‘Are you sure the police are taking it all seriously enough? I would have thought they’d have done more by now.’
‘I’m sure Dan’s doing everything he can,’ she says. ‘He’s been fairly supportive so far.’ She sips her tea, wishing she felt as convinced as she sounds. She likes Dan, but he was only lukewarm about pursuing Grant Allen. And after all, the police were wrong about Donald Emneth. What other mistakes might they make?
The phone call that rips through her sleep the next morning makes her gasp. Frankie thinks it’s the alarm ringing and goes to switch it onto snooze, her heart hammering with the shock of being jolted awake. Then she realises someone is calling. It’s an unknown number.
‘Hello?’
‘Frances, it’s Luke Heffner here.’
‘Luke?’ she says, sitting up, astonished. Jack groans and turns over. She gets out of bed, heading to the living room. She thinks about their row. Surely he’s not calling to apologise? ‘What do you want? What time is it?’
‘Yeah, sorry to disturb you early and all that, but I wanted to speak to you before the presser today,’ he replies. ‘I’ve just had an old friend from the Mirror get hold of me, wanting to talk to you. He says Leonard Smythe has run a piece about an anonymous reporter, who my mate says is you, getting threats from someone claiming to be the killer. I checked out the blog and he’s right. You didn’t tell me you’d been getting personal messages from the Strangler, what’s that all about?’
For a moment she is too shocked to reply. Frankie suddenly has a sense of piranhas circling, of what it would be like to be the centre of a media storm. She has to steer him off course. ‘Oh that,’ she says, with an air of unconcern. ‘The police say it’s a hoax. Just some saddo. Not linked to the murder investigation at all.’
‘Really?’ Luke sounds disappointed. ‘Not even considering it?’
In the privacy of her dark flat, Frankie lifts two fingers up at an imaginary Luke’s head. ‘Nope. But thanks for your concern.’
‘Oh well, had to ask.’
‘Course,’ she replies. ‘And Luke? Don’t pass my number on please. After all, if it did turn out to be something, I’d obviously give you the exclusive.’
Luke laughs. ‘You’re so full of shit. But of course I won’t pass your number on. I’m not that much of a twat.’
‘Sure you’re not,’ she says, suddenly unwilling to be sucked into their usual banter so soon after all he said yesterday. ‘Bye.’
Frankie looks down at her phone. 6.55. Luke really is shameless. She checks her email. There are messages from the Mirror, the London Daily Times and the Express. She forwards them all to Charlie.
Some of our fellow hacks have been sniffing round about the blog again in spite of your efforts. There’s even a report in the LDT though I’m not named. Sent you the emails. Can you tell them all police think it’s just a hoax and get them to piss off, please?
Frankie stands a moment, lost about what to do. The curtains are all closed, yesterday’s dishes, undone, on the countertop. She knows she should go have a shower, start getting ready for the day, but all she wants to do is hide.
Frankie frustrates any of her colleagues who might have been undeterred by Charlie’s email by turning up late to the press conference. She slinks into the back and shuffles into the only empty seat, part way along a row. It’s not just her fellow journalists she wants to avoid: she’s also nervous about who might be watching later. If the killer is following the wall-to-wall television coverage of his exploits, she’s no desire to take centre stage on shots of the presser. Instead she slumps down in her seat, hoping she’s out of the reverse camera’s line of vision.
The conference is operatic in its savagery. Ten minutes in, and her companions are still on the attack. Much has been made of the police blunder over Donald Emneth, and how such a mistake could have been made, as well as outrage expressed over the additional anguish inflicted on the Lindsey and Meadwell families. Like a thunderstorm on the horizon, the sense of a looming IPCC investigation is heavy in the air.
‘You’ve confirmed the dead woman is Daisy Meadwell,’ she hears Malcolm from the Press Association say. ‘What message do you have for her grieving husband who begged you to investigate her disappearance?’
Frankie frowns. Kiera will be cursing as she watches the live feed. That ought to have been her question. Simon is their contact after all. He’s still not replied to her text, but she knows if Kiera has her way she will inevitably end up on his doorstep at some point this afternoon.
‘We did investigate her disappearance,’ says DSI Gubberts. He runs a hand over his face. He’s sweating so much it looks as if he’s just stepped out of the shower. ‘And we are in contact with Mrs Meadwell’s family, who have our sincerest condolences. Next question please.’
