Page 47

The Notting Hill Race Riots were still very fresh in everyone’s memories, even five years on. Gabriella hadn’t been in London then, but Mr. Rodney had spoken about them a time or two.
No one wanted a repeat.
“Yes. It was dark and I didn’t see his face. The lads might have gotten a better look as he ran past them.” She looked over her shoulder at the group of sixteen year olds who often hung out on the steps, chatting and joking.
“Did you?” the officer asked them.
“White bloke. Wearing black. That’s all I got,” one of the boys said. “He ran over to the pavement on other side of the street, and the cars parked that side were blocking him a bit. But he was wearing a mask or sommat, anyway.”
The other boys had similar things to say.
“Where did the attack occur?” One of the bobbies had also come closer, and looked more relaxed.
She showed them, walking them back down to the scene, and George came with her.
“What’s your role in this?” the officer asked him.
“George and Solomon were coming up the street toward us,” Gabriella said. “They saw what was happening and came running, and the bloke got wind of them and ran.”
“Solomon?” the bobby asked, notebook out.
“Mr. Rodney’s nephew. He went with him in the ambulance to the hospital.”
“Ah.” The last of the tension seemed to leave the officer, who introduced himself as PS Yates. “And do you know any reason why someone would attack you or Mr. Rodney?”
Gabriella paused, and Yates’s eyes came up suddenly, sharp and hard.
“You do.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t want to think it, but I’m a traffic warden, and I found the girl stabbed the other day in the alley, and since then, I think someone’s been following me. I told DS Archer about it.” She fished in her handbag, pulled out his card and held it out.
Once again, she had the feeling she’d completely surprised Yates. Whatever he thought she was going to say, this wasn’t it.
“Right.” He took the card, studied it, and handed it back.
She almost told him that if he hurried to interview Mr. Rodney, he might be able to catch DS Archer at the hospital as well, as he’d be there, interviewing Mr. Fischer. But that felt too convoluted. Like she was way too involved.
Which she was, but that wasn’t PS Yates’s business.
He would probably disagree.
“You’ve got a way to get home safely?” Yates asked.
“I’ll walk her home.” George hadn’t said a thing until now, other than to give his name to the bobby, and he sounded amused.
When they left, she stood in a pool of shadow beside him, watching them go.
“What was so funny?” she asked.
“You,” he told her. “From da way you coaxed them into relaxing in front of da big, bad, black men, to throwing all der ideas of you and Mr. Rodney stepping out together and being attacked for it out da window. I could barely keep a straight face, me.”
Oh.
She started to giggle, especially at the exaggerated island accent he’d put on, and he joined her with a deeper chuckle.
“Mr. Rodney,” she said, to get them serious again. “Is there a phone in the club so I can call a taxi to take me to the hospital?”
“I’d wait until tomorrow,” George told her, putting out an arm for her to slip her hand through. “Won’t be any way he could have visitors tonight, other than Solomon.”