The Edge

by Jessie Keane

  ‘So, Mr Miller.’ DI Kane stood with him and DS Harman under the shade of the lychgate. Harman took out his notebook again. ‘Tell me what happened here – in your own words.’

  The sun was shining.

  It was a beautiful day.

  Rob is dead, he thought.

  Kit said: ‘We came out of the church. Rob and Daisy first. The photographer was out here with his tripod and camera, his wife – I think – with him. Everyone was shouting and the bells were ringing. Couldn’t hear yourself think. The guests were throwing confetti. Tons of the stuff. We were all half blinded, what with that and the sun in our eyes.’

  ‘But you thought you saw . . .?’

  ‘The photographer went down first and I saw the blood on the back of his jacket, so I glanced up and that was when I saw something. Metal. In the window up there.’ Kit pointed to the Georgian building opposite.

  ‘And you ran off, over there.’ DI Kane was staring up at the window now, her back to the church. She turned her dark eyes on Kit again. ‘One of the residents complained to our officers. Someone kicked her door in.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure about which flat when I got up there,’ said Kit. ‘I just knew I had to get whoever it was before they fired again. That’s all. There was an old woman and I scared her. I apologize for that. I’ll pay for the damage to her door. But I wasn’t thinking straight.’

  ‘And at that point you didn’t know Mr Hinton had been a victim of the shooting?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I didn’t. I only realized that Rob was hit after I came back down.’

  ‘Let’s go up,’ said DI Kane.

  The three of them crossed the road and went over to the building. They entered beneath the decorative Georgian portico and went up the stairs.

  ‘The old lady,’ said DI Kane as they climbed, ‘Mrs Portman, she’s gone to stay with her daughter. She was very distressed. She said a dark-skinned man with black hair and wild, staring blue eyes kicked in her door and stood there with a poker in his hand. Where did you get the poker?’

  They paused outside Mrs Portman’s shattered door.

  ‘I got the poker from the other flat,’ said Kit. ‘But the flat was empty; whoever fired the gun was gone. There were spent shells on the floor by the window.’ He looked at the floor. The two shell casings he’d left there were gone. ‘I went back to the old lady and asked her where the fire escape was. She told me.’

  ‘We’ve reason to believe that three shots were fired. We picked up two spent casings from here. Did you pick up any, Mr Miller?’

  ‘No,’ said Kit.

  ‘She said she was too frightened to speak when you came back a second time. She thought you were going to murder her.’

  ‘She gestured, OK? And I tried to reassure her, but how the fuck could I, standing there with a poker in my hand? I went out on the fire escape but I was too late. He’d gone. Arsehole must have moved like greased lightning.’

  There was a uniformed police constable now standing outside the door to the flat where the gunman had fired the shots. Police tape was draped across the broken lock. DI Kane nodded to the man, and he moved the tape, let the three of them inside.

  They stood in the centre of the living room. An old sofa. A TV. A coffee table. The window was still open, and the view of the churchyard couldn’t have been bettered.

  DI Kane tipped her head toward the fireplace. ‘The fireside implements – particularly the poker – were dusted for prints. But none were found.’

  ‘It’s been warm for the time of year,’ shrugged Kit. ‘If he was staying here, I don’t suppose he used the fire at all.’

  ‘We didn’t even find your prints on it,’ said DI Kane, eyeing him beadily.

  ‘Maybe I wiped it down before I put it back.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ Force of habit.

  ‘Listen. Picture the scene, can you? I was at my sister’s wedding and then someone started shooting. I thought the gunman was up here so I ran up to try and stop the bastard. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was acting on instinct. Maybe I did wipe the poker – so what? It wasn’t me up here taking potshots at people. I’m not the man you’re after.’

  ‘Right,’ said DI Kane. ‘You know of anybody who’d want to target you, Mr Miller?’

  ‘No. Not a soul,’ he lied. And he could see in her eyes that she knew he was lying. Of course she did. She’d know the ins and outs of every villain on her patch; and he was one of them. ‘If there’s nothing else, can you drop me back at the house? My family need me there.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, and DS Harman snapped shut his notebook and tucked it away. ‘If you think of anything else, you’ll let us know, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure,’ said Kit.

