The Pearl King

by Sarah Painter

  ‘That was the plan, honestly. I’ve given them the lock up and Neil’s whereabouts and they exhumed his corpse a couple of hours ago, gathered the DNA evidence required from your torture party. Not that the secret service need much in the way of evidence.’

  Charlie was on his feet, looking around as if he expected soldiers to rappel down from the ceiling.

  ‘But I decided to give you one final chance. Turns out I’m not as cold as you. It’s not as easy as I thought it would be to sell out a family member, even when they’re a killer. So you’ve got a tiny window of time. Get out now, go far away. It’s your only chance.’

  Charlie narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Look at me,’ Lydia said.

  Charlie’s eyes bored into hers. After a moment he swore.

  Lydia glanced at her phone, which was face up on the table. ‘You don’t have long to decide. When they don’t find you at your place, this is the next place they’ll look.’

  Charlie lunged for her without warning. His hands thudded down onto her shoulders, his thumbs digging into her windpipe, squeezing. Lydia jerked back instinctively, smacking the back of her head against the wall. She tried to stand up, but Charlie was pressing down with his whole weight and Lydia knew that she would never win in a strength contest.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re playing at, Lyds, but it’s not clever to threaten me.’ Charlie’s voice was completely calm. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Little bursts of light were appearing across Lydia’s darkening vision. The instinctive panic, pain and lack of oxygen, working together terrifyingly fast to cloud Lydia’s thoughts. Luckily, she didn’t have to think about producing her coin. It was just there. A comforting shape in the palm of her hand, anchoring her to consciousness. Her head pulsed with pain, in time with her hammering heart, but she ignored that and reached out instead to feel for the nearest Crow heart that didn’t belong to her. It was thudding pretty fast, too. Adrenaline. Excitement. Exertion. Whatever the cause, it made it even easier to find in the dark than Lydia expected. She reached out and held it. The edges of her coin dug into the flesh of her palm as she closed her power around Charlie’s heart and squeezed.

  The pressure on her neck released instantly as Charlie clutched his chest. He crumpled to the floor, his face drained of colour and lips rapidly turning blue. Lydia let go of his heart, feeling it fluttering back to life as she tipped her head back and dragged ragged breaths through her bruised airway.

  Her head cleared as the oxygen flooded back, and the pain of her throat began to make itself known. She touched the back of her head gingerly and found a lump. She should probably get checked out in hospital, but Lydia felt a fistful of painkillers and a lie down in a dark room would do the trick. Charlie was unconscious on the floor. Lydia eased herself into a crouching position until she could press her fingers to his neck and feel for pulse. The movement made her head swim and her headache intensify. After checking that he was breathing, she pulled Charlie over into the recovery position.

  The stairs to the flat felt like a mountain, and Lydia had almost made it to the top when she heard a thump from the floor below. It was a quiet thump. Discreet. But was followed by the sound of a door crashing open, thudding feet, and shouted orders. She had left the front door unlocked, deliberately, and hoped Smith’s retrieval team would collect Charlie without smashing the cafe up too much. Considering she had knocked him out cold, she had provided them with the easiest possible job. The least they could do would be not to make a mess.

  Lydia made it inside her flat and she locked the door. Halfway along the hall, her limbs were barely moving, but she forced herself onward. Just a few more steps. The pounding in her head had amplified to a continuous all-encompassing globe of pain. She hoped it was a mild concussion and not a sign that she had pushed her power too far too quickly.

  In her bedroom, Jason’s form appeared in her narrowing vision. His icy touch was like a balm and she felt him support her weight, helping her to the bed. Her phone buzzed as she lowered herself to the pillow, its cool softness almost making her weep. She held the phone in front of her face and forced her eyes open just enough to see the text message. Unknown number, of course. ‘It’s done.’ And then she let go of the phone, closed her eyes and let the waters of sleep close over her aching head.

  When Lydia woke up the next day, she felt remarkably well. Her throat and head both still hurt, but they were perfectly manageable and some more painkillers and a pint of water helped. After showering and getting dressed, Lydia accepted a mug of tea from Jason. As she sipped it and contemplated breakfast, she realised what had changed. She was free. Not of dealing with her family, of course, but of dealing with Charlie. She probably ought to feel more conflicted about his fate with Mr Smith, but it was difficult. Charlie had made the choice and there was no doubt in Lydia’s mind that he had intended to kill her last night. That really helped with the guilt.

  Her phone rang with her parents’ number and she snatched it up.

  ‘Lydia?’ There’s a man here. He says you sent him.’

  ‘What’s he look like?’

  ‘Young, very short hair,’ her mother said. Then she lowered her voice. ‘Handsome.’

  ‘Mr Smith?’

  ‘Yes! You know him? I assumed it was a made-up name. It sounds like a joke.’

  Lydia decided not to explain. ‘No, he’s fine. He’s visiting dad.’

  ‘That’s what he said. I told him I would check.’

  ‘You did the right thing. Sorry. I didn’t know he would be with you so quickly. I would have warned you. I’m on my way.’

  ‘You don’t have to if you’re busy…’

  ‘I’ll be as fast as I can.’

