The Copper Heart

by Sarah Painter

  ‘Was anybody close personal friends with Mark Kendal? If someone is going to do something silly, I need to know.’

  ‘Not that I know about,’ Aiden said. ‘But I’ll ask around.’

  * * *

  Fleet called on his way to the gym in a not-wonderful mood. Lydia thought she might leave some of her activities out of the ‘how was your day, honey?’ conversation. Pissing off a professional killer, for example.

  Lydia had eaten earlier, but she offered Fleet leftover pizza, if he wanted to come round. ‘I ate at the office,’ Fleet said. ‘And I’m heading home to crash. I wouldn’t be good company tonight. Sorry.’

  ‘No worries,’ Lydia said. ‘Bad day?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess. Long, anyway. Meetings. And I’ve been kicked off the Mason case. Sorry, not kicked off. Reassigned.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Cross Pollination and Synergy Leveraging Solutions.’ Fleet’s disgusted tone let Lydia know that this was a whole new level of corporate bullshit.

  Fleet seemed to find all the management and meetings far more stressful than the more-obviously dangerous parts of his job. Lydia could relate. Then a horrible thought crossed her mind. ‘They’re punishing you.’

  ‘I don’t think so-’

  ‘For being with me. It’s a message.’

  Fleet’s voice was cut out by the sound of a siren passing. Then, ‘It’s just the job. You get promoted and, after a while, it’s all desk duty and meetings. It’s not personal.’

  He didn’t sound totally convinced, though. ‘I spoke to a captain in the Hellenic police, and she said there were no leads on the hit and run. It was a fairly busy location, not that far from the hotel where the MP was staying, but there were no witnesses.’

  ‘None?’

  ‘Alex Papoutsis, she’s the captain, said that she had one witness originally, who said he saw a van travelling at high speed away from the area, but he recanted his statement. Said he had the wrong day.’

  ‘Someone got to him?’

  ‘Definitely a possibility. Although, she was telling me that hit and runs are a major problem in Greece. And they’re currently classed as a misdemeanour, so there isn’t a lot of budget spent on following up. If it isn’t an easy solve, they usually get buried. In her experience, anyway.’

  ‘There would have been heat on this one, though,’ Lydia said. ‘From the UK. Did Interpol get involved?’

  ‘She said not really. Said it was more a case of sending on the report. Information-sharing in the spirit of inter-departmental global collaboration.’

  Lydia could hear the air quotes in Fleet’s voice. ‘You think it was just a box-ticking exercise?’

  ‘Exactly. I guess Interpol is as stretched as the rest of us.’

  So, there was a possibility that somebody close to the MP Nadine Gormley would have a motive to kill Alejandro. If he had been involved with the hit and run in Greece and if that person knew, or suspected, him of that involvement. An image of Maria, her face obscured by black lace, her high heels and sharp skirt like weapons, jumped to the front of Lydia’s mind. She saw people lining up to offer their condolences, to kiss her hand. If Alejandro had arranged a hit on an MP in order to free up a political position, how much had Maria known about his plans? How involved had she been in her father’s meteoric rise? She said at the funeral that people hadn’t taken her seriously before and Lydia wondered what she would have been willing to do to be seen as the rightful leader of the Silvers.

  * * *

  Having drained her beer and poured a large whisky, Lydia was sitting at her desk in the growing darkness and cradled the glass. Jason was in his room, Fleet was home, and the cafe was shut up for the night. Her mobile rang with an unknown number and she answered, expecting a new prospective client or a sales call.

  Mr Smith’s measured tone sent a bolt of adrenaline through her body. Her first thought was that he was calling to tell her that Charlie was dead. But her second was that he wouldn’t do that. Charlie would die alone and un-mourned and the Family would never even know he had passed. That was part of the punishment she had doled out. One of the many decisions in her life which had led to her sitting alone in a dark room drinking whisky. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To help you,’ Mr Smith replied. His voice set off an echo of his signature and Lydia held onto the desk to steady herself.

  ‘How kind,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’

  Mr Smith made a tutting noise. ‘Mr Kendal isn’t fine. And I’m guessing your family isn’t too pleased about his murder, either. It doesn’t look good, does it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Lydia said. If Mr Smith thought he could trap her into talking about protection rackets on the phone, he was delusional.

