Knife Edge

by Fergus McNeill

  Pearce paused, then resumed at a slower pace.

  ‘Naturally, nobody saw anything, as many of you who’ve been helping with witness statements will know.’ He turned back to the map. ‘But with the railway running along the end of the road, there’s only a few ways out of there – which brings us to the CCTV.’

  He looked across to the side of the room and beckoned over a woman in her thirties with short blonde hair.

  ‘Most of you know DS Michaela Thompson – her team have been ploughing through all the hours of footage we pulled in. Michaela, do you want to go over the perimeter sightings?’

  DS Thompson walked over to the whiteboard.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ She squinted as she stood in the projector beam, turning to the map and tracing a large semicircle around the area north of the railway line. ‘We were pretty fortunate with the CCTV footage we retrieved, because we had enough to cover pretty much every way in and out – a perimeter fence if you like. We knew roughly when the crime occurred, and it’s a pretty quiet neighbourhood, so we started looking at who came into the area, who went out of the area, and how long they spent there.’

  ‘We figure the killer was with Lesley for at least ten minutes or so,’ Pearce interjected. ‘May have been longer, but there’s no sign of robbery or any sexual assault. Sorry, Michaela, carry on.’

  ‘That’s all right, sir.’ Michaela moved so that her face was out of the projector beam. ‘The bottom line is, we’ve been able to discount the vehicles and pedestrians who were just passing through – who weren’t inside the perimeter long enough – and focus on tracking down people who entered and left at the right sort of time.’

  ‘Which is where this guy comes in.’ Pearce signalled for the next slide. The image on the whiteboard changed, the map giving way to a grainy CCTV snapshot of a crossroads, with a freeze-frame blur of a figure on a bicycle, turning right to join the main road. ‘Our solitary cyclist.’

  Harland leaned forward, remembering his conversation with Gill Evans. She had mentioned a cyclist.

  Another slide illuminated the wall, showing the same figure riding up a hill beside a line of parked cars.

  ‘Thanks to your efforts, we’ve been able to identify most of the folk who were in the area at the time of the murder.’ Pearce glanced over his shoulder at the blurred image behind him. ‘But not this bloke, right, Michaela?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ she agreed. ‘He shows up at least nine times on different cameras across the city.’

  A new map appeared, showing a series of green and blue markers dotted between Redland and the city centre.

  ‘The green shows sightings we believe occurred before the murder, the blue afterwards,’ she explained. ‘Once we put this together, we did a second lift of CCTV from the city centre, and we got a bit of luck. Steve?’

  Another slide – a sharper image this time, looking down on a pedestrian crossing. The cyclist was circled, just to the left of the frame, head turned away from the camera.

  ‘This is about the best shot we have of him,’ she said. ‘And it may be nothing, but I’d just like to mention that whoever he is, this man never looks up near the cameras. Not once, which is fairly unusual.’

  ‘Thanks, Michaela.’ Pearce moved over to stand beside the whiteboard. ‘So there he is. About six foot one, six foot two, athletic build, a clean-shaven male with dark hair, from what little we can see under that cycle helmet. Everyone got that?’

  Harland stared at the image, trying to see the man beneath the cycle gear, but the cameras hadn’t captured much.

  ‘Now, this may be connected, or it may not, but we’ve also turned up a name that needs looking into.’ Pearce waved to the back of the room, and a photograph of a well-groomed man in his fifties flashed up behind him. ‘This is Reuben Cort. Used to run a catering business with Lesley, and officers were called to a disturbance involving the two of them at the beginning of last year. There’s clearly some history there, and maybe a motive if we’re lucky – I’ve got some people on him and I’ll update you soon as poss.’

  Harland studied the pink face, the shiny bald pate and the clipped white hair; noted the expensive designer spectacles.

