‘Gone?’
‘I didn’t realise at the time, but she had taken him to the bathroom. Presumably he thought he was getting lucky.’
‘So, what happened?’
‘I have no idea. When Ivan didn’t show for a while, I went looking. Found him on the floor of the gents, white as death with blue lips.’ Harry was staring, eyes wide like he was reliving the moment. ‘Seriously, I thought he was dead. It was horrible.’
‘But he was alive?’
Harry nodded tightly. ‘I thought I was going to have to do CPR but when I got close, I could feel a little breath coming through his mouth and his colour started to improve. A bit, I mean, he still looked like shit.’
‘And where was Madeleine? Was she there?’
‘No. She must have gone out through the kitchens or something.’ Harry shook his head, remembering. ‘I had my phone out, but Ivan grabbed my hand. He was squeezing really tightly and like, staring. He tried to speak but it was just this whistling sound so I leaned in close and he managed to whisper ‘no police’.’
‘So you didn’t call them?’
‘He’s the client and if he didn’t want police, that was his call. Police would mean the press and I got it. I mean, it would be embarrassing for him.’
‘And you didn't know if he'd done something illegal, like maybe he had tried to force himself on Madeleine and you were protecting your client.’
‘It’s my job,’ Harry said. ‘But I’m not stupid. I knew who Madeleine was so I called Charlie. He came right away.’
‘Wait,’ Lydia held up a hand. ‘You called Charlie. Charlie Crow?’
Harry nodded. ‘He came straight away.’
Lydia kept her expression neutral while her mind whirled. Why the hell hadn’t Charlie told her about this incident? It seemed somewhat pertinent, which led to the next rational thought; what else wasn’t her uncle telling her? ‘Was Ivan recovering at this point?’
‘Yeah, he was sitting up by the time your uncle arrived. He could whisper more clearly and his lips weren’t blue anymore. He didn’t want anyone to know, said I had to go out and make up something to tell the party. I said that he and Madeleine had gone off for some quiet time. Don’t be cross,’ he held up his hands. ‘I made a nod-nod-wink-wink kind of thing. You know, randy old Ivan was less embarrassing than flat-out on the toilet floor Ivan. He’s a very proud man.’
‘And you wanted to keep his business.’
‘Of course. And stop him from suing us over Madeleine or bad-mouthing the agency.’
‘But you didn’t call an ambulance?’
‘I do as I’m told,’ Harry said. ‘When it comes to clients like Ivan Gorin, anyway.’
Money talked, as always.
‘So, where was Madeleine?’
‘I don’t know. And I haven’t seen her since. Thought she might call to apologise or send an email or something.’
‘How did you fire her if you haven’t seen her?’
‘Sent an email and a letter. Left a message on her mobile. Trust me, she got the message.’
‘But she didn’t respond?’
‘Nope.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Are we done here?’
‘What did Charlie do when he arrived that night?’
‘I have no idea. I got out of there and went to do damage control in the restaurant.’
‘Did Ivan speak to his guests?’
‘No. I think he and Charlie went out the back way. Or maybe there’s a connecting door between the properties and he went back that way to his club to recuperate.’
‘And you’ve seen him since?’
Harry hesitated. ‘Yes.’ A moment more as confusion danced across his face. ‘I think so.’
Lydia raised an eyebrow and waited.
‘Actually,’ Harry continued, ‘now you mention it, I’m not sure if I’ve actually seen him. I’ve spoken to him on the phone, though. Definitely.’
‘You’re still the PR firm for Dean Street House?’
Harry swelled with pride. ‘Naturally. We know how to do our job.’
Chapter Thirteen
Dean Street House wasn’t far from Minty PR and Lydia figured that Ivan’s loyalty was less to do with Harry’s outstanding firm and more to do with convenience. The club had an unassuming entrance and Lydia was only certain that she had the right place because of the restaurant next door. On the other side was a juice bar with an editing studio above.
Lydia hit the intercom which buzzed loudly. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m here to see Ivan Gorin,’ Lydia said. She held her business card up to the camera and smiled.