  They went back downstairs and walked over to the car. As they did so, Romilly Kane watched Kit Miller. She knew of him, of course. Everyone on the force did. But she’d never brushed up close against him before. Bastard fancied himself, that was for sure. Thought he was irresistible with those come-to-bed eyes and his fit, toned body. He was a villain and she hated villains. But . . . It was a big but.

  She was trying to think of anyone of her acquaintance who would run, unarmed, toward a man who was picking people off with a gun.

  And she couldn’t think of anybody.

  Not a single one.

  30

  After they’d taken Kit back to Ruby’s place, the police stayed on, questioning Daisy and Ruby. Then Jody got a grilling, while Ruby looked after the twins in the now empty kitchen. DI Kane left first, leaving DS Harman to follow later. All evidence of wedding preparations inside the house was gone as if it had never been. Kit poured himself a whisky and wandered out into the garden to get some air, try to take it all in.

  Rob was dead.

  He stared at the marquee, vast and white in the sunlight. The DJ was moving his speakers out of there, trudging round the side of the property with them to put them back in his van. He saw Kit watching him and ducked his head. Kit walked down to the marquee’s flower-clad entrance and looked inside. A woman was putting cutlery back into a cardboard box. Another was taking the floral displays from the centre of the long tables and packing them away, too. The caterers had already taken the three-tier wedding cake away, and thank God for that. No way did he want Daisy seeing that today.

  He drank some of the whisky and wondered what to do. Rob was in the morgue. And whoever had put him there – and the photographer – was still wandering about free. And that person could give killing Kit Miller another try at any time.

  Where to start?

  What to do?

  His mind was spinning. Once, he’d taken to the bottle hard, and he felt like doing that again right now. Drown his sorrows, because for sure he had plenty of them. For ten years, Rob had been at his side, covering his back and pulling him away from excess, always the voice of reason whenever Kit strayed too close to the edge.

  Now, Rob was gone and Kit felt that a part of himself was gone, too. It was as if he was standing beside a huge cliff, and it was crumbling steadily beneath his feet. Soon, he would fall. He couldn’t help but think of this morning, when he and Rob had talked over breakfast, neither of them knowing that it would be for the last time.

  Christ, it was heartbreaking. And poor bloody Daisy. She’d be lost without Rob, too. Someone who had been such a big part of both their lives – and their mother’s – was gone from them forever, and it hurt. It hurt like hell.

  Someone cleared their throat behind him. Kit turned. It was DS Harman.

  ‘Let’s talk indoors,’ said Kit.

  Kit led the way into Ruby’s study. It was a tiny, tidy room with one buttoned, tan leather chair set behind a plain desk, and a wheel-back chair for visitors. He closed the door behind them, flopped down in the leather chair. Drained the last of the whisky, placed the glass carefully on the desk.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘You lot got any ideas?’

  ‘It’s knowing where to start, isn’t it?’

&
nbsp; ‘Meaning?’ Kit eyed the detective sergeant steadily. The firm had a lot of coppers on the payroll, and this DS was one of them. Kit didn’t like bent bobbies much. He particularly didn’t like this one with his bolshie manner and jokey expression. And he wondered what Harman’s sexy, tumble-haired DI would say if she knew the truth about him.

  ‘Come on,’ said Harman. ‘You got a ton of enemies and my guess is those two poor saps just got in the way. My lot won’t usually take too much bother over it. Mind you, Kane could be the exception. She’s like a dog with a bone, that girl. Persistent. Can’t give up even when she knows she shouldn’t bother. But the shooting element? Nobody likes that.’

  ‘Right.’ Kit mulled that over. Shouldn’t bother?

  Harman shrugged. ‘Live by the sword, die by the sword, right? The photographer’s the innocent party here. And your mate caught an unlucky one. I reckon they were aiming for you. And they missed.’

  ‘Yeah. Got you.’ Kit stood up. He walked around the desk and in one swift movement grabbed Harman by the front of his shirt, swinging him round. Harman lost his footing and hit the study wall with a crash.

  ‘Hey! What . . .’ he burst out, winded.

