The Copper Heart

by Sarah Painter

  ‘And thank feathers it did. You saved my life again.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Fleet said, looking up at her.

  ‘Don’t be modest,’ Lydia said. ‘You pushed me out of the line of fire. There’s a bullet embedded in that lift wall that was meant for-’

  ‘No,’ Fleet was shaking his head. ‘I saw it happen. That’s never happened before. I’ve had feelings. Hunches. You know the kind of thing. And, yeah, I moved the steering wheel before I’d consciously recognised there was a reason to, but this was different. I saw it happen. When we were in the lift. The doors opened and he was there,’ Fleet glanced at Felix. ‘He shot me. Here’. Fleet put a hand in the middle of his chest, over his heart. And then the colour drained from his face.

  ‘Put your head between your knees,’ Lydia said, but Fleet was way ahead of her.

  She spoke to the back of his neck. ‘Why would he want to kill you?’

  Fleet said something incomprehensible in reply.

  She patted down Felix’s body until she found his phone. It required a thumb print to unlock and Lydia lifted Felix’s lifeless hand and pressed the relevant digit on the button before she could think about it too much. Once unlocked, she navigated to the call history and pressed to redial the last number.

  ‘Yes?’ Mr Smith said. ‘Is it done?’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lydia had left Fleet in the office building before the police turned up. Time was of the essence and she couldn’t afford to get stuck. Lydia didn’t know how quickly Mr Smith would find out what had happened and she wanted to speak to him while she knew more than he did. He would probably have guessed that something had gone awry, but there was a small window when he, hopefully, didn’t have all the details.

  ‘He’ll guess that you know he set us up,’ Fleet said. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘He wants me to run to him,’ Lydia said with more certainty than she felt. ‘He wants me to make a new deal, to work for him. If I dangle what he most wants, he’ll believe me because he wants to believe.’

  Fleet hadn’t looked convinced but he had wished her luck.

  Lydia had a tracker in her shoe, the GPS on her phone switched on and exactly zero time to practise her acting skills. She fast walked to Canary Wharf tube station and did a couple of jumping jacks to get herself out of breath before calling Mr Smith. It was testament to the city she loved that nobody so much as broke stride, the pedestrians simply flowing around her as she aerobicized as if it was perfectly normal.

  ‘I need help,’ she said as soon as Mr Smith answered. ‘It’s me. Someone just… Fleet…’ Lydia found that it was easier than she had expected to cry. The pent-up feelings about Ash, the fear she had been carrying since Fleet had been shot and then the adrenaline rush of the gunshot in the lift. She had come far too close to losing the man she loved.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Canary Wharf,’ Lydia managed. ‘I’m going into the station. I need to get away from here fast. I can’t see anybody following, but…’ She broke off, looking behind her in a panicked way. There was little chance that Mr Smith’s resources stretched to commandeering street CCTV in real-time, but it was easier to commit herself entirely to the performance.

  ‘What happened?’ Mr Smith asked. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, I’m okay. I think I might have hurt him, though.’ She swallowed as a wave of pure fury engulfed her. Mr Smith had set her up, had been threatening her for weeks, trying to intimidate her into needing him. Trying to make her believe that she was too weak to lead the Crows, that she was in danger. When that hadn’t worked, he had taken aim at the one she loved. Her voice was shaking with emotion when she spoke and she just hoped that Mr Smith couldn’t tell it was anger and not grief. ‘He killed Fleet. He just shot him. And I wasn’t in control. He was choking on the ground and I ran.’

  ‘Fleet was choking?’

  ‘No, the hitman. He had a gun. I’m guessing it was your assassin.’ No need to let Mr Smith know that she had met Felix before and recognised him. She also hoped that he would assume Felix had dialled his number but had been unable to speak. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Get the DLR to Tower Gateway. I’ll meet you on the bridge.’

  ‘Just you,’ Lydia said. ‘If I see anybody else…’

  ‘Of course,’ Mr Smith said, his voice soothing.