  ‘Right then, boys and girls.’ Pearce clapped his large hands together, and inclined his head towards the door. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’

  31

  Monday, 4 August

  Harland walked out into the car park at dusk and stopped for a moment, yawning and rubbing the back of his neck. The urgency and the hours of a major case were tiring, but in a good way – plenty to occupy him and keep his thoughts from straying, turning inward. He gazed up at the nearby concrete flyover, listening to the constant rumble of traffic passing by as he reached into his pocket for the cigarette packet. There hadn’t been much time to smoke today, or to eat – lunch had been a chocolate bar from one of the vending machines – and he realised that he was extremely hungry. There was probably something in the freezer at home, but the thought of cooking seemed like too much trouble tonight. Promising himself something better, he left the cigarettes in his pocket and began walking to his car.

  It was a little out of his way, but he seemed to hit mostly green lights as he drove through the centre and he was in an unusually good mood when he parked on Princess Victoria Street. Getting out of the car, he stretched, then walked back along the pavement. The plate-glass windows of the fish and chip shop were large and spotless, with a welcoming light streaming out from the bright interior, and the tempting aroma of hot food to draw him in.

  It was busy, but there was always a queue in here. Taking his place at the back of the line, he gazed up at the menu boards and smiled, remembering his first visit. Mendel had brought him in on the way home from Portishead one evening and had quietly pointed out the number of Scottish accents among the clientele. ‘Always a good sign, that is,’ the big man had whispered. ‘Those Jocks can always sniff out the best chip shops.’

  There were three people serving behind the polished-tile counter, all wearing smart matching aprons. When Harland reached the front of the queue, a short woman with curly blonde hair flashed him a hurried smile.

  ‘Hi, what can I get you?’

  ‘Large cod and chips, please,’ he said, glancing at the menu, then looking towards the glass-fronted fridge. ‘Oh, and a bottle of 7Up.’

  She turned quickly and got his drink, setting it down on the counter.

  ‘There you are. It’ll just be a couple of minutes for the fish, OK?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Harland paid her, then took his bottle and went to perch on one of the few unoccupied stools at the window. Staring out through the gold letters painted on the glass, he watched people hurrying along on the opposite side of the road – well-dressed, respectable types – while his mind slid gently back to the case. This was only a couple of streets away from where Lesley Vaughn had worked. It was a nice enough area – you’d think you were safe round here. Then again, hadn’t Vicky Sutherland worked somewhere nearby too? Of course, both women had been killed in other places – Lesley at home in Redland, and Vicky over at Severn Beach …

  He paused, frowning slightly.

  They both worked close by. Maybe a mile and a half, two miles apart?

  He closed his eyes, trying to picture the layout of the streets, quickly travelling the route in his head, looking for … what? Two murders in the same city didn’t mean anything. There was nothing to connect the victims, and the killings were very different. And yet …

  ‘Excuse me?’

  He opened his eyes. Several people were staring at him as his glance swept along the queue to the woman leaning impatiently across the counter.

  ‘Large cod and chips, yes?’ she repeated, giving him a stern look.

  ‘Sorry.’ Harland jumped to his feet.

  ‘Salt and vinegar?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Please.’ He moved to the front of the queue and offered her an apologetic smile as she handed his food to him, neatly pack
ed in a warm cardboard box, but she was already turning to smile at a more attentive customer.

  It felt chilly, stepping outside, after the cosy interior of the takeaway, but his thoughts were firmly back at work now.

  Two victims, both working in the same neighbourhood, with no obvious reason for either killing.

  For a moment, he thought of taking his phone out and calling Pearce – but what would he say?

  No, better to think it through a bit first, not tip his hand too quickly like he’d done with Blake the year before. He’d sound Pearce out gently. There might be no connection between the two murders. But if there was, then that changed everything. And he would have a lot to contribute to the investigation. Lost in thought, he carried his fish and chips back to the car.

