Knife Edge (23 page)

He clapped Harland warmly on the shoulder, then turned away, already speaking into the phone he held pressed to his ear.

There was a canteen on the ground floor – a broad room with polished lino flooring and Formica tables that caught the light from the windows. Harland wandered across to the long stainless-steel counter, standing far enough back to avoid being questioned by the solemn-looking woman who watched him over the heated trays. The smell of frying bacon tempted him to order a full breakfast, but he bravely resisted – the pastries would keep him going until lunchtime. Turning aside from the hot food, he got a surprisingly good Americano from the large coffee machine at the end of the counter. The cramped little kitchen back at Portishead suddenly seemed very poor by comparison.

He glanced at his watch – not even nine yet. He briefly thought about going outside for a cigarette, but he wasn’t sure where people went to smoke here. He could wait. There was bound to be someone else at the briefing who smoked, and it would be a good chance to get to know them.

Walking to the nearest table, he eased himself down into a plastic chair and took out his phone. A few rounds of solitaire would calm him down and exercise his mind. He was just starting his second game when a familiar voice spoke from beside him.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

He looked up to see DS Russell Pope – sub-six-foot, with that same puffy face, those same piggy little eyes staring out from behind his glasses – and groaned inwardly. They’d not spoken in the months since Pope got his transfer away from Portishead, indeed they’d hardly spoken since Harland had slammed him up against a wall in the station corridor the previous year, and that had suited both of them just fine. Now, though, he was on Pope’s turf, and whether it was the passage of time or territorial advantage, something had emboldened the wretched little man.

‘Morning, Russell. How’s it going?’ He should at least
try
and be civil.

‘I’m doing very well, thanks,’ Pope replied. He stood awkwardly for a moment before his artless curiosity got the better of him. ‘So, what brings you to our little breakfast bar?’

Our
breakfast bar. He’d only been transferred out of Portishead two months ago and already he spoke as though he owned Bristol CID. Harland could feel the muscles in his shoulders tensing up, but forced himself to speak nicely.

‘The Redland murder,’ he replied. ‘Blake asked me to come and help out for a couple of weeks.’

‘I’m surprised. But I suppose if he feels he can manage without you …’

‘Cheers.’ Harland gave him a withering smile and turned back to his phone.

‘Still,’ Pope added, ‘it means we’ll be working together again.’

Harland looked up.

‘Really?’ he said, without enthusiasm.

‘Oh yes. DCI Pearce has had me on the case for a day or two. I’ve been reading the file on it – some rather interesting little facts in there that should lead to a good quick result—’ He sounded as though he was about to launch into a long droning speech, but Harland cut him off.

‘Sorry, Russell.’ He indicated his wristwatch, and smiled apologetically. ‘I just wanted to have a quick cigarette before the briefing starts – where do people go to smoke around here?’

He didn’t want to create any more tension between himself and Pope, but the little idiot was beginning to get to him and he needed to put some space between them. Before, he’d just been annoying – now he was a reminder of Harland’s own weakness. In the event, Pope seemed pleased to show off his superior knowledge.

‘I don’t smoke myself,’ he said loftily, as though they hadn’t known each other for the last two years, ‘but I know that some people go along to the end of that corridor – there’s a covered outdoor area set aside—’

Harland was already getting to his feet.

‘Thanks, Russell,’ he said, then seeing that Pope looked as though he might follow him, he added, ‘I’ll see you upstairs in a minute.’

‘Conference room,’ Pope told him. ‘Second floor.’

Patronising little git.

Harland waved his thanks and stalked down the corridor, shoving his way through a glass door that opened onto a tiny paved area hidden behind a panel fence. The cigarette was already in his mouth and he clicked the lighter as soon as he was outside, drawing in the smoke and breathing out the resentment he felt.

Gazing up at the grey sky, he was dimly aware that Pope was just trying to be helpful, in his own annoying way – the little man didn’t know that he’d been upstairs and met with Pearce already, so it was just a common courtesy to explain where the briefing would be. He sighed and pushed the thought from his mind.

