Knife Edge (8 page)

‘It’s the Grand Prix this afternoon,’ he offered, one finger over the power button. ‘Shall I stick it on?’

Harland was grateful for the distraction. The large, flat-screen TV bloomed into life, sweeping away the uneasy hush with a surge of engine noise and commentary, and they settled back into the comfort of their chairs, and the safety of their motor-sports small talk.

The race was still in progress when Emily looked through from the kitchen.

‘Lunch is served,’ she smiled. ‘
If
you can tear yourselves away from your racing cars.’

Christopher glanced across at him.

‘Shall we?’

‘Lead the way,’ Harland said, getting to his feet.

Lunch itself wasn’t quite the ordeal he’d feared it might be. Emily was clearly determined to give him a good meal, and she’d gone to a lot of trouble – the spotless white cloth on the kitchen table, with a full Sunday roast, served on the good china. He complimented her on her cooking, which was genuinely excellent, and she complimented him on remembering her favourite wine, which was accidental on his part, or perhaps a white lie on hers.

He ate slowly, letting Christopher talk about his job as a network engineer for an IT firm in Swindon, asking polite questions when lulls in the conversation seemed to require it.

Just before dessert, they were interrupted by a small commotion outside the back door. Harland glanced at Christopher, who just smiled.

‘Don’t worry, it’s only Archie.’

Harland nodded, remembering the ridiculous-looking dog – some sort of enormous poodle cross-breed – that they’d bought a few years ago. Something to tide them over while they waited to see if they wanted children. He gazed thoughtfully at Emily’s flat stomach as she stood up and went to see to Archie. Apparently the jury was still out on that question.

There was a wonderful lemon torte for dessert, and Harland felt almost drowsy as they stood up from the table. He wanted a cigarette, but he knew that would mean stepping out into the garden and he had no shoes on. Reluctantly, he gave up on the idea and allowed himself to be manoeuvred back into the living room for coffee and interrogation.

In the end it was Emily who asked.

‘So, how are you getting on, Graham?’

How are you doing on your own?

He looked down, risking a weak smile as he weighed up the question. They had to ask – it was expected – but there was less expectation on him to answer, at least not truthfully.

‘It’s been … difficult, but I’m getting there.’

At least that was half true.

‘You’ve been through such a lot.’ Emily spoke sympathetically. ‘I think you’ve been so strong.’

Harland’s eyes flickered briefly to hers, before dropping back to his feet.

‘I don’t know about that,’ he shrugged. ‘Anyway, I suppose it’s been difficult for all of us.’

He glanced at Christopher, who had quietly taken Emily’s hand.

‘For all of us,’ she agreed.

‘Have you thought about moving out of that house?’ Christopher asked.

Too big for you now you’re on your own.

‘I’ve thought about it,’ he replied, ‘but I’m not in any rush.’

His eyes dwelled on Emily’s small hand, tenderly placed on Christopher’s thigh – a simple gesture of compassion that he found himself resenting.

‘Anyway,’ he finished lamely, ‘there’s nowhere else I want to be at the moment.’

Nobody else to be with.

They probably wondered if he was seeing anyone, but thankfully they were too polite to ask. His thoughts turned briefly to Sue, and he found himself picturing her smile, her attentive expression …

But this wasn’t the time. And there was nothing to tell, only a confusion of guilt and desire that he couldn’t understand himself, let alone explain to them. He breathed a silent sigh of relief as the conversation moved on to less painful subjects.

‘So.’ Christopher’s voice was determinedly cheery again. ‘I’ve thrilled you with my tales from the world of corporate IT. How’s work with you?’

‘Oh yes,’ Emily leaned forward. ‘Any juicy cases you can tell us about?’

Harland raised an eyebrow and gave her a half-smile.

‘Juicy? Really, Em?’

‘Sorry,’ she laughed. ‘You know what I mean – anything exciting?’

Part of him was still guarded about discussing work with civilians, people outside the force. They didn’t appreciate the pressures, the constraints that made a difficult job almost impossible. But Alice had always encouraged him, gently steering him away from the siege mentality that was so easy to fall into after years on the job.

