Knife Edge (11 page)

‘Who was he?’ She spoke quietly but her words echoed in her head as she stared out across the beach.

Naysmith inclined his head slightly to one side.

‘Who was who?’ He wasn’t going to make it easy for her, but she couldn’t stop now. She bit her lip, and forced herself to say it.

‘The person who you …’ She hesitated. ‘The person who … was here.’

Naysmith stared at her coolly, holding her eyes for a long time without saying anything. She felt the blood draining from her as she realised he wasn’t denying it, that she was right, that it
had
happened here. Then he turned away from her, to gaze out at a line of reeds on the silver mud.

‘Who said it was a “he”?’ he asked softly.

Kim’s stomach lurched.

Without looking at her, he took her hand and led her back towards the car.

He must be asleep by now. Lying on her right side, keeping her body perfectly still, she listened carefully to his breathing, which had settled to a slow, regular rhythm. Facing towards the middle of the bed made her nervous, but if she had turned her back to him he might have fallen asleep with his arm thrown across her, his body spooning hers. This way was better.

Cautiously, she let her eyelids flicker open, just a little at first, as she fought to make sense of the shapes in the darkness. Looking across the soft curve of her pillow, she could make out the side of his head, silhouetted against the faint blue glow from the alarm clock behind him. Unblinking, her gaze bored into the shadow where she knew his eyes must be, searching for a glint, the slightest movement, anything that might indicate he was watching her.

But there was nothing.

As she grew accustomed to the gloom, she began to make out his features, so familiar to her, now so fearfully close. His eyes were definitely shut. She watched them for a moment, afraid that they might snap open, terrified that he might glimpse the doubt in her heart, but he slept on.

Good.

She listened to his breathing for a little longer, then slowly began to roll herself away from him, gradually easing over onto her back, trying not to disturb the duvet as she slid out from under it.

Reaching the point where she had to turn her head away from him, she strained to hear his breathing, measuring out the rhythm, searching for the tiniest change, but it remained steady. Her shoulder emerged from the side of the duvet, followed by one of her legs. She was balanced on the edge of the bed now, but she had to take it slowly, try and position herself without disturbing him.

One leg extended, her questing toes found the floor. She took a second to steady herself, then reached down until her fingertips brushed across the rug. Still his breathing didn’t alter. Up to this point, she could probably have wriggled back under the covers without him noticing, but now she had to complete her move. Slowly inhaling, she held her breath and let her weight shift fully over, dragging her left leg out from under the duvet so that she was kneeling beside the bed.

Listening carefully, she allowed herself to exhale without making a sound. Then, walking her hands back in towards herself, she rose up on her knees and peered across the dim landscape of the bed.

He hadn’t stirred.

Rolling back onto her heels, Kim rose slowly and silently to her feet, unfolding like a pale flower, naked in the dark. Drawing herself up to her full height, she glanced behind her to make sure she wouldn’t stumble, then began to move backwards, balancing on her toes as she edged away from where he lay.

The door was ajar, and she half turned, carefully placing her fingers on the handle and gently drawing it just a little further open. Then, with one glance back towards the bed, she stepped gingerly through the gap and out into the stillness of the landing.

She moved forward slowly, unsteadily, her bare feet testing the floor with each tentative step. Walking with one arm reaching out in front of her, and the other stretched out at her side, she trailed her fingertips along the smooth surface of the wall for balance. She felt the doorway more than saw it, then searched out the door itself and carefully pushed it open.

After the hallway carpet, the tiled bathroom floor chilled the soles of her feet, and she could feel a wave of goosebumps rising on her arms and thighs.

She turned and eased the door shut behind her, holding the handle down so that the latch wouldn’t make any noise, her fingers seeking out the bolt and gently sliding it home. Standing there in the darkness, she let her wide eyes close for a moment, allowed herself to breathe again. Her hand reached up and outward until she felt the thin cord, took hold of it and pulled.

Click.

