Eye Contact (21 page)

As soon as he said it, he knew he’d lost the argument.

So damn stupid.

Blake regarded him calmly for a moment – a figure of patience considering the outburst of a child – then sighed.

‘I’m not completely new to this case, Graham,’ he said, pointedly. ‘I do read your reports, and I understand – and
appreciate
– the considerable effort that the team have put into this.’

He paused until it was clear that there would be no further challenges, then continued.

‘Sadly, I don’t have unlimited resources, and there are other cases that will need our attention as time goes on.’

‘Sir?’ Mendel’s face was serious, clearly worried that they were about to be shut down.

Blake held up a calming hand.

‘All I’m saying is that we may need to consider how we prioritise things over the coming weeks.’ His voice was measured now, reasonable. ‘A good general fights the battles he knows he can win, but I do feel we may need something more to go on if we’re to tip the balance on this one.’

He looked around the table, a firm gaze at each one of them.

‘We’ll see how things go over the next week or so. I understand there are still some enquiries to be chased down, so let’s see if anything new emerges before I speak to the boys in Hampshire. But whatever happens, I want you all to know that you’ve done some excellent work on this. I’m proud that Avon and Somerset were the ones who first spotted what was going on in these unsolved killings.’

Already talking about the case in the past tense.

Harland bowed his head, numb with anger and frustrated at his own stupidity.

Only Pope looked satisfied as Blake left the room.

‘Won’t be a moment, sir.’ Josh looked up from where he was rinsing out the kettle.

‘Take your time,’ Harland murmured, slowing as he entered the kitchen and turning to lean against the wall. Rubbing his temple, he let his head roll back and stared up at the fluorescent light, listening to the rush of water from the tap and the click of the kettle switch being pressed down. Sighing, he pushed himself away from the wall and moved over to the sink to empty the dregs from his mug.

‘Josh?’ It was Firth, leaning on the door frame, peering in. ‘Still on for tonight?’

Josh turned to her, confused.

‘What do you mean?’ he replied. ‘I thought you said it was tomorrow?’

‘No . . .’ Firth straightened, an edge of annoyance creeping into her voice. ‘It’s tonight. I made a point of reminding you.’

Josh frowned, then looked down. ‘Damn.’

‘So?’ She leaned forward, not allowing him to avoid her gaze. ‘Are you coming or not?’

‘Can’t,’ Josh shrugged. ‘I promised Mary I’d take her to that Thekla place tonight. I could have sworn you said the film was tomorrow.’

Firth sighed and shot him a withering look.

‘Heaven help us if you ever make detective, Josh.’

Harland smiled despite himself. He turned round, putting his back to the sink. Firth caught his eye and her expression softened.

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Don’t be.’ He moved over and patted Josh on the shoulder. ‘Some people take a while to make detective . . .’ a flicker of a grin ‘. . . others take a while to make tea, right, Josh?’

The young officer looked up at him warily and nodded.

‘Yes, sir,’ he murmured.

Firth took a step backwards, then hesitated and looked thoughtfully at Harland.

‘A few of us are going to the Watershed this evening,’ she said. ‘They’re doing a special showing of
Dirty Harry
, and there’s a spare ticket if you’re interested?’

Harland leaned back against the countertop.

Thanks, but . . .

He was going to say no, that same automatic response that insulated him from all the other social situations he could no longer face, but something in her look stopped him.

The simple, friendly offer of an evening out – the sort of thing
normal
people did.

‘Sir?’ Firth raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘Well . . .’ His thoughts flitted briefly to the empty house that lay waiting for him. ‘If you’re sure it’s okay.’

‘Great!’ Her face brightened. ‘The film starts at seven forty-five and we’ll be meeting around seven at the Pitcher & Piano – you know where it is?’

Ten minutes’ walk from where he lived.

‘Yeah,’ he nodded, ‘I know it.’

‘Brilliant. See you there then.’

She turned and almost bumped into Mendel, who had appeared behind her.

‘After you.’ The big man held up his hands, moving aside with a theatrical flourish to let her through.

‘Sorry sir, thanks.’