And so he told them about the Severn Beach case from last year. He described the strangled young woman lying face down in the mud, and explained the single, innocuous souvenir that linked her death with a series of other, apparently motiveless murders. He told them about the university lecturer, brutally beaten to death in a sleepy Hampshire village. And he recounted the chain of events that had finally led him to that ill-fated night in London’s Docklands, where the killer had got the drop on him and left him lying unconscious and bleeding.

‘It was a narrow stairwell, and I was completely out of breath,’ he said softly. ‘I’d just turned a corner onto the last flight of steps when this …’ he paused, remembering that moment he thought would be his last ‘… this
shape
jumped down out of the darkness, caught me square in the chest and sent me flying backwards. Must have hit my head pretty hard, because the next thing I remember I was in the ambulance.’

‘God!’ Emily perched on the edge of the sofa, her hand over her mouth. ‘Were you badly hurt?’

Harland looked down and shook his head.

‘If he’d meant to kill me, I wouldn’t be here now,’ he said softly. ‘I think he just wanted to get away.’

‘I had no idea.’ Christopher sat back into the sofa and steepled his fingers in front of his face. ‘Didn’t even know you’d been injured.’

‘Well,’ Harland shrugged, ‘it’s not something I’m particularly proud of. The bastard got away.’

‘They haven’t caught him?’

‘Not yet.’

‘What did he look like?’ Emily asked, nibbling at a strand of her hair as she stared at him.

There it was, the eager thrill of proximity to danger. Harland wondered if she was becoming aroused, then frowned and put the thought out of his mind.

‘I never saw his face. It was pitch-dark, and I didn’t get that close to him.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘At least, not until he jumped me.’

Emily stared at him for a long moment, then sank back into her seat beside Christopher.

‘That’s absolutely amazing,’ she murmured. ‘You’re so brave.’

‘Tell it to my superintendent,’ Harland grinned. ‘He’s not so easy to impress.’

They all laughed at that, until Emily sat upright and pressed her palm to the side of her face.

‘The coffee!’ She shook her head in self-admonishment, then leaned forward and patted Harland’s knee as she got to her feet. ‘I completely forgot about it, listening to your adventures. Sorry, shan’t be a mo …’

He stayed for another hour, then feigned a reason to leave that they kindly didn’t question. The tension eased as he got to his feet and thanked them for the meal.

‘It’s been really good to see you.’ Christopher smiled, putting a hand on his forearm – an uncharacteristic physical contact that almost made Harland flinch.

‘Don’t let’s leave it so long next time.’ Emily gazed up at him with large, earnest eyes. ‘You know you’re always welcome. Always.’

‘I know,’ he said gratefully, but he was in no hurry to do this again. Together, the three of them merely highlighted Alice’s absence; without her there was little reason to rush back. ‘Thanks.’

Secure in his shoes once more, Harland kissed Emily on the cheek and stepped out into the sunlight.

Someone had parked in his space again. No matter what time he turned the corner onto Stackpool Road, there always seemed to be a car outside his house. Not the same car – he could have done something about that – but different ones, unknown people parking here while they visited one of his neighbours. For a person who received no visitors, it seemed particularly unjust that he should so often be left without a space. He sighed and drove a short distance further up the street until he found a cramped little gap that he was able to reverse into.

Getting out of the car, he walked slowly back down the hill, still feeling bloated from his lunch with Christopher and Emily. It had been an uncomfortable visit, but at least it had occupied an afternoon; tonight he would be awkward in his own company, rather than awkward in theirs.

Opening the front door, he stepped into the quiet hallway and dropped his keys into the bowl on the hall stand. Yawning, he wandered through to the kitchen, where he lifted the kettle to check it had water in, then flicked the switch down to boil. Fumbling in his pockets, he retrieved his cigarettes and lighter, then moved over to the back door. The top bolt was stiff as always, but he drew it back with a firm pull, then turned the smooth metal key and twisted the handle.

The garden, once a comfortable little retreat when Alice had tended it, had all but disappeared. Now it was simply a narrow space between tall, red-brick walls choked with ivy. A jungle of weeds was slowly overtaking the concrete path, steadily advancing on the house. He looked out at it from the back step, then turned away.

That was a job for another day.

