Eye Contact (23 page)

Not now.

Gulls wheeled around the Arnolfini building as he walked over to the edge of the quay, looking out at the grey-painted cranes across the water. The city felt as though it was waiting for him, but he was at a loss. Everything had been arranged so that he could spend the whole day with Michaela – the cover story, the hotel room, everything. With her out of the picture, he suddenly had time on his hands, and he resented it.

A faint breeze touched the tree-lined waterfront, teasing through the branches so that the leaves rustled for a moment, then fell silent once more. Naysmith found an empty bench and sat down. He could make an excuse and go home, but something warned him against seeing Kim while he felt like this.

A couple of women in their sixties strolled by, towed along by an eager West Highland terrier on a long lead. One of them was pointing at something further up the street and he leaned forward to see what it was. There was a white police van there, parked by the main road, and he could just make out a couple of officers talking to a group of kids. He got to his feet and wandered towards them, but as he drew near, the group dispersed and the officers returned to their van. He watched it as it pulled around, noting the insignia as it drove past him.

Avon and Somerset Constabulary.

And suddenly he remembered that haunted face on the TV, the detective on the crime programme with the Severn Beach reconstruction. DI Harland from Avon and Somerset Constabulary. Yes, that was it.

Perhaps fate had brought him to Bristol for a reason after all.

The nearest police station to Severn Beach was at Portishead. Naysmith had looked up the address – it was only ten miles away, and he thought it might be an interesting diversion, or at least give him time to think.

Now he was parked in a quiet residential street, an open newspaper propped up on the steering wheel in front of him, but his eyes focused always on the police station a hundred yards further down at the bottom of the road – two storeys of uninspiring beige plaster and brick, tucked in behind a low wall. The entrance porch, decorated with crime prevention posters and overhung by a couple of broad trees, was clearly visible from his vantage point. Why were so many small-town civic buildings so ugly?

He’d experienced an odd thrill driving out here. The sight of the Second Severn Crossing, delicate and pale in the distance as he’d come over the hill from Bristol, had sent a shiver of excitement through him, dispelling the angst from earlier. The last time he’d seen it had been that early morning on the beach . . .

Portishead was a bleak place on an overcast day like this, its huddle of Victorian architecture and desolate sixties shops besieged by a vast sprawl of new developments. Bland industrial units, a generic retail park, a host of waterfront apartment complexes – everything seemed grey, even the people.

He sat back in his seat and rubbed his eyes for a moment. It had been a late night, but his mind was alert. DI Harland could be in there right now, just a stone’s throw from where he was sitting. The idea pleased him.

He checked his watch again. It was 12.50 p.m., which meant he’d been sitting here for nearly an hour with no activity except one uniformed officer who’d emerged and driven off in a panda car. And yet somehow it didn’t matter. The fact that this detective – this man who was hunting him – might be so close was enough.

Smiling to himself, he leaned forward and switched on the radio for some music. He would give it another hour.

The street was quiet. One or two cars had turned in from the main road, disappearing up the hill behind him, and an elderly man shuffled down from a house further up on the opposite side. Naysmith watched his progress in the mirror, fascinated by the agonisingly slow pace, willing him along. Eventually, though, the stooped pensioner passed out of sight at the bottom of the road, and there was nothing to watch but the rhythmic swaying of the trees above the police station porch.

Patience was part of the game, bargaining with yourself to sit still for sixty seconds, then another sixty, and another . . . until you’d burned away five minutes. Same again, and ten minutes were gone, then quarter of an hour. He turned the radio down and focused on the memory of that gaunt man, recalling the troubled expression he’d seen on the screen.

And then, moments later, it was all he could do not to lean forward. The door had opened and two men emerged, both wearing dark grey suits. One of them was broad, tough-looking, with a square jaw and short hair, but it was the other man who held Naysmith’s attention.