  Lydia pulled up outside her childhood home just in time to see the front door opening and Mr Smith leaving. She got out of the car and met him as he approached his own car. The Mercedes with the tinted windows. Lydia waved at the suited man in the driving seat who ignored her.

  ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘And good morning to you, too, Lydia Crow.’ Mr Smith’s skin was ashy and he had dark circles under his eyes. He looked at least ten years older.

  ‘My dad?’ Lydia hated the raw hope in her voice.

  ‘I did my best,’ he said. ‘You’re hurt.’ He was looking at her neck.

  Lydia stepped back. ‘I’m fine.’ The last thing she wanted was another favour from Smith. ‘So, you and I are done.’

  Mr Smith nodded. He was clearly exhausted, swaying slightly on his feet. ‘Until next time.’

  ‘There won’t be a next time,’ Lydia said. ‘It’s over.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  She expected a little more resistance, but perhaps her spook was as knackered as he seemed. Lydia watched as Mr Smith got into the car and it peeled away.

  She took two steps toward the house and then doubled back to her own car, rummaging on the back seat for a scarf. Once she had arranged the material around her neck, hiding the bruises, she went inside.

  The front door hadn’t been closed properly and Lydia walked into the empty hall.

  Her mother appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Come on up, he’s asleep.’

  Lydia couldn’t remember the last time she had been inside her parents’ bedroom. It looked and smelled the same. Floral curtains, dark furniture, the mix of her mum’s perfume and her dad’s aftershave. In the double bed, lying perfectly still, was Henry Crow. He had a bit of grey stubble which was rough on Lydia’s lips as she kissed his cheek.

  ‘Who was that man?’ Her mum was whispering and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. ‘He just sat here. On the bed. And held your dad’s hand. Was it something religious?’

  Lydia shook her head. ‘Nothing like that. Just someone I thought might be able to help. Did dad wake up at all?’

  ‘No. He’s been sleeping a lot recently.’ She tried a wan smile. ‘I think it means he’s more relaxed, more comfortable.’

  Lydia not
iced the things in the room which were different. The line of medication on her mum’s dressing table. A plastic cup of thick pink liquid with a straw. Something that looked suspiciously like a commode in one corner. It was the bedroom of a very ill person.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been helping,’ Lydia said.

  Her mum sat next to her on the bed and put an arm around her. ‘It’s all right, love. We’ve been fine.’

  Lydia rested her head on her mum’s shoulder for a moment and blinked to make sure she didn’t start crying. That wasn’t going to help. She felt the disappointment settle in her stomach like a dead weight. Mr Smith hadn’t promised he would be able to cure her father, but Lydia had still hoped.

  Her mum stood up. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Lydia turned back to her dad. His breathing was so shallow she could barely see his chest move. ‘I’ll sit here a while longer, if that’s okay.’

  Henry’s hands were outside of the covers, lying neatly on top of the duvet. Lydia adjusted her position so that she was a little more comfortable and then picked up his nearest hand and held it. Maybe there would be an improvement. Mr Smith had looked like hell, so perhaps he had managed some kind of cure. Lydia felt the hope and the fear and the urge to cry got stronger. Give me a sign, Dad, she said silently. Please wake up.

  Henry Crow opened his eyes. He blinked and then turned his head on the pillow until he was looking at Lydia. She formed a smile, squeezing his hand at the same time. She would not hope. She would not cry.

  Henry Crow frowned a little as if surprised to see her and then he said: ‘Hello, Lydia, love. It’s been a while.’

  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!

  I am busy working on the fifth book in the Crow Investigations series. If you would like to be notified when it’s published (as well as take part in giveaways and receive exclusive free content), you can sign up for my FREE readers’ club:

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  If you could spare the time, I would really appreciate a review on the retailer of your choice.

  Reviews make a huge difference to the visibility of the book, which make it more likely that I will reach more readers and be able to keep on writing. Thank you!

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  Around the world girls are being hunted…

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  Acknowledgments

  Some books are trickier than others and this one put up a bit of a fight. My eternal gratitude to Dave, Holly and James for putting up with me while I wrestled it into submission.

  I love writing books (even the tricksy ones!), and I am deeply grateful to my lovely readers for enabling me to do my dream job.

  As ever, thank you to my brilliant author pals; Clodagh Murphy, Hannah Ellis, Keris Stainton, Nadine Kirtzinger, and Sally Calder. Thank you for the support, camaraderie and understanding.

  This book was largely written during the Covid-19 pandemic and ensuing lockdown. Like everyone, I’ve been anxious and discombobulated for much of the time and, more than ever, I want to thank my friends and family for their love and support.

  On that note, special thanks must go to the internet. Thank you for the video chats, streaming content, and the ability to carry on working.

  Thank you to my editor, cover designer, early readers, and wonderful ARC team. You are all wonderful.

  In particular, thanks to Beth Farrar, Karen Heenan, Melanie Leavey, Jenni Gudgeon, Geraldyne Greenwood, Ann Martin, Caroline Nicklin, Judy Grivas, Paula Searle, Deborah Forrester, and David Wood.

  And, as always, love and thanks to my Dave.

  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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