The Death Knock

by Elodie Harper

  ‘Give it back!’ Brian says.

  ‘Why were you taking photos of me?’ Frankie asks. ‘It’s that website, isn’t it?’

  ‘None of your business!’ Brian shouts, snatching for his mobile. Frankie darts out of the way.

  ‘You’re pathetic, you know that? I even felt sorry for you! Why would you do that to me?’ She looks down at the phone in her hand. The screensaver is a young woman sprawled out on scrubby grass in a pink top. It looks like she’s asleep, but Frankie knows somehow that she’s not. She stares. It takes her a second to register that she’s seen her before, another to realise it’s Hanna Chivers. She doesn’t see Brian’s punch coming.

  Sprawled on the floor, Frankie just has time to roll out of the way of the kick Brian aims at her head. His next catches her in the ribs. ‘Nosy bitch!’ he spits, spraying saliva. He stands over her, aiming kicks, while holding out his phone to take a picture of her lying on the ground. She’s winded but knows she has to get off the floor. She manages to sit up, protecting her head with her arms, but she’s squashed against the wall and can’t move further out of the way. Brian is so busy trying to hit her, he doesn’t see Ernie, running towards them down Hook’s Walk. ‘Got you, you bastard!’ he roars, throwing him face first to the ground. He sits on Brian, twisting his arms behind his back. ‘One move before the police arrive and I’ll bloody kill you!’

  Frankie’s head is banging but she’s desperate to get to Brian’s phone. She picks it up from where he dropped it near her feet, swiping across the screen. The first photos she sees are her lying on the cobbles, her face twisted in terror. She works backwards. Dozens of photos of her. There she is getting into her car, sitting with Gavin, walking with Jack. There are some of Zara, Rachel and Priya too, even Kiera. Several of the photos have been edited; the crosshairs of a gun sit superimposed on her face. She recognises one. It’s the image of her used on the blog.

  ‘You’re Feminazi Slayer?’ Brian doesn’t answer. ‘I knew you were the same person, I bloody knew it! Was it you following me in the car? Sending all those cards?’

  ‘Put it down, Frankie,’ Ernie warns. ‘The police will need that phone, it’s evidence.’

  Frankie keeps on swiping. Photos of her fly past. Then she gasps. This is something different. It’s a poor-resolution shot of a woman in a dark concrete space, taken from high above. The woman is thin, sitting on the ground, holding her knees in her arms, looking upwards but not seeing the camera, her face anguished. Ava Lindsey.

  ‘Oh my God.’ Frankie’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘What have you done to her?’ Brian’s face is squashed into the ground but his eyes swivel to look at her, full of hate. ‘Where is she?’ she screams.

  ‘Stay back, let the police deal with it,’ Ernie warns but Frankie doesn’t register him.

  ‘What have you done with her, you bastard!’ she shouts. ‘Where is she?’

  Brian closes his eyes, shutting her out. He says nothing.

  Ava

  He’s not been back since he took Daisy away. I must have got through to him last time he was here, made him see his own pettiness, but if so, it was a hollow victory. I think he means to starve me into submission. Or maybe he’s sitting at home, watching me die slowly, without feeling the need to come back.

  Everything hurts so much and I’m so tired. I can’t think any more, everything in my head is falling apart. I don’t want to do anything but sleep. I wish I could dissolve, be nothing more than a stain on the wall, escape from whatever he’s planning, for me or anyone else. Sometimes I imagine the police will find the message I left with Daisy, and then I feel a prickle of hope again, but it’s hard to keep believing things will be OK. I don’t have the strength to lie to myself any more.

  I try to be brave. I try to think of defying him the way Daisy did, but it’s not helping. I think I’m going to die in here.

  Frankie

  When Dan Avery drops her off back at the flat, Jack is home. He had wanted to come to the station, to be there when she gave her statement, but she insisted that he finish work. There was nothing he could do while she was in the interview room, she told him. It’s true, but their recent rows also mean she doesn’t feel as close to him as she should; the only person she really wanted nearby was Dan.

