The Pearl King

by Sarah Painter

  ‘I give you my word,’ Mr Smith said.

  Lydia was about to tell him that she wasn’t a small child and that she would need more, when she realised he meant it. ‘We would shake on it?’

  He nodded. ‘Coin to coin. Binding.’

  Lydia remembered the chink sound of metal on metal when she had shaken his hand in the police station. Was she really about to make another deal with the mystery man? She thought of her father’s slackened face and the line of drool hanging from his mouth and held out her hand.

  After they had shaken, Mr Smith sat back in his chair. ‘Now, that gesture of goodwill.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to hear about your life. How is working for your uncle going? Have you had any further trouble from the Silvers?’

  ‘No more trouble,’ Lydia said, ignoring the question about her uncle. She thought for a few seconds, calculating the least-worst piece of information she could give Mr Smith. He would need breadcrumbs if she was going to lead him toward healing her father.

  ‘I’ve got something for you,’ Lydia said.

  Mr Smith inclined his head, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘You’re familiar with the truce, I assume?’

  ‘Set in 1943, when the four Families agreed to put an end to the fighting in light of the losses incurred.’

  ‘Good,’ Lydia said, glad she didn’t have to give a history lesson. ‘Well, someone has been trying to break it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know, but every lead points to your old pals, JRB. You know they were clients of the Silver Family, maybe still are, but finding information on them has been difficult.’

  ‘This sounds like the lead up to another request for my help, rather than you offering me something of value. Your debt is growing.’

  ‘I’ve found evidence that JRB are linked to the Pearl Family. They might even be one and the same, I don’t know. That means the Pearls are in some way complicit, if not active, in trying to destabilise the Families.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Mr Smith said. ‘How strong is this link you’ve found?’

  ‘What do you know about the Pearls? I thought they were quiet shopkeepers, not very powerful, not very interested in politics and power-play.’

  ‘Unlike the Crows and the Silvers.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lydia said impatiently, ‘which is why our alliance with the Silvers was always so important. If we were on the same side, we were less likely to tear each other apart in the race to the top. At least, that was the theory. And it’s all dust now as far as I’m concerned.’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Maria Silver has been named the new head of the Silver Family. And she’s not my biggest fan.’

  Mr Smith nodded. ‘This is a reaction to Alejandro setting his sights on politics, I assume?’

  Of course he knew about that. ‘So, the Pearls?’

  He leaned back in his chair and regarded Lydia for a long moment. When he spoke, it was in the tones of someone recounting an often-told story. ‘Once upon a time, a woman went through a door in a chalk hillside and married a prince. When she came back, three hundred years had passed, and all of her human family were long dead. She wasn’t alone, though. Growing inside her belly was a child. Half-fae, half-mortal, and that baby girl was the first Pearl.’

  ‘I don’t believe in fairies,’ Lydia said.

  ‘Nobody sane does,’ Mr Smith said. ‘That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.’

  On New Year’s Day, Lydia woke up late, a foul taste in her mouth. She had finished another bottle of whisky the night before and the evidence was on her nightstand. She had slumped down, shoving her laptop to the bottom of the bed, sometime after two. She retrieved it now, and pushed her pillows up against the headboard. Once she was sitting up and had swilled her mouth out with a stale can of cola, Lydia felt her mind clearing.

  She fired up the computer and checked her email. Jason had sent her a neat list of work completed with a hyperlink to their new shared folder. Feeling ridiculous, she emailed the ghost back to say ‘thank you’.

  Fleet had reminded Lydia about the phone call and with the need to do something which felt like a positive act, she called the Maudsley and asked for the ward that Ash had given. ‘This is going to sound a bit odd,’ Lydia said, ‘but I received a call from one of your patients. He said his name was Ash. No surname. And that might be a nickname. He didn’t seem completely sure.’

  ‘How can I help?’ The nurse on the line sounded genuinely sympathetic and Lydia wondered what it took to do that job and still be gracious to randoms interrupting your busy work day.

  ‘He sounded distressed and, I don't know, I felt like I should check on him. Or alert you or something. I don't know…’

  ‘This ward is for inpatients receiving psychiatric treatment. Unfortunately, many of our clients are often distressed. You're not family?’

