“Thank you Aqueel,” I said again, smiling, but careful not to mock him. “I don’t think so, but if there is, you’ll be the first to know.”
***
Since there seemed to be little I could do for Pauline that wasn’t being done already, I left soon after.
The Patrol was still sitting by the kerb with, surprisingly perhaps, all its tyres, paint, and glass intact. I was just about to try and keep things that way by getting out of there when movement further along the street caught my eye.
A front door had opened, and a large suited figure had emerged. It didn’t take a moment to recognise Mr Ali. I stilled, and for some reason that made him glance in my direction. Immediately, he began hurrying along the path to the road, and fumbling in a pocket for his car keys.
He was slow finding them, and I’ve found I can run quite fast when I’m given the right motivation. I’d reached him before he’d managed to get the door open, giving him little option but to speak to me.
“Ah, Charlie,” he said nervously, his strangely soprano voice strung fit to snap. “How nice to see you again. I have just been visiting Fariman, you know. Thankfully, he is feeling much better.”
“How much better would he be feeling if he knew what you were really up to round here?”
“Up to? I don’t know what you mean,” Ali squeaked. “I have done nothing wrong.”
“No?” I said, advancing grimly and planting my hip against his car door, just in case he got any ideas. “So you won’t mind if people round here find out what you were paying Harvey Langford to do? Keeping the crime figures bad enough for you to make a killing when this whole area gets redeveloped. Do they know you own half their houses, too?”
“No, no!” If Ali’s voice got any higher he’d be attracting passing bats. “You’ve got it all wrong. Please! I must go now. I had nothing to do with—”
He broke off abruptly, eyes swivelling wildly as he realised he’d been about to deny something he hadn’t been accused of yet.
“Nothing to do with what? With Langford’s death?” I jumped straight in with a laugh that was gone before it had arrived. “Oh come on, Ali, he couldn’t have been hiding out at the site without you knowing about it and permitting it. Who was he afraid of?”
I don’t know if Mr Ali was going to answer that one, because at that moment a mid-sized rock came whizzing past my ear and smashed into splintered fragments on the paving slabs a few feet away.
Twenty-four
Cursing, I instinctively ducked and spun round.
Mr Ali didn’t need telling twice that this was a good time to make his getaway. He yanked open his car door, thumping it against my shoulder. The blow caught me off balance and sent me sprawling. He was into the driving seat with the engine fired and the gear lever shoved into first before I’d had time to recover. The tyres chirruped as he spun the wheels halfway along the street.
Once he’d gone I got to my feet warily, keeping low, as though the overflowing black bin liner next to me was going to provide decent cover. I couldn’t see anyone nearby. After my somewhat frosty reception from Mrs Gadatra, I suppose being used for target practise was a logical progression, and I shouldn’t have been surprised about it.
Or maybe someone else on Lavender Gardens had discovered Mr Ali’s treachery. Maybe the rock had been aimed at him. Maybe, if he’d hung around longer, we might have had a chance to find out . . .
I waited, with the silence that came after Mr Ali’s dramatic departure punching and kicking at me. Eventually, I realised it was a case of move now, or stay there all day. Besides anything else, something in the bin bag next to me smelt ripe enough to make my eyes water.
I weighed up the distance to the Patrol with my heart banging painfully against my ribs, but decided against making a run for it. It wasn’t likely to make much difference and, in the end, it boiled down to trying to hold on to my dignity.
I nearly made it, too.
I suppose I can’t have been more than half-a-dozen hopeful paces away from the Patrol. I had the keys out ready in my hand, thumb on the remote door lock button, when four bulky figures appeared from one of the ginnels to my right.
My stride faltered, and I stumbled to a halt.
“Miss Fox,” Ian Garton-Jones nodded as he closed in. “I didn’t expect to see you round here any more.”
I couldn’t tell if he sounded disappointed or not.
He showed his teeth briefly as he stepped between me and the Nissan. Harlow and a man I didn’t recognise moved to cut off a line of retreat. West took station behind his boss’s shoulder, and leaned insolently on the Patrol’s front wing with his arms folded.
I shrugged. “I’m just visiting,” I said.
“Ah yes – Mrs Jamieson,” he said, and there was a certain amount of grim satisfaction in his voice. “Well, we’ve had a little chat with her, and you won’t be needed next time she goes away.”
Did his idea of a “little chat” include thrown bricks, I wondered silently?
“Nice vehicle,” he went on, shifting to stare in through the Patrol’s side window at the interior. He seemed to pause just a fraction too long with his gaze on that dull stain on the passenger seat. I shoved my hands into my pockets so he wouldn’t see the clenching of my fingers.
Eventually he turned back to me. “He lets you drive it around, does he?”
“Does who?”
“Sean Meyer,” Garton-Jones said. “It is his vehicle, isn’t it?” He watched me carefully for a reaction, then added in a sly tone, “Maybe he just isn’t feeling up to driving at the moment.”
He and his men exchanged nasty grins, the kind that sent a spasm of alarm rippling across my shoulder blades. I fought not to let it show.
While Garton-Jones was talking, West had been casually nudging the mud flap behind the Nissan’s front tyre with the toe of his boot. The earth that was caked there dropped out onto the tarmac in small clods.
Garton-Jones glanced down at them. “Been off-roading, have we?” he asked and when I didn’t answer he went on, “Lots of good places for that round here, so I understand. You know – green lanes, bits of waste ground, building sites . . .”
The smile left his face as he said the last words, all pretence at good humour wiped away.
Jesus, had he killed Langford just to frame Sean? Jacob had dismissed that scenario as being too drastic, too unbelievable. I wondered if he would change his mind now.
But, if Garton-Jones was responsible, why give me what amounted to a confession? Unless they were going to make sure I wasn’t in any fit state to repeat it.
I was almost surprised, then, when he stepped back from the door of the Patrol and let me open it. He moved in again quickly, though, getting right in my face. I prayed he wouldn’t look down, otherwise he couldn’t fail to miss the Glock in the door pocket.
“I’m a reasonable man, Miss Fox,” he said, in much the same tone that he’d once used to tell me he was a violent man, too. “Grudges and feuds are all part of my business. Just tell Meyer to stay off my estate and this won’t go any further. OK?”
Ah, so that was it.
I glared at him without making any moves he could possibly take as a sign of acquiescence. Eventually, he just grinned, the action accentuating the tightness of the skin over his death’s head skull. He stepped back again with an arrogant wave of his hand, bored playing games with me.