‘What phone? I have never spoken to Marty Benson.’ Lydia was speaking in between steady shallow breaths, trying to regulate the nausea. She needed to keep a level head until Charlie did whatever he was going to do. She saw him flying in on the back of a raven, tattoos writhing and the fire of retribution lighting his cold eyes. It was a pleasant thought. Equally good would be a confident solicitor in a sharp suit. Probably not a Silver, not given recent events, but the Crows had to have other contacts.
‘The evidence shows a large number of phone calls from the Nokia found in your flat to Marty’s phone, varying in duration, but concurrent with a pattern of harassment.’ Lydia tried to think it through. Marty hadn’t had a mobile phone on him when he died. At least not one she had found in his pockets or one which Fleet had mentioned. It was paranoia to think he would have held something back, not told her about a bit of evidence like that, especially considering all the chats they had had while trying to identify Marty. Lydia knew it was panic leading to paranoia, but the doubt was there. She had been wrong about Paul Fox, maybe she was wrong about Fleet, too?
‘Where was Marty’s phone?’ Lydia said. ‘The phone I am supposed to have called from the burner which has been planted at my flat?’ She didn’t know if it was stupid to admit that she had been to the music hall on Cable Street, looking for Marty or his drug-purchasing clientele, but sod it. Besides which, she had been with Fleet. And Alex had already shown how eager she was to drop Lydia in the Thames. With her hands tied together and a weight on her legs. ‘I visited his current place of residence and didn’t find a phone.’
‘Or you did find a phone and you got rid of it, knowing it would incriminate you? You see how this goes?’
The nausea was abating and Lydia could feel her brain cells starting to fire properly. ‘Aren’t you supposed to introduce yourself before an interview? Name, rank, badge number? That’s what everyone else has done.’
He took a pen and pack of yellow sticky notes from his jeans pocket and wrote something down. ‘Let me save you the trouble of saying ‘this is a set up’. I know you didn’t do this. I know that whatever mobile they’ve got in an evidence box back there is not yours.’
Lydia produced her coin, squeezing it tightly and taking little sips of air through her mouth. She no longer thought she was going to throw up whatever was left in her stomach, which was a relief. But the sickness was replaced with confusion.
‘But when all is said and done, it’s pretty handy. I would be lying if I didn’t say there wasn’t something useful about your current predicament. I’m part of a division which is very interested in the Families and their abilities. The NCA and MI5 are obsessed with the Crows and their past, all the little favours and influence and protection rackets and all that mafia stuff. My department is very small, very select, and we have a different remit. Can you guess what that remit covers?’
Lydia shook her head. ‘Surprise me.’
He just smiled and Lydia had to force herself not to smile back. Her coin was having an effect and she could feel her equilibrium returning. His power made her feel sick, like she was on a rollercoaster being turned upside down, all motion sickness and blurred vision. But as she got a little more used to the feeling, anchored by the edges of her coin digging into the soft flesh of her palm, she could pick apart the impressions and begin to identify them. There was the sense of candlelight flickering and salt on her tongue. Feeling the intensity of her frown as she concentrated, Lydia saw flashes of burnished gold, silky material unfurling, rippling and writhing, and heard a roaring sound which might have been the ocean. She tried to focus on the sound, but he was speaking and that made it even more difficult.
‘There are stories,’ he was saying. ‘Myths. Folk tales. Historical fact blurred with half-remembered truths and events twisted in the telling.’
‘Are you telling me there’s a police department for fairy tales?’
‘My job has been to look into things that aren’t covered by the other government, regulatory or enforcement bodies.’
‘Have you told your colleagues that you can heal people with your hands? They might put you on the same list.’
He smiled widely. ‘That’s a funny accusation to make. It makes you sound deluded. Of course,’ he paused, ‘that’s the issue, isn’t it? The stuff you grew up with, the things you know and can do, they sound quite mad in this context.’ He indicated the grey room. ‘I imagine your game plan has always relied on avoiding places like this.’
Lydia shrugged. ‘That’s the same for everyone, I would have thought. Who plans on getting arrested?’
‘Question is, what are you going to do now? I’m giving you lemons, are you going to make lemonade?’
‘I’ve never understood that expression,’ Lydia said ‘I like lemons. Not bothered on lemonade.’
‘I like you,’ he said. ‘And we have much in common, I think. I’m not your enemy, here.’
So many people had said that to Lydia recently, she felt she ought to have made a bingo card. ‘You’re my friend, is that it?’
‘I’d like to be.’
The penny dropped and with it, Lydia’s stomach. ‘You’re offering me a deal.’
He nodded. ‘One time offer. When I walk out that door, it’s no longer an option. I’ll leave you in the capable hands of the law. You can take your chances, of course, but CPA is very happy with the case and are going to agree your charges. You won’t make bail, a man is dead after all, and whatever happens, you’ll be caged for a good few months.’
