Knife Edge (25 page)

‘It’s never quite that simple, though,’ he said. ‘Except in the papers of course.’

Pope glanced up, then lowered his eyes once more.

‘Yeah, that was unfortunate,’ he agreed.

They walked round to the front of the building.

Harland reached into his pocket to find his cigarettes, then thought better of it.

‘I don’t know which is worse,’ he said. ‘Having no suspects, or having one we know didn’t do it.’

Pope gazed at him thoughtfully.

‘Very true,’ he murmured.

He held the door open for Harland and they went inside.

The investigation had made good progress at first – one fragment of information leading to another, then another – and the palpable sense of momentum had urged them all forward. Now, however, Harland could feel the incident room becoming tense as the need for progress became more urgent.

He watched DCI Pearce speaking in hushed tones to a pair of dark-suited officers he’d not seen before, then turning to face the room. He felt guiltily glad that it wasn’t him up there.

‘All right, thanks, everyone.’ Pearce looked around, waiting for the murmured conversations to cease, then got up and walked around to the whiteboard. ‘Right then. I know you’ve all been out and about, running down bits and pieces, but we’ve got to a point where I thought it was best just to get you all in here and bring you up to speed on where we are.’

He spoke calmly – same old Pearce – but Harland thought he could sense a fresh resolve in the way he moved. Was there something new?

‘So,’ Pearce rubbed his hands together and nodded to a colleague at the back of the room, ‘let’s recap. Steve, can we get the projector on? Cheers.’

Projected onto the whiteboard beside him, a map of the north-west quarter of Bristol appeared, annotated with a number of yellow markers, and one red one.

‘OK, here we are …’ He pointed to the single red marker. ‘Alexandra Park in Redland. Mrs Lesley Vaughn is at home on her day off. Sometime between eleven and three or four in the afternoon, there’s a knock on her front door and she opens up to find her killer standing there. He incapacitates her with some sort of heavy metallic object, then stabs her six times in the chest with one of her own kitchen knives.’

Pearce paused, then resumed at a slower pace.

‘Naturally, nobody saw anything, as many of you who’ve been helping with witness statements will know.’ He turned back to the map. ‘But with the railway running along the end of the road, there’s only a few ways out of there – which brings us to the CCTV.’

He looked across to the side of the room and beckoned over a woman in her thirties with short blonde hair.

‘Most of you know DS Michaela Thompson – her team have been ploughing through all the hours of footage we pulled in. Michaela, do you want to go over the perimeter sightings?’

DS Thompson walked over to the whiteboard.

‘Thank you, sir.’ She squinted as she stood in the projector beam, turning to the map and tracing a large semicircle around the area north of the railway line. ‘We were pretty fortunate with the CCTV footage we retrieved, because we had enough to cover pretty much every way in and out – a perimeter fence if you like. We knew roughly when the crime occurred, and it’s a pretty quiet neighbourhood, so we started looking at who came into the area, who went out of the area, and how long they spent there.’

‘We figure the killer was with Lesley for at least ten minutes or so,’ Pearce interjected. ‘May have been longer, but there’s no sign of robbery or any sexual assault. Sorry, Michaela, carry on.’

‘That’s all right, sir.’ Michaela moved so that her face was out of the projector beam. ‘The bottom line is, we’ve been able to discount the vehicles and pedestrians who were just passing through – who weren’t inside the perimeter long enough – and focus on tracking down people who entered and left at the right sort of time.’

‘Which is where this guy comes in.’ Pearce signalled for the next slide. The image on the whiteboard changed, the map giving way to a grainy CCTV snapshot of a crossroads, with a freeze-frame blur of a figure on a bicycle, turning right to join the main road. ‘Our solitary cyclist.’

Harland leaned forward, remembering his conversation with Gill Evans. She had mentioned a cyclist.

Another slide illuminated the wall, showing the same figure riding up a hill beside a line of parked cars.

‘Thanks to your efforts, we’ve been able to identify most of the folk who were in the area at the time of the murder.’ Pearce glanced over his shoulder at the blurred image behind him. ‘But not this bloke, right, Michaela?’

‘Right, sir,’ she agreed. ‘He shows up at least nine times on different cameras across the city.’

