The Copper Heart

by Sarah Painter

  The girl began to struggle like a wild animal, bucking and clawing. Lydia got her arms wrapped around her from behind and lifted her off the ground. Her legs were kicking wildly and one of them connected painfully with Lydia’s knee. ‘Enough,’ she said, pushing a bit of Crow behind the word.

  The girl stopped kicking, went limp. ‘Don’t take me,’ she said, her voice plaintive. ‘Please.’

  Lydia lowered her to the ground, keeping hold of one arm. ‘Why are you following me?’

  The girl glared at her from underneath tangled hair. ‘Was told to.’

  ‘You’re reporting back on my movements? To the king?’

  The girl shrugged as if that was obvious.

  ‘Why?’

  The girl wrenched her arm out of Lydia’s grip and ran. She disappeared behind the lime kiln and Lydia followed, not even sure what she was going to do when she caught the girl. Could she really force her back to The Fork for a meal? Should she? She peered into the first opening of the kiln, expecting to see the girl hiding in a corner, but it was empty. The same thing was repeated in the next couple and then Lydia was back where she started. She looked around the park. There was no way the girl could have run away from the kiln without being seen, there simply wasn’t enough cover nearby. And yet, she had disappeared. To underline the fact, Lydia couldn’t feel even the slightest wisp of Pearl. The girl had most definitely vanished.

  * * *

  Fleet called. ‘I’ve pulled the CCTV from Westminster Pier. You bring the popcorn.’

  Lydia had settled into a routine with Fleet. On the nights they were both off work, she would go to his preternaturally neat flat. Fleet often cooked, or they got Pad Thai from the takeaway, and they had head-banging sex. If they had fallen into a rut, Lydia didn’t mind.

  She pressed the bell for his flat and waited to be buzzed inside. ‘You can use your key, you know. That’s why I gave it to you.’

  Lydia didn’t bother to argue that the key was for emergencies only. And that had been the basis upon which she had accepted it. She deflected him with a kiss, reaching up on tiptoes and holding the back of his neck and head, feeling the tight curls of hair under her fingers as she pulled him closer.

  Fleet looked slightly dazed, which was gratifying. His particular gleam, something a little bit magical, but not one of the four Families Lydia could identify, sparked a little brighter. It always hit her during the first few moments of being with Fleet and then it faded to the background as she adjusted. It wasn’t alarming. Just part of Fleet. Along with the sunshine and salt scent of his skin, and his elusive smile.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, ‘I can put the pasta on whenever you’re ready.’

  Lydia bent to unlace her boots, stepping out of them as quickly as possible. Then she towed Fleet to the bedroom. The pasta could wait.

  * * *

  Later, Fleet dished up bowls of amatriciana and Lydia poured red wine. They sat on the sofa and prepared to scroll through the camera footage. There were two angles showing the street, giving good coverage of the stretch where Alejandro collapsed. The pavement was really wide at that part of the embankment, with steps down from one section to another path directly alongside the river. With the numerous benches, leafy trees and the view of the London Eye, it was a popular rest stop and there were groups of tourists and office-workers grabbing a lunchtime sandwich in the sunshine. Lydia had her notebook open next to her on the sofa, ready to jot down questions. The first one was ‘why was he walking?’. It was a nice day, sure, but he was a busy man with a car service. Or, was this his habit? If so, somebody could have scoped out his schedule in order to accost him at an opportune moment. But if they knew his routine, wouldn’t there have been a less public place to stage an attack?

  They had the timing so didn’t have to wait long before Alejandro appeared in frame. He was wearing a three-piece-suit and carrying a cane with a silver top. Anybody else would look dandyish, theatrical or old-fashioned. Alejandro looked armed. He was walking with purpose and a determined expression, not glancing around at the scenery or ambling in the sunshine. Perhaps he was considering the vote he was walking toward, or his day’s business. Or, perhaps, he was aware, somehow, that he was entering the final minutes of his life.

  The pavement was busy and, for a few seconds, Alejandro was swallowed by a group of people walking in the opposite direction. When he emerged, his head was down, his face hidden. Lydia couldn’t see if pain or knowledge passed across it in the split second everything went wrong. It was as if he had been shot. Alejandro collapsed to the ground. Lydia replayed the moment. Alejandro didn’t clutch his chest or arm or any part of his body. He just collapsed. Like his brain had stopped sending the messages to his limbs to stay strong and keep moving.

