Knife Edge (6 page)

The clang of the spanner as it hit the ground seemed to ring out across the car park. He was trembling. Clenching his gloved fists, he forced himself to exhale, to get his breathing under control. There would be time to savour this achievement later – right now, he needed to get it together. Frowning, he crouched down beside the body, eyes searching for something small, something personal …

Not the wristwatch – somehow that just felt too obvious. His searching gaze moved on. Signet ring? He hesitated for a moment, then decided against it. Something that was personal, yes, but also something that wouldn’t stand out too much. He began to roll the body over, looking for a pocket that might contain a wallet, when a glint of gold caught his eye. The dead man had loosened his shirt collar when he set about changing his wheel, and a simple gold chain was visible around his neck.

Perfect.

Rolling the body further onto its side to make it easier, he carefully worked the chain around, releasing it from where it was trapped in a fold of skin. Finding the catch, he unfastened it with some difficulty due to his gloves, then pulled it free and dropped it into his open palm. Simple gold links, like the souvenirs that connected his victims …

Standing up, he pushed the chain deep into one of his pockets, then glanced around once more.

Still nobody.

He looked down to the sprawled figure at his feet. It would be getting dark soon, but the next train was due at 19.50 and the body would quickly be discovered by passengers if it was left here in the open – he wanted to be far from the scene when that happened. Dropping to a crouch again, he braced himself against the adjacent car before half rolling, half shoving the corpse under the jacked-up Range Rover. It was difficult work – not least when the victim’s shirtsleeve snagged something under the chassis – but finally the body was hidden, trailing limbs folded in under the shadowy space between the wheels.

All that remained was the jack. At first it seemed as though it wouldn’t move, but he kicked it harder with his heel, again and again until it finally gave way, dropping the weight of the Range Rover to rest on its owner’s body.

Satisfied, he stood up, slid the jack under the vehicle with his foot, and brushed himself down. Stooping to retrieve the spanner, he slipped it into the backpack, then made himself take a moment, checking the ground to ensure he’d left nothing behind, before turning and walking to the far end of the car park. He moved calmly, resisting the growing temptation to break into a run as he retraced his steps along the gravel track. Only now did he allow himself to take in the enormity of what he’d done, to revel in the incredible power that was his to wield. He closed his eyes for a second, drinking in the unique sensation that he felt only in these moments after a kill. It was never personal – the victims were random and their deaths irrelevant – power was the only thing that mattered.

And yet …

He paused as he came to the metal gate, his gloved hand hesitating slightly before he gripped the top bar and clambered over.

… it was galling that nobody knew.

His achievements went largely unrecognised. Yes, there had been that exhilarating period last year when the detective from Portishead had been smart enough to link some of his victims, had perhaps even come close to catching him, but in the end he’d managed to disappear again, leaving the police with nothing.

He shook his head, knowing that ought to have pleased him, knowing that anonymity was crucial …

It was just … nobody understood what he was capable of, what he had accomplished.

And he had accomplished so much.

Frowning he made his way along the railway embankment, the country around him silent once more, save for the soft tread of his footsteps and the sighing of the wind in the leaves. Stepping up onto the concrete sleepers, he halted for a moment to draw out the gold chain, staring at it briefly before fastening it around his neck, feeling the still-warm metal at his throat. Standing between the rails, he gazed along the track for a moment, then picked his way across to the far side of the embankment.

The only one who appreciated his work was a detective from Portishead.

Shaking his head, he made his way down through the bushes and disappeared into the trees.

Detective Inspector Graham Harland paused on the concrete doorstep and forced himself to smile.

‘Thank you, Mrs Clarke. You’ve been very helpful.’ He inclined his head slightly towards the earnest-looking woman who took up almost the whole width of the doorway. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

DS Mendel nodded his own mute goodbye and the pair of them turned, carefully stepping around the overflowing flowerpots that cluttered the narrow garden path.

Harland walked down to the open gate with the long strides of a tall man, his lean face passive until he heard the front door shut behind him.

‘That was a fucking waste of time,’ he muttered.

