Riot Act by Zoe Sharp Page B

in. I smiled my thanks to Wayne, and went to deal with them. Langford and Mr Ali? As unlikely combinations went, it was right up there at the top of the list.
     
    ***
     
    Attila came in around six-thirty, and that’s when the place really started to busy up. Once people knew his schedule they tended to time their visits to coincide with his presence. I didn’t take it personally. It was his place, after all.
     
    I finished around nine, changed into my leathers and stuffed my gear into my tank bag. It was dark outside, cold and drizzly. I didn’t wait too long for the Suzuki to warm up before I was on my way.
     
    Traffic was starting to bulk up through town. As I filtered down the outside of it going past the bus station, a taxi stuck its nose out from the rank into traffic, blocking my path. I sighed and braked to a halt with the rain tenaciously drilling its way down the back of my neck.
     
    I tried to leave as much room as I could between my front wheel and the taxi’s exhaust pipe while I reflected morosely that it didn’t seem to be my day for clean air.
     
    There were times when riding a bike all year round was a real pain. I really was going to have to splash out on a decent pair of gloves. My fingers were already wet and before I got back to Pauline’s I knew the tips of them would have gone numb.
     
    We were alongside a little café and I glanced idly through the window into the brightly-lit interior with something like envy. There were two people sitting at the table by the window, drinking coffee. Their hands were wrapped round the mugs and I could just imagine the warmth of the hot liquid seeping through the china.
     
    As I watched, one of them lifted the mug to his mouth and drank, and as my gaze followed its progress I realised I was looking at a face I knew. It was the boy from Fariman’s garden.
     
    Roger put the mug back on the table, keeping one hand round it, using the other to illustrate his speech as he talked earnestly to his companion. It was with some sense of shock that I recognised the other boy, too.
     
    He was probably the last person I would have expected to find relaxing in the company of a teenage thug on the fast track to a long stretch inside. Yet there they were, chatting away like old friends.
     
    Nasir.
     

Five
     
    The driver of the car behind me blew his horn, making me jump, and I realised that the taxi was long gone. I hastily booted the bike into gear and flung the clutch out with all the finesse of a first-day learner. The Suzuki made its displeasure plain by bounding forwards, and then refusing to drop cleanly into second.
     
    Cursing under my breath at the fluffed change, I brought my mind back onto the job in hand. The last thing I could afford to do was try and ride through darkened rush-hour traffic preoccupied. I like my legs just the shape they are, thanks all the same.
     
    With an effort I pushed the significance of what I’d just seen way into the background. Roger was from Copthorne. Nasir was from Lavender Gardens. They should have been at each other’s throats. Race almost didn’t come into it.
     
    I swung across Greyhound Bridge and onto the road to Morecambe, filtering down the outside of the cars when they shuffled to a standstill. It didn’t take long before I was turning in to Lavender Gardens and weaving through the gloomy back streets.
     
    I’d let my brain wander by this point, churning it over and over to try and make some sense of it. What on earth was the connection between Roger and Nasir? I knew Nasir had been in trouble, too, but I also remembered the way he’d flown off the handle over the attack on his uncle.
     
    At the time, I’d thought his anger was aimed at Roger and his mates, but it wasn’t. He knew far more than he was telling about all this. I needed to talk to him about it. Try and get something more out of him. Perhaps O’Bryan might have a better idea of what was going on. As I turned in to Kirby Street, I made a