Riot Act (46 page)

I saw Garton-Jones register the utter conviction in my voice and start to waver. Watched as he weighed up the chance that I might be bluffing. Knew precisely the moment when he finally realised that I was not.

He carefully thumbed the safety back on and dropped the Browning into the mud at his feet. An amateur, with no respect for a decent gun. His hands went up as Sean’s came down.

I heard Sean’s breath hiss out, relief escaping like steam as he ducked to rescue the shotgun. He retrieved it, and moved back to my right. Madeleine took the knife, trying to hide her revulsion at the amount of blood that still covered it.

All the time, I kept the Glock level, kept the front sight up, pointing straight at Garton-Jones. And all the time, he kept his gaze locked on mine.

It took every ounce of sheer bloody-minded will I possessed to keep the gun steady, not to let my arm and hand tremble. I was damned if I was going to show him a sign of weakness and I silently thanked all those hours I spent at Attila’s, working out.

“See,” West spat, disgusted by his boss’s capitulation, “I told you they killed the Asian lad. He was shot with a nine-mil, right?”

“Oh shut up, West, you’re starting to bore me,” Sean snapped, swinging the Browning in his direction. It was enough to silence the other man.

I turned back to Garton-Jones, and played a hunch. “I have no idea what’s going on here,” I said, lowering the Glock, “beside the fact that your man West is trying his guts out to persuade you that we’re guilty of something we haven’t done. Maybe you can shed some light on why that is.”

As if on cue, we all turned towards West. His eyes swivelled in panic and he started to hutch backwards, still clutching the now sodden handkerchief to his leg. “She stabbed me,” he repeated, his voice almost a squawk, as if that answered the question.

“Yes, I did,” I admitted. I eyed Garton-Jones again. “But if it’s Sean’s knife, as he’s claiming, then how do you explain the fact that Friday’s also been injured. Do you think we’d stab the dog ourselves? And how does West know what sort of knife was used to kill Harvey Langford? Unless he was there.”

I let that one settle on them for a few moments. Jav had pointed the finger firmly at the security men the last time we’d spoken to him, and he’d been too frightened to lie to us again. It wasn’t his fault that we’d lumped them all together and automatically assumed he meant Garton-Jones, rather than West . . .

“But you were there, too,” Garton-Jones said now, and it was a statement.

Sean nodded. “We were manoeuvred into being at the building site just after West killed him,” he said. “He even took pot shots at us to try and keep us pinned down until the cops arrived.”

Garton-Jones looked at the blood on Sean’s shirt. “Is that what happened to the shoulder?”

“He got lucky.”

The security chief gave West a long considering stare, and it was impossible to guess from his impassive face what thoughts were passing through his mind.

“He told me it was all down to some long-running feud between you and Langford going back to your National Front days,” he said at last, curling his lip. “He told me that Langford had winged you before you’d stuck him. Oh when fascists fall out.” He shrugged. “I didn’t care as long as you didn’t bring it onto my estate.”

“So how did he know what kind of gun was used to kill Nasir?” I asked.

Garton-Jones seemed suddenly weary, barely able to look at his second-in-command. He sighed. “He was responsible for that one, too, was he?”

“No! Ian, you can’t believe these lying shits,” West said, pleading now. “We’ve been working together for ten years. For God’s sake, trust me on this.”

Madeleine, who’d gone back to tending Friday’s wound, had been listening without taking part in the exchange. Now, she got to her feet and moved forwards. “How did you find out about the contract on Lavender Gardens?” she asked.

Garton-Jones stared at her blankly for a moment, as though he couldn’t see the relevance, then something connected. “He put me onto it,” he said, waving a hand in West’s direction, “through a pal of his from the TA. He works for the Community Juvenile office. Chap called Eric O’Bryan. We pay him a commission for putting work our way.”

