Riot Act

by Zoe Sharp

  I heard Sean shout to Madeleine, “Stay with the boy!” and then he was out of the vehicle too, and pounding hard on my tail.

  I was never a fast runner, but adrenaline is a powerful stimulant, and fear gave me a turn of speed I didn’t know I possessed. I reached a junction and dipped round it. Unless I was out of his sight, I knew I stood no chance of evading him. Sean was predatory and relentless. It was in his nature.

  I ran with everything I’d got, not lifting my head, not looking back. I made another couple of frantic turns, found myself outside a short row of closed-up shops. There was a yard alongside one of them, barred by a mesh gate about ten feet high.

  It was an instant decision. I took a flyer at it, sheer momentum carrying me far enough up to grab the top rail and swing my body over in one fluid movement. By the time Sean appeared, I was fifteen feet further back, down behind a stack of pallets. Breathless and terrified.

  For such a big man, Sean moved smooth and quiet, with a deadly purpose. Even in army boots his ability to creep up undetected on the unwary had bordered on the supernatural. In the intervening years it seemed he hadn’t lost the knack.

  I peeped through the slats in the pallet and saw him stop by the gate, staring up at it. Judging the height, and the probability of my having fled this way. He was still as heavily muscled across the shoulder as he had been when I’d known him. Built like a boxer, exuding menace.

  I squeezed my eyes shut as if I was a kid. As if my being unable to see him would also work in reverse.

  I heard his footsteps and risked another look. He’d moved back from the gate, turning a slow circle. Alert, as if trying to sense where I’d gone to ground. I fought to keep my breathing steady.

  Headlights swept across the gateway then. Sean rounded sharply, and I shrank back. I saw the Cherokee pull up at the kerb next to him. Madeleine had moved over to take the wheel. She leaned out of the window.

  “Have you found her?”

  “No.”

  “What on earth made her take off like that?”

  Sean didn’t answer that one. Prowling back over to the gate, he reached up suddenly to smack the mesh with both hands. Making it clatter and jangle. Making me gasp.

  “Charlie,” he called out, “I know you’re in there somewhere.”

  I kept silent, but my heartrate took off.

  “You can’t hide forever, Charlie,” he said, more quietly. “We’ve unfinished business, you and I.”

  The words were left hanging. Sinister. Malign.

  “Sean, I hate to hurry you, but we really need to get your brother fixed up,” Madeleine broke in. “Judging by the way she did a runner, the girl’s not so badly hurt, and she obviously doesn’t want to be found. Come on. We’ve got enough problems of our own to worry about.”

  Sean let out a pinched breath through his nose, shoulders hunched, then he turned without a second glance and stalked back to the jeep. I squirmed round, seeing him climb into the passenger seat and slam the door.

  “OK,” I heard him say tightly, “let’s go.”

  For a good quarter of an hour after the heavy exhaust note had faded into the night, I remained in my hiding place, not moving. It was only when a thin drizzle of rain started to fall out of the mist that I forced my frozen limbs to stir.

  It took willpower to do it. I had an evil headache and the metallic bitterness of the blood I kept swallowing left my stomach raw.

  Without the primitive flight reflex boosting me, I found I couldn’t get back over the gate. My hands were grazed and starting to throb, and my bruised body protested more at every failed attempt. Eventually I had to drag one of the pallets over to the base and use that to gain initial purchase on the mesh. Even so, it was an undignified scramble.

  On the other side, I realised I had no real idea where I was. I turned in the opposite direction to the way the Cherokee had gone, and started walking. Finally, I reached the main road. I plodded on, one step after another into fog that hung like smoke under the streetlights.

  Partly by luck, and partly by keeping a very low profile, I managed to get back to Pauline’s without encountering either Sean, or Garton-Jones’s mob. The way I was feeling, I don’t know which would have been the less preferable option.

  Seven

  The next morning I dragged myself out of bed with enough aches and pains to send me groaning for the bathroom. My flat only has a shower, and the prospect of access to a long soak whenever I wanted one had in no way helped persuade me to house-sit for Pauline in the first place.

  By the time I’d soaked my way through three chin-deep refills of hot water, it was time to get sorted and head for the gym.

