The Copper Heart

by Sarah Painter

  ‘I know you don’t like me, but I hope you will accept that I am genuinely trying to help. Mainly because it helps me, of course, but also because I think you should know the truth.’

  Maria folded her hands in her lap. Her expression didn’t change and she didn’t speak.

  Lydia ploughed on. ‘I don’t think your father is dead. It definitely isn’t his body in the Silver crypt.’ She wondered if Maria would be more convinced if she explained that she hadn’t been able to sense ‘Silver’ or whether she would be revealing her secret for no real gain. ‘And the Silver cup is a fake, too.’

  The only sign that Maria was listening was the very slight tilt of her head. That and the fact that she hadn’t smacked Lydia in the face. Yet. ‘Can you think of a reason he might have wanted to disappear? It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, but I want you to think about it.’

  ‘Why are you bringing this to me?’ Maria asked.

  ‘I told you. Whatever has happened between us in the past, I think you ought to know.’

  Maria smiled. ‘What makes you think I don’t already know? How typically egotistical of a Crow to believe she knows more about Silver business than I do.’

  Lydia waited a moment, trying to work out if Maria was bluffing. She was incredibly poised if that was the case, but she was the head of the Silver Family. Poise was her birth right. When it became apparent that Maria wasn’t going to fill the silence, Lydia said, ‘If you know he isn’t dead, why have you been putting the word out that I did it? Why send a sniper to kill me?’

  A barely perceptible frown creased Maria’s brow before she shrugged. ‘Opportunity.’

  Fleet stepped forward. ‘You just admitted to attempted murder, Ms Silver. As you are aware, booking a professional killer is the same as-’

  Maria didn’t so much as glance at Fleet. Instead, she addressed Lydia. ‘You brought your pet policeman. How sweet.’

  ‘And now we’re leaving.’ Lydia stood up.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Maria said. ‘We haven’t had our drinks, yet.’

  ‘I came to tell you that I believe your father is alive. I was under the mistaken belief that your actions were driven by grief.’

  ‘And you wanted to save your own skin.’

  ‘I have no problem staying alive,’ Lydia said. She gestured to herself. ‘Look. Here I am. An attempt by a pro and I’m still breathing. I came to deliver the information because I thought it was the right thing to do. Morally. We have our personal differences, but we belong to ancient and respectable Families. I, for one, intend to act like it.’

  Maria narrowed her eyes. ‘A grubby little Crow trying to get the moral high ground. Have you any idea how ridiculous you appear? I’m the establishment, I’m the law.’

  ‘Very well,’ Lydia said. ‘If you want to keep it personal, I will behave unprofessionally from now on.’

  ‘Is that supposed to frighten me?’

  ‘That depends. How do you feel about your father’s cowardice becoming public knowledge? It’s my understanding that he made a deal with the secret service in order to protect himself from JRB. The great Alejandro Silver borrowing money from a company associated with the Pearls. And then, worse for a lawyer, finding out that he had made a deal which made him into a puppet. He had to vote the way JRB demanded, among other less-savoury favours. So to get away from JRB he got into bed with the secret service, and agreed to act as their stooge, instead. In return, they faked his death. He wanted to protect the good name of the Silver Family and the firm, and to keep his daughter from being tarred by the same brush.’ Lydia shrugged. ‘Wherever your father is, I’m willing to bet he can’t come home. A dead man can’t be a politician or a lawyer or the head of a Family. It’s over for him. The only thing keeping him going is that he kept your reputation clean. You really want to destroy that?’

  Maria’s lips were in a thin line. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘That you cancel the hit against me, for starters.’

  Maria tilted her head. ‘I misspoke earlier. I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.’

  Lydia wasn’t sure what game Maria was playing and whether or not she believed her. She had the sense Maria had been surprised when she had mentioned the sniper, but then she was a Silver and as twisted as a corkscrew.

  ‘Besides,’ Maria said with a chilling smile. ‘If I wanted to remove you I wouldn’t be so careless as to hire a contractor and leave a trail. I would undertake the matter personally.’

