‘Here we go.’ Felicity led them to the only occupied table. There was the shape of a body underneath a sheet and, for a split second, Lydia thought that she might just bail.
Felicity folded the sheet upwards, exposing feet, then legs and a torso and, eventually, a head. It was the man from her first night at The Fork. Lydia recognised him instantly, while her brain insisted that it wasn’t a human being she was looking at. It wasn’t a person, just a humanoid shape or a waxwork dummy. There was a smell, though, tickling the back of her nose and throat. Something meaty underneath the tang of disinfectant and ethanol.
‘You recognise him?’
‘Yes,’ Lydia managed.
‘You know who he is? A name?’
‘No,’ Lydia said. Under the sheet, the man was almost-naked. A green gown had been tucked around his mid-section, hiding his thighs, groin and lower abdomen. It looked grotesque, like he had wrapped a towel around himself after stepping from the shower. At the same time, Lydia was very glad he wasn’t completely naked. His torso had several tattoos, all in black ink. Two eight-pointed stars, one below each collar bone, looked more rustic than the intricate image of Prometheus chained to a rock with the sea and a sailing boat in the background which covered his chest and stomach. There was a curling design around one wrist and Lydia leaned closer to see if there were letters in the pattern or whether it was familiar. The tattoos meant nothing to Lydia. She searched her mind, rifling through the family lore, magical incantations and gossip, the symbols associated with the four families, and the names of all her clients back in Aberdeen. Nothing.
Fleet was watching her intently. ‘We’ve identified him as Artur Bortnik.’
‘He’s Russian?’
‘You’re surprised.’
‘He didn’t sound Russian. I would have told you if he’d sounded Russian.’ Lydia looked at the man’s feet. There was a small tattoo on his left foot. Another star. ‘How did you know?’
‘These,’ Fleet pointed out the eight-pointed stars on the shoulders, ‘indicate a professional criminal according to Russian prison tradition.’
‘What about this?’ Lydia pointed at the Greek mythology.
‘The chains and ship are probably meant to signal that he can or has escaped prison and that he is willing to travel for his work.’
Lydia couldn’t stop staring at Bortnik. ‘Why did you let me in here if you’ve already identified him?’
‘We got a match through Interpol. Bortnik is a known associate of the Bratva. Don’t know how deep he is connected, but he has been observed in the presence of some low-level members which was enough to win him a place in the database.’ Fleet dipped his chin, regarding her with brown eyes which were both concerned and suspicious. ‘I wanted to check if this,’ he indicated the dead Russian, ‘would jog your memory at all.’
‘No,’ Lydia said. ‘If I could remember anything else I would tell you.’
‘And you can’t think of any reason why the Bratva would know you?’
‘I have no connections to the Russian Mafia,’ Lydia said. The words were ridiculous. She had never even been to Russia.
‘He’s in pretty good shape, considering.’ Fleet was mercifully no longer eye-balling her and had turned to the body. ‘His top half, anyway.’
Lydia kept her lips tightly clamped. Suddenly the urge to throw up had become very insistent and she could feel prickles of sweat breaking out across her forehead and the back of her neck.
Felicity, who had been standing at a discreet distance and studying something on a tablet, stepped forward and pulled the sheet back over the Russian’s torso and head. ‘You need to sit down?’
Lydia gave a small head shake. Her hearing had gone echoey and strange and there was darkness crowding around the edges of the room.
‘Sit,’ Felicity said, steering Lydia to a chair. She put a hand on the back of Lydia head and pushed. ‘Head down.’
Within moments, Lydia’s hearing returned to normal. She sat up.
‘Slowly,’ Felicity said.
‘This must happen all the time,’ Lydia said, feeling like an idiot.
‘Come on,’ Fleet said, looking guilty. ‘I’ll buy you lunch.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Lydia said, but she was grateful for the excuse to leave the hospital.