  I briefly took stock of my reflection in the mirror in the hall on the way out, and found the split lip much less noticeable than it had felt the night before. I reckoned I could probably claim a bit of boisterous behaviour on Friday’s part to explain it away if I had to.

  ***

  The day was uneventful apart from a phone call from Eric O’Bryan, asking if I’d had chance to reconsider my decision to support Roger. I took the opportunity to pick his brains about the relationship between Roger and Nasir.

  “If they’re mates, it just doesn’t fit in with Nasir’s threats against whoever’s behind the robbery,” I said. “But, on the other hand I suppose if he’s so friendly with one of the lads who was involved, he might have an inside track, know there’s something deeper going on. What do you think?”

  “Hmm,” O’Bryan said. “You may be right. There certainly seems to be more to this than meets the eye. Tell you what, leave it with me and let me nose around for a few days, and I’ll get back to you. It gives you chance to think a bit more about that caution as well, eh?”

  I made noncommittal noises, which obviously failed to reassure him about my change of heart, but when he probed further, I stalled him.

  He wasn’t happy being fobbed off, but knew pushing me wouldn’t get him anywhere. He took my continued indecision on the best of his chins, and promised to call again.

  ***

  I trundled home again in the early evening, running the gauntlet of Garton-Jones’s boys. They stood and watched the Suzuki pass as I rode into Lavender Gardens, but made no move to intercept me. A glance over my shoulder found they’d moved out into the road behind me and were speaking into their walkie-talkies. I couldn’t shake the smothering feeling that I’d just stepped into the closing jaws of a trap.

  Back at Pauline’s, I wheeled the bike through the back gate quickly, and into the shed. When I came back out, snapping the padlock firmly shut, I stilled, listening. It was only the faintest suggestion of a noise from over the garden fence, but it sounded very much like a sob.

  I sneaked up to the fence and peered over it. The Gadatras weren’t big on gardening and the place had been allowed to run wild. Uncut dead winter grass lay brown and matted over most of the area.

  Halfway down, past the looping washing line, the garden had been abandoned entirely to the children. The main feature was a half-deflated paddling pool that didn’t look as though it had been capable of holding water for years, the sides mouldy and creased.

  And there at the bottom, on a lopsided rickety swing, sat Nasir. He was wearing jeans and just a T-shirt with no thought to the sting of cold, rocking himself gently backwards and forwards, as though in a trance.

  He had a cigarette held with the lit end shielded in the cup of his hand, like a seasoned outdoor smoker. Every few seconds his hand went jerkily to his mouth, and he dragged air through the filter in quick, nervous puffs. When the cigarette was dead he looked at it in surprise, as though he didn’t remember smoking.

  For a moment he stared at nothing, eyes blank and stony. Then something seemed to break inside him. His face crumpled in on itself, and he brought his hands up to cover it, body beginning to shake.

  “Nasir?” It was little Aqueel who spoke as he came trotting down the path past the washing line with its swaying string bag of pegs. He faltered abo
ut a dozen feet from his brother. “Nasir?” he said again, less sure this time.

  Nasir’s head snapped up, and he waved Aqueel away sternly, rapping out rough commands that obviously told him to go, to leave him alone.

  Confused, upset, Aqueel hesitated. Nasir leaped to his feet, arms flailing, and repeated his order. His voice rose until it was almost a scream.

  Aqueel fled without looking back.

  Once his brother had vanished into the house, Nasir sank back onto the swing, as though the burst of action had exhausted him.

  Ah well, I thought. In for a penny . . .

  “Hello Nasir,” I said quietly.

  He turned to look at me, his expression shrouded, then glanced away, head bent. “What do you want?” he asked sullenly.

  I knew his tolerance to me was low, so I might as well start at the top. “I want to know about you and Roger Meyer,” I said.

  Nasir’s head came back up at that. For a second or two the fire was back in his eyes, then it fluttered weakly, and went out.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know who you mean,” he said, sounding tired.

  “Come on, Nasir,” I said sharply. “I’ve seen the two of you together. It’s not exactly a secret. Was he on his way round here to see you last night? Is that what he was doing on the estate?”

  Nasir jumped to his feet, looked about to crack, then thought better of it. He reached for another cigarette, stuck it between his lips and lighted the end.

  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 h
ere – 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?”