Knife Edge

by Fergus McNeill

  Paper.

  Turning his hand, he grasped the wad of newspapers, flyers, and envelopes, and carefully drew it out. Angling his prize so that it caught the cold glow of the street light, he peered down at it for a moment, then allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.

  OK. Time to get back in character.

  He grasped the top of the gatepost and struggled to his feet, tucking the papers inside his jacket before staggering on. From his brief glance at the printed junk mail he now knew the woman’s name was Lesley Vaughn – there were several envelopes addressed to her, plus a number for a Mr Phillip Vaughn, presumably her husband, though it could conceivably be her father.

  At the bottom of the street he turned left, allowing himself to straighten his back as he turned the corner. Walking smoothly now, he followed the pavement round a slight bend and on towards the main road. He stopped just once, to drop the still-full can of lager into a rubbish bin and leaf through the rest of the papers he’d collected.

  Among the post, there were several catalogues addressed to Mr & Mrs Vaughn – which seemed to confirm that they were indeed a married couple – and, intriguingly, two dental-trade magazines. Naysmith shuddered as he looked at the glossy photo of a dentist’s chair on the covers, noting that they were addressed to the husband. He hated dentists. There was nothing more of interest so he tipped the pile into the bin, but it had been a worthwhile exercise. Knowing more about them would certainly help with his planning.

  And it was pleasing to have a name for his target.

  He shot his cuffs and straightened his jacket. So far, his day had gone well, but there was still the tricky matter of Kim. She’d be suspicious, wondering where he’d been this evening, but he couldn’t tell her what he’d been doing. Not yet anyway.

  He checked his watch – with luck, he’d still be in time to catch the train back from Temple Meads. Satisfied, he strode away into the darkness.

  23

  The car in front of her slowed suddenly and Kim had to stamp on the brakes, feeling herself thrown forward against her seatbelt. She blinked and swore as the other vehicle turned off onto a narrow driveway, her heart rate quickened by the near miss. Gripping the steering wheel, she frowned and concentrated on the road, checking her mirror and reminding herself of the speed limit.

  A musical beep sounded from her handbag on the passenger seat – text message – but she frowned and ignored it. She’d be home soon, it could wait until then. Moments like this – near misses and narrow escapes – were warnings to be heeded. If she reached for her phone now, she knew she’d probably run into a bus.

  She reached the junction and even remembered to indicate left – she never indicated normally – before turning onto the tree-lined road that led into the village. A few minutes later, she pulled up at the side of the house and switched off the engine.

  Her pulse was still thumping in her ears, but, she told herself, she was lucky.

  It was a near miss. She was OK.

  Lost in thought, she gathered up her bag from the seat beside her and got out of the car. Remembering the shopping, she went and opened the hatchback, working her small fingers through the handles of the plastic carrier bags. Then, slamming the boot shut, she turned and made her way round to the front step. Rob’s car wasn’t there – he must not be back from Bristol yet – so she had to balance the bags against the door as she searched for her keys.

  The house felt quiet as she made her way down the hallway, the carrier bags rustling noisily in her hand, her heels clicking on the hard kitchen floor as she walked over to dump everything on the table.

  She would put it away in a minute. Right now, she wanted a drink.

  Turning to the counter, she checked there was still water in the kettle, then pressed the switch in. She took a mug from the cupboard and looked for the coffee.

  Of course. That was what she’d stopped off to get.

  She rifled through one of the carrier bags and took out a new jar, piercing the gold foil and inhaling the rich aroma. Opening the drawer, she was taking out a teaspoon when another musical beep came from her handbag on the table.

  Another text.

  She stopped what she was doing and rummaged through the bag until she found her phone, unlocking it and staring at the screen. There were two messages, both from Rob.

  Hi. Taking client for meal. Back late. R.

  Don’t wait up. R.

  Kim frowned and put the phone down on the table. She stood for a moment, biting her lip, then pushed her hair back and away from her eyes. Behind her, the kettle started to bubble and boil.

  It didn’t mean anything, she told herself. He was often late.

  She went to the fridge, then remembered the milk was still in the carrier bag on the table. She busied herself for a moment, unpacking everything, adding milk to her coffee before putting the shopping neatly away. There was a large foil tray with some spiced chicken fillets, but that would have to wait – she would be cooking for one tonight.

  It didn’t matter. She sat down at the table with her drink, feeling the silence of the house swell around her. Her phone lay there in front of her, and she found herself staring at it.

  He’d had quite a few clients up in Bristol recently.

  She picked up the phone and turned it absently in her hand.

  Don’t wait up.

  She tried to picture him, imagining where he was right now, who he was with. Sitting in a wine bar with some dreary fat businessman bore? Or was his client female?

  In her hand, Kim swivelled the phone around, hit ‘Reply’ and began tapping out a series of responses.

  Don’t lie to me.

  Who is she?

  I know what you’re doing.

  Each time, her thumb hovered over ‘Send’, but each time she relented and deleted the message, her angry words left unsaid. Too many doubts, not enough certainty.

  She stared at the kitchen wall as she drank her coffee.

