Knife Edge (7 page)

‘I think I forwarded you a report a couple of days ago—’ Harland began. It was tiresome, but without any new leads all he could do was restate the work they’d done so far.

‘I read it,’ Blake interrupted him. ‘I was rather hoping to get an update on what’s been happening since then.’

Harland sank slightly deeper into his chair as his progress so far was swept aside, leaving him with nothing.

‘Well?’ Blake sat back in his chair and stared at them over steepled fingers. ‘Anything new?’

Harland looked down and shook his head.

‘We know the gang that’s doing it,’ he said, speaking slowly, carefully. ‘A group of kids, all local, small-time but nasty. The problem is nailing them with it.’

‘They all swear blind they were together somewhere else.’ Mendel’s deep voice betrayed his frustration. ‘And half of them are underage, which doesn’t help.’

Blake frowned.

‘What about CCTV?’ he asked. ‘There must be
something
usable.’

Harland shook his head. ‘Nothing conclusive. Last place they hit, the tapes went up with the building so that’s no help. And coverage in the surrounding area is patchy to say the least.’

‘There’s too many black spots along that road to get a continuous picture of who goes where,’ Mendel explained.

‘I see,’ Blake scowled. ‘But if we know who’s involved, can we not push one or two of the group to turn the others in? Some of them must have something to lose.’

‘Perhaps,’ Harland said doubtfully. ‘There’s a few slapped wrists and ASBOs among them, but nothing significant, nothing we can really use as leverage …’

Mendel leaned forward, his thick brows knitting together.

‘They’re not afraid of us,’ he rumbled. ‘They’re afraid of grassing, of losing their mates, but they’re not afraid of us.’

Blake considered this, then sat back in his chair.

‘Suggestions?’ he asked.

Harland spread his hands wide.

‘We can run a car up and down St Andrews Road a few times each Friday and Saturday evening,’ he shrugged. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky – catch them at it, or at least put them off.’

Blake stared at him for a moment, then frowned.

‘Very well,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Arrange for a couple of drive-bys over the next two weekends.’

He lifted his jacket from where it had lain folded over the back of a chair and draped it across his arm, then made his way round the table and walked past them, pausing as he got to the door.

‘In the meantime, try and find something on one of these little bastards, anything that will help the case,’ he told them. ‘You’ve got two weeks. After that, I’m kicking it into the long grass.’

He turned and strode out of the room, pulling the door hard shut behind him.

Mendel stood up, one hand massaging the back of his neck as he straightened.

‘Sometimes I bloody love being a copper,’ he growled.

‘It wouldn’t be so bad if we didn’t know who was doing it.’ Harland sighed. He got up and followed the big man over to the door. ‘But unless we manage to trip one of them up, there’s not much we can do.’

Mendel shook his head.

‘I know what I’d like to do,’ he muttered darkly.

‘Yeah, so do I,’ Harland agreed. ‘But that was in the bad old days. Everyone has rights now.’

He put his hand on the doorknob.

‘Besides,’ he added. ‘Blake runs a tight ship.’

Mendel grinned at him.

They wandered out into the corridor and through to the main office, where two of the local constables from their team were studying something on a screen.

‘Gregg. Firth.’ Harland greeted them.

PC Stuart Gregg was a young officer with short blond hair and an easy grin. He’d been lounging back in his chair as he toyed with a pen, but sat up quickly when the two detectives entered the room. By contrast, Sue Firth, although the same rank, was a little older and much more mature. Her straight brown hair was tied back smartly, and she smiled at Harland as he sat down on the corner of Gregg’s desk.

‘Three guesses what Blake wanted to talk about?’ he asked them.

‘The arson attacks, sir?’ Gregg replied.

‘Exactly,’ Harland nodded. ‘So my first question is: did we get hold of the guy who owns that cul-de-sac warehouse yet?’

‘Well …’ Gregg gazed up at him doubtfully. ‘I’ve managed to speak to him, but he seemed a bit … cagey, you know?’

‘Cagey?’ Mendel frowned.

‘A bit evasive about turning over his CCTV tapes,’ Gregg replied.

‘For goodness’ sake.’ Harland shook his head. ‘Did you tell him we’re investigating the arson attack? The one that took place practically next door to his own building?’