  32

  Tuesday, 5 August

  An extra briefing had been scheduled for eleven o’clock and the room was already full when Harland arrived, picking his way to the back to find a seat. Pearce walked in just before the hour, shirtsleeves rolled up, carrying a bottle of water. Spotting someone sitting at the front, his face broke into a broad smile and he changed course to greet him.

  ‘All right, Nick, didn’t expect to see you this morning,’ he nodded. ‘You not over in Bath?’

  ‘Paula’s doing it instead.’ Nick was a broad man, with spiky brown hair and a dark jacket.

  ‘Blimey, they won’t know what’s hit ’em. Anyway, glad you’re with us.’

  Pearce clapped him on the shoulder then continued his walk to the table at the front of the room, where he put the bottle down and turned to face his team.

  ‘All right then,’ he said, raising his voice a little. ‘Let’s settle down, everyone, thank you.’

  He sat on the edge of the table as the murmured conversations died away.

  ‘OK. First off, I just want to say that I’m pleased with the work you lot have been putting in on this. Things have been moving quickly, and there’s not been a lot of time to chat, but credit where it’s due and all that.’

  He glanced across the assembled faces and flashed a quick grin.

  ‘Anyway, that’s enough of the sentimental stuff. Down to business.’

  He reached across for the bottle of water and started to unscrew the cap.

  ‘It looks like we’ve got a development on the Reuben Cort angle. Most of you know DC Peter Leighton – Pete, why don’t you come up here and fill us in.’

  Leighton got to his feet and moved to the front of the room. He was a thin man in his forties, with short dark hair swept back and a pale complexion. Wearing a tan jacket and black trousers, he approached the table stiffly and cleared his throat.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ He turned to address the room. ‘Most of you were here when we discussed Reuben Cort before – single chap in his fifties, Lesley Vaughn’s former business partner.’

  There was a murmur of agreement from the room.

  ‘Now he’s not got any form as such, but there was an incident in March last year when uniformed officers were called out to a disturbance at the company’s former premises over in Bishopston. There’s nothing in the reports to indicate that it was anything more than a shouting match, but in light of recent events we looked into it a bit further. The responding officer was Jackie Hughes – some of you may know her – and she remembered it quite well.’

  He cleared his throat again, then continued.

  ‘At first, Reuben and Lesley had been running it as more of a general catering firm, doing weddings, corporate functions, that sort of thing – apparently he had some aspirations of being a chef – but the business was essentially failing. At some point, Lesley bought him out and decided to try specialising in her area of expertise, the cake-making.’

  Leighton had warmed up a little now, and was pacing back and forth in front of the table.

  ‘Business picked up and she started making money – Reuben wasn’t too pleased. He said she’d taken his clients, felt she owed him, but she wasn’t having any of it. That’s when things came to a head – Reuben decided he was entitled to some of his old company property. Basically, he showed up one day, tried to walk out with a load of equipment, and Lesley called the police. When Jackie got there, they were screaming at each other. She doesn’t remember any specific threats, and she managed to calm things down, but there was no love lost between them.’

  Pearce took a swig of water, then leaned forward.

  ‘I asked Pete to go and have a word with Reuben, sound him out a bit.’

  ‘Yes, we spoke to him yesterday,’ Leighton continued. ‘He lives in a semi-detached place over in Ashley Down, seemed really edgy when we showed up. Understandable, I suppose – Lesley’s been all over the news and things weren’t good between them – but even so …’

  He frowned and shook his head.

  ‘First thing he said when he opened the door to me was that he didn’t have anything to do with it, and he just got more and more defensive from there on.’

  ‘You reckon his alibi’s a bit thin, yes?’ Pearce interrupted.

  ‘That’s right,’ Leighton agreed. ‘He was vague about his movements for that Monday. Says he spent the afternoon in the city centre – did some shopping, went for a coffee, that sort of thing – but there was nobody with him. So to my mind, he’s still very much in the frame.’

  Pearce got slowly to his feet.