Mendel waited until she had passed before moving calmly over to the sink and lifting the kettle briefly to feel its weight. Satisfied there would be enough for the three of them, he nodded approvingly to Josh, then looked across at Harland and frowned in puzzlement.

‘What on earth are you smiling about?’ he asked.

It was cold when they emerged from the small cinema, shuffling out into the darkness to stand on the covered waterfront walkway as the rest of the audience streamed past them. Lights twinkled on the water while Harland fumbled in his pocket for cigarettes.

‘So,’ Gregg looked at his watch, ‘it’s quarter to ten. Shall we grab a beer somewhere?’

‘Not here.’ Jamieson, a stocky young sergeant whom they knew from the Southmead station, cast an unhappy glance at the crowded bar behind them. ‘I don’t want to be stood around queuing all night.’

‘What about The Ostrich?’ His girlfriend, Kirstie, was a PCSO with wavy red hair and a strong Bristol accent. ‘It’s not far and it’ll be a lot quieter.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Gregg nodded. ‘Come on.’

He turned and began to lead the way between the knots of people and the packed bar-front tables.

Harland paused, struggling to light a cigarette in the swirling breeze that blew in off the water, scowling as the flame danced away from the tobacco. While the others started along the quayside, Firth hung back a little, watching with growing amusement as he turned this way and that, pulling his jacket taut like a cloak against the wind.

‘Are you okay there?’ She looked different out of uniform, with her leather jacket and faded jeans. There was writing on her T-shirt – something French that he couldn’t quite make out.

‘It isn’t easy being a smoker these days,’ he sighed. Shielding the cigarette with his hands, he clicked the lighter once, twice, then finally lit up on the third attempt. ‘See what I mean?’

She grinned and fell in beside him as they started walking after the others.

‘I love that place,’ she said, gazing out between the metal pillars and across the rippling gloom of the harbour basin. ‘They show all kinds of cool films you wouldn’t normally get to see on the big screen.’

‘I know,’ Harland agreed. ‘I used to be a member there. Haven’t been for a year or so, but I always enjoyed coming. It’s a more relaxed atmosphere than you get in the big multiplexes.’

They turned left and strolled slowly out onto the sweeping metal lines of Pero’s Bridge, the noise of their footsteps echoing out across the dark water below them.

Firth walked with her head inclined to one side, and turned to glance back towards the cinema.

‘Do you know what?’ she mused. ‘I think that’s the first time I’ve watched that film all the way through.’

Harland slowed and peered at her doubtfully.

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Seriously.’ She had turned back to him now. ‘I recognised a lot of it, but I hadn’t seen all that stuff with the ransom bag, or the bit where he tortures the guy in the football stadium.’

Harland chuckled to himself as they came down off the bridge and onto the cobbled pavement, following it around the Arnolfini building.

‘So,’ he asked her, as they wandered under the glare of the street lights and across the narrow roadway of the Prince Street bridge, ‘now that you’ve seen it right through, what did you think?’

Firth gazed up at the old-harbour cranes lining the quayside ahead of them.

‘I love that whole seventies vibe,’ she smiled. ‘Clint Eastwood was so cool, and didn’t he have amazing hair?’

Harland ran an involuntary hand across his scalp and shook his head.

‘I think I’d rather have his sunglasses,’ he replied.

They crossed the road and walked along the cobbled waterfront – luxury apartments and young trees on one side, old boats creaking against their moorings on the other. Ahead of them, the others seemed to have slowed down a little. Gregg, glancing back over his shoulder, noticed them and beckoned them on.

‘Keep up,’ he called.

Firth raised her hand in polite acknowledgement but made no attempt to hurry.

‘Let
them
queue up to get served,’ she laughed under her breath.

One last footbridge carried them across a narrow channel to The Ostrich, a grand old three-storey inn that stood alone on an exposed corner of the quayside. Bench tables filled the space between the building and the water, most of them occupied, all lit by the bright warm glow of the pub.

A young couple scampered towards them in a tumble of laughter and echoing footsteps. The girl ran with abandon, long hair swishing from side to side as she dragged her boyfriend along by the hand.

