Riot Act

Nine

I don’t know if I’d worried Attila unduly, but out of the blue he decided that I could go early that afternoon, and I left around half three.

“We’re quiet, and the weekend’s coming up,” he said, when I protested. “Go home, Charlie. Relax. Try and unwind a little, yes?”

“OK,” I agreed eventually, even though I knew I wouldn’t.

The life was already starting to fade out of the day as I rode through town and across Greyhound Bridge. Lancaster sits on the tidal estuary of the Lune, and that afternoon the tide was well out, leaving great expanses of stony sludge exposed to the greying light. There was a bitter wind sizzling in from Morecambe Bay, too. It whipped up over the exposed bridge, and the bike shied away from each gust.

Still, at least there wasn’t much traffic to dice with, and I was soon winding my way through the streets of Lavender Gardens towards Kirby Street. Perhaps it was my imagination, but without Garton-Jones’s paramilitaries lurking round every corner, the estate looked less grim, somehow.

At least the kids felt unharassed enough to be back playing out, despite the cold and the rapidly gathering gloom. They practised their guerrilla tactics among the parked cars, making me slow to a crawl as I threaded my way among them.

I was almost at Pauline’s when a Transit van turned into the other end of the street and came speeding down the middle like the TV reconstruction of a hit-and-run. The driver held it in a low gear, the transmission whining in protest.

I pulled over into a gap, put my feet down, and waited for him to go past. It was one of Mr Ali’s green and purple vans, and I made a mental note to ask him to have a quiet word with his drivers when I saw him again.

What I saw next pushed that thought right out of my mind. Instead of shooting past me the van pulled over right outside Pauline’s house, and the passenger door swung open. I could see there were the obligatory three men in the front. For some reason there are always three men in the front of a Transit van. As I watched, the one on the furthest left hopped down to let the middle passenger climb out.

I was getting used to seeing Nasir in unexpected company, but this time it wasn’t the Asian boy who was out of place. He reached back into the van for his flask and sandwich box, and nodded to the driver.

It was the other passenger who caught my eye. He seemed reluctant to move out of Nasir’s way, standing close up to the open van door, deliberately obstructive. I wondered what it was that was lacking about Langford’s psychological make-up that made him particularly enjoy that kind of game. Nasir had to go out of his way to step round him carefully.

The vigilante broke into a big smile as he recognised the boy’s submission. It was like something out of a wildlife documentary about the pecking order of baboons.

He waited until Nasir had walked about halfway down the drive towards the house, then called after him, “Hey, Nas!” The boy refused to give any sign of having heard him, so Langford added, “Give my regards to the ladies, won’t you?”

He laughed at the way Nasir’s stride faltered, and climbed back into the van. “OK, drive on,” he said to the other man, who’d stayed morosely silent during the brief exchange. “Take me to your leader.”

The driver rammed the van into gear with a crunch and gunned it away down the street. The sense of realisation settled over me slowly. Wayne had told me that Langford used to turn up and collect a pay packet from Mr Ali every Thursday.

Today was Thursday.

With only a moment’s hesitation, I paddled the Suzuki round in a half circle, and followed the van.

There was only one logical way out of the estate, so I didn’t have to try and look too casual until we reached the main road. The van turned left, and headed towards Morecambe. I purposely allowed a few other vehicles to go by before I pulled out after it.

The Transit was easy to keep track of among the cars, particularly as the streetlights started to come on. If the driver’s reckless lane changing was anything to go by, he wasn’t using his mirrors much, in any case.

At the roundabout just past the college, the van veered off to the left and started to head towards Heysham. The manoeuvre was so abrupt that for a moment I thought he’d spotted me although, logically, I didn’t see how he could have done. I kept up the pursuit.

I nearly lost him as he turned off the escape road they put in just in case anything goes seriously pear-shaped – or should that be mushroom-shaped – at the nuclear power station. I got pushed out of lane by an Irish trucker who was obviously late for his ferry, and had to do another quick circuit of the roundabout to take the right exit.

By this time, though, I’d a fair idea of where they were heading. There was a new three-storey office block going up on the edge of one of the industrial estates. Construction problems had ensured that it had made the local news a few times. I seemed to recall that Mr Ali’s firm had the contract.

I dropped back further, letting the van rocket ahead along the narrowing road. There wasn’t so much traffic to hide behind now, and as we reached the site entrance, the tarmac was clodded with earth from the construction machinery. It wasn’t the sort of surface I wanted to approach at a gallop.

As the van turned in and bounced over the rough ground, I rode past carefully, and nipped into the old industrial estate next door. Half the ramshackle units were empty. The weathered shabbiness of the letting agents’ signs was a clear giveaway that these weren’t recent vacancies.

I slid the bike into a narrow gap between two of the boarded-up units that backed onto the new development, and killed the lights and the engine. For a few moments I sat there in the rapidly encroaching darkness, listening to the Suzuki’s aluminium engine ticking and pinging as it cooled down, and chewing over my options.