  In her mind, the client was tall and voluptuous, a confident woman who smiled at Rob as they laughed together. Was he flirting with her to get the deal? No, he wouldn’t do that. Was he flirting with her to get her into bed?

  Stop it!

  She screwed her eyes shut for a moment, and took a deep breath. Then, frowning, she got up and went to the drawer to find some paracetamol – she could feel a headache coming on. Her hands were shaking as she prised the white tablets out of their foil strip.

  Why tonight? Why did he have to worry her tonight?

  She turned to the cupboard and started to plan a meal. Pasta would be quick, and there was a small tub of sauce that could go in the microwave. And a glass of wine. She found the bottle and poured herself one.

  Where was he right now?

  She put the bottle down and leaned back against the kitchen counter.

  He was so strong, so confident. If he made up his mind that he wanted someone, he would succeed. And there had been a lot of travelling lately, a lot of late nights.

  Kim sighed. She turned and put the pasta back in the cupboard and returned the sauce to the fridge. Maybe she would feel more like it later.

  She picked up her phone, in case he tried to call, then took her wine and walked slowly through to the living room.

  Sinking down into the corner of the sofa, she picked up the remote and switched on the TV. She spent a few minutes clicking through the channels, flitting from one show to another without really watching anything.

  He had to be seeing someone else. Had to be.

  She pulled her feet up onto the sofa, hugging her knees as she wondered where they’d met, and whether it was serious.

  What was she like? Blonde? Brunette?

  She reached for her phone and started typing out another message:

  Who is she, Rob?

  But once again, the doubts gripped her. What if she was wrong? What if he wasn’t cheating on her, and her accusations pushed him away? She shook her head bitterly. To drive away someone who cared about h
er – she was turning into her mother.

  Restless, she got to her feet and went upstairs.

  There was a heavy stillness in the bedroom and she found herself moving quietly, almost as though she was afraid to disturb something. But she was alone.

  She was about to sit down on the edge of the bed, then turned to face his wardrobe, gently opening the doors wide to reveal the neat array of clothes. She moved closer, reaching out to run one finger along the line of jackets, her eyes searching for a telltale blonde hair on his shoulder. If only she knew for certain. Leaning forwards, she brought her nose close to the dark material of a favourite suit, sniffing in case she could detect a trace of unfamiliar perfume. Her small hands snaked into the inside pockets, searching for something, anything …

  And then she stopped.

  What was she doing? What was the matter with her?

  She withdrew her hands slowly, blushing with embarrassment even though nobody was there to see her.

  Paranoid, that’s what she was.

  Maybe he had been a bit naughty in the past, but that was before. Before they got serious. He was honest with her now – too honest, in fact. He had told her he wasn’t cheating at the same moment he’d revealed his terrible secret. Why would he lie about one and not the other?

  She had to believe him.

  Ashamed of herself, she leaned forward, burying her face in his clothes, taking comfort in the familiar scent of his aftershave. Why was she always so suspicious? Whatever he was doing, he wasn’t cheating on her.

  She allowed herself a moment of respite.

  He probably was out with a client. Again.

  A frown crossed her face.

  Back late … Don’t wait up.

  She shook her head. He wasn’t cheating on her, and if he wasn’t cheating on her, what else could he be doing?

  In the distance, a church bell chimed.

  What else could he be doing?

  She lifted her face and stepped slowly back from the wardrobe. Suddenly, she found herself believing his assurance that he wasn’t sleeping with anyone else. But now there was no comfort in it, as a different possibility began to uncoil itself in her mind.

  No.

  She went back downstairs, numb.

  In the living room, she picked up her phone and read the messages again. Then, very carefully, she put the phone face down on the coffee table before sinking back into the corner of the sofa.

  No!

  She was being stupid, imagining things. He’d be home in a few hours and everything would be all right. She just had to be patient. Frowning, she reached for the remote control and switched on the TV again, then settled down to stare at the screen.

  Everything would be all right.

  24

  Thursday, 17 July

  There was a single tree at the end of Badenham Grove. Someone had draped an old bed sheet between the lower branches with a birthday message daubed in pink paint, but it had obviously been left hanging there for some time as the letters had bled downwards in the rain. Harland slowed, then turned right, pulling his car in and bumping it up so that two wheels were on the pavement, like the other vehicles that lined the street. Most of the residents hadn’t left for work yet.

  It wasn’t really a bad area. Two-storey semi-detached houses, and most of them were nice enough – well kept behind their neat little hedges – but there were a few with cracked-concrete gardens, weeds struggling up between the uneven grey cement. The place he was looking at now had no hedge or garden wall – just a car parked sideways under the front-room window, covered by a faded tarpaulin that sported a layer of moss. Somebody had once cared for the car, but it hadn’t been touched for months. Harland wondered if Leroy’s dad was in prison.

  It had been a stroke of luck, he couldn’t deny that. Josh Gilmour was the one who’d mentioned it at the end of yesterday’s shift as they’d sat together in the main office area at Portishead. A group of kids – four of them by all accounts – had been dropping house bricks onto the M49 from the Kings Weston Lane bridge. Fortunately, nobody had been killed, but one brick had punched a two-foot dent in the bonnet of a passing car and the driver had got straight onto his mobile and shakily called it in.