He didn’t like Pope – nothing could change that – but more importantly, he hated the person he became when Pope was around.

By nine, the conference room was more than half full. A lot of the officers were obviously from Bristol – Harland nodded to a few whom he knew by sight – but a couple of groups came in late and sat together chatting, presumably the reinforcements from other divisions. At the far end of the room, beyond the rows of chairs and the single table, the broad front wall was dominated by a projector screen, currently displaying an Avon and Somerset screen saver.

He took out his phone and switched it to silent mode. The clock on the screen read 9.14 a.m.

There were quite a few people talking and Harland didn’t hear the door, but when he glanced up again DCI Pearce was striding across the front of the room, pausing beside the table to pick up a small remote control.

‘All right, boys and girls, let’s settle down. Thanks.’ He waited until the buzz of conversation died, then looked around the faces in front of him. ‘Right, first of all, good morning, and I want to welcome those of you who are joining us from other divisions – good to have you all on the team, sorry it has to be under these circumstances.’

He pushed some papers aside and perched on the corner of the table.

‘Anyway, let’s get down to it.’

He studied the remote for a moment, then glanced back at the screen as he pressed a button. The projection changed to show a single slide with two words on it:
Operation Kingsfell
.

‘Now then,’ Pearce began. ‘As you all know, there’s a lot of media interest in this case.’

He looked at them meaningfully.

‘Needless to say, we
don’t
talk about it – we don’t even
speculate
about it – with anyone who isn’t in this room. Agreed?’

There were murmurs of assent from the assembled officers. Pearce held their gaze for a moment longer.

‘Good,’ he said quietly. ‘Now, brace yourselves while I show you why this is so important.’

He pressed a button on the remote. Behind him, the screen showed a jarring photo of a dead woman. She was sprawled on her back, chest gashed, her clothes and the carpet beneath her stained dark with blood. There was nothing peaceful about the body – from the flailed limbs to the awful staring expression on her bruised face, everything spoke of a frantic, brutal death.

There were one or two sharp intakes of breath in the room. Pearce looked at them and nodded gravely.

‘Yeah. This is Lesley Vaughn, forty-six years old, reportedly found by her husband when he got home from work on Monday evening. She’s been frontally stabbed six times, and her jaw’s fractured – you can see the discoloration below her mouth.’ He broke off, then leaned forward. ‘It’s not pretty, but I need you all to really know what you’re dealing with, because
you lot
are going to catch this sick fuck and get him put away.’

Harland stared at the bruising around the woman’s chin. Someone had struck her very hard – a powerful blow to incapacitate the victim maybe? He frowned, trying to remember something, but Pearce was speaking again.

‘Post-mortem didn’t find any evidence of sexual assault. Indications are that she’d been lying for a few hours when we got to her, so time of death looks like late morning or early afternoon – last phone call from her mobile was at ten fifty-five, so, assuming that’s genuine, she was still alive then.’

He paused, turning to look up at the image on the screen, then shook his head. ‘No sign of forced entry to the property, and the position of the body so close to the front door suggests that she may have let the killer into the house herself …’

Over the next hour, Pearce laid out the background of the case. Lesley had a small cake shop in the Clifton Arcade – nothing special but it seemed to be doing all right. She and her husband Phillip were reasonably well off – he had his own dental practice in Chippenham – and there was no suggestion that they were anything other than happily married. Two grown-up children, Jack and Louisa, both away at university, and nothing but good words from the neighbours.

No enemies, no money problems, no motive. And yet, Lesley was dead.

‘I
am
aware of the rumours about a sexual-assault allegation made against the husband by a former patient a couple of years ago, but I think we can safely disregard that now,’ Pearce told them. ‘I heard back from the investigating officer on the case – just this morning – and it turns out the patient was actually an ex-employee with an axe to grind. There was even some talk about charging the woman with wasting police time, but she had a history of mental-health problems and ended up getting some sort of medical referral. She’s living in Scotland now and Strathclyde Police are checking up on her. Either way, though, it doesn’t seem the husband has anything to hide on that score.’

