The Night Raven
Crow Investigations: Book One
Sarah Painter
Siskin Press Limited
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
* * *
Text Copyright © 2018 by Sarah Painter
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Siskin Press Limited
Cover Design by Stuart Bache
Also by Sarah Painter
The Language of Spells
The Secrets of Ghosts
The Garden of Magic
In The Light of What We See
Beneath The Water
For Team Painter,
with all my love.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Thank you for reading!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Come, the croaking raven doth
bellow for revenge.
Hamlet, William Shakespeare
Chapter One
Lydia Crow stood on a wet pavement in London and peered through the grimy front window of The Fork cafe. Her view was obscured by dingy nets and a couple of posters which had been cheekily stuck on the glass, but she cupped hands around her eyes and put her face dangerously close to the smeared surface. It was dark inside, of course, but she could make out the shapes of tables and chairs and a counter at the back.
When Uncle Charlie had mailed her a set of keys and told her it was time she joined the Family business, Lydia had told him very firmly that she was going to do no such thing. Three months later, though, after a surveillance job that had turned out to be unpleasantly complicated, she rethought the gesture. Her boss, Karen, had just told her to take a few weeks away from Aberdeen, for the good of her own health and well-being, when Uncle Charlie had shown his usual uncanny sense of timing and called her to offer a place to stay in London. When he rang, using the mobile number she didn’t know he had, Charlie made it sound as if she would be doing him a favour. He said that he needed her help. That, more to the point, the Family needed her help. He wouldn’t give details over the phone and was almost certainly lying, but at that point Lydia no longer cared. She needed a change of scenery and didn’t have the funds to go anywhere else. Now, inhaling the familiar scent of exhaust fumes and drains, mixed with the faint tang of blood from the Camberwell market, she wondered whether she had been too hasty.
Lydia was due to meet Charlie the next day, so all she had to do was check out her new digs and acclimatise to being back in London. Not that one night was enough time for the latter. Lydia stepped away from the window and looked for another door. There wasn’t one. Some scallywag had added a spray-painted ‘ed’ to the end of the word ‘Fork’ on the faded signage, but the number of the building was the same as the tag on the set of keys. This was the right place.
‘Somewhere to stay. A little favour.’ Uncle Charlie hadn’t lied. He just hadn’t given her the full details. It was Lydia’s fault for assuming it would be a domestic residence, not a disused cafe. The building had four floors, though; maybe there was a flashy little flat with a roof garden just waiting for her up the stairs? Maybe.
Lydia pulled out her phone, still looking up at the building. ‘I don’t know anything about running a cafe,’ Lydia said when Charlie answered.
‘Lydia, sweetheart.’ Uncle Charlie’s voice was warm and, despite herself, Lydia felt a glow.
‘If this is what you need help with, I’m not your girl,’ Lydia ploughed on. ‘You said a quick favour, this is not a permanent move, just a quick visit –’
‘You need a place to stay, right?’
‘Right, but…’
‘So stay at the cafe. It’s been closed for months and there’s a flat upstairs. Open it up, don’t open it up. Makes no difference to me.’
Lydia opened her mouth to ask about rent but Charlie was still talking, his voice had the persuasive note that made him so successful in business. The tone that made some people in the Family say he could almost have been born a Silver. Although they said it very quietly, of course.
‘You’ll be doing me a favour. A legit tenant. Little start-up. Looks good on the books.’
‘I thought I was already doing you a favour. This mysterious problem you need help –’
Charlie spoke across her. ‘Not on the phone.’ And he cut the connection.
And there was the sinking feeling. Favours in her family never came for free. Lydia knew there would be something to pay down the line and, despite everyone in the Family knowing she was officially ‘out’, that something might well be illegal, but what choice did she have? At this point in time it was Uncle Charlie’s undoubtedly poisoned chalice or moving back home with her parents. The latter was the sensible option, of course. Except that it had been hard enough to leave the first time, and Lydia wasn’t sure she could do it again. Plus, she worried that a few weeks of home comforts would be some powerful motivation-sapping mojo and, instead of heading back to Aberdeen and her job, she would start joining her mother for bridge and never, ever leave. Not to mention the fact that it was bad enough that she was back from Scotland and kind of in hiding, she didn’t want to compound the embarrassment by crawling back to her childhood bedroom. She could bunk at the cafe for a few weeks, sort out Charlie’s imaginary problem, and wait out her own professional snafu until it was safe to head back to Scotland.
The black paint on the front door was peeling, but the lock was top of the line and shiny bright. Charlie must have just had it replaced and Lydia was touched. He was looking after her security, and that was a nice feeling.
The warm and fuzzies didn’t last long, however. The place was a dump. She snapped on the lights and the harsh strip bulbs revealed nicotine-yellow walls, plastic-topped tables and a floor that looked as if it was developing sentient life.
