At the end of the street, beyond the crowd of tables that seemed to have spilled out from a small bistro, a narrow stone arch led through to a leafy green square. As he approached, Naysmith noted the dark blue awning on the left, golden letters spelling out the words ‘Clifton Arcade’.
He didn’t walk in right away. This street was new to him – somehow he’d missed it on previous visits – and he skirted calmly around the tables, his curiosity leading him on through the arch to gaze at the quiet square on the other side. Grand old sandstone buildings set about a central square of grass and trees, oddly reminiscent of the architecture in Bath. Looking around, he noted a blue plaque on the nearest corner, declaring that a famous cricketer had once lived here. Such a lovely oasis of calm in the bustle of the city …
But he had work to do. Turning, he made his way back through the arch.
Two women were sitting at one of the pavement tables, comfortable in their affluent forties. One of them glanced up at him, holding his gaze as he moved slowly around the tables. Her friend was busily talking, but she gave him a slight smile, then demurely looked away as he returned it.
At another time that might have led to something interesting. But not now. Not today. He’d spent a lot of time scouring the city and he needed to stay focused until he found what he was looking for. Leaving the bistro behind, he stepped up under the entrance awning and passed inside.
The arcade felt tall and cramped, like an old chapel, with a carpeted aisle in the middle and a congregation of eclectic storefronts huddled on either side. At the far end, steps ascended to an unseen upper level below an ornate rose window. Naysmith paused, turning his face up to the sunlight that filtered down from the glass ceiling, and smiled to himself. Kim would love this place.
He made his way through the mingled aromas of bath soaps and incense, politely standing to one side so that an elderly couple had room to pass, then turned his attention to the task. Each business displayed its name on a small hanging sign, and his eyes scanned the aisle until he located the one he was looking for.
Edible Arts.
There it was, a few yards ahead on the right, halfway along the aisle. He didn’t rush, but began to move slowly towards it, pretending to browse in a couple of windows as he went. Antique jewellery in one, Mexican crafts in another. The shop he was interested in was just next door …
… and suddenly he could see her. The woman he had been searching for was standing there, just a few feet away from him. She was wearing a dark brown apron with the shop’s name embroidered on it, her black hair swept back under a headband as she leaned over a marble work counter, pressing delicate petals of icing into the side of a wedding cake. Through the plate-glass reflections, Naysmith watched her, surrounded by an army of miniature piping bags and little tubs of coloured icing, her plump face creased with concentration as she worked.
Her life was his.
He turned away as a violent shiver of anticipation ran through him – the heavy sense of inevitability – but he forced himself to walk on slowly, studying another couple of shops. Two doors further on, he found himself peering into a confectionery store called Biba Chocolate and suddenly recognised the logo he’d seen on the woman’s shopping bag.
He smiled.
There were still a number of shops ahead of him and he made himself walk the entire length of the arcade before turning and drifting calmly back along the aisle.
As he passed Edible Arts again, he allowed himself the luxury of one final glance, to fix her image more firmly in his mind, her tanned skin and her small eyes, her heavy arms and double chin. She was surveying her work, a can of Diet Coke in her hand.
Poor thing – now he’d found her, there was really no point worrying about diet drinks.
Smiling at that, he was about to move away when his eye settled on a small, handwritten sign taped inside the window by the door.
Hours: 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. – Closed Mondays.
He checked his watch and thought for a moment. Kim might get a bit silly about him coming home late, but he was eager to move things forward now that he’d found his target, and he’d made so many trips to Bristol already.
It was only a few hours to kill and he wanted to learn more about this woman. Satisfied, he walked on down the aisle and out into the bright daylight.
22
He knew that she shut her shop at four. The handwritten sign in the window had been very helpful and it allowed him to spend a relaxing afternoon exploring the narrow side streets on the hill near the suspension bridge. He found a perfect little café that specialised in artisan chocolates and spent a glorious hour in there, sampling handmade truffles from the beautiful selection on display and sipping a dark spiced cocoa drink while he read the paper.
A little treat before it was time to get serious.
At half past three, he stood up and went over to the counter to pick out a small selection of chocolates for Kim. Previously, he’d felt uneasy about letting her into his thoughts when he was hunting, but now those dividing lines were shifting, blurring. She was beginning to understand, beginning to appreciate what he did. Naturally he still had to be careful not to overwhelm her with too much knowledge too quickly, but it wouldn’t be long before he could tell her more about the game he played. And this one had an extra edge to it, as she had chosen the target herself.
He smiled and thanked the Mediterranean-looking woman behind the counter as she handed over the tiny ribbon-wrapped box, then made his way outside. Standing on the pavement, he slipped the box into his jacket pocket, then set off down the hill.
There was a friendly feel to these streets – a welcoming neighbourhood built around a succession of relaxed cafés and independent shops. As he walked, he drew out his phone and powered it off – he didn’t want any interruptions, and there was no sense leaving a cellular trail to the victim’s home.