He hunched forward, shielding the cigarette with his hands as he lit it, then straightened his back and stared up at the early evening clouds. Not much of a scenic view – just a patch of Bristol sky, framed by high walls and the sides of buildings – but it calmed him, gave him time to think. He took a long drag, then flicked the ash, watching it flutter away like confetti across the garden.

Emily and Christopher would probably be settling down on the sofa about now – a quiet evening in front of the TV now that their entertaining was done. They were lucky to have each other.

He took another drag, exhaling and watching as the smoke drifted up and was lost in the eastern sky. Sue Firth lived over that way, somewhere on the other side of Victoria Park. She’d mentioned the street – that evening when a group of them had gone down to see a film at the Watershed – but he couldn’t remember where it was. She’d looked different out of uniform, her dark hair down and her round face lit up with a bright smile as they’d walked and talked. Absently, he wondered if she was at home just now, or on duty over at Portishead …

From the kitchen he began to hear the kettle rattling on its base as it boiled, then the click of the switch as it turned itself off. He took a last draw, stubbed the cigarette out and dropped it into the butt-filled flowerpot by the wall before returning inside to make himself a coffee.

A main meal seemed unnecessary after the generous Sunday dinner, so he took a half-packet of biscuits from the cupboard to go with his drink, and wandered through to the front room. A quick flip through the channels confirmed that there was nothing worth watching on TV, so he put in a DVD and settled back to stretch out on the couch, his head propped up against one armrest, his feet hanging out over the other. Action films made the evenings pass more quickly, and his watch showed 9.20 p.m. when the gunfire ceased and the end credits appeared. Wearily, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, one hand moving to rub away the stiffness in his shoulder, and yawned. Then, stooping to retrieve his empty cup, he got to his feet and went through to the kitchen to clear up.

Another lonely evening, almost over.

The bathroom light flickered into life above him as he tugged the cord, then leaned over the bath to secure the plug and open the hot tap. A good soak would ease his shoulder, and help him get a good night. He knew all too well how elusive sleep could be – the thoughts that lurked in the darkness of the small hours.

Leaving the water running, he made his way along the landing and into the bedroom. It was at the front of the house, and the window looked out onto the street, but the curtains were still closed from this morning – he often forgot to open them. Yawning, Harland removed his watch and placed it on the small bedside cabinet. He undressed slowly, putting items away or pitching them into the laundry basket as he went. Then, gathering up a charcoal grey bathrobe and a large blue towel, he padded back through to the bathroom.

From habit, he pushed the door closed behind him to keep in the warmth, then paused as he glimpsed himself in the bathroom mirror. Letting the robe and towel drop to the floor, he stepped forward and leaned over the sink, wiping away the condensation to study his reflection properly.

When had he got so old?

There were lines starting to appear around his eyes, tiny crow’s feet that hadn’t been there before. His short dark hair was flecked with so many bright silver strands, and even his sideburns were peppered with grey. He sighed, then frowned, noting the creases in his brow, but his eyes were drawn back to tiny dark hairs that he’d spied in his ears.

Great. Just great …

Remembering the water, he bent over and switched off the tap, then returned to the mirror. Grimly, he took his razor from the cabinet and twisted it around in his hand, pressing the tiny button on the handle to activate the trimmer. Leaning towards his reflection, he angled his head to one side and eliminated the hairs, then turned and did the other ear.

He wasn’t
that
bloody old.

Standing back a little, he looked at himself. From here, the grey wasn’t so bad, the lines not so obvious. His body was in reasonable shape – maybe a little lean, but at least he didn’t have to suck his stomach in any more – and his arms were toned.

That was probably the swimming. He’d been dismissive when his counsellor had suggested it as a way to help him get through the bereavement, but he’d tried it anyway and it had worked in a way – maybe lifting his mood a little, but certainly burning through some long, lonely hours, and tiring him so he could sleep.

He gazed at his reflection for a moment longer, pulling a hand down his jaw – he would shave in the morning, put some wax in his hair if he still had any lying around. Satisfied, he turned away from the mirror and tested the water with his toe. Far too hot. He spun the cold tap and let it run for a moment, paddling the water with his foot to cool the whole bath.