Free Riot Act by Zoe Sharp

long rangy figure, his dark wavy hair flashed through with grey. He would be sitting at the scrubbed pine table in the kitchen of their big, comfortably untidy old house just outside Caton village.
     
    In theory, Jacob had a study from which to run his classic motorbike spares and antiques business, but I’d never seen him do any work there. He always preferred to use the kitchen, where he could listen to the radio and be company for the dogs.
     
    Even now, once Clare was home from work in the evening, he tended to stay put, still making or waiting for phone calls from other dealers in the States. He always complained that they had no idea which way time zones operated.
     
    “Sorry, I’ve been a bit up to my neck,” I said, feeling even more guilty that I was only ringing now because I needed a favour.
     
    “So, girl, when are we going to see you round here for some supper?” he said, and I realised I’d been being oversensitive. “I’ve got this great new way of roasting lamb that’ll have you drooling.”
     
    “Sounds great. I’ll try and get up there soon,” I promised. “I’m house-sitting at the moment. A friend’s place on Lavender Gardens.”
     
    “Yeah? Well, I hope you’ve got your bike alarm set fine, then, because from what Clare tells me all things both red hot, and nailed down have been disappearing from round that neck of the woods lately.”
     
    Clare works for the local paper, the Lancaster & District Defender , so she gets all the news and gossip before it filters down to us proles. Not that she’s a journalist, but even working in the Accounts department she still hears plenty.
     
    “I was hoping she might be able to give me a bit of gen about that, actually,” I said, wincing in case Jacob saw through my obvious ploy. If he did, he was too much of a gentleman to comment on it.
     
    “Hang on,” he said. “I’ll give her a shout. She climbed straight into the bath when she got home and I think she might still be there, the wrinkled old prune.” I heard him cover the mouthpiece to yell for Clare up the stairs. “No, you’re in luck,” he said after a moment, “she’s surfaced and she’s on her way. You take care now, Charlie,” he added softly, “and don’t leave it so long next time, hey?”
     
    “I won’t,” I told him, unable to suppress a warm, gooey kind of feeling at the rich sincerity in his voice. Jacob has that persuasive way of talking that makes even the most casual of conventional remarks seem like it’s been said just for you. The best thing is, he hasn’t the faintest idea he’s doing it. If he wasn’t just about double my age – not to mention well and truly spoken for – I’d be in there like a shot.
     
    Still, the age thing has never worried Clare much. She’s twenty-six, like me, but there the similarity ends. I’m afraid I can’t lay claim to blonde supermodel good looks, nor her ability to ride her Ducati 851 Strada like the local B-roads are her own personal racetrack.
     
    She and Jacob have been together for as long as I’ve known them. They might seem an unlikely couple, particularly as he’s partly crocked up from too many youthful motorbike racing accidents, but I couldn’t honestly imagine either of them with anybody else.
     
    I heard Clare come into the kitchen and take over the receiver. “Hello stranger,” she said brightly.
     
    We exchanged idle chit-chat for a few minutes, then I steered the conversation back round to the recent happenings on Lavender Gardens, with particular reference to Ian Garton-Jones’s presence on the estate. “I understand his company, Streetwise Securities have been working on a couple of other estates locally, and he’s had quite an effect,” I said. “Your mate on the crime desk wouldn’t be able to fill in any gaps for me, would he?”
     
    “Probably,” Clare said. “The name rings a bell, and I seem to remember us running some stories on him. I got the impression that we took