“O’Bryan’s the one who’s running the crime ring on the estates,” Madeleine said, breaking the news to him almost gently. “O’Bryan’s gang of kids crank the crime rate up until the residents are prepared to pay you to come in and sort it out for them. West and O’Bryan have been making money twice over from the scheme.”

“You can’t believe this crap, Ian,” West broke in, but the desperation was clear in his voice. “I wouldn’t do something like that to you. You’re my mate.”

“You’re his fall guy,” Sean said clearly. “His scapegoat. Once this riot’s over, who d’you think they’re going to blame for antagonising the Asian community, stirring it all up? West and O’Bryan will skip with the proceeds and you’re going to be left carrying the can. Face it, you’ve been had.”

West made another failed attempt to rise. “Ian, I—”

“Shut up, Mr West,” Garton-Jones said without turning his head. “Don’t dig your grave any deeper than it is already.”

I had the nasty feeling that he wasn’t speaking metaphorically.

West wasn’t a fool, he’d seen the tide turning against him, knew when he was beaten. He sat back in the mud, looked at the blood on his hands and gave a high-pitched laugh. “You won’t be able to prove any of this,” he said. “You won’t make any of it stick.”

“You’re forgetting my little brother,” Sean told him. “He’s a witness. You were trying to get rid of him tonight, and you’ve failed. It’s over.”

If anything, that made West laugh louder. “Of course it’s not over,” he said scornfully. “As soon as we saw the jeep and realised you were here we knew you’d probably have found the kid, got him out, so O’Bryan went looking for him while the rest of us kept you occupied. He’s been out there, all this time.” Triumph made his voice a crow. “Your brother’s already dead.”

“You’d better hope not,” Sean told him, his voice icy. “For your own sake.”

Garton-Jones jerked his head to some of his men, who moved forwards to grab hold of West, haul him to his feet. “Get him out of here,” he said, his face twisting with distaste. “And watch those two, as well,” he added, pointing to Harlow and Drummond, who’d been trying to slink back into the ranks.

He glanced again at Sean’s shoulder. “You look as though you need a medic, too.”

Sean shook his head. “I’m OK,” he said. He looked pale, tired, but I knew it was useless to try and talk him out of his objective. “If you’ve got transport, though, can you get Friday out of here? Get him sorted?”

“Of course,” Garton-Jones said, but when a couple of his men tried to approach him, the dog opened his eyes and did his best to snarl at them. Even battered and wounded, the Ridgeback presented a fearsome obstacle. They hesitated, and I couldn’t say I blamed them for it.

“One of us is going to have to go with him,” I said, my voice hollow. I looked at Sean and Madeleine. There was no way I wanted to let Sean go out after O’Bryan alone, and I didn’t want to let Madeleine go with him, either. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe the dark-haired girl could take care of herself, or of Sean. That wasn’t what I was afraid of.

Pauline had been right. Sean was after blood, and if the chance came up I was afraid Madeleine wouldn’t be able to stop him from taking it.

It was a fast downhill route, through anger to death. Coming back from the power and the thrill of it left you constantly unsure of yourself, like a newly sober alcoholic.

“Don’t worry, Charlie, I’ll go with Friday.”

I realised it was Madeleine who’d spoken. She bent down by the dog’s head, talking to him and stroking his ears while two of Garton-Jones’s men got a coat under him, using that as a sling. This time, the Ridgeback didn’t protest, allowing them to pick him up, start to carry him away.

I put my hand on Madeleine’s arm as she moved past me. “It should be me,” I argued, stumbling to find the right words. “He’s my responsibility. I promised Pauline I’d—”

“Don’t,” Madeleine interrupted, but kindly. “I can take care of Friday. Sean needs you.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve seen him change like this before – when he’s working. He drops into another mode, another skin,” she said, almost sadly. “You move just like he does, Charlie. You can’t help it. Just watch his back for me, OK?”

She smiled at me quickly, and then she was gone, jogging nimbly over the rubble to catch up. I noted that the security men were taking a great deal more care with the dog than they were with West.

