‘Quiet today,’ Lydia said, fixing the lid.
Angel shrugged. ‘It’s still early. Did you see the news?’
‘No. What?’
Angel passed her phone which was displaying the BBC app. The headline said the heatwave was set to continue with high temperatures putting London hotter than Miami and a risk of grass fires in rural England. ‘Ugh. It’s too hot, already,’ Lydia said, passing it back.
‘What?’ Angel glanced at the phone and scrolled down. ‘Not that. This.’
The story had changed. Now it said: ‘Banker found dead under Blackfriars Bridge.’ Lydia scanned the opening paragraph. A man had been found in the early hours of the morning, hanging, underneath Blackfriars Bridge. The story said that the man had been identified but that his details were not going to be released until his next of kin had been contacted.
‘I hope it was police who found him,’ Angel said. ‘Not some poor kids on a night out.’
Lydia didn’t know much about Angel. Uncle Charlie had hired her to run The Fork and she was a magician in the kitchen. She had a wife called Nat who played in a band of some kind and Lydia knew she lived in Camberwell because she walked to work. Angel was generally no-nonsense confident to the point of being intimidating but right at this moment, there was a vulnerability in her expression that Lydia hadn’t seen before. Before she could ask if she was okay, Angel stood up to take a customer’s money and the moment passed.
Lydia raised a hand to say ‘bye’ and walked out into the blazing sunshine. The news story had shown a picture of the bridge, complete with police tape and cars. The man had been hanging underneath, although the picture didn’t capture the body. The news sites and bloggers probably had more detailed shots, which was both the benefit and the curse of the internet. Lydia wondered whether he had been found upside down, execution style, or whether it was self-inflicted. The bridge was very public, but fairly easy to get underneath. Lydia didn’t know if that meant it was more or less likely to be suicide. She found the story on her own phone and looked again at the picture, sipping her hot coffee and thinking. There was a sense of familiarity that went beyond the fact that she knew the location. That was it. A suspected money guy for the Mafia had been found hanging under Blackfriars back in the eighties. She called Fleet. ‘Who is the bridge guy?’
‘Good morning, Lydia. How are you?’
Lydia ignored his sarcastic tone. ‘News said he has been identified.’
‘Not for public consumption.’
‘Yes,’ Lydia was impatient. ‘I’m not public.’
Fleet didn’t answer right away. She could hear somebody speaking to him and background sounds of the office. She could picture his expression as he gave the other person his attention. The laser-like focus in his gaze, the way his face would stay impassive while he processed and planned. When he came back on the line he said: ‘Why are you interested?’
‘Wasn’t there something similar? Back in the eighties.’
‘Roberto Calvi,’ Fleet said straight away in a tone that suggested he had already made the connection. ‘Financier for the mob.’
‘Did they ever get the killer?’
‘Insufficient evidence.’ A short pause. ‘The usual. You know how it is with organised crime deals.’
‘Professional job and everybody keeping their mouths shut.’ Lydia did know. ‘This is a weird one, though. Right?’
‘I don’t know,’ Fleet said. ‘I mean, it’s a popular bridge.’
‘Hanging,’ Lydia said. There was something tickling at the back of her mind. It was like the brush of feathers. A black wing. She closed her eyes and felt weight dragging her down. She wanted to lift up, to reach out her arms and feel her toes leave the earth, but something was pulling. It wasn’t just gravity. Something physical around her hips. ‘Were there weights tied to him? Maybe around his middle?’
Fleet went silent.
‘Fleet?’ Lydia could still feel the feathers. An involuntary shiver ran through her body.
‘Lunch?’
‘Yes,’ Lydia said, more pleased than was sensible at the prospect.
‘Usual?’
‘See you there,’ Lydia said and ended the call. There had been something between her and DCI Fleet from the first moment they met, a something which had turned into a very enjoyable tumble a few months ago, back when she was still kidding herself that she wasn’t going to stay in London. Now she was here for good, determined to build a proper business and to prove to her parents, and the whole Crow Family, that she was a success. Ideally, without their interference and without revealing that she wasn’t as completely powerless as she had always assumed. She had told Fleet that they had to just be friends, now. He was her main police contact. A resource to be tapped. No longer a tall, beautiful man to be... enjoyed. Sex made things complicated and Lydia was determined to keep things simple. Professional.