There was no mistaking that gaunt figure, that pale, drawn face. It was Harland. Naysmith exhaled, watching as the men walked out of the porch and turned away from the car park, out onto the pavement. For a heart-stopping moment he thought they might come this way, but they went down towards the main road. Where were they going?

Naysmith considered starting the engine, then decided against it. Moving quickly, he got out of the car and locked it. Folding the newspaper under his arm, he hurried towards the police station.

When he reached the junction, they had already crossed the main road, but that was fine. He preferred following people from the other side of the street, especially when it was quiet like this. They were talking as they went – the broad one was saying something and Harland was nodding – but it was too far away for him to hear what was said.

Naysmith walked carefully, measuring his pace to stay a little behind them, out of their field of vision. They were approaching a busy junction – they’d need to wait if they wanted to cross there. He took a moment to study the menu in the window of an Italian restaurant, watching the reflection in the glass to see when they’d made it over the road. Resuming his walk, he quickened his pace a little to catch up with them, a thoughtful smile on his face. How strange to be stalking someone who was hunting him.

There was a large, whitewashed pub on the corner. Harland and his companion went inside, still locked in conversation. A lunchtime pint for the boys in blue. Naysmith walked on for a short distance, pausing as if to browse in a travel agent’s window.

It was so tempting, and there was really no reason why he shouldn’t. They didn’t know who he was, didn’t know anything about him. And he’d got this close already . . . why shouldn’t he go in for a quick drink himself? He turned around and looked at the pub for a moment, then drew himself up with a deep breath.

There was nothing he couldn’t do.

Spotting a gap in the traffic, he walked briskly across the road and went inside. It was an old pub, with low ceilings and dark wood everywhere. Light from the small windows cut harsh swathes through the gloom, making it difficult to see. He blinked and walked towards the bar, forcing himself to wait, not to look around, not yet. Just an ordinary guy having a drink.

‘Yes, sir?’ The barman was in his twenties, with lank hair and an indifferent manner.

‘A pint of Stella, please.’ He wanted something that would take a moment or two to pour, something that would give him time to see where they were.

Leaning up against the bar, he glanced around idly. He was careful not to react as he spotted Harland and his friend at a table in the corner, instead picking up a lunch menu to read until the barman returned with his drink.

There was an empty table halfway between them and the door. Walking calmly, he made his way over to it, placing his glass on a beer mat before sitting down and opening his newspaper.

And listening.

‘. . . don’t reckon they’ll do anything. Not really. You know how it works – there’ll be a lot of noise for a week or so then it’ll all be back to normal.’

The broad man had a rich voice, and a slight London accent. Another officer, no doubt.

‘You’re assuming that he’ll let it go.’

There it was, that same melancholy tone from the TV. Naysmith closed his eyes and focused all his attention on their conversation.

‘And you’re assuming he won’t,’ the broad man replied. ‘Come on, even an idiot like Pope knows there’s a line you don’t cross.’

‘I think you underestimate him,’ Harland replied. ‘I think there are very few lines that little shit wouldn’t cross if it suited him.’

The conversation ceased for a moment. Naysmith opened his eyes and took a sip of his drink before turning the newspaper to stare blankly at the back page. He was glad he’d brought the paper with him – props like that hid a lot of body language, made it easier not to attract attention.

‘Look at it another way then.’ That resonant London voice again. ‘There’s nothing you can do about it now, so there’s no point in worrying about it.’

A pause, then a soft chuckle from Harland.

‘You’re a great comfort, Mendel.’

Mendel
. Naysmith noted the name, wondering who was subordinate to whom, or if they were both of equal rank.

A pair of men in grey overalls came over and sat down at the table between them. Their voices were loud and Naysmith was unable to hear anything further that Harland and Mendel said. But it didn’t matter. He’d sat just feet from his adversary, close enough to hear him speak. It had been a thrilling and unexpected encounter.

He idly flipped through the pages of his paper, skimming the headlines for a moment before casually glancing across towards the corner as a mobile phone rang. Harland was fumbling in his pocket – someone was calling him. Naysmith smiled and returned his gaze to the paper. No rest for the wicked, not even at lunchtime.