A new map appeared, showing a series of green and blue markers dotted between Redland and the city centre.

‘The green shows sightings we believe occurred before the murder, the blue afterwards,’ she explained. ‘Once we put this together, we did a second lift of CCTV from the city centre, and we got a bit of luck. Steve?’

Another slide – a sharper image this time, looking down on a pedestrian crossing. The cyclist was circled, just to the left of the frame, head turned away from the camera.

‘This is about the best shot we have of him,’ she said. ‘And it may be nothing, but I’d just like to mention that whoever he is, this man
never
looks up near the cameras. Not once, which is fairly unusual.’

‘Thanks, Michaela.’ Pearce moved over to stand beside the whiteboard. ‘So there he is. About six foot one, six foot two, athletic build, a clean-shaven male with dark hair, from what little we can see under that cycle helmet. Everyone got that?’

Harland stared at the image, trying to see the man beneath the cycle gear, but the cameras hadn’t captured much.

‘Now, this may be connected, or it may not, but we’ve also turned up a name that needs looking into.’ Pearce waved to the back of the room, and a photograph of a well-groomed man in his fifties flashed up behind him. ‘This is Reuben Cort. Used to run a catering business with Lesley, and officers were called to a disturbance involving the two of them at the beginning of last year. There’s clearly some history there, and maybe a motive if we’re lucky – I’ve got some people on him and I’ll update you soon as poss.’

Harland studied the pink face, the shiny bald pate and the clipped white hair; noted the expensive designer spectacles.

‘Right then, boys and girls.’ Pearce clapped his large hands together, and inclined his head towards the door. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’

Harland walked out into the car park at dusk and stopped for a moment, yawning and rubbing the back of his neck. The urgency and the hours of a major case were tiring, but in a good way – plenty to occupy him and keep his thoughts from straying, turning inward. He gazed up at the nearby concrete flyover, listening to the constant rumble of traffic passing by as he reached into his pocket for the cigarette packet. There hadn’t been much time to smoke today, or to eat – lunch had been a chocolate bar from one of the vending machines – and he realised that he was extremely hungry. There was probably something in the freezer at home, but the thought of cooking seemed like too much trouble tonight. Promising himself something better, he left the cigarettes in his pocket and began walking to his car.

It was a little out of his way, but he seemed to hit mostly green lights as he drove through the centre and he was in an unusually good mood when he parked on Princess Victoria Street. Getting out of the car, he stretched, then walked back along the pavement. The plate-glass windows of the fish and chip shop were large and spotless, with a welcoming light streaming out from the bright interior, and the tempting aroma of hot food to draw him in.

It was busy, but there was always a queue in here. Taking his place at the back of the line, he gazed up at the menu boards and smiled, remembering his first visit. Mendel had brought him in on the way home from Portishead one evening and had quietly pointed out the number of Scottish accents among the clientele. ‘Always a good sign, that is,’ the big man had whispered. ‘Those Jocks can always sniff out the best chip shops.’

There were three people serving behind the polished-tile counter, all wearing smart matching aprons. When Harland reached the front of the queue, a short woman with curly blonde hair flashed him a hurried smile.

‘Hi, what can I get you?’

‘Large cod and chips, please,’ he said, glancing at the menu, then looking towards the glass-fronted fridge. ‘Oh, and a bottle of 7Up.’

She turned quickly and got his drink, setting it down on the counter.

‘There you are. It’ll just be a couple of minutes for the fish, OK?’

‘Thanks.’

Harland paid her, then took his bottle and went to perch on one of the few unoccupied stools at the window. Staring out through the gold letters painted on the glass, he watched people hurrying along on the opposite side of the road – well-dressed, respectable types – while his mind slid gently back to the case. This was only a couple of streets away from where Lesley Vaughn had worked. It was a nice enough area – you’d think you were safe round here. Then again, hadn’t Vicky Sutherland worked somewhere nearby too? Of course, both women had been killed in other places – Lesley at home in Redland, and Vicky over at Severn Beach …

He paused, frowning slightly.

They both worked close by. Maybe a mile and a half, two miles apart?

