Knife Edge (31 page)

‘And what did he say?’ Harland asked quietly.

‘He said there
was
something, but when I asked him if he would tell me … he just said not yet.’ She frowned, as though upset with herself for allowing that admission to pass unchallenged.

Harland sat back and gazed at her thoughtfully. She had a delicate, vulnerable beauty that he found oddly compelling.

‘What did you think it was?’ A slightly off-centre question, to see how she reacted, to make sure it wasn’t all rehearsed.

‘Money, I suppose.’ She answered without thinking, her eyes gazing into the distance before focusing on Harland, as though noticing him again. ‘At the time I thought maybe he had done something dodgy at work.’

‘What do you mean? Like fraud?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ She shrugged. ‘Kickbacks or something illegal … Back then I never imagined it would be anything so serious.’

Harland paused for a moment, watching her twirling a strand of hair around a slender finger.

‘But later he told you it was something other than kickbacks …?’ he prompted her.

Kim nodded slowly.

‘We were away for a few days,’ she murmured. ‘And he seemed sort of different. Preoccupied.’

‘Yes?’

‘It was as though he needed me to know something, so in the end I asked what the matter was. But he just stood there, watching me …’ She bit her lip, eyes downcast behind long, dark lashes. ‘So I started asking him different questions. Had he done something bad? Had he hurt someone?’

Harland leaned forward, nodding at her to continue, but she didn’t seem to notice.

‘He was staring at me in a really odd way, and I started to get frightened.’ She faltered and looked up, her eyes suddenly bright with tears. ‘So I asked him if he had … killed someone, because I really needed him to tell me that he hadn’t.’

‘But he didn’t deny it.’

‘No, he didn’t.’ She sniffed, as though determined to push through to the end of her recollection. ‘He’s never denied it.’

‘And what did you do?’

Kim bowed her head.

‘I cried. I shouted at him. And he just stood there and took it all.’

‘Why didn’t you call the police? Or just walk out?’

Her head came up quickly and she gave him an agonised stare. But there were no words – she could only shake her head.

‘It’s OK.’ Harland could sense that cracks were beginning to appear in her resolve, and knew he had to keep her talking before she froze up on him.

‘When did you first hear about Severn Beach?’ he asked.

She seemed relieved to move on from the previous question, leaning forward a little, reaching up to place her small hands on the table.

‘He took me there,’ she said after a moment. ‘We’d been in Bristol, and he suggested going for a walk. Then he drove us out to Severn Beach.’

‘And what happened?’

‘We walked along that path – you know the one that runs along the top of the sea wall?’

‘I know it,’ Harland nodded.

‘Well, we were there when he started to talk about how it felt.’ She frowned. ‘I’d asked him, you see – back when he first told me – asked him what it was like. And now he was explaining it, about the sense of power, about being totally in control …’

Harland could see her concentrating, working to replay the scene in her mind. Whether her partner was involved or not,
she
was certainly telling the truth.

‘Go on …’

She closed her eyes for a moment, reciting softly.

‘“Imagine how it would feel, walking along this beach in the first light of dawn, rain clouds rolling in, with that sort of power flowing through you …” It was something like that.’

Harland frowned.

First light of dawn? Rain clouds?
He thought back to the weekend when they’d found the body on the beach.
How did Naysmith know what Vicky Sutherland’s last morning had been like?

‘Did he say anything about the victim?’ he asked.

Kim looked at him, then nodded.

‘I did sort of push him about who it was, but I said “Who was
he
?”’ She lowered her eyes again, reliving it all once more. ‘Rob just smiled and asked me why I thought it was a “he”.’

They sat in the interview room for almost an hour. Apart from the conversations with Kim, there was little to link this Robert Naysmith to the murders from the previous year. He seemed to have no particular connection to Severn Beach or Oxford, or to any of the locations they’d flagged before the investigation was taken away from them. There was no motive. Nothing.

