Knife Edge (20 page)

Harland threw away his cigarette and walked over to where Leroy was standing, a wretched figure in the grey morning light, bleary-eyed and thin, with his short blond hair sticking up. He was wearing a red T-shirt and black tracksuit – maybe the same clothes as the night before if they were lucky.

‘Has he been cautioned?’ Harland asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ Josh nodded.

‘Good.’ He turned to Leroy. ‘Bored with starting fires, are we?’

‘Eh?’ The youth eyed him with contempt.

‘You heard me.’ Harland gave him a bleak smile, then leaned in closer. ‘And
don’t
fuck me around.’

He straightened up and shook his head wearily. Josh kept his poker face, but Harland could tell he was enjoying this.

‘You’re going down anyway, Leroy – chucking bricks off a motorway bridge will get you some prison time, guaranteed. But unless you want the full six years for attempted murder, you’d better start giving us some names. Starting with whoever torched those places on St Andrews Road.’

Leroy’s eyes darted from face to face, and though he puffed his chest out in defiance, he suddenly looked very small, and very scared.

Got him.

‘When I get back to the station, you’re going to tell me everything I want to hear, understand?’ He turned to Josh. ‘Put him in the car.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Harland watched as they led Leroy away.

They’d got lucky on this one – he knew that. But with results so hard to come by, he wasn’t complaining. And if this let them clean up the St Andrews Road case too, it might get Blake off his back.

Better late than never.

The road climbed as it wound its way out of the village, and Naysmith had to work hard to propel the bike up the long slope. Soon, the houses gave way to hedgerows and old stone walls, colours and textures that normally blurred past in a car made suddenly sharp. Cresting the rise, he changed gear, the pedals easier now as he rode out into the countryside. The rattle of an approaching train drew his eyes to the right – the railway line had drawn in beside him and he smiled, thinking that he would soon be returning past this point, looking down on the road from a carriage.

Ahead, his view opened out across rolling hills and newly harvested fields. Bales of hay were stacked on the horizon, golden monoliths like standing stones against the skyline. He lifted his head, relishing the breeze that rushed by his ears as he coasted down the hill, leaning in to follow the curve of the tarmac as it swept down below the level of the railway embankment.

A mile or so later, he left the main road, bearing right at a small village, pedalling along a street without pavements, and on through stands of old trees and open green fields. There was a freedom to cycling out here, an enjoyment in escaping the confines of the car, and every so often, as he thought about the day ahead, a surge of adrenalin coursed through his body to strengthen his legs. Away from the main road there was little traffic – few people to remember him, and he’d made sure there was nothing memorable about his appearance. Thatched stone cottages and small, sleepy hamlets slid by as he made his way quietly and swiftly west.

It took about half an hour – slightly longer than he’d planned, but he was in no hurry. The first houses of Tisbury peeped out at him through the trees at the foot of the hill. It wasn’t a big place – a small market town, a name on a signpost some way off the beaten track – but that was just the point. It was quiet, it was out of the way, and it had a station.

He’d spent some time considering how to make his journey. How to reach the centre of a busy city, and get out again, without leaving any trail. In the end, it was Kim who had given him the idea.

‘Rob, I think my car’s due for a service.’ She was reading a letter from the local garage, one of their annual reminders to drum up more business. ‘They can collect it, but I’d need you to give me a lift into Salisbury …’

‘No problem.’ He looked up at her, standing at the kitchen counter, and the thought came to him even as he was speaking. ‘You can use my car if you like, as long as it’s a day when I’m working from home.’

It would be great if he could arrange it. However much he wanted to trust her, he felt uneasy about burdening her with too much knowledge too soon. And this way, she wouldn’t need to know until long after it was all over.

‘You don’t mind?’ Kim asked.

‘Let me check my plans,’ he told her with a smile.

And he had checked. He’d chosen a Monday when he knew she’d be working late, and they’d dropped her car off the night before. This morning, wrapped in a bathrobe, he’d kissed her goodbye at the front door and watched her from the window as she pulled away in his car, indicated left and turned onto the road. Knowing that his mobile phone, switched to silent mode, was safely tucked into the pocket of his jacket in the boot.