Lydia could feel the panic lapping at the edges of her mind, but she refused to look at it. She stared into his eyes. ‘I’m innocent. I’ll be out in a few hours, anyway.’
‘Maybe.’
His tone was gentle and not openly derisive. It implied that he doubted it, but didn’t want to upset her. Which was somehow more devastating than open hostility. ‘What do you want?’
‘I told you. Just friendship.’
‘And what does that mean? Exactly?’
‘Friends share,’ he said.
‘I don’t,’ Lydia said. ‘Ask anyone.’
He smiled. ‘Special friends, then. Someone you can confide in, chat about your cases, your conversations, your Family.’
‘No,’ Lydia said.
‘What about the others? Paul Fox, the Silvers, the Pearls?’
He was right, hearing the names in this little grey room felt wrong. Scary. Paul Fox had shafted her, she felt no loyalty to him or his brothers.
‘I won’t betray my family,’ Lydia said.
‘The Crows are on the straight and narrow these days, isn’t that right? If so, you don’t have anything to worry about.’
Lydia wasn’t dignifying that with an answer.
‘I know you’re hoping that your uncle is going to show up any moment and spring you, but the truth is he can’t. At least, I don’t believe he can. I might be wrong and you can take that chance, but I honestly think this is your best option.’ He stood up. ‘What do you say?’
Lydia shook her head.
He looked disappointed, but not surprised.
She had expected him to try a bit more convincing, and was still mulling over the strange honesty of his words as he moved toward the door. It was the phrase ‘I might be wrong’. She knew that he was probably trained in persuasion and this modest style was undoubtedly a technique, but she could feel herself falling for it. ‘You expect me to trust you and I don’t even know your name,’ she said, playing for time.
Pausing at the door, he turned around. ‘The only name I could give you would be a lie and I don’t want to do that. I think you would be able to tell, and I’m trying to get you to trust me.’
‘You think this over-sharing is going to make me believe you?’ Lydia was struggling. She had trusted Paul Fox and he had been setting her up. She couldn’t even think about Fleet, it was too painful and too complicated. This man-boy had healed her physical injuries, appeared to give her information about a set-up
, and not asked her outright for anything compromising. Yet.
‘Last chance,’ he said, hand on the door handle.
‘Fine,’ Lydia said. ‘I will share information. Some information,’ she amended. ‘But I will never betray my family. Never. If that’s a deal-breaker then so be it.’
He smiled. ‘Good enough. Shake on it?’
Lydia stood and held her hand out, the one with the coin stuck to her palm.
When he grasped her hand she felt the clink of metal against metal and she felt her eyes widen in surprise. He was also holding something metal hidden in his palm. She felt with her senses to try to get a good impression, but all she knew was that it wasn’t a Crow coin and it wasn’t silver. At least, not silver with a capital ‘s’. Their eyes met through her confusion. His were serious and it made him look ten years older.
Lydia had the unshakeable feeling that she had just made a huge mistake but he was already moving away and opening the door. He left it ajar and the sound of somebody in one of the adjoining ‘consultation’ rooms drifted in, loud and clear. It was a woman swearing at high volume, a string of expletives which ended with a wail of ‘I don’t want to be here.’.
You and me both, sister, Lydia thought. Mistake or not, she knew she would make it again.
Lydia endured the reverse procedure of being booked in, her jacket and Dr Martens returned, and more signatures given. Fleet was nowhere to be seen and she didn’t know whether she was relieved or not. She was surprised to see from the clock behind the desk that she had spent most of the night in the station. It felt like a week.
Outside and away from the CCTV, Lydia let herself stop moving and take several deep breaths. It was early, not yet seven and the sun had just risen. A jogger on his way to lap Camberwell Green pounded past, headphones stuck into his ears, and the sky above the blocky edifice of the magistrates’ court was streaked lavender, lemon and rose gold. Lydia walked onto the scrubby grass of the green and slipped off her boots. She hadn’t bothered tying the laces, being so desperate to get out of the building and into the light and air. She pulled off her socks and felt the ground with her bare feet, scrunching her toes like John McClane in Die Hard.
It was better to think about films and the tang of exhaust fumes in her nostrils and cool earth on the soles of her feet than the last twenty four hours. After a minute, she put her socks back on and laced up her boots. It was time to go home.
Lydia saw the light spilling onto the street from inside the cafe from several metres away. The Fork was packed. She had a good view through the big windows fronting onto the street and saw her Aunt Daisy and Uncle John, several cousins she hadn’t seen in years, her parents sitting at a table at the front, and Uncle Charlie pacing up and down between the tables and chairs. Angel opened the door for her and gave her a sympathetic half-smile. ‘Coffee?’
