Simon Mayo KNIFE EDGE Contents A note on the text Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 Chapter 79 Chapter 80 Chapter 81 Chapter 82 Chapter 83 Chapter 84 Chapter 85 Chapter 86 Chapter 87 Chapter 88 Chapter 89 Chapter 90 Chapter 91 Chapter 92 Chapter 93 Acknowledgements About the Author Simon Mayo is a writer and broadcaster. He is the presenter of the podcast Simon Mayo’s Books of the Year, a daily host on Scala Radio and co-presenter of Kermode and Mayo’s Film Review for the BBC. His previous books include Mad Blood Stirring, Blame and the Itch trilogy, filmed for TV by ABC. Knife Edge is his debut contemporary thriller. Also by Simon Mayo Mad Blood Stirring Fiction for younger readers Blame Itchcraft Itch Rocks Itch Dedicated to the memory of Sophie Christopher (1991–2019) A note on the text The person who is ‘slot’ or ‘in-slot’ on the news editing desk receives all the incoming news from correspondents around the world, ‘tastes’ it to see if it’s up to scratch, and hands each article to a sub-editor. They are also in charge of ‘snapping’ – sending out high-speed news flashes. 1 Tuesday, 22 May MARY LAWSON WAS the first to die. Leaving Euston station shortly before 6.45 a.m, she made straight for her favourite breakfast stall. A sprawling market of food stands had blossomed outside the main entrance, the hiss and clatter of espresso machines fighting the traffic and the telephone chatter. She joined a queue for fresh pastries and coffee. It was her ritual. A routine to take the sting from the savagely early commute into London. Car, train, breakfast, tube, office. Her contactless card was ready in one hand, she scrolled her phone’s news sites with the other. A muggy May morning, the air still damp after an overnight deluge, she could hear the sound of screaming swifts that tore across the sky. She clicked her phone off, distracted by this stirring of early summer. Behind her, perched on a wet bench, a man enveloped in an oversized waterproof and grey baseball cap glanced up from his phone. His body suddenly tightened, his eyes flicking from the woman to his screen and back again. He lost the phone somewhere in the folds of his jacket and stood, slowly. He, too, looked to the skies. She bought the food, smiled a few words to the vendor, then began to retrace her steps to the concourse. He was barely a metre away when she glanced at him, assuming he would be asking for spare change. He smiled. She only saw the knife as it pierced her chest. The man in the grey cap muttered three heavily accented, incomprehensible words and was still smiling as he held her close, withdrew the knife, then stabbed her again. Two inches lower this time. The only sound she made was a gasping, shuddering inhalation. By the time she fell, he was already running. Two miles away, Harry Thomas had stopped for his first espresso of the day at the coffee cart in Kentish Town. He turned down the offer of a cut-price croissant, laughing and patting his stomach. He made it as far as the steps of the Underground when a jogger with a small rucksack slashed at his throat with a kitchen knife, pausing only to rebalance, mutter some words, then plunge it deep into his heart. The spilt blood and espresso pooled, then dripped down the steps. At 6.55 Seth Hussain was crossing the road outside his Croydon flat when he was knifed by a man pushing a buggy. Sarah Thompson’s throat was cut on the 259 bus from King’s Cross; Brian Hall was stabbed then pushed in front of a tube train arriving at Pimlico. The last to die were Sathnam Stanley and Anita Cross – two more knives, two more punctured hearts. It was 7.15. Seven murders in twenty-nine minutes. 2 FAMIE MADDEN PAUSED by her gate, adjusted her headphones, selected The Magic Flute. Pressed play. The overture played, oboes, clarinets, bassoons and horns pulling her away down the street. She knew there were endless numbers of news podcasts that she should be listening to, but she ignored them all. Famie was a journalist of two decades’ standing but she had found she didn’t much care for the news any more. Didn’t want to read it, didn’t want to watch it. Instead the intricate melodies from the eighteenth century seemed to work a spell over her every time; her face might be firmly pressed to a Piccadilly Line train window with a carriage full of commuters keeping her there, but the German wordplay in her ears acted as a portal to another, happier place. At Green Park she changed lines, sighed and checked her overnight emails. An essay from her student daughter Charlie had arrived ‘to check for spelling and all that stuff. Thanks Mum!’ Still useful then, she thought. As the tube doors opened at Canary Wharf, she was too busy correcting syntax to worry about the corporate restructuring which was due to dominate her day. Head down, she negotiated her place on the escalator by instinct; hedging, adjusting, sidestepping. The elaborate shuffle-dance of the London commuter. She felt the warmth
