‘Not here.’ Jamieson, a stocky young sergeant whom they knew from the Southmead station, cast an unhappy glance at the crowded bar behind them. ‘I don’t want to be stood around queuing all night.’
‘What about The Ostrich?’ His girlfriend, Kirstie, was a PCSO with wavy red hair and a strong Bristol accent. ‘It’s not far and it’ll be a lot quieter.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Gregg nodded. ‘Come on.’
He turned and began to lead the way between the knots of people and the packed bar-front tables.
Harland paused, struggling to light a cigarette in the swirling breeze that blew in off the water, scowling as the flame danced away from the tobacco. While the others started along the quayside, Firth hung back a little, watching with growing amusement as he turned this way and that, pulling his jacket taut like a cloak against the wind.
‘Are you okay there?’ She looked different out of uniform, with her leather jacket and faded jeans. There was writing on her T-shirt – something French that he couldn’t quite make out.
‘It isn’t easy being a smoker these days,’ he sighed. Shielding the cigarette with his hands, he clicked the lighter once, twice, then finally lit up on the third attempt. ‘See what I mean?’
She grinned and fell in beside him as they started walking after the others.
‘I love that place,’ she said, gazing out between the metal pillars and across the rippling gloom of the harbour basin. ‘They show all kinds of cool films you wouldn’t normally get to see on the big screen.’
‘I know,’ Harland agreed. ‘I used to be a member there. Haven’t been for a year or so, but I always enjoyed coming. It’s a more relaxed atmosphere than you get in the big multiplexes.’
They turned left and strolled slowly out onto the sweeping metal lines of Pero’s Bridge, the noise of their footsteps echoing out across the dark water below them.
Firth walked with her head inclined to one side, and turned to glance back towards the cinema.
‘Do you know what?’ she mused. ‘I think that’s the first time I’ve watched that film all the way through.’
Harland slowed and peered at her doubtfully.
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Seriously.’ She had turned back to him now. ‘I recognised a lot of it, but I hadn’t seen all that stuff with the ransom bag, or the bit where he tortures the guy in the football stadium.’
Harland chuckled to himself as they came down off the bridge and onto the cobbled pavement, following it around the Arnolfini building.
‘So,’ he asked her, as they wandered under the glare of the street lights and across the narrow roadway of the Prince Street bridge, ‘now that you’ve seen it right through, what did you think?’
Firth gazed up at the old-harbour cranes lining the quayside ahead of them.
‘I love that whole seventies vibe,’ she smiled. ‘Clint Eastwood was so cool, and didn’t he have amazing hair?’
Harland ran an involuntary hand across his scalp and shook his head.
‘I think I’d rather have his sunglasses,’ he replied.
They crossed the road and walked along the cobbled waterfront – luxury apartments and young trees on one side, old boats creaking against their moorings on the other. Ahead of them, the others seemed to have slowed down a little. Gregg, glancing back over his shoulder, noticed them and beckoned them on.
‘Keep up,’ he called.
Firth raised her hand in polite acknowledgement but made no attempt to hurry.
‘Let them queue up to get served,’ she laughed under her breath.
One last footbridge carried them across a narrow channel to The Ostrich, a grand old three-storey inn that stood alone on an exposed corner of the quayside. Bench tables filled the space between the building and the water, most of them occupied, all lit by the bright warm glow of the pub.
A young couple scampered towards them in a tumble of laughter and echoing footsteps. The girl ran with abandon, long hair swishing from side to side as she dragged her boyfriend along by the hand.
‘Sorry guys.’ The slender young man smiled apologetically as he jostled past before being pulled away along the shadowed quay.
Firth shook her head, watching them go.
‘Funny how differently people treat you when you’re not in uniform,’ she smiled.
Harland nodded thoughtfully. Firth was wearing make-up. He’d not noticed it before.
‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘let’s get inside before Gregg buys his round.’
