Knife Edge (28 page)

She found herself curled up, hugging his pillow, as though it might comfort her.

As though anything could comfort her now.

Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes and dried her tears. She had four days, but she knew that if she didn’t make a start now, she might lose her courage completely. Getting to her feet, Kim looked around the bedroom.

It was time.

She spent the next few hours wandering through the house as though in a waking dream, picking things up, trying to decide whether they mattered or whether they could be discarded. Everything she touched tore at her, stabbing her with guilt – she was a thief, stealing her own possessions.

The wardrobes didn’t upset her as much as she thought they might. She knew she couldn’t take all of her clothes, but perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing. Over the course of the afternoon, she picked out her favourite winter things and stowed them carefully at the bottom of her large suitcase – she wouldn’t need them for a while – and managed to perform a heartbreaking initial triage on her shoes.

She forced herself to keep going, but it was all just too upsetting. And she hadn’t even thought about the more personal things – jewellery, photographs, letters. She bowed her head.

Why did it have to be so hard? Why did things go wrong with everyone she ever cared about?

Stop it!

She couldn’t afford those kinds of thoughts, not now. Taking a deep breath, she got slowly to her feet and went downstairs to make herself a coffee.

Sitting there at the kitchen table, she leaned forward, propping up her forehead with one hand, allowing her mind to wander. Another relationship, another disaster. Why couldn’t things work out for her?

She began to think about putting it off, about giving him time, a chance to change …

But as her fingernail traced out invisible heart shapes on the rough wood of the table, she reminded herself that he couldn’t change the past.

He had killed a woman.

Nothing would alter that. Nothing would bring her back. And nothing could erase that knowledge, or prevent her seeing a murderer when she looked at him.

Opening her eyes, Kim drained her coffee and slowly got to her feet. She knew she had to do this.

She unplugged the phones at the wall and switched off her mobile. Upstairs, she went into Rob’s wardrobe and found the pile of emergency cash that he kept in the house. Folding the wad of notes, she added it to the bulging brown envelope that she had hidden in her bag. She had been quietly withdrawing money for the last few days – on Monday morning, she would go to the bank and empty their joint account. She wondered if he’d understand. It wasn’t about revenge – far from it. She just wanted out –
needed
out – and she knew she wouldn’t be able to escape him without money.

As she closed her bag, she briefly wondered about leaving him a note to explain, to beg him to let her go … but what words could she possibly write to him now?

She sighed and sank down onto the bed. Suddenly, she felt so very tired. Surrendering to it, she gratefully lay back on the duvet and wondered what she was going to do. Whatever happened, this time there would be no coming back.

Harland stood back from the urinal and zipped up his trousers. There was a splutter and a hiss as water flushed down into the white porcelain, filling the bathroom with the caustic smell of citrus and bleach. Behind him, the door opened.

‘All right, Graham.’ Pearce strode across to the urinals and took his place, staring grimly at the tiled wall.

‘Morning, sir.’ Harland leaned over the sink and worked the soap dispenser.

‘You heard? About Reuben
bloody
Cort?’

Pearce sounded angry. Harland glanced across at him.

‘No,’ he said, turning on the tap. ‘What is it?’

Pearce closed his eyes, as though composing himself.

‘Remember there was a gap in his afternoon? A couple of hours when we couldn’t find him?’

‘Yeah.’ Harland nodded.

‘Well, we found him,’ Pearce scowled. ‘Turns out he was busy shagging some young guy in a hotel on Temple Way.’

‘Oh!’ Harland paused, then continued washing his hands. ‘Explains why he was being evasive, I suppose.’

Pearce snorted.

‘I don’t give a toss if he’s a shirtlifter or not. But apparently “some money may have changed hands”, which was why he didn’t feel inclined to tell us.’

Harland shook his head. ‘Charming.’

‘Yeah,’ Pearce grinned. ‘And not really the sort of chat to be having when you’ve got your knob out.’

Harland chuckled, turning away and placing his hands under the dryer.

