Riot Act (37 page)

I scowled. “Were you eavesdropping on the
whole
conversation?”

That killer smile again. “No, just the important bits,” he said. “Now answer the question.”

I pushed back my chair and got to my feet, suddenly too restless to sit. “Because I’ve had someone die in my arms before and I didn’t like it much,” I said brutally, turning back just so I could watch his face. “Certainly not enough to want to repeat the experience if I could do a damn thing to prevent it.”

I was saved from having to elaborate much on that theme by the arrival of a bleary-eyed Jacob. He limped in, seemingly unaware of the combative silence between us.

The dogs were jostling round his ankles. Jacob didn’t say a word until he’d fed them, made a fresh pot of coffee, and had taken his first mouthful. Then he sat back and studied us with far more alert attention. “Ah, that’s better,” he said. He nodded to Sean. “How’s the shoulder this morning?”

“Stiff and sore,” Sean said easily, “but I’ll live.”

“Muscle damage is nastier than broken bones, in my opinion,” Jacob said, adding with a rueful smile, “I’ve had enough of both in my time to know.”

“I was lucky.”

Jacob treated me to one of his arresting smiles. “Hmm, she’s a useful lady to know, is our Charlie.”

“So,” I broke in, trying not to squirm, “where do we go from here?”

“Well, for a start I don’t think it would be a good idea for Sean here to go anywhere for a day or two,” Jacob said straight away, pouring coffee into our mugs. “You’re welcome to stay here, lad, keep your head down, pick up a bit of strength.”

Sean looked taken aback by this unexpected hospitality. “That’s very decent of you,” he said.

Jacob waved away his thanks as he pushed the milk and sugar bowl towards us. “It gives us a bit of time to try and work out what the hell’s going on,” he said briskly. “Clare’s just filled me in on the details. Any ideas who might have wanted to put the knife into Harvey Langford – speaking literally
and
figuratively?”

“How long have you got?” I said, “I’ll make a list.”

Jacob grinned at me, and I went on, more seriously, “Whoever killed him didn’t just want Langford out of the way, though, they wanted us dead, too.”

Sean shook his head at that. “I don’t think so,” he said, “In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realise they just wanted to keep us pinned down for long enough for the police to arrive.”

He shifted awkwardly in his seat, caught his breath, and waited for the biting pain to subside before he continued.

“I think finding that we were capable of shooting back at them put them off their stroke, ruined the plan. If our friendly shooter had wanted us dead he had more than enough chance to ambush us while we were inspecting the body. Anybody halfway competent could have slotted the pair of us while we were helpfully hanging around against the light. They wouldn’t have waited until we were moving across that floor in the dark.”

The terrier, Beezer, finished wolfing down her food, trotted across the kitchen and jumped for Jacob’s lap to see if there was anything interesting for dessert at table height. Jacob fondled her moth-eaten ears absently. “Surely you don’t think he was killed just as a means of getting the pair of you arrested? That seems a bit drastic.”

“Not necessarily,” Sean told him. “After all, they’ve already made one attempt on Charlie’s life, and the police have been tipped off that I was involved in Nasir’s death. From their point of view, neither of those efforts have worked too well.”

“So,” I said, “was Langford a victim, or just a pawn in somebody’s game?”

Sean shrugged, raising just his right shoulder, and reached for his coffee. “Search me. That day on Copthorne he offered to bring you information about who’s behind the crimewave on the estates, didn’t he? Next thing we know, he’s dead. What does that tell you?”

It was my turn to shrug, helplessly. “I don’t know. Maybe we should be asking Mr Ali what he was doing letting Langford hide out on his site, and what exactly he was paying him to do. After all, Ali must have known he was there.”

Clare walked in just as I was speaking. “Is that Mr Ali the builder?” she asked, looking surprised. “You remember I told you he owns great chunks of Copthorne and Lavender? Apparently there are big discussions going about redeveloping the whole of that area. Lots of Euro money up for grabs and lottery funding, according to the people at work. If it all goes ahead Mr Ali’s not only going to make money on the property as the values and the rents go up, but his firm’s also right in the running for quite a chunk of the renovation work as well.”

Suddenly a whole rake of ideas started to firm up like shapes appearing out of the fog on a motorway. “How certain is all this?” I demanded.

Clare frowned. “Well, from what I understand, if the crime rate carries on rising like it has been doing, it’s getting more certain all the time. Why, Charlie, what is it?”

I sat back in my chair and a long chill settled over me. “We’ve been looking at this all wrong,” I said slowly. “Ali wasn’t paying Langford to keep the estates quiet. He was paying him to stir them up . . .”

I recounted the snatch of conversation I’d overheard between the two men the night I’d first trailed Langford to the building site as it came drifting back to me. “That’s why Ali was so worried in case anyone found out about his arrangement with Langford,” I finished. “Langford got well out of hand the night Fariman was injured, and Ali was shit-scared that if they knew about it people would blame him. They would have done, too. He’d have been lynched.”

There was silence as everyone turned the idea over. “I think you might just be on to something there,” Jacob said after a while. “But, that still doesn’t bring us any nearer to knowing who killed your man Harvey.”

Sean sighed. He’d turned paler during the time we’d been talking, started to slump a little more in his chair. “I suppose at least we know that Jav was definitely lying to you,” he said. Even speech seemed an effort. “He must have known he was setting us up for something last night, even if he didn’t know what.”

“Yeah,” I agreed grimly. “I think he’s my first port of call –
if
I can find him.”

The phone started to ring then, and Jacob looked round for the cordless handset. When he couldn’t spot it right away, he shoved the terrier onto the floor and left the room in search of it, muttering.

Clare took advantage of his departure to fuss anxiously round Sean. “I’ve made up the spare bed. You’ll be more comfortable there than on the sofa,” she said. “You look all in.”