  Lydia cut the connection and followed Mr Smith’s instructions, acting terrified and jumpy all the way. It wasn’t difficult, as the moment she sat on the scratchy seat of the train and saw her face reflected in the window opposite a truth hit. She had just killed a man. A bad man, for sure, and it had been panicked self-defence, but still. She had thrown out her power with no control and no real grasp of the situation. She began to shake and wrapped her arms around herself. This wasn’t the time to break down for real. Still. There were many faces reflected in the train’s windows, blurry and indistinct and, for a moment, Felix’s dead face was among them.

  Emerging from the station, the squat fortification of the Tower of London on her right and a fresh breeze whipping rain directly into her face, Lydia made her way to Tower Bridge. She hoped Mr Smith wouldn’t be in his car as she definitely didn’t want to get into it with him. She walked to the middle of the bridge, dodging tourists and people heading out on dates and nights in the pub and all the normal things that suddenly seemed so desirable. Fleet isn’t dead, she reminded herself.

  She forced herself to stop moving and lean against the blue-painted balustrade with its intricate iron trefoil design. It was London twilight and thousands of windows glowing with yellow light shone in the gathering night. The Shard stabbed the purple sky, a futuristic obelisk straight out of a science fiction film. Looking at it in the context of the skyline, Lydia could hardly believe she had climbed halfway up. At least no one would be mad enough to try to get higher.

  On the other side of the river, the Gherkin marked the City. The distinctive dome of St Paul’s Cathedral was further away and, just beyond it, the central criminal courts. Lydia wondered whether Alejandro was sad to leave the place. Or whether it was weight lifted from his shoulders.

  She felt a rush of motion sickness and heard crashing waves just seconds before Mr Smith said: ‘Lydia. Thank God.’

  She turned to the man she had made a deal with and who, once upon a time, had honoured his word and healed Henry Crow. She had always known that he had wanted to use her, but she had never suspected that he would go so far. And now she was a killer. She tasted bile in the back of her throat and swallowed. ‘Was it your rogue assassin?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Mr Smith said, he moved as if he wanted to touch her but then seemed to check himself. ‘Did they say anything? Tell me what happened.’

  ‘But why would they target me? What could I have done to get on their radar? I’ve got nothing to do with international smuggling or toppling governments. Nothing that high level.’

  He tilted his head and Lydia could almost see him thinking. He was trying to work out how much to say, how best to keep her afraid and scrambling. Lydia decided to push on with her act, pretending that she believed Felix was an international assassin. ‘You. You put them onto me. Why?’

  ‘It’s nothing personal,’ Mr Smith visibly relaxed. ‘We just wanted to ensure they came back to London.’

  Back to London. Lydia didn’t miss his phrasing. He had relaxed too much and done exactly as Lydia had hoped. Revealed something new. ‘So, when you said you didn’t know anything about this assassin you were lying. You know exactly who they are.’ The final piece fell into place and Lydia resisted the urge to smack herself in the forehead. Instead she stepped back, feeling stupid for not seeing it before. ‘They were working for you.’

  Mr Smith looked down. ‘The service contracted them, yes. But then we lost contact. They’ve been behaving erratically and we need to bring them in as a matter of some urgency. I didn’t want to involve you, but I’m not the only one making decisions. Matters were taken out of
my hands.’

  ‘Fleet is dead,’ Lydia said.

  ‘And I’m sorry,’ Mr Smith reached for Lydia and, if she hadn’t known he had ordered it, she might have been taken in. She had to hand it to the secret service, that spook training was top notch. ‘But you’re in a precarious situation, now. You have to be smart.’

  There was no way Felix was the top-level international assassin at the centre of Operation Bergamot, which meant that Mr Smith was acting alone. Lydia felt sure that this was his own personal crusade, building assets for his own, Family-focused department. ‘The meeting was for Charlie,’ Lydia said, watching Mr Smith’s face very carefully. ‘I thought it was Alejandro.’

  Mr Smith didn’t blink. ‘Alejandro is far away from London, now. Safe location. New identity. The works. It’s the sort of thing we could do for you.’

  Lydia nodded as if she was seriously considering his offer.

