Knife Edge (13 page)

She still remembered that night, all those years ago. She remembered the bare bulb, hanging by its twisted brown flex, the harsh glare, and the long shadows it cast along the upstairs hallway. Everything had seemed unnaturally still as she walked towards the bathroom – even the TV down in the lounge was silent, as though the whole house was holding its breath. And then a momentary hiss of anger from below, the frustration of someone trying to be quiet, reached her ears and drew her to the landing at the top of the stairs. Reaching out with small hands, she gripped the white-gloss banister struts and leaned forward to rest her head between them, listening.

Her mother’s voice, indistinct snatches of conversation, with the odd loud word punctuating a rapid tirade of low fury. Her father’s voice, harder to discern, as they tried to talk over each other, then descended into angry whispers again.

Kim turned her head so that her ear was between the struts, straining to hear, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. After a moment, she straightened up and started to edge her way down the stairs, one hand sliding fitfully along the banister rail.

Stepping down onto the carpet, she peered around the corner to look along the dark hallway. Her parents never closed the kitchen door properly, but they had this evening – tiny cracks of light bled out from under it. Why had they decided to shut her out?

Fearful but desperate to understand, she crept forward.

The voices were clearer now, harsh words from just a few feet away.

‘That’s crap, John.’ There was disgust in her mother’s tone. ‘The reason you didn’t take the job is because you were afraid you couldn’t hack it. You’ve always been scared of things like that. No courage.’

‘What the bloody hell do you know about it?’ Her father sounded bitter. ‘You know
nothing
about the situation and
nothing
about—’

‘I know one thing,’ her mother cut in. ‘I know I married a bloody coward.’

It was as though the temperature suddenly dropped; the rhythm of their argument faltered.

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘Coward, am I?’ he snarled, his voice rising, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care, her voice shrill, goading.

‘What are you going to do, hit me again?’

Kim flinched, waiting for the explosion, but it didn’t come. There was a long, uneasy silence before her father spoke again.

‘No.’

Her mother started laughing, but it was a humourless, mocking sound. ‘You can’t even—’

‘No! I’ve had it. With you, with everything.’ He sounded horribly calm. ‘It’s over.’

‘What do you mean?’ Her mother wasn’t laughing now.

There was the sound of a chair being scraped back, and shadows shifted in the crack of light under the door.

‘Congratulations.’ The way he spoke was different, unsettling. ‘You’ve won. I’m leaving you.’

Kim stared up at the door, trembling, her small hand pressed flat against the wall. Her father didn’t sound angry any more. He didn’t even sound like her father now – it was as though some part of him had broken inside, and this cold quiet voice was all that was left.

She strained, waiting for something more, something to pull the argument back from the edge, but, when it came again, her mother’s voice was cruel.

‘Good. You can go tonight.’

Kim choked. She began to back away from the door, hand dragging along the wall to steady herself as the tears overtook her. Turning, she stifled a sob and ran up the stairs, almost stumbling as she reached the top, and raced along the landing to burst into her sister’s room.

Sarah was sitting propped up on the bed, her Walkman on and a magazine spread open on her lap. She looked up, startled, as the door flew open.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she frowned, pulling her headphones off. ‘I’ve
told
you to bloody knock.’

‘It’s Mum and Dad.’ Kim gulped down a breath, struggling to get the words out. ‘They’ve had a really bad fight—’

‘I
know
,’ Sarah scowled, holding up her headphones. ‘What do you think these are for, stupid?’

‘No, listen!’ Kim fought down the tears – she needed to tell her sister, needed somebody to tell
her
that it would be all right. ‘It’s different this time. Something’s happened and …’

Her voice broke, and she began to cry again, sobbing the words out.

‘I was downstairs listening and I heard them arguing and Mum said some things and then Dad said …’ She took a breath, rubbing her eyes. ‘He said it was over and he said he was leaving, and Mum said it was good, and he’s going tonight.’

Sarah was staring at the floor, her face ashen.