I could just turn round and go back to Pauline’s, but if I did that I’d have achieved little more than partial confirmation of Wayne’s story.

Equally, I could go marching in through the front gate, demand to speak to Mr Ali, and then confront him about his connection with Langford’s vigilante group.

Forthright, yes, but stupid, also.

On the other hand, the third alternative was possibly the least attractive. I could squeeze my way through the six foot fence in front of me. Then I could go sneaking around the building site on the other side to see what I could find out that way.

I had the darkness on my side, coupled with the fact that my everyday leathers are black anyway. They might be a bit bulky to be absolutely perfect for a bit of surreptitious B&E, but at least they were the right colour.

I left my helmet hanging over one of the bar-ends, but kept my gloves on. It was a good job, too. The planked wooden fence was made from cheap rough timber, and I would have come away with half of it bedded in as splinters.

I pushed my way through, stepping into the mud on the other side with a disconcerting squelch, and took a quick look around me. There wasn’t much sign of activity, and no-one seemed to have noticed my arrival.

After a moment to get my bearings, I turned and walked openly in the direction of the site entrance, where I could see several of Mr Ali’s Transit vans parked up. There were numerous big lighting rigs set up and as I moved I threw out multiple shadows from them like a floodlit football player.

I didn’t see any point in scurrying from one shadow to the next like I was doing a prison breakout. If anyone did spot me, behaving furtively was going to look far more suspicious.

Still, when I saw Langford picking his way across the mud to one of the stacked Portakabins, I couldn’t help but duck out of sight behind a parked digger. Peering out carefully, I watched him go over to the nearest one, push open the door, and walk straight in without knocking.

Once he’d disappeared, I came out of cover and hurried over to the Portakabin. Light was flooding out of a barred window in the side opposite the door, and I sidled up close to it.

Inside, the Portakabin was split into two, with a partition wall and a door down the centre. This turned the half I could see into a smallish square room containing a cheap veneered desk, a brown filing cabinet, and a swivel typist’s chair with a torn tweed cover and the foam stuffing coming out of the seat.

The room was harshly lit with an unshaded fluorescent tube slung across the ceiling. There was a mess of what looked like architect’s plans spread across the desk. But no occupants.

I could only assume that Langford had gone into the second room, for which there was no window. If I wanted to find out what was going on in there, I was going to have to get closer. Damn.

Still, I’d come far enough to be in deep trouble if I got caught, so what was another few feet between friends? As quickly as I could, but trying not to look as though I was hurrying, I moved round to the door on the other side of the Portakabin, and turned the handle. There was enough ambient noise from the diggers to mask any squeaks the hinges gave out, but I put the door to very carefully behind me once I was inside. The latch seemed to make an incredibly loud click as it engaged.

I tiptoed across the bare plywood floor to the closed door that separated the outer and inner office, and put my ear against the panelling.

“It’s going to have to stop, Mr Langford,” came the unmistakable high note of Mr Ali’s voice, tinged with bluster. “Things are going too far. You’ve been doing a good job for me up until now, but this is too much.”

Langford’s voice, when it came, was so close it nearly made me flinch back. He could almost have been leaning against the frame on the other side of the door. “Don’t back out now, Ali, just when things are starting to get interesting,” he said, insolent. “As you’ve said, I’ve been doing a good job for you, and the wheels are turning. We both know it.”

Mr Ali had begun to pace, I could feel his footsteps through the wooden floor, making the Portakabin rock. “That is beside the point,” he said, agitated. “People are beginning to suspect something, and I can’t afford for our arrangement to come to light, particularly not after what has just happened.”

“You mean the Gadatra boy?” Langford demanded lazily. “Don’t worry about him. He’s got too many areas of weakness to be a threat, and I know just where to apply the right pressure so he’ll fold.”

“And what about the girl, Miss Fox?” Mr Ali’s mention of my own name made me draw in a breath more sharply than prudence called for.

“Her?” I could hear the note of disbelief, turning to discomfort. “I know she managed to blind-side me, but you really feel she’s a problem?” His inflection made it a question.

“She could be. From what I hear she was instrumental in getting Mr Garton-Jones thrown off the estate. If she finds out about us . . .”

“You worry too much, Ali. If anything, she’s done us a favour. After all, we were just doubling up on the same job, weren’t we? Anyway, I wouldn’t bank on Streetwise being gone long. Garton-Jones knows when he’s on to a good thing, and these community schemes are never up to much.”

There were more footsteps, the sound of chair legs scraping back. I tensed like a deer, ready to flee, but unable to resist the temptation to stay. “So, what happens if they come back?”

“Well, the way things are hotting up, they could be just what we need. Besides, everyone has their price, and I’m sure with the right “financial inducements” shall we say, certain people could come round to our way of thinking, if you know what I mean.”

Mr Ali’s voice became resigned. “How much do you need?”

