Against every advice, Attila had snapped the whole property up for a song when it finally closed down for good a few years ago. He’d turned the tatty workshop and storage area into a spacious fitness room, complete with a sauna. It wasn’t snazzy, but it had the workmanlike atmosphere that suggests real people who are seriously into the job, rather than a poseurs’ palace.
Usually, it was bustling, but today of all days, it was dead. I spent the first hour as the only inhabitant, and took the opportunity to get my own workout in, just in case things hotted up later.
I used to train a lot, starting when I was in the army and needed to build up both my strength and my stamina. After I was kicked out, it became a method of relaxation of sorts. A way to shut my brain down through sheer physical exhaustion, and rid myself of my frustration and anger, taking it out on the machines.
I was halfway through a tough set of bench presses when I finally got some company. The two blokes who came in were regulars, and they were into it enough to wave me on with the set. Conscious of them watching, I rushed through the last five reps before moving over to the counter to sign them in.
They were a friendly enough pair, giving me the usual cheery amount of stick as they hefted their sports bags and went to get changed. It was only when they reappeared that a sudden thought occurred to me.
“Wayne,” I said to one of them, while they were still doing their warm-up exercises, “don’t you work for Mr Ali, the builder?”
Wayne gave a grunt, but whether that was at my question, or because he was attempting to touch his toes, I couldn’t be sure. He was a well-built black man, with hands like shovels. He was currently struggling to ward off a beer gut and only just keeping pace with it. “Used to, girl,” he said. “Got laid off couple of weeks back.”
“Really? I thought he was doing well.”
“Yeah, so did I.” He gave me a wry smile. “Half a dozen of us got the punt at the same time. Last in, first out. That’s the way it goes. He reckons he’s got a big contract coming off soon, and we’ll be back in there but, tell you the truth, I’m not bothered. I’m working for that mob who are converting the old asylum now. Pay’s better.”
I digested the information, then decided a hunch was worth a try. “D’you know a guy called Langford?”
He frowned. “Oh yeah,” he said, suddenly guarded, “we all know him.”
If I’d been a horse, my ears would have pricked straight up at his tone. “Why’s that?”
For a moment Wayne looked as though he’d said too much, then he shrugged. His loyalties lay elsewhere these days. “He and the boss, well, there’s something going on there, and I’m damned if I know what, girl,” he said. “That Langford used to flag us down like we was bloody taxis. Take me here, take me there. I tried to complain to the boss about it once, but he said don’t ask questions.” He shrugged. “I got rent to pay, so I didn’t ask.”
“And you’ve no idea what was going on?”
He shook his head, plonking one foot up on a bench and reaching over it to stretch his hamstrings. When he came upright again, he said darkly, “All I do know is, he always turned up on a site, convenient like, on a Thursday afternoon, and the boss used to hand him a pay packet just like the rest of us. If Langford wasn’t such a bloody racist, I’d say they must be related or something. Know what I mean?”
The door went again as more of the evening lads came in. I smiled my thanks to Wayne, and went to deal with them. Langford and Mr Ali? As unlikely combinations went, it was right up there at the top of the list.
***
Attila came in around six-thirty, and that’s when the place really started to busy up. Once people knew his schedule they tended to time their visits to coincide with his presence. I didn’t take it personally. It was his place, after all.
I finished around nine, changed into my leathers and stuffed my gear into my tank bag. It was dark outside, cold and drizzly. I didn’t wait too long for the Suzuki to warm up before I was on my way.
Traffic was starting to bulk up through town. As I filtered down the outside of it going past the bus station, a taxi stuck its nose out from the rank into traffic, blocking my path. I sighed and braked to a halt with the rain tenaciously drilling its way down the back of my neck.
I tried to leave as much room as I could between my front wheel and the taxi’s exhaust pipe while I reflected morosely that it didn’t seem to be my day for clean air.
There were times when riding a bike all year round was a real pain. I really was going to have to splash out on a decent pair of gloves. My fingers were already wet and before I got back to Pauline’s I knew the tips of them would have gone numb.
We were alongside a little café and I glanced idly through the window into the brightly-lit interior with something like envy. There were two people sitting at the table by the window, drinking coffee. Their hands were wrapped round the mugs and I could just imagine the warmth of the hot liquid seeping through the china.
As I watched, one of them lifted the mug to his mouth and drank, and as my gaze followed its progress I realised I was looking at a face I knew. It was the boy from Fariman’s garden.
Roger put the mug back on the table, keeping one hand round it, using the other to illustrate his speech as he talked earnestly to his companion. It was with some sense of shock that I recognised the other boy, too.
He was probably the last person I would have expected to find relaxing in the company of a teenage thug on the fast track to a long stretch inside. Yet there they were, chatting away like old friends.
Nasir.
Five
The driver of the car behind me blew his horn, making me jump, and I realised that the taxi was long gone. I hastily booted the bike into gear and flung the clutch out with all the finesse of a first-day learner. The Suzuki made its displeasure plain by bounding forwards, and then refusing to drop cleanly into second.
Cursing under my breath at the fluffed change, I brought my mind back onto the job in hand. The last thing I could afford to do was try and ride through darkened rush-hour traffic preoccupied. I like my legs just the shape they are, thanks all the same.
With an effort I pushed the significance of what I’d just seen way into the background. Roger was from Copthorne. Nasir was from Lavender Gardens. They should have been at each other’s throats. Race almost didn’t come into it.
I swung across Greyhound Bridge and onto the road to Morecambe, filtering down the outside of the cars when they shuffled to a standstill. It didn’t take long before I was turning in to Lavender Gardens and weaving through the gloomy back streets.
I’d let my brain wander by this point, churning it over and over to try and make some sense of it. What on earth was the connection between Roger and Nasir? I knew Nasir had been in trouble, too, but I also remembered the way he’d flown off the handle over the attack on his uncle.
At the time, I’d thought his anger was aimed at Roger and his mates, but it wasn’t. He knew far more than he was telling about all this. I needed to talk to him about it. Try and get something more out of him. Perhaps O’Bryan might have a better idea of what was going on. As I turned in to Kirby Street, I made a mental note to give him a call.
Then a big man carrying what looked like a baseball bat stepped out of the shadows into the road in front of me.
My first thought as I grabbed for the front brake was that Roger had somehow already got wind of my intention to go the distance, and had sent the boys round. Timing and logic didn’t come into it. This was straight gut-reaction fear.