Riot Act (31 page)

MacMillan sighed again, and took his time considering before he spoke. “Are you quite sure you want to give the man an alibi, Charlie?” he said gently at last, and there was almost a hint of sadness in his tone. “I’ve seen your army record, and the trial transcripts, as a matter of fact. I would have thought if anyone wanted to see Meyer taken down it would be you.”

How the hell did he know that?
I tried not to flinch, riding out what must have been a best guess. Oh he was clever, all right, dropping in supposition and presenting it as fact. “Life is never simple,” I said.

His face shuttered down, as though he’d given me my chance, and I’d blown it. He stood up, just as Pauline made a timely reappearance with her refilled teapot. He said his polite goodbyes, then moved to the front door. I followed him into the hallway, partly just to make sure he went.

MacMillan got as far as turning the handle, then paused on the doorstep. “Once we’ve got hold of Meyer you will, of course, be required to come in and make a sworn statement to confirm the story you’ve just told me,” he said. I thought I caught the barest hint of a smile, but it could have been a trick of the light. “I’ll give you until then to change your mind, at least.”

I watched his back as he walked down the short driveway and climbed into the passenger seat of the Vauxhall, but he didn’t look back.

Pauline was still in the living room when I got back there.

“Can I use your phone?” I asked quickly. Now she was home I felt out of order just helping myself.

She waved me towards the receiver and I snatched it up, dialling Madeleine’s mobile number. When she answered I jumped straight in without wasting time on niceties.

“Madeleine! Where are you? Is Sean back yet?”

“No,” she said, “he’s just brought Ursula home and now he’s gone out again. Do you want to know what I found out from O’Bryan about Nasir and—?”

“Later,” I interrupted. “Can you get hold of Sean?”

“What? Oh – erm, yes,” she said, somewhat blankly. “Charlie, what’s happened?”

“I’ve just had the police round. They’re looking for Sean. They’ve had a tip-off and they think he did it. Tell him to ditch the Cherokee and stay out of sight.”

“I’ll tell him, but you know Sean,” she said, and her voice was rueful.

“Tell him anyway,” I said, and put the phone down.

I turned to find Pauline still standing with the teapot poised. She put it down and fixed me with a determined eye.

“I won’t ask if you’re all right, because I can see you’re not. Sit down, dear, and have a cup of tea,” she said, feinting right before catching me with a killer left. “Then you can tell me all about it.”

With the benefit of hindsight, I think I would rather have gone ten rounds with MacMillan and a couple of his heftiest sidekicks, than have to sit through half an hour of the third degree from Pauline.

“If you know the man who murdered poor Mrs Gadatra’s lad, don’t you think it’s your duty to tell the police where to find him, not help him evade capture?” she said now, grimly.

“Sean didn’t kill Nasir,” I said, and I could feel my chin coming out, stubborn.

We’d moved through to the kitchen and faced each other across the width of the room, me leaning with my back to the sink. There seemed to be a lot more than a brief expanse of lino between us.

“And you’re quite sure of that?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Pauline planted her hands firmly on her hips, unwilling to unbend, not quite yet. “How so?”

“Because I know who did,” I said. “Well,” I corrected almost right away, “I
think
I know.” I saw the steely look on the other woman’s face, and knew I wasn’t going to be able to carry on hedging for much longer, so I added, with some reluctance, “I think it was Roger – Sean’s younger brother.”

Pauline frowned. Whatever she’d been expecting, I don’t think that was it. “Roger?” she murmured. The frown grew deeper, cutting a vee between her eyebrows. “But he’s round next door all the time,” she said. “He’s one of Nasir’s friends. Why would Roger want to kill him?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I said gently.

“It’s all very well you going off crusading, Charlie, but look where it got you last time,” she warned, and I resisted the sudden urge to hang my head and shuffle my feet. “If Roger’s the one who did it, then working out
why
he did it is beside the point. Mr MacMillan’s a smart man in my book. He’ll get to the bottom of it. Leave it to him.”

“It’s not that simple,” I said. I sighed, hovered over telling her the whole story, and plumped for the edited highlights. “Earlier, on the night Nasir was killed, he and Roger turned up at Attila’s place with a gun and tried to shoot me.”

“Good grief,” Pauline said faintly. “I knew you weren’t telling me everything. Why on earth did they try and do that?”

“I don’t really know, which is part of the problem, but I think it’s something to do with the trouble on the estates.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t know that, either. One minute O’Bryan’s telling me I’ll become a target if I try and help the residents control the crime themselves instead of calling in Garton-Jones’s bunch of thugs, and the next I’m being shot at.”

I shrugged, aware of a grinding weariness creeping through my bones. “Nasir himself certainly knew there was something up,” I continued. “According to his girlfriend – who just happens to be Sean and Roger’s sister, by the way – he was frightened enough of something, or someone, to tell her to find some place safe to stay and keep out of sight. I don’t want to believe it was Roger who killed him, but everything’s pointing in that direction.”

“Well, I still think you should turn the whole business over to MacMillan and let him sort it out,” Pauline said. She gave me a considering glance. “But you’re not going to do that, are you?”

I shook my head. “I can’t,” I said. “There’s too much else going on in the background. Someone’s prepping Sean as the sacrificial lamb. I can’t just back out now and leave him to swing for it.”

“And what about his brother?” Pauline asked grimly.

I tried not to think about Sean, about his loyalty to his family. I turned away from it, closed my mind to the possibilities. “If Roger
is
the one who killed Nasir,” I said, “regardless of who was behind him, I’ll make sure MacMillan gets him, don’t you worry.”

She nodded, seemed satisfied by that reply. Still, I felt uncomfortable giving it to her. Not when I wasn’t entirely sure if I was telling her the truth or not.

