‘And you’re the one who could do something horrible to me. I know the rumours about the Crows.’
‘Then you know better than to be talking like that.’
‘I know what your family does. Which is why I’m not giving you my name. You’ll use it to look me up and then you’ll exorcise me or whatever. I know your uncle probably sent you here on clean-up duty.’
Lydia was silent while she turned this over. It was possible that Charlie had given her a haunted building as a test. To make her slip up and reveal a power to him, perhaps. ‘Does he know about you?’
‘What?’ The ghost looked confused. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You said nobody had seen you before, I was just wondering-’
‘He didn’t seem to see me, but maybe he was faking.’
‘Possible,’ Lydia said. ‘He is tricky like that.’
There was a short silence as Lydia weighed up how much to reveal. This was a stranger, but he wasn’t really real. He was a spirit and would probably disappear at any moment. ‘Thing is,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m not really a Crow. I’m part of the Family by blood, but I’m ‘out’.’
He looked sceptical.
‘Honestly,’ Lydia said. ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m not here to get rid of you or to do anything. I’m just staying for a couple of weeks and then I’ll be out of your hair. No fuss no muss.’
‘But you’re some kind of investigator. You’re doing a job for your uncle.’
‘Look,’ her patience disappeared. ‘I was brought up outside the Family and even if I were part of the organisation I would be a very small part. Minuscule.’
‘Yeah, but the Crows... I mean, it’s The Crow Family. I’m not stupid, not everyone listens to the stories, but I always have. I know stuff.’
‘The Crows are Big Bads, yes. Illegal back in the day and possibly still dodgy… They are powerful, yes. But I’m not.’ Lydia sat on the bed. ‘As far as Charlie is concerned I have no power at all. Nothing. I’m an anomaly. A genetic mistake.’
He frowned, the expression making him look more alive than ever. ‘Is that true?’
‘God’s honest,’ Lydia said. And, sadly, it was. Mostly. Truth was, she was pretty lame. Her power went as far as sensing power in others. Lydia could tell if they had a little in their family history, like the gleam she had seen around Detective Chief Inspector Fleet, or if they were the fully-loaded real deal. If a person’s power was strong enough, she could pick-up on its particulars and feel if they were silver-tongued or pearly, but mainly she got a blunt ‘yes or no’. She was like the security gate at the airport, beeping when somebody was packing magic. She was an appliance. In magical terms, she was basically a toaster. Now she was depressed.
‘Oh,’ he crossed the threshold into the room and then stopped again. Unsure. ‘You’re really not here to kill me?’
Lydia thought about pointing out the obvious flaw in that statement but instead she just shook her head. ‘I promise. Have you been here long?’
He hesitated, then said: ‘Thirty-five years.’
‘Bloody hell.’ He had died in the early eighties. That explained the awful suit. ‘Did it happen here?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you trying to work out what is keeping me here? Trying to give me closure?’
‘No,’ Lydia said, failing to suppress a small sigh. ‘I was trying to make conversation. I can stop if you like.’
He didn’t reply. After a moment, Lydia decided to ignore him back. She scooted back against her pillows and picked up her book.
‘It was our wedding breakfast.’
Lydia looked up. ‘At The Fork?’
‘Yes,’ he looked defensive. ‘It was nicer, then. And it was where we had our first date so...’
‘That’s really lovely,’ Lydia said quickly. ‘Romantic.’
‘It was,’ he said. ‘Everyone came back after the church. The owner let us have the whole place and we decorated it with balloons and stuff. We had fancy drink and Amy’s mother brought a trifle. The Fork laid on a buffet but she insisted, said it wasn’t a party otherwise. And we had Babycham and Snowballs. The real ones, not knock-offs.’
‘Very nice,’ Lydia said.
‘I’ll let you get back to your reading,’ he said, suddenly stiffening up, as if realising that he had been sharing too much.
‘You don’t have to go.’ Lydia began, but he had already turned away. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to his back, knowing that it was insufficient in the circumstances.