‘Flora Hitchinson, BBC. Will you be dropping all charges against Donald Emneth?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t comment. That’s a decision for the CPS.’ Gubberts points a finger at the front row. Frankie sees the familiar bouffant hair. ‘Yes?’
‘Luke Heffner, Commercial Television News. As my colleagues have pointed out, your investigation so far has been a series of preposterous blunders with unimaginable consequences. Do you feel personally responsible for the death of Daisy Meadwell?’
Nigel Gubberts’s cheeks grow pink. There’s a hush in the room. ‘Nobody is responsible for the death of Daisy Meadwell apart from the person who decided in cold blood to kidnap and murder her,’ he replies. ‘And that’s the case, Mr Heffner, with all murders.’
Frankie feels a pang of sympathy. Gubberts must feel responsible for Daisy, whatever he says. And however much the police may have screwed up, ultimately she agrees: he’s not the real villain here. There’s a pause. Gubberts is scanning the room. All hands are down. Luke’s unsubtle thrust of the spear seems to have brought the bloodletting to an end. ‘Any more questions?’
She shifts on her seat. Nobody has asked the one thing she’s genuinely curious to know. It’s now or never. With a sigh, she sticks her arm in the air.
‘Yes, Frances?’
‘You said earlier that you now believe Ava Lindsey is alive. What new evidence have you discovered to suggest this? Was something found at the crime scene?’
Gubberts blinks at her. He appears surprised not to be fending off another attack. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you the answer to that,’ he replies. ‘Not without compromising the investigation.’
‘Frances!’
She turns around, feeling hunted, standing with her hand on the door of her car, trying to see where the shout is coming from. She had slipped out of the presser early to avoid the other journalists.
‘Frances!’ Dan Avery is jogging towards her across the tarmac. ‘I thought I might catch you here today. Have you got a sec?’
She thinks of Kiera pacing up and down the newsroom, furious at her failure to capitalise on the Meadwell lead, no doubt already planning to send her off to intrude on Simon’s grief. ‘Sure,’ she says.
They head back across the car park to the station. Dan swipes them out of reception and through a corridor, then ushers her into a small room. It’s empty apart from a couple of chairs and a table covered in boxes. ‘Excuse the mess,’ he says, pointing her towards one of the chairs. ‘I haven’t booked out a room and I knew this was free.’ He sits down opposite. ‘I wanted to tell you we’ve had Martin Hungate in for questioning.’
‘Oh my God! Really? About the serial killings?’
Dan shakes his head. ‘About the blog. We decided that email he sent about you gave us enough to take him in for questioning, particularly as he’s got previous. He wasn’t too pleased to see us, as you can imagine, though he handed over his computer readily enough.’
‘I take it you didn’t find anything?’
‘On the contrary,’ Dan replies.
‘Oh my God! It’s him? He’s the blogger?’
‘Not quite,’ says Dan. ‘But we found clear evidence that t
hose comments from the user claiming to be the Norfolk Strangler were made from his computer. The only thing is, he said it must have been his girlfriend Debbie. I know, I know,’ he says, as she rolls her eyes. ‘We thought that was rubbish too. But it turns out he’s telling the truth. We’ve looked at the time the comments were posted and he was at work then, we can corroborate that. Whereas the comments were definitely all made from the computer at their home in Wells.’
‘Really? You’re sure it was her?’ Frankie asks, reluctant to believe the person who has caused her so much stress is a woman, and an abused woman at that. ‘I seem to remember her mentioning she had a son.’
Dan shakes his head. ‘She’s admitted it. Says she felt you were unfair in your coverage of her and her partner and she wanted to give you a fright. She seemed very shocked to learn making threats like that was such a serious offence. It’ll be an open and shut case at the mags.’
‘And what about Martin Hungate’s alibi for the killings?’
‘Why would he need one?’ Dan says. ‘He’s not a suspect if he didn’t post the comments.’
‘Of course.’ Frankie sits back heavily in her chair. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think. I’m just wound up after a load of my beloved fellow journos piled on wanting to know all about it. At least this will shut them up. And then there was my scare with the white car last night.’ She sees Dan’s puzzled expression. ‘I guess the team at 111 didn’t pass the message on to you, I did ask them to. Last night, heading back from the crime scene, I got chased then shunted by what looked like the same saloon that trailed me to Lowestoft. There was gaffer tape over the number plate.’
