I didn't bother to correct his mistake. Even in these enlightened times nobody expects a girl to be riding a motorbike. “Home,” I said shortly, my voice muffled by my scarf. “What's it to do with you?”
“You'd be wise not to take that tone with me, my lad,” he warned with a grim smile. He thrust his chin forwards, showing me his teeth and the whites of his eyes all the way round the irises. The skin of his face was stretched over wide cheekbones that protruded through it, revealing the shape of his skull.
Close up, he was older than I'd first thought. Even under the streetlighting, I could see that the hair cropped short to his scalp was silver, not blond. The lines were etched deep into his face like penknife graffiti in an old school desk.
“Come on,” he said, roughly now. “Let's have that helmet off and have a look at you.”
“What? You've got to be kidding?” I managed, appalled. “Who the hell d'you think you are?”
At that moment another figure appeared from a ginnel between two houses and joined the first. He was younger, shorter, not so broad in the shoulder, but the haircut and the uniform was the same. This was starting to get creepy.
“You got trouble, boss?” he asked, not taking his eyes off me. His voice wasn't nearly so far upmarket, but he was trying hard to match it, and his tone was hopeful, spoiling for a fight.
I pride myself on being a pretty good judge of sticky situations, but I didn't have to be to work out that now was a good time to back down.
With a sigh I yanked my gloves off and undid the chinstrap holding my battered old Arai helmet in place, pulling that off over my head.
For a moment, surprise held them still, then the big bloke laughed.
“Well, well,” he said softly. “I'd no idea that I was in the presence of a lady.”
“You're not,” I said, my voice icy. “I don't suppose you'd like to tell me who you are and what the hell is going on?”
“My apologies,” he said, mocking. “My name is Ian Garton-Jones. Myself – and Mr West here – and my colleagues, have been contracted in a clean-up capacity on this estate.”
I suddenly remembered my last conversation with my neighbour over the garden fence. She'd mentioned a Mr Garton-Jones, but I feigned ignorance. “Clean-up?” I queried, frowning.
“That's correct.” He showed his teeth again. The Rhodesian Ridgeback, Friday would have made the gesture look more friendly. “We're here to gather up all the rubbish, the crap, the dregs, and the trash, and keep it off the streets,” he said with deliberate emphasis. The inference was clear.
“Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” I asked flippantly.
He shrugged. It was of no importance to him. “Whatever it takes.”
“And that involves doing a ‘stand and deliver’ routine on every passing motorist coming into the estate, does it?”
“Oh that's just a temporary measure, Miss―?” He left the question hanging.
“Fox,” I supplied, unable to find a reason other than pure pigheadedness not to tell him who I was. Even so, it was tempting. “My name is Charlie Fox.”
“There, you see, it's not so bad, is it, Miss Fox?” Garton-Jones said. His tone was supposed to be soothing. It only succeeded in winding my irritation up a notch higher. West stood slightly back and to his left, keeping quiet, but missing nothing. “Once we've identified everyone with a right to be here, you won't be troubled again.”
When I gave my name, West pulled out a hardbacked notebook from his inside pocket and flicked on his own torch as he studied the pages. “I don't seem to have you listed as a resident here, Miss Fox,” he said politely, his voice deceptively mild. “Would you mind telling me the purpose of your visit tonight?”
“I'm house-sitting for a friend,” I bit out. I knew I was going to have to tell them more than that, but they were going to have to work for it.
“House-sitting?” Garton-Jones repeated, his interest quickening. “For whom? Which house?” He rapped out the questions. Despite his upper-class accent, the civility was little more than a cigarette-paper thin veneer covering the savagery underneath. I knew that if I was clever I'd stop being obstructive now, and tell them what they wanted to know.
So, I gave them Pauline's name and address, told them how long she was going to be away. West jotted it all down in his notebook, which he shut with a snap when he was finished.
“OK, Miss Fox,” Garton-Jones said. “You can go now. We'll be having a word with Mrs Jamieson when she returns, though. Just to let her know that there's no need to trouble any of her friends in the future. Streetwise Securities are in control of this area now. Next time she's away, we'll be looking after her property.”
I bridled silently at his smug tone. Pauline would probably have something to say about that, but it wasn't up to me to put words into her mouth. “I'm sure she'll be thrilled,” I told him sweetly.
Garton-Jones either didn't hear the sarcasm or chose to rise above my low wit. “It's all part of the service,” he said neutrally, standing back and waving me on with a slight bow.
I tugged my helmet back on, trying not to mutter under my breath. But, as I toed the bike into gear, I was blinded by the sudden flare of main-beam headlights from the other end of the street.
“What the―?” Garton-Jones spun round, jerking a hand up to protect his eyes.
I heard the roar of a big V8 engine, being caned straight down the middle of the road. The sound seemed to leap towards me, increasing in size with such speed and ferocity that for a moment I was paralysed.
At the last minute, I grabbed a handful of throttle and banged the clutch out. The bike jumped forwards like a racehorse leaving the starting gate and shot across the road.
I just about managed to slot into a gap between two parked cars, and jolted clumsily up the low kerb onto the pavement, stalling the motor.
I twisted round to see Garton-Jones and West dive out of the way with an undignified haste that was grimly pleasing. It was difficult to make out much more than the basic shape of the vehicle that came barrelling through the space we'd so recently vacated. One of these new four-by-fours, with a set of industrial bull-bars on the front. Other than that, I couldn't even have given you the colour.
It reached the corner of the street and slithered round it in a near-perfect sideways drift, engine howling as the tyres skittered over the wet road surface. I couldn't suppress a certain amount of admiration for the driver. Whoever was behind the wheel obviously knew his stuff.
Before the taillights had even disappeared, Garton-Jones had grabbed a walkie-talkie from his belt and was snarling into it. “Gary! What the fuck's going on at your end?” he demanded. “That damned Grand Cherokee with the Dutch plates on it has just been through here again like it's a fucking racetrack. Either keep that end of the estate locked down, or I'll put someone in charge who can.”
He shoved the walkie-talkie into his jacket pocket without waiting for a reply. He glared first at West, and then across at me, as though daring either of us to comment. Neither of us fancied the prospects of that move overmuch.
I busied myself with flicking the gear lever back into neutral so I could kick-start the bike again. I rode it carefully ten metres along the uneven pavement until there was a gap between the parked cars, and dropped back into the road.
As I rode the short distance to Pauline's place, I reflected that the arrival of Garton-Jones and his mob on Lavender Gardens should have meant things had just got better. So why couldn't I shake the feeling they'd just taken a downward turn? And one so steep it was more like a nose-dive.
HARD KNOCKS
Charlie Fox book three