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
With the promise of Jacob’s cooking to lure me, that wasn’t a difficult offer to accept.
Ten
The next day, which was Friday, I was due to work a late shift at the gym. I rode out of Kirby Street around four in the afternoon, and got my first inkling that maybe getting rid of Garton-Jones hadn’t been such a good idea, after all.
It was fortunate I wasn’t caning the bike, because as I stooged round a corner I found the gap between the cars parked down either side of the street was blocked by a group of teenage Asian lads. Some were leaning on the cars, while the others were just milling about.
I pulled the clutch lever in, tucked two fingers round the front brake, and coasted slowly to a halt about twenty feet away, eyeing them guardedly through my visor. A few of them saw me coming and shifted to one side, but there were half a dozen who stayed put, hands on hips, heads tilted. You didn’t need a master’s degree in body languages to be able to read their stance.
For a few moments, we faced each other off, while I did a furious mental search for alternative routes out of the estate. There weren’t any. Even if I could have turned the bike round quickly in the space available, which wasn’t easy with a steering lock that relied on speed to make it viable.
One of the boys took a couple of swaggering steps forwards, beckoning me forwards exaggeratedly with both hands. He was mid-teens, difficult to put an age on accurately, with peroxide blond hair that was startling against his olive complexion, and orange wraparound sunglasses.
I knocked the gear lever down into first, but didn’t let the clutch out. There was no way I wanted to just ride at them. There was no guarantee they’d shift. In fact, I stood more chance of hitting one of them and dropping the bike, and that wasn’t likely to turn into a healthy scenario, particularly for me.
I got out of it by sheer luck. A police Astra turned into the other end of the road and came cruising towards the boys. They dispersed quickly, not ready quite yet for an all-out rebellion against authority. The two burly coppers inside glared at all of us suspiciously as they crawled past, but obviously didn’t feel inclined to leave the safety of their vehicle to investigate further.
I took the opportunity when it was offered, letting the clutch out with a handful of revs and shooting through the empty space left by the Astra, before the boys had chance to close ranks behind it.
I glanced in my mirrors as I accelerated away down the street. With the police car safely round the next corner, I expected to see the boys moving out into the road again. Instead, there was no sign of them. I even stopped, turning to scan the area behind me, but it was eerily deserted. Had the police car spooked them? Or was there more to it than that?
As I was early for work, I did a quick detour through Lancaster and down onto St George’s Quay to drop in at the flat. I left the bike next to the kerb outside and bounced up the wooden staircase to the place I called home.
The flat is on part of the first floor of an old warehouse. Before I moved in it had been a gym, which I suppose could be considered ironic, given my current means of employment.
I’d been there since I first moved to the city. My landlord had ripped the machines out when the place had closed down, but that was as far as he’d gone by way of refurbishment. I’d been the one who’d organised putting a kitchen of sorts into what had been the gents’ changing room, and converted the office into my bedroom.
The area might have moved upmarket over the last couple of years, but the flat itself was pretty basic. The whitewash on the walls peeled with the damp, and few of the windows closed without gaps. The only heating came through overhead pipes and was erratic at best. There was rumoured to be a central boiler somewhere in the basement that was so decrepit it made Stephenson’s Rocket look as modern as a nuclear fusion reactor.
Despite the fact the heating system operated regardless of my presence, the flat felt cold inside, unlived in. I pushed open the front door against a pile of mostly junk mail, and slid through the gap.
I picked up a few more clothes to stuff into my rucksack, having very much discovered the luxury of Pauline’s washing machine. I sifted through the post quickly, but found nothing of any note apart from an irate card from my landlord, complaining because I’d changed the lock without telling him and had omitted to give him a key. In fact, I’d been forced to fit new locks over a year ago, when the place got turned over, and I wondered briefly why he’d wanted to gain access now.
I moved to the telephone. I’d given Pauline’s phone number to most people who needed to know it, but even so the answering machine light was flashing to tell me I’d one message. I hit the button idly, while I tossed invitations to visit discount sofa factories and take out gold credit cards unopened into the waste paper basket.
When the tape rewound and started to play, however, it brought me to an abrupt standstill.
“Charlie, we need to talk.” Sean’s voice, unmistakable, abrupt. He paused, as though I’d been there when he’d rang, and he was waiting for me to pick up.
When I hadn’t done so, he sighed audibly, and went on in a quiet tone that was somehow more ominous than any shouted threat could have been. “Don’t even think about running again, Charlie. I meant what I said last night. You can’t hide forever, and we’ve unfinished business. So call me.” He reeled off a mobile phone number which I didn’t bother to write down, then rang off.
My legs folded me gently onto the sofa of their own volition. For a few minutes after the answering machine had clicked off, I just sat there, staring at it stupidly. How on earth had Sean got my number? Did he know where I lived? If he knew I was at Pauline’s why hadn’t he rung me there? Or was he just being cunning?
Suddenly, I needed to get out of there. I turned the lights off and yanked the door shut behind me, turning the key in the lock with hands that fumbled. I almost ran down to the bike, kicking it into life with clumsiness born of haste.