* * *
The cafe had red awnings and bistro tables on the pavement outside. The part of Lydia that wasn’t still feeling sick was curious as to what kind of cafe the enigmatic copper would favour. She was pleased that it was a traditional Italian joint with decent coffee and a non-pretentious, non-annoying menu. Inside there were wooden beams on the low ceiling and an assortment of attractive bric-a-brac on shelves like rusting metal weighing scales, old glass bottles, and creamy plaster cherubs.
At a cosy table in a quiet corner, with her back to the wall and a good view of the place, Lydia felt some of the knots in her shoulders and neck ease. She couldn’t keep walking around with this much tension, she knew, and the sight of her attacker laid out on the metal table ought to have been a relief. He couldn’t come after her again. She was safe. The words rang hollow.
Fleet returned from the counter with a couple of menus and two glasses of water.
‘You’re frowning again.’
‘Thinking,’ Lydia said, remembering what Jason had said about her being scary and trying to smooth out her expression.
‘I figured.’ Fleet turned his attention to the menu and Lydia took the opportunity to look at him, unobserved for a moment.
The problem she realised, was that knowing one man was dead did not help as she didn’t know who he was or what he wanted. If he was a one-off nut job, fine. She was safe. But finding out he was a professional was far worse. ‘You said the stars indicated a professional criminal.’
Fleet looked up. ‘They were done in prison. A tradition to sort out the hierarchy inside.’
‘I thought they looked more home-made than the others.’
‘There were more on his back, too. A knife dripping blood.’
Lydia’s mouth had gone dry but she forced out a single word. ‘Charming.’
‘More code. It indicates a killer for hire. The number of drops of blood are the number of hits already performed.’
‘Performed,’ Lydia echoed. She felt utterly nauseated, now. A professional hit man had to have been sent by somebody. Who the hell could hate her that much, already?
Fleet tapped her menu. ‘You know what you want?’
Lydia turned her attention to the laminated sheet. Her appetite was nowhere to be seen. Lydia considered her strong stomach a point of pride, but she couldn’t fake it. ‘I’m not hungry. Which is weird because I’m always hungry. Always.’
‘It’s okay,’ Fleet said. ‘How about the parmigiana? The garlic focaccia is really good here.’
Lydia nodded, trying the fact that her stomach had just taken a dive for the floor. ‘And a coke.’ Perhaps the sugar would sort her out.
Fleet went to order at the counter and Lydia tried to focus on the exceptional rear view of DCI Fleet rather than the churning shock and fear. A hit man. A hit. Somebody ordering her death like they were choosing an option on a menu. ‘Some garlic focaccia and end Lydia’s life, please.’ Just like that. Her mouth filled with saliva and she focused on DCI Fleet instead, watching him walk back across the cafe.
Of course, focusing on Fleet only led to another problem. He wasn’t going to have anything to do with her because she was part of an on-going investigation. Plus, and this thought had come rather slowly, he was a copper and she was a Crow. She might be a poor excuse for one, but it still counted.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Fleet said, putting down their drinks and a wooden spoon with a table number on it.
‘Don’t tell me they’ve run out of the focaccia.’ Lydia put a hand to her chest in mock horror.
‘No,’ his lips lifted into a quick smile. ‘I shouldn’t have shown you Bortnik.’
‘It’s okay. It was
good to be sure.’ Lydia didn’t realise the truth of the words until they left her mouth.
He nodded, like he understood. ‘He can’t come after you again.’
‘I just wish I knew whether he was working for someone else. Or what he wanted with me.’
Fleet leaned back but he was watching her carefully. ‘You really don’t know anything?’
‘I really don’t,’ Lydia said, concentrating on the task of pouring cola into a glass. ‘I’ll ask my boss at the agency, but I’ve tried to think of any possible Russian connections to any of the jobs that I worked and there’s nothing. And I’ve never had anything to do with the Bratva. Which is not something I expected to have to state.’
‘He had very low-level connections years ago. He’s not necessarily part of the organisation, now. He’s over here, for starters. And has clearly been travelling for his work. I think it’s more likely that he’s just a contractor. Work for hire.’