Lydia spent the morning in Brunswick Park. It had been newly refurbished and the benches were still in good condition. Lydia found one underneath the shade of a horse chestnut tree and looked over the notes she had taken from April Westcott. She had her husband’s name, Christopher, and a list of his closest friends and relatives. Plus, details of his job as a graphic designer and daily schedule. When she had asked April about her husband’s hobbies she had pulled a face and said ‘he messes about in the garden’. Surveying the details of Christopher’s sparse life, Lydia found herself hoping the man was having an affair. Or, at least, sympathising with his need for excitement. If only people could talk to each other. If only Christopher Westcott had sat down with his wife and said ‘I’m bored. I’m unhappy. I need to have more sex.’ Or more gardening. Whatever. Lydia wasn’t judging.
The Hare on Well Street was essentially unchanged since it had been established in 1847 with its glossy black painted exterior, arched windows and ornate bar. The over-flowing window boxes and hanging baskets outside might have been new, and perhaps the Victorians hadn’t been able to order a vegan lunch with their pint of beer, but the place felt timeless nonetheless and Lydia loved it. Nowhere did pubs like London.
Fleet was already inside, sitting in their favourite spot in the corner, a pint of Doom Bar and a curved glass of pale ale on the table. He stood when Lydia arrived and sat when she sat. He had curiously old-fashioned manners which went beautifully with the red-upholstery and dark wood of The Hare. He also dressed like a fully-grown male of the species, which was something Lydia found incredibly appealing. Obviously, she usually saw him in his work clothes and perhaps in his downtime he wore skinny jeans and a cardigan, but Lydia doubted it.
‘Are we still being strictly professional,’ Fleet said, ‘or can I kiss you?’
Lydia felt the heat in her cheeks. Instant and embarrassing. Fleet was playing hell with her tough-as-boots image. ‘You can kiss me but it won’t mean anything.’
He tilted his head, as if considering and then leaned in. ‘Fair enough.’ His lips brushed hers and Lydia closed her eyes. Sparks. A bonfire on a moonlit beach. And, behind those impressions, there was something else. A Gleam. Lydia was adept at sensing the magic which ran through the four old families; Silver, Crow, Pearl and Fox. She could sense that there was something in Fleet. Not strong. Probably from way back in his family tree. But it didn’t feel like any of the four usual suspects. It was something different. She kissed him back and stopped thinking for a moment. All work and no play, after all. His large hand on the back of her neck sent sensation running through her body and Lydia reciprocated, feeling the springy hair which was neatly clipped, fading to stubble at his nape.
The moment was over all-too-soon. A man with a faux-hawk put down plates of sandwiches in front of them and Lydia caught her breath. She took a long sip of her pale ale and concentrated on deconstructing the tower of bread and salad into something manageable. ‘Why do they put everything into an inedible stack?’ Lydia pulled out the wooden skewer which was holding the layers in place. ‘I would need to be able to unhinge my jaw
to fit this into my mouth.’
Perhaps wisely, Fleet chose not to respond. Instead he forked several mouthfuls of side salad before asking: ‘How did you know about the bricks?’
Lydia had just put a piece of cucumber into her mouth so she took her time chewing and swallowing before answering. ‘I didn’t. What bricks?’
‘Our man. He had bricks stuffed into his pockets. And you said-’
‘I just had a feeling he was weighed down,’ Lydia said, shaking her head lightly. ‘Although, now you say bricks...’ She thought for a moment. ‘Wasn’t Calvi found with bricks in his pockets? I was probably just remembering that and transferring it. I remember that story. I remember Mum and Dad talking about it in the kitchen when they thought I wasn’t listening.’
‘It is starting to look very similar,’ Fleet said. ‘I don’t want to say ‘copy-cat’, but...’
‘If you hear hoofbeats,’ Lydia said.
