‘Yeah, hopefully.’ She slams the car door shut behind her and starts up the engine. Gavin waves as he drives past, the opposite way to where she needs to go. Several other journalists seem to be leaving the scene too. She pulls into the road and starts down the dark lane. She turns the radio on but it’s yet more chat about the Norfolk Strangler so she switches to a Motown CD.

  At first she doesn’t think anything of the headlights behind her. There are a number of cars on the road. But after a while, when she’s taken several different turnings, losing cars at each rural twist and turn, she realises there’s now only one vehicle behind her. She’s always been a cautious driver and doesn’t like to hold other people up, so slows down, giving them room to pass, but instead of overtaking, the car behind also slows down. Frankie feels the sweat leak through her palms onto the steering wheel. In the dark it’s hard to see the car’s colour.

  ‘Come on, get a grip,’ she tells herself. She puts her foot to the accelerator and speeds along the black fenland road. The two white dots behind recede into the distance. She breathes out in relief. She mustn’t let this story get to her. Keeping up a steady pace, she fiddles with the volume on the controls and Marvin Gaye’s singing grows louder. As she looks up, she sees the two lights in her rear-view mirror growing bigger and brighter. The car behind is gaining on her. She speeds up, but so does her companion. The car is white, the same saloon she saw in Lowestoft.

  Her eyes still on the road, Frankie scrabbles with one hand for her phone, reaching into her bag on the passenger seat. She’s driving at speed and it’s hard not to veer about. Eventually, she manages to dig it out and clutches it against the steering wheel. No signal.

  ‘Shit!’ Frankie glances at the satnav. She has no real idea where she is, a B-road somewhere in rural Norfolk in the dark. She wants to fiddle with the settings, find out where the nearest service station is, but as she reaches for it, the car behind gives an angry burst of speed and taps her back bumper. Frankie screams. Her car lurches onto the wrong side of the road and for a moment she thinks she’s going to end up in the ditch. Her tormentor speeds up still further, so they’re driving directly abreast, and she can’t get back into her lane. In the dark it’s impossible to see who’s driving the other car, but their head seems unnaturally large.

  For a moment they’re side by side, then Frankie comes to her senses and slows down. The car ahead speeds off, honking. She just has time to register that the number plate in front has been blacked out by gaffer tape before it disappears.

  She wants to pull over, have a minute to collect herself, but she doesn’t dare stop in case the other car comes back. Instead she keeps speeding along the road, taking in breaths in frightened gulps. There’s still no signal, but even if she called 999 now, the car seems to have gone and she doesn’t know what she could say. Frankie tries to calm herself down. Maybe it wasn’t the same white car. Maybe it was just some idiot, out to give whoever they met on the road a scare. Nothing more. She tells this to herself, over and over, but her heart is thumping and her head hurts, every sense on high alert. Back in the correct lane, her hands shaking, she turns off the CD. She needs all her concentration. Frankie drives back to Norwich, the only soundtrack accompanying her is the blood pounding in her ears.

  Frankie

  At Jack’s insistence she reports the road rage incident to the police. She’s so shaken up by the time she gets home, it’s impossible to hide what’s happened, and the shock draws the pair of them into a tentative truce.

  She sits on the sofa in a big cardigan, her feet tucked under her, while a saucepan of spaghetti boils on the hob. Jack hands her a cup of sugary tea. ‘Franks,’ he says, sitting down beside her and resting his hand on her knee. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way. But I really don’t want you working on the Strangler story any more.’

  She doesn’t reply, just strokes a finger up and down the side of the hot china, back and forth, back and forth. Deep down she knows he’s right but she can’t see a way out. Not with Kiera so keen for her to cover it. Her boss has the look of a woman who can smell a media award on the horizon. Frankie knows Kiera would not be forgiving of anyone who jeopardised the b
iggest story to hit their patch in years.

  She doesn’t dare tell Jack about her confrontation that day with Brett. She tells herself it must just be a horrible coincidence that she’s the victim of road rage straight after making him angry. ‘I don’t think the driver really was the killer,’ she says, not very convincingly. ‘Honestly, it was probably just some random knobhead.’

  Jack looks horrified. ‘Jesus! I meant the stress isn’t good for you, not that your life’s at risk. I thought the driver might be one of those creeps that’ve been uploading photos on the blog. Isn’t that bad enough? If you think it might have been the killer in that car, why would you even consider carrying on?’ He grips her knee. ‘That’s it. You’ve got to stop.’

  ‘Even if it was him,’ she replies, her voice wobbling. ‘What makes you think I’m any safer sitting around on my own at home? When that blogger’s posted our address online? And we’ve been getting all those weird cards? At least at work I’ve got a bunch of people looking out for me.’

  Jack rubs his hands over his eyes, pushing his glasses upwards. Then he flops back on the sofa. ‘Fuck it. Let’s get away. Take that holiday early. Just disappear for a couple of weeks.’

  For a moment she’s tempted, imagines them packing their bags, heading to Norwich airport in the morning. The predictable anonymity and security of the departure lounge. Then reality kicks in. ‘Oh come on,’ she says, forcing a laugh. ‘Do you really think I’d be given leave at this short notice? That Kiera would say, yeah sure, just disappear in the middle of a massive story?’ She shakes her head. ‘Thanks for suggesting it, Jack. I really appreciate it. But it’s fine, honestly. I’m sure the police will catch him soon and then it’s all over until the court case. I’ve just got to plough through a few more days.’