Knife Edge (33 page)

Maybe Taunton wasn’t so bad for now. And she had left before, so she could do it again.

She turned off at the junction and followed the road until she saw the wooden sign, indicating for the benefit of the car behind her as she slowed down and turned in at the gate. There was a space close to the front wall and she edged into it before switching off the engine and getting out into the cool night air.

The tall gables of the B & B loomed over her, those tiny upper windows dark, unfriendly. She suddenly felt so terribly isolated – unable to stay in the welcoming familiarity of her old house; a small unhappy figure, shivering in the shadows of a guest-house car park.

But she’d done what she had to do. She’d finally got away from him, and she’d gone to the police. Now she just had to lie low here … and wait.

Naysmith hesitated as his fingertips were about to touch the brass handle, withdrawing his hand and easing the door open with his forearm before passing inside. He strode calmly across the floor, making no attempt to be quiet, his polished leather shoes clicking confidently on the aged floorboards. There was something rather lovely about big old houses like this, with their high ceilings and long corridors, but it was rather a pity to see them reduced to guest houses or, worse yet, converted into flats. Approaching the glass hatch, he noted the half-moon table set below it, and the waiting desk bell with a ‘Please ring for attention’ sign. He smiled and rapped the top of the bell smartly with the side of his hand, listening to the sound bursting through the stillness to resonate around the building.

And waited …

Kim had been careless. It had taken him less than three weeks to find her and, for a moment, the hope flared in him that perhaps she wanted to be found. Perhaps she was playing her own, mixed-up little game with him, to test if he really wanted her, to see if he’d come running after her. But deep down, he knew that couldn’t be true. She didn’t yet know his methods, how
capable
he was of hunting people. She probably thought she was being clever. She probably thought she’d given him the slip.

In any event, she should have parked somewhere else. That was her biggest mistake. That was what made it all so disappointingly
fucking
easy. She knew the area – there were plenty of other obscure little streets round there – but he’d spotted her car practically outside the house on Gordon Road. His third trip to Taunton, and he’d found her already.

No challenge at all.

Once he’d seen the car, it was simple. He found a place to park on Queen Street, nicely tucked in between two other vehicles, where he could watch the end of Gordon Road – and just about make out the front of the house – without being too visible.

She’d stayed quite late. At first he’d wondered if she might be spending the night there, if she’d been foolish enough to move back in with her sister. He’d looked at the dashboard clock and thought about calling it a night, heading for home.

Simple Simon rolled up around ten. Naysmith watched him fiddling with his keys on the doorstep before letting himself in. As the front door slammed shut, he’d rubbed his eyes and stifled that first, wearying yawn.

But something told him to wait.

And then, just before eleven, he’d sat up in his seat, eager eyes staring out through the darkness. Light spilled from the doorway, illuminating the gateposts, and two figures appeared, silhouetted against the yellow glow from the inside.

There she was – his beautiful Kim. He smiled despite himself, watching as she hugged her sister and walked across to her car. His hand reached for his own ignition, but he didn’t start the engine yet – in a quiet neighbourhood, the noise might make them look in his direction. Anyway, he had time – she was parked the wrong way and would need to turn around.

As her rear lights came on and she pulled out, he saw Sarah step back into the house and shut the door.

Good.

He started the car but left the lights off as the engine idled.

Not until she was past.

A moment later, he slid down low in his seat as the beam of her headlights illuminated the vehicles ahead of him and her car turned left. He switched on his own lights and pulled out behind her as she turned right onto South Street and drove down to the junction at the end.

She went left through the sleeping town centre, with him trailing behind her, trying to keep his distance – there wasn’t a lot of other traffic, just those two points of red light that led him on past the darkened windows of the shops. They crossed the river and went on towards the station, but she turned off onto a side road.

Odd. Where was she going?

He followed her down the road, noting the large old houses, the walled gardens and spreading trees.

And then he saw the amber flash of her indicators; she was turning in somewhere. He didn’t brake, just lifted his foot from the throttle to let the car slow a little as he cruised past the tall gateposts that marked the entrance to the car park, and finally lost sight of her.