‘Please,’ Lydia said, surprised by the welcome.
The moment she got into the room properly, conversation kicked up a notch, a clamour of questions and exclamations. She went straight to her parents and gave them both quick hugs. Jason was by the door which led to the toilets and then up the stairs to their flat. He looked a little less solid than usual, but he was there and capable of raising a single eyebrow in greeting. A rush of relief flowed through Lydia and she let herself acknowledge how worried she had been at the prospect of leaving him. They had no idea how long he would survive without her powering-up presence and she had no wish to test it. She smiled at him and he nodded before disappearing. Presumably back to his beloved computer.
She had called Charlie on her way back to the cafe and had no idea how he had assembled everybody so quickly. She said as much and he frowned. ‘We’ve been here all night. Trying to work out a plan of action and waiting for the solicitor. John knew someone good, but he couldn’t get here until,’ Charlie broke off and looked at his watch. ‘Nine. I’d better call him off.’ He turned to John. ‘Can you?’
Uncle John nodded and moved to a quiet spot near the door to the kitchen, mobile in hand.
Charlie hugged her, then, his massive bulk a comfort. Until he whispered into her ear. ‘How did you do it?’
She pulled away from him and turned to address the room at large. ‘Thank you for being here and for being willing to help. I really appreciate it. They let me go without charging me, probably because the evidence they had was non-existent and the witness testimony was recanted. Or they heard it was about to be recanted. Either way, it’s over.’
‘For now,’ Charlie said. ‘They arrested a Crow. There will be repercussions.’
‘No,’ Lydia said. The chatter stopped and Lydia looked around at the faces, some familiar, some less so, and felt the wave of ‘Crow’ that came from being with so many family members at one time. It was something she remembered from gatherings and family events throughout childhood, but it felt stronger than before. Her senses were in overdrive and her blood fizzed in her veins. Every detail was hyperreal and distinct, from Daisy’s Mulberry handbag to the bottles of ketchup and brown sauce on the tables and the tattoos on Charlie’s forearms.
Lydia chose a table in the middle of the cafe and sat on the top, her feet resting on a chair. She knew that if she didn’t phrase things just right, Charlie would use this for his own agenda. She also knew that her mum had been right. If she didn’t step up and take control, the Family would control her instead. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘The police are the least of our worries.’
Charlie opened his mouth to speak and Lydia raised a hand to silence him. Waves were coming from her, she could feel them vibrating through the air, sending energy or something into the room, twirling and coiling around the Crows present and weaving them in a kind of spell. Charlie closed his mouth and Lydia didn’t think he had ever looked so surprised.
She looked around, catching every eye, and then smiling to reassure them. Then she began: ‘Let me tell you a story…’
THE END
Thank you for reading!
I hope you enjoyed reading about Lydia Crow and her family as much as I enjoyed writing about them!
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Acknowledgments
I am exceedingly lucky to have many supportive and loving people in my life, all of whom put up with my obsession with writing. They even manage to remain encouraging and excited (or, at least, do an excellent job of pretending to be interested!) and help me through the inevitable tricky patches during the creative process.
I am also deeply grateful to my lovely readers for enabling me to keep on writing and publishing as my job. I love what I do and am grateful every single day - thank you!
Thank you to my wonderful author pals; Clodagh Murphy, Hannah Ellis, Keris Stainton, Nadine Kirtzinger, and Sally Calder. Your support, good company and friendship is one of the best parts of my writing life.
As always, my ‘muggle’ friends deserve some kind of medal. I disappear for months when I'm deep in a draft and, when I surface, I blether on about story craft and the arcana of publishing… You're all very patient and lovely and I appreciate it. Much love and thanks to Catherine Shellard, Lucy Golden-Taylor, and Emma Ward.
I also want to express my gratitude to my whole family for their ongoing support
and encouragement. Thank you to my dad, Michael, my parents in-law, Christine and Chris, and to Matthew, Fay, Bea, Alex, Angela and Simon.
This book would not exist without the vital work of my editor, cover designer, early readers, and wonderful ARC team. Thank you, all.
In particular, thanks to Beth Farrar, Karen Heenan, Melanie Leavey, Jenni Gudgeon, Paula Searle, Ann Martin, Judy Grivas, Deborah Forrester, and David Wood.
Finally, thank you to Holly and James for their excellent advice and cheerleading, and for being the Absolute Best.
And to my Dave; I love you more.
About the Author
Before writing books, Sarah Painter worked as a freelance magazine journalist, blogger and editor, combining this 'career' with amateur child-wrangling (AKA motherhood).
Sarah lives in rural Scotland with her children and husband. She drinks too much tea, loves the work of Joss Whedon, and is the proud owner of a writing shed.
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