It was true that his work took him all over the country, and allowed him to keep his own hours. But as Harland sat there gently coaxing the words from this frightened woman to build up a picture of Naysmith, he began to see a clever man, a controlling man, a careful man. Someone who wouldn’t make mistakes.

Someone like their killer.

It was a pity about Kim. She really was very attractive, even in the midst of her tears, and it had taken some courage for her to come back to him. He wished he could help her more, but Blake’s instructions had been absolutely clear: the case was now with the Met, and there was to be no further action without the Superintendent’s express permission. Right now, the best thing he could do for her was to let her go home.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked her, closing his notebook.

She nodded mutely, one small hand nervously touching her lips as her eyes glistened with tears once more.

It was so unfair. But he’d have to give it to the Met – they would interview Naysmith and check him out.

Tired now, he pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

‘We’ll look into this,’ he assured her. ‘It’s tied in with an investigation that another division are running, but you’ve got my number, so you can call me if you think of anything else, or if you want to know how things are going.’

He wanted to come across as confident but in his own ears the words sounded lame.

She moved towards the door, then turned to him.

‘You believe me, don’t you?’

He thought of all the polite things he usually said, the carefully non-committal phrases, but her large eyes begged for the truth.

‘Yes,’ he told her simply. ‘I believe you.’

She trembled slightly – was she about to cry again? – then startled him by quickly moving close and throwing her arms around him. For the few seconds that her head was on his shoulder, the scent of her hair took him back, to Sunday mornings in bed, long ago when he wasn’t alone. He stood awkwardly, unsure what to do, then gently let one arm enfold her in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. She felt warm and soft against his body.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered as she pulled away from him. There were new tears in her eyes but also, he thought, a glint of hope. She turned and hurried out of the room.

Harland stepped out and watched her small figure as it disappeared down the corridor.

It was an insistent knock. Not hers. And not the way a neighbour would knock, unless there was some emergency. Frowning, Naysmith stood up from his desk and hurried down the stairs. He opened the front door and stared out at the two men, his pulse quickening as he saw that one of them was a uniformed police officer.

Which made the other one … a detective? He tensed slightly, but fought down the instinct to run. If they had any idea who he was they’d have brought a lot more people. And they wouldn’t have knocked.

Anyway, he’d been careful. He was ready.

Forcing himself to breathe, he regarded the two men and asked, ‘Can I help you?’

‘Robert Naysmith?’

The detective was shorter than him – a dumpy man in his forties, brown hair thinning on top but worn longer and thicker on the sides, presumably to compensate. His suit was the shiny kind of thing you bought from a supermarket, and the shirt looked worn from too many washes.

‘Yes?’ He allowed himself to adopt an expression of concern. Normal people looked concerned when the police came to the door.

‘I’m DI Cadnam and this is PC Barden. Can we have a word?’

‘Of course.’ He stood back and opened the door wider. ‘Come in, please.’

He ushered them into the hallway and closed the door behind them.

‘Can I get either of you a drink? Tea? Coffee?’

‘We’re fine, thanks.’

The uniformed one – Barden – was tall and powerfully built, seeming to fill the hallway. Absently, Naysmith wondered if he would be difficult to take down, or if it was just bulk.

‘Go through to the living room.’ He indicated the door on the left and followed them.

The house seemed very quiet as they walked in, their eyes sweeping the room, cataloguing and searching. As if he would be stupid enough to leave any clues lying around in here. As if he would be stupid enough to leave any clues anywhere.

He gestured towards the sofa and remained on his feet until they sat down, forcing them both to look up at him, just for a moment. Then, conscious of the seriousness of the situation, he dropped into his own armchair and gazed levelly at each of them.

‘So.’ He adopted a business-like tone, as though he was eager to know what brought them here. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘We’re making enquiries about a crime that took place last year in the Bristol area – the murder of a woman.’

They were both watching him carefully, studying him for any reaction that might give something away – he would have to play it just right. DI Cadnam had left a momentary pause to see if he would volunteer something, but if he was innocent he wouldn’t know what they were talking about yet. So he leaned forward and nodded earnestly, waiting to see what they told him next.