  Well that had the ring of truth. ‘Regardless, you’ve come for me in the past. And you’ve made threats. I’m willing to move on, for the sake of both our Families. I’m offering you a free pass just this once, but I will never be so lenient again.’

  Maria’s mouth snapped shut. Her gaze went to Fleet.

  ‘Don’t look at him.’ Lydia waited until Maria’s eyes were staring into her own and then she drew on the Crow power, the thousands of black feathers and fluttering hearts. She held them lightly, not showing her coin or pushing Maria in any particular direction, just holding the power there so that it filled the room with the sound of beating wings. ‘I know that your Family cup has gone. I know that Alejandro is in hiding. Ally with me or I will destroy you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Later that night, Lydia was still wired from the meeting with Maria and felt sure she wasn’t going to fall asleep anytime soon. She disentangled from Fleet in order to reach for her phone and checked the news, more by reflex than anything else. She kept expecting to see a story about Ash’s disappearance, maybe a tearful plea by his parents, but nothing had appeared, yet. Lydia blinked and turned her phone face down. She thought that she had successfully pushed her feelings about Ash deep inside and then locked them in a box for good measure, but the thought of his parents losing their son all over again made her throat hurt. Fleet turned over in his sleep and Lydia got up and tiptoed out to her office, so as not to wake him up. He was recovering very well, but he needed to rest.

  Sitting at her desk, the lamp pooling light on the messy surface, Lydia began looking through the latest batch of correspondence shoved through Charlie’s letterbox. She had picked it up during the family meal prep and brought it back and now she needed something mindless to occupy her. Flyers. Insurance renewal. A handwritten thank-you note sent from Australia. Lydia fetched the whisky and treated herself to a slug straight from the bottle. Begging letter for a loan. Catalogue. An offer on a case of wine. Invitation to a charity ball. Wedding invitation. A heavy cream envelope with nothing on the front, not even Charlie’s name. Lydia used her pen knife to slit the thick paper. Inside, there was a sheet of Silver and Silver note paper with a typed date, time and address, and the words: ‘This is goodbye, old friend.’ It was an office building in Canary Wharf, not a place she recognised, and the date was the following day. Lydia looked at her watch. Well, the same day, now.

  * * *

  Fleet was not happy and not only because Lydia was changing the dressing on his shoulder wound. He hissed a breath between his teeth as Lydia dabbed a little too hard with the antiseptic. ‘I don’t understand why you think it’s Alejandro. Why would he leave a note at Charlie’s house? He knows he’s gone.’

  ‘But he doesn’t know the details,’ Lydia argued. ‘I’ve spread the word that he’s taken a long holiday. Most assume that means he’s dead, but Alejandro might think it means he’s also taken a deal with the government. I mean, he might be hoping that Charlie has done the same thing as him. Misery loves company, after all.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘And he might be reaching out to the house on the assumption that Charlie is hiding out there, or checking on it. He might not think there’s a high chance of getting in touch with Charlie, but if he doesn’t have any options… Or maybe he left notes like this in a hundred other dead drops. Who knows how many little secrets Charlie and Alejandro shared over the years.’

  ‘Fine, but I still don’t see why he would get in touch, now. Especially si
nce he’s supposed to be dead.’

  Lydia stuck the fresh dressing onto the wound and smoothed down the edges to make sure it was stuck firmly. ‘They’ve been allies for a long time. Alejandro might just want the chance to say goodbye before he gets moved abroad or whatever the leaders of Operation Bergamot have planned for him. Or he might have a plan to get out of his situation.’

  ‘Or he might be hoping to lure you to an isolated location.’ Fleet pulled his shirt back on and began to button it.

  ‘Alejandro has always allied with the Crows. He’s not going to hurt me. Besides, this invitation is meant for my uncle, not me.’

  ‘Alejandro’s not necessarily acting of his own free will. Wasn’t he used by the government op to gather evidence?’

  ‘Well, Charlie’s not going to turn up, so Charlie can’t accidentally give him any incriminating evidence. I’m going to attend, it’s the respectful thing to do.’