  ‘No,’ Lydia said. ‘I don't know him at all. I know you can't give me details and I'm not asking for any information, I just wanted to pass on what he told me in case it's medically relevant, I guess. If just felt wrong to completely ignore it.’

  ‘I understand,’ the nurse said. ‘I’ll make a note. When did he call?’

  Lydia gave the details she could remember.

  ‘And what did Ash say to you? Did he give a reason for contacting you?’

  ‘He wanted to book me. I’m an investigator, and he wanted me to find his parents. He said his name wasn’t his real name and that everything had changed. He said there were imposters everywhere, that nothing was real.’

  ‘I see,’ the nurse said. ‘That sounds distressing. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ Lydia said. ‘I was just thinking about it and I felt bad that I hadn’t tried to help him, I guess. Can you just tell him that I called to check up on him?’

  ‘Of course. May I take your name?’

  ‘Lydia Crow.’

  There was a pause. ‘That’s interesting,’ the nurse said. ‘I’m looking at his file right now and you are down as his emergency contact and on his approved list of visitors.’

  ‘How is that possible? I’ve never met him.’

  ‘He gave us those details, actually. We haven’t been able to track down his family. We’ve actually passed his details onto the police in case he comes up on the missing person database.’

  ‘Wait. He was right? His name isn’t Ash? You don’t have his actual identity?’

  ‘It might be. We haven’t been able to confirm that. He had no ID on him when he arrived. He was transferred from A and E to us for emergency assessment.’

  ‘So you haven’t been in touch with his family?’

  ‘Unfortunately not.’

  ‘Can I speak to him, now?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s in group at the moment. I will tell him you called, though, and you can always visit. Open visits are allowed between two and four every day and ten until twelve on Saturdays. You will need to bring some ID and there is a list of items you may not bring with you or gift to a patient on our website.’

  After hanging up, Lydia spent a few seconds hoping that she hadn’t inadvertently got Ash into any kind of trouble or contravened her own rules for privacy for clients. He wasn’t a client, of course, but he had come to her for help. She had the feeling she had done the wrong thing, but couldn’t work out what the right action would be and, after a minute more of fretting, she let it go.

  The Fork had been closed over Christmas and New Year, but it opened on the third of January and seemed as busy as normal. Life in London never paused for long. Lydia had ordered a coffee and a bacon roll and, as a nod to health, a glass of orange juice. Angel wasn’t serving, she was leaning on the counter scrolling through her phone while a new employee fumbled with the coffee machine. He had a slight build, light brown hair, and an intensely worried expression, but that was probably because he was new. Lydia didn’t imagine that Angel was a very patient teacher.

  ‘T
hanks,’ Lydia paid the new guy and took a sip of her coffee while he went into the kitchen to retrieve her breakfast.

  ‘You seen this?’ Angel straightened up.

  ‘What?’

  She passed her phone to Lydia, clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth as she did so. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be a detective?’

  ‘Investigator,’ Lydia corrected. ‘For hire. Doesn’t mean I spend my days scanning the news for jobs.’ She trailed off as her attention was caught by the video playing. It was from the BBC website and Angel had subtitles on. A high-ranking police officer was giving a press briefing in front of a cordoned-area, her face serious, but Lydia wasn’t reading the words. She had caught sight of a familiar figure behind the yellow tape, amongst the crowd of people. Fleet.

  ‘It’s local, though,’ Angel was saying and Lydia forced herself to focus on the words being spoken by the reporter. The fifteen-year-old daughter of local councillor Miles Bunyan had been missing for three days and police were appealing for witnesses. Lydia knew that meant the team were scraping the barrel for leads, and would now have to contend with a stream of time-wasting phone calls, most innocent, some intentional, and some downright psychotic.

  She squinted at the screen, trying to work out where the film had been shot and what the cordon was protecting but the clip ended and another one started, a climate change report this time. Rolling news. An onslaught of misery and fear.

  ‘Bunyan,’ she said out loud. ‘That name rings a bell.’

  ‘Head of Southwark Council,’ Angel said, sniffing. ‘Always banging on about the Camberwell Regeneration Plan.’

