Knife Edge

by Fergus McNeill

  Harland put the last bit of scrambled egg into his mouth and laid down his knife and fork. Opposite him, crammed into the tiny space between the table and the wall, Mendel used a piece of toast to mop up the last of the sauce from his beans.

  ‘Better now?’

  ‘Worth the wait,’ the big man nodded.

  Harland watched as the younger woman ran the gauntlet of sizzling hotplates behind the counter, bearing a tray for one of the tables. She began setting the food down in front of a gnomish old man, then seemed to hesitate and started to gather the plates up again.

  ‘Eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, tomato, granary toast and tea?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘Er … yes,’ the man replied.

  ‘Thank God,’ the woman sighed, setting the food down again. ‘Enjoy your meal.’

  Harland grinned as she raced back to her station and got caught up in a confusion of ‘After you’s with her mother, who was bringing out someone’s omelette and blocking the narrow gap behind the counter.

  ‘Dinner and a show,’ he murmured.

  Mendel chuckled, then glanced down at his watch.

  ‘So, are you heading back to Portishead now?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Harland replied. ‘Pearce asked me to nip over this afternoon. Said he wanted to chat about the Redland case.’

  ‘They’re still running with it?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  Mendel drained the last of his tea and set down his mug.

  ‘At least the media seem to be easing up a bit,’ he rumbled.

  ‘Well, there was nowhere for them to go with the story after they tried to set up that dentist.’

  ‘And he was definitely innocent?’

  ‘Oh yes, completely.’ Harland knew one of the detectives who had interviewed him, and had heard from the liaison team who were trying to pick up the pieces after the newspapers waded in. ‘First he loses his wife, and now his dental practice will go bust because he’s the “perv dentist”.’

  ‘Poor bastard.’ Mendel shook his head sadly.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ Harland agreed. And if the poor bastard topped himself as a result of those stories, the papers would probably report that a well-loved family man had been let down by the police. He sighed. ‘Pearce wasn’t happy, but I suppose his hands are tied unless he can deliver the real killer.’

  Mendel scowled for a moment.

  ‘Are they making any progress?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll see what he says when I go down there, but I don’t think so.’ His thoughts drifted briefly to Kim as he picked up the salt and pepper shakers and placed them next to each other in the centre of the table. ‘Last I heard they’d tracked down enough witnesses to know that the cyclist wasn’t on the train by the time it got to Westbury, so they’ve been checking the stations between Temple Meads and there.’

  ‘Which means it’s down to CCTV now,’ Mendel said with distaste.

  ‘Pretty much.’ Harland gazed through the steamy windows at the street outside, where a couple were holding hands as they tried to read the prices on the menu.

  He turned back to the table to find Mendel staring at him thoughtfully.

  ‘You don’t seem that bothered,’ the big man noted.

  And it was true. Normally, this sort of situation would get to him, but for some reason, the fires of his temper were burning low just now.

  ‘Well, you’re always telling me there’s no point in worrying about things you can’t change,’ he said, picking up his mug.

  ‘Yeah,’ Mendel nodded, ‘but you never listen to me.’

  Harland drank the last of his coffee and put the mug down with a smile.

  ‘There is that,’ he agreed.

  They got up, and Mendel waved his thanks to the women behind the counter. Harland followed him towards the door, then turned back and picked up a pack of chewing gum from a rack of sweets beside the cash register.

  ‘Eighty pence,’ prompted the younger woman, who seemed relieved to sell something that didn’t require cooking.

  Harland paid and received his change.

  ‘Thanks.’

  When he turned around, Mendel was standing in the doorway, a faint grin creasing his heavy features.

  ‘So who is she?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’ For a moment he genuinely didn’t know what his friend was talking about.

  Mendel folded his arms and gave him an appraising look.

  ‘I’ve been sitting there for the past half-hour, trying to figure out what’s up with you.’ He glanced down at the chewing gum, then back up at Harland again. ‘You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?’