Harland began to move, then hesitated, staring up at the illuminated windows.
‘Actually,’ he said slowly, ‘I think maybe I’m going to call it a night.’
Firth turned and gazed at him.
‘Oh, I’m sorry; are you on early shift tomorrow?’
Harland met her eyes for a moment, then looked down.
‘No . . .’ He suddenly felt a cool shiver of guilt.
Enjoying himself, forgetting, letting his guard slip . . .
He forced himself to look up at her. ‘I’m just tired.’
She studied him as they stood there under the light of a street lamp.
‘Are you sure? More than happy for you to join us . . .’
He looked at her and shook his head.
‘It was really good of you to invite me. I enjoyed it.’
‘I’m glad you came.’ She offered him a brief smile. ‘’Night . . . sir.’
‘’Night.’
He watched her push through the doorway into the laughter and murmuring voices of the pub, then turned his back on the glaring lights and walked away, following his long shadow over the cobblestones.
28
Monday, 20 August
It was becoming intolerable. No matter what he did, Harland could feel the sand draining from the hourglass. In the days since the Superintendent’s veiled ultimatum, they’d gone over things again and again, but turning up leads wasn’t something you could hurry. The momentum was slipping away, and it wouldn’t be long before Blake would smoothly pass the buck to Hampshire and quietly reassign everyone.
They needed something tangible, something to keep the investigation alive, but this killer wasn’t stupid. He didn’t seem to have made any mistakes at all – there was nothing but a single souvenir connecting one victim to the next.
Harland considered this as he walked into the station kitchen, mug in hand. He switched on the kettle, then paused.
Those souvenirs weren’t mistakes, they were deliberate. Some killers were compelled to take things from their victims as mementos, or trophies. But this one wasn’t keeping his souvenirs. They were subtle markers – the faint initials of the artist on the back of a painting – just enough to prove whose work it was if you knew what you were looking for, nothing more. Their presence spoke of arrogance, a desire for recognition, but tempered by caution and an absolute determination not to be caught.
Pouring water into his mug, Harland shook his head. Real mistakes, if any ever came, would be few and far between. Unless they were focused – properly focused on the case – they wouldn’t spot them.
He took a spoon from the cutlery drawer and slammed it shut hard.
So frustrating . . .
The worst part was that it didn’t have to be this way. But politics and sheer bloody incompetence would drag them down, no matter how desperately they wanted a result. Blake was certainly a glory hunter, but he was much more interested in avoiding any negative PR. Pope was an idiot who would take the shortest route he could to suck up to the Superintendent, neither of them knowing or caring who he trampled over on the way. Between the two of them, what chance did he have?
Bastards.
He stirred his drink and tossed the spoon, clattering, into the sink.
And it wasn’t just Pope who’d acted incompetently. He shook his head as he remembered his own outburst in the meeting, how he’d taken his chance to reason with Blake and thrown it away.
No, it didn’t have
to be this way . . . but it would be. They were just going through the motions until the whole thing was shut down.
He took a breath, then picked up his coffee and turned back towards his office. He needed a moment to think, time to clear his head. Rounding the corner into the corridor, he moved slowly, as though in a daze.
Laughter. Pope was leaning in the meeting-room doorway, smiling broadly, that irritating laugh echoing along the corridor. The smug little toad was sniggering about something as his head tilted round and their eyes met.
Harland hated him.
That pudgy, leering face and that smug grin. What was so bloody funny? The clock was ticking and all he could do was prop up a wall . . .
As they drew level, Pope nodded at him, then turned back to Josh who was coming out of the meeting room.
‘Run out of work, Pope?’ The words were out of Harland’s mouth before he could stop them, but it was a reasonable thing to say, wasn’t it? For some reason, Josh had taken one look at him then anxiously moved away, hurrying down the corridor.
‘Don’t worry—’ Pope started to drone, raising a placatory hand.
