Riot Act by Zoe Sharp Read Free Book Online Page B

might have technically emerged as the victor from my encounter with a vicious killer the winter before, but it was a points decision at best. The knife wounds had healed a lot quicker than the broken bones, and it had taken me quite a while to get back to something approaching full fitness.
     
    By that time, Attila had grown used to seeing me as part of the furniture.
     
    “I think I need to encourage more women to come and train here,” he told me. “Having you around to show them we are not all macho apes with bulging muscles has been very useful, Charlie, and you know what you’re doing. We’ll see how it goes, yes?”
     
    And, having nothing better to occupy me at the time, I’d agreed.
     
    Working a regular number of set hours a week had taken a bit of getting used to after several years of working for myself, but I was just about getting into the swing of it.
     
    It had meant that I’d neglected the bike a bit, which was not something I could afford to do when the council were throwing salt around the roads like it was going out of fashion. The aluminium box frame was pitting with corrosion faster than I could keep up with it.
     
    I washed the worst of the salt away thoroughly, then leathered it off and gave the whole of the bodywork and the exposed bits of frame a coat of wax. While I waited for the wax to glaze over, I sat back on my heels and just looked at the bike.
     
    It wasn’t in its first flush of youth, but it was still my pride and joy. Lightweight and compact, the two-stroke RGV was frighteningly quick for a quarter-litre machine, with straight-line performance that bikes more than twice its size struggled to match. Not to mention the cornering agility of a cheetah.
     
    They were out of production now, and when the time eventually came to replace it, I struggled to know what to go for instead. Which made keeping it in good condition even more important.
     
    “Oh, there you are, Charlie,” Mrs Gadatra’s head appeared over the fence. She seemed to have recovered her good humour. “Did you see all the mess on the street this morning? Wasn’t it terrible?”
     
    I agreed that it was and inquired after Fariman’s condition.
     
    “They are still worried about the infection, but his breathing is much easier,” Mrs Gadatra replied. She stared at the Suzuki. “However do you ride such a machine?” she asked. “Whatever does your mother think?”
     
    “She thinks it’s better than walking,” I said, which was nearly the truth.
     
    “These days, I can understand her thinking,” Mrs Gadatra said, nodding wisely so that her earrings jangled. “Still, at least this street should be safer soon, don’t you think?”
     
    “Safer soon? What do you mean? Have the police caught the vandals?”
     
    “The police? Ha.” Mrs Gadatra pulled a face and flapped her hand languidly from the wrist at the very suggestion, setting a dozen gold bangles jingling. “I don’t think they have even looked,” she said. “No, last night the Residents’ Committee asked Mr Garton-Jones to come and take over. I think they were going to telephone him this afternoon. There is another Committee meeting next week. You should come along perhaps. But isn’t that good news?”
     
    “I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head, “I think I missed an episode somewhere. Who is Garton-Jones and what is he taking over?”
     
    Mrs Gadatra laughed. “Oh, of course. I think this is before you came here, but I’m surprised you haven’t heard about him, though. He and his men have been patrolling the streets on some of the other estates. Of course he is not cheap, but the crime there was awful before he came, and now they say it has almost disappeared completely because of him. He sounds wonderful.”
     
    “Mother!” Nasir’s voice from the back doorway as he came out into the garden was sharp enough to cut through his mother’s chatter. “The children will be home from school soon and they will be