He closed his eyes, trying to picture the layout of the streets, quickly travelling the route in his head, looking for … what? Two murders in the same city didn’t mean anything. There was nothing to connect the victims, and the killings were very different. And yet …

‘Excuse me?’

He opened his eyes. Several people were staring at him as his glance swept along the queue to the woman leaning impatiently across the counter.

‘Large cod and chips, yes?’ she repeated, giving him a stern look.

‘Sorry.’ Harland jumped to his feet.

‘Salt and vinegar?’ the woman asked.

‘Please.’ He moved to the front of the queue and offered her an apologetic smile as she handed his food to him, neatly packed in a warm cardboard box, but she was already turning to smile at a more attentive customer.

It felt chilly, stepping outside, after the cosy interior of the takeaway, but his thoughts were firmly back at work now.

Two victims, both working in the same neighbourhood, with no obvious reason for either killing.

For a moment, he thought of taking his phone out and calling Pearce – but what would he say?

No, better to think it through a bit first, not tip his hand too quickly like he’d done with Blake the year before. He’d sound Pearce out gently. There might be no connection between the two murders. But if there was, then that changed everything. And he would have a lot to contribute to the investigation. Lost in thought, he carried his fish and chips back to the car.

An extra briefing had been scheduled for eleven o’clock and the room was already full when Harland arrived, picking his way to the back to find a seat. Pearce walked in just before the hour, shirtsleeves rolled up, carrying a bottle of water. Spotting someone sitting at the front, his face broke into a broad smile and he changed course to greet him.

‘All right, Nick, didn’t expect to see you this morning,’ he nodded. ‘You not over in Bath?’

‘Paula’s doing it instead.’ Nick was a broad man, with spiky brown hair and a dark jacket.

‘Blimey, they won’t know what’s hit ’em. Anyway, glad you’re with us.’

Pearce clapped him on the shoulder then continued his walk to the table at the front of the room, where he put the bottle down and turned to face his team.

‘All right then,’ he said, raising his voice a little. ‘Let’s settle down, everyone, thank you.’

He sat on the edge of the table as the murmured conversations died away.

‘OK. First off, I just want to say that I’m pleased with the work you lot have been putting in on this. Things have been moving quickly, and there’s not been a lot of time to chat, but credit where it’s due and all that.’

He glanced across the assembled faces and flashed a quick grin.

‘Anyway, that’s enough of the sentimental stuff. Down to business.’

He reached across for the bottle of water and started to unscrew the cap.

‘It looks like we’ve got a development on the Reuben Cort angle. Most of you know DC Peter Leighton – Pete, why don’t you come up here and fill us in.’

Leighton got to his feet and moved to the front of the room. He was a thin man in his forties, with short dark hair swept back and a pale complexion. Wearing a tan jacket and black trousers, he approached the table stiffly and cleared his throat.

‘Thank you, sir.’ He turned to address the room. ‘Most of you were here when we discussed Reuben Cort before – single chap in his fifties, Lesley Vaughn’s former business partner.’

There was a murmur of agreement from the room.

‘Now he’s not got any form
as such
, but there was an incident in March last year when uniformed officers were called out to a disturbance at the company’s former premises over in Bishopston. There’s nothing in the reports to indicate that it was anything more than a shouting match, but in light of recent events we looked into it a bit further. The responding officer was Jackie Hughes – some of you may know her – and she remembered it quite well.’

He cleared his throat again, then continued.

‘At first, Reuben and Lesley had been running it as more of a general catering firm, doing weddings, corporate functions, that sort of thing – apparently he had some aspirations of being a chef – but the business was essentially failing. At some point, Lesley bought him out and decided to try specialising in
her
area of expertise, the cake-making.’

Leighton had warmed up a little now, and was pacing back and forth in front of the table.

‘Business picked up and she started making money – Reuben wasn’t too pleased. He said she’d taken
his
clients, felt she owed him, but she wasn’t having any of it. That’s when things came to a head – Reuben decided he was entitled to some of his old company property. Basically, he showed up one day, tried to walk out with a load of equipment, and Lesley called the police. When Jackie got there, they were screaming at each other. She doesn’t remember any specific threats, and she managed to calm things down, but there was no love lost between them.’