  Shit.

  ‘What makes you think—’

  But Mendel was smiling broadly now.

  ‘I knew it!’ he grinned. ‘She’s a non-smoker, right? And you’re not exactly carbon neutral.’

  Harland looked down at the incriminating gum packet, then slowly shook his head. There was no point trying to deny it.

  ‘You should be a detective,’ he said with a wry smile.

  ‘Thanks.’ Mendel inclined his head in a mock bow. ‘So you finally started seeing someone?’

  Harland nodded reluctantly.

  ‘That’s great.’ The big man’s face darkened for a moment. ‘It’s not Firth, is it?’

  ‘What? No.’ He’d moved too slowly with Firth.

  ‘Good.’ Mendel looked relieved. ‘It’s not that I’ve anything against Firth – she’s great – but seeing someone from your own nick …?’ A sympathetic smile. ‘Well, you deserve a break, and the last thing you need right now is a complicated relationship.’

  A complicated relationship. But was there any other kind?

  ‘Thank you, Doctor Mendel.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  They went outside and stood on the pavement while Harland took out a cigarette and hunched over to light it.

  ‘So,’ Mendel prompted him, ‘when do I get to meet her?’

  Harland straightened up, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. Mendel and Kim hadn’t exactly hit it off when she came to the station. He decided to ignore the question.

  Mendel’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Do I know her?’ he asked.

  Harland glanced across at him, just a little too quickly.

  ‘Give me a break, James,’ he said. ‘It’s early days yet.’

  A non-committal answer, but Mendel had already noted his reaction.

  ‘Be mysterious then.’ He smiled thoughtfully. ‘Catch you later, Graham.’

  Harland walked across the car park, gazing up at the drab grey building with its huge transmitter tower jutting up against the overcast sky, and wondered why he had been summoned. Had there been some new developments in the investigation? Did they need to speak to him about one of the witnesses he had interviewed? He thought back to the people he had questioned, the faces he had studied, but nothing stood out. Still, he would find out soon enough.

  Pearce was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, a bright smile and an enthusiastic handshake at the ready.

  ‘Graham, good to see you.’ He clapped Harland on the shoulder, then held the door open and gestured for him to go ahead along the corridor. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Good, thanks. You?’

  A weary expression passed over Pearce’s face.

  ‘Could be better,’ he said pointedly. ‘Come on through to my office and we’ll have a chat.’

  They followed the corridor to the far end of the building, where Pearce opened a door and ushered Harland into a small, glass-partitioned room. There were two framed photos of police football teams on top of the filing cabinet, surrounded by a collection of small plastic trophies, and a signed England shirt hung on the wall, mounted in a large box frame.

  ‘Grab a seat, Graham,’ he nodded, walking around to his side of the desk. ‘Sorry, did you want a drink or anything?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Harland said as he sat down.

  ‘Smart move.’ Pea
rce made a face. ‘Between you and me, the coffee isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’

  ‘Better than the instant stuff we have at Portishead.’

  Pearce paused, then smiled to himself as he dropped into his high-backed chair. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands together on the desk.

  ‘And how are things in sleepy old Portishead?’ he grinned.

  ‘Much the same,’ Harland shrugged. Things had been quiet recently, and the job just seemed to be ticking over.

  Pearce waited for a moment, as though expecting him to elaborate, then sat back in his chair. He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something, but appeared to think better of it and smiled to himself instead.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he mused, adopting a more serious tone. ‘Have you seen the paper today?’

  Harland shook his head.

  ‘I do my best to avoid it,’ he said.

  Pearce rolled his eyes.