There was a counter along the back wall with a door which presumably opened onto the kitchen. Lydia knew she ought to check it out, see if she would at least have working appliances to feed herself while she worked out her next move, but she didn’t feel strong enough. Judging by the state of the front, the kitchen would be filthy. And a filthy kitchen would’ve attracted vermin. You were never far from a rat in London, Lydia knew, but she had absolutely no desire to have this confirmed with visual evidence.
A door to the left of the counter was marked with male and female symbols and a laminated sign was blue-tacked underneath. ‘Toilets are for the use of patrons only.’
Lydia had been hoping for a side-entrance to the flat above, a private access of some kind that would mean she didn’t have to come through the deserted cafe, but the price was right and it was only for a week or so. She could live with this creepy entrance for that long. Still, the dead air of the empty cafe seemed to bunch behind her as she
opened the door, like a creature coiled and ready to pounce.
There was a narrow flight of stairs covered in industrial linoleum. Framed black and white pictures of Camberwell’s past lined the walls and there were three doors leading off a small landing. Two were clearly the toilets and the third was marked ‘private’. The stairs continued up, the lino giving way to brown carpet. Lydia opened the door, clocking a bare office space. There was a desk with a boxy computer monitor that looked like a reject from the nineties with trailing wires and no keyboard. A broken metal Venetian blind at the window, its slats all bent and covered in thick dust, completed an interior design aesthetic that screamed ‘economic downturn’.
Lydia closed the door on the depressing tableau and continued up the stairs, trying not to care too much about the horrible brown carpet and musty, unused air which was wafting over her face. Karen’s offices were bright and clean and smelled of neroli oil, and Lydia’s flat in Aberdeen had an entire wall of bookshelves and oak flooring. She had sat in her living room and stared at those shelves, feeling like she had finally made it as a proper, successful adult. ‘Suck it up, buttercup,’ Lydia said out loud, trying to raise her spirits. Her voice sounded odd in the dead air making her feel even worse.
The stairs opened onto a landing with a single door. It had to be the entrance to the flat but there was nothing to indicate that this was the entrance to a separate dwelling, apart from an electric doorbell fixed to the wall. Lydia pressed it experimentally and heard it buzz inside. She tried the handle and the door swung open. No lock. Super. Lydia made a mental note to speak to Charlie about security.
Inside the flat was a short hallway and an archway leading to more stairs. One door revealed a small bathroom with a shower cubicle and white fittings, while the open door at the end led to a large living room. It had a tall sash window and an old fireplace which needed a good scrub. There was a low sofa and an IKEA folding chair leaned against one wall and that was it. Cosy. Lydia focused on the window as it was truly the best thing about the room and tried not to think too hard about the stains on the hard green carpet. After staring out at the street for as long as possible, reminding herself that there was a world outside of this musty-smelling hell hole, she felt strong enough to continue exploring.
Off the living room there was a doorway to a small galley kitchen. Braced for filth, Lydia was pleased to find it was basically bare and dusty with plain white units, stainless steel round sink and a speckled-grey, laminate worktop.
The final door led to a bedroom that was more of a cupboard with a bare single bed and small chest of drawers. Suddenly, the tiredness from her ten-hour drive hit, and she felt her resolve weaken. She felt the weight of the dead air and wanted to hear a human voice.
Her mother answered immediately. ‘Lydia? Are you all right?’
‘I’m great,’ Lydia said, taking the stairs on up. ‘I’m back down south, just wanted to let you know.’
‘Are you coming home?’ Lydia could hear the mix of hope and worry in her mum’s voice. It reminded her why she was staying in this charmless flat instead of heading home.
‘Kind of,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m staying in town.’
‘For how long?’
‘Don’t know, yet. Look, mum, I don’t want you to hear this from anyone else so –’
‘You’re pregnant?’
‘No! Mum!’
‘Sorry, sorry. But you know, it wouldn’t be so shocking.’
‘I’m staying above an old cafe. It’s a disused building.’ She had reached the landing and there were no more stairs. She was on the top floor of the building and the ceilings were lower, here, in what had probably originally been attic space or servants’ quarters.
‘You’re squatting?’ Her mum’s voice was bemused rather than out-right disapproving and Lydia felt a rush of love for her. She heard another voice in the background and her mother broke away from the conversation to say ‘it’s Lydia,’.
‘It’s nothing illegal,’ Lydia said. ‘Uncle Charlie –’
‘Tell me you’re not with Charles.’ Her mother’s voice, usually so gentle and warm, was suddenly harsh with fear.