She was staying at a bed and breakfast, rather than taking the risk of staying with her sister. He smiled to himself.

Nice try, Kim.

A hundred yards down the street, he pulled over to the side and stared at the road behind in the rear-view mirror. The fact that she’d at least tried to cover her tracks pleased him for some reason. Perhaps because it meant his brave little girl was still thinking about him.

After a moment, when there was no traffic, he did a U-turn and crept slowly back along the road. He read the sign and noted the name ‘Geddes Guest House’ as he drew level with the gate. There was her car, parked up by the fence, and he stared up at the house for a moment, lost in thought.

Then, as he’d peered up through the trees, a yellow light had blinked on in one of the tiny top-floor windows. He’d gazed up at it for a moment and smiled to himself before setting off for home.

And now, in front of him, the pane of frosted glass slid aside with a rasping scrape and the stern face of a middle-aged woman appeared at the hatch.

‘Can I help you?’ Aloof, grey hair, affected accent. But better that than the overfriendly small hoteliers who wanted to get to know their clients.

‘Good afternoon. I’m Robert Hanage,’ Naysmith lied politely. ‘I telephoned this morning. I believe you have a room for me?’

She studied him over the top of her spectacles, assessing his manner, his clothing … then smiled warmly.

‘Mr Hanage, yes of course.’ She nodded approvingly, then made some show of consulting a large, leather-bound book.

Naysmith leaned forward, but couldn’t see enough to read the details of the other guests.

No matter.

‘Here we are.’ The woman was passing a registration form and a pen through to him. ‘I’ve put you in number nine – it’s our most comfortable room.’

‘How thoughtful of you,’ Naysmith smiled at her. ‘I’ve a feeling I’m going to enjoy my stay.’

That evening he had an excellent meal at an old country-house hotel a few miles outside of town and got back a little after ten. He parked down a quiet side street – Kim would be bound to notice his car otherwise, and he didn’t want her to run again. Taunton was deserted tonight. The pubs would be closing soon, but he passed no one as he made his way round the block to the guest house.

There were several lights on in the imposing old building, but the little window at the top was in darkness and there was no sign of her car.

Where was she? Visiting Sarah again perhaps?

Reaching into his pocket, he drew out the key with its large plastic fob and approached the entrance to let himself in. His room commanded an excellent view of the car-park entrance. She would doubtless be back in the next hour or so, and when she did, he would be ready.

Harland drained his first coffee of Wednesday morning and yawned. Leaning back in his chair, he worked the muscles in his shoulders, trying to loosen them, then returned his attention to the stack of witness reports on his desk.

When his mobile rang, it was a welcome relief. He peered at the screen for a moment – London number – then hit the answer key.

‘Hello?’

‘DI Harland?’ A voice he couldn’t quite place.

‘Speaking.’

‘Good morning. This is DI Cadnam – we talked before?’

Harland paused for a moment, then leaned forward.

‘About the Severn Beach witness, yes.’

‘That’s right.’ Cadnam’s voice was flat, unreadable. ‘I just wanted to let you know, we’ve now followed up on the information you gave us, but it was a dead end.’

Harland frowned.

‘The statement from Kim …’ He broke off, trying to remember her surname.

‘Nichols.’

‘You checked into it all? Took a look at the boyfriend?’

‘We did. Seems he’d been cheating on her and she found out about it. Draw your own conclusions, but he has no connection to any of the known victims and she’s …’ Cadnam paused, measuring how much to tell. ‘Well, let’s say she probably felt like getting her own back.’

‘That wasn’t how she came across.’ Harland shook his head. He thought back to that small figure sitting in the interview room, the very real sense of fear he’d got from her. ‘Did you actually speak to her yourself?’

The faintest note of annoyance crept into Cadnam’s voice.

‘I did better than that,’ he replied. ‘I spoke to this Naysmith guy. Honestly, I know you want a result – we all do – but this one isn’t going anywhere.’

‘She was scared of something,’ Harland persisted. He wasn’t wrong about this one.