The arcade was quiet when he arrived. A number of the shops in here seemed to close at four, and there weren’t many customers around for him to blend in with. He frowned as he studied the layout, noting the second exit that he’d need to cover and checking the sight lines to determine where he should wait. In the end, he settled on an antique-furniture store that had a tall mirror with a beautifully carved wooden frame in the window, finding the best place to stand so that he could see the Edible Arts storefront in its reflection.
Just before the hour, he saw her. Switching off the lights inside her shop, she emerged wearing a well-made turquoise jacket over her simple black top and dark floral-print skirt – loose-fitting clothing to hide her figure.
She exchanged pleasantries with another shopkeeper further down as she locked up, before rattling the flimsy door to check it was secure. Then, gathering up her bags, she turned and walked towards him. Naysmith gently stepped closer to the mirror as she approached, concentrating on her brisk footsteps and the swish of her skirt as she passed just behind him. He pretended to check his watch, giving her a moment to get ahead, then casually turned to follow her.
He was glad he’d noticed that second exit – she was approaching it now, pushing through a pair of windowed wooden doors and into a covered walkway that cut through one side of the building. He lost sight of her for a moment, then approached the doors himself. There she was, a plump silhouette, walking down the passage towards the daylight at the far end. She disappeared off to the right.
When Naysmith emerged into the open, she was about twenty yards ahead of him, hurrying down the narrow side street that led out to the main road. She wasn’t difficult to follow. That turquoise jacket made her easy to spot, and her short stride didn’t cover a lot of ground, even though she appeared to walk quickly.
He watched to see which way she would turn when she reached the street, but she slowed and stopped, waiting to cross over to the other side. Fortunately, she had her back to him, so he was able to catch up to her without being noticed and he walked a little way down the hill before turning round.
She had cros
sed over and was walking uphill, but soon reached a bus stop. On the opposite side of the street, Naysmith paused and scowled.
Buses.
They were an unwelcome complication – in such a confined space it was much tougher to follow someone without leaving some sort of impression, some subconscious memory that would give them déjà vu if they saw you later near their home. Still, it couldn’t be helped. He’d just have to play it by ear and see how far he could go.
Not wanting to get any closer until the last possible moment, he busied himself looking in the shop windows, frequently glancing down the hill to check if the bus was coming. Staring at the glass, he could just make her out in the overlapping reflections as she stood by the shelter, waiting.
And then she was gathering up her bags, her body language changing. Naysmith glanced down the hill – yes, there was the bus, moving slowly towards them. He waited until it had passed him, slowing and pulling in, before he crossed over to the other pavement, carefully pacing his approach to the shelter and calmly joining the short queue of people getting on.
She was facing the driver now – Naysmith strained to hear where she was going, but she held up some sort of travel pass and was waved aboard.
Damn – no indication how far they were going.
He didn’t turn his head, but his eyes followed her as she moved inside the bus, taking a seat about halfway down the aisle. There were quite a few passengers and there might not be much room, but he knew he had to try to find a seat nearer the back. He certainly couldn’t risk her seeing him, even subconsciously, for the whole journey or she’d be too aware of him when they got off and he wouldn’t be able to follow her.
It was his turn to step up into the bus.
‘Is there an all-day ticket?’ he asked quietly.
‘Four quid,’ the driver replied.
‘Thanks.’
He took the ticket and made a point of yawning so that he could cover the lower half of his face with his hand as he approached his target and moved past her. Luckily, there were two empty seats in the rear section and he chose the one furthest back from her and slumped down as low as possible against the dark purple fabric. Leaning back, he noted the small glass CCTV eye above him, but that was an unavoidable part of public transport – one more thing to factor into his planning.
As the bus pulled away, Naysmith settled down, gazing out of the window, logging the landmarks, memorising the route. They crossed the park that led down to the suspension bridge and followed the road as it swept down a tree-lined hill. A green matrix sign above the gangway displayed the names of principal stops – CLIFTON ZOO, REDLAND, CITY CENTRE – and he wondered which one was the target’s destination. Every time the bus slowed, he’d glance forward, watching to see if she made any move to get up, then relaxing when he saw that she didn’t.
He could see the angular cathedral spire in the distance, jagged shards against the sky, and then it was lost behind a succession of imposing buildings that rose up above tall hedges to look out over the downs.
Passengers got on and others got off, but the target gave no indication that her stop was close. Perhaps she was going all the way to the city centre? The bus had turned off and was now rattling down a gentle slope through a residential area lined with large stone houses and ironwork balconies, before turning back onto a broader road and climbing again.
There was something oddly familiar about the view as he stared out through the glass, and a moment later he recognised the entrance to Clifton Down railway station.
He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the young blonde woman he’d tracked here last year before following her back to Severn Beach where she’d lived.
And died.
He could feel the hairs standing up on the back of his neck as he recalled her final, desperate moments …
But this wasn’t the time for reminiscing. Snapping out of his daydream, he cast a hurried glance forward, but it was all right – the target was still there.
At the top of Whiteladies Road, they turned right and were soon coasting downhill again into Redland. And now, finally, the woman began to move, gathering her bags together, reaching out with one puffy hand to press the ‘Stop’ button.
