Knife Edge

by Fergus McNeill

  ‘Thanks, Sue.’ Harland gave her an approving nod. ‘Start with him, then have a look through the rest of the gang – let’s get a list of relatives with something to lose, you know what sort of thing to look for.’

  She smiled at him as he got to his feet, and he found himself thinking back to that evening last year when a group of them had gone down to see some film and he’d somehow wound up walking back to the pub with her, just the two of them. She’d smiled at him that night too, like someone who enjoyed his company …

  ‘… if you want me to?’ Mendel was speaking to him, waiting for a response.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Harland shook his head. ‘What were you asking?’

  Mendel gave him an exasperated look, then turned and walked towards the kitchen.

  ‘Not boring you, am I, Graham?’ he asked as Harland fell in beside him.

  ‘Just thinking about something.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Mendel glanced back at Firth meaningfully.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry.’ Harland held up his hands. ‘Now please, what were you asking?’

  ‘I was saying, do you want me to have a word with Bristol, and see if any of the names strike a chord with them?’

  ‘Of course,’ Harland told him. ‘Please do.’

  Mendel paused as they reached the doorway and turned to face him.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Harland shrugged. ‘Just tired.’

  Mendel studied him for a moment, then his smile returned.

  ‘Well, it’s Friday,’ he rumbled. ‘Nice relaxing weekend ahead of you.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Want to grab lunch on Sunday?’ Mendel asked. ‘I’ll let you pay …’

  ‘If you like,’ Harland replied, then frowned. ‘Actually, no I can’t. Not this Sunday.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got plans?’

  Harland nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Really? First time for everything,’ Mendel grinned at him.

  But he didn’t push it.

  7

  Sunday, 8 June

  It was a quiet street, on a hill that overlooked the centre of Bath. Harland got out of the car and placed the bottle of wine on the corner of the glass sunroof. He turned his back on the line of smart, terraced houses, absently brushing the shoulders of his jacket as he peered up at the pale sky where the sun was trying to break through. Locking the car, he took the bottle by its neck and walked slowly back along the pavement towards number eleven. No gate, but a tidy front garden with a neat, narrow path leading up to the clean white door.

  He knew it was a bad idea – had known it straight away. The last time he’d stood here, Alice had been with him. Had it really been only two years? It seemed like another lifetime.

  There were white planters by the step – even their doormat looked clean and brushed. He hesitated, then sighed and rang the bell.

  Why had he come? It was nice of them to invite him, of course, but why had he actually come?

  He bowed his head and waited, hearing the muffled footsteps approach, the inevitable snap of the latch.

  ‘Graham!’ Christopher held the door open and beamed at him. He was a slim man with short brown hair that would become curly if allowed to grow, and pale, steady eyes. Dressed in a striped shirt and a light blue V-neck sweater, he appeared cheerful but Harland could read the tells. A little too much enthusiasm in the voice, that touch of determination holding his grin in place.

  ‘Come in, come in.’ Christopher pulled the door wide, and stepped back.

  ‘Thanks.’ Harland mumbled a greeting as he stepped across the threshold and back into the past. The door clicked shut behind him as his gaze swept the cream-carpeted hallway, the pastel walls. Familiar things seen through different eyes.

  The smell of something cooking teased his nostrils as he handed the bottle to Christopher, then bent over to slip off his shoes, remembering the strict ritual that had appeared with Emily’s expensive new carpets.

  ‘Much appreciated.’ Christopher hefted the bottle and glanced approvingly at the label. ‘Come on through. Emily’s in the kitchen.’

  Harland straightened up, reflexively tensing his toes to grip the springy carpet through his socks, and suddenly felt terribly trapped. Forcing a smile, he followed Christopher along the hallway. Even though he’d never been particularly close to Alice’s brother, their relationship had always been relaxed and easy-going. But now the emptiness she left behind grew suddenly unbearable again, and he was acutely aware of how much his wife had tied their family together.

  ‘Graham.’ Emily was thirty – pretty, in a formal sort of way. Lustrous dark hair worn in a bob framed a face used to smiling, and naturally long lashes gave her eyes a fascinating quality. Today’s outfit was a simple white silk top and black trousers that showed off her figure – every inch the successful fashion writer. She came around the table to stand in front of him with her arms outstretched. ‘It’s been too long.’

  His socks slid on the polished wooden floor as he stepped forward, embracing her awkwardly, aware of her breasts pushed against him, unsure what to do with his hands until he felt hers press on his back in a gesture of compassion. He gave her a gentle squeeze, feeling the warmth in her body, then pulled away.

  ‘Good to see you, Em. Good to see you.’

  Neither of them felt that, but he appreciated the effort they’d gone to.

  ‘Drink?’ Christopher opened the fridge to reveal a shelf of beer bottles.

  ‘I could murder one,’ Harland replied.

  ‘Hey, that’s a bit inappropriate coming from a copper,’ Emily quipped, and they all laughed, grateful for anything that lightened the mood, however briefly.

  Christopher poured him a glass and brought it over.

  ‘Thanks,’ Harland murmured as he looked out at their neat little patio and the tidy little garden beyond it. Everything in perfect order.

  Emily’s voice behind him broke his train of thought.

  ‘Food will be another twenty minutes,’ she said, closing a high cupboard. ‘You boys go through to the living room – I’ll call you when it’s ready.’

  Christopher smiled as she shooed them out of the kitchen, gesturing for Harland to go ahead of him.

  The living room was bright and comfortable, with plain full-length net curtains diffusing the light from the wide bay windows. The carpet was thicker in here, and he felt his feet sinking into it as he walked across to one of the deep two-seater sofas, each cocooned in fitted linen covers, each with large suede cushions artfully arranged.

  A broad fireplace occupied the middle of the long wall, tall bookshelves filling the space on either side of the chimney breast, but Harland’s eye was drawn to the polished wooden mantelpiece, where a collection of framed photos smiled out at him from the past.

  There were three pictures of Alice among them – one taken with Christopher and their parents, one with Emily, and one showing all four of them together at a wedding in Scotland. He stared at them for a long moment, then turned away and sat down, achingly aware of the empty seat beside him.

  Christopher sank into the opposite sofa, looked at him for a moment, then reached forward and picked up a remote control from the small coffee table.

  ‘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.

  8

  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.