Knife Edge (37 page)

Turning onto South Avenue, his eyes swept along the line of parked cars, looking for a space. There! He would go up to the end of the road and turn around so that he was facing down the hill, better able to see who came and went from the police station.

He didn’t know what time Harland’s shift finished – he wasn’t sure if the detective was even at work today – but that was all right. He was prepared to take his time on this one.

Finding a place to turn the car, he crept back down the slope and pulled into the space, close to the pavement. Switching off the engine, he undid his seatbelt, feeling the warmth of the sun through his shirt as he wriggled about in his seat, trying to get comfortable. Then, leaning back against the headrest, he settled in for a long wait.

Last time he’d come here it had been on a whim. Idle curiosity about the man who was investigating him, and a few spare hours in Bristol, had brought him to this quiet street. This time he had a purpose, and the thought of what lay ahead invigorated him, an eager thrill that coursed through his body.

What was Harland really like? Did he live here in Portishead or somewhere further away? Was he married or living with anyone? There were so many questions to answer. Clearly he was an intelligent man, which was a relief, as an idiot would have been poor sport and this was one game he wanted to savour.

Gazing down the road, he studied the squat police building – two storeys of functional bricks and windows, mercifully screened by trees – and the entrance porch, with its noticeboard and anti-crime posters.

Was Harland inside? And if he was, what time would he finish work?

He’d seen one or two people go in and out – uniformed police officers for the most part, plus one overweight woman with a small dog in tow. He wondered what she had been there for – to report lost property probably. She certainly didn’t look like a criminal.

He smiled to himself.

Wasn’t that one of the reasons why he’d never been stopped? People’s prejudices blinded them to so much. They were instantly wary of the wrong accent, the wrong clothing, the wrong neighbourhood. But they couldn’t see past his manners, his grooming, his success.

By the time they realised who he was, it was always much too late.

He stretched then rubbed his eyes for a moment, shaking off the drowsiness that the sun and the warmth of the car encouraged. It was important to stay alert – he mustn’t doze off. Sitting up, he switched on the radio and forced himself to concentrate on the presenter’s chatter as his eyes glanced back to the police-station entrance.

It was just after six when the glass door opened and the familiar lean figure emerged. There, just a few dozen yards away from him! Naysmith gripped the steering wheel and sank lower in his seat as Harland stepped down onto the concrete paving and paused to light a cigarette. The man looked tired as he exhaled a pale breath of smoke, then continued his weary walk round the building. Was he going towards the car park? Excellent!

Wide awake now, Naysmith watched as Harland disappeared from view. Eyes never leaving the side of the building, he reached forward and started the engine in readiness. Sure enough, moments later, a metallic-grey Ford emerged from behind the police station.

Pulse thumping in his ears, Naysmith pulled out and stole down the road after it.

They turned left at the old whitewashed pub where Harland had once brushed past him, and accelerated out of the town. It was the same route he had followed on his way down here – were they heading for the motorway?

Approaching the circular junction above the M5, Naysmith had to brake gently so as not to get too close. Up until now there would be nothing odd about having one car in your rear-view mirror – this seemed to be the main route in and out of Portishead – but from here on he’d need to start being less visible. As Harland pulled onto the roundabout, Naysmith delayed a little, allowing another car to slip in between them. They passed over the motorway, as though they were going round to join the southbound carriageway, but the grey Ford drifted across to the left-hand lane and exited onto a road signposted for Clifton.

Clifton …

Naysmith smiled to himself.

The road climbed steadily now, sweeping through a couple of tiny hamlets as it pushed on towards high, open ground. Cresting one particular rise, Naysmith thought he could glimpse the Severn Bridge, looking oddly small in the distance, far away to his left …

… but this was no time to become distracted – he had to keep his eyes on the target.

There were two cars between them now, but Harland was still only a short distance ahead. Naysmith had promised himself he wasn’t going to rush things, wasn’t going to take risks. He’d let Harland get away from him if he had to – he could always lie in wait for him, now that he knew the car – but so far he’d been lucky.

