Knife Edge

by Fergus McNeill

  Without knowing what he’d done, without understanding the reasons, she’d taken his trust and betrayed him. She bit her lip as she walked, and slipped her hand into his.

  It wasn’t something she could forget, but it was in the past – she had to try and move on.

  ‘Mind your back.’ Rob put his arm around her and drew her in towards the side of the towpath as a cyclist came past from behind them, followed by two more, peddling at speed – muscular bodies swaying from side to side in their Lycra, a welcome distraction from more troubled thoughts.

  ‘Do you think it’s some sort of race event?’ she asked, rejoining the path with a wary look in both directions. It would be a bother if they had to dodge speeding cyclists all day.

  ‘Doubt it,’ Rob replied. ‘I expect it’s just random people out for a bike ride.’

  ‘They seemed to be taking it pretty seriously.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ she shrugged, ‘they all looked so similar, all dressed up in the same Lycra shorts, the same headgear.’

  Rob looked at her thoughtfully, then nodded.

  ‘Maybe they think it makes them go faster.’

  Kim shook her head and grinned.

  ‘Maybe they’d go faster if they went on the road, instead of dodging in and out of walkers on a footpath.’

  She squeezed Rob’s hand and they walked on, dappled in the sunlight that filtered down through the trees.

  There were a few wild flowers here and there along the grassy bank, but an explosion of colour greeted them as they came to a small house, walls of warm brown stone surrounded by blue delphiniums, where the canal angled sharply to the right. Around the corner, the narrow towpath broadened into hard ground, with a long metal rail guarding the edge of the deep still water, and they got their first glimpse of the aqueduct.

  Thrusting out across the green valley, it carried the canal high above the trees and fields and the snaking river below, a mighty fortress of stonework with paved footpaths on either side of the continuous calm water. A collection of sturdy old buildings huddled about the near side, with a couple of small shops and a country pub set back into the slope of the hillside.

  They wandered along the footpath, moving slowly out onto the aqueduct as a brightly painted barge came gliding along the canal beside them, its engine puttering quietly, leaving long, lazy ripples in its wake. Kim turned away from it, moving over to the thick parapet to stand beside Rob. The old stone felt cool beneath her hand as she looked down through the trees at the River Avon spilling across a broad weir and drifting under the arches below them.

  Rob stared out along the valley, then glanced down at his watch.

  ‘Are you feeling hungry yet?’ he asked.

  She looked at him, then followed his gaze towards the nearby pub. It had a stepped garden, set into the side of the valley, with tables and chairs overlooking the broad water below the weir. Walking in the fresh air had reawakened her appetite.

  ‘That might be nice,’ she nodded. ‘Shall we go and see what it’s like?’

  They retraced their steps along the footpath and turned aside at the end of the bridge, following a tarmac slope that led down beside a line of whitewashed stone buildings and a New Age shop that sold crystals. The pub itself was a long, uneven building nestled in against the hillside. Beneath the high gables, a white wall bore the name ‘The Cross Guns’ in large black letters.

  A low doorway led into the bar, and Rob stood aside to let her go first. However, as she stepped across the threshold, a stocky man with a ruddy complexion and a faded T-shirt appeared from within, jostling into her as he emerged into the sunlight. Beer slopped over the side of the glasses he was carrying and trickled down over his large hands.

  ‘Aw, for fuck’s sake—’ he bellowed, straightening up to glare down at her as she backed away, feeling clumsy, foolish.

  And then Rob was there.

  ‘Hey.’ His voice was quiet but firm. The big man glanced at him, then back to her again.

  ‘HEY!’

  The snap of command stopped the advancing man dead. He glared, but hesitated as Rob stepped forward, placing himself slightly in front of her.

  ‘You should apologise to my girlfriend,’ he said, speaking quietly again, but in a tone that was gravely serious. The man scowled for a moment, then seemed to sag a little.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, his angry eyes downcast. ‘Didn’t see you there.’

  Kim found that she had been holding her breath.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she stammered. ‘Really, no harm done.’

