The Pearl King

by Sarah Painter

  The Pearl King

  Sarah Painter

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  Text Copyright © 2020 by Sarah Painter

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by Siskin Press Limited

  Cover Design by Stuart Bache

  For my family

  Also by Sarah Painter

  The Language of Spells

  The Secrets of Ghosts

  The Garden of Magic

  In The Light of What We See

  Beneath The Water

  The Lost Girls

  The Crow Investigations Series:

  The Night Raven

  The Silver Mark

  The Fox’s Curse

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Thank you for reading!

  Love urban fantasy?

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Lydia looked around the packed room of The Fork cafe. She did not know how to finish the story she had begun, or how the audience was taking the tale so far. Uncle Charlie had his arms crossed and his expression was unreadable. Lydia almost wished he would interrupt or start an argument, anything except the terrifying stillness of his face and body. She was glad he had his sleeves pulled down and that she couldn’t see the tattoos which covered his forearms. They moved when he was angry or worried and Lydia wasn’t sure whether that was something that everybody could see or whether it was another facet of her own abilities. She was so used to keeping those under wraps and secret from Uncle Charlie and the world, that it was just a habit now.

  She hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours and her eyes were gritty. She kept making eye contact as she spoke, though, and made sure her voice stayed strong and clear. She was a Crow. More than that, she was the daughter of Henry Crow, who was the rightful head of the Family. If she couldn’t put on a good show, who knew what would happen next? She had been arrested, set up by the Fox Family, and if that didn’t constitute a violation of the truce which had been in existence for eighty years, then Lydia didn’t know what did.

  It was all horrendously complicated, of course. She had been working for Paul Fox in good faith, developing a trust and a rapport that nobody in the room would believe or be pleased about. When she had been set-up for murder, one of Paul’s brothers had given the police a false witness statement to bolster the case. Lydia still wasn’t sure whether he was working alone, or whether she had been duped by Paul. All she knew was that she had to calm things down and make sure that nobody in the room went off on a revenge mission against another Family. Or the police.

  She had to tell a good story and fast. ‘In the story of the crow and the fox, the fox outsmarts the crow. He plays on her vanity and gets her to drop the food from her beak. I got close to a Fox,’ Lydia looked around, daring them to judge her. ‘You all know this. And I’m not ashamed. They are just people, good and bad to varying degrees like anybody else. The point is, though, that I have spent time with the Fox Family and I have learned something very important.’ She paused for effect. ‘Crows are smarter.’ There were a few nods. Lydia ploughed on, putting every ounce of conviction she could muster into her voice. ‘That means we’ve got to make the smart move now.’

  ‘What’s that, then?’ Uncle John had his arms folded. He probably still saw Lydia as a tiny child and was anxious for the grownups to speak. Lydia fixed him with a stare and held it until he was forced to look away first. She wasn’t afraid of silence. She wasn’t afraid of her Family. She was afraid of being locked up in a tiny box, again, of hearing the cage door slam shut, but in this room, with these people, she felt strong.

  An hour later, Lydia was beyond exhausted. She dragged herself up the stairs, feeling like every step was a mountain. Her mum and dad had said their goodbyes privately, waiting at the door leading to Lydia’s flat while the crowd dispersed. Her mum had kissed her cheek and hugged her tightly, while her dad peered at her in confusion before giving her a formal handshake. ‘Good to meet you,’ he said, and the last of Lydia’s emotional reserves drained away.

  There was one last thing to do before she could pass out, though, and that was check on her flatmate. Jason was a deceased entity and her presence seemed to power him up, making him less ethereal and wispy and more able to make mugs of tea and, on occasion, save her life. He was sitting on the sofa in the room that Lydia used as both an office and a living room. Lydia could see the fabric of the sofa through Jason and she went and sat next to him. She was too tired to speak and was very grateful when Jason seemed to sense this and didn’t ask her any questions. Perhaps he had been floating at the back of the crowd downstairs and had heard it all. Either way, he gave her a sympathetic grimace and put his hand on the chair next to Lydia, palm facing up. Lydia put her hand on top of his, feeling it become more solid by the second. It was exceedingly cold but Lydia squeezed it gently and let her head flop onto the back cushions of the sofa. She would just close her eyes for a moment. There was the smell of coffee and fried bacon, something which seemed to permeate the whole building from the cafe kitchen on the ground floor, and Jason’s chilly hand was in hers. She was home.

  The next day, Lydia got up early. She hoped that all had magically been sorted during the night but, of course, it had not. Lydia didn’t live in a Disney movie and friendly woodland creatures hadn’t appeared while she slept to sort out her problems.

