Knife Edge (17 page)

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.’

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.

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.

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.