Garton-Jones watched them half-carrying, half-dragging his former lieutenant over the rough ground, then he turned back to Sean. “This O’Bryan character,” he said. “How dangerous is he?”

“We know he’s killed once, and he probably still has the gun,” Sean told him.

“In that case, you’d best keep the shotgun,” Garton-Jones said. He eyed us both, subdued, diffident even, and it had nothing to do with the fact that Sean still had hold of the Browning. “Are you sure we can’t help you search for the boy?”

“Positive,” Sean said. “If Roger’s managed to evade O’Bryan this long he’ll run a mile if he sees your lot. He doesn’t know you and West aren’t in this together.”

Garton-Jones looked disappointed to be denied the chase, but he nodded.

“Thanks for the offer, anyway,” Sean said, sounding sincere. “I appreciate it.”

They shook hands. It seemed an ironic gesture of civility, somehow, in view of the circumstances.

“You gave me a good runaround,” Garton-Jones told him, then added in my direction, “and if I’d known how handy you were, young lady, I’d have offered you a job.”

Sean smiled at him. “You’ll have to get in the queue for that,” he said.

We stood and watched the last of Garton-Jones’s men disappear into the shadows, moving quickly in a direction that took them away from the worst of the conflict.

It seemed to be getting nearer all the time. The sounds of it swelling like surf on a beach, relentless and profound. If we didn’t find Roger soon, the gangs would do O’Bryan’s work for him.

For a moment Sean didn’t seem in any hurry to move off himself, and I thought that maybe he was more badly hurt by his altercation with West than he’d wanted to admit. He just stood, staring at the burning hulk of the Patrol, as though mesmerised by the wheel and twist of the fire.

“You do realise, Sean,” I said quietly, “that even if O’Bryan’s—” I broke off, unwilling to voice what was so clearly running through both our minds. I tried again. “No matter what O’Bryan’s done, you can’t kill him.”

“If West’s right, and Roger’s dead,” Sean said evenly, “he’s got to pay for it, one way or another.”

“He will pay – in prison,” I said. “They’ll lock him up and throw away the key for what he’s done here.”

But even as I spoke I knew that the courtrooms didn’t always bring justice to the guilty. I could just see O’Bryan swivelling his way onto a lesser charge, overriding the evidence of a fourteen-year-old thief.

Particularly if that thief was no longer alive to give it in person.

Sean knew it, too. “Even if he gets life,” he said. “Life doesn’t mean
life
any more, Charlie. With good behaviour and remission, he’ll be back out sooner than you think.”

He glanced up at me then, and although the firelight crackled in his eyes, his face was very calm, as though he’d had a vision. “I want more than that for him,” he said. “I
need
more than that.”

“You can’t have it, Sean,” I said, and the pain of denying him cut like glass. “If you’re thinking of trying, you know I’ll have to stop you, don’t you?”

Sean didn’t answer right away. He carefully flexed the fingers of his left hand, finding they were still just about under his control. He broke the Browning and checked the cartridges, snapped it shut again.

“Well,” he said at last, cold, hard, almost a stranger, “let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

In the end, we didn’t have to look far.

We’d commenced the best search pattern we could manage with just the two of us, moving in a zigzag layout across the waste ground, when a shout rang out.

“Hold it right there!” O’Bryan’s voice rolled across the brickwork and echoed around us like gunfire.

We spun round fast, hearing the crunch of the broken-up masonry under our feet. Automatically, I brought the Glock up in a double-handed grip, heart revving.

O’Bryan was thirty metres away, edging out from behind the rubble with the FN 9mm he’d used to kill Nasir Gadatra gripped clear in his fist.

There was a half-heartbeat pause, then I straightened up slowly, letting the gun drop to my side. What was the point?

Thirty metres is a long shot with a handgun. Don’t believe most of what you see in the movies. The greatest distance I’d fired over with a pistol on the army ranges had been fifteen metres, and most of the time it was half that.