  Jack’s been cooking his fail-safe chilli con carne, to have dinner waiting for her when she arrives. The worktop is strewn with spice jars, onion skins and empty kidney-bean cans, and steam rises from the pan, turning his face red.

  ‘Thank God they found him!’ He goes over to Frankie, enveloping her in a massive hug.

  ‘Careful!’ She winces, still sore from where Brian kicked her in the ribs.

  ‘Sorry.’ He lets go and stands back. ‘I can’t believe it was some creep who you all knew about at work! Talk about under your noses.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Frankie says, feeling sick at the thought that the man who has killed so many women was also obsessed with her news programme. Obsessed with her.

  ‘At least we know you’re safe now, that’s all that counts.’

  ‘Well, it’s not really, is it?’ she says, pulling up a stool at the counter and inching herself onto it. ‘What about Ava?’

  ‘I’m sure the police will persuade him to tell them where she is. Can’t they offer a plea bargain?’

  ‘He’s going down for life. Nothing he does about Ava changes that. What can they possibly offer him that’s more than the sick power he’s enjoying by letting her starve to death?’ Frankie feels close to tears. She keeps thinking of Ava’s face staring at the ceiling, waiting to be rescued, time running out. It makes her want to scream with frustration.

  ‘They’ll find her,’ Jack says. ‘They will.’

  ‘Dinner looks good, anyway,’ says Frankie, changing the subject. She stares at the chilli. She ought to be starving but has no appetite.

  ‘Shit, that reminds me,’ Jack says. ‘I bought some jalapeno cheese at the deli, it’s still in my bag.’ He gestures at the pan. ‘Don’t let it burn.’

  She slides off the stool as Jack hurries to the bedroom. The meat is sizzling and she gives it an idle nudge with the wooden spoon. There’s a bleep. Jack’s phone is lying beside the hob. She glances at it, half notices an alert that’s come up on the black screen, then does a double take.

  @Cuttlefish_Eater someone has liked your post!

  Frankie picks up the phone, staring at the message. She taps to read it and types in his code. The phone takes her straight to the post, a picture of her walking along the street at Wells two weeks ago, with the caption I spy Nancy Drew! Jack comes back in, waving the cheese. He stops when he sees her expression.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asks.

  ‘What’s what?’

  She looks back at the screen, enunciating slowly. ‘Who’s Cuttlefish Eater?’

  ‘Have you been going through my phone?’ He strides across, snatching it from her, hurting her fingers as he grabs it. The gesture is so like Brian earlier that she takes a step back, staring at him, almost too shocked to speak.

  ‘Have you been posting photos of me on that website?’

  ‘You’ve no right to go through my stuff!’

  She moves away from him, away from the burning hot pan. ‘I’ll take that as a yes then.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be snooping through my phone. You know I’m trying to crack that site, what do you bloody well expect?’ He takes the chilli off the hob, slamming it down on the breadboard where it hisses on contact with the wood.

  ‘Have you been posting stuff about me?’

  ‘Look at that!’ He points at the pan, jabbing his finger. ‘You’ve gone and ruined the chilli!’

  ‘Who gives a fuck about the chilli!’ she screams, hysteria building. Her whole body is shaking as adrenalin hits her. ‘Have you been posting about me?’

  ‘I had to post something to get them to trust me. You told me to do what I needed to do, what did you expect?’ His face softens, and he reaches a hand out to her. ‘Afte
r all, you went and saw Grant Allen, didn’t you? And Brett. You didn’t ask me what I thought about that.’

  The pan’s no longer hissing, but the noise seems to be continuing in Frankie’s ears. She stares at Jack and feels like she’s looking at a stranger. He takes a step towards her. ‘Stay away!’ she shouts, holding a hand out to stop him.

  ‘Come on, Franks, don’t be ridiculous. It’s me!’

  She grabs her bag, heading backwards for the door, not taking her eyes off him. ‘I’m going to stay with Zara.’

  ‘What? Frankie, no! Don’t be stupid. I’m sorry I shouted but you shouldn’t have snooped through my phone like that.’ She turns and opens the door, steps into the corridor, slamming it behind her. ‘Frankie!’ she hears him yell, as she runs down the stairs. But he doesn’t open the door and follow her.