As they came down the hill into Bristol, the car in front of him turned off, leaving just one vehicle between him and his target. They reached the outskirts, crossing a roundabout and negotiating a bewildering couple of junctions – for a moment, Harland was directly in front of him until another car merged in between them as they drove out from an underpass.

The city started abruptly – suddenly there were Victorian terraces lining the right-hand side of the street, while sturdy old industrial buildings loomed up on the left. Naysmith leaned forward to gaze up at one particularly impressive red-brick warehouse, then dragged his attention back to the road again and scowled.

The car in front of him was going very slowly – Harland was opening up too much of a gap, getting too far ahead of him.

Come on, for God’s sake!

There were trees on the left now, and larger houses on the right. No chance to overtake here – too much traffic coming the other way. Ahead of him, Harland’s grey Ford disappeared from view around a bend in the road.

Come on!

Naysmith’s fingers gripped the steering wheel in frustration as they cruised onwards, following the tarmac as it curved round to the right. There! A little way ahead, he could see the grey Ford waiting, indicating right before disappearing down a side street.

Yes!

He slowed and waited for a break in the oncoming traffic before turning into the quiet little residential street. It didn’t look as though it was on the way to anywhere – he must be getting close. The houses were pressed in tightly here and the curve of the road obscured his view. Was that Harland’s car further along, turning right again? It was difficult to see, but he couldn’t rush – he had to be careful.

There was no sign of the detective when he got to the turning, but he decided to follow his instincts and take the right-hand way – a sign on one of the houses read
Stackpool Road
.

This was a very narrow street, climbing steadily as it curved. Naysmith drove slowly, leaning forward to peer out over the steering wheel.

Grey Ford, grey Ford …

There were cars parked on either side of the street. He edged forward, eyes narrowing.

Was that it up ahead? Yes!

Sighing with satisfaction, he leaned back into his seat, driving on slowly. There was Harland now, that same lonely figure walking back down the pavement – he must live in one of the semi-detached houses that Naysmith had passed on the left-hand side.

No matter – he would find the right one soon enough.

Naysmith smiled to himself …

… and then jammed on the brakes.

There. Parked a few doors further up the street from the grey Ford.

It was Kim’s car.

And suddenly, in one terrible moment, he understood. A crushing wave of nausea swept over him and the cold knot of jealousy tightened in his stomach.

His hand shook as he clawed at the gear stick, ramming it into first as he accelerated away up the hill, his breathing shallow as he tried to get his head round the flood of images that rose unbidden in his mind.
Harland taking her hand, leading her inside, closing the door behind them.
The engine shrieked as he over-revved it, moving faster still, swerving up the narrow street, parked cars whipping by in a blur.
Kim resting her head on Harland’s shoulder, placing her small hand on his chest, looking up into his eyes …

And then he was thrown forward, stamping the brake pedal into the floor as his subconscious registered a red Mini turning out of a side road, both cars skidding to a shuddering halt.

It was impossible to control the rage, but his seatbelt held him back, restrained him for a vital few seconds while his eyes stared wildly at the other driver – a man in his thirties who was stupidly getting out to confront him.

Jabbing at the release button, Naysmith flung off the seatbelt, ignoring the metal fastener as it cracked against the window. Throwing his door open, he sprang out to stand on the tarmac, furious and eager.

He saw the bluster and bravado drain from the other driver’s face, noted the hesitation, the involuntary step back.

‘Get out of my
fucking
way!’ he snarled, fists clenching in readiness.

‘Hey, what the hell—!’ the man began, but Naysmith silenced him.

‘Move!’ he roared, advancing towards him, using all the self-control he had to turn his anger on the car rather than on the driver. ‘MOVE!’

He struck out with his leg, smashing his heel into the front grille, then again, and again, shattering the nearside headlight.