  Lydia didn’t reply, she was replaying the glimpse of Fleet, waiting for the spike of adrenaline to fade. Had he looked tired? Happy? Worried? It was pointless to speculate and it was, she reminded herself, none of her business, but the thoughts kept looping.

  Her breakfast appeared and she took it to a table in the window. Her appetite had gone, but she forced herself to eat, scrolling on her own phone while she chewed. She found the news story and followed the various reports. There wasn’t much information, but that didn’t mean much. Fleet’s team would be careful about what they released to the press, especially when launching an appeal. The more they kept quiet, the easier it would be to spot the genuine tips. She put her phone face down. She felt bad that a girl was missing, but it wasn’t her job. The name Bunyan was very familiar, though. Then she realised why – Charlie had mentioned him. He counted Bunyan as an ally in the continual fight to keep Camberwell afloat.

  Draining her orange juice like the glass of medicine it was, Lydia stood up to leave. There was something else tickling at the back of her mind. Something important. It wasn’t until she had walked back upstairs to her flat and sat at her desk for ten minutes that the thought finally sidled out from the shadows and into the light.

  She leaned back and examined it for a few moments, cross that it hadn’t struck her before. It had been when Angel had handed her the phone, it had reminded her of when Angel had pointed out the man hanging from Blackfriars Bridge. Kicking herself, she went downstairs to confront a certain dreadlocked person.

  Angel was sitting at one of the cafe tables, reading a paperback while the new kid swept the floor.

  ‘Give us a minute,’ Lydia said to him. He looked at Angel who nodded.

  Lydia stood by Angel’s table, trying to marshal her thoughts. Charlie hadn’t just been watching her through his camera or turning up to ask her things. He had been pushing her around without her even knowing it.

  ‘You work for Charlie,’ Lydia said flatly.

  ‘Yeah,’ Angel put the book face down on the Formica. ‘What of it?’

  ‘You showed me that news article. The hanged guy on Blackfriars Bridge.’

  Angel shrugged. ‘You would have seen it, anyway. The story was everywhere.’

  ‘You’ve been reporting to Charlie, I assume?’ Lydia forced herself to unclench her fists, to let her arms hang by her sides and her face to relax. Angel was an unknown quantity and she moved quickly. Lydia had seen her wielding a giant cast iron pan over a burner and had no desire for things to get physical.

  Angel shrugged. ‘He pays my wages. He asks, I answer.’

  ‘Did he tell you to nudge me toward certain jobs?’

  Angel sighed, looking bored rather than anything else. ‘Sometimes. He seemed to think that the direct approach wouldn’t be most effective.’

  ‘Why does he want me to look into this?’ Lydia tapped the phone screen to reawaken it, revealing a picture of Miles Bunyan and his wife looking tearful.

  ‘I think you’re misunderstanding the nature of our agreement. He asks, I answer. Not the other way around.’

  ‘And that’s okay with you?’

  ‘He’s Charlie Crow. And I work at The Fork.’ This was spoken like Lydia was a functional idiot.

  She smiled, producing her coin and spinning it in the air. She had been trying not to use her mojo on people, not wanting to walk too far down the path of coercive control, but Angel was pissing her off. ‘I’m Lydia Crow,’ she said. ‘And I think we should have a little agreement of our own.’

  Angel gave her a look which was both vaguely annoyed and very tired. ‘You gonna pay?’

  ‘I’m going to let you keep your job,’ Lydia said. ‘Which is pretty reasonable from where I’m standing.’

  Back upstairs, Lydia sat at her desk and poured the last of the whisky into her mug. She didn’t know why she was so thrown by the news from Angel. She had been aware that Charlie had been trying to control her from the moment she stepped foot back in London, but it was unsettling that she hadn’t suspected Angel. It made her wonder what else she was missing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lydia paced her floor until Jason asked her to stop because she was making him nervous, and then called her uncle. ‘Are you near the cafe? I need to speak to you.’

  ‘And a happy new year to you, too, Lyds.’

  Lydia didn’t reply. After a moment, Charlie said. ‘I could go for some more breakfast.’

