Riot Act by Zoe Sharp Page A

looming over me so the sockets of his eyes and the lower half of his face fell into shadow, like a skull. “You can tell him that we own this estate. It’s our area.” For the first time his voice hardened, became gritted. “If you have half an idea about what’s at stake here, you’ll know we’re not about to let any other two-bit operation muscle in on our deal. And if he knows what’s good for his health, he’ll keep his nose well out of it.”
     
    I didn’t react to any of this diatribe, just watched them make to leave, keeping my face blank. It took all my self-control to maintain it when Garton-Jones turned to give me his final parting shot.
     
    “Oh yes, one more thing, Miss Fox,” he said. He’d slipped the polite disinterest back into his cultured voice. “If you ever let that dog loose on me or any of my men, I’ll personally break its spine. Good night.”
     
    They melted back into the night, leaving me standing there with Friday rigid by my side. Once we were alone he shuffled his feet, whining, confused. I put a comforting hand down to stroke the back of his neck, finding the fur there upraised and stiff.
     
    Funny how things change isn’t it? Yesterday I would have sworn that the dog was my protector.
     
    Now, it seemed, I was his.
     

Eight
     
    The Residents’ Committee meeting that evening was held in a pub called the Black Lion on the edge of the estate, where they had a cavernous room upstairs that the management let out for next to nothing.
     
    The Black Lion wasn’t exactly the sort of establishment I would have taken my mother to for Sunday lunch. Not that I think the curling sandwiches and waxy pies they served from a hatch behind the bar quite warranted such a grand title.
     
    Not, also, that I had the sort of relationship with my mother where cosy lunchtime chats were much on the cards. Things were getting better between us, but it was taking time. Inviting her anywhere like the Black Lion would have been a retrograde step in more ways than one.
     
    When I walked in to the lounge bar, having chained the Suzuki up securely outside, the regulars stopped talking and regarded me with dark suspicion over the pint rims of their flat, watery beer. It was that kind of a place.
     
    I did a quick visual sweep of the occupants, and was jolted to see Langford sitting in a corner, looking very much at home, with a pint in his hand. He was watching me, and when he caught my eye he raised his drink to me with a twisted smile, the promise of patient retribution. With a shiver of foreboding, I turned my back on him. I could feel his eyes digging in all the way across the room.
     
    I ordered a soft drink from the resigned-looking barman, and asked about the meeting. He jerked his head towards the stairs to the room they were using. I picked up my three-quarter filled glass of tepid Coke, and followed his directions with an unacknowledged murmur of thanks.
     
    There was already somebody speaking when I slipped in to the packed room. The local Crime Prevention Officer, if memory served me correctly, trying to get the crowd enthused about window locks, deadbolts, and security chains. I stood quietly at the back of the room and took the opportunity to scan the audience while he talked.
     
    Apart from Mrs Gadatra there were very few people I recognised, let alone had even a nodding acquaintance with. My neighbour was rocking Gin on her lap, the little girl’s eyes drooping progressively into sleep. Aqueel was sitting on the chair next to his mother, straight-backed and gravely aware of the importance of being invited to such an adult occasion. He was trying his hardest to stay awake. There was no sign of his elder brother.
     
    In fact, there were hardly any younger males there at all. It seemed to be a mainly middle-aged Indian and Pakistani audience, bordering on elderly. The white faces stood out, probably mine included. There weren’t many of them.
     
    I noticed Eric O’Bryan was in