  ‘You’re out of your depth,’ Mr Smith went on. ‘I’m offering to throw you a rope. Let me help you. I’ve got the resources. I could find the person responsible for Mr Kendal’s death, effect a quick resolution. Then you can go back to your family and claim all the glory. Get them back onside.’

  Lydia wanted to ask him why he thought her family weren’t supporting her as their leader, what rumours he had heard, but that would involve admitting that she was concerned about it. ‘Why are you offering to help? Just feeling charitable? Bit of community service?’

  ‘Maybe there’s an element of that,’ Mr Smith said. ‘You know I’m very fond of you, but the fact is you’re not cut out for this. You’re an investigator. A freelancer. You’re not Charlie and everybody knows it. That’s dangerous. If people don’t have the proper respect, there will be casualties. Poor Mr Kendal is just the start.’

  Lydia’s throat had gone dry. She knocked back some whisky, but when she spoke her voice still came out a little cracked. ‘What would you suggest? That I retire?’

  ‘That you let me help you. It will be our secret. I can help you hold onto your Family and hold onto your power and I won’t ask anything of you that you won’t be happy to give.’

  ‘Let me think about it,’ Lydia said, playing for time.

  ‘You can reach me on this number. I suggest you do so sooner rather than later. Serius est quam cogitas.’

  * * *

  It was almost eight o’clock and the Pilates studio was shut. The window at the front was screened by a jungle of house plants, but there were no electric lights showing beyond, and the front door was locked. Lydia had assumed they would stay open in the evening. Surely people had to fit in workouts after office hours? And with such a small space, they could hardly cram in enough business to stay afloat without working all the hours of the day.

  Lydia rapped on the glass of the front door. She was about to call Chunni when a door at the back of the studio opened, spilling light across the polished wooden floor. Chunni crossed the studio and unlocked the front door. She apologised for keeping Lydia waiting.

  ‘I was catching up on emails. Come in.’

  As soon as Lydia crossed the threshold, she felt it.

  ‘My office is out back,’ Chunni was weaving through the machines to the doorway. ‘It’s a bit small, I’m afraid, but you know London rent.’

  ‘You live here?’ Lydia asked.

  ‘Would you like tea?’ Chunni began listing types of fruit and herbal tea and Lydia tuned out, concentrating instead on her other senses.

  The back room stretched the definition. When Chunni had said ‘a bit small’ she meant ‘a cupboard with a kettle’. There was a single upright chair which had a closed laptop on the seat. Lydia stood in the doorway watching Chunni fussing with little paper sachets, then she moved away to walk around the studio. ‘Where do your clients change?’

  ‘On the right.’

  Lydia set off, not asking for permission. A plain door led to a flight of stairs. On the first landing there was a door to a toilet and a changing room. Looking inside there was a single stall and basin. The changing room had a light wooden bench and a row of hooks on the wall. It smelled of feet, despite the reed diffuser in t
he corner. The feeling was stronger on the stairs and weaker in the changing room. Carrying on up to the next floor, Lydia knew she was getting closer. The building reminded her of The Fork but instead of a half-glass door inscribed with ‘Crow Investigations’, she was met with a plain door, swinging hastily shut, and the smell of cooking food.

  Chunni was coming up the stairs behind her and Lydia raised her voice to ask, ‘Who is up here?’

  She knocked on the door and then opened it. There was resistance, but Lydia shoved and it yielded.

  An extremely petite woman with a waterfall of fine pale blonde hair was turning to run and Lydia caught her arm.

  ‘Don’t!’ Chunni was there, grabbing at Lydia from behind. ‘Leave her alone!’

  Lydia let go of the blonde’s arm. She suddenly realised that both women were frightened. Of her. Which was a strange feeling. ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ she said, raising her hands in a gesture of peace. ‘I just want to talk.’

  ‘We haven’t done anything,’ the blonde woman said and, if Lydia had been in any doubt, the sound of her voice clinched it. She was Pearl.

