Riot Act tcfs-2

by Zoe Sharp

  I paused, watching his edgy fingers, then went out on a limb of guesswork. “What happens when your aunt finds out you’re best buddies with one of the boys who stabbed your uncle?” I asked gently. “Don’t you think coming clean now is going to save you a load of trouble in the long run?”

  “Trouble?” Nasir threw his cigarette away untasted and whirled to face me, stabbing the air with an accusatory finger. “Violence – that’s all you people understand!” he spat. “Well, I hope you’re happy now with the trouble you’ve caused, spying on us. You and your fascist bully boys! But you make the most of it while it lasts, because I swear to you that we won’t lie down and be beaten for much longer!”

  With that he marched up the garden towards the house, ignoring my attempts to call him back, and slammed the door heavily behind him.

  ***

  I was still puzzling over my run-in with Nasir when I set out with Friday for his evening walk a couple of hours later.

  The dog was going loopy at the prospect. He tore round the living room making incongruous squeaking noises while I pulled on my coat, and he kept trying to bite the lead when I attached it to his collar. My rebukes were met with a cheerfully blatant disregard.

  I stopped to pull on my bike gloves as we left the house. My hands were still feeling delicate and Friday tended to haul me along with more gusto than a pair of plough horses. It was a good job it was so cold that it didn’t look suspicious.

  Yesterday’s fog had dissipated, but the air was bleak, grainy with a damp that knifed its way straight through to your bones. I shivered as the chill of the evening bit, and made yet another mental note to treat myself to a warmer pair of gloves.

  We’d only got as far as the next street before Friday suddenly started acting nervous. Things happened quickly after that, but it gave me the few seconds I needed to ready a game face.

  So, when Garton-Jones and West stepped out from behind a parked van onto the pavement in front of me, I raised an enquiring eyebrow, but otherwise kept my cool. They’d been going for shock value, and West looked vaguely disappointed when I didn’t react. His boss, on the other hand, was too composed for any show of emotion, one way or another.

  A slither of sound behind made me half-turn. Two more of Garton-Jones’s boys had come round to block off my retreat, staying back in the shadows. With the van on one side, and a high privet hedge on the other, I was well and truly boxed in.

  I knew I should have been frightened. It would have been the logical response, but all I felt was a kind of deadly calm. I couldn’t take on four of them, not without getting the rest of the kicking they’d started on the night before. Still, I hadn’t had Friday with me then.

  The Ridgeback didn’t know which pair to snarl at first, but he did his best to dole out bile in equal measure. He set up a low warning growl in the base of his throat and left it ticking over there, just in case.

  I glanced at the dog to reassure him, then turned back, pulling a quizzical face. “Well, Mr Garton-Jones,” I said, allowing a faintly sardonic note to creep into my voice, “it would appear you have my undivided attention.”

  Garton-Jones took a step forward, the streetlight overhead shifting on the shiny material of his bomber jacket, emphasising the solid bulk of him. He inclined his head, apparently unconcerned by Friday’s display. “Miss Fox,” he drawled by way of greeting.

  They were simple, innocuous words, but my scalp twitched at the intonation. Surely he wouldn’t do anything stupid, anything vicious? Not right here, in the middle of the street? Why not? asked the devil on my shoulder. Look what happened to Roger . . .

  I knew he was just trying to fluster me, playing on my nerves. But I didn’t like the rules of the game, and I wasn’t going to play.

  “I assume this isn’t a social call, so what can I do for you?”

  “Oh, just a little exchange of information, Miss Fox,” Garton-Jones said smoothly. “A little mutual co-operation, if you like.”

  “What – I scratch your back and you don’t send the boys round with baseball bats to scratch mine?” I said, aiming for flippancy.

  His face was mostly hidden, but even in the gloom I saw his lips pull back to crack a smile. “Ah, yes, very droll,” he said, then he turned off the smile like he’d pulled a plug on it. “I think you’re aware that we’ve been having a bit of trouble with a certain blue Grand Cherokee, Dutch registered, which keeps refusing to stop at our checkpoints,” he went on. “I don’t suppose you’d be able to tell us anything about the driver, by any chance?”