  ‘If I was a betting man, I’d say that was a brain aneurysm.’ Fleet waved his fork at the screen.

  He wasn’t wrong, but Lydia couldn’t help think that they were seeing what they expected to see. She skipped back and watched the moment again. And again. ‘That group. The ones who surround him just before. Have they been interviewed?’

  Fleet shook his head, swallowing a mouthful of pasta before speaking. ‘It’s not considered suspicious. No need.’

  ‘Could someone have attacked him? In that moment when we don’t get a good look. I mean, he’s surrounded just before he collapses, isn’t that suspicious?’

  ‘I would have bet on poisoning before the post mortem,’ Fleet said. ‘But there’s no evidence of that. There’s evidence of a-’

  ‘Aneurysm,’ Lydia finished. ‘I know.’

  Fleet put his empty dish onto the coffee table and picked up his wine. ‘You seem angry.’

  ‘It’s Alejandro Silver,’ Lydia said. ‘He can’t just die. Not like that. Not for no reason.’ She felt a lump in her throat and picked up her own glass. Chugging wine so fast it burned.

  ‘Sometimes people die,’ Fleet said gently. ‘It was too soon, of course, but he wasn’t young. It happens. I’m more concerned about you.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Lydia said automatically. ‘How much more is there?’

  Fleet gave her a final, worried look, and then turned back to the screen, pressing play. A stream of people walked past Alejandro on the ground, and then two women in hijabs stopped. One crouched down next to Alejandro and Lydia could see her speaking, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Then the angle was obscured by a tour bus and, when that had passed, another group of people standing gawking on the street.

  ‘What about the citizen who called the ambulance?’

  ‘I knew you were going to ask and I asked around. No official statement was taken, but the call was recorded.’ He produced his phone and scrolled for a moment. ‘It was a woman. Aysha Hussain. The dispatcher talked her through CPR while she waited for the ambulance. I’ve put in a request for the audio file.’

  ‘Don’t we see her on here?’ Lydia clicked to play the video again.

  ‘I don’t think so. That group doesn’t move.’

  Lydia shot him a look. ‘You watched this already?’

  ‘Just a quick scroll through. I wanted to check it was the right file and that it wouldn’t be a complete waste of time.’

  ‘Well, I appreciate you getting it for me.’

  ‘So formal,’ Fleet said, his mouth quirking into a smile. ‘Is that an official thank you from the leader of the Crows?’

  Lydia felt the weight of his words like a binding spell. She stiffened her spine and looked him dead in the eye. ‘Is that what you want?’

  Fleet’s smile fell away in an instant. ‘Jesus, Lyds. I was joking.’

  Lydia forced her muscles to relax and she stood up, taking her plate to the kitchen and dumping it on the side. She looked in the fridge, more for something to do than in expectation. There was a cheesecake plated up and a punnet of strawberries. She felt her stomach turn over at the thought of more food.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Fleet said.

  ‘I’m going to head home,’
Lydia said. ‘Do some work.’

  ‘Don’t leave,’ Fleet stood up. ‘Let’s talk about it. I’m sorry I joked about your family.’

  He was picking his words, clearly at a loss as to her response to his joke. It was probably an over-reaction, Lydia knew, but she hadn’t realised how much she needed to keep the worlds separate. She couldn’t be the head of the Crow Family when she was lying in bed with Fleet or enjoying post-coital pasta. She just couldn’t.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said, reaching up on tiptoe to kiss him. ‘I just want to think about all this,’ she indicated the screen.

  Fleet boxed up dessert while Lydia laced her boots, handing it to her at the door, with a final, thorough kiss which made her toes curl and her mind reconsider whether she really wanted to leave.

  ‘You’re not planning to speak to Maria, are you?’

  ‘No,’ Lydia lied, busying herself with the container of cheesecake to avoid looking him in the eye. There was no point in worrying Fleet more.

  ‘You need to be careful.’

  ‘I always am.’