  ‘Cheers, Pete.’ He paused, then addressed the room. ‘Now, this Reuben bloke may well have nothing to do with the murder, but until we can rule him out, he’s going to be a person of interest, and that’s a bloody short list at the moment. We’re already running down a credit-card receipt he’s given us, and DS Thompson’s team …’ he cast around the room until he spotted her ‘… are working through CCTV from the shops around Broadmead and Cabot Circus. It shouldn’t be hard to figure out whether his story’s accurate or not, right, Michaela?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ DS Thompson replied.

  ‘Good. In the meantime, I think we want some of you to nose around discreetly, see what we can learn about this bloke. General background’s OK, but we’re particularly interested in his movements and behaviour around that Monday, immediately before and after the main event.’

  Pearce nodded to Leighton, who returned to his seat.

  In the front row, Nick raised his hand.

  ‘What about the cyclist?’

  ‘We’re still after him,’ Pearce replied. ‘I want to know who he is, even if it’s just to rule him out. More CCTV for Michaela’s lot to go through.’

  Harland hung back a little as the room emptied, then followed Pearce out into the corridor.

  ‘Got a moment, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure.’ Pearce turned to face him. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  Harland took a deep breath. How best to put it?

  ‘Well,’ he began. ‘I was just thinking about Lesley’s personal effects, and the Redland crime scene …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was wondering if there was anything missing …’ He hesitated. ‘Or added.’

  ‘Added?’ Pearce frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Harland shrugged noncommittally.

  ‘Objects that just … don’t belong,’ he explained.

  Pearce looked at him thoughtfully.

  ‘You reckon this isn’t an isolated killing?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I think it’s something to consider,’ Harland replied.

  Pearce studied him for a moment, then turned and motioned for him to follow. They walked along the corridor to a small, windowless interview room. Pearce closed the door behind them.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘What sort of objects are we talking about?’

  ‘Small, innocuous things,’ Harland explained. ‘A door key that doesn’t fit, someone else’s supermarket loyalty card, that sort of thing.’

  Pearce nodded to himself.

  ‘I’ll check again, but there was nothing out of place as far as I know.’ He shot Harland a meaningful look. �
�In the meantime, I really need you to be a hundred per cent focused on Reuben Cort.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Because if Blake hears you’re still banging on about the Severn Beach thing … well, that doesn’t do anyone any good, yeah?’

  Had he been that obvious? Harland closed his eyes briefly then sighed in agreement. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Pearce looked at him carefully, then smiled.

  ‘Good man, Graham.’

  Downstairs, the smoking area at the back of the building was deserted. Harland pulled the door shut behind him and gazed up at the grey sky.

  Was he losing his perspective? Obsessing about old cases?

  He took out a cigarette and turned towards the wall, shielding the flame as he lit up, then sighed out the smoke. There was something about the Redland murder, about the way it was done and the complete lack of evidence, that troubled him. He’d had that same feeling on the Severn Beach case.

  And hadn’t that one involved an initial incapacitating blow too?

  There had been nothing on that case for months … apart from the woman who’d stopped in at Portishead. He frowned, wondering if he could get away with requesting a ping for her boyfriend’s phone, just to see where he’d been that day – it was galling to have a suspicion and not be able to check it. But a mobile check would cost money, and that would doubtless bring it to Pearce’s attention. He couldn’t risk that, not now, but there might be another way.

  Jamming the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, he reached into his pocket and drew out his phone. Thumbing down the list of numbers, he considered calling Mendel, then decided against it – partly because he felt foolish after Pearce had seen through him, partly because he knew what Mendel would say. He dialled the number for Portishead instead, and asked to be put through to the main office.

  ‘All right, sir.’ Josh sounded surprised to hear from him.

  ‘Hi.’ Harland did his best to sound cheerful. ‘Can you do me a quick favour?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I need a mobile number for Kim Nichols? I think she lives in Salisbury or somewhere near there, but she came into Portishead a while back, so she’ll be on the file.’