  Kit still had hold of Harman’s shirt front. He slammed Harman’s head back against the wall, hard.

  ‘Jesus!’ the man yelped.

  Kit came in so close that he could see the enlarged pores all over Harman’s beaky little nose.

  Harman wasn’t smirking any more. ‘Listen,’ growled Kit.

  ‘Wait! Don’t . . .’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, you tosser.’ Kit gave his head another whack on the wall.

  Harman shut up.

  ‘Just listen,’ said Kit through gritted teeth. ‘My best mate died today, you smart-arsed little tick. You want to follow his example? Keep going.’

  Harman’s eyes were wide with fright. ‘I’m sorry, all right? I didn’t mean no disrespect.’

  Kit gave the man a shove, sending him staggering sideways. He watched Harman in disgust.

  ‘You keep me informed of anything and everything. I want the bastard in that window found. I want to know everything your DI knows. Everything. No exceptions. You got me?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Harman, straightening his clothes, visibly shaken. ‘Sure.’

  ‘And what about those fuckers who did the warehouse? You got anything yet on the two who were spotted?’

  ‘Nothing,’ gulped Harman. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well step it up a gear, all right? Now fuck off.’

  When Harman was gone, Kit sat down at Ruby’s desk. He was thinking about what Rob had said that morning, about needing a serious talk, but it would keep. Now he would never know what had been bothering Rob. Business stuff. Meaning what?

  He took the spent shell casing out and looked at it, long and hard. Then he put it back in his pocket, took out the spare key he kept and unlocked Ruby’s desk drawer. He took an item out, and went in search of his mother.

  31

  Kit found Ruby crossing the hall. ‘How is she?’ he asked her.

  ‘Devastated,’ said Ruby as DS Harman went over to the front door and let himself out. Her eyes followed him, then she turned back to her son. ‘I don’t like that bloke. He give you anything?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ said Kit, still fuming at Harman’s words. Rob had ‘caught an unlucky one’.

  Unfortunate, but you get close to mud and some of it might one day stick to you. That bastard.

  ‘He’ll keep us posted, though?’

  ‘He will.’ Kit nodded toward the stairs. ‘I ought to speak to Daise,’ said Kit.

  ‘Jesus, don’t do that. Leave her be for now. I’ll stay with her. She’ll calm down. Don’t worry.’

  Kit looked around, his movements agitated. He felt the loss of control in this situation, everything sliding into chaos. He handed Ruby the cloth-wrapped item he’d just taken out of her study drawer. Ruby’s eyes widened. ‘Christ,’ she murmured.

  ‘Keep it with you in your bag,’ he said. ‘And keep it loaded. It’s only a .22 but that’s enough to stop anyone at close range. Don’t look at me like that. We got to be prepared.’

  ‘God,’ said Ruby, putting a shaking hand to her face. ‘All right. I will.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘What the hell’s happening? Rob! I can’t believe it.’

  He squeezed her arm. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  Fats came into the hall from the kitchen, followed by the wedding planner.

  ‘I’m going to see Rob’s folks,’ said Kit.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ said Fats.

  ‘No,’ said Kit. ‘I want you here. Watch Ruby and Daisy and the boys.’

  He went out to the Bentley, took a package out of the boot and got in behind the steering wheel. Shrugging off his jacket, he slipped on the shoulder holster and got his gun out of the glove compartment, loaded it and slid it home. Put his jacket back on. Then he started the engine.

  32

  Rob’s mother was in hysterics. Her daughters Trudy and Sarah were trying to console her, but she was beyond that. As soon as Leon saw Kit coming in, he put himself in Kit’s face.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he demanded aggressively.

  ‘That’s what I’m going to find out,’ said Kit.

  ‘Cop said they were aiming for you, and got Rob instead,’ said Leon, his blue eyes cold with fury.

  Kit took a breath. Harman! Useless loose-mouthed bastard.

  ‘Ease off, bruv,’ said Daniel, catching hold of Leon’s shoulder.