The man was already scrambling back inside, jerking his door shut as he threw the car into reverse. The Mini lurched backwards, weaving an erratic retreat down the side street, to leave Naysmith alone, taut and shaking in the middle of the crossroads.

He turned and gazed back down the hill. Towards the house. Towards her.

Harland had crossed the line. Now, it was personal.

There was a reassuring air of chaos in the little café. The two women behind the counter appeared to be mother and daughter – one in her thirties, the other her fifties – and they fussed and argued with a lifetime’s familiarity. An exasperated sigh greeted each new customer, and there were grave warnings about how long it might be if people wanted anything hot – ‘We’re unusually busy today!’ – despite the place being half empty. And yet the food always arrived, and everything tasted good.

Harland put the last bit of scrambled egg into his mouth and laid down his knife and fork. Opposite him, crammed into the tiny space between the table and the wall, Mendel used a piece of toast to mop up the last of the sauce from his beans.

‘Better now?’

‘Worth the wait,’ the big man nodded.

Harland watched as the younger woman ran the gauntlet of sizzling hotplates behind the counter, bearing a tray for one of the tables. She began setting the food down in front of a gnomish old man, then seemed to hesitate and started to gather the plates up again.

‘Eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, tomato, granary toast and tea?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Er … yes,’ the man replied.

‘Thank God,’ the woman sighed, setting the food down again. ‘Enjoy your meal.’

Harland grinned as she raced back to her station and got caught up in a confusion of ‘After you’s with her mother, who was bringing out someone’s omelette and blocking the narrow gap behind the counter.

‘Dinner
and
a show,’ he murmured.

Mendel chuckled, then glanced down at his watch.

‘So, are you heading back to Portishead now?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Harland replied. ‘Pearce asked me to nip over this afternoon. Said he wanted to chat about the Redland case.’

‘They’re still running with it?’

‘As far as I know.’

Mendel drained the last of his tea and set down his mug.

‘At least the media seem to be easing up a bit,’ he rumbled.

‘Well, there was nowhere for them to go with the story after they tried to set up that dentist.’

‘And he was definitely innocent?’

‘Oh yes, completely.’ Harland knew one of the detectives who had interviewed him, and had heard from the liaison team who were trying to pick up the pieces after the newspapers waded in. ‘First he loses his wife, and now his dental practice will go bust because he’s the “perv dentist”.’

‘Poor bastard.’ Mendel shook his head sadly.

‘Poor bastard,’ Harland agreed.
And if the poor bastard topped himself as a result of those stories, the papers would probably report that a well-loved family man had been let down by the police.
He sighed. ‘Pearce wasn’t happy, but I suppose his hands are tied unless he can deliver the real killer.’

Mendel scowled for a moment.

‘Are they making any progress?’ he asked.

‘I’ll see what he says when I go down there, but I don’t think so.’ His thoughts drifted briefly to Kim as he picked up the salt and pepper shakers and placed them next to each other in the centre of the table. ‘Last I heard they’d tracked down enough witnesses to know that the cyclist wasn’t on the train by the time it got to Westbury, so they’ve been checking the stations between Temple Meads and there.’

‘Which means it’s down to CCTV now,’ Mendel said with distaste.

‘Pretty much.’ Harland gazed through the steamy windows at the street outside, where a couple were holding hands as they tried to read the prices on the menu.

He turned back to the table to find Mendel staring at him thoughtfully.

‘You don’t seem that bothered,’ the big man noted.

And it was true. Normally, this sort of situation would get to him, but for some reason, the fires of his temper were burning low just now.

‘Well, you’re always telling me there’s no point in worrying about things you can’t change,’ he said, picking up his mug.

‘Yeah,’ Mendel nodded, ‘but you never listen to me.’

Harland drank the last of his coffee and put the mug down with a smile.

‘There is that,’ he agreed.

They got up, and Mendel waved his thanks to the women behind the counter. Harland followed him towards the door, then turned back and picked up a pack of chewing gum from a rack of sweets beside the cash register.