‘Ian’s not pursuing the drug line,’ Fleet said. ‘He’s a smart cop and I trust his judgement. He’s interviewed Sharp’s associates, been in the house and his place of work, and spoken to the family. If he’s not feeling it, then I reckon it will be something else.’
‘But what?’
‘I have no clue.’
Lydia drained the glass of water. It felt good in the heat but mainly made her want to have a cold beer. It was still early, though, and she had hours of work ahead. ‘I thought someone else would have been paying for his flat. It just didn’t look like something he would choose.’
‘Well you were right. It wasn’t something the old Robert would have chosen, as far as we can tell. So something changed.’
‘I just don’t see how he got in with people who would do what they did,’ Lydia said. ‘I thought either he was being paid off for something he knew or blackmailing the wrong people.’
‘Ian is working on the assumption that he got into the wrong place at the wrong time. He was having some kind of life change, maybe sparked by drugs, maybe a breakup, some family news we haven’t discovered yet. Maybe he was just stressed out at work and he didn’t get to the doctors or talk about it with anyone and it built up until he had some kind of breakdown. That could change his behaviour.’
‘The new flat was him trying to run away from his feelings?’
‘Could be.’
‘And then, what? He’s just walking down the wrong street one day and gets snatched up by a random psycho with a flair for the dramatic? Some guy who loves the old mafia stories and has decided to pay homage with a Blackfriars Bridge hanging.’ Lydia couldn’t see it. ‘Have they worked up a timeline on his last hours?’
Fleet flipped a couple of pages in his notebook. It looked tiny in his large hands, but his writing was small and neat, lines of tidy script in fine black ink. Lydia forced herself to look away from those deft long fingers. They were too distracting.
‘Thursday 24th. He left work early at five-forty. Most on his floor stay until half six, seven, as a matter of course.’
‘Stressful work environment. Pressure?’
Fleet nodded. ‘Tick in that column for the breakdown theory. Then he used his Oyster card to go to Whitechapel. We’ve got him on camera coming out of the station. We’ve got him going into the Sainsburys on Cambridge Heath Road where he bought a Twix and a four-pack of Peroni, and then we don’t see him again until he uses his Oyster card at Aldgate. Presumably on his way home.’
‘We don’t have the end of that journey?’
‘No,’ Fleet said. ‘It’s a bit odd, but not beyond the bounds. Could be the gate was glitching and he beeped out and it didn’t register the information for some reason. Gremlins in the software.’
‘Or he beeped his Oyster card at Aldgate Station but changed his mind and didn’t go through the gate. Have you seen the CCTV?’
‘I’ll ask Ian,’ Fleet said.
‘What’s in Whitechapel?’ Lydia mused out loud. ‘He hasn’t got friends there.’ And it’s not the area for the Silvers, she added silently. The silver knight statue was still worrying away at the back of her mind.
‘Not as far as we know,’ Fleet said. ‘Could have been meeting new people. Could be some East End business types. That could lead in a bad direction.’
Of course, the Fox family lived in Whitechapel. Lydia didn’t remember them ever executing people in such a public manner, but, as Charlie kept saying, things had changed. If the Fox family were trying to reassert their crime family cred in the East End of London, it was a possibility that they would carry out a stunt like this as a show of strength. Or a demonstration of their skills. Lydia shuddered.
‘What is it?’ Fleet was watching her.
‘Just trying to connect Sharp’s life with his ending. It doesn’t fit.’
Fleet shook his head. ‘It’s not right.’
Chapter Eleven
Lydia wasn’t sure how Charlie would react to a possible Family connection to her case. Especially since it wasn’t really her case, at all. She had a suspicion he wouldn’t approve of her getting involved. But she couldn’t stop thinking about the antique knight statue and how utterly out of place it had been at Sharp’s sterile flat. And now there was Sharp wandering, apparently aimlessly, around Whitechapel the day before he died.
She turned up at his house, anyway, hoping to hear something useful. Charlie was in the middle of work, his laptop open on the dining room table and piles of paperwork spread around the surface. It wasn’t a side she associated with Charlie. The mundane realities of running several businesses in a (possibly) criminal empire.
‘You’re busy,’ Lydia said.
‘Always got time for you, Lyds,’ Charlie said.
Once they had exchanged a few words about the continuing heatwave, Lydia judged that enough politeness had been delivered and she could launch in. She decided to stick to questions about the Silvers. Charlie was more likely to lose his mind if she brought up the Foxes. ‘You said things had changed,’ Lydia began. ‘What is the current situation with the Silvers?’
‘I thought you didn’t want to know about that stuff?’ Charlie said, crossing his arms. He looked surprised as if this was the last thing he expected her to bring up. And a little bit relieved, too, which set Lydia wondering what he had been worried she was going to say.
‘We’re cordial, yes? Alejandro made Maria speak to me as a matter of courtesy.’
Charlie looked pleased with that.
‘But would we use the firm if we needed legal help?’
A shutter came down. ‘We don’t need lawyers.’
‘What about when Maddie was in trouble? There was the driving offence and-’
Charlie waved his hand. ‘Wasn’t needed. We have enough friends.’