There was another buzzing sound and then a click. Lydia opened the door and found herself in a hallway with black and white tiles and painted panelling on the walls. An oak staircase was straight ahead and, next to a console table, there were several umbrellas in a stand. It was like a fancy-but-normal entrance to a family home and Lydia had a moment of uncertainty that she had the right place.
A startlingly thin woman descended the staircase, her fingers trailing the banister. She smiled at Lydia with all the warmth of an ice floe. ‘May I help you?’
‘I need to speak with Ivan. Is he here?’
‘Sadly, you just missed him.’
‘Fine. Give me his number and I’ll call him.’
‘I’m not at liberty to give out Mr Gorin’s contact details, but you can send any media requests via his management.’
‘I just came from his management and I heard a very interesting story about Ivan that I wish to discuss. Trust me, he’ll want to talk to me in person. In private.’ Lydia held out her card and watched as the woman glanced at it. If the name ‘Crow’ meant anything to her, Lydia couldn’t tell.
‘I will pass on the message, but you really are better off making contact via his management.’
‘Tell him he needs to get in touch urgently. It is truly in his best interests.’
The woman had already turned away, had a foot on the bottom step.
‘Thanks for being so helpful,’ Lydia said. ‘I’ll be sure to let Ivan know you were a peach.’
* * *
Lydia’s phone buzzed on her way out of Dean Street House. It was a text message from Emma and Lydia felt herself tense as if for a blow as she tapped the screen. ‘Are you free? Coffee?’ The tension flowed out and Lydia realised just how worried she had been that she had irrevocably upset Emma. The thought that she might lose her friendship had been too awful to look at head-on. She tapped back. ‘Definitely! In Soho but can meet wherever – you at home?’
The sun was out by the time Lydia got onto the street, like it was echoing the boost in mood Emma’s message had delivered. Another text pinged. ‘Mum has the kids and I’m at the Mothership. Meet you outside?’
‘Be there in twenty mins.’
Emma had always loved design and had been a homely sort, even when they were teens. She couldn’t walk past a cushion without squeezing it and she and Lydia had spent many happy hours wandering around Liberty department store, gazing at the beautiful clothes and jewellery, the sumptuous fabrics and rugs, and day-dreaming of when they would be adults. Lydia always saw herself swanning around in one of the peacock-patterned silk robes, with a variety of gentlemen callers. Emma kept a binder of interior design ideas ready for when she had a home of her own.
Lydia walked fast toward Great Marlborough Street where Liberty sat in all its black-and-white timbered glory, and tried not to think about how far away from the ideal her life had veered. At least Emma had a home and family and was happy. Her perfect linen cushions tended to have rice cakes mashed into them these days, but Lydia knew Emma wouldn’t have things any other way.
Emma was outside, as promised, wearing cropped jeans, a floaty white top and enormous sunglasses. It was momentarily odd to see her without Maisie and Archie hanging off her arms and just with a small cross-body bag, not a rucksack full of baby-supplies. After they had hugged hello, they both spoke at once: ‘I’m sorry.’
&nb
sp; ‘What? No.’ Emma shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been weird.’
‘I scared you,’ Lydia said, deciding to get it out in the open. Even a small rift from Emma had made Lydia realise something very important; she could not lose her friend. It was unthinkable.
Emma didn’t say anything, but she reached for Lydia and hugged her tightly.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lydia said into her friend’s hair.
‘Don’t be.’ Emma pushed her sunglasses up and fixed Lydia with a steady look. ‘It’s me. You just have to be honest with me. Don’t shut me out.’
‘Okay,’ Lydia said, mentally filing that idea under ‘crazy talk’. She turned and they began walking back toward the tube. ‘What do you fancy doing with your freedom? Food? Drinks?’
‘I was thinking more investigating,’ Emma said. ‘Unless your cousin has turned up?’
Lydia shook her head. ‘No.’
‘To which?’
‘Both,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m not freaking you out.’ Or putting you in danger.
Emma stopped walking. ‘I thought I made myself very clear. You have to open up. You’ve always been cagey about your family and I understand, but you’re my best friend and we’re not kids anymore. I need you to be honest with me.’