I could feel rather than see Langford’s artfully casual shrug. “I don’t know,” he said, almost sly. “Let me make some approaches, and I’ll get back to you. Speaking of cash, though,” he went on, and the insolent tone was back again in full force, “where’s my pay packet for this week?”

Other voices approaching outside stripped my attention away from the conversation in the inner office. I looked around wildly and realised there was absolutely nowhere to hide. I scuttled away from that door and headed for the outside one, managing to open it, slip through the gap, and have it closed again in a flash.

“Can I help you?” It was a man’s voice, flat with suspicion, and right by my shoulder. It made me jump.

I turned to see a middle-aged bloke in a dirty green fluoro jacket and a yellow hard hat standing only a couple of feet away.

“Erm, no thanks, mate, I’m all sorted,” I said, smiling at him, but getting no similar response.

“What are you doing here? I didn’t see you come in.”

God, did nobody have any trust in humanity any more? “Bike courier, mate,” I said, keeping my voice cheery. I patted the top pocket of my leather jacket as though to indicate safely secured paperwork. “I’ve just dropped off a package with the bloke in the office there,” I jerked a thumb to indicate the Portakabin I’d just left. “Big Asian bloke. He signed for it.”

He was starting to run with me on this one, but the last vestiges of wariness remained. “What was it, then?” he asked.

I shrugged, trying to stay casual, even though any minute now Langford and Mr Ali could emerge from the Portakabin behind me and expose me for the liar I was. I wondered if people really did end up buried in concrete footings.

“No idea, mate. They don’t tell me, and I don’t ask,” I said blithely. “I just had to get the thing here from Manchester before close of play, and that’s what I’ve done.” I checked my watch, just to prove it. “Anything else is not my problem.”

He nodded, still mistrustful, but unable to put his finger on anything concrete. Until I’d taken two or three steps away from him, that was.

“So where’s your bike?” he called after me.

I froze, painted on a smile and turned, indicating the gloopy mud underfoot with a grimace. “I left it out on the road,” I said. “You think I’m bringing my nice Suzuki through shit like this?”

He gave me the first sign of warmth as he nodded. “No, s’pose not,” he said and waved his hand, dismissing me. “All right then. Off you go. In future, just make sure you check in with the foreman before you go wandering around on site, will you? It’s against the regs.”

“No problem, mate. See you.” I tried my best not to run the rest of the way to the road, but it was a close thing. Once I was out of the site I had to stamp my feet to get rid of the mud galoshes. Then I jogged back round to the trading estate and retrieved the bike.

All the time I was waiting for the sounds of pursuit. I didn’t know how soon the man I’d bumped into would mention my presence to Mr Ali. If he mentioned it at all.

I wished I’d pretended to own a different make of motorbike. At least then if they decided to come looking for me, they’d have been on the wrong track to start with. Damn. Why couldn’t I have said Kawasaki, or Honda? Even a lowly MZ would have been better than admitting to a Suzuki. Mind you, then I’d have had less reason for not wanting to trail it through the mud.

I rode back to Lavender Gardens by a circuitous route, and arrived with a headache from constantly squinting in the Suzuki’s vibrating mirrors for any sign of stalking Transit vans.

There weren’t any.

I had to assume, for the moment at least, that I’d got away with it.

Once I’d locked the bike away and recovered from Friday’s usual clamorous greeting I had chance to think about the conversation I’d eavesdropped on. What was Mr Ali paying Langford to do? What wheels were turning? And what was it that people were beginning to suspect?

I cast my mind back to Nasir’s outburst in Shahida’s living room. He obviously knew more than he was telling, but about what?

And why did Langford think he and Garton-Jones’s men were doubling up. Doubling up in what way? Streetwise were being paid to clean up the estate. I hadn’t liked their methods, and neither had anyone else, so they’d gone. How had that left the way clear for Langford’s mob? Unless he was doing the same thing . . .

It occurred to me, slowly, that maybe Mr Ali was paying the vigilantes to keep Lavender Gardens clear. The only thing was, their actions had misfired badly when Fariman had been stabbed. Maybe Mr Ali wanted to be seen as the public-spirited hero, but only after Langford had successfully done his job. When he’d cocked up, the builder was suddenly understandably keen to put as much distance between them as he could.

It wasn’t unreasonable to assume that as Nasir worked for Mr Ali, he’d got wind of the plan somehow. But what was his connection with Roger? And why was Mr Ali taking it upon himself to clean up the estate in the first place?

I shook my head. I needed more information before I could even begin to draw any watertight conclusions. Much as I thought I was pushing my luck, I rang Jacob and Clare again.

By the time I put the phone down ten minutes later, I felt easier in my mind. Intrigued, Clare had suggested that she have a rummage through the Defender’s archives first thing in the morning, and photocopy anything on Mr Ali or Langford that seemed relevant. I could collect what she’d got, she told me with a grin in her voice, when I went round for supper at the weekend.

With the promise of Jacob’s cooking to lure me, that wasn’t a difficult offer to accept.