  Kit looked at the two Hinton boys. Rob had been the oldest and the best of them, Kit’s firm right hand. Now he had to make do with these two. Daniel was OK. He was young, sure, but solid and dependable, whereas Leon was forever flying off the handle and kicking over tables, too full of youthful exuberance. No doubt about it, Rob’s younger brothers were keen as mustard, but were they Rob? Could they ever be?

  For a moment, Kit thought he was going to get a sharp right-hander from Leon. Maybe he even deserved it. But the moment seemed to pass. ‘What the fuck can we do?’ Leon demanded.

  Kit paused for a beat. ‘What Rob would have done in the same situation, I guess.’

  Kit looked around the living room. Rob’s mother was hunched on the sofa, still dolled up in her wedding finery and in floods of tears. Trudy and Sarah were on either side of her, their husbands hovering nearby. Eunice’s partner, Patrick Dowling, got up from the sofa and came over.

  Kit eyed the man up. Patrick was a big bloke – bigger than Kit – in his fifties, packed with muscle and a fair bit of fat. He ran a dodgy car dealership, Rob had told him, and he had a prosperous fuck-you air about him. His face was the brick-red of the heavy whisky drinker, broken thread veins radiating out from his nose like rays from the sun. His hair was thick and grey, his eyebrows bushy enough to almost have a life of their own as they drew down angrily over his fierce and bulbous brown eyes.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on, Miller?’ he asked loudly.

  Kit was silent for a long moment. ‘When I find that out, I’ll let you know,’ he said.

  ‘Take it easy, Patrick,’ said Daniel, looking uncomfortable. ‘Rob knew the risks. He accepted them. It ain’t Kit’s fault.’

  ‘Take it easy? This ain’t bloody good enough. Things like this happening,’ bawled Patrick.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Kit, and walked over to where Eunice sat huddled on the sofa. She looked up at him, her face drowned in tears, her mouth pulled down, making her ugly.

  ‘My condolences, Eunice,’ said Kit.

  Eunice nodded, her eyes red with crying and full of fear when they met his. Kit Miller’s name was mentioned in the same breath as the legendary London gangs – the Krays, Nashes, Richardsons, Carters, Foremans – and Patrick might be bold enough to call him on this, but she wasn’t.

  Patrick Dowling was there beside him again. ‘You want to fuck off out of it, Miller,’ he said. ‘We don’t want you here.’

  Kit turned and stared a
t Patrick, long and hard. Finally, bug-eyed with suppressed fury, Patrick looked away.

  Kit turned his gaze to Eunice, said: ‘We’ll find who did this. That’s a promise.’ Then he left.

  33

  Days had gone by and the weather had turned. On Daisy and Rob’s wedding day, the sun had shone and everything had seemed bright and hopeful. Now a humid fall of steady rain misted the garden, shrouding it in gloom as Ruby looked out.

  Press photographers had started to gather at the gates, so every trip in or out of the house was a nightmare of flashing lights, shoved microphones and shouted questions.

  ‘Some fucker in the police must have tipped them off,’ Kit told her, and he put another two boys on the gates in case they tried to intrude further.

  The marquee was gone. What should have been such a happy day for them all was gone, too. Daisy did nothing but sit in one of the main house’s spare bedrooms – she couldn’t face going back to her apartment over the garage block, the one she’d shared with Rob – day after day, gazing out at the lashing rain, seeing nothing. She barely ate. Not even the twins induced a flicker of interest in her.

  ‘I’m going into town this afternoon,’ said Ruby, going upstairs to find Daisy still sitting in a chair by the window, staring out. Ruby went to stand behind her daughter’s chair. She touched Daisy’s shoulder. No response.

  ‘Oh?’ Daisy was wearing a dressing gown. Since taking off the bloodstained wedding dress and giving it to the police as evidence, she hadn’t bothered getting dressed again.

  The doctor had come, prescribed tranquillizers. Daisy had taken them. Now she just sat there, saying little. Ruby understood her daughter’s pain – of course she did, Daisy’s pain was like her own – but she was beginning to get the urge to shake her, all the same. Daisy had children. She had to think of them. And she was young; somehow, however impossible it seemed at this moment, she would have a future. It wouldn’t involve Rob, but there was still hope, there had to be.