  There was a CCTV camera on a motorway-sign gantry right next to the bridge. The control room had immediately informed Traffic, and someone – he wasn’t sure who, but they deserved a medal – had turned the camera round and caught the kids in the act.

  ‘But that’s not the best bit,’ Josh had told him, beckoning him over to his monitor. ‘Check this out.’

  Harland had gone over to peer at the images moving on the screen.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Josh chuckled as he paused the footage. ‘Right there – that kid on the right is actually pointing up at the camera like a complete halfwit.’

  ‘Should have covered his face first,’ Harland smiled. He leaned closer, peering at the grainy image for a moment, his expression growing thoughtful.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Do me a favour, Josh.’ Harland sat down on the desk. ‘Remember that gang that was torching industrial units along the St Andrews Road? Pull up their mugshots for a moment.’

  He watched as Josh accessed the file, then leaned in close, studying the faces.

  ‘There!’ He jabbed a finger at the photograph of a skinny-looking youth with a long face and short blond hair. ‘That’s him, isn’t it? The idiot who looks up at the camera?’

  ‘Leroy Marshall.’ Josh read the name below the photo, then brought up the CCTV image again. ‘Yeah, I think you’re right – it does look like him.’

  Harland sat back and pulled a hand across his jaw.

  ‘Where does he live?’ he asked after a moment.

  ‘Hang on …’ Josh clicked the mouse. ‘I’ve got an address in Badenham Grove.’

  ‘Sorry. Remind me …?’

  ‘It’s just off Long Cross. Next to the primary school.’

  Harland stood up with a grim smile.

  ‘And about five minutes’ walk from that motorway bridge.’

  A rap on the glass jarred him from his thoughts and he turned to see a police uniform stooping close beside his car. He wound down the window.

  ‘Ready, sir?’ the officer asked him.

  ‘Sorry, yes.’ Harland shook his head and took a deep breath. ‘Let’s go.’

  He got out of the car and locked it. Nobody was going to steal anything, not with the other police cars pulled up at the house, but it was a habit – if he always did it, he’d never forget to.

  Stretching for a moment, he massaged his shoulder to loosen the stiff muscles, then followed the four dark uniforms across the road. Josh was there, but he didn’t know the others. Two of them went up the side of the house to cover the back, while Josh and another officer went to the front door and began knocking loudly.

  Harland stood on the pavement, stifling a yawn as he gazed up at the bedroom windows.

  That’s right. Wakey wakey.

  He saw a woman’s face, pale and drawn, appear briefly at the curtains, and he waved to Josh that someone was coming. A moment later, the door opened and the same face, weary but suspicious, stared out at them.

  ‘What time do you call this?’ she rasped unhappily. ‘All that banging, waking everyone up.’

  ‘Mrs Marshall?’ Josh began, but she ignored the question.

  ‘Jason’s not here,’ she told him. ‘And I don’t know where he is, so it’s no use you asking.’

  ‘Mrs Marshall?’

  ‘Yes. What?’

  ‘We’re not here for Jason,’ Josh told her. ‘We’re here for Leroy.’

  Her face fell, just for a moment, and then she turned away, stepping back into the house and shouting angrily up the stairs. As Josh and the other officer followed her inside, Harland could hear raised voices coming from within. It sounded as though Leroy had more than just the police to worry about.

  Good.

  Harland patted his jacket pockets. Were his cigar
ettes in the car? No, they were here. He found the packet, drew one out and lit it while he waited for the noise in the house to die down.

  Mrs Marshall was still shouting as Leroy was led from the house, his face pained, as much from his mother’s anger as his actual arrest.

  ‘I ain’t done nothin’,’ he whined as Josh steered him firmly down the step, past the tarpaulin-draped car and out onto the pavement.

  There were faces appearing at other windows now, as neighbours opened their curtains to see what was going on. Mrs Marshall glared up at them balefully, then swore and went back inside.

  Harland threw away his cigarette and walked over to where Leroy was standing, a wretched figure in the grey morning light, bleary-eyed and thin, with his short blond hair sticking up. He was wearing a red T-shirt and black tracksuit – maybe the same clothes as the night before if they were lucky.

  ‘Has he been cautioned?’ Harland asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Josh nodded.

  ‘Good.’ He turned to Leroy. ‘Bored with starting fires, are we?’

  ‘Eh?’ The youth eyed him with contempt.

  ‘You heard me.’ Harland gave him a bleak smile, then leaned in closer. ‘And don’t fuck me around.’

  He straightened up and shook his head wearily. Josh kept his poker face, but Harland could tell he was enjoying this.

  ‘You’re going down anyway, Leroy – chucking bricks off a motorway bridge will get you some prison time, guaranteed. But unless you want the full six years for attempted murder, you’d better start giving us some names. Starting with whoever torched those places on St Andrews Road.’

  Leroy’s eyes darted from face to face, and though he puffed his chest out in defiance, he suddenly looked very small, and very scared.