Riot Act by Zoe Sharp Page B

attendance, sporting his habitual grey anorak, although as a concession to indoor wear, he had at least unzipped it. Even from a distance, I could see the perspiration glistening on the top of his shiny pate. He sat over to one side of the room, listening with an engrossed air that must have been very gratifying for the speaker.
     
    Sitting at a small round table to one side of where the CPO was standing, were Garton-Jones and West. I began to wonder if those two were joined at the hip.
     
    They were making no pretence of interest in the lecture on the prudence of asking for ID from visiting tradesmen. Their eyes moved slowly over the inhabitants of the room in a constant sift, as though mentally isolating the troublemakers, and committing everyone’s details to memory. As a lesson in delicate intimidation, it couldn’t have been bettered if they’d tried.
     
    Still, if the information I’d got from Clare earlier that day had been right, they were experts at that sort of thing. She rang to say that her contact on the crime desk at the Defender hadn’t been able to come up with anything concrete on Streetwise Securities, but there were plenty of whispers.
     
    Garton-Jones’s life had been following a more privileged course until he’d left his expensive boarding school and hit university. There his darker side had come to the fore. He’d started out working club doors and patrolling building sites, before starting out on his own. Streetwise had the reputation of being efficient, but brutally so. They left behind a gloss of satisfaction laid thinly over grumblings of heavy-handed tactics.
     
    Watching them now, upstairs at the Black Lion, it wasn’t hard to understand why.
     
    To my left, someone fidgeted in their seat, leaning forwards to reveal the person sitting behind them. In profile, I saw long straight dark hair surrounding a memorable long pale face.
     
    I certainly wouldn’t forget her in a hurry. Not when she’d refused to leave me to have my head kicked in by Messrs Harlow and Drummond.
     
    It was Madeleine.
     
    For a moment the shock of the encounter felt almost tangible. I had taken only one step in her direction when I saw her finish polishing the lenses of a set of glasses and slide them back onto her face.
     
    It was a small thing, but something about the action struck me as odd. It didn’t gel. She didn’t handle the glasses like someone who wore them regularly, and she certainly hadn’t been using them that night when she and Sean had rescued Roger.
     
    No, the glasses didn’t fit. Things were missing, like the unfocused squint when she’d taken them off, and the little marks from the pads on the sides of her nose. The glasses, I realised quickly enough to still my feet from taking me any closer, were just a disguise.
     
    Which brought an even more intriguing question. What was Sean’s accomplice doing sneaking in to the Residents’ Committee meeting, and from whom was she hiding?
     
    I glanced back towards Garton-Jones, just as his gaze swept back over me, like the blaze of a searchlight. I forced my face into relaxed boredom, and stayed put. If I made any moves to contact Madeleine now, to speak to her, I stood the chance of exposing both of us to who knew what dangers. I’d just have to try and catch her as she left the meeting. In the meantime, I was minutely aware of her, like she was putting out heat.
     
    The CPO wound up his talk and received a desultory round of applause for his pains. Someone from the Residents’ Committee thanked him on their behalf for coming. He packed up his case, made his excuses, and left.
     
    Then it was Garton-Jones’s turn. The Residents’ Committee man introduced him without undue enthusiasm, and sat down hurriedly, looking nervous in case he was blamed for heralding the bearer of bad news.
     
    I could understand his reasoning once Garton-Jones got under way. The big man started innocuously enough, pointing out that the crime rate on the