  Lydia made coffee and toast, slathering on a thick layer of butter and carrying it out to eat at her desk. Everything ostensibly was the same. The piles of paperwork she never got around to filing, her laptop and portable hard drive and the tangle of cables which seemed to breed in the night, and her Sherlock Holmes mug. But nothing felt the same. She didn’t blame Fleet for doing his job, especially since he had tried to warn her, tried to give her time to do a runner, but those panicked few minutes before the arresting officers had arrived had thinned into something unreal. She couldn’t hold onto the memory of Fleet’s voice concerned and urging her to run, only the uniforms that followed. And the fact of his freedom while she had sat alone in a locked cell. Charlie had always warned her that they were from different worlds and now she couldn’t stop replaying the moment when he had led her out of her flat, surrounded by his police crew. It made something shift inside. Something vital and delicate and very hard to replace.

  As if sensing her thoughts, her phone buzzed with a text. It was Fleet.

  Lydia finished her toast before reading it, and then went to make another two slices. She still felt empty inside, as if she would never be full again. O
ne night in the slammer and she was utterly wrecked. She kept breaking out in shakes, remembering the feeling of being trapped. Caged.

  Licking buttery crumbs from her fingers, she allowed herself to focus on Fleet’s text.

  Bridge? Midday? Please.

  Lydia waited for the anger she expected. It didn’t come. She pictured Fleet, his beautiful smile and warm eyes and waited for the usual mix of affection, longing, excitement and desire. That didn’t come, either. Instead of being flooded by feel-good hormones or righteous fury, she felt blank. Nothing.

  Hell Hawk. It would pass, she was almost sure, just a momentary lapse due to exhaustion and the after-effects of being arrested, but what was worrying was the feeling that she didn’t want it to pass… She could feel her resentment solidifying. She knew that she was excellent at compartmentalising, keeping everything in her life separate. Some would argue she was a little too good at it. She could feel that mechanism kicking into gear, moving Fleet from the box marked ‘significant other’ to ‘useful acquaintance’. That felt nice. Less painful.

  In Burgess Park Lydia approached the Bridge To Nowhere. She was early but Fleet was already there, waiting in the middle of the footbridge which spanned the grass. There had once been a canal here, back in the day, but it had been filled in years ago and the bridge was a souvenir. A reminder of how things used to be. Fleet wasn’t in his work suit. He was wearing a smart long grey coat to protect against the cold but Lydia could see he had jeans and a jumper on underneath. She wondered if that had been a deliberate choice on his part, wanting to avoid reminding Lydia of his work persona. If so, it hadn’t worked.

  ‘All right?’ she said, as he turned to greet her. He went to hug her and she took a step back.

  He went still. ‘You’re angry.’

  ‘Not with you,’ Lydia said. But she felt the lie, bitter on her tongue.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Fleet said, his gazed fixed on her face, ‘there wasn’t anything I could do.’

  ‘I know that,’ Lydia said. ‘And you warned me.’

  He closed his eyes briefly. ‘I can’t believe-’

  ‘Don’t,’ Lydia said, interrupting him. ‘It’s in the past.’

  There was a pause and Lydia looked out across the park, unable to focus on Fleet for any length of time. She felt numb but knew it was a fragile protection, liable to crack at any moment. ‘And I’m out now. It’s done.’ Lydia had accepted Charlie’s offer to get her out of trouble which put her squarely in his debt. The price of his help had been entering the Crow Family business, something she had been at pains to avoid. To make matters worse, she had then been offered immediate release by a man she barely knew but suspected worked for the secret service. Desperate for freedom, she had shaken the man’s hand. Now she owed him ‘friendship’, whatever that meant. A small part of her blamed Fleet for the mess, however unfair that was.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you,’ Fleet’s voice was quiet, earnest. ‘I had to keep working the case.’

  ‘My case.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. I had to keep working and I was worried it would make everything worse.’

  ‘I understand,’ Lydia said, although she didn’t. Not entirely. There had been a sense of rejection, she realised, now. Fleet had always worked with her, always turned up and backed her up. In this case, she had felt abandoned. She hated how needy and vulnerable that realisation made her feel and consciously stuffed those feelings down as deeply as she could.

  ‘What can I do to make it up to you?’

  ‘There’s nothing to make up,’ Lydia said, forcing herself to look at Fleet. ‘You had to do your job. I understand. I knew what I was getting myself into when I dated a copper.’

  ‘That sounds horribly like past tense,’ Fleet said, his eyes damp.

  Lydia shrugged. ‘We had a good run. Longer than I expected.’

  ‘No.’

  The pain was there, circling, but Lydia felt a calm, blankness at her centre. ‘I think so. No hard feelings?’

  ‘Stop it,’ Fleet said, angry now. ‘Stop talking like we’ve only just met. You can’t just throw us away over this. We have a solid relationship, we can get through this. We just need to talk about it properly. I know you will need some time-’

  ‘Honestly, I’m fine,’ Lydia said.