  ‘Or you could join my department. Help me with my research. It’s valuable work. And I can keep you safe. You need people around you, Lydia. You’re not safe on your own.’

  Lydia made her body sag in defeat. ‘Okay,’ she said quietly. ‘I need to put my affairs in order and then I’ll come with you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be alone,’ Mr Smith began, but Lydia interrupted him. ‘I’ll meet you at the old safe house in an hour.’

  * * *

  It was almost eleven o’clock when Lydia’s phone buzzed with a text. She ignored it and the three which followed. She was in the cafe, finishing some much-needed lasagne when she saw a familiar car pull up outside.

  Mr Smith got out of the Mercedes. He was irritated but clearly trying to pretend that he wasn’t.

  ‘You didn’t show. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Have you heard about Felix?’ Lydia asked and enjoyed Mr Smith’s quick frown. He was so good at controlling his expression that every time he failed felt like a triumph. ‘I killed him.’

  ‘I don’t know what you think you know…’

  ‘I know you booked a sub-standard contractor to make me feel afraid.’

  Mr Smith didn’t miss a beat. ‘For the greater good. You are in real danger and I just wanted you to understand that.’

  ‘How kind,’ Lydia said. ‘I believe I will take my chances. No more deals.’

  ‘Let’s talk about this. I can see you’re upset, now, but when you have time to think things through…’

  ‘You’ve lost,’ Lydia said flatly. ‘Any chance you ever had to work with me or study me or use me has gone. It’s over.’

  Mr Smith straightened very slightly.

  Lydia could feel the waves of his unusual signature rolling from him as his temper rose. He might be able to control his expression, but he couldn’t control that. There, Lydia knew she was ahead of him. ‘You made me into a killer,’ she said. ‘I crossed a line today and I will never forgive you for your part in that. But there is something else you should know,’ she held his gaze and pushed more than a little Crow into her words, ‘I became a killer today.’

  There was a short silence as Mr Smith seemed to contemplate her words. Then he shifted slightly, rallying. ‘You’re making a huge mistake. I can be a really good friend to you.’

  ‘I have enough friends,’ Lydia said. She turned and indicated The Fork. The cafe lights were blazing and warm light spilled onto the pavement. The figures inside were clearly visible through the windows. Mr Smith’s gaze shifted and Lydia enjoyed the change in his expression as he took in Fleet, who was standing next to Maria Silver. Henry Crow was seated at Lydia’s favourite table with Aiden and they were laughing about something.

  ‘So be it.’ Mr Smith turned away. ‘You’re making a mistake, but I can see your mind is made up.’

  Lydia crossed her arms and watched him leave. He paused, one hand on the handle of his car door and spoke without turning around. ‘Check your pocket.’

  Lydia waited until the car had moved away down the street, the tail lights disappearing as it turned the corner. Then she waited a little longer, just in case Mr Smith changed his mind and came back around for round two.

  When the street remained empty and quiet, she reached into the pocket of her hoodie. There was something papery, folded into a neat square. A ten-shilling note.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Two days later and Lydia was watching Jason spray a tower of whipped cream onto a mug of hot chocolate. He added marshmallows and then grated a sprinkling of chocolate with the tiny grater Lydia had bought him for the purpose. ‘Tell me what you think.’

  It would be perfection, like every single mugful he had made this week, but Lydia obediently took a sip. ‘Gorgeous,’ she said, licking cream from her upper lip. ‘I think you’ve got the ratio just right.’

  Jason beamed.

  Lydia took another sip. It really was good.

  ‘You know what you need with that?’ Jason began opening the cupboards.

  ‘Whisky?’

  He shot her a fond look. ‘Something to dip. Like a biscuit. We don’t have any.’

  Lydia could sense this escalating. Before he could start talking about baking, Lydia warned him that Fleet was due home any moment.

  ‘Was he all right to go back to work?’ Jason asked. ‘Isn’t his shoulder still healing?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure,’ Lydia said. ‘But he said he didn’t need to be fully fit to sit in meetings.’

  ‘Are you going to tell him about the note?’