‘I mentioned that, yes.’

‘And he wasn’t falling over himself to help?’

‘No, sir.’

Harland looked at Mendel for a moment, then rubbed his eyes wearily before turning back to Gregg.

‘Well, get on to him and mention it again,’ he said, working hard to stay calm. ‘Tell him I don’t care what he’s got in his warehouse, or who’s been in and out of the place. I just want the CCTV footage from the night of the fire.’

‘You’d think he’d be keen to see these idiots locked up,’ Mendel noted. ‘Could easily have been his place that got torched.’

Harland shook his head.

‘Depends what he’s got in his warehouse,’ he mused. ‘Though if it
was
anything dodgy, it’ll be long gone now we’ve spooked him.’

He sighed, then patted Gregg on the shoulder.

‘Just chase him up, OK?’

‘Will do, sir.’

Harland turned and looked at the screen, where a series of suspect mugshots stared out defiantly at him. Young faces, trying to look old.

‘Blake wanted to know if we had anything on any of our fire-starters, anything that might persuade them to talk. I told him they were small-time …’ He trailed off for a moment, his eyes taking in the tough-guy expressions in the photographs.

Perhaps there was another way.

He turned back to the others. ‘Do we know if any of these kids have big brothers or other family members with current form?’

Mendel stared at him then broke into a grin.

‘Lean on the older ones and let them pass it down to the kids?’ He chuckled. ‘What happened to your “bad old days” lecture?’

‘I’m unpredictable,’ Harland winked at him. ‘Anyway, we’re not doing anything wrong. And I’d feel a lot better about doing this than waiting around for them to light up a building that’s got someone inside it.’

‘No argument there,’ Mendel shrugged.

‘So,’ Harland said brightly. ‘Let’s just hope we can turn up a family member who’s on thin ice.’

Firth was leaning over the desk, staring at the mugshots on the screen.

‘Sir?’ she said. ‘I might be wrong, but this kid here … Alex Murphy?’

She pointed to a thin, red-haired youth with watery eyes and prominent ears.

‘Handsome fellow,’ Mendel muttered.

‘Memorable,’ Harland agreed.

‘That’s just it, sir,’ Firth said. ‘I think I arrested his brother last year. Can’t remember what for, but the face is really familiar. I can check up and find out.’

‘Thanks, Sue.’ Harland gave her an approving nod. ‘Start with him, then have a look through the rest of the gang – let’s get a list of relatives with something to lose, you know what sort of thing to look for.’

She smiled at him as he got to his feet, and he found himself thinking back to that evening last year when a group of them had gone down to see some film and he’d somehow wound up walking back to the pub with her, just the two of them. She’d smiled at him that night too, like someone who enjoyed his company …

‘… if you want me to?’ Mendel was speaking to him, waiting for a response.

‘I’m sorry,’ Harland shook his head. ‘What were you asking?’

Mendel gave him an exasperated look, then turned and walked towards the kitchen.

‘Not boring you, am I, Graham?’ he asked as Harland fell in beside him.

‘Just thinking about something.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Mendel glanced back at Firth meaningfully.

‘Look, I’m sorry.’ Harland held up his hands. ‘Now please, what were you asking?’

‘I was saying, do you want me to have a word with Bristol, and see if any of the names strike a chord with them?’

‘Of course,’ Harland told him. ‘Please do.’

Mendel paused as they reached the doorway and turned to face him.

‘You all right?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ Harland shrugged. ‘Just tired.’

Mendel studied him for a moment, then his smile returned.

‘Well, it’s Friday,’ he rumbled. ‘Nice relaxing weekend ahead of you.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Want to grab lunch on Sunday?’ Mendel asked. ‘I’ll let you pay …’

‘If you like,’ Harland replied, then frowned. ‘Actually, no I can’t. Not this Sunday.’

‘Don’t tell me
you’ve
got plans?’

Harland nodded thoughtfully.

‘Really? First time for everything,’ Mendel grinned at him.

But he didn’t push it.

It was a quiet street, on a hill that overlooked the centre of Bath. Harland got out of the car and placed the bottle of wine on the corner of the glass sunroof. He turned his back on the line of smart, terraced houses, absently brushing the shoulders of his jacket as he peered up at the pale sky where the sun was trying to break through. Locking the car, he took the bottle by its neck and walked slowly back along the pavement towards number eleven. No gate, but a tidy front garden with a neat, narrow path leading up to the clean white door.

