Riot Act by Zoe Sharp Page A

traffic I’d pulled up outside the gym.
     
    Attila’s place used to be an auto salvage yard with such a dodgy reputation that some wag had once painted “reserved for police vehicle only” on a section of the rusting iron fencing just inside the gate. It was still there, despite the change of use and ownership, and I ran the bike into the space underneath the faded lettering.
     
    Against every advice, Attila had snapped the whole property up for a song when it finally closed down for good a few years ago. He’d turned the tatty workshop and storage area into a spacious fitness room, complete with a sauna. It wasn’t snazzy, but it had the workmanlike atmosphere that suggests real people who are seriously into the job, rather than a poseurs’ palace.
     
    Usually, it was bustling, but today of all days, it was dead. I spent the first hour as the only inhabitant, and took the opportunity to get my own workout in, just in case things hotted up later.
     
    I used to train a lot, starting when I was in the army and needed to build up both my strength and my stamina. After I was kicked out, it became a method of relaxation of sorts. A way to shut my brain down through sheer physical exhaustion, and rid myself of my frustration and anger, taking it out on the machines.
     
    I was halfway through a tough set of bench presses when I finally got some company. The two blokes who came in were regulars, and they were into it enough to wave me on with the set. Conscious of them watching, I rushed through the last five reps before moving over to the counter to sign them in.
     
    They were a friendly enough pair, giving me the usual cheery amount of stick as they hefted their sports bags and went to get changed. It was only when they reappeared that a sudden thought occurred to me.
     
    “Wayne,” I said to one of them, while they were still doing their warm-up exercises, “don’t you work for Mr Ali, the builder?”
     
    Wayne gave a grunt, but whether that was at my question, or because he was attempting to touch his toes, I couldn’t be sure. He was a well-built black man, with hands like shovels. He was currently struggling to ward off a beer gut and only just keeping pace with it. “Used to, girl,” he said. “Got laid off couple of weeks back.”
     
    “Really? I thought he was doing well.”
     
    “Yeah, so did I.” He gave me a wry smile. “Half a dozen of us got the punt at the same time. Last in, first out. That’s the way it goes. He reckons he’s got a big contract coming off soon, and we’ll be back in there but, tell you the truth, I’m not bothered. I’m working for that mob who are converting the old asylum now. Pay’s better.”
     
    I digested the information, then decided a hunch was worth a try. “D’you know a guy called Langford?”
     
    He frowned. “Oh yeah,” he said, suddenly guarded, “we all know him.”
     
    If I’d been a horse, my ears would have pricked straight up at his tone. “Why’s that?”
     
    For a moment Wayne looked as though he’d said too much, then he shrugged. His loyalties lay elsewhere these days. “He and the boss, well, there’s something going on there, and I’m damned if I know what, girl,” he said. “That Langford used to flag us down like we was bloody taxis. Take me here, take me there. I tried to complain to the boss about it once, but he said don’t ask questions.” He shrugged. “I got rent to pay, so I didn’t ask.”
     
    “And you’ve no idea what was going on?”
     
    He shook his head, plonking one foot up on a bench and reaching over it to stretch his hamstrings. When he came upright again, he said darkly, “All I do know is, he always turned up on a site, convenient like, on a Thursday afternoon, and the boss used to hand him a pay packet just like the rest of us. If Langford wasn’t such a bloody racist, I’d say they must be related or something. Know what I mean?”
     
    The door went again as more of the evening lads came