Naysmith was ready but remained in his seat, watching as she got up and walked forward, her broad figure swaying from one handrail to the next while the bus slowed. Just in front of him, an elderly man with fine white hair and a military moustache was struggling to his feet and Naysmith stood up to help him.
‘Take your time,’ he smiled, holding a hand out to steady the old man as he shuffled to the front of the bus and stepped stiffly down to the pavement.
‘Thank you,’ the pensioner crackled as the doors hissed shut behind them.
‘My pleasure,’ Naysmith nodded to him. He prided himself on always being courteous, but the delay had also allowed the target to move away and open up a respectable gap, exactly as he’d hoped. It would have been awkward if he’d been too close.
The woman had crossed the road and was now on the opposite pavement, walking back the way the bus had come. Naysmith didn’t cross over yet. On this side there were no houses, just a long strip of green park, and the footpath led down beneath a line of trees. At the bottom of the slope a gently arched footbridge with white iron railings led across the railway cutting towards the small brick buildings of Redland Station.
He kept slightly behind her, glancing across every now and again to match her pace, only losing sight of her when he reached the footbridge and she disappeared behind the stone parapet of the road bridge on his left. He quickened his stride for a moment, then slowed down again as he reached the other side, just in time to see her turn off into a quiet lane on the opposite side of the road.
He had to wait for a couple of cars to pass before he could cross, then he stepped smartly over the tarmac and joined the narrow pavement some thirty yards behind her. There was no traffic here. A sign, almost obscured beneath an overhanging bush, announced this as Kensington Road, a sleepy little side turning that ran along the top of the railway cutting. A long line of mossy old garages stood apart on his left, and behind them he heard the rattle of a train passing along the line below, before the quiet descended once more.
She didn’t take the first turning but walked on, following the old stone wall as it snaked unevenly along, disappearing behind it when the pavement bent round to the right. He walked a little faster now, stepping out into the street, trying to keep her in sight, but as he passed the bend there was no sign of her.
Shit.
He hurried forward. There was only one turn-off, just ahead on the right, and he noted the name – Alexandra Park – as he drew level with it. There she was! He smiled as he caught sight of her once more. She was on the nearside pavement, so he drifted across to follow on the other side, but as he started to cross she turned abruptly and disappeared between a pair of stone gateposts.
This was the place.
It was a narrow street, with big, stone-fronted houses on either side, and hers halfway along. He wandered slowly past, memorising the number on the gatepost. Her place was a large semi-detached, with pale stonework and tall bay windows; the front door was at the side of the property, accessed by a straight concrete path and walled-off from the adjacent house. He slowed just a little, checking for security lighting, signs of a dog or any other problems, but there was nothing obvious.
Keep moving.
It wasn’t the sort of street he could stake out – too many twitching net curtains. If he spent any time here, someone would notice, and remember him when the police came to ask about their poor dead neighbour.
He glanced back over his shoulder as he walked on. There was nothing remarkable about the house, except that it was sizeable and clearly expensive. There was no driveway, so it was impossible to tell which of the parked cars belonged to her, if any. And no sign of children, which was encouraging.
But he still needed to know if she lived alone or not.
As he approached the top of the road, he slowed, frowning as he considered what to do next. One more look, then he’d go – he turned and crossed the road to walk back down.
The front gardens were all quite small, with low stone walls, small trees and neat little groups of different coloured bins arranged at every gate. He shook his head at the conformity, the willingness to fill such small gardens with so many of them, and the mess where one of the bins had tipped over and strewn old newspapers and junk mail across a meagre flowerbed.
And then he smiled.
He continued on down the road, casually stealing one last sideways glance at the house. She had the same collection of recycling bins at her gate too.
Good.
He made his way down to the end of the road and turned back towards the railway station. It would be dark in a few hours. He would come back.
Dusk drew in to shroud the city and the short street lamps cast isolated pools of dim light onto Alexandra Park. As Redland settled itself into the routine of late evening, a lone figure walked unsteadily along the road, a can of strong lager held loosely in one hand. On he came, stumbling against the garden walls, head bowed as he passed beneath the lamp posts, so the long shadows hid his eyes.
Just another drunk weaving his way home.
Naysmith moved slowly, forcing himself to slouch, to walk with an uneven gait. His glance flickered up now and again, checking the house numbers, counting ahead. As he approached the address, he paused, pretending to steady himself against a parked car, turning his head so that his eyes could sweep the street. Would he have to wait? No, there was nobody around.
He pushed himself away from the car and lurched the few remaining steps to the open gate. As he drew level with it, he appeared to trip over something, falling awkwardly to his knees, one hand going to the concrete gatepost for support. He remained there, stooped over, catching his breath for a moment – but at the same time, quietly and carefully, he opened the top of the small plastic recycling bin with his sleeve. Reaching inside, he brushed aside the empty cans and cartons, searching with the backs of his fingers until he felt what he wanted.
Knife Edge Page 14