Dan looks horrified. ‘Are you OK? Why didn’t you call 999? I’ve told you to do that if you ever think you’re in danger.’
‘I couldn’t, I didn’t have a signal on my phone, and by the time I did, the car was long gone. And yes, I’m OK, physically I mean. But otherwise? No, I’m not.’ Frankie pulls her jacket downwards, straightening it, trying to collect herself. When she looks up at Dan, there’s an anxious frown on his face, which doesn’t make her feel any better. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been more afraid. I don’t trust anyone, I don’t know what to think. This whole saga with Daisy and Donald Emneth makes me feel like the police don’t have a clue what they’re doing. And I don’t see why the blog isn’t being taken more seriously as part of the murder investigation. You said the murder team would have me in for questioning, why hasn’t that happened?’
Dan gets up and goes to the door, makes sure it’s closed. He sits down heavily. ‘If I talk to you about this, do I have your word you are not going to use this in a story?’
For a moment Frankie imagines Kiera’s reaction if she brought her a scoop on the Strangler. The inside story from the police. Just as quickly she squashes the thought. Her life is more important. She makes an effort to look Dan in the eyes. ‘You have my word.’
‘The investigating team don’t believe there’s a credible threat to your life,’ he says, speaking slowly. ‘But I do. I think you’re right. To me it seems quite possible there’s a link between the blogger, the cards you’ve been getting and messages women in this case have received.’
Frankie lets out a cry and covers her mouth. ‘Jesus Christ!’
Dan holds his hands out, palms down, as if trying to steady a spooked horse. ‘Please, try not to get too alarmed. I said it’s possible. Not definite. Really, I’m not certain. I just think we shouldn’t dismiss the idea, that’s all. And I want you to take every possible precaution.’
‘They didn’t find any link to the blog on Donald Emneth’s computer, did they?’
Dan shakes his head. ‘There was nothing.’
‘Oh my God,’ says Frankie, gripping her knees. ‘If he’s killed Daisy and Ava, he’ll want another, won’t he?’
‘We don’t think he’s killed Ava.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’
Dan glances at the door again, then turns back to her. ‘This is more than my job’s worth, if you repeat it. Promise me it goes no further.’ Frankie nods and with a sigh, Dan continues. ‘They found Ava’s hair hidden on Daisy’s body. For various reasons we don’t think the killer put it there. We think Ava is trying to tell us she’s alive.’
For a moment Frankie takes this in. Imagines the circumstances Ava might have found herself in that led to such horror. Her mind baulks at the images that crowd in, but one sticks stubbornly, flicking back over and over, like the pages of a book left out in the wind. Hanna’s body with the hair over her face. Dan presses a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. But I just want you to be careful.’
Frankie doesn’t say anything for a while. She knows Dan is her best shot at finding whoever is targeting her. ‘I went to see Grant Allen this weekend,’ she says at last.
Dan releases her shoulder. ‘That’s exactly the sort of thing I’m talking about.’
‘I didn’t go on my own,’ Frankie replies. ‘I went with a colleague. And a dog. And anyway,’ she says, ‘you said there wasn’t enough to take him in for questioning, so what else could I do? I really think there might be something going on with him and his son. Are you sure you can’t track Zach down, make sure he’s not still living in the area?’
Dan shakes his head. ‘If I did look into it, would you promise not to pursue that lead yourself?’
‘Of course,’ Frankie says. Though this time she doesn’t mean it.
Kiera is even angrier than she imagined. Her boss shouts at her in front of the rest of the newsroom, demanding to know why she let Malcolm from PA steal their thunder on the Meadwells. Nobody steps in to defend her, though Priya looks embarrassed when she catches her eye. She wonders if Kiera has deliberately waited until Charlie’s out of the room to have a go, but then again, maybe he wouldn’t have said anything in her defence either. The character of her old familiar workplace is changing, slowly being poisoned by fear, even though there’s only one bully.
She’s halfway to the Meadwells’ house with Ray when her phone vibrates. It’s a text from a number she doesn’t recognise.
Hi. We’re too upset to talk. Also Si wants to wait so we don’t hurt the Lindseys. Only good thing that can happen now is they find Ava. But I can tell you we’re not letting this rest. We’re going to make sure the police pay for this. Nathan.