He paused and spoke without turning. ‘Jason.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Lydia said. ‘Sleep tight, Jason.’
* * *
Lydia had received a message from Emma simply saying ‘yes’ when she had texted to ask if she was safely home and then nothing. Lydia couldn’t stop seeing her friend’s expression, the confusion which had been replaced with poorly concealed fear. Now, Emma wasn’t answering her phone. Lydia had left a message on the land line answering machine, a voicemail on Emma’s mobile and sent three light-hearted texts with jaunty emojis. Nothing.
* * *
Needing both the distraction of getting out of the flat and some food, Lydia headed to the nearest Tesco Metro, giving the Pearlie grocery shop a wide-berth. She was thoughtfully squeezing an avocado when her mobile rang. It was Fleet and his voice was as deadpan as usual. ‘We need to talk.’
‘Fire away,’ Lydia said putting down the fruit.
‘Best if we do this in person,’ Fleet said. ‘I’m in the area right now.’
That wasn’t a good sign. Lydia stuffed down her sense of foreboding and finished her grocery shopping. She put lasagne, ready-washed salad, apples, milk, a bottle of bourbon and a gigantic bag of salt and vinegar crisps into her basket and headed to the check-out.
The supermarket was only two streets away from the cafe so Lydia was surprised to find Fleet parked outside and leaning against his car, waiting. He must have been ‘right outside’ not just ‘in the area.’
‘Another house call, DCI Fleet? I’m honoured.’ Lydia was trying very hard not to notice how good he looked. He was wearing a sharply cut three-piece suit, in a dark blue-ish grey with a slate-coloured shirt and burgundy tie. Combined with his height and wide shoulders, it made him look more like a fashion spread for GQ than a copper. Lydia licked her lips and tried not to wonder just how much muscle definition one would find underneath all that excellent tailoring.
He tilted his head. The smile that suggested so much more than professional courtesy was back and Lydia wondered if it was just for her. He didn’t give the impression of being a habitual flirt, but Lydia didn’t trust her instincts when it came to men. ‘Call me Ignatius.’
‘Why? Is this another social visit?’
He held out a large hand, palm face down and moved it to indicate ‘so so’. He straightened up and nodded at the cafe. ‘Shall we?’
Lydia unlocked the front door and tried to lead Fleet straight upstairs. Instead of following, he stood stock-still in the middle of the cafe. ‘You’ve been busy.’
‘Not me,’ Lydia said, shifting her shopping from one hand to the other to give her arm a rest. Fleet dived forward, hand outstretched. ‘Sorry. Let me.’
‘That’s okay,’ Lydia said, taking a step back and almost losing her balance.
Fleet immediately went still. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
Lydia, for no reason she could account for, suddenly felt like crying. ‘You didn’t,’ she managed to say after a moment.
The gleam that she’d caught on him before was back. It licked around his outline and Lydia had to concentrate hard to ignore it. She covered her embarrassment by saying ‘Ignatius? What kind of a name is that?’
‘Pain in the arse kind.’
The tension eased and Lydia managed a smile. ‘Come on up,’ she said and took the stairs. Lydia pushed open the door to the living room, hoping to find it empty. A quick look around confirmed that Jason wasn’t levitating
by the window or anything awkward.
‘Take a seat, I’ll just put this away.’
Lydia stowed the milk, salad and lasagne in the fridge and left the rest of the bag on the counter in the tiny kitchen. She flicked the switch on the kettle and went to the living room to face Fleet.
He was standing in the bay window, looking down at the street outside. The sun decided to come out at that moment and lit up his face.
‘I can do tea or coffee, but it’s instant. The coffee, not the tea. The tea is teabags.’ Lydia pressed her lips together to stop any more words from spilling out. Fleet looked impossibly large in this room and she was regretting bringing him up. She had thought to keep him away from Charlie’s cafe, but now she wondered if this was worse. Letting him behind the curtain, so to speak. It was all very well for Charlie to say ‘don’t go to the cops’ but what did you do when they came to you? And then stood in your bare and sad temporary living space making everything look even uglier in comparison.
