Knife Edge

by Fergus McNeill

  She stared at him for a moment, then her eyes filled with tears as it dawned on her what he was saying.

  ‘We’ll find it,’ she nodded gratefully.

  Harland stood silently, staring down at them. He was telling her how to cover her tracks – how to get away with killing him.

  He realised that Naysmith was looking up at him, grinning.

  As the clouds rolled on along the coast and stars winked out against the clearing sky, Naysmith’s breathing became ragged. He was pale now, haggard-looking. Kim started to cry again, but the sound seemed to rouse something in the dying man and he opened his eyes.

  ‘Well played,’ he whispered, then fell silent.

  Harland wondered who he’d said it to.

  54

  Saturday, 27 September

  Harland stepped out of the small glass shower cubicle, gripping the bathmat with his toes as he felt the uneven lie of the floor. The air was cold on his skin after the spray of warm water and steam, but he didn’t care about the cold. Not tonight.

  He wrapped one towel about himself, tucking it in so it would stay up, then rubbed his hair dry with another. His muscles felt stiff now, tired after the exertions of the previous hours, and he stretched wearily before padding through to the bedroom.

  They looked at each other for a moment, a brief flicker of eye contact, before Harland moved round to his side of the bed and sank down onto the duvet. He leaned forward for a moment, bowing his head as he rubbed his hair once more, then sat back to rest against the headboard, the towel round his shoulders.

  Kim hesitated, then leaned across, one bare arm slipping out from under the covers to hold him. After a moment, she moved closer, resting her head on him, her hair still damp, cold against his chest.

  And now, only now, in the quiet of dawn, his mind replayed the events of the night, trying to piece things together, to fill in the gaps. He stared unseeing at the far wall while his memory ran after her, following her out of the lounge and through to the kitchen, where she’d slipped around the table and wrenched open the back door …

  When had she picked up that knife?

  It had all happened so quickly. Too quickly.

  He frowned for a moment, then looked down at the top of her head.

  ‘Kim?’

  She stirred slightly but didn’t look up.

  ‘Yes?’

  He was going to ask her about the knife – the knife she’d never had time to pick up – but his mind had raced ahead and was already waiting with another, more important question.

  ‘How did he find us?’ He waited, listening as the silence yawned like a chasm between them. ‘How did he know we were here?’

  She remained still for a long time, then finally squirmed her body around so that she could turn and look up at him.

  ‘I told Sarah.’ She held his gaze, waiting for him to react, to register some surprise, but there was none. He’d just wanted to hear her say it. ‘I knew they were talking, gossiping about me …’

  ‘… and that she would tell him,’ Harland finished. ‘He would have suspected if you’d called him yourself.’

  ‘It was the only way,’ she murmured.

  She had planned it. Not so much self-defence, more an execution. Premeditated. Murder.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked, a few moments later. Kim gave him a long, steady look, then turned away.

  Stupid question. There was no way she could have told him. He’d never have gone along with it – he’d have wanted to go through the proper channels. And she’d tried it his way already, without success.

  ‘No, I suppose you couldn’t,’ he mused. She’d done what she had to. And he’d played his unwitting part. ‘You couldn’t ask a police officer to help you kill someone, even someone like him.’

  She turned to stare up at him again, biting her lip as a shadow of concern passed over her face.

  ‘What are you going to do, Graham?’ she asked after a moment.

  He knew what he ought to do. Get out of bed, find his phone and call the whole thing in while he still could. He had to snap out of this honeymoon stupidity and get back to acting like a proper copper. But his thoughts returned to the car they’d found, tucked away down a lonely farm track, just as Naysmith had said. From long years of habit, he’d glanced at the tax disc, noting that it didn’t match the registration on the front of the vehicle, and had crouched down to discover the fake plates fixed over the real ones. Clever. It explained how Naysmith had been able to drive to and from his victims without leaving a trail that could lead back to him. Nicely anonymous …

  … unless the police should somehow discover the real owner of the car.

  ‘Graham?’ She’d turned her face away again, resting her head on his chest.

  If he’d just pushed her harder about Naysmith when he’d had the chance, or pursued his original suspicions about the Redland murder – might he have prevented this, spared her from the terrible thing she’d done?

  He stared at her for a long, serious moment, the killer in his arms, then held her tight and tenderly kissed her wet hair.