He reached out a hand to take his glass when a raised voice caused him to look round.

‘Absolutely not!’ It was Harland, but this was a cold snarl that didn’t seem to fit with the man. ‘I don’t care, you just tell him to wait until . . . oh for fuck’s sake, I’ll do it myself.’

Naysmith watched as he slammed the phone on the table and muttered something to Mendel, who shook his head and put a hand on Harland’s shoulder. But the pale detective pulled away, jerking to his feet and knocking the table. A glass tipped over, spilling a puddle of beer that began to trickle onto the floor. Eyes flashing angrily, Harland wrenched himself away, knocking his chair to one side, and stormed out of the door. Mendel got wearily to his feet and went after him.

Naysmith sat for a moment, taken aback. What had just happened? What had made Harland so angry? Clearly there was an aspect to his adversary that he hadn’t anticipated.

He considered his drink, but decided to leave it. There was no reason to stay any longer and he was suddenly eager to be away from here, away from the police station, away from Portishead. He stood up, put his paper in his pocket, and walked to the door.

And then, as the door swung open before him and the bright daylight streamed through, he recognised the figure coming back in, and froze.

Shit!

Harland held the door open and stared right at him.

An irrational urge to run, to push past him and run, screamed in Naysmith’s head as the hollow eyes bored into him. It had been folly – arrogance and folly – to come here and now he was caught in the glare of the man who hunted him.

But Harland just scowled and tilted his head.

‘After you.’

The voice seemed to come from a long way away, and his legs were suddenly numb, but Naysmith forced himself to move, stepping slowly past through the doorway and almost stumbling out into the cold afternoon air.

Harland went inside, and the door closed behind him.

Harland barged through the door and out into the cold daylight. He couldn’t even have a quick lunchtime drink without someone screwing things up and dragging him back to the damn station. Josh knew better than to get himself caught up in conversations with Blake, letting goodness knows what slip out, but that was exactly what had happened. Why couldn’t people just do as they were bloody told?

He paused for a moment, one hand rising to massage his temple, catching his breath.

Slow down and think.
It was happening again, and he couldn’t afford a repeat of yesterday’s performance. His hand went to his jacket pocket, searching for his phone, but it wasn’t there. Frowning, he patted his other pockets, then turned to see Mendel emerging from the pub behind him, a concerned expression on his face.

‘Don’t worry,’ Harland said, hands raised in mock surrender, ‘I’m not going to do anything silly. I’ll wait till I’ve calmed down before I speak to anyone.’

Mendel gave him a speculative look.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Because I’m not buying you any more damn mugs if you break that new one.’

Despite himself, Harland smiled, and the anger seemed to lift a little.

‘On you go back to the station,’ he said. ‘I think I left my phone in there.’

He patted Mendel awkwardly on the shoulder, then quickly turned and walked back towards the pub. Where would he have been without the big man’s support?

Stepping into the doorway, he reached for the handle and pulled the door open just as someone was coming out.

The stranger hesitated in front of him, tall and slim, well dressed with short, dark hair. Harland glanced at him and paused. Something about the man’s expression annoyed him – that same fearful look he’d glimpsed on Josh’s face when he’d snapped at Pope yesterday. What did other people see in him that was so disturbing?

He scowled to himself, then moved aside to let the man pass.

‘After you,’ he murmured.

The man stood still for a second before pushing hurriedly past him, out into the car park. Harland glanced over his shoulder, and went inside.

His phone was there, lying on the table where he’d left it. Walking over, he reached out to pick it up, then stopped.

Mobile phone.

He would need to check, but he felt certain there’d been no mobile phone listed in the personal effects of the Hampshire murder victim. Filled with a new sense of urgency, Harland turned and hurried back to the station.

‘Come in, Graham. Take a seat.’

Safe behind his desk, Blake pointedly closed the folder he had been studying. There was the customary polite smile but his eyes were alert, watchful.