‘Don’t fucking tell me what to do!’ Harland spat. He suddenly found that he was standing with his face inches away from Pope’s.
Everything seemed to be moving slowly, and even though he could tell they were very close, it felt as if he was staring out at Pope from somewhere deep inside his head.
‘Now hang on!’ Pope was saying something, his face a blubbery frown. ‘You can’t speak to me like—’
There was a ringing crack as Harland’s mug hit the floor, splashing coffee along the wall and skirting boards. His hands were on Pope’s lapels, knuckles shining pale as he pushed the miserable little creep up against the door frame.
‘I said, don’t tell me what to do!’ Harland snarled again. He could feel Pope’s rapid breaths on his face, his piggy little eyes wide. ‘Understand?’
The adrenalin taste in his mouth, every muscle taut, ready to lash out hard . . .
And then Mendel was there, running down the corridor, his huge arms between them, prying them apart in a moment of quiet confusion. Pope remained pressed up against the wall, spluttering and pointing, as everything cleared and Harland found himself being moved back, recoiling from what had just happened.
He was shaking. Mendel was holding him, concerned eyes searching his face, speaking quiet words that he couldn’t quite latch on to.
‘Are you okay now?’
Harland stared at him for a moment, then nodded mutely.
What the hell had he done?
Pope eased himself away from the wall, drawing himself up and jabbing out an accusing finger.
‘What the fuck was that?’ he gasped, his cheeks flushing red. ‘You’re out of order, Harland, bang out of order!’
Mendel’s hands released their grip and he sagged a little. He was out of order, and he knew it. What had he done? This would mean disciplinary action for sure. Suspension, maybe worse.
‘Did you see?’ Pope’s voice was shrill now. ‘You saw what happened, didn’t you?’
Mendel spun round and raised a warning finger.
‘Nothing happened here,’ he hissed.
‘But—’
‘Nothing happened, Pope.’ His tone was absolutely serious. There would be no argument.
Pope stared at him, about to say something more, then turned his back and stomped away. A door slammed and suddenly it was just the two of them standing there.
Harland was still shaking.
Mendel looked at him carefully for a moment, then glanced down at the spilt coffee.
‘Come on,’ he said calmly. ‘Let’s get this cleaned up.’
29
Tuesday, 21 August
Harland sat back in his chair, closing his eyes for just a moment, after an hour or so of staring at the screen. An uneasy calm had settled over the station since his outburst the day before, and so far nobody had mentioned it.
At least, not to him.
He swivelled his chair a little, stretching his legs out at the side of his desk. Things had got badly out of hand, and he’d spent every hour since then expecting the call from Blake summoning him to the Superintendent’s office for that short, difficult conversation. But the call hadn’t come and now he felt rather at a loss. Pope had him on the ropes – what the hell was the little idiot waiting for?
Yawning, he turned back to his screen and tried to concentrate. Charlotte Bensk, the DI from Sussex, had put him onto the files for the Brighton murder a few weeks ago, but nothing had stood out. Khalid Ashfar’s body had been in open water, exposed to the elements far longer than the others, and was degrading badly when it was found. Personal effects might have been compromised too, and the length of time that had passed since the body was found made new witness information unlikely.
He allowed himself a wry smile. Even if he managed to hold on to his job, nothing was going to be easy on this one.
There was a brisk knock on the door and he looked up.
‘Come in.’
The door swung open and Mendel leaned in, one hand raised in greeting.
‘Morning,’ he smiled, walking over and nodding towards the screen. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘Just going over those Brighton case notes.’
‘Again?’
‘Yeah,’ Harland said, without enthusiasm.
‘Any better second time around?’ Mendel grinned.
‘It’s not exactly a page-turner, but I just want to make sure we’re not missing anything. But what that might be . . .’
‘You won’t know till you see it.’
‘Exactly,’ Harland sighed. ‘Anyway, what can I do for you?’
Mendel smiled.