  ‘Wish I could,’ he grumbled, picking up a newspaper. ‘Listen to this public-spirited piece: “Despite vocal assurances that the Redland murder investigation has been given the highest priority, the uncomfortable truth is that eight weeks have passed without any sign of an arrest …” blah blah “… Following initial speculation surrounding the victim’s husband, Phillip Vaughn, the police now seem to be casting their net ever wider in a desperate effort …” blah blah “… The only thing worse than having no suspects is having one suspect who you know didn’t do it …”’

  Harland stiffened at the phrase, a prickling of suspicion dawning on him, but he said nothing as Pearce read on.

  ‘“… Meanwhile, an official spokesman for Avon and Somerset reiterated their determination to bring the killer to justice, and appealed for anyone with information relevant to the case to call …” Blah blah fucking blah.’

  Shaking his head, he folded the paper and let it fall onto his desk, then gave Harland a weary smile.

  ‘Another helpful article from our old friend Peter Baraclough,’ he sighed. ‘But, contrary to what you may have read, the Redland investigation is ongoing.’

  ‘Anything new?’ Harland asked. ‘Last I heard you were checking stations, looking for the cyclist.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Pearce’s face was grim now. ‘The elusive cyclist.’

  There was a tangible note of pride in the big man’s voice as he described the effort his team had put in over recent days, tracing the passengers, gathering statements, patiently building up a picture of events. It now seemed certain that their suspect had still been on the train at Bath, but nobody from Bradford on Avon or any of the subsequent stations remembered him.

  There was only one stop in between: Avoncliff.

  ‘OK,’ Harland mused. ‘What about CCTV? Any indication where he went next?’

  Pearce shook his head. ‘Avoncliff is a quiet little stop in the middle of nowhere,’ he sighed. ‘It doesn’t have any CCTV. Remember what Thompson said about him never looking up when there were cameras around?’

  Harland nodded slowly. ‘And he chooses to get off at the one station with no CCTV.’

  ‘Exactly. Practically nobody lives round there, and it’s right on the Kennet and Avon Canal – the towpath is crawling with cyclists.’

  ‘Damn.’ Harland slumped back into his chair, lifting a hand to massage the back of his neck. There it was, that same weary frustration he’d felt throughout his pursuit of the Severn Beach murderer the year before – one dead end after another. His thoughts turned to Naysmith, but they were different now, personal, clouded with images of Kim. And she’d been clear when he first asked her – Naysmith was stuck at home that day. Whatever else he’d done, he wasn’t the Redland killer.

  ‘The guy’s a fucking ghost,’ Pearce muttered. He let out a deep sigh, then sat forward and shot Harland a weary grin. ‘Anyway, that’s enough good news. Tell me how you’re getting on in Portishead.’

  Portishead again. Harland lowered his eyes and smiled to himself.

  ‘It’s all right, I suppose. One or two interesting cases.’ He considered his daily routine since he’d been sent back from his period in Bristol. ‘And of course, none of the poor misunderstood kids we round up ever get sent down, so that keeps us busy when they reoffend.’

  ‘Blake treating you well?’

  There was no correct answer to a question like that, so he gave a non-committal shrug.

  Pearce eyed him thoughtfully.

  ‘Ever thought about requesting a transfer?’

  Harland looked up sharply. Was he suggesting a move to Bristol CID? A permanent move?

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, thrown a little by the question, wanting to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood the meaning of it. ‘Why, do you think I’d find a place somewhere else?’

  Pearce gave him a knowing look.

  ‘I reckon you’d be a top acquisition for any team,’ he said carefully.

  Harland sat back in his chair. He’d always expected to move over to Bristol eventually, but he hadn’t really thought about it since Alice died. So much of his life had stopped then – now it seemed that some things were beginning to move again.

  ‘Thanks,’ he managed. ‘I’m not sure what to say …’

  Pearce smiled.

  ‘Obviously, I can’t go poaching from other stations,’ he explained with a mischievous look. ‘That’s not on. I just wanted to make sure you were aware of your options.’

  Harland nodded.

  ‘I appreciate that,’ he said. ‘And I’ll give it some thought.’

  At least he now knew what today’s meeting had really been about.

