apologies,” he said, mocking. “My name is Ian Garton-Jones. Myself – and Mr West here – and my colleagues, have been contracted in a clean-up capacity on this estate.”
I suddenly remembered my last conversation with Mrs Gadatra over the garden fence. She’d mentioned a Mr Garton-Jones, but I feigned ignorance. “Clean-up?” I queried, frowning.
“That’s correct.” He showed his teeth again. Friday would have made the gesture look more friendly. “We’re here to gather up all the rubbish, the crap, the dregs, and the trash, and keep it off the streets,” he said with deliberate emphasis. The inference was clear.
“Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” I asked flippantly.
He shrugged. It was of no importance to him. “Whatever it takes.”
“And that involves doing a ‘stand and deliver’ routine on every passing motorist coming into the estate, does it?”
“Oh that’s just a temporary measure, Miss—?” He left the question hanging.
“Fox,” I supplied, unable to find a reason other than pure pigheadedness not to tell him who I was. Even so, it was tempting. “My name is Charlie Fox.”
“There, you see, it’s not so bad, is it, Miss Fox?” Garton-Jones said. His tone was supposed to be soothing. It only succeeded in winding my irritation up a notch higher. West stood slightly back and to his left, keeping quiet, but missing nothing. “Once we’ve identified everyone with a right to be here, you won’t be troubled again.”
When I gave my name, West pulled out a hardbacked notebook from his inside pocket and flicked on his own torch as he studied the pages. “I don’t seem to have you listed as a resident here, Miss Fox,” he said politely, his voice deceptively mild. “Would you mind telling me the purpose of your visit tonight?”
“I’m house-sitting for a friend,” I bit out. I knew I was going to have to tell them more than that, but they were going to have to work for it.
“House-sitting?” Garton-Jones repeated, his interest quickening. “For whom? Which house?” He rapped out the questions. Despite his upper-class accent, the civility was little more than a cigarette-paper thin veneer covering the savagery underneath. I knew that if I was clever I’d stop being obstructive now, and tell them what they wanted to know.
So, I gave them Pauline’s name and address, told them how long she was going to be away. West jotted it all down in his notebook, which he shut with a snap when he was finished.
“OK, Miss Fox,” Garton-Jones said. “You can go now. We’ll be having a word with Mrs Jamieson when she returns, though. Just to let her know that there’s no need to trouble any of her friends in the future. Streetwise Securities are in control of this area now. Next time she’s away, we’ll be looking after her property.”
I bridled silently at his smug tone. Pauline would probably have something to say about that, but it wasn’t up to me to put words into her mouth. “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled,” I told him sweetly.
Garton-Jones either didn’t hear the sarcasm or chose to rise above my low wit. “It’s all part of the service,” he said neutrally, standing back and waving me on with a slight bow.
I tugged my helmet back on, trying not to mutter under my breath. But, as I toed the bike into gear, I was blinded by the sudden flare of main-beam headlights from the other end of the street.
“What the—?” Garton-Jones spun round, jerking a hand up to protect his eyes.
I heard the roar of a big V8 engine, being caned straight down the middle of the road. The sound seemed to leap towards me, increasing in size with such speed and ferocity that for a moment I was paralysed.
At the last minute, I grabbed a handful of throttle and banged the clutch out. The bike jumped forwards like a racehorse leaving the starting gate and shot across the road.
I just about managed
I suddenly remembered my last conversation with Mrs Gadatra over the garden fence. She’d mentioned a Mr Garton-Jones, but I feigned ignorance. “Clean-up?” I queried, frowning.
“That’s correct.” He showed his teeth again. Friday would have made the gesture look more friendly. “We’re here to gather up all the rubbish, the crap, the dregs, and the trash, and keep it off the streets,” he said with deliberate emphasis. The inference was clear.
“Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” I asked flippantly.
He shrugged. It was of no importance to him. “Whatever it takes.”
“And that involves doing a ‘stand and deliver’ routine on every passing motorist coming into the estate, does it?”
“Oh that’s just a temporary measure, Miss—?” He left the question hanging.
“Fox,” I supplied, unable to find a reason other than pure pigheadedness not to tell him who I was. Even so, it was tempting. “My name is Charlie Fox.”
“There, you see, it’s not so bad, is it, Miss Fox?” Garton-Jones said. His tone was supposed to be soothing. It only succeeded in winding my irritation up a notch higher. West stood slightly back and to his left, keeping quiet, but missing nothing. “Once we’ve identified everyone with a right to be here, you won’t be troubled again.”
When I gave my name, West pulled out a hardbacked notebook from his inside pocket and flicked on his own torch as he studied the pages. “I don’t seem to have you listed as a resident here, Miss Fox,” he said politely, his voice deceptively mild. “Would you mind telling me the purpose of your visit tonight?”
“I’m house-sitting for a friend,” I bit out. I knew I was going to have to tell them more than that, but they were going to have to work for it.
“House-sitting?” Garton-Jones repeated, his interest quickening. “For whom? Which house?” He rapped out the questions. Despite his upper-class accent, the civility was little more than a cigarette-paper thin veneer covering the savagery underneath. I knew that if I was clever I’d stop being obstructive now, and tell them what they wanted to know.
So, I gave them Pauline’s name and address, told them how long she was going to be away. West jotted it all down in his notebook, which he shut with a snap when he was finished.
“OK, Miss Fox,” Garton-Jones said. “You can go now. We’ll be having a word with Mrs Jamieson when she returns, though. Just to let her know that there’s no need to trouble any of her friends in the future. Streetwise Securities are in control of this area now. Next time she’s away, we’ll be looking after her property.”
I bridled silently at his smug tone. Pauline would probably have something to say about that, but it wasn’t up to me to put words into her mouth. “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled,” I told him sweetly.
Garton-Jones either didn’t hear the sarcasm or chose to rise above my low wit. “It’s all part of the service,” he said neutrally, standing back and waving me on with a slight bow.
I tugged my helmet back on, trying not to mutter under my breath. But, as I toed the bike into gear, I was blinded by the sudden flare of main-beam headlights from the other end of the street.
“What the—?” Garton-Jones spun round, jerking a hand up to protect his eyes.
I heard the roar of a big V8 engine, being caned straight down the middle of the road. The sound seemed to leap towards me, increasing in size with such speed and ferocity that for a moment I was paralysed.
At the last minute, I grabbed a handful of throttle and banged the clutch out. The bike jumped forwards like a racehorse leaving the starting gate and shot across the road.
I just about managed
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