  ‘Respect, huh?’ Fleet tilted his head.

  Lydia kissed him lightly. ‘That, and the possibility that he might be persuaded to tell us what he found for Operation Bergamot about JRB.’

  * * *

  Canary Wharf in east London was the second business and financial district after the City. The Mayflower had sailed from the docks nearby, and the East India Quay celebrated trading routes and enterprise. Back in the day, it would have smelled of tobacco and sugar, imported from the newly colonised America, but now it smelled of exhaust fumes and money. Shining skyscrapers housing thousands of offices, concrete-and-glass outdoor seating areas and vast underground carparks. Plus, the ubiquitous ground floor cafes and restaurants, willing and able to feed the stock market monkeys and besuited banking serfs. Plenty of bright young things in sharp suits would be making a killing, Lydia was sure, but many more would be working high-stress positions for a few years before burning out on salaries that seemed good until you factored in London-living, with a precious few at the top of the tree, multiplying their wealth until they were untouchable.

  The meeting was set for eight in the evening and the address was on the twelfth floor of a shiny office block with a sculpted concrete concourse with a large lily pond, and a central atrium which was supposed to show off the buildings’ ‘design forward’ sensibilities. At least, that was what the website told Lydia when she scoped it out. It also had at least six floors of offices-to-let, so it seemed that not everybody was lining up to buy.

  There was a large reception area and a bank of lifts on the wall beyond. It was deserted, which wasn’t a surprise at this time of day. Lydia couldn’t see much in the way of security, but Fleet went over to the desk and flashed his badge. ‘Floor twelve, need to take a look.’

  ‘It’s empty,’ the neat young man said. His name badge said ‘Mitch’ and he had the kind of starter-moustache Lydia associated with fifteen-year-old boys. If he was the guard for the night, they definitely weren’t anticipating much trouble.

  ‘That’s right, son,’ Fleet said. ‘And I need to take a quick look at it. Problem?’

  The man slid laminated guest passes across the desk. ‘Elevator two.’

  ‘Lift,’ Fleet muttered as they walked away. ‘We’re still in bloody London, aren’t we?’

  They were half an hour early for the meeting to give them time to check out the location beforehand. Plus, you never knew what you might see if you turned up before the party had officially started.

  The lift moved smoothly upward and Fleet leaned against the bar against the back wall. Suddenly, he straightened. The lift had stopped and the doors began to slide open but Fleet had already started moving, he lunged in front of Lydia, managing to shove her to the side of the lift and stab the button to close the doors at almost the same time. Lydia didn’t have time to process what had happened, let alone ask him what was happening when her head seemed to explode. She threw out an instinctive blast of energy through the gap in the lift doors but her ears were ringing and she had no idea if she hit anybody.

  And then the doors were closing again and the lift was moving down. Lydia was about to ask Fleet what had happened, she just needed to wait for the ringing in her ears to stop, when she realised that Fleet was moving in slow motion. No, he was falling in slow motion, his good hand clutching his bad shoulder and an expression of pain on his face.

  ‘Fleet!’ Lydia was falling with Fleet, unable to bear his weight, but she hoped that she was cushioning his fall at least.

  ‘I’m okay,’ he said grimacing. He moved his jacket aside and Lydia saw a small red stain blooming on his white shirt. He had ripped open his shoulder wound when he had stretched to hit the lift button and push Lydia.

  ‘What the hell was that…’ Lydia trailed off as she noticed a dent in lift wall, at chest height. ‘Did someone just shoot at us?’

  ‘I need to call it in,’ Fleet was saying as the lift descended.

  Lydia couldn’t take her eyes off the bullet lodged in the metal wall of the lift. It had been so close. If Fleet hadn’t moved so quickly one of them would definitely have been hit. She felt weak and fuzzy from the discharge of energy, too. Like three bad hangovers arriving all at once.

  The doors opened on the ground floor and it was surreally quiet. The security guard behind the desk still looked far too young for the job and the place was still mercifully empty.

  ‘He might be on his way down,’ Fleet was saying. ‘This is a public safety issue.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Lydia said. ‘He only wants to kill me.’