‘I’m not arguing with that,’ Cadnam said. ‘But you know how it works, and there’s just not enough to justify reopening the case at the moment. I’m sorry.’

Harland sighed.

‘I know how it works,’ he said wearily.

‘If you turn up anything else, let me know and I’ll do what I can. OK?’

Harland gave a wry smile.

Yeah, because that worked out so well for everyone this time.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Thanks for calling.’

‘Bye.’

Harland put the phone down on his desk and spun it slowly around for a moment with his finger. Relinquishing an investigation was never good, but he’d really hoped that something might come from rattling this Robert Naysmith’s cage.

Rubbing his eyes, he yawned again, then reached for his mug and found it empty. Barely half past nine and already the day was going downhill. Sighing, he got to his feet and made his way through to the kitchen.

Mendel was by the sink filling the kettle when he walked in. The big man glanced up at him, then moved across to set the kettle on its base.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked as he switched it on.

Harland shook his head and stepped forward to rinse out his cup.

‘Remember that woman who came in?’ he said after a moment. ‘The one who thought her boyfriend was the Severn Beach killer?’

‘Yeah, I remember her,’ Mendel nodded. ‘What are the Met doing?’

‘Nothing.’ Harland opened the cupboard and took out the coffee. ‘They think she’s making the whole thing up.’

‘Maybe she is.’

Harland put his mug on the counter and leaned back against the wall.

‘I don’t think so – she was scared. Genuinely scared.’

Mendel looked at him for a moment.

‘So we’re no further on than we were before,’ he shrugged. ‘That’s life.’

‘I suppose so.’

The kettle boiled and Mendel poured water into both their mugs. ‘There you go.’

‘Thanks.’

He picked up a teaspoon, then looked at Harland.

‘So what’s the problem?’ he asked. ‘It’s been off our radar for months.’

Harland bowed his head.

‘The problem is what do I say to her?’

‘Why say anything? Let the Met deal with it.’

Harland looked at him.

Because she had come to him. Because he had persuaded her to talk.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. Stirring his coffee, he rinsed the spoon under the tap and left it on the side to dry.

‘Course I’m right,’ Mendel told him. ‘Anyway, you should be happy. We’ve got Leroy Marshall in court soon, and he’s given us his whole gang. That’s a decent result.’

‘I know, it’s just …’ Harland sighed and shook his head. ‘Never mind.’

He stalked back to his office and closed the door. Slumping down into his chair, he took a sip of coffee and closed his eyes. Kim wasn’t making it up – something
was
scaring her – but without any evidence, what could Cadnam’s team do? He stared down at the pile of papers on his desk for a moment, then frowned and started looking for her number.

Picking up the phone, he made it as far as the last digit, then hesitated and hung up. Mendel was right. The Met would call her.

The clock at the bottom of the screen showed 7 p.m. Harland massaged his temples, then leaned across to switch off the computer. The after-image remained for a moment, a pale rectangle imprinted on his retina, and he rubbed his eyes until it faded. Another day done.

He stood up and stretched for a moment, then took his jacket from the back of his chair and slipped it on. The corridor was quiet as he pulled his office door shut, but he could hear voices near the kitchen.

Mendel was there, rinsing out his cup, while Stuart Gregg was propped up against the far wall, leafing through a handful of papers and shaking his head slowly.

‘How’s it going?’ Harland asked.

Mendel gave him a wry smile.

‘Slowly,’ he said. ‘You done for the night?’

‘Yeah,’ Harland sighed. ‘Fancy a quick drink in the White Lion?’

Gregg glanced up hopefully, but Mendel looked at his watch.

‘We’ve just got one more thing to wrap up here – maybe see you there in half an hour?’

‘See you there,’ Harland nodded.

He made his way downstairs, raising a hand to acknowledge Firth’s wave from through the glass-partitioned front office, then walked outside into the cool evening air. As the door swung shut behind him, he paused to reach into his pocket, fumbling for his cigarettes. Jamming one into his mouth, he clicked the lighter and took a long first drag, then walked out towards the street.