‘Just,’ Lydia said. ‘That’s not as comforting as you might think.’
‘What about since you came home? Can you think of anything that might have sparked this?’
Lydia thought about correcting him. Camberwell wasn’t home, not for her. She had been brought up in the leafy suburbs, never feeling like she fitted in and resentful of the city-life and the magical family she was missing. Then she’d moved around, always looking for somewhere which felt like home and never finding it. ‘I had literally just arrived,’ she said instead. ‘I hadn’t had time to get into any trouble.’
Fleet nodded but his face told a different story.
‘What?’ Lydia said. ‘Spit it out.’
‘Your family.’
‘I told you before, I don’t have anything to do with the Crow Family. I’m a lame duck. A spare part.’
He frowned. ‘Except you are living above The Fork. That’s been in the Crow Family since I was a kid. And your uncle –’
‘My uncle is just my uncle. The cafe isn’t open. I’m staying for a couple of weeks. That’s it. All there is to it.’ Lydia wondered if the Silver Family were right and words were magic. She wondered if she kept on saying it, she could make it true.
‘I’m going to ask a couple of uniforms to keep an eye on your place.’ Fleet took a tip of his espresso.
Lydia opened her mouth to tell him not to do her any special favours, that she was completely fine and a Crow, which gave her all the protection she would ever need.
‘It’s not negotiable, so don’t even try,’ Fleet said, glaring at her over the rim of his coffee cup.
‘Thank you,’ Lydia said and watched his smile break out like sunshine.
Chapter Eleven
Lydia woke up in the plain bedroom and drank the lukewarm can of cola she had left by her bed the night before. Daylight was slanting through the gap in the thin curtains, slicing a hot white line across the duvet. The breakfast cola and lack of décor was depressing and Lydia found herself wondering whether she ought to buy a lamp for the room. She grabbed her phone from the floor and checked her messages and Maddie’s social media accounts, before the madness could fully take hold. There was no need to beautify the room because she wasn’t going to be staying. She would be back in her own home before she knew it.
Emma had responded, finally, to her text messages. Not via SMS but on WhatsApp. A picture of Emma’s kitchen table covered in rainbow-striped paper plates overflowing with fairy cakes and sandwiches, toys, popped balloons, and scrunched-up paper napkins covered in unidentifiable food gunk.
Lydia typed. ‘Shit. I’ve missed a birthday, haven’t I? Sorry for being such a crap friend.’
She hesitated. Was it better or worse to admit that she had no idea whether it was Archie or Maisie’s birthday she had missed? Then typed: ‘Will make it up to both of you. Promise.’
* * *
Charlie was watching Madeleine’s credit card accounts and the GPS on her phone in case anything pinged. Nothing. Lydia lay back and stared at the ceiling while she thought. Where would a rich girl go without using her cards or withdrawing cash? To a friend or boyfriend. Of course, Madeleine could be using a fake identity if she’d worked out a whole escape plan in advance. She had the funds for good documents and she was a Crow which meant she had the contacts, too. Even Lydia, having been brought up in a safe suburbia, officially ‘out’ of the business, knew that the best forger worked out the back of a launderette on Well Street.
Which naturally led to the perplexing question of ‘why’. Maddie lived a charmed life. Doted-on Crow daughter, shiny-looking friends with expensive handbags and manicured nails, more money than any nineteen year old should have, and a job in her profession of choice. There were three areas to look into. Verity from the email who was ‘sorry about how things worked out’, Paul Fox and his bloody animal magnetism, and Minty PR.
Lydia hauled herself upright and pulled on yesterday’s clothes. Once she had coffee she sat cross-legged on the sofa and opened her laptop. Verity had used a gmail account, not a work one, but the tone of the email suggested work colleague or acquaintance rather than friend.
Next, she made an appointment to see the boss at Minty PR. She knew the next logical step was to get in touch with Paul Fox but she no longer had his mobile number and knew that even if she had, it would almost certainly have changed. Lydia drained her coffee while pretending she wasn’t relieved about this. She was still going to have to find the man and speak to him. It was a stay of execution, not a total reprieve.