‘I’m not with Uncle Charlie,’ Lydia said, pushing open a door. The main bedroom was directly above the living room. It had a smaller version of the window in the room below and a double bed with new sheets, pillows and a duvet all still in their plastic packaging sitting on top of the mattress. She wasn’t lying. She wasn’t with Uncle Charlie at that exact moment.
‘Oh, thank God.’ She heard her mother turn away from the phone and repeat the words for her father’s benefit. ‘She’s not with him!’
‘Sorry, darling,’ her mother said. ‘You’d never do anything like that, I know.’
‘I need a place to stay and he’s letting me kip here until I work out my next move.’
‘Well that’s ridiculous,’ her mum said. ‘You can stay here. You don’t need to be in Camberwell. It’s not safe.’
‘It’s more convenient to be in town,’ Lydia said, feeling like hell.
‘Convenient for what? You just said you don’t know what you’re doing.’
‘It’s fine,’ Lydia said, knowing what would be worrying her mum. ‘No strings. I don’t have to do anything in return. I’m doing him a favour by living here, keeping an eye on the place.’
‘The day your uncle does anything from the good of his heart will be a cold day in hell with pigs flying past the window and the dead getting up from their graves.’
‘I know,’ Lydia said, irritation breaking through. ‘I’m not an idiot.’
‘And we know that, darling. But you mustn’t try to play his game. He’ll make you think you’re carrying all the cards and then he’ll rob you blind.’
‘Uncle Charlie loves me,’ Lydia said, almost sure that was true.
‘Of course he does!’ Her mum sounded properly offended. ‘Everyone in the family loves you.’
‘Well, then,’ Lydia began, but her mum interrupted. ‘But that won’t stop him.’
Lydia had been brought up away from her extended family. Her parents had been all-too-aware of how her assorted uncles and cousins would view any kind of ability, even one as muted as Lydia’s, and they didn’t want any of them taking liberties. When Lydia had asked what they’d meant by that, they’d shaken their heads in tight-lipped unison.
‘But they’re family. Uncle Charlie is your brother,’ Lydia had said, once she’d grown into a bolshie teen.
Her dad had smiled very sadly. ‘I love my brother and Charlie is probably the best of them, but he’s a Family man first and foremost. Always has been. He’d use you as soon as blinking, just like the others.’ Then her usually mild dad had become uncharacteristically intense. ‘Don’t ever tell him what you can do, okay? He loves you but he’ll still find a way to use you and I don’t want you mixed up in all that.’
It hadn’t been an issue. Lydia, for all her curiosity, hadn’t wanted to get mixed up in Crow Family business, either. That way lay scary-looking-men and women, the various aunts and cousins, who appeared either worn-out or far scarier than their heavily-muscled husbands. She wasn’t a kid anymore, though, or a rebellious teen. She was a grown woman with a limited skill-set, cash-flow issues and a strong desire to make over her life.
She took a final look around the bedroom, deciding this was where she would sleep. She dropped her rucksack onto the bed and opened the window to let in some fresh air. It definitely had potential and, thankfully, stripped floorboards rather than manky carpet. Feeling cheered, Lydia pushed open the door across the landing and stopped. The third bedroom had a sharp, citrusy scent which was oddly familiar. There was another double bed, made up with navy-striped linen and a couple of framed film posters on the wall. On the far wall, there was a glass door with a voile curtain half-pulled across it. Lydia took a couple of steps into the room, feeling as if she was trespassing on someone’s private abode. Which was stupid. The flat was empty. The cafe had been deserted for
six months at least. Unless there was a squatter. Lydia reached into her pocket for her mobile. She didn’t want to run to Charlie for every little thing, but maybe he’d let another stray relative stay here and then forgotten to tell her. She ought to check before calling the police. Before she could look at the screen, she felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. There was someone behind her, she could feel their gaze. She forced herself to turn around, mouth already opening to scream but the room was empty. There was nobody there. The door was half open, revealing an equally person-free landing.
She was jumpy. Being back in London and alone in this deserted old wreck was playing havoc with her imagination. That was all. She turned back and shouted in surprise. There was a man standing by the wardrobe on the far side of the bed. He was wearing a boxy pale grey jacket with the sleeves rolled up. He had lightly tanned forearms, blue eyes and a lot of golden blonde hair which was shining in the light from the window.
‘Bloody hell, you scared me,’ Lydia said, her fear flipping to anger in an instant. He must have been hiding behind the bed when she walked in. ‘What are you playing at?’
The man looked as shocked as she felt, his mouth hung open and a there was a confused, frozen-look on his face. Then he said: ‘I live here. Who are you?’
There was something odd about his voice but Lydia didn’t have time to think about it. The smell of citrus was stronger, too, and she knew that was something important.
‘Lydia Crow. My uncle owns this place. He didn’t tell me about you.’
The Night Raven Page 1