  ‘Well, I think we can safely say Jack’s a first-class pillock,’ Zara says, handing her an enormous glass of red wine. ‘And you may be looking for a new boyfriend pretty soon. But surely you don’t think he’s anything worse than that?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know what to think about anything at the moment,’ Frankie replies, running a hand through her hair. She’s bundled up underneath one of her friend’s Peruvian blankets, with Snoopy the dog snoring by their feet. Mark has been dispatched to the kitchen so they can talk, and is now sitting at the table with his headphones in, watching Breaking Bad on the laptop. He’s consoling himself for his banishment with a giant slab of chocolate cake.

  ‘I know you’ve not met his mum and dad, and Jack’s been a bit cagey in the past. But Grant Allen’s son? Come off it, he doesn’t look anything like him for a start.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a bit far-fetched,’ Frankie admits.

  ‘Just a bit.’ Zara smiles.

  ‘But don’t you think it’s really weird that his mum’s dead and I’ve not met any of his other family? Wouldn’t you want to keep your dad extra close after a loss like that?’

  ‘It depends,’ says Zara. ‘Grief can tear people apart as well as bring them closer together. It’s not unusual for families to fall out after a loss. Maybe he blames his father in some way.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worrying about!’

  ‘I meant, maybe Jack blames his dad for still being alive, when his mum’s dead. Or maybe he doesn’t like his dad’s new partner and the whole thing’s just too painful. Franks, you’ve got to let this Grant Allen thing go, it’s absolute madness. Swearing at your girlfriend and behaving like a bit of a twat doesn’t mean you murdered your ex. Besides,’ she says, picking up her smartphone. ‘We’ve looked at that wretched website and it seems he’s being truthful. Cuttlefish Eater is blatantly fishing for information. Not exactly the behaviour of somebody skilled at leading a double life, is it?’

  Frankie snorts. She can always rely on Zara to make her feel better. ‘No, you’re right. I was being hysterical.’ She sighs, tears smarting at her eyes. ‘I’m still probably going to have to dump him though. I really thought he was the one, but I can’t see a way back after this. I was so happy that day when we went to Wells. I can’t believe he posted a picture of our lovely day together on that horrible site.’

  ‘That’s a worry for another day,’ Zara says, taking a swig of her own wine. ‘Don’t make any decisions now. You’ve been under so much strain lately, it’s enough to send anyone loopy.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Seriously, you need to take a break. Take tomorrow off, call in sick, stuff Kiera.’ Zara waves the wine glass at her, sloshing some of it over the side. ‘Jesus, it’s not even a sickie, you just fought off a serial killer, you ought to be nursing your bruises, lying in bed. I’m not taking no for an answer. You can stay here, take the old slobberer for a walk if you feel like it. Just have some breathing space.’

  Frankie is about to protest but realises she doesn’t want to. ‘OK,’ she replies. ‘You win.’

  Zara leans over and hugs her. ‘God, I’m relieved he didn’t hurt you, old girl,’ she says. ‘And I can’t believe I didn’t let Ernie report Brian to the police. I thought the bastard was harmless, just some lonely saddo. If only I had been tougher, so much might have been different. Dear God. All those women . . .’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Frankie says, holding her close. ‘It’s nobody’s fault but Brian’s. Don’t even say it.’

  It feels strange watching Zara and Mark leave in the morning. She stands in the doorway with Snoopy, who barks as Zara clambers into her battered Peugeot. Her friend gives a wave as she drives past the house, then the car turns the corner and Frankie’s alone.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ she says to the dog at her feet. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  Snoopy pads after her into the house and flops across the rug in the centre of the living room. In the kitchen she turns the radio onto a station playing jazz, before sticking a jug of milk in the microwave and making herself an enormous cafetière of coffee. Propping her feet up on a mound of furry dog, she sits back on Zara and Mark’s sofa with a homemade latte. She stares at the ceiling, trying not to think about Ava, hoping the police are on their way to wherever Brian has hidden her. Her phone rings. It’s Jack.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says when she picks up. ‘I know that’s probably never going to be enough, but I am. I’m really sorry.’ She doesn’t say anything, a lump forming in her throat. ‘Franks, can you hear me?’