‘Yeah, but round here, it’s just as likely to be a zebra.’
Lydia wasn’t sure how to respond to that. It sounded like an opening to talk about the Crow Family and their weird reputation, but that was a tricky area. Lydia was never sure exactly how much Fleet knew about her world, and the whole area was further complicated by the rules of the Family. They came first, naturally, and didn’t tend to be open with people outside of blood, but Lydia wasn’t sure of the exact lines. How much was public knowledge, how much was secret. And then there was the ever-present fear that Fleet would write her off as a lunatic. Londoners, especially those in Camberwell, knew of The Crows. And the others. But how much they believed was another story.
They had finished their sandwiches and Lydia was draining the last of her ale, supressing a small burp at the end. ‘Pardon.’ The only downside to delicious beer and totally worth it.
‘You said you had a feeling.’ Fleet was regarding her over the rim of his pint glass.
‘That was the beer. Bubbles.’
Fleet didn’t smile. ‘About the bricks.’
‘I didn’t say bricks,’ Lydia reminded him. ‘I don’t know anything about it. I swear.’
‘No Family gossip?’ Fleet’s tone was carefully casual.
Lydia shook her head. ‘Are you going to tell me his name?’
‘Why do you care?’
‘I’m bored.’ Lydia pushed her plate away and leaned back against the red velvet upholstery. ‘I’ve had nothing but cheaters for weeks. It’s depressing.’
‘And you think a murder would cheer you up?’
‘Not suicide, then?’ Lydia sat forward.
Fleet closed his eyes briefly. ‘No. We don’t think so.’
‘Execution?’
‘You really must stop looking so pleased. It’s disturbing.’
‘Oh, come on’ Lydia said. ‘You love it, too. Who was he?’
‘Robert Sharp. Business analyst at Sheridan Fisher. Single, as far as we know, and lived in a flat in Canary Wharf.’
‘Nice for some,’ Lydia said automatically.
‘He had ID in his wallet. And house keys.’
‘Money?’
Fleet shook his head. ‘No cash to speak of, but a couple of credit cards and he was still wearing his Breitling watch.’
‘So not a robbery. Any ideas on motive?’
‘It’s not my case,’ Fleet said, turning his palms up. ‘Not my manor.’
‘All right,’ Lydia said. ‘Any guesses? Just for fun.’
Fleet regarded her for a moment. ‘You are a little bit scary, you know that?’
‘So I’ve heard,’ Lydia waved a hand.
‘Stay out of this one, though,’ Fleet said, his voice serious. ‘It’s not our area.’
Lydia nodded while privately planning to ignore Fleet. It wasn’t her area at the moment, and that was the problem. She wanted to move.
* * *
Lydia went back to her flat for the afternoon and stripped to her underwear. Sitting at her desk with the oscillating fan pointed directly into her face, she did a little research on Christopher Westcott. It was hard to summon the enthusiasm but if there was one thing Lydia was proud of, it was her work ethic. She had taken on a job and so she would do it to the best of her ability. Besides, Crow Investigations needed to build a reputation in order to get word of mouth clients. That was how the PI business tended to work. You couldn’t just take an advert out and hope they came flooding in. People needed to trust the investigator they were inviting into their private lives, which meant personal recommendations. Plus, cashflow was always important. Lydia already had a list of wants regarding surveillance equipment, not to mention a more reliable and comfortable car. And then there was the little matter of keeping body and soul together. She wasn’t sure how long Uncle Charlie would let her eat out of the kitchen at The Fork. Probably until he realised she wasn’t going to play ball with whatever plans he had laid for her.
Christopher Westcott ran a graphic design agency. The office address was in Soho, but a quick call to April confirmed that Christopher worked out of his home office and that the address on the website was just a forwarding service. April’s suspicions were centred on Christopher’s work-related trips. They had become more frequent over the last year and regularly involved overnight stays. When she asked him about the trips he said they were important networking opportunities and that he needed to ‘press flesh’ in order to land big contracts. An unfortunate choice of phrase, given April’s concerns.