‘But if we did need help with something, something really big. Silver and Silver specialise in business crime, cartels, fraud, corporate protection.’
The tattoos on Charlie’s arms began to move and Lydia fought the urge to take a step backward.
‘Hypothetically, it’s possible. Not really our level, though. We’re a small business. Community stuff. They deal with international conglomerates.’
‘So I’ve read.’ Lydia had spent all morning reading up on Maria’s previous cases. ‘Maria just prevented Aden Naser from being extradited back to Yemen for historical crimes. He was up on a cartel charge in the UK, and the sentencing guidelines had a minimum of four years prison time. Maria got him eighty hours of community service.’
‘They’re good, gotta give them that,’ Charlie said.
‘That’s one word for it.’
‘You want something to drink?’
Lydia could see through the glass doors to Charlie’s decked seating area where there was a folded newspaper and a discarded mug on a metal table. ‘Just water, thanks.’
Charlie filled a glass and they went outside where the noise instantly increased. Not just the usual street sounds of the city, but with bird chatter and song. A row of jackdaws and magpies sat along the top of the tall fence and the copper beech at the end of the garden was filled with small birds. A crow flew across and landed on the back of a wrought iron bench and called her name with an uncanny impression of Charlie’s voice.
‘Good morning,’ Lydia said respectfully. The crow let out a harsh caw and flew off. Turning back to Charlie, Lydia was struck by how tired her uncle looked. There were hollows in his cheeks and salt-streaked stubble was visible on his jaw in the bright sunlight. ’Is everything all right?’
‘Yeah, course.’ Charlie pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on. ‘Everything’s peachy.’ He moved the conversation on with a barrage of questions about The Fork, her investigative business and whether she was getting work, updates on family members Lydia hadn’t seen in years or, possibly, had never even met.
Lydia let him lead. The sun was hot on her bare arms and the sound of the birds was relaxing. She thoug
ht about setting up feeders and putting some pots out on the roof terrace. It was stupid not to use it. Just because some guy had once nearly tipped her over the railing to her death was no reason not to use it.
Charlie’s mobile buzzed. He turned it face up and glanced at the screen before turning it over on the table again. His expression hardly changed but Lydia saw a micro-change, the barest flicker of displeasure. ‘Something’s wrong.’
‘Something is always wrong,’ Charlie said with a forced smile. ‘Price of leadership.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
Charlie shook his head. But then he said: ‘Just a new gang. Kids who don’t know any better, haven’t been taught their history. Making trouble with the established drug trade and breaching the peace.’
Lydia knew that Charlie wasn’t a fan of the drug trade, but that he was a realist. If you kept it regulated, the way the government ought to be doing, you kept the violence to a minimum and ran off chancers who sold really bad product. It wasn’t pretty, but it prevented some poor school kid from snorting a lungful of pure soda bic and dying on their first experiment, and the corner shops from being knocked over by low-level gangs. The addicts still lost out, of course, but then they always did. They needed legal product to stop them getting into trouble and decent healthcare and properly-funded addiction programs.
‘What are you going to do?’
Charlie smiled his shark smile. ‘Give ’em a history lesson.’
* * *
The customer name from Guillaume Chartes was Yas Bishop. The address was in Bayswater and a bit of judicious web research threw up that Star Street was lined with Grade II listed Georgian terraced houses. A small three-bed version could be Lydia’s for a mere one point five million. More interestingly, Lydia used her background search software tools to cross reference other known details and discovered that Ms Y Bishop had listed JRB Solutions as her employer on her mortgage application documents.
Lydia rang the landline listed and a woman answered after only three rings. Lydia was momentarily surprised, she didn’t think anybody answered an unknown number to their landline anymore, and had been prepared to leave a message. ‘Is that Yas Bishop?’
‘Yes?’
‘Ms Bishop, my name is Lydia Crow and I’m an investigator. It’s nothing to worry about but I was hoping to ask you about a silver statue you purchased last month.’
‘I’m sorry, what? Who are you?’
Lydia repeated her introduction. ‘I just wondered whether the knight statue you purchased from Guillaume Chartes last month was for yourself or a gift for somebody else?’
‘I haven’t bought anything. I don’t know anybody of that name. A knight did you say?’ A high-pitched laugh. ‘Why would I want something like that?’
Lydia hadn’t been expecting full cooperation but a flat refusal was odd. ‘Yes, a silver knight. German, dated early nineteen hundred.’
‘I don’t understand… Who are you? Why are you calling me about this?’
Lydia opened her mouth to explain, again, but Yas was still talking. ‘Why have you called me? I don’t… I was expecting a call but I wasn’t expecting...’ Yas trailed off. Then, in a voice that was pure terror. ‘Is this a test? Is this the call? Oh God. Oh God. I’m sorry. Can we start again? I didn’t realise.’
‘Ms Bishop, it’s okay. This isn’t a test. You aren’t in any trouble.’ There was a click halfway through Lydia’s last sentence and then the dialling tone.
Hell Hawk.