‘What are we going to do?’ Kim pleaded, stumbling forward, arms outstretched.

Sarah’s head snapped up, her eyes dark and tearful.

‘Get away from me,’ she hissed. ‘Get out!’

Springing off the bed, she pushed Kim’s open arms aside, and bundled her little sister out of her room.

‘Out!’

Forcing her into the hallway with a final shove, she stepped back and jerked her door shut.

The sound of her mother’s voice drifted up from below, yelling out a stream of abuse. Kim rushed forward, turning the handle, pushing on the door, but Sarah was holding it closed from the inside.

Downstairs, the pleading and the cursing grew louder, moving into the hallway, echoing up the stairs. Her mother, bitter and defiant, shrieking out one final insult …

And then the front door slammed, her mother’s voice faltered, and a terrible silence fell over the house.

But that was years ago. Kim blinked away her tears and sniffed. Things were different now. Sarah would understand.

The road curved on ahead of her, the repetitive flash of the white lines oddly soothing. She found that she had no recollection of driving the previous few miles. There was a roundabout ahead, and she slowed as she approached it.

What if she were wrong? What if she were making a huge mistake, one that could cost her everyone she cared about, everyone who cared about her? She didn’t want to be pushed away – not again.

Ahead of her, she could see the exit for Taunton and, further round, one signposted to Bristol.

She needed time to think, and Sarah would be at work anyway.

An impatient horn sounded from a car that had come up behind her, jarring her back to the present. Cursing the driver in her rear-view mirror, Kim pulled forward onto the roundabout. Gripping the wheel fiercely, she drove past the Taunton exit and continued along the main road, putting her foot down as the long straight tarmac opened out in front of her.

Now, an hour away from home, the anguish of that morning seemed hazy, overtaken by the terrible fear of doing the wrong thing. She couldn’t afford to screw this up – she had to be sure.

A sign slid by:
Bristol
32
miles
.

Bristol – where he’d brought her the previous week, where he’d suggested they drive out of town and go for a walk on that bleak stretch of shoreline.

And suddenly, she knew where she was going.

At first she wasn’t certain of the route they’d taken, but she remembered passing under the Clifton Bridge and that was somewhere to start. As she drove beneath it and along the deep cut of the gorge, she wondered why he’d not told her before that it was a woman, why he’d waited to fill in such a crucial detail.

Hadn’t he realised how important it was? No, he was smarter than her. He must have guessed how that would hit her, and tried to cushion the blow by not telling her everything at once. He understood her, and was trying to protect her …

Stop it!

She shook her head and choked down a sob. What was wrong with her?

The road swept her along below a concrete motorway overpass, and she peered out, trying to remember the way they’d come before, trying to distract herself just a little longer.

The houses all looked the same now and she wasn’t sure if she’d taken a wrong turning. Playing fields and garages slid by, but she carried on, reasoning that she would come to the coast at some point.

And then, ahead of her, she saw the windmills – their pale arms rising above the scatter of low buildings, turning against the distant grey clouds. The road brought her to a large roundabout in the shadow of a tall, derelict building that stood stark in her memory. She swept around to the right and drove along the long straight road, fenced in on either side and disturbingly familiar.

Not far now.

There were the factory chimneys, reaching up before her, sighing out their swirling fumes into the overcast sky. The road climbed as it passed over the railway line, revealing the dark swathe of the Severn estuary on her left and the jagged piers of the bridge, rising bone white above the water.

She indicated left at a sign for Severn Beach and drove slowly into the village, trying to recall which street Rob had turned down. A line of trees slid by, small houses and parked cars. The sound of children drew her eye to a school playground that she didn’t remember, though it had been Saturday last time she was here …

And then she saw it – the sign for the railway station. Turning left, she followed the narrow road round. This was the place – she remembered it from the previous visit, the neat little houses with their tiny gardens. There was the entrance to the station, a red sign on a tall pole, the little café and the entrance to the caravan park.