A buzzer sounded and Lydia clicked to close the tabs she had open on her laptop. She had installed a pressure-sensitive pad under the grotty carpet on the top set of stairs which led from the toilets of the cafe to her flat. That way, she had warning that somebody was on their way. Moments later, she heard footsteps on the landing and a dark shape loomed behind the rippled glass of her front door.
Lydia pulled on her vest-top and a pair of jersey shorts, and went to the door. She used the chain, even though she recognised the outline of her Uncle Charlie. She could feel him, too; the tang of crow magic overwhelming her senses. There was no sense in letting Charlie know her abilities, though, so she called. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me,’ he said, his voice amused like he knew that she knew.
She opened the door and regarded Charlie through the narrow gap. ‘This is a surprise.’
‘I’ve brought coffee.’
Lydia opened the door wide. ‘It’s almost too hot for coffee.’
‘Almost,’ Charlie said, smiling.
She accepted the black-and-white espresso cup which Charlie had clearly just brought up from the cafe downstairs and retreated behind her desk. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Can’t a proud uncle just visit his niece?’
Lydia took a sip of the strong coffee, feeling the caffeine jolt her synapses. The taste of feathers was thick in the back of her throat and she could see a shimmer around Charlie. He was wearing a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. The tattoos on his forearms were moving in a distracting manner and Lydia made sure she didn’t focus on them. The last thing she needed was to alert Uncle Charlie to the fact that she could see them as they truly were. As far as the boss of the infamous Crow Family knew, Lydia was a damp squib. A powerless nothing and a disappointment.
‘How are Daisy and John doing?’
‘Better,’ Charlie said. He sat in the client’s chair. ‘They are very grateful.’
‘I’m sure,’ Lydia couldn’t hide the sarcasm.
‘They are,’ Charlie lent forward. ‘You played an important role.’
‘Maddie’s still missing, though,’ Lydia said. ‘I didn’t solve anything. Didn’t bring her home.’
‘They know she’s alive. They know that she has left of her own accord. And,’ Charlie spread his hands. ‘They know it’s for the best.’
Lydia raised her chin. ‘I suppose.’
Charlie looked around the room. ‘How’s business?’
‘Busy,’ Lydia lied.
‘You need m
oney, you just tell Angel. She’ll give you shifts downstairs. Anytime you want. Flexi-hours. No contract. Cash in hand.’
‘I’m fine,’ Lydia said.
Charlie’s face darkened and Lydia caught a glimpse of the other Charlie. The Head of The Family, capital-letter Charlie, and she added: ‘But, thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.’
‘I only want to look after you, Lyds. I promised your father I’d keep you safe.’
‘I know,’ Lydia said. ‘And I appreciate it.’
* * *
After Charlie had gone, Lydia knocked on Jason’s bedroom door. He didn’t strictly need a bedroom, as he didn’t strictly sleep, but Lydia knew he often lay on top of the striped duvet and pretended. He called it meditation and said, having had years of practice, he could maintain the position for six or eight hours and achieve a dream-like state. If he wasn’t dead, he would’ve been able to write a self-help book on the subject.
Jason was in the corner of the room with his back turned. He was writing furiously on the wall which was covered in formulae. He turned, Sharpie in one hand and a fuzzy, far-away expression which Lydia thought of as his ‘maths look’. That was another thing Lydia had discovered in the last couple of months; Jason loved mathematics and had been on track to professorship at UCL when he had died. The physical ability that Lydia’s presence seemed to give Jason had started with him being able to shove and push, lift and throw large objects, and open the fridge door. With practice, he had regained fine motor control and the first thing he had done when scratching out on a pad of paper with a pencil was to write a series of numbers. ‘Primes,’ he had said, catching Lydia’s look of confusion. ‘I love primes.’
He had moved quickly on from pencil and paper to a pack of Sharpies and his bedroom walls. Lydia didn’t know how she was going to explain it to Charlie, but it made Jason so visibly happy she hadn’t the heart to ask him to stop. Besides, Charlie had no reason to go into the spare room. And she could paint over the marks.
The Silver Mark Page 2