He knew it was a bad idea – had known it straight away. The last time he’d stood here, Alice had been with him. Had it really been only two years? It seemed like another lifetime.

There were white planters by the step – even their doormat looked clean and brushed. He hesitated, then sighed and rang the bell.

Why had he come? It was nice of them to invite him, of course, but why had he actually come?

He bowed his head and waited, hearing the muffled footsteps approach, the inevitable snap of the latch.

‘Graham!’ Christopher held the door open and beamed at him. He was a slim man with short brown hair that would become curly if allowed to grow, and pale, steady eyes. Dressed in a striped shirt and a light blue V-neck sweater, he appeared cheerful but Harland could read the tells. A little too much enthusiasm in the voice, that touch of determination holding his grin in place.

‘Come in, come in.’ Christopher pulled the door wide, and stepped back.

‘Thanks.’ Harland mumbled a greeting as he stepped across the threshold and back into the past. The door clicked shut behind him as his gaze swept the cream-carpeted hallway, the pastel walls. Familiar things seen through different eyes.

The smell of something cooking teased his nostrils as he handed the bottle to Christopher, then bent over to slip off his shoes, remembering the strict ritual that had appeared with Emily’s expensive new carpets.

‘Much appreciated.’ Christopher hefted the bottle and glanced approvingly at the label. ‘Come on through. Emily’s in the kitchen.’

Harland straightened up, reflexively tensing his toes to grip the springy carpet through his socks, and suddenly felt terribly trapped. Forcing a smile, he followed Christopher along the hallway. Even though he’d never been particularly close to Alice’s brother, their relationship had always been relaxed and easy-going. But now the emptiness she left behind grew suddenly unbearable again, and he was acutely aware of how much his wife had tied their family together.

‘Graham.’ Emily was thirty – pretty, in a formal sort of way. Lustrous dark hair worn in a bob framed a face used to smiling, and naturally long lashes gave her eyes a fascinating quality. Today’s outfit was a simple white silk top and black trousers that showed off her figure – every inch the successful fashion writer. She came around the table to stand in front of him with her arms outstretched. ‘It’s been too long.’

His socks slid on the polished wooden floor as he stepped forward, embracing her awkwardly, aware of her breasts pushed against him, unsure what to do with his hands until he felt hers press on his back in a gesture of compassion. He gave her a gentle squeeze, feeling the warmth in her body, then pulled away.

‘Good to see you, Em. Good to see you.’

Neither of them felt that, but he appreciated the effort they’d gone to.

‘Drink?’ Christopher opened the fridge to reveal a shelf of beer bottles.

‘I could murder one,’ Harland replied.

‘Hey, that’s a bit inappropriate coming from a copper,’ Emily quipped, and they all laughed, grateful for anything that lightened the mood, however briefly.

Christopher poured him a glass and brought it over.

‘Thanks,’ Harland murmured as he looked out at their neat little patio and the tidy little garden beyond it. Everything in perfect order.

Emily’s voice behind him broke his train of thought.

‘Food will be another twenty minutes,’ she said, closing a high cupboard. ‘You boys go through to the living room – I’ll call you when it’s ready.’

Christopher smiled as she shooed them out of the kitchen, gesturing for Harland to go ahead of him.

The living room was bright and comfortable, with plain full-length net curtains diffusing the light from the wide bay windows. The carpet was thicker in here, and he felt his feet sinking into it as he walked across to one of the deep two-seater sofas, each cocooned in fitted linen covers, each with large suede cushions artfully arranged.

A broad fireplace occupied the middle of the long wall, tall bookshelves filling the space on either side of the chimney breast, but Harland’s eye was drawn to the polished wooden mantelpiece, where a collection of framed photos smiled out at him from the past.

There were three pictures of Alice among them – one taken with Christopher and their parents, one with Emily, and one showing all four of them together at a wedding in Scotland. He stared at them for a long moment, then turned away and sat down, achingly aware of the empty seat beside him.

Christopher sank into the opposite sofa, looked at him for a moment, then reached forward and picked up a remote control from the small coffee table.