She coasted forward until she came to the end of the road and parked at the foot of the tarmac slope. After a moment, she switched off the engine and sat, staring out through the windscreen.

What was she doing here?

But deep down, she knew.

Opening the door, she got out and locked the car. It felt cold after such a long drive with the heater on full blast, but she hugged herself and walked up towards the promenade, following in her own footsteps, recalling Rob’s words to her. As she crested the rise, the dark water slid into view once again and she stood there, gazing down at the broad beach, just as she had less than a week ago.

What had he done here?

‘You once asked me what it felt like …’

That was what he’d said to her.

‘Imagine it. Imagine how it would feel …’

She stumbled as the images surged into her mind, flashes of red, wide eyes and muffled screams. Her trembling hand gripped the metal railing and she gulped down a deep breath.

‘No!’

It was all too much.

She steadied herself and moved back from the edge of the sea wall, the steep drop and the unsettling expanse of the beach yawning below her. Turning away, she gazed back along the promenade.

An elderly couple were coming towards her, their pace slow, eyes turned out to the water. Kim straightened and walked over to them.

‘Excuse me,’ she asked, forcing her voice to remain calm. ‘Where’s the nearest police station?’

Portishead was only a fifteen-minute drive back down the Severn, but it took her a while to locate the police station. It was a small, ugly building, set back from the road at one end of the main street – the sort of place you didn’t notice unless you were really looking for it.

The officer at the front desk looked at her dubiously when she walked into the reception area, but after listening to her for a moment, and noting down her address, he picked up a phone and spoke in hushed tones – to someone senior, judging by the number of times he said ‘sir’. His eyes never left her the whole time he was on the phone, and when he was done he ushered her into a narrow corridor and showed her to a tiny bare room with a table and four flimsy-looking chairs.

‘Someone will be along to see you in a moment,’ he told her, before closing the door.

There were two letter-box windows set high in one wall, too small for anyone to squeeze through. She sat on her own, staring at the battered old table, its corners worn smooth, wondering what sort of people had sat there before her. Cold fluorescent light glared back up at her from the scratched Formica surface, and she began to shift uncomfortably on her chair, but stopped as the door handle clicked and a broad man in a jacket entered the room, followed by a uniformed officer.

‘Kim Nichols?’

‘Yes.’ She stood up, flinching at the sound as her chair scraped on the floor.

‘Good afternoon,’ the broad man said, extending a large hand. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Mendel and this is PC Jamieson. I understand you have some information for us?’

He sat down and indicated she should do the same.

‘I’m not really sure where to begin …’ Kim said, dropping back into her seat.

‘You told the duty officer that you might have information about a death?’

Kim met his gaze for a moment, then looked down at the table.

‘Yes,’ she said, steeling herself. ‘I don’t have many details, but I think my partner may have …’

This was it – she had to say it, however difficult it felt. The silence swelled, dragging the words from her.

‘… may have killed someone,’ she managed, taking a breath. ‘Here. Or near here.’

She glanced up and found Mendel gazing at her. His expression hadn’t changed.

‘Can you tell me your partner’s name?’ he asked.

‘It’s Rob.’ Kim swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. ‘Robert Naysmith.’

‘And he lives at the same address as you?’

Kim trembled.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I live with him.’

Mendel leaned back in his chair and considered her for a moment.

‘OK,’ he said slowly. ‘And what do you think your partner may have done?’

Kim took a deep breath. She couldn’t stop now.

‘He told me he’d killed someone,’ she said, then added, ‘and I think it was deliberate.’

‘Did he say who he’d killed?’ Mendel asked.

Kim looked away.

‘I’m not sure,’ she replied. ‘A woman … He never told me who it was, just that he had … you know.’

Mendel scratched his chin thoughtfully.

‘Can you remember his exact words?’ he asked.

Kim thought back to their recent walk on the beach, and further back to that moment at the cottage.

‘It was a while ago. I knew he was keeping something from me and I ended up asking him what it was.’ She frowned, trying to recall everything he’d said to her. ‘He told me …’