Cadnam frowned.

‘In the course of our enquiries, we’ve identified a number of people who may have information that could aid our investigation.’ He paused for impact, then added, ‘Including yourself.’

Naysmith let his face register shock.

‘What are you talking about?’ he protested – a little anger, a little concern, smoothly raising the pitch and volume of his voice. ‘What information? What’s this about?’

‘Please.’ Cadnam was holding up his hands in a calming gesture. ‘We have to speak to any potential witnesses – you never know what will prove important.’

He was doing his best to sound reasonable, and his use of the term
witness
was a deliberate attempt to defuse the situation – or perhaps throw him off guard? Still, Naysmith reasoned, an innocent person would find the word reassuring. Certainly preferable to
suspect
. He leaned back in his armchair and gazed at them warily for a moment, then shook his head.

‘Sorry,’ he frowned. ‘I know you’re only doing your job. What was it you wanted to know?’

Cadnam took out a small notebook and opened it.

‘Can you tell me anything about your movements on Friday the twenty-fifth and Saturday the twenty-sixth of May last year?’ he asked.

Naysmith stared at him blankly.

‘Last year? No idea.’

He waited until the detective was about to speak, then added, ‘I can check my diary if you like?’

Cadnam looked at him.

‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ he nodded.

Naysmith got to his feet.

‘I’ll be right back,’ he told them.

His face displayed concern until he was out of the room, fading to mild annoyance once he was beyond their sight. Walking through to the kitchen, he picked up his laptop from the table, then turned and went back through to the living room, remembering to look anxious as he did so.

Cadnam was eyeing the laptop as he sank down into the armchair again.

‘You keep your diary on there?’ he asked.

‘I have to,’ Naysmith replied. ‘My schedule’s pretty hectic and it varies from week to week.’

He opened the laptop and hit the power button to wake it.

‘I try and keep track of everything on here.’

Cadnam settled back a little into the sofa.

‘What is it that you do exactly?’ he asked.

‘I’m the sales director for Winterhill – a software company in Woking,’ he replied. ‘Not very exciting, I’m afraid, but it pays the bills …’

The nervous banter of a mediocre man.

The laptop chimed its start-up theme and displayed the desktop. Naysmith clicked on his diary icon and looked up.

‘What were those dates again?’ he asked.

‘Friday the twenty-fifth and Saturday the twenty-sixth.’

‘Sorry, which month?’

Cadnam wasn’t going to catch him out like that.

‘May.’ The detective looked mildly irritated now. ‘Last year.’

Naysmith moved his finger across the trackpad and paged back to May.

‘OK, here it is.’ He turned the screen so they could see. ‘Thursday was a sales meeting in Woking, but Friday I was working from home.’

Cadnam leaned forward to peer at the screen, then glanced up.

‘Do you often work from home?’ he asked.

‘Yes. A lot of what I do is calls and emails, so I can do that from here – saves the commute.’

‘And you were alone all day on that Friday?’

Naysmith knew he ought to look worried by that.

‘Well, until Kim came home – my girlfriend … ex-girlfriend now.’ He let them see a flicker of regret that wasn’t entirely feigned. ‘She would have been home around six.’

She hadn’t been of course. That Friday she’d gone to stay with her sister – he’d dropped her at the station before getting ready to travel to Severn Beach – but an innocent man wouldn’t remember one Friday more than a year before, and chances are neither would she.

‘And how about the Saturday?’

The morning he’d killed Vicky Sutherland.

Naysmith spread his hands wide, allowing his demeanour to become a little more agitated. They still hadn’t told him what was going on, and that would be worrying for an ordinary person.

‘I don’t remember. We usually went shopping in Salisbury, or Southampton.’

He shrugged, looking at them for more information.

Cadnam regarded him for a moment, then consulted the notebook.

‘Would you mind checking another date for me, please?’

‘Of course.’ Naysmith frowned. ‘When do you want to know about?’