  Chapter Eight

  At lunchtime the next day, Lydia was sitting at her table in The Fork destroying Angel’s signature lasagne when Aiden walked in looking worried. ‘I need a word.’

  She put down her fork with some regret. ‘Of course you do. What’s up?’

  ‘Mr Kendal is unhappy. He says he came to you about a business issue and you haven’t done anything about it.’

  ‘The phone case guy? It’s a free world.’

  Aiden winced. ‘He pays us to look after him.’

  Lydia indicated that Aiden should sit in the chair opposite. She could do without his lanky form looming over her, blocking the sunshine streaming through the windows of the cafe. ‘What do you mean he pays us? I didn’t think we did that anymore.’ She lowered her voice. ‘The protection game.’

  ‘No, no you’re right. We don’t,’ Aiden said. He was about as convincing as a nun in a strip club. ‘But we do have a select few special relationships.’

  Lydia pushed her plate to one side. ‘What sort of relationships?’

  ‘They pay us to help them stay ahead of the competition.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’

  Aiden hesitated. ‘The last place that moved in nearby and started selling phone accessories closed after two weeks.’

  Lydia held her hand palm-out in a ‘stop’ gesture. ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘We closed them.’

  ‘I got it,’ Lydia said. She glanced around at the half-full cafe. ‘Let’s walk.’

  Once they were outside, walking along a quiet side street, Lydia resumed the conversation. ‘Why do we look after Mark Kendal and his pisspot little phone shop?’

  Aiden shot her a guarded look. ‘He supplies burners.’

  ‘Okay,’ Lydia said. ‘What else?’

  ‘That’s not nothing,’ Aiden said. ‘You get a phone from Mark, you know you haven’t been caught on some mook’s CCTV, you know there’s no receipt in the till showing when you bought it.’

  ‘I’m an investigator,’ Lydia said, ‘I know why that’s important. What else?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  Lydia resisted the urge to stop walking and kick Aiden. Instead she nodded. ‘Tell me.’

  He rubbed a hand over the scruff of beard on his chin, gazing at the pavement like it contained the secret of life. When he looked up, his expression was a mixture of fear and defiance. ‘It’s one of our legit businesses.’

  Lydia stopped walking and stared at him.

  Aiden shrugged, unable to meet her eye.

  ‘Explain,’ Lydia said eventually.

  ‘We need places to wash funny money, so we’re good friends with a few businesses in Camberwell. They use the dodgy cash, we look after them, do favours and that, and we get nice clean money in return.’

  It wasn’t the most important part of the story, but Lydia found her brain had snagged on the cash. ‘I thought everything was digital, now. Cards and online banking.’

  Aiden shrugged. ‘Charlie was old fashioned.’

  ‘You know who else likes cash? Dealers.’

  Aiden shook his head. ‘No drugs. Charlie made sure of that.’

  ‘I know he wasn’t a fan,’ Lydia said. Although, as she spoke, she realised that he hadn’t been keen on drug gangs moving into Camberwell from Peckham and Brixton. That didn’t mean he wasn’t running his own operation. At this point, nothing would surprise her.

  They resumed walking. ‘Tell me who else washes for us.’

  After Aiden had listed the businesses and Lydia had asked a couple more follow-up questions, they looped around and began heading back to The Fork.

  ‘I thought we were going somewhere,’ Aiden said, as they crossed to Camberwell Grove.

  ‘I just wanted to talk in the open air,’ Lydia said. ‘Less chance of being recorded or overheard.’

  Aiden frowned. ‘You don’t think The Fork is safe? No one would dare…’

  ‘I don’t trust anything anymore,’ Lydia said. ‘And neither should you.’

  * * *

  Charlie Crow had been very careful with the details of his business. He had rarely spoken about it on the phone and Lydia had never seen him write anything down or use a computer. Now that he was out of the picture, cooling his heels in a government facility, Lydia had checked through the house to ensure there were no nasty surprises and nothing to incriminate any of the Family, should the police come knocking. After the news from Aiden and the realisation that the criminal side to the Crow Family business was very much a going concern, Lydia let herself into the house with a fresh perspective. She was going to be more thorough this time. It was a further invasion of privacy, but she had already done far worse.