  Angel looked alarmed when Lydia arrived back downstairs and even more worried when Charlie pushed open the door.

  ‘Coffee,’ Lydia said. ‘Make that two.’

  She steered Charlie to their usual table.

  ‘I might want to eat,’ he said.

  ‘No time,’ Lydia said. ‘I saw the news.’

  She watched Charlie’s eyes, expecting him to flick toward Angel. They didn’t and, once again, Lydia marvelled at how good her uncle was at concealment. He was wasted in Camberwell. ‘Did you ever think about joining the secret service?’ Lydia said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Lydia sipped her coffee. ‘Shame about that missing girl.’

  Charlie lifted his cup. ‘I wanted to talk to you about that, as it happens.’

  ‘Oh, right?’ Lydia kept her voice light.

  ‘It’s something we should get involved with. See what we can dig up.’

  ‘By “we” I assume you mean “me”.’

  He shrugged. ‘You’re the expert. You found Maddie.’

  ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment,’ Lydia said. What she didn’t say was that she didn’t like being manipulated and she really didn’t like casual arson. If she investigated something on Charlie’s behalf, what would the repercussions be this time?

  ‘Not too busy for this,’ Charlie said and his eyes were flat. He flashed his shark’s smile and his eyes didn’t change. It was a warning and Lydia didn’t even need to glance down to know that the tattoos just visible beneath the folded cuffs of his black shirt were writhing.

  ‘Why do you care so much?’

  ‘Miles Bunyan is an old friend. He has been very good to this area.’

  ‘The Camberwell Regeneration Plan?’

  ‘Amongst other things,’ Charlie waved a hand. ‘Miles Bunyan has cared about Camberwell when his colleagues would happily see all funds diverted to Bermondsey.’

 
‘Is he a good father, too?’

  Charlie paused. ‘What are you insinuating? That he’s the reason Lucy has run off? He has done everything for that girl. He has been mother as well as father ever since Caroline passed, held down his job, been head of the council, active with charity work-’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Lydia held up her hands. ‘Got it. Father of the year.’

  ‘It’ll be that boy of hers. Unsuitable outside influence. Happens all the time, some good-looking kid turns a young girl’s head, makes her forget her sense.’

  Lydia decided to pretend that Charlie wasn’t having a go at her. Tensions were already high between them and didn’t need any more stress applied. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Lydia said, placating. Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she added ‘it would help if I was still friendly with Fleet.’

  Charlie bared his teeth. ‘You don’t have to be friendly to get information.’

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ Lydia said. She made to leave and Charlie stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  ‘Not yet. We need to pay our respects.’

  Miles Bunyan was sitting on the brown leather sofa in the narrow living room of his Victorian end terrace. It wasn’t a big room, but there were the original sashes in the bay window and the house was close to Burgess Park. Lydia wondered how much council leaders got paid.

  ‘It’s good of you to come,’ Miles was saying. ‘I don’t… I don’t know what I’m doing at the moment.’ He started to stand up. ‘Would you like tea?’

  ‘Lydia will make some,’ Charlie said.

  Lydia was glad to escape to the kitchen, away from the heavy sadness in the living room. She found mugs and teabags and filled the kettle, then took the opportunity to have a good look around the room. It had a dining area which led to doors and out to the garden. The conversion was nicely done and fairly new-looking. There were a few takeaway menus pinned to the fridge with magnets and a pile of post on the counter.

  She went upstairs and found Lucy’s room. The last time she had been snooping in a missing girl’s bedroom it had been Maddie, her cousin, who was missing. Maddie had turned out to be alive and well, well enough to attempt to kill Lydia, in fact. Lydia hoped that history would only half-repeat itself in this instance. The room was very clean and tidy and looked like the ‘after’ in a Marie Kondo clip. Either Lucy had been that way, or her father had taken the opportunity of her absence to have a clear out. There was a white desk with an angle-poise lamp and a single succulent in a teal pot. Before Lydia could get started on the bedside drawers, she heard the living room door open and Miles’s voice. She slipped out of the room and into the bathroom across the landing. She flushed, washed her hands and headed back down the stairs, smiling at Miles who was standing at the bottom, looking lost.