  I should have known that was coming, but it still jolted me. Some part of me didn’t want to betray Sean, but it had more to do with my dislike of Garton-Jones than to any particular old loyalties.

  I kept my head up, steady. “He’s tried to run me down – twice – but apart from that, I can’t help you,” I shrugged.

  “Are you sure about that, Miss Fox?” His voice should have warned me, but I stood my ground.

  “Yes.”

  He studied me quietly for a few moments, then clicked his tongue in mock self-reproof, as though he’d been remiss in some way. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m forgetting my manners,” he said, gesturing politely like we were at an ambassador’s reception, “I believe you’ve met Mr Drummond and Mr Harlow, but I don’t think you were properly introduced.”

  I turned fully then. On cue, the men behind me moved forwards into the light. I recognised the faces of the two men who’d been laying into Roger, and then turned their focus onto me.

  I was gratified to notice that the one indicated as Drummond had a noticeably bruised and swollen lump on the side of his chin. I always did have quite a mean left.

  “I don’t believe so,” I agreed, matching his formal tone with my own.

  “You’re denying that you’ve met?” It was West who broke in, harsh, his voice rising disbelievingly on the last words.

  “Oh no, we’ve met all right,” I said, matter-of-fact. “But Mr Garton-Jones is quite correct – we weren’t introduced.” I nodded to Drummond, added recklessly, “You should put some ice on that jaw.”

  His brows came together like they’d just been jerked on a wire. He took a step closer. Friday leapt to block his path, teeth bared. For a moment man and dog faced each other off, then the man backed down. It was where I would have put my money, had there been time to place a bet.

  Garton-Jones scratched the stubble behind his ear with laboured perplexity. “Well, Miss Fox,” he said, “this puts me in a bit of an awkward situation, because my men here – fine men, who’ve worked for me for years without a blemish on their records – swear they saw you get into that Cherokee last night and take off.”

  “I’m amazed they had time to see anything of the sort,” I said with cold deliberation, “when they were so busy running away.”

  Garton-Jones glared at the pair of them, which gave me hope that they hadn’t quite told their boss the full story.

  “After these two had done a runner I managed to get out of the Cherokee’s way before it flattened me, and then I made my own way home. There didn’t seem to be any point in hanging around,” I lied. “So, is it part of your ‘clean-up’ brief to go round beating up children?” I asked, hoping to widen the crack. “Or were they just having fun on their own time?”

  “Children?” Garton-Jones dismissed with contempt. “They’re vandals by the time they’re five years old. House breakers at seven. They’re dealing drugs before they’re into double figures, and they know the law can’t touch them. That “child” as you call him, was a thief. A dangerous thief. I thought you would have known that. He doesn’t belong on this estate, but he was being persistent, and we had to persuade him that he wasn’t wanted here. Word that we mean business will soon get around. The only thing that gets their respect is violence.”

  “Which you’re quite happy to dish out.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I am a violent man, Miss Fox,” he said, without bravado or inflection. “I can �
�� and will – do whatever is necessary to control this estate. Remember that.”

  He took another step closer and Friday nearly yanked my arm out in his fervour to take on this new threat. Garton-Jones’s arrogance was such that he didn’t even bother to glance at the dog.

  “You can pass on a message to whoever is in that Cherokee,” the man added, looming over me so the sockets of his eyes and the lower half of his face fell into shadow, like a skull. “You can tell him that we own this estate. It’s our area.” For the first time his voice hardened, became gritted. “If you have half an idea about what’s at stake here, you’ll know we’re not about to let any other two-bit operation muscle in on our deal. And if he knows what’s good for his health, he’ll keep his nose well out of it.”

  I didn’t react to any of this diatribe, just watched them make to leave, keeping my face blank. It took all my self-control to maintain it when Garton-Jones turned to give me his final parting shot.