‘Sorry guys.’ The slender young man smiled apologetically as he jostled past before being pulled away along the shadowed quay.

Firth shook her head, watching them go.

‘Funny how differently people treat you when you’re not in uniform,’ she smiled.

Harland nodded thoughtfully. Firth was wearing make-up. He’d not noticed it before.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘let’s get inside before Gregg buys his round.’

Harland began to move, then hesitated, staring up at the illuminated windows.

‘Actually,’ he said slowly, ‘I think maybe I’m going to call it a night.’

Firth turned and gazed at him.

‘Oh, I’m sorry; are you on early shift tomorrow?’

Harland met her eyes for a moment, then looked down.

‘No . . .’ He suddenly felt a cool shiver of guilt.

Enjoying himself, forgetting, letting his guard slip . . .

He forced himself to look up at her. ‘I’m just tired.’

She studied him as they stood there under the light of a street lamp.

‘Are you sure? More than happy for you to join us . . .’

He looked at her and shook his head.

‘It was really good of you to invite me. I enjoyed it.’

‘I’m glad you came.’ She offered him a brief smile. ‘’Night . . . sir.’

‘’Night.’

He watched her push through the doorway into the laughter and murmuring voices of the pub, then turned his back on the glaring lights and walked away, following his long shadow over the cobblestones.

It was becoming intolerable. No matter what he did, Harland could feel the sand draining from the hourglass. In the days since the Superintendent’s veiled ultimatum, they’d gone over things again and again, but turning up leads wasn’t something you could hurry. The momentum was slipping away, and it wouldn’t be long before Blake would smoothly pass the buck to Hampshire and quietly reassign everyone.

They needed something tangible, something to keep the investigation alive, but this killer wasn’t stupid. He didn’t seem to have made any mistakes at all – there was nothing but a single souvenir connecting one victim to the next.

Harland considered this as he walked into the station kitchen, mug in hand. He switched on the kettle, then paused.

Those souvenirs weren’t mistakes, they were deliberate. Some killers were compelled to take things from their victims as mementos, or trophies. But this one wasn’t keeping his souvenirs. They were subtle markers – the faint initials of the artist on the back of a painting – just enough to prove whose work it was if you knew what you were looking for, nothing more. Their presence spoke of arrogance, a desire for recognition, but tempered by caution and an absolute determination not to be caught.

Pouring water into his mug, Harland shook his head. Real mistakes, if any ever came, would be few and far between. Unless they were focused –
properly
focused on the case – they wouldn’t spot them.

He took a spoon from the cutlery drawer and slammed it shut hard.

So frustrating . . .

The worst part was that it didn’t have to be this way. But politics and sheer bloody incompetence would drag them down, no matter how desperately they wanted a result. Blake was certainly a glory hunter, but he was much more interested in avoiding any negative PR. Pope was an idiot who would take the shortest route he could to suck up to the Superintendent, neither of them knowing or caring who he trampled over on the way. Between the two of them, what chance did he have?

Bastards.

He stirred his drink and tossed the spoon, clattering, into the sink.

And it wasn’t just Pope who’d acted incompetently. He shook his head as he remembered his own outburst in the meeting, how he’d taken his chance to reason with Blake and thrown it away.

No, it didn’t have to be this way . . . but it would be. They were just going through the motions until the whole thing was shut down.

He took a breath, then picked up his coffee and turned back towards his office. He needed a moment to think, time to clear his head. Rounding the corner into the corridor, he moved slowly, as though in a daze.

Laughter.
Pope was leaning in the meeting-room doorway, smiling broadly, that irritating laugh echoing along the corridor. The smug little toad was sniggering about something as his head tilted round and their eyes met.

Harland hated him.

That pudgy, leering face and that smug grin. What was so bloody funny? The clock was ticking and all he could do was prop up a wall . . .

As they drew level, Pope nodded at him, then turned back to Josh who was coming out of the meeting room.

‘Run out of work, Pope?’ The words were out of Harland’s mouth before he could stop them, but it was a reasonable thing to say, wasn’t it? For some reason, Josh had taken one look at him then anxiously moved away, hurrying down the corridor.