‘So we’ve got all his time accounted for now?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ Pearce moved across to the sinks, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the dryer. ‘Hotel receptionist remembers him and his little friend, and we’re getting CCTV to confirm. But the stupid bastard’s put us back days chasing his shadow.’

Harland moved aside so that Pearce could dry his hands.

‘So if he’s out of the picture, where does that leave us?’

‘We’re back to the cyclist,’ Pearce shrugged. ‘Michaela reckons she may have a sighting at Temple Meads. It’s not confirmed yet, but she seems pretty sure.’

Harland held the door open as they walked out into the corridor.

‘Well, I suppose that’s something,’ he shrugged. ‘Do we know what train he got on?’

‘Yeah, Michaela figured it out.’ Pearce smiled grimly. ‘Unfortunately, this is where things get harder. She went back to First Great Western about getting CCTV footage from the train, but by the time she got to them it had been deleted …’

He paused, looking out of the window at the Bristol skyline.

‘We’re checking stations along the route, but there are different operating companies and not many keep their footage this long. If our cyclist got off at one of the bigger towns, we might find something, otherwise …’

He sighed, turning back to Harland.

‘Anyway, I just wanted to say it’s been good having you with us.’

Harland looked at him questioningly.

‘Am I going back to Portishead?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ Pearce nodded. ‘Wrap up whatever you’re doing by the end of the day. The boys from MCU are getting involved now. They’ll be following up on the cyclist, so we’ll be standing down our own reinforcements. Sorry I couldn’t keep you longer.’

‘I appreciate that,’ Harland shrugged. ‘It’s been good.’

Pearce clapped him on the shoulder, then started down the corridor. A moment later, he turned and called out.

‘Oh, and do us a favour, Graham?’

‘Sir?’

‘Take that genius Pope with you?’

Harland smiled as Pearce raised a hand in farewell and strode away.

Naysmith couldn’t sleep. Peering uncertainly through the darkness, he squinted to make out the red digits on the bedside alarm clock: 04.53. He turned over for a moment, trying to get comfortable, trying to shut out the steady hum of the hotel air conditioning, but his mind was awake. Sighing, he reached out a searching hand for the lamp switch, shutting his eyes against the sudden glare of the light.

The sheets were tangled around his feet and he threw the covers to one side as he sat up, pushing himself back to lean against the headboard. Yawning, he rubbed his eyes, then stretched. Waking this early was irritating.

He looked at the clock again. What time was it in the UK? Five hours ahead, so it must be almost ten. He picked up his phone from the bedside table and dialled Kim’s mobile number. There was a short delay, then the familiar ring tone, though it sounded quieter, distant. He listened as it rang several times, then clicked and went to voicemail.

Naysmith stared at the handset. Had she just busied him? He scowled and put the phone down, leaning his head right back to gaze up at the ceiling. Maybe she couldn’t talk just now – she’d call him back in a few minutes.

He rubbed his eyes, then leaned across for the remote control, frowning as he studied it, looking for the ‘On’ button. At the foot of the bed, a TV in a large wooden cabinet fizzed into life and he began slowly clicking through the numbers: the hotel’s own channel; a succession of French-language programmes; endless shopping networks … When he finally came across an English-language channel with the morning news, he dropped the remote and watched for a few minutes.

The top story seemed to be the unfolding drama of a library that had flooded – no shootings, no murders, not even a robbery. He thought back to the evening before, when he’d been out for a meal with Pascal, the CTO from Systemiq. Pascal had told him what a wonderfully safe place Montreal was, how it wasn’t like America, how you didn’t have to worry about the person next to you being a killer.

Naysmith had smiled.

His mouth was dry. Yawning, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got to his feet. Interlocking his fingers, he stretched his arms up over his head, glimpsing his naked reflection in the tall mirror, lit by the bedside lamp, seeing the muscles tighten and relax. He felt good. Padding across to the writing desk, he picked up the bottle of water, unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. The carpet was springy under his toes as he moved to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain to look out on the domed cathedral. The early-morning light threw long shadows across the ornate stonework, drawing beautiful lines against a backdrop of monotonous skyscrapers. Steam rose up from vents on the buildings below, and one or two small figures hurried along the pavements, early starters on their way to work.

