Riot Act by Zoe Sharp

should have known that was coming, but it still jolted me. Some part of me didn’t want to betray Sean, but it had more to do with my dislike of Garton-Jones than to any particular old loyalties.
     
    I kept my head up, steady. “He’s tried to run me down – twice – but apart from that, I can’t help you,” I shrugged.
     
    “Are you sure about that, Miss Fox?” His voice should have warned me, but I stood my ground.
     
    “Yes.”
     
    He studied me quietly for a few moments, then clicked his tongue in mock self-reproof, as though he’d been remiss in some way. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m forgetting my manners,” he said, gesturing politely like we were at an ambassador’s reception, “I believe you’ve met Mr Drummond and Mr Harlow, but I don’t think you were properly introduced.”
     
    I turned fully then. On cue, the men behind me moved forwards into the light. I recognised the faces of the two men who’d been laying into Roger, and then turned their focus onto me.
     
    I was gratified to notice that the one indicated as Drummond had a noticeably bruised and swollen lump on the side of his chin. I always did have quite a mean left.
     
    “I don’t believe so,” I agreed, matching his formal tone with my own.
     
    “You’re denying that you’ve met?” It was West who broke in, harsh, his voice rising disbelievingly on the last words.
     
    “Oh no, we’ve met all right,” I said, matter-of-fact. “But Mr Garton-Jones is quite correct – we weren’t introduced.” I nodded to Drummond, added recklessly, “You should put some ice on that jaw.”
     
    His brows came together like they’d just been jerked on a wire. He took a step closer. Friday leapt to block his path, teeth bared. For a moment man and dog faced each other off, then the man backed down. It was where I would have put my money, had there been time to place a bet.
     
    Garton-Jones scratched the stubble behind his ear with laboured perplexity. “Well, Miss Fox,” he said, “this puts me in a bit of an awkward situation, because my men here – fine men, who’ve worked for me for years without a blemish on their records – swear they saw you get into that Cherokee last night and take off.”
     
    “I’m amazed they had time to see anything of the sort,” I said with cold deliberation, “when they were so busy running away.”
     
    Garton-Jones glared at the pair of them, which gave me hope that they hadn’t quite told their boss the full story.
     
    “After these two had done a runner I managed to get out of the Cherokee’s way before it flattened me, and then I made my own way home. There didn’t seem to be any point in hanging around,” I lied. “So, is it part of your ‘clean-up’ brief to go round beating up children?” I asked, hoping to widen the crack. “Or were they just having fun on their own time?”
     
    “Children?” Garton-Jones dismissed with contempt. “They’re vandals by the time they’re five years old. House breakers at seven. They’re dealing drugs before they’re into double figures, and they know the law can’t touch them. That “child” as you call him, was a thief. A dangerous thief. I thought you would have known that. He doesn’t belong on this estate, but he was being persistent, and we had to persuade him that he wasn’t wanted here. Word that we mean business will soon get around. The only thing that gets their respect is violence.”
     
    “Which you’re quite happy to dish out.” It was a statement, not a question.
     
    “I am a violent man, Miss Fox,” he said, without bravado or inflection. “I can – and will – do whatever is necessary to control this estate. Remember that.”
     
    He took another step closer and Friday nearly yanked my arm out in his fervour to take on this new threat. Garton-Jones’s arrogance was such that he didn’t even bother to glance at the dog.
     
    “You can pass on a message to whoever is in that Cherokee,” the man added,