The room blazed white and she covered her eyes for a moment, giving them a chance to adjust to the glaring light. Slowly parting her fingers, she opened her eyes a little, then moved her hands to hug herself as an uncontrollable shiver ran through her. The bathroom was cold after the warmth of the bed, and her skin felt like stone. Rubbing her arms, she cast around the room, then went over to the towel rail. Mercifully, it was on, and she took the large white towel and wrapped it around her shoulders, surrendering herself to the soothing warmth. Her feet were still freezing, so she padded over and sat down on the toilet, rubbing her toes into the soft carpeted bath mat, respite from the cold floor tiles.

Only now did she dare to think about it. Up until now, she’d pushed it all away, forced herself to concentrate on getting out of the room without waking him, getting some space so she could think. But now she was here, and there was nowhere else to go, no way to avoid it. She let go just a little, and was immediately overwhelmed by a searing glare of nightmare images blazing through her mind, though she shut her eyes tight against them.

Oh God, what had he done?

A woman. He’d killed a woman. All the excuses she’d fabricated, all the lies she’d told herself … everything had been blown away in the sudden icy gale of that revelation, leaving her tattered and alone with the truth. She struggled to rationalise it, to find some justification, but there was none. It couldn’t have been an accident, it simply couldn’t. He’d killed a woman on purpose.

Murder.

It was the first time the word had come to her and somehow that made things worse. Living with a murderer. In love with a murderer. She was so stupid.

She fought them back, but the tears came anyway. Her shoulders began to tremble inside the towel, the first involuntary sobs overtaking her small body. That would have woken him, if she’d stayed in the bed, if she’d let herself think about it as she lay next to him, and how would she have explained herself then? She’d barely made it out of the room in time. How long had she thought she could keep a grip on something like this, something so …

Her imagination tore itself free, running on ahead of her beyond any hope of reining it back in, leading her deeper into the nightmare. Image after image, each more terrifying than the last: red blood on a woman’s pale flesh, eyes rolling back, a host of different deaths. And standing over each one, that same figure, that man whom she had given herself to, his face grim and terrible.

It was too much.

Sagging forward, she wadded up a handful of the towel and pushed it into her mouth, crying into the layered material to deaden the sound, just like she used to do when she was a little girl. She couldn’t help herself, but he mustn’t hear her, mustn’t know what she was thinking.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there.

Sitting up stiffly, she felt exhausted and cold. Her bottom was numb from sitting on the hard wooden toilet seat – she must have been slumped over for a while.

Sniffing softly, she took some tissue from the roll and carefully dabbed her eyes dry. The crisis was past, the swell of panic had crashed over her like a breaking wave and receded. Now she just felt numb, disconnected from her circumstances, as though they were happening to someone else.

Weariness enveloped her like a fog and she yawned as she got slowly to her feet.

For now, she was all cried out. Her emotions wouldn’t betray her.

For now.

She slipped off the towel and draped it back over the rail, shivering as her shroud of body heat evaporated. Then, lifting her chin and trying to affect a calm expression, she moved over to draw back the bolt and open the door. The light clicked off, leaving her blind in the darkness, but she knew the way. Part of her was glad, not wanting to see or be seen, ashamed of her feelings, ashamed of playing her part in a horror she couldn’t understand.

Stretching her hand out in front of her, she tiptoed out onto the landing and walked quietly back to bed.

Naysmith studied an email as he walked up the carpeted steps, then returned the phone to his inside pocket as he pushed the door wide and walked into the reception area.

‘Morning, Amy,’ he said, shifting the strap of his shoulder bag so it wouldn’t crease his jacket. ‘How are you today?’

Amy looked up from behind the large, curved desk and smiled at him. She was in her twenties, plain but professional, always dressed smartly, always courteous. Her straight brown hair was tied back today, which was unusual – he wondered if anyone else had noticed.

‘Good morning, Rob,’ she replied. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

He glanced up at the three clocks on the wall behind her.

‘Are Fraser and Gina in yet?’

‘Gina is. Fraser called to say he was running late but he’ll be here by ten.’