***

I went home that night, to a flat that felt unlived in and neglected. I was welcomed by another complaining note from my landlord, threatening seven shades of hell to pay if I didn’t get him a new key cut. I made a half-hearted note to myself to get it done on Monday, and went to bed.

I was due in at the gym the next morning. I’d told Attila I’d work the weekend to make up for sloping off so much during the past week. I was feeling pretty guilty about it, if you must know. Particularly when he’d been good enough to give me the job in the first place.

The morning arrived lit by sunshine so bright it made me squint when I threw open the shutters. That clear, winter light that carries nothing in the way of warmth, but lets you see for miles.

I drank my first coffee of the day braving the chill, staring out over the river, and listening to the rumble of the trains that ran high across the water over Carlisle Bridge.

In my heart, I knew what that note from my landlord meant. I’d known when I moved in to the flat that I could be asked to leave at short notice. It was the reason the rent was so cheap for the size of the place.

For the last eighteen months I’d watched the redevelopment of St George’s Quay creep nearer and nearer. And I’d buried my head and tried not to notice that my home was slowly turning from a damp-walled landlord’s liability, into something with desirable investment potential.

Despite the trains, and the traffic on the far side of the river, it was strangely peaceful. I was going to be more than sad to see the back of it.

I was going to be desolate.

With a sigh, I turned away from my view, elbowing the shutters closed behind me. I dumped my empty coffee cup into the sink, and reminded myself that now I was back, shopping was high on the list of priorities.

I might even go mad, do a major raid on the nearby Sainsbury’s, and treat myself to a taxi for the ride home. One of the problems of not owning a form of four-wheeled transport is the lack of carrying capacity.

Anyway, before I could give too much serious thought to going shopping, first I was going to have to work to earn the money to pay for it. I glanced at my watch, shrugged into my jacket, and jogged down the wooden stairs to the street, kicking the Suzuki into life.

The RGV liked the cool air rushing into its twin carbs and it ran with a sense of real enjoyment that made it feel like a skittish horse. Perhaps that similarity was part of why I’d taken to motorbiking so readily.

It didn’t take long to get to Attila’s place, and I chained the bike up in the car park. “If I’d had you with me yesterday, Roger never would have got away,” I murmured, giving it a regretful pat on its rump.

Surprisingly, for a Saturday morning, it started off quiet. In fact, I took the opportunity to get my own workout in before the rush I knew was going to happen. I nearly managed it undisturbed.

It wasn’t until I was on my last set of incline sit-ups that the main door went to signify the first customer of the day. I rushed the last three reps, rather than stop halfway through a set.

When I was done I dragged myself upright, breathless, feeling a sliver of perspiration slide down between my shoulder blades. I turned to discover Eric O’Bryan leaning against one of the stationary bikes and cleaning his spectacles on a dark blue cotton handkerchief.

The Community Juvenile Officer was once again wearing his grey anorak, this time with a pair of cavalry twill trousers and sensible brown brogues visible below. He was sweating, too, just one of these men who perspires as part of breathing, and not as a sign of physical exertion.

“Hello Charlie,” he said cheerily, smiling. “Sorry to interrupt you.”

“You haven’t,” I said, “I was just finishing up, anyway.” I stood up and reached for a towel, ostensibly to mop the sweat from my face, but actually to drape round my neck.

I was wearing a stretch sports top that left the scar across my throat much too visible for my liking. Abruptly, I felt too naked, too exposed. It seemed to shout to the world that there was a time I’d been stupid, and vulnerable, and had so nearly paid the ultimate price for it. I found it easier all round if I just covered up.

O’Bryan had seen it, though. As he came over to me his eyes were riveted on the towel, as though hoping for another grisly glimpse of what lay underneath it. I observed with a certain sense of detachment that his eyes strayed to pause at another, smaller scar across my bicep. Finally, as he caught himself staring, they darted up to my face. He found me watching him and slid his gaze away altogether, guilty.

I moved over to the counter area, and pulled on my sweatshirt. He seemed to relax a little once he no longer had to be careful what part of me he could look at.

“So, Mr O’Bryan,” I said briskly, “something tells me you aren’t here to take out a new membership. What can I do for you?”

He looked round hesitantly before speaking, and when he did, he seemed to be choosing his words carefully, like he was picking his way across a muddy field in his Sunday best shoes. I was unkindly reminded of a cheap imitation of MacMillan.

“I had Sean Meyer’s young lady, Madeleine in to see me yesterday asking certain questions about Nasir Gadatra, and also about one Harvey Langford,” he said, circumspect. “I don’t suppose you might know what that was all about, would you?”

“Maybe you should be asking her that,” I said.

O’Bryan sighed. “I tried,” he said, “but she’s a charming girl who’s rather good at stonewalling you totally and smiling sweetly while she’s doing it.”

He smiled, rueful. I could just imagine Madeleine cajoling information out of him. He stood as much chance as a chocolate fireguard.

“Yes,” I said, keeping my face straight, “I suppose she is.”

O’Bryan continued to look hopeful for a few moments longer, then the smile faded as he realised that I was pretty good at stonewalling, too. Even if I didn’t quite possess Madeleine’s allure while I was at it.

“I don’t suppose you’ve managed to catch sight of Roger recently?” he asked instead.

“He hasn’t shown up at home since you were there,” I said, which was true, technically speaking.

O’Bryan seemed to recognise that evasion for what it was. He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead to pinch the bridge of his nose. Then he said, earnest, “Look, Charlie, I’ll level with you. I’m very worried about the lad. Going AWOL will land him in very hot water, but I’m afraid he may also be mixed up in some way with what’s happened to Nasir. Has he said anything about that?”