‘I am being honest,’ Lydia said. ‘I swear.’
‘Right, then. Tell me about your Uncle Charlie. He’s the head of the family, right?’
‘Correct.’
‘And it used to be your Granddad?’
‘Grandpa Crow. Yes.’
‘And is everyone in your family magic or is it just you?’
Lydia had been swigging from her water bottle and she nearly spat it out. A woman talking nineteen-to-the-dozen on her mobile clipped her on the shoulder as she moved around Lydia’s suddenly immobile form.
‘What?’ Emma said, eyes wide and innocent.
‘I need a drink,’ Lydia said, wiping her chin and neck. ‘A proper drink.’ She caught Emma’s expression and added, hurriedly, ‘I will answer you.’
Emma seemed to take pity on Lydia. ‘It’s so nice out. We could go to that place in Russell Square gardens. Have a cheeky glass of white.’
They changed direction and headed towards Bloomsbury, and Lydia was glad when Emma allowed her to change the subject to Maisie and Archie. ‘And how about Tom?’ Lydia knew she didn’t ask about Emma’s husband often enough. It was yet another way in which she wasn’t a great friend. She resolved, as she so often had, to do better.
‘Yeah, he’s good. You know Tom. Always chilled.’
When they reached Russell Square, Lydia cut through the park, towards the enormous Greek-revival monolith of The British Museum. ‘How do you feel about some culture first?’
Emma blew out a sigh of exasperation and made a show of checking her watch. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Forty-five minutes of history will give me an hour and a half of drinking wine in the sunshine and listening to all the secrets my best mate has been holding back for the past twenty years.’
* * *
Lydia hadn’t been to the museum in a few years, but she still remembered the way. Once they had passed the stone columns and under the carved pediment of the grand entrance, they entered the inner courtyard with its vast glass roof. It was, as ever, rammed with visitors and Lydia cut through the throng as quickly as possible, dragging Emma up to the third floor of the museum and into the cool calm of gallery forty-one.
The Wedgwood blue walls and shining glass cases transported Lydia back in time to visits with her Dad. While he had honoured his wife’s wishes to bring Lydia up away from the modern-incarnation of the Family, he had still wanted her to know her own history. As a little girl, Lydia had accepted the stories as being not much different from her book of Grimm’s fairy tales or the giant tome of Norse legends with the exploits of Loki. The last time she had been here, though, her Dad had opened up a little more about Grandpa and his memories of his mother, Great Grandma Crow. They had been standing in front of a Viking treasure hoard, dug up by some detectorists near York, when her Dad had pointed at a shining gold coin. It was a match for the one she always had at her fingertips. The Family coin that could be made to appear, disappear and spin in lazy circles. She felt a jolt of fury at it being entombed in the case, out of reach, away from human contact. Like it was a live thing and not a disc of metal.
‘It’s all right,’ her father’s hand was on her shoulder before Lydia realised that she was up to the case, hands splayed on the glass in direct disobedience of the printed signs. ‘It’s a replica.’
‘What?’ Lydia had dragged her gaze away and looked into her father’s blue eyes.
‘We switched it out while this hoard was being renovated ready for display.’ The corners of his mouth lifted into a small smile.
Now, Lydia walked past the Viking hoard and the bronze ceremonial shield which, her Dad had told her had hidden inscriptions on the underside which had baffled the historians, but that any true Crow would be able to read if they found a need to do so. When her Dad spoke about their family history, it had been hard to know where myth ended and fact began and, Lydia admitted, it still was.
She stopped in front of the last cabinet in the room and touched Emma’s arm. ‘Look.’
The sword was only half-intact, having been broken sometime over the eleven centuries since it was made. The information card explained that the blade was pattern-welded iron with a five-lobed pommel, and was thought to have been found in the bed of the river Thames, left by an unknown Viking warrior. ‘See the hilt,’ Lydia said. ‘There are remains of the gold inlay.’
Lydia knew what she was looking for but, even so, she thought the runic image of the crow was clear.