Mendel caught his eye, a wry grin creasing his heavy-set features as he gripped the iron gate with a large hand and gently drew it closed.

‘You know who put us on to her, don’t you?’

Harland stared at the broad man for a moment, then closed his eyes and sighed.

‘If I had, I wouldn’t have come.’ He shook his head, pushing a weary hand through his dark cropped hair, then shrugged and turned along the street towards where they’d left the car. A fitful wind blew in from the estuary as they turned onto Beach Road. Harland glanced down at his watch then looked at Mendel.

‘It’s almost lunchtime. You hungry?’

They walked on, past the car, past the bleak little bungalows with their cement gardens and the gaudy windows of the village convenience store, piled high with dusty old beach balls that would all end up in the sea. Next door was a bakery with chairs and a couple of small tables placed optimistically on the pavement outside.

A tired little bell chimed above the door as Harland pushed it open, but the woman behind the counter had a homely smile. There were pies and sausage rolls with flaky golden pastry under a heat lamp in a glass cabinet, and a tempting aroma of cooking that teased the appetite. Harland scanned the menu – a collection of handwritten options on luminous paper fixed to the wall – and paid for two bacon sandwiches.

‘Cheers,’ Mendel thanked him.

‘That’s all right,’ Harland shrugged. ‘I’m not in any hurry to get back. I’ll only have Blake nagging on at me, and that can wait.’

‘Always nice to be wanted,’ the big man grinned.

Harland thanked the woman as she handed the sandwiches over the counter, passing one to his colleague as they walked outside.

‘Did you want to sit?’ Mendel indicated the tables doubtfully.

‘No.’ Fading patio furniture, abandoned on the pavement outside a parade of forgotten shops – Harland shook his head and wondered if anyone
ever
sat there. ‘Come on, let’s walk instead.’

They retraced their steps along the road until the line of semi-detached houses on the left petered out. Beyond, there was a boarded-up burger bar with peeling paint and weeds around it – picnic tables and vending machines, their once bright colours bleached by the elements, fenced off to wait for the summer – and in the distance, dominating the skyline, the Second Severn Crossing. The rumble of traffic came and went on the whims of the wind as they made their way up a gentle grassy slope to the promenade, a thin strip of tarmac that snaked along the tide wall towards the giant suspension bridge. A fence of stainless-steel railings ran along the top of the sea wall, and there were regularly placed benches for the elderly people this sort of place attracted.

Harland pulled his jacket closed against the cold, and trudged over to lean on the railing, staring out at the distant water, the grey beach, and the past.

‘I’ve always hated it here,’ he frowned, unwrapping his sandwich from the grease-spotted paper bag.

‘It’s grim today,’ Mendel agreed, joining him at the rail.

Harland took a bite and stared out to the dark smudge on the horizon that was the Welsh coastline. The chill breeze made hot food taste even better, he thought. His eyes glanced along the barricade of heavy rocks banked up against the base of the sea wall below them, and settled on a figure walking a dog further out on the beach.

‘Haven’t been down here since they found that jogger. Vicky …’ He paused, trying to recall the surname. ‘Sutherland, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’

Harland’s gaze swept the beach and he pointed to a spot where swathes of tall reeds rippled in the breeze. ‘The body was over there, I think – might have been a little further along. Were you down at the scene for that one?’

‘No, I was interviewing the neighbours.’ Mendel inclined his head to the left. ‘She lived over that way a bit, one street back from the beach.’

Harland nodded thoughtfully, turning his face west, away from the wind. In the distance, the dark shape of the chemical works disturbed the horizon, its eerie chimneys exhaling pale breath into the sky. Further out, the three vast wind turbines at Avonmouth turned slowly in silhouette, like crosses waiting for a crucifixion.

‘Miserable place to finish up,’ he noted.

They ate in silence, watching the endless crawl of the waves across the estuary.

‘How many other bodies did they link with our man in the end?’ Mendel asked.

‘At least four.’ Harland finished the last of his sandwich, crumpling the paper bag in his hand. ‘But I know we’d have found more if they’d let us keep the investigation open.’

He shook his head and frowned at the gathering clouds.