He gestured with the remote control again. On the wall, a wide-angle photo of the downstairs hallway was replaced by a huge close-up of a bloody kitchen knife.

‘Ah yes.’ He turned back to face them again. ‘It looks as if the murder weapon belonged to the victim. There was a matching set of these in her kitchen, and it has her prints on it, as well as a few telltale smudges. Chances are, our killer wore gloves – the SOCOs are still processing the house, but they haven’t turned up anything definite yet.’

He got to his feet and paced slowly around the table.

‘So.’ He clapped his hands together and faced the room. ‘Now we’ve got some grafting to do. Some of the team have already been taking statements and pulling in CCTV, identifying people who would have been in the area, running down car registrations, and so on. I need you to get to work on that list – get out and speak to potential witnesses and start building up a detailed picture of what happened on Monday, particularly between eleven and three o’clock.’

Turning to gaze at the screen, Pearce paused for a moment, then hit the remote and shut the projector off.

‘I want to know anything relevant. Passers-by, strange cars, delivery vans, the lot.’ He came back round to stand in front of the table. ‘And stay alert, people. You never know when you might be speaking to the killer.’

The train pulled slowly out of Woking and Naysmith leaned back in his seat, stretching his arms over his head before settling down to relax. All his paperwork was finally wrapped up, the sales meeting had finished early, and he was effectively done for the day. Next week he’d begin preparing for his trip to Montreal to discuss terms with a potential new software reseller, but for now he was simply looking forward to a lazy weekend.

Gazing out of the window, he watched the low hills rising and falling, the trees and fields slipping sedately by. This train was quieter than the later one he usually caught, and he’d even managed to get a table seat in the one coach he knew had power outlets. Unzipping his bag, he drew out his laptop and plugged it in to charge while he read through the preliminary figures that the Canadian company had sent over.

Sitting opposite him, a nervous-looking man in his forties with rimless spectacles and a faint beard was reading the paper, shaking out the creases unnecessarily every time he turned a page. Naysmith frowned at him but the man didn’t notice.

Diagonally across from him on the other side of the aisle, a blonde woman in her thirties was engrossed in a book. Naysmith settled back to study her. She wore a modestly unadorned black dress that hinted at an attractive figure, black stockings and elegant shoes. Her straight hair was feather-cut, just brushing her shoulders, and a simple gold necklace hung around her neck. Behind a delicate pair of glasses, her long lashes all but hid her eyes, and a natural shade of lipstick gave her an innocent quality. But it was her expression that fascinated him – so wonderfully vulnerable, with tiny flickers of emotion playing out on her face as she read.

Absently, he wondered how difficult it would be to seduce her. There was no wedding ring visible as her hand came up to turn a page – not that that had ever stopped him before.

No, the only thing really stopping him was Kim.

It wasn’t as if she’d find out. He’d enjoyed so many women without her ever actually catching him. And yet somehow she seemed to sense when he was deceiving her, and he could see how much it pained her. He certainly didn’t want to hurt her …

… but it didn’t hurt to look.

He glanced back wearily as the man opposite made another noisy page turn, and his eye was suddenly drawn to an article with the headline ‘R
EDLAND
K
ILLING
’ on the folded back side of the paper. Leaning forward, he tried to read the smaller print below it, but the man turned another page and the story was gone.

Scowling, Naysmith leaned back in his seat and turned his head so he could study the blonde woman again, taking in the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she sat there, oblivious to all around her …

But his mind was elsewhere now.

They had just left Basingstoke when the man finally put his paper down on the table, yawned and sat back to look out of the window.

Naysmith leaned forward.

‘Pardon me,’ he spoke lightly, as though it were of no matter to him. ‘Would you mind if I took a look at that?’

‘I’m finished with it,’ the man replied, pushing it across the table towards him. ‘Be my guest.’

‘Thanks.’