  ‘You came to me,’ Lydia looked at Chunni over her shoulder. ‘I’m here to help because you asked me to.’ The blonde woman took the opportunity to retreat into the single-purpose room. It had the exposed brick walls and industrial light fittings of the studio downstairs, but with an unfolded sofa bed in front of the television and a sleek fitted kitchen against one wall. ‘Why don’t we sit down and you can tell me what’s going on. Why are you so frightened?’

  Chunni let go of Lydia and crossed to meet the blonde woman, taking her hand. ‘This is my wife, Heather.’

  ‘Okay.’ Lydia concentrated on making herself look as friendly and non-threatening as possible. It wasn’t something she had ever had to work at before and it felt bizarre. She was a short woman with moderate fighting skills, which had only ever been used in self-defence. She had no language or experience for reassuring women that she wasn’t going to hurt them. In a flash she realised this was how good men must feel all the time. ‘Let me help.’

  Chunni and Heather exchanged a glance.

  ‘Is it the case you brought to me?’ Lydia tried, when nothing was forthcoming. Still nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Chunni said, her voice very small.

  The penny dropped. ‘There is nobody suing you, is there? You just wanted to speak to me.’

  A hesitation. Then an imperceptible nod.

  ‘Why?’

  Another shared glance. Heather was so pale she looked as if she might vomit. Lydia felt sympathy but a surge of impatience was there, too. She considered pushing a little. A bit of Crow whammy to move things along. She was busy. And Chunni had lied to her. ‘I’m waiting,’ Lydia said, mildly enough.

  ‘We heard you had taken over,’ Chunni said hesitantly. ‘And Charlie hadn’t been bothered about me and Heather, but we didn’t know if you would be different. I wanted to meet you. To see what you were like.’

  For a split second, Lydia thought Chunni meant ‘to check if you were homophobic’ but then she realised the more obvious concern. ‘You thought I might not approve of a Pearl-owned business in Camberwell?’

  A quick nod. ‘Charlie didn’t care. He said business was business.’

  ‘Why do you think I would feel differently?’

  ‘My mum said it used to be a rule,’ Heather said. Her voice was quiet but with a beautiful tone. Lydia could feel the pull of the Pearl, the urge to lean in and listen closer, and she consciously stiffened her muscles to hold herself in check. ‘She said it wasn’t allowed and that if Jack Crow was still alive, he’d have strung us up outside The Old Hermit and nobody would have said a word.’

  Lydia had only the vaguest memories of her grandfather, but she could see why that rumour had taken hold. She remembered glittering black eyes and a hooked nose below a sweep of white hair. In that moment, another memory chased behind the image. Her father, looking very tired and very scared, speaking quietly and quickly in the kitchen on the old corded phone which had hung on the wall. Her angle was sharp, as if Lydia were down on the floor. ‘No, I can’t,’ her father was saying. A deep breath. Then: ‘I won’t.’ Why had that memory surfaced? Had he been speaking to her grandfather? Lydia brought herself back to the present. ‘Is that why you recorded me?’

  Pure terror flashed across Chunni’s face.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Lydia said briskly, trying not to enjoy her reaction. ‘I just want you to delete the footage. And never do it again, obviously.’ She didn’t want people waltzing into her office and taking clandestine recordings. Chunni should be sorry for that. She fixed them both with a hard stare. ‘I help people. Especially those that live in Camberwell. But you don’t need to lie to me.’ She waited a beat before adding: ‘It’s a bad idea.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Heather whispered. ‘We’re sorry.’

  ‘It’s already deleted,’ Chunni was saying. ‘I swear.’

  Lydia looked at the women. They seemed cowed, but how much of that was an act to get them off the hook and out of trouble? Suddenly it felt very important to Lydia to be sure these women wouldn’t cross her again. She needed to make an example of them, something which could act as a warning to others. She hated the idea that Mr Smith might have had a point. She was Lydia Crow and she couldn’t have ordinary people disrespecting her. Not without repercussions. Aiden had been warning her that she had to show strength or people wouldn’t maintain the proper respect for the Family and now this. Lydia didn’t want to be like Charlie, but she wondered what he would do. An image of Big Neil tied to a chair in the lock-up, beaten and bloody flashed into her mind.

  Chunni and Heather must have seen something cross her face as they began babbling further apologies. Lydia held up her hand to silence them. She produced her coin and spun it in the air, drawing their attention. ‘Lydia Crow knew that you had betrayed her trust and she came to your home and she hurt you both in ways that you can’t even think about without feeling sick.’