  “Oh yes, one more thing, Miss Fox,” he said. He’d slipped the polite disinterest back into his cultured voice. “If you ever let that dog loose on me or any of my men, I’ll personally break its spine. Good night.”

  They melted back into the night, leaving me standing there with Friday rigid by my side. Once we were alone he shuffled his feet, whining, confused. I put a comforting hand down to stroke the back of his neck, finding the fur there upraised and stiff.

  Funny how things change isn’t it? Yesterday I would have sworn that the dog was my protector.

  Now, it seemed, I was his.

  Eight

  The Residents’ Committee meeting that evening was held in a pub called the Black Lion on the edge of the estate, where they had a cavernous room upstairs that the management let out for next to nothing.

  The Black Lion wasn’t exactly the sort of establishment I would have taken my mother to for Sunday lunch. Not that I think the curling sandwiches and waxy pies they served from a hatch behind the bar quite warranted such a grand title.

  Not, also, that I had the sort of relationship with my mother where cosy lunchtime chats were much on the cards. Things were getting better between us, but it was taking time. Inviting her anywhere like the Black Lion would have been a retrograde step in more ways than one.

  When I walked in to the lounge bar, having chained the Suzuki up securely outside, the regulars stopped talking and regarded me with dark suspicion over the pint rims of their flat, watery beer. It was that kind of a place.

  I did a quick visual sweep of the occupants, and was jolted to see Langford sitting in a corner, looking very much at home, with a pint in his hand. He was watching me, and when he caught my eye he raised his drink to me with a twisted smile, the promise of patient retribution. With a shiver of foreboding, I turned my back on him. I could feel his eyes digging in all the way across the room.

  I ordered a soft drink from the resigned-looking barman, and asked about the meeting. He jerked his head towards the stairs to the room they were using. I picked up my three-quarter filled glass of tepid Coke, and followed his directions with an unacknowledged murmur of thanks.

  There was already somebody speaking when I slipped in to the packed room. The local Crime Prevention Officer, if memory served me correctly, trying to get the crowd enthused about window locks, deadbolts, and security chains. I stood quietly at the back of the room and took the opportunity to scan the audience while he talked.

  Apart from Mrs Gadatra there were very few people I recognised, let alone had even a nodding acquaintance with. My neighbour was rocking Gin on her lap, the little girl’s eyes drooping progressively into sleep. Aqueel was sitting on the chair next to his mother, straight-backed and gravely aware of the importance of being invited to such an adult occasion. He was trying his hardest to stay awake. There was no sign of his elder brother.

  In fact, there were hardly any younger males there at all. It seemed to be a mainly middle-aged Indian and Pakistani audience, bordering on elderly. The white faces stood out, probably mine included. There weren’t many of them.

  I noticed Eric O’Bryan was in attendance, sporting his habitual grey anorak, although as a concession to indoor wear, he had at least unzipped it. Even from a distance, I could see the perspiration glistening on the top of his shiny pate. He sat over to one side of the room, listening with an engrossed air that must have been very gratifying for the speaker.

  Sitting at a small round table to one side of where the CPO was standing, were Garton-Jones and West. I began to wonder if those two were joined at the hip.

  They were making no pretence of interest in the lecture on the prudence of asking for ID from visiting tradesmen. Their eyes moved slowly over the inhabitants of the room in a constant sift, as though mentally isolating the troublemakers, and committing everyone’s details to memory. As a lesson in delicate intimidation, it couldn’t have been bettered if they’d tried.

  Still, if the information I’d got from Clare earlier that day had been right, they were experts at that sort of thing. She rang to say that her contact on the crime desk at the Defender hadn’t been able to come up with anything concrete on Streetwise Securities, but there were plenty of whispers.

  Garton-Jones’s life had been following a more privileged course until he’d left his expensive boarding school and hit university. There his darker side had come to the fore. He’d started out working club doors and patrolling building sites, before starting out on his own. Streetwise had the reputation of being efficient, but brutally so. They left behind a gloss of satisfaction laid thinly over grumblings of heavy-handed tactics.