He let the curtain fall closed, and padded through to the bathroom, where the cold marble tiles chilled his bare feet …

Just like the kitchen floor at home.

He turned and went back to the main room, retrieving his phone from the bedside table. No text messages, no missed calls. He locked the phone and brought it through to the bathroom, placing it on a glass shelf beside the sink.

In the shaving mirror, his own face gazed out at him, sharply magnified. He hesitated, staring at himself in extreme close-up, noticing the faint lines, the glint in his eyes, the doubt.

He scowled, pushed the mirror back towards the wall and went to get dressed. He needed some air.

Emerging from the lift, Naysmith turned right and walked out into the lobby, a broad space of white columns and marble flooring, dark wood and patterned wallpaper – dated but pleasing. Passing between the groups of easy chairs, he made his way to the narrow escalator that led down below street level and then along a thickly carpeted corridor that swallowed his footsteps.

Shining brightly through the glass wall on his left, the harsh lights of the hotel gym left nothing to the imagination – like some hideous porn show where the sweating participants were red-faced businessmen panting together on their cross-trainers. How old were they? Late forties? Fifties? Competing against themselves in a contest they could never win, while real excitement – real challenge – passed them by. He shook his head and walked on, past the hotel boutiques, where the expensive women would come while their husbands recovered from the gym, frowning out through their age-revitalising make-up, bored beyond belief. Easy targets, if he’d been interested.

He pushed through a set of heavy glass doors that led out into the network of underground walkways and shopping malls that ran for miles below Montreal’s streets, insulating people from the weather. It was still early for the malls but another escalator took him down towards the railway station, where the food courts would already be open for the morning commuters. He felt hungry – unsettled and frosty from his disturbed sleep – and allowed the aroma of baking to draw him onwards. Low ceilings and warm lighting gave the place a snug feel, while signs in French described the golden loaves and glistening pastries piled high behind the glass.

He chose a counter that had a long queue of commuters – locals always knew the best places – and waited his turn. When he made it to the till, a pretty black girl smiled at him – ‘
Bonjour
’ – switching seamlessly to English when she heard him speak.

He ordered a Danish and coffee – he needed something to wake him up – and handed over a ten-dollar bill, which was enough to cover the price plus the various unspecified taxes. As he took his change and moved along the counter to wait for his drink, he turned to look back down the passageway. More of the shops were opening now – their owners sliding back the concertina shutters, arranging tables or display stands. And all around him, the steady stream of people emerging from the railway station, phones pressed to their ears.

Naysmith frowned to himself and reached into his jacket to check his phone. Kim still hadn’t called.

It was a thirty-minute journey back to the airport. The taxi driver had dark skin and spoke with an Arab-sounding accent but there were rosary beads hanging from the rear-view mirror. Naysmith watched them swinging as the cab wallowed around the downtown corners – that same soggy ride you felt in American cars – and wondered if the man was Catholic or if he was driving someone else’s taxi.

They emerged from streets of sturdy old stone terraces that huddled about the feet of the skyscrapers and soon hit the dull concrete and asphalt of the highway, the muffled rhythmic bumps marking time on the uneven surface. The back seats were clean and the whole interior smelled of that sickly air-freshener that valet companies used. Naysmith kept his mouth closed and breathed through his nose as he stared out of the window at the railway tracks running alongside, lined with battered cargo wagons and tall boxcars bearing the Union Pacific logo. Vast trucks with polished chrome and elaborate paintwork kept pace on the inside lane until the taxi slowed and cut across to the off-ramp. They were near the airport now, with the telltale scatter of wretched business hotels, grey blocks of misery beneath neon names. Overnight incarceration for those not worthy of a place in the city – for the reps with their samples and their brochures, and their stink of desperation.

It was a flat fare from downtown – thirty-eight dollars – and he handed his last two twenties to the driver before getting out. Extending the handle of his case, he made his way inside the airport and went to check in.