“I’ve felt better,” Sean admitted, which I thought was probably understatement on a global scale. “I could do with making a couple of phone calls myself, though, if that would be OK?” He glanced at me. “I need to let Madeleine know I’m all right. She’ll be fretting.”

I couldn’t suppress a twitch of amusement. “I don’t know what your Ma will make of you abandoning your fiancée to spend the evening with me, and then not coming home all night,” I said, finishing the last of my coffee. “She’s waiting for you two to name the day.”

Clare looked blank at the exchange, and I’d just begun to explain the complicated relationship between Sean, Madeleine, and Sean’s mother, when Jacob reappeared looking troubled.

“Didn’t you mention that Roger had been seen blatting around the place on a CBR 600?” he asked, and got his answer from the frozen expression on Sean’s face.

“Why?” he said sharply. “What’s happened?”

“Well now, we don’t know for certain,” Jacob said. He was trying to be soothing, but his voice gave him away. “That was a mate of mine on the phone, does a bit of dealing in modern stuff out towards High Bentham. The police have dumped a bike in his yard this morning, a black and yellow CBR. They pulled it out of a ditch and he reckons it looks like its been run off the road. Got car paint on the fairing and blood on the tank, but no sign of the rider. It’s a local bike, from the plate, and he wondered if I might know whose it was. I said no.”

Sean looked stricken. “I need to see it,” he said. He staggered upright, almost toppled. Both Clare and I put a hand out to steady him, but he waved us away angrily. “I can manage.”

“Sean, don’t be a prat,” I said mildly. “You can’t just bounce straight back into the thick of it, not after what you’ve been through.”

“I’ll run him out there after lunch,” Jacob interrupted smoothly. “You go and see if you can lay your hands on this Jav character, Charlie.”

“Are you going to be OK by yourself?” Sean wanted to know.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I know just the back-up I can call on.” I glanced down at my rumpled clothes. “But first, I think I’m going to go home for a shower and some clean gear. Am I actually insured to drive your truck?”

“It’s a company vehicle,” Sean said. “Anyone who works for me is covered.”

“Right,” I said. “I’ll consider myself hired.”

***

Despite my apparently cavalier attitude, I drove the Patrol back to Lancaster very slowly and very carefully. It seemed to lean alarmingly round corners, and the bonnet, with great chrome bull bars, went on for miles. By the time I pulled up outside the flat my neck was cranked tight and I had the beginnings of a growling headache spreading up from it like a stain.

I let myself in and headed straight for the shower, stripping off as I went. It wasn’t until I’d emerged from a long stint under stinging needles of hot water, towel-dried my hair and put on fresh clothes, that I thought to check my answering machine.

There was only one message, but it was enough to have me grabbing the keys to the Nissan and running for the door.

“Charlie, it’s Mrs Gadatra,” said a woman’s wavering, frightened voice from the tape. “It’s about Pauline. She’s been attacked in the street. I think you’d better come.”

***

Getting in to Lavender Gardens proved easier said than done. For a start there were a pair of panda cars parked at a slant across the entrance road. One of the uniforms flagged me down and walked up to the driver’s window, head bent to the rain.

I sat paralysed for a second or two, suddenly realising that the Glock was still where I’d carelessly shoved it in my door pocket, and Sean’s blood had dried to a sticky stain on the passenger seat. Thank God the leather upholstery was dark enough for it not to show too badly.

I pressed the down button for the electric window until there was a gap about eight inches deep. “Morning, officer,” I called over the top of the glass, aiming for puzzled cheeriness. “What’s the problem?”

He ignored my greeting. He looked wet, cold, and the kind of tired you get from having had your nerves stretched constantly for hours at a time.

“Have you got business on the estate?” he asked, looking at the Patrol’s nearly-new registration. “Only they’re chucking rocks at anything that moves in there.”

I thought of Sean’s insurance, which had already paid out for a new windscreen in the Grand Cherokee. It wasn’t my problem. “I need to get to Kirby Street,” I said, stubborn.

He shrugged dismissively. “Well, you’ve been warned,” he said, and turned away.

In fact, I got in without encountering any trouble. Kirby Street itself looked much the same as usual, apart from the shell of a burned-out Metro on the corner that nobody had yet got around to shifting. The council obviously hadn’t sent the bin men in that week, either. Cat-torn bags of rubbish slumped across the pavement like couch potatoes.

As I pulled up outside Pauline’s place and hurried down the short driveway, I was aware that a dozen pairs of hidden eyes had noted my arrival.

Friday went apoplectic when I banged on the front door. There was a long pause, then I saw the curtains flutter in the living room window. Finally, the lock was clicked back, and the door opened to reveal Mrs Gadatra, rather than Pauline herself.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get your message until this morning,” I said as she motioned me into the hallway. “How is she?”

Mrs Gadatra jerked her head through to the kitchen. “Come and see for yourself,” she said.

Friday, banished to the living room, had subsided to anxious squeaks and whines. He came sidling up to me as though he knew something was seriously awry. I skimmed my hand over the top of his broad skull as I went past, and was rewarded with a quick wet tongue across my wrist.

In the kitchen, Pauline was sitting at the end of the table, with Aqueel and Gin on either side of her. They seemed to be playing a lively game of snap. Taken aback for a moment, I halted in the doorway, and Pauline glanced up. It was only then that I got a good look at her face.

Whoever had hit her had caught her a belter across the right-hand side. The gauzy dressings taped over bits of her chin and forehead suddenly reminded me of Sean. The cheekbone itself had been left to the open air, and the scabs that had formed over the abrasions there were dark and ugly.

Pauline gave me a cautious, watery smile, as if not sure her mouth would stretch to it.

“What happened?” I demanded.