Knife Edge

4.32 P.M.

The East London Cemetery stretched for roughly half a mile towards all compass points, one of many resting places that seemed like green oases within the desert of concrete, brick and glass that comprised the capital.

Separated from the memorial recreation ground alongside it by a high privet hedge, the cemetery was the usual clutter of headstones, some old, some new, of well-kept and uncared-for graves. Of resting places for those admirably old and some pitifully young.

At its centre was the crematorium. The hub of an unmoving wheel.

A network of paths, some gravel, some Tarmac, wound through the cemetery like arteries. Elsewhere, walkways had been fashioned across grass by the passage of so many feet.

So many mourners.

There was a number of wooden benches too, most of them placed close to the taps which also dotted the necropolis.

Kenneth Baxter walked slowly past one of these taps, glancing at it as it dripped water on to the gravel below.

A slight breeze was blowing now and it brought with it the scent of flowers.

He glanced at the graves flanking the path as he walked, hands dug into the pockets of his jeans. Many had flowers on them, some still wrapped in Cellophane, which crackled whenever the breeze blew too strongly.

He saw some rose petals skitter across the path ahead of him, propelled by a gust of wind.

A middle-aged woman was filling a plastic watering can from one of the taps.

Baxter watched her as she lugged the heavy article back towards a nearby grave and filled the metal vase on the plinth. Then she carefully began arranging carnations in the vase.

The tap continued to drip.

One droplet for each tear shed in this place?

Baxter continued walking, his pace slow and even. But his pace didn't match the expression on his face.

As he walked he looked constantly back and forth, eyes scanning the cemetery.

Searching.

Had he looked behind him he wouldn't have found anything too unusual about the young man in the jeans and T-shirt who had just entered the graveyard.

PC Rob Wells saw Baxter ahead of him but, instead of following, he turned off on one of the gravel paths at his right-hand side and made his way slowly along it, his trainers crunching on the bed of loose stone.

He walked slowly, apparently unconcerned by anything, convinced that Baxter hadn't spotted him but, more importantly, that his quarry hadn't realised he was a plain-clothes policeman.

Wells saw Baxter turn off on to one of the secondary paths and the policeman cut across some grass to ensure he didn't lose sight of the older man.

As he stepped on a grave, Wells apologised under his breath to the occupant, feeling stupid but also sorry to have disturbed the reverence he felt was due to the deceased.

The graves in this part of the cemetery were older, many of them untended and overgrown. He glanced at a number of the headstones, many of which were cracked, moss having crept into the rents like gangrene into an open wound.

Died 1923 proclaimed what little was readable of the inscription on one headstone.

The stone was mottled, the pot which stood on the plinth rusted.

Beside it was another which sported only the rotting stems of long-dead flowers and, as Wells passed, he could smell the cloying stench of rotting plants and stagnant water.

Baxter sat down on one of the benches, legs stretched out, fingers intertwined on his stomach.

Wells walked on, wondering if he should find a better vantage point, somewhere more secluded. He could always make out he was visiting a grave if he was spotted.

But why the hell should he be spotted?

He walked on, aware that his heart was beating a little faster.

Wells saw Baxter rise.

Saw him take two or three paces towards the newcomer.

'Jesus,' he murmured under his breath, trying to avoid staring at Baxter.

There were some trees up ahead to his left. Wells knew he had to reach them, use them as cover while he spoke into the two-way.

Don't hurry, just stay calm.

Baxter stood still and waited for the newcomer to approach him.

From behind the cover of the largest tree, Wells pulled the two-way from his pocket and switched it on, his eyes still fixed on Baxter.

'Mark, come in, it's me,' Wells said, keeping his voice low. 'You're not going to believe this.'