‘Nothing for me, thanks,’ Fleet said. He had his hands behind his back. ‘I’ll do the work bit, first.’
‘All right,’ Lydia said. ‘Have a seat.’
Fleet sat in the middle of the sofa, his arms resting on his knees, hands clasped. He looked serious and Lydia felt a thrill of fear.
‘John Smith is dead.’
‘What?’ Lydia felt her legs go wobbly. There wasn’t another chair so she sank to the floor and sat cross-legged.
‘He went into cardiac arrest late last night.’
‘But he was awake, wasn’t he? I thought you spoke to him?’
Fleet shook his head. ‘Only briefly and not for a while. He landed feet first, which was consistent with the pattern of his injuries. Turns out the impact to his head must have been worse than first thought. The swelling in his brain was so bad they had to induce a coma for twenty-four hours. They were trying to bring him out of it yesterday and, from what I can gather — lot of medical jargon and not a lot of straight-talking — but they seemed to think his state of unconsciousness was getting lighter. He had started to respond to motor stimulation.’
‘He was coming round?’
‘Apparently. Although nothing was for sure, of course.’
‘And then he just died?’ Lydia wondered if Jason was around, listening, and how he felt about committing manslaughter. She remembered John Smith’s dead-eye look and hoped he felt just fine.
‘Smith was breathing unaided, but he was in the ICU and hooked up to monitors. The alarm sounded at 1.27am and by 1.56 he was pronounced. The post-mortem should be today or tomorrow and that will shed some light.’ He paused. ‘Interestingly, there was a gap in the CCTV footage just before the alarm went off.’
Lydia commanded her face not to react.
Fleet didn’t say anything for a few moments, just looked at her as if he was waiting for her to say something that he already knew. It was an excellent technique and expertly applied. Lydia had been on a course on interrogation and she brought the voice of the trainer to mind: ‘Leave spaces for your interviewee to fill.’ Well, Fleet was certainly doing that. Two could play at that game and Lydia pressed her lips together. Was it her imagination or were his eyes getting warmer? Were his pupils dilating? Was he interrogating her or looking lustful. She felt her face flush at this thought. To cover her confusion, she went on the offensive. ‘Are you any closer to an ID? It’s been days.’
Fleet shook his head. ‘Nobody has been in touch, nobody visited him...’ A beat. ‘That we are aware of, anyway. Do you still think the attack was specifically targeted at you because of your family name?’
Lydia took her time before answering. He could spring questions on her all he liked, she wasn’t just a trained investigator, she had grown up with Henry Crow for a father. A cop, even a good cop with distracting sex appeal on his side, couldn’t compete. ‘I’m not sure,’ Lydia said, finally. ‘As I said when I spoke to you before, it was just a feeling. Could be born of the panic of the situation. I just thought I should pass on all of my impressions.’ She widened her eyes a little. ‘Full disclosure.’
‘Is that so,’ Fleet said, a smile threatening to break through.
‘So are you treating Smith’s death as suspicious?’
‘I’m treating everything about that man as suspicious,’ Fleet said. ‘There is something not right, there. The gap in the CCTV is suspicious, too, of course. We’re looking into how that could happen.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘Sorry?’
The chances of Mr Carter tracking her to London for his little grudge match were practically non-existent and, while Lydia knew she was more than capable of pissing people off, she hadn’t been in town long enough. Which meant John Smith had been sent by somebody else. Maybe a Fox-shaped somebody. She hadn’t sensed any of the Families at the time, but it was possible she had been too frightened. ‘John Smith. Can I see him?’
‘You are the victim in an ongoing investigation, I’m not sure that’s wise.’
‘Maybe I could identify him.’ Or maybe sense some magic like the good little machine she was.
Fleet’s eyes narrowed. ‘You said you didn’t know him.’
‘I don’t think so, but it was super-scary.’ Lydia shrugged. ‘I know you’re probably used to having your life threatened all the time, Fleet, but I’m not. I could barely see anything I was so scared. Maybe I was wrong.’