‘No problem,’ he shrugged. ‘I’ve got a few emails to sort through – I’ll grab one of the meeting rooms for now and make a start.’

He put his hand on the internal door, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder.

‘Your hair looks good like that,’ he told her.

Amy beamed at him.

‘Thanks, Rob.’

Fraser was a lean, likeable man in his early fifties, with thinning grey hair and a pointed chin. He put his head around the meeting-room door and gave a small nod of acknowledgement.

‘There you are,’ he said, as though he’d looked everywhere. ‘Amy said I’d find you in here.’

‘Morning, Fraser.’ Naysmith smiled as he got to his feet. ‘Ready to start?’

‘Whenever you are.’ Fraser held the door open for him as he gathered up his open laptop and bag before they walked out between the cubicles and across the main floor of the open-plan office.

‘Sorry about the delay.’ The older man frowned as they approached the boardroom door. ‘Italian sports cars look nice but they can be rather temperamental. Had to borrow Chloe’s Volvo and that lumbered me with doing the school run first.’

‘That’s why I drive a modest German saloon.’

‘That, and because we don’t pay you enough, eh?’ Fraser chuckled.

Naysmith smiled.

That, and the fact he didn’t want a memorable car.

It was important that he not stand out – imagine the risk of making all those journeys to Severn Beach in a Maserati! And it wouldn’t have been nearly so easy to track down vehicles of the same make and model whose registration numbers he could duplicate on his false plates.

They entered the boardroom and Fraser shut the door behind them. Naysmith walked around the long wooden table and drew out one of the high-backed dark leather chairs.

‘Good morning, Gina,’ he smiled as he put his open laptop on the polished surface and slid his bag onto the empty seat next to him. ‘If you’re charged up, can I borrow your power lead? I’ve left mine at home.’

Wearing a tailored pinstripe jacket and with her dark hair styled in a smart bob, Gina glanced up from her own screen. She was a clever woman in her late forties who, along with Fraser, had built the business from the ground up. She regarded Naysmith and offered him a weary look.

‘You can have it for a little while, but I want it back,’ she sighed, unplugging the cable from her laptop and sliding it across to him.

‘For a little while,’ he promised gravely.

There was a brief chiming sound and the large black screen at the far end of the table flickered into life, showing two figures sitting in a bright office by a huge glass window.

‘Good morning.’ The figure on the left of the screen was a tall man in a short-sleeved shirt, with gelled black hair and rimless glasses. He raised his hand in greeting as he settled back into his chair. ‘Good to see you all.’

‘
Morgen
, Andreas,’ Naysmith waved back. ‘Hey there, Christof.’

‘
Hallo
.’ The other figure nodded towards the camera. Christof was younger, in his thirties, with pale blond hair and a tiny beard.

Naysmith leaned over towards the screen.

‘Any chance one of you guys can get me a coffee?’ He grinned. ‘The stuff they have here in Woking is pretty much undrinkable.’

Christof laughed and held up a mug.

‘I let you have some of mine,’ he smiled.

On the screen, Andreas opened up his laptop, then addressed the camera.

‘Well, as you can see it is a beautiful day here in Hamburg,’ he gestured to the window behind him, the familiar office blocks and TV tower on the skyline. ‘How are things over there on the island?’

Gina smiled patiently.

‘Britain is great, thanks.’

Andreas shrugged apologetically.

‘Ah, it is just my little joke,’ he told her.

‘And a German joke is no laughing matter.’ Fraser had a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he looked up from his notebook. ‘So, shall we begin?’

They turned to Gina.

‘OK,’ she said, adopting a no-nonsense tone. ‘First up, I want to know where we are with the Friedman account.’

On screen, Christof’s shoulders sagged and he shook his head slightly.

‘Ah, so we begin with the thing that is not the best.’ Andreas gazed down at the table and nodded.

‘We’ve discussed this several times over the last couple of months,’ Fraser interjected. ‘Is the situation any better?’

‘No.’ Christof shook his head. ‘I would say it’s getting a little bit worse.’