Knife Edge by Fergus McNeill Page A

so far was swept aside, leaving him with nothing.
    ‘Well?’ Blake sat back in his chair and stared at them over steepled fingers. ‘Anything new?’
    Harland looked down and shook his head.
    ‘We know the gang that’s doing it,’ he said, speaking slowly, carefully. ‘A group of kids, all local, small-time but nasty. The problem is nailing them with it.’
    ‘They all swear blind they were together somewhere else.’ Mendel’s deep voice betrayed his frustration. ‘And half of them are underage, which doesn’t help.’
    Blake frowned.
    ‘What about CCTV?’ he asked. ‘There must be
something
usable.’
    Harland shook his head. ‘Nothing conclusive. Last place they hit, the tapes went up with the building so that’s no help. And coverage in the surrounding area is patchy to say the least.’
    ‘There’s too many black spots along that road to get a continuous picture of who goes where,’ Mendel explained.
    ‘I see,’ Blake scowled. ‘But if we know who’s involved, can we not push one or two of the group to turn the others in? Some of them must have something to lose.’
    ‘Perhaps,’ Harland said doubtfully. ‘There’s a few slapped wrists and ASBOs among them, but nothing significant, nothing we can really use as leverage …’
    Mendel leaned forward, his thick brows knitting together.
    ‘They’re not afraid of us,’ he rumbled. ‘They’re afraid of grassing, of losing their mates, but they’re not afraid of us.’
    Blake considered this, then sat back in his chair.
    ‘Suggestions?’ he asked.
    Harland spread his hands wide.
    ‘We can run a car up and down St Andrews Road a few times each Friday and Saturday evening,’ he shrugged. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky – catch them at it, or at least put them off.’
    Blake stared at him for a moment, then frowned.
    ‘Very well,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Arrange for a couple of drive-bys over the next two weekends.’
    He lifted his jacket from where it had lain folded over the back of a chair and draped it across his arm, then made his way round the table and walked past them, pausing as he got to the door.
    ‘In the meantime, try and find something on one of these little bastards, anything that will help the case,’ he told them. ‘You’ve got two weeks. After that, I’m kicking it into the long grass.’
    He turned and strode out of the room, pulling the door hard shut behind him.
    Mendel stood up, one hand massaging the back of his neck as he straightened.
    ‘Sometimes I bloody love being a copper,’ he growled.
    ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if we didn’t know who was doing it.’ Harland sighed. He got up and followed the big man over to the door. ‘But unless we manage to trip one of them up, there’s not much we can do.’
    Mendel shook his head.
    ‘I know what I’d like to do,’ he muttered darkly.
    ‘Yeah, so do I,’ Harland agreed. ‘But that was in the bad old days. Everyone has rights now.’
    He put his hand on the doorknob.
    ‘Besides,’ he added. ‘Blake runs a tight ship.’
    Mendel grinned at him.
    They wandered out into the corridor and through to the main office, where two of the local constables from their team were studying something on a screen.
    ‘Gregg. Firth.’ Harland greeted them.
    PC Stuart Gregg was a young officer with short blond hair and an easy grin. He’d been lounging back in his chair as he toyed with a pen, but sat up quickly when the two detectives entered the room. By contrast, Sue Firth, although the same rank, was a little older and much more mature. Her straight brown hair was tied back smartly, and she smiled at Harland as he sat down on the corner of Gregg’s desk.
    ‘Three guesses what Blake wanted to talk about?’ he asked them.
    ‘The arson attacks, sir?’ Gregg replied.
    ‘Exactly,’ Harland nodded. ‘So my first question is: did we get hold of the guy who owns that cul-de-sac warehouse yet?’
    ‘Well …’ Gregg gazed up at him doubtfully. ‘I’ve managed