No interruptions today, and nothing to track where he was going.

And then the clock was ticking. With everything prepared and Kim on her way to work, Naysmith went upstairs and into his study. From under his desk he drew out the backpack and checked its contents one more time.

Everything was in place.

He nodded to himself and went through to the bedroom, quickly dressing in new, nondescript clothing he’d bought from a supermarket. Jeans and a plain T-shirt, a baggy grey hooded top and cheap trainers – standard lines, sold in every town, unremarkable and untraceable. No jewellery other than the gold chain around his neck, no wallet, just a handful of banknotes jammed down in his pocket.

He was ready.

Scooping up the backpack, he went downstairs and gently nudged the telephone handset so that it was off the hook. Then, turning away from the front door, he went out the back way. Stepping quietly into the small courtyard garden, he locked the back door and slipped the key under a plant pot. Moving to the tiny garden shed, he brought out his bike, checking the tyres again, just as he had done the night before. Then, wheeling the bike over to the high wooden gate that opened onto the lane, he paused to listen.

Nothing.

Calmly, he unlatched the gate and pushed the bike outside, gently shutting the gate behind him. Glancing over his shoulder to ensure that nobody was around, he swung his leg up and coasted quietly down the lane that ran behind the houses, the tick-tick sound of the chain seeming oddly loud in the accusatory village silence.

And now, just half an hour later, he rode down the hill to Tisbury Station. The old red-brick railway buildings stood closed, a backdrop to the self-service ticket machine that had replaced them – ideal for someone keen to preserve his anonymity.

He paid for his ticket in cash, then wheeled the bike onto the single station platform, raising his hood and inclining his head away from the CCTV cameras, whose placement he’d noted on a previous visit.

There were only two other people waiting – an elderly woman with a distant expression and a middle-aged bearded man wearing a battered suit. They both politely ignored him until the train arrived and, when it did, chose other doors to board.

Lifting his bike easily, Naysmith stepped up into the carriage and slotted the bike into the rack. Then, casually rubbing his nose to obscure his face from the train’s interior cameras, he sank into one of the narrow rows of seats and slouched down out of view.

It was only ten minutes or so until he had to change, and he passed the time gazing out of the fingerprint-marked window. Kim would be at work now. How would she react if she knew? Closing his eyes, Naysmith pictured her face, trying to visualise her expression flickering between fear and awe as she saw him for what he really was. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck and smiled to himself.

At Salisbury, he changed trains, boarding the 9.41 to Cardiff Central. He could feel the excitement rising, but it wasn’t time for that yet. Pushing it down, he forced himself to breathe, willed himself to be calm. For now, he had to focus on the task before him – leaving no trail.

He was going to Bristol, but he got off at the earlier station of Bradford on Avon. Even with his other precautions, he couldn’t risk taking the train straight through. Lifting his bike down onto the platform, he made his way beneath the cream-painted ironwork of the shelter, hurried over the footbridge and out into the station car park.

So far, so good.

He mounted his bike and pedalled away, past the old stone buildings, beautiful, sturdy architecture from another time – rural England the way the Americans pictured it. Riding over the railway bridge, he followed the road until he came to the old tavern, where he turned aside onto the canal towpath.

It was flat here and he picked up his pace, ever conscious of the aggressive timetable he was following. Soon, the last of the town’s brown stonework was behind him and he was coasting quickly along, ducking now and again to avoid overhanging branches. At this time, on a weekday morning, there were very few people around. He’d passed one or two elderly dog-walkers near the outskirts of the town but now he was alone – just him and the calm dark water, curving along the side of the valley.

The trees gave way and he emerged into the sunlight for a brief spell, passing a couple of decaying old riverboats encrusted in sickly green moss and abandoned to their overgrown moorings, but there was nobody around – the occupied barges were still some way further on.

And now the trees closed in again. There were no boats here, and little light. Approaching a bend, he took a quick glance back over his shoulder to make sure that nobody was following, then squinted as he checked everything was clear ahead.