  The colour drained from Chunni and Heather’s faces, leaving dark hollows around their eyes. ‘You will tell anybody who will listen not to cross Lydia Crow. That she knows when you are lying. And that her little sparrows are everywhere. Seeing everything.’ A tiny moan escaped from Heather’s lips.

  Lydia waited a beat to make sure the message had sunk in and then plucked her coin from the air. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘What time is it?’ Fleet’s voice, thick with sleep. Lydia opened her eyes and met darkness. Her eyes adjusted slowly as her brain kicked into gear. Her phone was ringing. She rolled over and retrieved it from the floor, stabbing at the answer button. ‘Yes?’

  There was heavy breathing, the rumble of traffic. ‘It’s me. I just wanted to say ‘goodbye’. I wanted to say-’

  ‘Ash? Where are you?’ Lydia was sitting up, now, the phone pressed against her ear. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Thank you for everything.’

  ‘Feathers!’

  Fleet was sitting up, too, and he rubbed a hand over his face, stubble rasping in the sudden quiet. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘He said ‘goodbye’.’ Lydia got up and began to pull on her clothes. ‘Hell Hawk. What is he doing, now?’

  Fleet swung his legs from under the duvet.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Lydia said. ‘You go back to sleep. I’m pretty sure I know where Ash will be.’ She was using her phone to access Ash’s mobile GPS as she spoke. Jason had installed the software and she wasn’t sure if it was entirely legal, so she didn’t elaborate further.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Fleet said, clicking on his bedside light. ‘Give me a second.’

  * * *

  It was almost five as Lydia drove to Highgate, Fleet yawning extravagantly in the passenger seat. Sunrise wasn’t for another hour and the streetlights were still lit, but there was the suggestion of light in the sky. Dew covered the parked cars and colours emerged murkily in the e
arly morning twilight.

  ‘You think he’ll be here?’

  ‘Where else?’ Lydia took the Archway Gate into the woods.

  ‘Is this a good idea?’ Fleet caught her hand, stopping her. ‘Should we try calling?’

  Lydia understood his reticence. She didn’t particularly want to go wandering among the half-lit trees, either. The sense of Pearl was suffusing her mind, pulling her into the darkest part of the forest. It was an inducement and a warning. ‘He’s vulnerable,’ Lydia said. ‘I can’t leave him.’

  Fleet tilted his head back, as if the sky would give him an alternative answer. When it didn’t, he sighed and resumed walking. Their feet crunched on the ground and Lydia stopped every few paces to listen. She wanted to call out to Ash, but it felt foolhardy. She knew where he would be anyway, so she picked her way back to the place where Lucy Bunyan had disappeared.

  The small clearing held the still shape of Ash as if it was built for him. He was on the ground, hands scrabbling in the dirt and a stream of low guttural noises coming from his throat, like an animal. He looked up as they approached and Lydia caught the flash of wild eyes. His stringy hair hung like foliage around a face which gleamed white in the dim light. He was even thinner than the last time she had seen him and his bony wrists protruded sharply from filthy shirt cuffs. His hands looked black and Lydia realised that they were caked with dirt and blood. He shook his head, as if denying their existence, and then turned back to his self-imposed task of digging in the earth with his bare hands.

  ‘Ash,’ Lydia began, keeping her voice low and calm. ‘We’re here to help.’

  He didn’t stop his frenzied action or even appear to hear Lydia.

  ‘All right there, mate,’ Fleet tried. ‘Come along now, let’s get you somewhere warm. Get something to eat and drink.’ It was his copper voice. Soothing and authoritative all in one go and Lydia was impressed at Ash’s ability to completely ignore it.

  She took a step closer and a twig broke under her Dr Marten with a loud crack. Ash looked up at that, his nose lifted to the air as if he needed to use senses other than sight. Lydia could relate. The stink of Pearl was strong in the clearing, but the trees were behaving so far. The sense of Pearl was like perfume hanging in an empty room, but Lydia wanted to get them all far away before the Pearls returned. ‘Come on, Ash. It’s not safe for us here.’ She put a hand on his shoulder and he reared back as if burned.