  She worked systematically, room by room, using the training from her PI mentor, and the details she had picked up through experience. She had come prepared with a crow bar and chisel and she prised every dado rail and skirting away from the walls to check behind. Searching was easy when you didn’t have to worry about leaving things exactly as they had been before. She emptied every drawer from every piece of furniture and kitchen unit, checking the backs and underneath.

  The living room fireplace was cleanly swept, the remains of the yule log and its ash properly cleared away after the winter holiday. The fire was important. The log had to stay alight for the twelve days, or there would be bad luck. Burning the old year to make way for the new, as well as providing light at the darkest time. Lydia paused by the enormous mantelpiece, struck by the memory of Charlie leaning there, lord of all he surveyed. She could still smell wood smoke in the dead air of the unused room. Charlie had followed the traditions, but that hadn’t saved him from Mr Smith and his secret department of the British government. Lydia spent her waking hours avoiding thinking about her uncle and what he was experiencing now. The guilt was too great. He had tried to kill her, but still. Family was Family.

  Truthfully, Lydia had expected a greater backlash from the Crows. Certainly, she had expected more questions. It seemed, however, that Charlie had trained them not to show curiosity, to trust the leadership of the Family. She was the rightful leader, the direct descendent of Henry Crow, and the Family appeared happy to accept it. Of course, that could all be a ruse. Any one of her relatives could be biding their time, lulling her into a false sense of security before launching a coup.

  Lydia ran her hands along the mantelpiece, checking for switches. There wasn’t likely to be a concealed compartment or a false wall which would swing out, revealing a secret room – this was London after all and there wasn’t the space – but it wasn’t impossible. Upstairs, Lydia hesitated outside Charlie’s bedroom door. But only for a moment. It was neat inside, with crisp white bedding like a hotel and blinds at the window. An enormous arty light fitting hovered in the middle of the room, an alien spacecraft visiting planet earth. The bedroom furniture was a dark, polished wood and Lydia checked the matching nightstand
s. Books, tissues, reading glasses she had never seen Charlie wear, and a small packet of photos. Lydia shook them onto the bed. There was her dad, his arm slung around another young man’s shoulders. He was smiling at whoever held the camera, handsome and young with a grin that promised adventure. The other man, Lydia assumed it was Charlie, was looking off to the side, as if his attention had just been caught by something out of frame. Lydia studied the one visible eye and eyebrow, the edge of his mouth. Yes. That could be a young Charlie. There was something determined and cold in that eye. Or she was projecting.

  The next photo was definitely Charlie. It was a few years later and he had filled out. He was a solid wall of muscle wearing a fitted white t-shirt and jeans and an unreadable expression in those shark eyes that Lydia knew all too well. A girl with black hair and pale skin had both arms wrapped around his narrow waist and was beaming like she had just won the lottery. She looked familiar, but Lydia didn’t know why. Growing up, she had never seen her uncle with a woman. He had been married to his job. The embodiment of the road her father hadn’t taken.

  Lydia looked under the bed, ran her hands under the mattress and pulled the drawers out of the nightstands, checking the backs and underneath. Then she went through the storage in the dressing room, rifling through Charlie’s neatly folded clothes. If he had a laptop or notebook, it would be somewhere handy so that he could use it regularly. She had been sure it would be here, in his inner sanctum. The en-suite didn’t yield results, only the discovery that Charlie used herbal toothpaste, which smelled of liquorice.

  Pacing the room, Lydia heard the floorboard creak as she crossed the middle of the floor. She went back over the spot, covered with a red Persian rug, taking careful steps and adjusting her weighting until she heard the creak again. It was very quiet, but there was a tiny difference in the floor, the smallest amount of flex. Rolling the rug away, Lydia scanned the polished boards. They looked neatly dovetailed, but she pulled out a pocket knife and began testing the seams of the boards. One came up. Inside was a cavity. Reaching inside, her fingers touched something soft. A cloth bag. She pulled it out and found a small notebook and a rectangular metal tin. Packed inside were bundles of money. A couple of rolls of fifties and a roll of ten-shilling notes. Spreading one out, Lydia studied its front and back a couple of times each to check she wasn’t losing her mind. It was, as far as she could tell, an authentic, used ten-shilling note from the nineteen fifties.