  Rob stood aside once more and held out his hand, gesturing for her to go first. The big man wordlessly moved out of her way to let her pass inside.

  She stepped over the threshold into the cosy little bar area, turning to make sure that Rob was following. Something about the encounter frightened her – the way the man had reacted, as though he’d seen something in her partner that she had missed. And yet, she knew more, knew how far he could really go. Had the man sensed who was speaking to him? And if he hadn’t, if he’d stood his ground, how far might Rob have gone?

  Her breathing had become swift and shallow, but then Rob came through the doorway, his smile calm, assured, and the idea suddenly seemed stupid.

  ‘You OK, Kim?’

  She was being silly. He was just protecting her, like he always did.

  ‘I’m fine.’ She managed a small smile.

  He drew her close to him and planted a kiss on the top of her head, then took her hand and led her over to the bar where a middle-aged woman acknowledged them through a gap beneath a shelf of suspended glasses.

  ‘What shall we have?’ he asked.

  They ate outside, at a small wooden table some way down the garden, close to the riverbank. The rushing noise of the weir came to them faintly from further upstream, beyond the weeping willow trees that trailed their long fingers in the swirling water.

  Kim watched Rob cutting into a rare sirloin, then contemplated the steak and ale pie on her own plate. It was delicious, but her thoughts were still elsewhere.

  ‘Rob?’

  He looked up at her.

  ‘That man up there,’ she glanced up towards the pub on the slope above them. ‘I can’t believe how you got him to apologise to me.’

  Rob shrugged.

  ‘Did you mind?’ he asked her.

  ‘No, I didn’t mind …’

  In the distance, a two-tone horn blared out a warning, and Kim caught flashes of colour through the trees as a train rattled along the opposite side of the valley.

  ‘What if he’d got out of hand?’ she asked.

  Rob held up a finger to indicate that his mouth was full.

  ‘Not him,’ he replied after swallowing. ‘His type is all mouth. And I didn’t like him getting mouthy with you.’

  Always protecting her.

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiled. ‘But it wasn’t necessary for him to apologise.’

  ‘I think it was,’ he said seriously.

  Kim lowered her eyes and took a mouthful of her pie.

  ‘All that is required for idiots to prevail is for smart people to do nothing.’

  Kim looked up at him, questioningly. ‘What?’

  Rob smiled and shook his head.

  ‘I’m paraphrasing,’ he chuckled. ‘There’s an old saying: “All that is required for evil to prevail is for good people to do nothing.”’

  She stared at him for a moment as he cut another piece of steak, considering his words, then turned her eyes away to look out across the river.

  20

  Saturday, 12 July

  Sometimes it was hard to switch off. Walking through the drifting Saturday-night crowds in the city centre, Harland found himself tensing at every raised voice, every drunken shout. It wasn’t his job – he wasn’t on duty – but the instinct clawed at him.

  They’d arranged to meet at a bar on King Street, and the old town was packed. Harland stepped between the groups of smoke
rs outside and walked past the doorman, who was busy impressing a couple of girls. Inside, the place was noisy – a wall of indistinct voices, bass and the clatter of glasses. He glimpsed Mendel, Gregg and some of the others at the far end of the bar and started to make his way over, squeezing through the crush of warm bodies, muttering a futile succession of ‘Excuse me’s.

  ‘Graham!’ Mendel had spotted him now. ‘Over here.’

  Harland waved in acknowledgement and forged his way to the bar.

  ‘Evening,’ he nodded when he reached them.

  ‘All right, sir.’ Gregg smiled then returned to a conversation with his girlfriend.

  Harland eased in beside Mendel and looked around.

  ‘Been here long?’ he asked.

  Mendel raised his glass, which was almost empty.

  ‘Not that long,’ he surmised. ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘I’ll get them,’ Harland replied. ‘Same again?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Harland manoeuvred himself so that he was half facing the bar, money in hand.

  ‘So how old are you, anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘Same as I always was,’ Mendel shrugged. ‘My birthday’s not until tomorrow, and by then I’ll be too hung-over to care.’