Lydia flexed her fingers and held them poised about the keyboard, ready to begin the Fox hunt when the door buzzed. Lydia froze. Then she forced herself to relax. Angel was downstairs in the café and had probably come up to ask her something. Or it was Uncle Charlie. Nobody else knew she was here and would have come straight up to the flat.
Wishing she had a spyhole or a safety chain, Lydia opened the door.
The Fox brother from the night outside the club was stood on her landing. ‘Paul wants to see you.’
‘That’s handy,’ Lydia said. She slipped a hand into her jacket pocket and closed her fingers around the can of illegal Mace she kept there.
‘War Museum. Half an hour.’
He turned and walked down the stairs and Lydia watched him go before retreating inside and slamming her door. She took several deep breaths and then went downstairs to politely request that Angel didn’t send random people up to her flat.
She found Angel sitting in one of the tables by the front window drinking a glass of orange juice and reading on a tablet.
‘Opening this weekend,’ Angel said, without looking up. ‘Fair warning.’
‘See that door,’ Lydia waited until Angel raised her gaze and then pointed at the one she had just come through. ‘Don’t let people through it.’
Angel tilted her head without smiling. ‘It’s the customer toilets.’
‘Right.’ Lydia closed her eyes for a moment. Bloody Uncle Charlie and his café. ‘That guy who just came up. He wasn’t a customer. We’re not even open, yet.’
‘What guy?’
‘Never mind.’ Lydia gave up and went to get ready for her meeting. She would just have to get a better door for the flat, with a security chain and a deadbolt. And maybe a crossbow, too.
* * *
The sun was shining on the two battleship gun barrels which dominated the entrance to the museum and there were several visitors posing in front of them, smiling for their phone cameras. Lydia spotted Paul Fox immediately, a little off to one side, his back turned to her in a display of studied unconcern. He appeared to be alone but that didn’t mean anything; Foxes were excellent at hiding.
Lydia walked up the middle of the wide gravel path. She wanted Paul to see that she was alone and that there was no need for panic. She wanted him to know that she had understand the unsubtle message coded in his choice of location.
Paul Fox turned when she was about ten feet away, smiling at her like she was dessert. He looked just as incredible as Lydia remembere
d and was wearing a fitted black T-shirt and black jeans. It was the exact outfit she had last seen him in five years ago and she knew that was no accident.
‘Lydia Crow in the flesh. I heard you had flown back to the nest.’
‘Not as such,’ Lydia said.
Paul continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I didn’t really believe it. You said you were done with London.’ He waved a hand. ‘Where was it you flew off, too? Siberia?’
‘Scotland,’ Lydia said.
Paul smiled. ‘Well, you look good. Moving away was obviously the right thing. Makes me wonder why you’d do something as stupid as come back.’
Lydia relaxed. Hostility she could deal with. ‘Did you want to go inside? Brush up on your history?’
Paul’s smile grew wider. He nodded toward the green space of the park. ‘Thought we could take a seat in the fresh air.’ He drew a flat metal flask out of his back pocket. ‘Have a nip of this while we catch up.’
Lydia shook her head. ‘Bit early for me.’
‘You never used to be so cautious.’
‘Older and wiser,’ Lydia said.
‘So,’ Paul took a swig from the flask and then put it away. ‘I assume you were sniffing around my club looking for the pleasure of my company. Feeling nostalgic?’
‘Madeleine Crow.’ Lydia had considered the subtle approach but faced with Paul Fox’s smug face, she had thrown that out of the window. She watched him carefully. Not to see if he was lying, that was a given, but to look for the kernel of truth or the important lie which might lead Lydia somewhere useful.
‘I bought you something,’ Paul said. ‘A welcome-home gift. It’s being delivered to your place right now.’
Lydia wanted to ask how he and his family knew where ‘her place’ was, but she clamped her lips together. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
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