  Lydia put the mug down, her appetite suddenly gone. ‘Yeah. Soon. I will.’ She had told Jason about Mr Smith leaving a ten-shilling note in her pocket, but hadn’t wanted to worry Fleet. She knew it was falling back into old, bad habits, but the instinct to handle things on her own was strong.

  It was probably just a mind game, anyway. Mr Smith had tried to frighten Lydia into joining him and it hadn’t worked. The note was just a face-saving exercise. Probably. At least they had the identity of the sniper. The police had raided Felix’s flat and found a cornucopia of equipment, including a rifle and long-range scope. Ballistics were checking to see if it had fired the bullet which had hit Fleet, but Lydia was pretty sure it would match. Felix’s phone had shown a text from Mr Smith on the day that Fleet was shot, which seemed enough. Lydia had told the investigating team that the number was connected to a member of the secret service, but it was a burner, of course, and she didn’t expect to see Mr Smith in handcuffs anytime soon.

  * * *

  Fleet arrived not long after, his jacket damp from the rain. London in the spring was a damp affair. He kissed her full on the lips, pulling her close in a decidedly rambunctious manner.

  ‘You’re happy,’ Lydia said.

  ‘Interesting day.’ Fleet went to the fridge and pulled out two beers. He looked at the half-finished mug of hot chocolate. ‘You want one of these?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ They clinked bottles.

  ‘So,’ Fleet leaned against the kitchen counter. ‘I had a very interesting meeting today.’

  ‘That’s not a phrase you use often.’

  ‘It was an unofficial meeting, really. My boss invited me for a coffee out of the building, so I knew it was off the record. She said that Operation Bergamot was being wound up, that it was a budgetary decision for the Met.’

  ‘So the wider operation will continue with all the other agencies?’

  Fleet turned his hands palm up. ‘Probably. But the rumour is that a key member of the operation here in London was carrying out unapproved actions and the inter-departmental heads want to distance themselves from the London portion.’

  ‘Mr Smith?’ Lydia said. ‘Sounds like he’s in trouble.’

  ‘Good,’ Fleet said, raising his bottle,

  The last thing Lydia wanted to do was ruin Fleet’s mood, but she knew it would get harder to share the longer she waited. She was learning.

  ‘What’s that?’ Fleet frowned as she pulled the note from her pocket.

  ‘A parting gift from Mr Smith,’ Lydia said. ‘There wa
s one like it in Mark Kendal’s wallet and Aiden told me it was Charlie’s old way of letting people know they were in trouble with him.’

  ‘In trouble?’ Fleet arched an eyebrow.

  ‘Imminent physical danger,’ Lydia clarified. ‘Marked.’

  ‘You think he’s letting you know he killed Mark Kendal? Why would he do that?’

  ‘I think it’s more that he wants me to stay scared. He’s told me that his department has access to a high-level assassin. I guess he wants me looking over my shoulder and this is his way of saying I’m still in danger.’

  Fleet thought for a moment. ‘Why did Mr Smith target Mark Kendal, anyway? Was it just to make you look like a bad leader?’

  ‘I assume so,’ Lydia said. ‘And to make me likely to lean on him. He swooped in quick enough to offer help. Besides, he’s the only other person who knows about the ten-shilling notes. Apart from my family, I mean.’ Lydia didn’t want to dwell on how Mr Smith would have got that particular piece of information from Charlie. She had put Charlie and his situation in a locked room of her mind and she had no intention of going inside.

  * * *

  Early the next day, Lydia watched Fleet get dressed for work. He had an enthusiasm that had been missing over the last few weeks. ‘Getting shot suits you,’ she said. ‘You’re glowing.’

  ‘Bit extreme as far as self-help advice goes,’ Fleet said, smiling like the sun. She got out of bed to kiss him goodbye, pressing up against him until he groaned quietly under his breath. ‘I’m going to be late, now. You’re a bad influence.’

  * * *

  Half an hour later, once Fleet had left, Lydia stretched out in the bed and tried to hold onto the relaxed calm that head-banging morning sex had bestowed. Her phone buzzed with a text and she rolled over to retrieve it from the floor. It was a message from an unknown number.