Perfect.

Skidding to a halt, he dismounted quickly and wheeled the bike down off the embankment into a dark stand of trees on the slope below the canal. Propping the bike loosely behind a bush, he moved deeper into the tangle of undergrowth until he could no longer see the towpath. There, screened by the foliage, he quickly shrugged off his backpack and took out a pile of folded clothes.

He paused once more, holding his breath as he listened for any warning sound, then began to undress. His T-shirt rode up as he pulled the big hooded top over his head, and he dragged them both off together before undoing the laces on his trainers. He slid his jeans down carefully, making sure that nothing fell from his pockets, then turned and picked up the cycle shorts and stepped into them. The Lycra top felt cold against his skin as he pulled it on before donning the lightweight riding helmet and tinted sunglasses. He laced up his trainers and transferred the money and train tickets from his jeans before finally pulling on the thin black cycling gloves. Then, checking the ground as he went, he gathered up his discarded clothes and folded them neatly into the backpack, which he tucked under a bush where it wouldn’t be found.

Cautiously, he picked his way back up the slope to where his bike was waiting and wheeled it out onto the towpath, glancing quickly each way as he emerged.

Still nobody around. He had chosen the right spot.

And now he set off at speed, eager legs powering him along the narrow track as it followed the gently curving line of the grassy canal bank.

He passed several groups of barges as he approached Avoncliff, some with wisps of pale smoke curling from their stovepipe chimneys, others with their doors flung wide as their occupants bustled around with the tasks of the day. Nobody looked up as he sped by, just another cyclist hurrying along.

He could hear the roar of the weir now, white water foaming noisily away to his right. Passing the lonely stone house on the corner, he swept round by the Cross Guns pub and out onto the huge aqueduct, high above the valley floor. A quick glance at his watch confirmed that he had made good time – he had several minutes to spare – so he allowed himself to slow a little, gazing out over the parapet at the huge weeping willows and the meandering river below. Such a beautiful view – once he’d briefly considered buying a house round here, but decided against it because of the influx of weekend tourists in the summer months. On a day like today, though, it was perfect.

He reached the far side of the aqueduct and dismounted before bumping his bike down a long flight of steps to a tiny station – two narrow platforms hugging the tracks. Leaning his bike against the small wooden shelter, he checked his watch again, then smiled. Everything was going to plan.

The solitary cyclist that boarded the train at Avoncliff was unrecognisable from the man who’d disembarked at Bradford on Avon. Naysmith kept his sunglasses on and his head down as he settled into his seat for the rest of the journey. The carriage was half full, but it grew busier when they stopped at Bath, where a lot of passengers got on; he wedged himself back into a corner, feigning sleep to discourage anyone from sitting next to him or, heaven forbid, trying to engage him in conversation.

Arriving at Bristol Temple Meads, he allowed the other passengers to go first, not getting to his feet until the doors were open and people were spilling out. Retrieving his bike from the rack, he guided it down onto the platform and let the crowd go ahead of him, funnelling down the steps. The underpass was brightly lit, and the smell of baking hung heavy in the warm air as he wheeled his bike between the pasty shop and the coffee kiosk. A passenger lift at the far end allowed him to avoid the CCTV camera above the stairs and a moment later he emerged onto the main platform, where the diesel throb of an InterCity train echoed down from the vast canopy roof.

Pausing at the barriers, he showed his ticket to a red-faced woman, thanking her politely as he passed through. Emerging from the ticket hall into the open air, he looked out at the line of blue taxis waiting on the cobbled station approach, and at the waiting city beyond.

It was time to pay a visit to Mrs Vaughn.

Some of the hills were hard work, but the bike allowed him to cut quickly across the city centre, slipping down the quieter side streets, breaking his trail and avoiding the obvious CCTV traps. Now, as he descended from the heights of Cotham, freewheeling down the hill towards Redland Station, he could feel the adrenalin rising. Nothing was certain – there remained the tantalising possibility that she might live. The street could be busy and, with time still a factor, he would have to abort. Or, more likely, she could have gone out for the day …