RIOT ACT: Charlie Fox book two

by Zoe Sharp

  “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 that 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 . . .”

  He tailed off the sentence artfully and stacked his papers on the table in front of him, preparing to clear them into his briefcase. West took his cue and stood, also.

  The Residents’ Committee man realised they were about to leave and started to panic. Surely, he said, his voice shaky, there must be some room for negotiation, some scope to talk about this?

  “I’m so sorry, but myself and my colleague here have been over and over these figures to see if there was any way at all we could reduce them, but they’re pared to the bone, I’m afraid,” Garton-Jones shrugged regretfully, then put a forced brave face on. “Still, never mind, hey? I’m sure you people will manage without us somehow.”

  The way he allowed just a fraction of doubt to cloud his voice at the end there was a masterful touch. All the passion he’d shown when he cornered me and made his threats to Friday might have never existed.

  Without haste, the two Streetwise men finished packing away their papers, leaving the Residents’ Committee stuttering.

  “Look, obviously you need to think things over and let us know one way or the other,” Garton-Jones said smoothly to the spokesman, as though the whole thing was of no real importance to him. “Why don’t you make your minds up and let us know – say before the end of the week? We’ll stay until then, anyhow.” He smiled, friendly for all the world. “Least we can do.”

  And with that, they strolled out, leaving turmoil behind them.

  The Residents’ Committee man, who’d looked so sure of his ground when he objected to the price hike, now looked doubtful and bewildered. His eyes darted quickly about him, checking to see if he was going to be generally blamed for this sudden turnaround in fortunes.

  Somebody else spoke up, asking for suggestions.

  I waited a few seconds to see if anyone was going to be brave. When it became obvious they weren’t I took a deep breath, and waved my hand.

  “I know that strictly speaking I’m not really entitled to stick my oar in,” I said. “I’m only on the estate temporarily, but from what I’ve seen your problems are being caused by a small, but active minority, yes?”

  I looked around me, and received one or two cautious nods. Madeleine was watching me with a sudden stillness. Mind you, so was everybody else. Perhaps calling attention to myself like this wasn’t such a hot idea. Ah well, too late now.

  “All I’m saying is,” I went on, “that there’s nothing to stop you taking the responsibility for your own security yourselves.”

  The Residents’ Committee man snorted his derision, glad to be back on safe ground again. “We have tried Neighbourhood Watch before. It isn’t enough,” he argued.

  Cautiously, I agreed that Neighbourhood Watch schemes were a start, but the difference they actually made to crime figures wasn’t that great. “On the other hand, recruiting what amounts to a gang of mercenaries to garrison your streets is inviting disaster. I’m sorry.” I shrugged. “But it is.”

  “So what do you propose? That we do nothing?”

  I took a deep breath, and launched into the details of a plan they could put into action themselves. It wasn’t so much Neighbourhood Watch, more Neighbourhood React. The idea was not that they hid behind their net curtains and watched the crime happening outside, they needed to react to it.

  So, if kids were vandalising cars in the street, the entire population of that street had to come outside and tackle them about it. It was a straightforward safety-in-numbers tactic. Even the bravest vandal will think twice about taking on a crowd of fifty, or a hundred, no matter what their age and ability.

  There was a chain system they could easily put into operation, where the first person to spot a crime taking place would ring two neighbours, who would each ring another two, and so on. The whole street could be mobilised in minutes. Far quicker than any police response. Far cheaper than Garton-Jones and his men.

  “All you need to do is get to know each other, keep in contact, and keep an eye out for each other,” I said at last. “If you don’t learn to look after each other, you’re going to have to pay someone else to do it for you forever.”

  I glanced round the faces. Some looked enthusiastic, others dubious, but the majority showed little emotion. I really had no idea whether I’d got through to them or not.

  “So, Mr O’Bryan,” said the Residents’ Committee man, “what is your opinion of this scheme?” In the absence of anyone better, I suppose he was the nearest thing to a professional there.

  O’Bryan’s features were noncommittal as he slowly pulled a cigarette out of a new pack, and put a struck match to the end of it. For a moment, as he regarded me narrowly through the fresh smoke, I thought he was going to rubbish the idea.

  “I’m always reluctant to advise anybody to confront criminals,” he said eventually, almost diffidently, “but this sounds like it’s got legs. I think you should get some detailed proposals from Miss Fox and give them some serious consideration.”

  The meeting broke up about then. I found myself agreeing to put something together for the Residents’ Committee before Garton-Jones’s deadline ran out, and joined the throng as they headed out.

  I looked round for Madeleine and saw tha
t she’d managed to get to the exit ahead of me. Trying to push through to get to her proved difficult, and by the time I reached the car park she was just about to climb into a black cab that had pulled up in front of the pub. I started forwards, intent on speaking to her.

  “Miss Fox.” It was O’Bryan’s voice that stopped me. He came jogging out of the doorway of the Black Lion, car keys in his hand. “Ah, I’m glad I caught you,” he said, panting slightly. “Can I offer you a lift?”

  I eyed Madeleine’s back disappearing into the taxi with a certain amount of resignation, then turned back to O’Bryan and lifted my bike helmet. “I have my own transport,” I told him.

  “Ah, yes, of course you do,” he said, pausing awkwardly for a moment. “I’m parked just at the back there. Can I walk with you?”

  I thought it an odd request, but shrugged my compliance. If nothing else, it was a bit of insurance just in case Langford had decided that tonight was the night he wanted his revenge.