* * *
Lydia did a bit more research on Yas Bishop and discovered that she hadn’t updated her social media accounts for six weeks. Prior to that, she had shared many pictures of a small beady-eyed dog, peppered with the obligatory food shots and the occasional sunset. There could be a number of reasons, of course, but it seemed significant that she had also had a change in behaviour. Lydia searched Yas’s friends on Facebook and sent a few friend requests. It only took one of them to let Lydia in and she would have access to Yas’s full timeline.
* * *
There was something about that statue. She was sure of it. Lydia decided to head back to the vaults and see if she could get more from Guillaume. Since she was in the area, Lydia decided to visit the JRB head office, too.
The office was listed as Chichester Rents which turned out to be a narrow passageway between eighteenth century buildings off Chancery Lane. The passage was lined with delis and high-end takeaways serving sushi and vegan burgers and above, a stack of concrete cubes with large square windows, housed the modern offices.
Lydia located what she assumed was the entrance to the offices, but it took discreet to another level and didn’t list company names or even numbers. Lydia pounded on the wooden door and pressed all of the unlabelled buttons on the door bell. After five minutes of this, as well as trying the door to check it was locked, she had to admit defeat. JRB truly weren’t open to visitors.
The silver vaults were located further down Chancery Lane. Lydia couldn’t help but feel it was all very cosy. The weather was close to breaking, Lydia could feel it in the air, as she walked down the street checking building numbers. There was an electricity that wasn’t unlike the feeling Lydia had when she sensed Family power. A roll of thunder, far off in the distance, rumbled as Lydia opened the outside door to the vaults. She descended to the passage and, unlike her previous visit, there were a couple of other shoppers in the passageway. A couple in front turned into a shop which seemed to specialise in cutlery. Lydia made her way to Guillaume’s shop and stood for a moment outside, dumbfounded. The steel door to the old safe room was shut. There was no sign above or on the door, nothing to suggest that a business resided inside. Lydia went to the shop next door. A woman with black hair in a chic bob and a bejewelled black jumper smiled in welcome as she walked into the shop. It was an Aladdin’s cave, just like Guillaume’s, with a selection of shining silver antiques of every size and shape. ‘Just looking?’ She smiled in a friendly way. ‘Help yourself, dear. Ask if you need help with anything.’
‘Actually,’ Lydia said. ‘I was hoping to pop next door. Guillaume had a teapot I was interested in and I was wondering if you knew when he would be open?’
The woman frowned. ‘I’m sorry, do you mean the jewellers? They’re by appointment only, dear. You can find their details online, I believe.’
‘No, Guillaume Chartes. He sells a mixture of stuff. There was a big carvery trolley in the middle of the place. You couldn’t miss it.’
‘If you’re after one of those, I can source it for you. If you give me an idea of your budget...’
Lydia could feel the conversation getting off track. ‘No, I need to see Guillaume. If you have contact details for him, by any chance? Or know when he is likely to be open again. Does he usually take Wednesday off?’
‘I don’t know a Guillaume,’ the woman looked distinctly less friendly now. She looked wary, in fact, as if suddenly realising that Lydia was unhinged in some way. ‘But the shop on that side,’ she pointed in the direction of Guillaume’s, ‘has been empty for months.’
Chapter Twelve
Lydia made her way to the hotel in Greenwich for the design conference. It was actually closer to Deptford, in one of the big chain hotels, but Lydia could understand the organiser’s decision to bill it as Greenwich. Swank-appeal. She waited until the crowd had moved through the reception area and the majority of attendees had picked up their name badges from the table where they were laid out. A young woman in a black skirt suit was sitting behind the table smiling as if she was paid by the centimetre. Through open doors, Lydia could see a multitude of trade stands set up in an exhibition area and there were several bi-fold screens displaying the conference schedule. Talks and workshops with titles like ‘The New Modernism Aesthetic’ and ‘What About Monochrome?’ were listed with times and locations and there was another table laden with glasses of orange juice, sparkling water, and a thick green sludge that Lydia assumed was blitzed kale or some othe
r horror. Another three young, black-suited and widely grinning people hovered behind the refreshments table and Lydia noted that she could always pose as a staff member if the name-tag situation didn’t pan out.
She took a glass of water and had a closer look at the suits. Not matching, which was good.
Christopher Westcott ought to be here by now. Lydia confirmed his attendance at the name tag table. His was gone. There were twenty or so tags left and she scanned them quickly before picking one up with a female name. ‘Welcome to the symposium,’ the woman said. ‘Please help yourself to a complimentary drink.’
Lydia hoisted her glass of water. ‘Way ahead of you.’
With no way of knowing into which of the panels Westcott had gone, she took a management decision and headed to the bar. A glass of red wine killed an hour and then a wander around the exhibition space. The trade stands were a motley mix of software, printer companies, advertising agencies and architects. An earnest man from a tech company tried to sell her a tablet computer with a digital pen and she picked up several free key rings, pens, sweets and a branded travel mug.
Lydia was just wondering whether Jason’s idea of powering up enough to leave the flat was, in fact, an excellent one and just how quickly she could manage it, when she caught sight of Christopher. He was chatting to a woman a couple of stands ahead and took a glossy brochure from her before moving on.
The Silver Mark Page 10