Mendel glanced across at him.

‘He’d certainly have
killed
more, if you hadn’t got so close to him.’

Harland bowed his head, a faint smile on his lips as he remembered the breathless night-time dash along the Docklands waterfront in London, the shadowed figure who’d got the drop on him.

The killer who’d let him live.

‘Thanks, James,’ he said softly. ‘But he’s still out there, still free.’

Mendel nodded thoughtfully.

‘Yeah, well, he’s a clever bastard.’

Harland turned away from the railing, straightening up, his grey eyes fixed on Mendel.

‘So am I.’

He reached into his pockets and drew out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, but the stiff breeze made it impossible to hold a flame. Shaking his head, he glanced across towards the car.

‘Come on,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s get back to Portishead.’

Mendel smiled and took a last look out at the dark water, then walked briskly down the slope after him.

Superintendent Alasdair Blake ran a careful hand across his fine white hair as he studied the piece of paper in front of him, then looked up through his rimless glasses and gave a chilly little smile to the assembled officers.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ he said quietly, as though there had been any choice in the matter. ‘As you may know, there have recently been one or two unfortunate instances involving the press, and I thought it prudent to get everyone together and set out our position.’

His smile, such as it was, faded and his face relaxed into its natural deep-lined expression of distaste and disapproval.

‘This week saw another newspaper feature that portrayed Avon and Somerset Constabulary in a bad light.’ He got up and paced slowly out from behind the table, clasping his hands behind his back. ‘That’s the third in less than a month.’

Sitting at the back of the room, Harland turned to Mendel and shot him a weary glance. Mendel returned a brief smile.

‘It is clear to me,’ Blake continued, shaking his head slightly, ‘that the press are getting some of their information from
inside
the service. That we are fuelling this fire, so to speak.’

There was a murmur in the room. Blake held up a hand.

‘Not from anyone here in Portishead, I’m sure. We run a tight ship.’ He gave them another thin smile. ‘No, I’d like to think that we in this division know better than that.’

He hesitated, as though evaluating that last statement, then turned to face the room.

‘The last two pieces were written by a journalist called Peter Baraclough.’ He paused, as though to underline the name. ‘Suffice to say, if he approaches any of you, you speak to me, not to him.’

He glanced quickly around the room, each instance of eye contact making his words binding, before moving back to his chair.

‘I strongly suggest that we’re all particularly careful over the coming weeks,’ he said as he sat down. ‘No cock-ups, no talking out of school,
no
journalists.’

He waited for a long moment, then smiled at them once more, as though he wondered what they were all still doing here.

‘That will be all, thank you.’

There was a general scraping of chairs as everyone got to their feet and started to file out. Mendel shook his head and leaned across to Harland.

‘Tight ship, eh? Someone upstairs must be leaning on Blake to make him call a meeting like that.’

‘Perhaps,’ Harland mused. ‘But you know what he’s like.’

‘Yeah,’ Mendel said. ‘This sort of thing could make him look bad, and he won’t have that.’

‘He won’t,’ Harland agreed. ‘But he’s smart, and if he keeps things steady while other divisions get caught talking? Well, it makes him look good by comparison.’

‘Politics, Graham?’ Mendel grinned at him. ‘Surely not.’

They got to their feet and were moving towards the door when a voice halted them.

‘Graham? And James?’ The Superintendent was beckoning them to the front of the room. ‘If I might just trouble you for a moment?’

Harland twisted his face into a calm expression and followed Mendel back into the room, stepping between the chairs as they approached the table.

‘Take a seat,’ Blake said agreeably. He looked at each of them for a moment, then leaned forward. ‘I thought we might have a quick word about that business in Avonmouth …’

Harland sighed quietly as he sat down beside Mendel. That business in Avonmouth – a series of arson attacks on empty industrial buildings along the St Andrews Road – had looked promising at first, with several strong witness statements that narrowed the field down nicely. But in recent weeks progress had slowed and it was looking less and less certain that they’d get it over the line. He’d hoped he could avoid Blake until he had something more encouraging to report, but of course Blake wasn’t in the mood to wait.