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.
6
Friday, 6 June
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.
‘I think I forwarded you a report a couple of days ago—’ Harland began. It was tiresome, but without any new leads all he could do was restate the work they’d done so far.
‘I read it,’ Blake interrupted him. ‘I was rather hoping to get an update on what’s been happening since then.’
Harland sank slightly deeper into his chair as his progress so far was swept aside, leaving him with nothing.
‘Well?’ Blake sat back in his chair and stared at them over steepled fingers. ‘Anything new?’
Harland looked down and shook his head.
‘We know the gang that’s doing it,’ he said, speaking slowly, carefully. ‘A group of kids, all local, small-time but nasty. The problem is nailing them with it.’
‘They all swear blind they were together somewhere else.’ Mendel’s deep voice betrayed his frustration. ‘And half of them are underage, which doesn’t help.’
Blake frowned.
‘What about CCTV?’ he asked. ‘There must be something usable.’
Harland shook his head. ‘Nothing conclusive. Last place they hit, the tapes went up with the building so that’s no help. And coverage in the surrounding area is patchy to say the least.’
‘There’s too many black spots along that road to get a continuous picture of who goes where,’ Mendel explained.
‘I see,’ Blake scowled. ‘But if we know who’s involved, can we not push one or two of the group to turn the others in? Some of them must have something to lose.’
‘Perhaps,’ Harland said doubtfully. ‘There’s a few slapped wrists and ASBOs among them, but nothing significant, nothing we can really use as leverage …’
Mendel leaned forward, his thick brows knitting together.
‘They’re not afraid of us,’ he rumbled. ‘They’re afraid of grassing, of losing their mates, but they’re not afraid of us.’
Blake considered this, then sat back in his chair.
‘Suggestions?’ he asked.
Harland spread his hands wide.
‘We can run a car up and down St Andrews Road a few times each Friday and Saturday evening,’ he shrugged. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky – catch them at it, or at least put them off.’
Blake stared at him for a moment, then frowned.
‘Very well,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Arrange for a couple of drive-bys over the next two weekends.’
He lifted his jacket from where it had lain folded over the back of a chair and draped it across his arm, then made his way round the table and walked past them, pausing as he got to the door.
‘In the meantime, try and find something on one of these little bastards, anything that will help the case,’ he told them. ‘You’ve got two weeks. After that, I’m kicking it into the long grass.’
He turned and strode out of the room, pulling the door hard shut behind him.
Mendel stood up, one hand massaging the back of his neck as he straightened.
‘Sometimes I bloody love being a copper,’ he growled.
‘It wouldn’t be so bad if we didn’t know who was doing it.’ Harland sighed. He got up and followed the big man over to the door. ‘But unless we manage to trip one of them up, there’s not much we can do.’
Mendel shook his head.
‘I know what I’d like to do,’ he muttered darkly.
‘Yeah, so do I,’ Harland agreed. ‘But that was in the bad old days. Everyone has rights now.’
He put his hand on the doorknob.
‘Besides,’ he added. ‘Blake runs a tight ship.’
Mendel grinned at him.
They wandered out into the corridor and through to the main office, where two of the local constables from their team were studying something on a screen.
‘Gregg. Firth.’ Harland greeted them.
PC Stuart Gregg was a young officer with short blond hair and an easy grin. He’d been lounging back in his chair as he toyed with a pen, but sat up quickly when the two detectives entered the room. By contrast, Sue Firth, although the same rank, was a little older and much more mature. Her straight brown hair was tied back smartly, and she smiled at Harland as he sat down on the corner of Gregg’s desk.
‘Three guesses what Blake wanted to talk about?’ he asked them.
‘The arson attacks, sir?’ Gregg replied.
‘Exactly,’ Harland nodded. ‘So my first question is: did we get hold of the guy who owns that cul-de-sac warehouse yet?’
‘Well …’ Gregg gazed up at him doubtfully. ‘I’ve managed to speak to him, but he seemed a bit … cagey, you know?’
‘Cagey?’ Mendel frowned.
‘A bit evasive about turning over his CCTV tapes,’ Gregg replied.
‘For goodness’ sake.’ Harland shook his head. ‘Did you tell him we’re investigating the arson attack? The one that took place practically next door to his own building?’
‘I mentioned that, yes.’
‘And he wasn’t falling over himself to help?’
‘No, sir.’
Harland looked at Mendel for a moment, then rubbed his eyes wearily before turning back to Gregg.
‘Well, get on to him and mention it again,’ he said, working hard to stay calm. ‘Tell him I don’t care what he’s got in his warehouse, or who’s been in and out of the place. I just want the CCTV footage from the night of the fire.’
‘You’d think he’d be keen to see these idiots locked up,’ Mendel noted. ‘Could easily have been his place that got
torched.’
Harland shook his head.
‘Depends what he’s got in his warehouse,’ he mused. ‘Though if it was anything dodgy, it’ll be long gone now we’ve spooked him.’
He sighed, then patted Gregg on the shoulder.
‘Just chase him up, OK?’
‘Will do, sir.’
Harland turned and looked at the screen, where a series of suspect mugshots stared out defiantly at him. Young faces, trying to look old.
‘Blake wanted to know if we had anything on any of our fire-starters, anything that might persuade them to talk. I told him they were small-time …’ He trailed off for a moment, his eyes taking in the tough-guy expressions in the photographs.
Perhaps there was another way.
He turned back to the others. ‘Do we know if any of these kids have big brothers or other family members with current form?’
Mendel stared at him then broke into a grin.
‘Lean on the older ones and let them pass it down to the kids?’ He chuckled. ‘What happened to your “bad old days” lecture?’
‘I’m unpredictable,’ Harland winked at him. ‘Anyway, we’re not doing anything wrong. And I’d feel a lot better about doing this than waiting around for them to light up a building that’s got someone inside it.’
‘No argument there,’ Mendel shrugged.
‘So,’ Harland said brightly. ‘Let’s just hope we can turn up a family member who’s on thin ice.’
Firth was leaning over the desk, staring at the mugshots on the screen.
‘Sir?’ she said. ‘I might be wrong, but this kid here … Alex Murphy?’
She pointed to a thin, red-haired youth with watery eyes and prominent ears.
‘Handsome fellow,’ Mendel muttered.
‘Memorable,’ Harland agreed.
‘That’s just it, sir,’ Firth said. ‘I think I arrested his brother last year. Can’t remember what for, but the face is really familiar. I can check up and find out.’
Knife Edge Page 5