  He was smiling as he made his way down the stairs, but as he reached the ground floor he paused and frowned. Turning left, he followed the corridor and pushed through the double doors that opened onto the canteen. There were a few people there – unfamiliar faces for the most part – but his eyes soon came to rest on the person he was looking for, and anger surged up through him.

  Striding forward, he approached the solitary figure without a sound, dropping suddenly into the seat opposite him.

  Pope looked up in surprise.

  ‘Oh, hi, Graham—’ he began, but Harland silenced him with a furious gesture and leaned across the table so that their faces were only inches apart.

  ‘I know it was you,’ he hissed. ‘You’re the one who’s been talking to the papers.’

  ‘Eh?’ Pope jerked back in his chair, his puffy face going red. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  Harland’s hand shot forward, seizing Pope’s elbow and dragging him close again.

  ‘Don’t fuck with me,’ he snarled. ‘I know.’

  Pope gaped at him, flustered, blinking rapidly.

  ‘What makes you think—’ he stammered, then flinched as Harland leaned forward again.

  ‘Because you read Phillip Vaughn’s file before the rest of us – you even told me you’d spotted something interesting in there that should help wrap things up quickly – but by the time we saw it, Pearce had done some checking and effectively ruled him out.’ Harland’s eyes blazed with rage. ‘That and the fact that you quoted me word for bloody word to your friend Peter Baraclough.’

  Pope’s bluster seemed to give way and his shoulders sagged.

  ‘He’s not my friend, but I didn’t have any choice.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Harland glared at him.

  ‘He approached me a while back.’ Pope looked up wretchedly. ‘I’d dealt with him before – he actually helped me out a bit on the Shirehampton case – but then he came to me and said that his paper was going to be asking some serious questions about several Bristol CID cases.’

  ‘So what?’ Harland scowled.

  ‘So I didn’t want to see Pearce and the team take a kicking in the media,’ Pope explained. ‘I wanted this transfer for a long time, and when I got here I … well, I just wanted to do my bit to protect the department.’

  Harland stared at him.

  ‘This is how you try to p
rotect the team?’ he hissed. ‘By betraying their confidence to a fucking hack?’

  ‘He just wanted an inside view, so he could understand that we were making progress.’

  ‘And so you gave him Phillip Vaughn.’ Harland shook his head in disgust. ‘So he could see we were making progress.’

  Pope bowed his head.

  ‘It was just a passing comment.’ He spread his hands wide on the table. ‘How was I supposed to know it was going to balloon up into the whole pervy-dentist thing?’

  ‘Because it was obvious!’ Harland slumped back in exasperation. ‘You’ve been played like a bloody idiot!’

  Pope glanced up, his expression fearful.

  ‘Are you going to tell Pearce?’ he whispered.

  Harland looked at him for a long moment. He finally had the little shit right where he wanted him.

  And yet, he felt certain that Pope hadn’t been acting for any personal gain. It had simply been a colossal error of judgement – probably one of many – but a huge mistake nevertheless.

  He leaned forward, his voice low.

  ‘You’ve fucked up …’ he growled.

  A huge mistake, like the one he was making with Kim.

  ‘Don’t fuck up again.’

  Abruptly, he got to his feet and pushed back his chair, then strode wordlessly from the room, leaving Pope to stare after him.

  49

  Thursday, 18 September

  It had been raining all morning – sometimes a drizzle, sometimes a downpour – with grey clouds rolling low over the Portishead rooftops. They sat in the cramped little office, Mendel sipping from a mug of tea while Harland leaned back in his chair, listening to the constant spatter of water leaking from the gutter to hit the window sill behind him.

  ‘So.’ Mendel leaned forward and put his drink on the desk. ‘The trail ends at Avoncliff?’

  ‘Looks that way.’ Harland gave him a dejected nod. ‘A little station in the middle of nowhere, with no CCTV. And right on a bloody cycle route where he’d blend straight in.’