‘Just stopped in to give you this.’ He placed a supermarket carrier bag on the desk between them. ‘Want to grab lunch later?’
‘Yes, that’d be good.’ Harland looked at the bag as Mendel turned back to the door. ‘One o’clock?’
‘One o’clock.’
He waited until the door closed, then leaned forward and picked up the bag. There was something moderately heavy inside, a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper. Tearing away the layers, he exposed the contents and sat back for a moment, a thoughtful smile on his face.
Mendel had bought him a new mug.
Harland pulled his jacket around him as they walked down the road. It was an overcast day and Portishead was colourless and cold in the wind that blew in from the Severn. They spoke about work as they approached the pub, small talk and minor matters, not yet ready to tackle the events of the previous day. Something like that had to wait until they were indoors and free from interruptions.
‘I sometimes wonder what old Blake’s playing at,’ Mendel was saying. ‘First he’s banging on about his high-visibility policing, next thing he’s up in arms about a couple of overtime requests.’
‘It must be the budget review,’ Harland mused. ‘He always gets like that when they start showing him the numbers.’
‘Maybe they shouldn’t show him the numbers.’
‘Rather him than me.’ They paused, waiting for the traffic until they could cross the road. ‘Anyway, let him play with his spreadsheets, so long as it gets us our increase.’
‘And they say crime doesn’t pay,’ Mendel chuckled.
They found a table in the corner and sat down with their drinks.
‘Cheers,’ said Harland, raising his glass. ‘And thanks for the mug by the way.’
Mendel nodded slowly.
‘Cheers,’ he replied, taking a sip of his beer. ‘I thought you might need a new one.’
They sat in silence for an uneasy moment. Harland looked down, his fingers nudging a beer mat back and forth across the tabletop.
‘And thanks for yesterday . . . I appreciate your stepping in when you did.’
‘No problem.’
‘It was pretty bad, wasn’t it?’
‘It wasn’t good.’
> Harland toyed with his drink, glancing up to find his friend watching him intently.
‘Everything okay?’ Mendel asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Sure about that?’
Harland sagged a little, then slowly shook his head.
‘It’s just been a tough spell recently,’ he sighed. ‘Sometimes it’s difficult to readjust, you know, since . . .’
Mendel looked at him for a moment and nodded.
‘Anyway,’ Harland slumped back in his chair, ‘I’ve got myself another problem now, haven’t I? It’s only a matter of time until Pope starts telling tales and I get the bullet.’
‘Maybe. But I don’t reckon they’ll do anything. Not really. You know how it works – there’ll be a lot of noise for a week or so then it’ll all be back to normal.’
‘That bloody Pope,’ Harland muttered under his breath. He sat up, shaking his head slowly. ‘You’re assuming that he’ll let it go.’
‘And you’re assuming he won’t,’ Mendel replied. ‘Come on, even an idiot like Pope knows there’s a line you don’t cross.’
‘I think you underestimate him,’ Harland frowned. ‘I think there are very few lines that little shit wouldn’t cross if it suited him.’
He picked up his drink and sipped it slowly, staring at the table thoughtfully.
‘Look at it another way then,’ said Mendel. ‘There’s nothing you can do about it now, so there’s no point in worrying about it.’
He was right of course. Harland gave his friend an ironic smile and raised his glass.
‘You’re a great comfort, Mendel.’
30
Tuesday, 21 August
Naysmith opened his eyes and blinked, slowly focusing on the unfamiliar ceiling. Soft light glowed through the tall net curtain, revealing the sleeping figure beside him, her auburn hair tangled across the pillow. He gazed at her pale shoulders, her long eyelashes, the inviting pout of her open mouth.
There was no denying that it had been a satisfying evening. He’d often thought of Michaela, speaking to her now and again in the course of his business and gently flirting with her on the phone. But now she was leaving the Merentha Group, and when another appointment took him to Bristol he’d called and invited her for dinner.
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