He paused. ‘Leave it with me.’
‘Great.’ Too late, Lydia realised that she probably sounded too enthusiastic. Fleet would, if he hadn’t already, come to the same conclusion as most people that she was an oddball. ‘What was the personal reason?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said this visit was fifty-fifty.’ Lydia tried to ignore the way her heart had sped up.
‘There can’t be a personal reason,’ Fleet said. ‘Not officially.’ He looked at her significantly, as if wishing he could say more.
‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘You are the victim in an ongoing investigation. It is inappropriate for there to be any kind of personal contact between myself, the SIO on the case, and you. The victim.’
‘Could you stop saying that?’
‘What?’
‘Victim.’
Fleet looked uncertain for the first time. ‘Oh, right. Sorry. Yes.’
‘So the personal business you wanted to discuss was the lack of personal business.’
‘Yes,’ Fleet said. ‘I thought it was best to clear that up.’
‘And you think that is what you’re doing right now?’ Lydia crossed her arms. ‘Making things clearer?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing. I just thought I should say something... After I came round the other night. That was inappropriate. I don’t know what I was thinking. I apologise.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Lydia said. She felt a wave of something which felt like exhaustion. A moment later she identified it. Disappointment. He was a copper and was just making sure he hadn’t stepped outside the rulebook. Or, more to the point, that she wouldn’t make trouble for him for stepping outside the rulebook.
Fleet was at the door, now, making to leave.
‘Close the front door firmly,’ she said, formally releasing him from the suddenly awkward conversation.
‘You should use the deadbolt.’
‘Thank you for the advice,’ Lydia said.
‘Right. I’ll go, then.’ He nodded as if deciding something and then left.
Lydia listened to his footsteps on the stairs and, without thinking it through, found herself following. ‘Fleet?’
He stopped, looking back up at her from halfway down the steps.
‘Was the gap in the CCTV a clean jump-cut? Something edited out after the event?’ Although why someone with that kind of access wouldn’t just wipe the whole thing, Lydia didn’t know.
For a moment Lydia wasn’t sure if he was going to respond, but then he said: ‘The footage we
nt fuzzy for five minutes before the alarms went off. Like there was electrical interference or something.’
Charlie. Damn it.
Chapter Ten
The mortuary was in a modern annex at the back of the main hospital building. Lydia had never been into one, although she figured that she had seen enough death on television and film to know what to expect. Those creepy body drawers. Some rookie police officer throwing up in the corner. A creepy, over-enthusiastic technician.
Getting out of her ancient Volvo and ringing the buzzer on the nondescript doorway, a small NHS sign with the words ‘Mortuary Services’ the only indication that she was in the right place, Lydia felt the first stirrings of trepidation. She knew, logically, that there was no more reason for her to meet spirits in this place than any other – people had died, in great numbers, everywhere. Especially somewhere as highly populated and old as London. But still, there was nothing like slapping yourself in the face with mortality to bring on the superstitions.
The door opened. Instead of a technician or receptionist, it was Fleet. He was wearing a suit and had his wool coat draped over one arm. ‘Right on time,’ he said. ‘You up for this?’
Lydia nodded. She was suddenly keenly aware of her family name. She couldn’t faint or get sick. She was Lydia Crow and the Crows did not flinch.
Inside, there was a small waiting room with padded chairs and a coffee table stacked with magazines. It was warm and there was a vase of fresh flowers on the reception desk and a board pinned with thank you cards in muted colours and adverts for local funeral homes.
They were met by a woman in green scrubs with a plastic apron over the top. ‘This is Felicity Syed,’ Fleet said. ‘Felicity, this is Lydia Crow. Is it all right if she takes a look?’
Lydia didn’t know whether to offer to shake hands but the moment passed and they were heading down an anonymous institutional corridor. And then, through a set of doors with a keypad lock, and into a gleaming white room which was suddenly cool after the warmth of the public area. Lydia’s brain was trying to keep up with the surreal sight of four stainless steel tables, each with drainage holes and lights above.
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