  But Fleet was already moving behind the desk, taking control of the situation in a very Fleet manner. ‘There’s been an incident on floor twelve, how many people are currently in the building?’

  The guard’s eyes grew wide as he pushed away from the desk to stand. ‘Not many. Ten maybe on floor four, they work late there. Nowhere that high. They’re not in use.’

  Lydia joined Fleet behind the desk. There were a couple of monitors, the screens showing feeds from the building’s cameras. The images changed every few seconds.

  ‘Show me floor twelve,’ Fleet said, pointing at the screens.

  ‘I don’t know how,’ the guard said in a panicky voice. ‘They’re just on a loop like that and I watch them. I’m not usually on my own—’

  ‘Sit down,’ Fleet said, ‘put your head between your knees.’ He put his hand on the guard’s shoulder and pushed him gently back into his chair. ‘You’re all right. Breathe.’

  At that moment, the image on the far-right monitor changed. It showed an empty office floor, deserted apart from a figure lying on the floor. Lydia leaned in, studying the grainy image. It looked like a man, one arm flung out to the side. A very still man.

  Fleet had seen it, too. ‘Okay.’ He had his mobile out and was calling in.

  ‘I’m going up,’ Lydia said, already moving. That wild blast of energy. She had hit someone.

  ‘Not a good idea. Back up is on its way. We need to secure the building. Make sure the civilians are safe.’

  ‘Your back up is on the way,’ Lydia said. ‘I need a look at the guy before they arrive.’ What she didn’t say but knew Fleet had observed was this; the man wasn’t about to shoot anybody else.

  Still, not wanting to be over-confident, Lydia took a different lift to the floor below and then used the stairs to approach the twelfth. And she didn’t complain when Fleet insisted on coming with her. She was pretty sure her attacker was dead or unconscious, but there was a chance he was still dangerous.

  ‘I’m guessing this isn’t protocol,’ Lydia said, getting out at the eleventh floor and taking the stairs.

  ‘No. But you’re right. They’re unlikely to start attacking random office workers.’

  They fell silent as they approached the door to the twelfth floor. The staircase was disturbingly open with lots of glass panels and mood lighting set along each step. Lydia pressed against the wall as she approached the opening to the office floor. She wished there was a nice solid door she could hide behind, maybe with a handy-dandy vi
ewing panel to peek through. Instead, she crept forward, trying to see into the space without showing herself.

  Acres of grey industrial carpet broken up with pillars and a few glass boxes which would presumably function as not-at-all-private offices. Even without cubicles and ringing phones, the place was a soul-sucking hellscape.

  A hellscape with a dead man on the floor near to the bank of lifts. The way the man was lying and the fallen gun, a foot or so away from his outstretched arm, made it very clear that he was no longer a threat to anybody. Fleet put his good arm in front of Lydia, shaking his head, and making the approach in a wide circle. Once he was close enough, he kicked the gun further away from the body.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Lydia said quietly. She knew she ought to feel bad, but she was flooded with relief that the man with the gun who had just shot at them was no longer a threat.

  Fleet shot her an exasperated look, but she saw his shoulders relax as he got a better look at the body.

  Up close, there was no question. Lydia had expected the man to be dead, so it wasn’t much of a shock. What did surprise her, however, was that she recognised him.

  ‘Felix,’ Lydia said. ‘He’s a professional.’

  Fleet had crossed to the gun he had kicked away and was crouched down, examining it without touching. ‘A professional who has been watching too many mob films,’ he said. ‘He’s wrapped the grip with tape.’

  ‘To prevent fingerprints?’

  Fleet nodded, still looking. ‘That’s the idea. Outdated now we’ve got DNA matching.’

  Lydia pulled on nitrile gloves, stepping closer to the body. Then she stopped. Fleet was shaking his head, as if he wanted to deny something, and then he sank to the ground.

  She crossed to him, instead. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I moved before the lift doors opened,’ he said. ‘I think that precognition thing, that instinct you were talking about. I think it happened again.’