Emma wasn’t saying anything and Lydia was about to explain when she said, ‘is that a bird?’
‘A crow,’ Lydia said. ‘We came over from Norway.’
Emma glanced at her. ‘We?’
‘This is the oldest artefact from our family collection.’
Emma frowned, reading the label out loud. ‘Grip is tightly wound silver wire which, along with gold animal design, suggests a successful and wealthy individual.’
Lydia anticipated her question. ‘The label doesn’t name us because the curators don’t know. Dad told me it was Finnr Hrōk.’ Seeing Emma’s blank expression she elaborated. ‘Hrōk is Old Norse for rook or crow.’
Next, Lydia took Emma to the gallery for Europe in the 1600s. There was a gilt-brass watch-case from 1675, a complex design around the outside of the case of entwined leaves and branches. Framed by foliage, the silhouette of a bird. ‘Crow family,’ Lydia said, pointing to it.
‘The label doesn’t mention –’ Emma began.
‘I know,’ Lydia cut her off. ‘You wanted me to tell you, though, and this is what I know. Old objects, family lore, and a load of myths, which can’t possibly be true.’
‘Okay,’ Emma said. Then, placating. ‘It’s very cool.’
‘One more,’ Lydia said, speed-walking through the galleries of glass cases, past stone statues and marble busts, ancient tapestries and intricate painted miniatures.
The gallery for 1900 to the present day was jarring after the earlier exhibits. In a few short minutes and after dodging around several tour groups and a class of school kids, talking at high volume, they had travelled from a world of pressed-metal weaponry and ancient bronze arm cuffs to an Art Deco television cabinet. ‘How much do you know about the others?’
‘The four families?’ Emma said as they navigated the exhibits. ‘There’s Fox, Pearl, Crow and Silver.’
‘Right,’ Lydia said, stopping in front of a small stone fountain, mounted on a solid base. It had the City of London arms carved into the top section and had a pleasing, curved shape, but was otherwise quite plain. ‘This was erected near St John’s park in Westminster to commemorate the truce in 1943.’
‘The truce?’ Emma frowned. ‘Was that to do with WWII?’
‘Between the families. There had been a
ll kinds of bad behaviour, fighting and power-grabs, and general mayhem. According to the stories, anyway. And this was back when we all had a fair amount of power.’
‘Magic,’ Emma said, eyes wide.
‘Yeah. I guess. Special abilities. Whatever you want to call it.’ This was why Lydia had always avoided talking about this stuff with Emma. She felt stupid saying fairytale words like ‘magic’ out loud. ‘So, things were bad. People were dying on all sides and the heads of the families started discussing ways to stop it. There had been peace negotiations for a few years, but when the second world war kicked off, especially after the Blitz, there was renewed enthusiasm for banding together. Stronger together, patriotism, all that. They got together and made a pact to stay out of each other’s way. Geographical areas of control and influence were allocated and everybody promised to leave each other’s families alone.’
‘What happened to it?’
‘It’s still holding,’ Lydia said. Then, thinking about Maddie’s disappearance. ‘At least I hope it is.’
‘I meant the fountain. It’s cracked.’
‘Oh, right.’ Lydia nodded. ‘There was a gas leak and it got demolished in the explosion. It was pieced back together and brought here for safe-keeping. Neutral ground.’ She stepped closer and pointed out the carved symbols for the families. ‘A pearl necklace for the Pearlies, the Silver family cup, the Fox head, and us,’ Lydia stopped short of touching the stone, although her fingers ached to traced the image of the crow.
‘So it’s all true. I mean,’ Emma waved her hands to encompass the vast room, the crowds of visitors. ‘We’re in the British Museum.’
Lydia nodded. ‘We got the City of London crest as a halfway measure to recognising status. I mean, there was talk about making one of the livery guild things, like the trades, but it was decided that a magical guild was a step too far. So we’re sort of legit, sort of accepted as being real, but stopping just short of it. And now it doesn’t really matter anymore. Silvers are still good at lying, but it’s not like the old days. They can’t talk you into jumping off the Gherkin anymore.’
The Night Raven Page 14