  ‘I’m not,’ Fleet said. ‘I’m not fine and I don’t want us to be over.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lydia said. ‘But we are.’

  Chapter Two

  Lydia walked back to The Fork. Rain began to spit and she allowed herself a bleak smile. Of course it was raining. She had broken up with her boyfriend and now her hair was getting wet; she was a walking cliché. The feeble attempt at humour didn’t help. She still felt wretched. That was the word. She knew she must be upset and in pain, but the dreadful numbness was still there. A blankness where feeling ought to be. Perhaps she was a sociopath?

  A small girl was walking with an adult just in front of Lydia. The child stumbled on a piece of uneven pavement and fell. Her tear-streaked face was filled with pain and surprise, her mouth opening in a pitiful wail, and Lydia felt her own eyes fill in sympathy. Not a sociopath, then. Just a wreck.

  Lydia knew she ought to reach out. To phone her best friend, Emma, or her mother, but she had never been good at opening up when she was in a bad way. She tended to forge on alone, and sort things out for herself. Independent, her mother said. Bloody stubborn, her Uncle Charlie called it.

  Back at The Fork, she trailed up the stairs to her flat and went straight to her bed to lie down. Just for a moment. She stretched out and counted the cracks on the ceiling, her mind carefully empty.

  After a while she must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, her left shoulder was freezing cold. She opened her eyes to see Jason next to her, his hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently.

  ‘You were having a nightmare,’ he said.

  ‘Was I?’ Lydia was still disorientated. A fragment of her dream was at the edge of her consciousness but when she examined it, it disappeared.

  ‘You were shouting.’ Jason looked worried. The familiar crease appeared between his eyebrows and Lydia wanted to reach out and smooth her finger over it, erasing it.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Lydia said, sitting up.

  Jason moved away and while it was nice not to be flirting with frostbite in her shoulder, she missed the contact. He was looking at her warily. ‘You look weird.’

  ‘Charming.’ Lydia scrubbed at her face with her hand, trying to wake herself up. Her eyes were gritty and filled with flakes of sleep and her cheeks were damp. She must have been crying in her sleep. Or drooling.

  ‘Coffee? Toast?’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ Lydia said. ‘I ate half a loaf earlier. But thanks.’

  Now Jason looked really concerned. ‘What’s happened? Are you having flashbacks?’

  ‘Flashbacks? From what?’

  ‘Being in jail?’

  ‘No,’ Lydia shook her head. ‘Honestly, I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t look fine,’ Jason said. ‘I’ll make you a tea.’

  ‘Coffee,’ Lydia said.

  ‘You need tea. With sugar. You don’t look right.’ He hesitated by the bedroom door. ‘Is it from our trip?’

  Lydia took a moment to realise what he was referring to. So much had happened since Jason had hitched a ride in her body and they had gone to visit a ghost in the disused tunnels of the London Underground. It had been unsettling, and a physical challenge, but it paled in comparison to everything else. ‘No,’ she shook her head to add weight to her response. She took a breath, preparing to tell Jason about Fleet, but then realised that she couldn’t say the words. Not yet.

  Later, after two mugs of disgustingly sweet tea, which she drank only to reassure Jason, Lydia sat at her desk, fully-dressed and ready for distraction. She couldn’t bear to think about Fleet and, as if conjured into being by Jason’s sweet concern, she kept having flashbacks to being trapped in the cell at the
police station. Lydia’s tried-and-tested approach for dealing with any sort of emotional upset was to throw herself wholeheartedly into something else. In the past this had resulted in a love affair with Paul Fox and a short-lived career as a pet-groomer. Now, it meant one thing - work. She pulled up her client list and scanned the case notes. She would dispense justice, she would ferret out truths, she would solve enigmas. And, if she buried herself with enough of them, perhaps she would begin to feel normal again.

  Her files weren’t very encouraging. There wasn’t much in the way of enigmas, more a depressing list of infidelity cases, spousal uncertainty and background checks for companies doing due diligence on prospective employees. Those were the worst of all, in Lydia’s opinion, entailing, as they did, a dull hour or two online and in databases and nothing else.

  At that moment, Jason trailed in from the kitchen with a mug. ‘No more tea,’ Lydia said, as kindly as she could manage. ‘Honestly, I’m fine.’

  ‘It’s coffee,’ Jason said, putting it down on the desk. ‘Are you sure you don’t want anything else?’

  ‘Actually,’ Lydia looked up at him, a thought forming. ‘How are you getting on with your laptop?’

  Jason brightened. ‘Great. I love it.’

  ‘How do you feel about taking on a few clients? Just the background check ones. It’s all computer work so it doesn’t matter that you can’t go out and about.’