  ‘We were so happy that day. How could you do that?’

  ‘I know, it was unforgivable. I don’t know what to say. It’s just that site has been driving me nuts and I was desperate to find out who was behind it.’ He sighs. ‘And I didn’t even need to.’ His laugh sounds close to tears. ‘I know this is too late, they’ve caught the killer anyway, but I think I’ve cracked it. Last night, after you left, I managed to find an address in the UK linked to the site. I think it belongs to whoever is hosting the thing.’

  ‘Oh my God, how did you do that?’ she asks.

  ‘Not legally,’ Jack replies. ‘If you decide to tell the police, I’ll get done for it.’ His voice breaks. ‘But I don’t know how else to tell you how sorry I am, or what you mean to me. I’ll text you the address, then it’s your choice what you do with it.’

  He ends the call and a moment later her phone bleeps. It’s a Norfolk address, on Hock Drove, near Feltwell. Frankie stares at the screen for a long time, her coffee going cold. She could be looking at the address of the person who knowingly hosted the posts of a serial killer. If they were sympathetic to Brian, might they even have some idea where he’s keeping Ava? She’s desperate to give the information to Dan, but knows that unless she has compelling evidence, he’s not going to investigate. And giving him that evidence would mean giving Jack up.

  Frankie chucks the phone on the sofa. ‘Shit,’ she says. It startles Snoopy, who looks up at her with his sad Labrador eyes. ‘Come on, Snoops,’ she says to the dog. ‘We’re going for a drive.’

  She locks up Mark and Zara’s house and heads to her car, getting the camera gear out of the boot. She unravels the radio mic, and attaches it to the inside of her shirt, underneath her jumper. Snoopy watches her patiently as she tucks it out of sight. She makes sure it’s remotely connected to the matching radio mic on the camera then switches them off to save battery. Best to set it up now. If she’s going to get a secret audio recording of her confrontation with whoever has been hosting the website, she doesn’t need them cottoning on to what she’s planning while she faffs around on the doorstep trailing wires under her bra.

  ‘In you get,’ she says, letting the black Labrador into the passenger seat. She feels reassured that Snoopy will be keeping her company. She looks over at him, sprawled on the seat beside her, as she releases the handbrake. ‘Let’s nail the bastard.’

  Adrenalin and Radio 1 at full volume keep Frankie going along the A11, but when they get to Thetford Forest, she starts to feel more anxious. It’s a flat, relentless landscape, and hard to calculate distance. The trees flash
past her on either side, tall and thin, on and on, while the grey sky hangs low overhead. Feltwell isn’t a million miles from Methwold, and the memory of her late-night car chase lingers. It’s small-scale terror compared to all the other things Brian has been doing, but it still makes her angry.

  She tries to build up a cover story, wonders whether direct confrontation is best or if she should pose as an admirer of the website. Her car continues to eat up the miles and the closer she gets, the less she feels like carrying on. She can’t imagine what she’s going to say to whoever opens the door.

  ‘Come on!’ she says, louder than she intended. Snoopy looks over, blinking, as if she’s talking to him. She nods at him, encouragingly. ‘We’ve dragged ourselves all this way, it would be pointless to give up now, wouldn’t it?’ The dog just yawns, showing off a great curl of pink wet tongue, then settles back down, resting his head on his paws.

  By the time Frankie reaches the narrow turning of Black Drove, and the first farmhouse is behind her, her isolation is total. The road is more of a track, with no space to turn round, though the probability of meeting an oncoming car seems remote. She feels flattened by the vast horizon, the sky a large hand pressing on the car. In the distance it’s hard to tell if a line of scrubby trees is broken by the dark smudge of a barn; instead all she can see are grey shapes like bristles, jutting up out of the flat miles of green. Either side of the tarmac, she knows, the ditches run deep.