  The bar staff looked so young – harried waifs in black T-shirts, scurrying back and forth through the noise – but Harland finally managed to get served. He pocketed his change, then turned to pass one of the pint glasses across.

  ‘Cheers.’

  But Mendel was looking over his shoulder, his face breaking into a grin.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ He lifted his voice and called out, ‘Ray, you long-lost hooligan.’

  DCI Raymond Pearce was an East End diamond in his late forties, with dark grey hair and an ancient scar that ran down his left cheek. He moved lightly, but there was an imposing solidity to him, like a retired rugby player who hasn’t let himself go. Harland watched him calmly shouldering his way between two groups of people, then halting to raise an eyebrow theatrically as a skinny youth almost backed into him. He emerged from the crowd beaming at Mendel.

  ‘Evening, James,’ he chuckled. ‘How’s the birthday boy then?’

  ‘Mustn’t grumble,’ Mendel smiled. ‘Didn’t expect to see you tonight.’

  ‘Well, if that’s how you feel …’ Pearce turned, pretending to leave, and noticed Harland for the first time. ‘Blimey, didn’t see you there, Graham.’

  He extended a firm hand and clasped Harland’s warmly.

  ‘Not still working with this old gorilla, are you?’ he asked with a wink at Mendel. ‘I thought they’d have found you someone decent by now.’

  ‘Ah, it could be worse.’ Harland grinned at him. ‘Much worse. But DS Pope joined your lot, didn’t he?’

  ‘Please!’ Pearce’s face showed disgust. ‘Tell me that bastard’s not coming tonight, or I really will do a runner.’

  ‘You’re all right,’ Mendel replied. ‘I made a point of forgetting to invite him.’

  Pearce brightened.

  ‘Thank fuck for that,’ he said, then clapped his hands together and glanced towards the bar. ‘Right then, gents, what are you drinking?’

  Before long, there was a group of them and they’d managed to occupy a corner at one end of the bar.

  ‘Still stuck in Portishead then?’ Pearce smiled over his drink.

  ‘That’s right,’ Harland nodded. ‘Very pleasant in the summer, out there on the coast.’

  ‘Picturesque,’ Mendel agreed.

  ‘But plenty of action?’ Pearce teased them. ‘Lots of big cases to get your teeth into?’

  ‘Stolen bikes, missing cats, even the odd bit of graffiti.’ Mendel shook his head gravely. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how we cope sometimes.’

  Pearce laughed.

  ‘Blake still running things over there?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Harland gave him a bleak smile. ‘Blake’s still there. He runs a very “tight ship”.’

  ‘Sounds cosy.’

  ‘Those two haven’t been best pals recently,’ Mendel interjected. ‘Blake’s as far up his own backside as ever, and Graham’s been doing his best to get fired.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Pearce looked at them, surprised.

  ‘It was just a bit of a misunderstanding,’ Harland shrugged it off, ‘over that Severn Beach murder.’

  ‘Graham didn’t understand what “leave it alone” meant,’ Mendel explained.

  ‘Thanks for that.’ Harland raised his glass sarcastically. ‘Anyway, speaking of our favourite people, how’s life with Pope?’

  ‘Never see him, thank goodness,’ Pearce frowned. ‘He’s busy sucking up to Command at the moment, and as long as he’s doing that he isn’t bothering me.’

  Mendel shook his head, then turned to look over his shoulder.

  ‘Happy birthday, sir,’ said a voice.

  It was Firth. She eased her way out of the crowd with a mischievous smile.

  ‘Don’t you start,’ Mendel joked. ‘Anyway, all this birthday talk is making me feel old.’

  ‘Never mind,’ she laughed, leaning forward and giving him a hug. ‘We’ll have a whip-round and get you a nice walking frame.’

  Mendel chuckled, then looked at his watch.

  ‘Thought you weren’t coming,’ he rumbled. ‘Or is this what you call fashionably late?’

  ‘Don’t blame me,’ she protested, turning and pulling a tall man into the circle. ‘Someone else took their time getting ready. Everyone, this is Richard.’

  Harland’s heart sank. She was seeing someone. When had that happened?

