Knife Edge

4.14 P.M.

Kenneth Baxter stood with the phone pressed to his ear.

Despite the fact that the line had gone dead he still kept the receiver there, as if the dormant device was suddenly going to spring into life once again.

Then finally, slowly, he dropped it back on to the cradle.

As he did so he checked his watch.

The clock on the mantelpiece showed a different hour.

The same hour it always showed.

It had belonged to his mother. One of the few things he'd claimed when she died. The clock hadn't worked since. Baxter wasn't even sure if it had ever worked. It was what was affectionately known in families as an heirloom. In other words it was a piece of old junk which successive generations had tried to sell, found out was worthless and clung to because I hey had nowhere else to hide it away.

So it was with the clock.

It looked strangely incongruous on the mantelpiece. A relic of a bygone age. At odds with the more modern furniture and decoration in the rest of the place.

Antique clocks didn't usually sit well with Ikea and MFI furniture.

Baxter made his way to the bathroom, spun the cold tap and splashed his face with water, gazing at his reflection as he straightened up.

He looked dark beneath the eyes, as if he were in need of some sleep.

He'd napped for an hour or so earlier in the day, not long after returning from New Scotland Yard, and it had revived him somewhat. The cold water against his flesh seemed to complete the job.

Through the open window he heard a train.

His home in Newham was close to West Ham station, and on the still air, he could hear the rumble of another tube as it passed through.

The sound competed with some noise coming from the recreation ground close by.

Kids probably, Baxter thought. Skiving.

He checked his watch again.

No. School was closed for the day. They were entitled to be there.

He remembered where he should be and pulled on a denim shirt, slipping it over his T-shirt, the tails flapping as he walked.

Baxter dropped a packet of cigarettes into one top pocket and his front door key into the other as he headed out.

The voice he'd heard on the other end of the…

'Not bad,' said PC Mark Hagan, studying the photo of Julie Neville approvingly.

It was a monochrome snap. Taken on holiday, he guessed.

Julie was smiling into the camera, seated on a blanket spread out on the ground, slender legs drawn up beneath her.

Beside him in the passenger seat his companion, younger by a year, PC Rob Wells glanced across at the photo then back at the two which he himself held.

One was of Neville.

The other of Lisa.

The two policemen had already studied the pictures Christ alone knew how many times that day.

Mind you, it gave them something to do while they sat in the unmarked car about twenty yards from Kenneth Baxter's house.

Both men were dressed in jeans, Hagan wore a faded blue shirt, Wells a T-shirt which bore the legend: all this and money too.

He put one foot up on the dashboard and started flicking idly at the laces of his trainers.

Around his feet lay a couple of discarded Styrofoam cups and a McDonald's bag stuffed with empty quarterpounder cartons and soiled napkins.

The car could do with a good clean on the outside too, Hagan mused, noticing the thin layer of grime covering the bonnet. Also there was a huge streak of bird shit on the windscreen. He thought about flicking on the wipers to dislodge it but then decided against it.

'It's a pity we're not watching sortie bird, isn't it?' Wells said.

'What?' Hagan murmured.

'This stakeout stuff.'

Hagan smiled.

'You've been watching too many bloody American cop shows,' he said, flipping open the glove compartment and pulling out the packet of wine gums inside. 'Stakeout.' He grunted.

'Well, that's what it is, isn't it?' Wells protested. 'We've been sitting watching Baxter's place for the last three hours.'

'It's not a stakeout, it's surveillance,' Hagan reminded him.

'Stakeout sounds better though, doesn't it? It sounds more exciting.'

'I suppose so,' Hagan said, offering the wine gums to his companion, who took a red one.

'Claret,' he said, reading what was printed on the confection. 'That's a load of bollocks, isn't it? I mean, they call them wine gums but they've got no wine in them. At least liqueurs have got real booze in them. I used to eat them when I was a kid. The sherry ones. I used to bite the ends off, suck out the sherry then chuck the chocolate away.'

Both men laughed.

'My gran always used to have this big box of them,' Wells continued. 'Me and my brother bought them for her every Christmas then ate the lot.'

Hagan pushed another wine gum into his mouth and chuckled, glancing out of the side window.

He was the first to see Baxter emerge.

'Rob,' he said, still chewing.

Wells looked over.

'You call in, I'll follow him,' the younger man said.

He watched as Baxter strode down the road, long legs eating up the ground.

Wells snatched a two-way from the back seat, jammed it into the pocket of his jeans then climbed slowly out of the car. He leaned against the vehicle for a moment, glancing to his left and right, hoping his act of nonchalance was working

'Don't lose him, for fuck's sake,' Hagan said, watching Baxter in the wing mirror. 'It looks as if he's heading towards the cemetery.'

Wells ran a hand through his hair then set off.

He was about thirty yards behind his quarry on the opposite side of the road.

Hagan waited a moment longer then reached for the radio.