  And gladly closed his eyes.

  EPILOGUE

  Tuesday, 7 October

  The main office at Portishead was quiet. The day shift had just started and Mendel was hunched over reading a report when Firth came across to stand by his desk.

  ‘Morning,’ she said, her voice expectant.

  ‘All right, Sue.’ He looked up at her and his broad face creased into a grin. ‘What are you after?’

  She returned his smile.

  ‘Well, I was going to ask DI Harland, but he’s on leave again …’ She shook her head, ordering her thoughts. ‘Josh says they may have a suspect on the Severn Beach case. You know, from last year?’

  Mendel leaned back in his chair and nodded.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Devon and Cornwall found an abandoned car with fake number plates. Nothing too exciting but someone logged it on the PNC and the computer found a match. Turns out that the fake registration was the same as a vehicle Hampshire Police were after for a murder in West Meon.’

  ‘The one that you and Harland linked to the Severn Beach murder?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mendel’s expression grew more serious, ‘and several others, including that stabbing in Redland.’

  Firth raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I hadn’t heard that,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not common knowledge yet, but Pope reckons they’ve found the Vaughn woman’s necklace under the driver’s seat.’ The big man set the report down on his desk and rubbed his square jaw reflectively. ‘Of course, that’s coming from Pope, so it might be a load of old bollocks.’

  Firth smiled.

  ‘Do you know if they’ve picked up the owner of the car?’ she asked.

  Mendel scowled and shook his head.

  ‘The owner’s missing,’ he explained. ‘And the car was found on the coast, parked at a well-known local suicide spot.’

  ‘You think he killed himself?’ Firth asked, puzzled.

  Mendel looked away for a moment, then shrugged.

  ‘My guess is they’ll never find him,’ he said.

  Firth considered this, inclining her head to one side.

  ‘Who was he?’ she asked.

  Mendel sat forward in his chair and folded his arms.

  ‘Robert Naysmith, some sales director bloke from Wiltshire.’ He paused, then added, ‘Funny thing is, the Met actually interviewed him a while back – Graham put them on to him.’

  He frowned to himself.

  ‘So Harland was right, then?’ There was a note of pride in Firth’s voice.

  Mendel looked at her thoughtfully before answering.

  ‘Yes, I suppose he was right … ’ The big man appeared troubled by something, then shook his head and reached for a large mug on his desk. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’

  ‘OK,’ Firth nodded.

  ‘Come on then.’ Mendel smiled as he got to his feet. ‘I’m gon
na make you the finest cup of tea you’ll have all day.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Writing is meant to be a solitary pursuit, but at the end of this story I find that I have quite a few people to thank:

  Andrew Sprunt, Julia Painter, Kate Ranger and Nick Day, for their valuable feedback on early drafts of the story, and their encouragement, which I value even more;

  Chris Wild, for introducing me to the wonderful Les Mirabelles, where New Forest ponies really do walk past the window;

  Andrea Popkess, who pointed out how easily cyclists can move through a city;

  Imogen Heap, for the songs that became my audio mood board for Kim;

  Andrew Oates, Christopher Hilldrup, Mark Langdon and Sandy Osborne, for taking the time to help me with my enquiries;

  Caroline Johnson, for her fortitude in the face of numerous corrections;

  Eve White, my excellent literary agent, plus Jack Ramm and the rest of the team, for looking after me so wonderfully well;

  All the lovely people at Hodder & Stoughton, but especially my editor Francesca Best, for some epic brainstorming, great guidance and questionable orange iced tea;

  And finally, Anna and Cameron, for their patience and belief. Thank you.

  Find out how Harland and Naysmith’s story began …

  FERGUS McNEILL

  EYE CONTACT

  If you look him in the eye, you’re dead.

  From the outside, Robert Naysmith is a successful businessman, handsome and charming. But for years he’s been playing a deadly game.

  He doesn’t choose his victims. Each is selected at random – the first person to make eye contact after he begins ‘the game’ will not have long to live. Their fate is sealed.

  When the body of a young woman is found on Severn Beach, Detective Inspector Harland is assigned the case. It’s only when he links it to an unsolved murder in Oxford that the police begin to guess at the awful scale of the crimes.

  But how do you find a killer who strikes without motive?

  Out now in paperback and ebook.