  ‘Hi,’ the man smiled. ‘And don’t listen to her – she’s the slowcoach. Ouch!’

  He nursed his arm where Firth had punched him.

  ‘Police brutality,’ Pearce chuckled.

  Firth turned back with a grin, but it faltered for just a second as she spotted Harland.

  ‘Oh hi,’ she said, then looked away quickly.

  And that made it worse. He hadn’t been sure until now, but that one awkward flicker of regret in her eyes finally confirmed what his instincts had been saying all along.

  Now he’d missed his chance.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, clasping Richard’s hand and steering him towards the bar, ‘you can buy me a drink.’

  He watched them move apart, feeling an irrational surge of anger towards Richard, a man he’d never met before. Not particularly good-looking, but he had an easy, uncomplicated manner about him. No angst. No hesitation. Bastard.

  Harland rubbed his eyes wearily and downed the rest of his pint.

  As he put the glass on the bar, he caught Pearce looking at him, then glancing across at Firth.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ Mendel said firmly.

  It was cold when they emerged onto the pavement, but Harland didn’t notice it. He gazed up beyond the lights to the darkness of the night sky and felt the street sway around him.

  ‘Cheers guys.’ Mendel’s voice was behind him, cutting through the laughter and conversation that bled out from the doorway. ‘See you next week.’

  The noise from the bar muted as the doors swung shut, and the big man came over to stand beside him.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I need a taxi,’ he yawned.

  They walked slowly along the cobbled streets, weaving between groups of people who were making their way home and others who were getting ready for the clubs.

  ‘Nice to see old Pearce again,’ Mendel said as they came to the end of King Street. ‘We did a year together when I’d just made sergeant.’

  ‘He’s always seemed like a decent bloke,’ Harland said. Ahead of them, he could just make out a couple, intertwined in the shadows between two buildings. The girl had her hands on her partner’s face as they kissed, eyes closed in the gloom.

  He sighed, then noticed Mendel looking at him.

  ‘What?’

  The big man looked away and frowned.

  ‘It’s none of my business, but …’
He paused.

  ‘Spit it out,’ Harland sighed.

  ‘I think it’s great that you’re … looking around again.’ Mendel spoke slowly, carefully. ‘I’m not sure that work colleagues are a good idea though.’

  He gave a sympathetic smile and started walking again.

  ‘What?’ Harland went after his friend, coming alongside him and looking at him questioningly.

  ‘Just saying.’ Mendel shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s for the best, you know?’

  Harland stopped and stared at him.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he scowled.

  Mendel looked over at him and smiled.

  ‘Yeah you do, but never mind.’ He pointed towards the line of taxis across the street. ‘Come on, we’ll share a cab and I’ll drop you off.’

  21

  Wednesday, 16 July

  Naysmith stood on the pavement and stared at the list in his hand – a series of brief names and addresses on a folded piece of paper, easily discarded. Not the sort of list he’d want to keep on his phone. Most of the names were crossed out – locations quickly checked and quickly dismissed – but this place was proving difficult to find. Looking up, he turned around, eyes sweeping back along the length of the street. It had to be around here somewhere.

  A dark uniform caught his attention, the unhurried movement of a policeman on patrol. Naysmith hesitated for a moment, then smiled.

  Why shouldn’t he?

  Tucking the list into his pocket, he wove his way through the milling shoppers and students and approached the officer.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he asked brightly. ‘Do you know where the Clifton Arcade is?’

  A young constable with a friendly face, alert and eager to help.

  ‘Yeah, it’s easy to miss.’ He turned and pointed back up the hill towards a triangle of grass and trees. ‘If you go back up that way, then turn right just at the newsagent. It’s tucked away behind that line of shops.’

  ‘Much obliged.’ Naysmith smiled at him.

  If only he knew.

  Turning off Clifton Down Road where the policeman had said, he found himself on a narrow street, unevenly paved, that ended in a cul-de-sac. Away from the main road, the shop names became unfamiliar and interesting – boutiques, custom jewellers, delis and cafés.