  Watching them now, upstairs at the Black Lion, it wasn’t hard to understand why.

  To my left, someone fidgeted in their seat, leaning forwards to reveal the person sitting behind them. In profile, I saw long straight dark hair surrounding a memorable long pale face.

  I certainly wouldn’t forget her in a hurry. Not when she’d refused to leave me to have my head kicked in by Messrs Harlow and Drummond.

  It was Madeleine.

  For a moment the shock of the encounter felt almost tangible. I had taken only one step in her direction when I saw her finish polishing the lenses of a set of glasses and slide them back onto her face.

  It was a small thing, but something about the action struck me as odd. It didn’t gel. She didn’t handle the glasses like someone who wore them regularly, and she certainly hadn’t been using them that night when she and Sean had rescued Roger.

  No, the glasses didn’t fit. Things were missing, like the unfocused squint when she’d taken them off, and the little marks from the pads on the sides of her nose. The glasses, I realised quickly enough to still my feet from taking me any closer, were just a disguise.

  Which brought an even more intriguing question. What was Sean’s accomplice doing sneaking in to the Residents’ Committee meeting, and from whom was she hiding?

  I glanced back towards Garton-Jones, just as his gaze swept back over me, like the blaze of a searchlight. I forced my face into relaxed boredom, and stayed put. If I made any moves to contact Madeleine now, to speak to her, I stood the chance of exposing both of us to who knew what dangers. I’d just have to try and catch her as she left the meeting. In the meantime, I was minutely aware of her, like she was putting out heat.

  The CPO wound up his talk and received a desultory round of applause for his pains. Someone from the Residents’ Committee thanked him on their behalf for coming. He packed up his case, made his excuses, and left.

  Then it was Garton-Jones’s turn. The Residents’ Committee man introduced him without undue enthusiasm, and sat down hurriedly, looking nervous in case he was blamed for heralding the bearer of bad news.

  I could understand his reasoning once Garton-Jones got under way. The big man started innocuously enough, pointing out that the crime rate on the estate was already dropping. He’d even conjured up some figures from somewhere, which West parroted out when called upon to do so. Percentages and statistics t
hat could have been twisted to mean anything, and probably had been. It was all very slick. Very pro. But then, that’s exactly what they were.

  The good times weren’t designed to last long, and they didn’t. Garton-Jones checked his notes, schooled his face into well-mannered contrition, and carried on.

  “Unfortunately, these swift results have not been without their price,” he said. “Streetwise Securities’ original estimate did not take into account the particularly unruly behaviour we’ve had to deal with. Aware that you deserved a quick initial return to order, to public safety, we’ve had to allocate more manpower to the estate than we originally envisaged,” he reported. “Of course, the results speak for themselves, and therefore we feel sure that you won’t begrudge the slightly increased cost.”

  For a truly modest fee, he told us, he and his firm would undertake to continue to patrol the streets and keep Lavender Gardens crime-free, round the clock, twenty-four seven. And then, per household, per day, he named his price.

  I’m always much more suspicious when health clubs, insurance schemes and the like break down their annual fee into a daily amount. If the only way you can stomach a meal is to cut it into tiny pieces, you’re eating the wrong food.

  It took a few moments for the more arithmetically agile among the group to work out the cost per year, and the gasps they gave spoke for themselves.

  The man from the Residents’ Committee read the faces around him and didn’t need to put it to the vote. He stood up and told Garton-Jones stoutly that the people were already paying as much as they could afford. He mentioned the number of young families on the estate, who were living on a restricted budget.

  Garton-Jones listened with an apparently sympathetic frown, nodding seriously. “Oh I quite understand,” he said soothingly when the man’s speech stumbled to a halt. “Unfortunately, much as we feel those families have a right to our protection, we also have a duty to the men who work for us, to pay them a reasonable living wage. We would very much regret having to withdraw from the estate at this stage, just when we feel we’re making such progress . . .”