Frankie sags back in her chair and starts to cry. From the driver’s seat, Ray glances over at her in alarm. ‘What’s happened? Franks? What’s wrong?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, putting the heels of both palms up to her eyes to stop the tears. ‘Nothing. Nothing’s happened. Shit, I’m being ridiculous. Sorry. You can head back. They don’t want to talk.’
‘It’s that Kiera, isn’t it?’ Ray says, pulling over. ‘I knew I should have said something. I won’t let her have a go when we get back. If she starts being a bitch again, I’ll tell her where to go.’
‘No, it’s not Kiera,’ Frankie says, wiping her face. ‘Or only a little bit. I’m just really relieved we don’t have to bother them, I wasn’t looking forward to it. And to be honest, I’m finding this whole story a bit much. You heard about the blog?’ He nods, embarrassed. ‘Yeah, of course, everyone has. Well, there’d been some hoaxer on there, claiming to be the killer. Said they were looking out for me. Turns out it’s all bullshit, but it’s still been a strain. The rest of the press pack jumped on it.’ She doesn’t tell him about her conversation with Dan, everything she’s learned about Daisy and Ava; she can’t.
‘God, I’m not surprised you’re rattled,’ Ray says. ‘Can’t Charlie move you onto another story?’
‘It’s not up to Charlie,’ she says, turning and looking out of the window at the pavement where they’ve parked. ‘Not any more.’
Somehow, Frankie makes it through the edit. Nathan’s text gives her an exclusive line, not much, but just enough to mollify Kiera for her feeble question at the press conference. It’s Zara’s day off and she’s not sure if i
t’s her imagination, but a couple of her colleagues seem strained with her. She wonders if Ray might have mentioned her outburst in the car, and they’re worried she’ll cry all over them, or maybe they think Kiera’s anger might be catching.
The shift over, she heads to her car and is about to open the door when she hears a scuffle above her. On the grassy slope lined with trees that overlooks the car park, she sees Ernie grappling with someone. It’s Brian. ‘Take your hands off my fucking phone!’ Brian’s shouting, trying to wrestle free from Ernie, who’s much too strong for him. Frankie recognises his coat. Not the usual red parka, but a duffle.
She scrambles up the bank. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Call the police!’ Ernie says, out of breath from trying to contain the struggling Brian. ‘The little creep’s been taking pictures of you!’
Frankie stares at Brian, incredulous. ‘You!’
‘You’ve got no right to stop me!’ Brian is red in the face and furious. ‘No different from what you do, is it? You film people without permission! Fucking hypocrites!’
‘The police, Frances. Now!’ Ernie says.
Frankie calls Dan’s number. ‘Hi Dan, it’s Frankie. Can you get a team over to the newsroom? Our security guard has just got hold of a guy taking photos of me in the car park . . .’
Brian aims a kick and catches her in the groin, not hard, but it’s a shock. She drops the phone. Ernie leans towards her, anxious she’s been hurt, and Brian twists free. ‘The bastard!’ he exclaims as Brian speeds off down the road. Without stopping to think, powered by rage, Frankie sets off after him. ‘Frances!’
‘Call 999!’ she shouts, not turning round to see if he’s heard. She charges over the busy road, just as the lights turn green. Ernie is left stranded on the other side, gesticulating as the honking traffic revs past him. Frankie runs into the old town, thumping hard into startled shoppers. ‘Sorry!’
Brian is surprisingly fast. He makes it into the cathedral close and tears down towards the houses on the green, disturbing the peaceful silence with his thumping footsteps. Frankie hurtles after him. He speeds into Hook’s Walk and Frankie follows, her lungs feeling as if they are about to burst. She slows down slightly, her breath coming in gasps. She knows Hook’s Walk ends in a dead end unless Brian cuts across the field. Instinctively she feels for her phone in her pocket, then remembers she dropped it at the car park. Ernie must be close behind, she tells herself, and it would be easy enough for the police to track their route. She carries on, puffing her way to the edge of the path across the field. There’s no sign of Brian. She hears a sound and spins round. He must have been hiding in one of the doorways at the end of the alley and is trying to sneak past, back up Hook’s Walk. Frankie hurls herself at him, knocking him to the floor. His phone spins wide across the cobbles and she grabs it. They both get unsteadily to their feet, chests heaving.
The Death Knock Page 29