The Night Raven

by Sarah Painter

‘I’m listening,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m being a sympathetic ear.’

  Jason tilted his head to one side. ‘Is that right? You look constipated.’

  ‘Charming.’ Lydia stopped trying to force her features into a caring expression.

  Jason managed a small smile. ‘I appreciate the effort.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Lydia said.

  Jason wasn’t vibrating anymore and he looked solid and detailed with every crease on his suit jacket and bit of stubble on his jaw clearly visible. ‘I just don’t know what this means. For me.’

  ‘I could try to find out,’ Lydia said. ‘Not to force you to move on or anything, just for information.’

  ‘You taking me on as a client?’ Jason shook his head. ‘You know I can’t pay.’

  ‘You saved my life twice. You’ve got some credit.’

  Jason brightened a little more. ‘That’s true. I’m helpful. I could be your assistant.’

  ‘I don’t need an assistant,’ Lydia said, which seemed more gentle than saying ‘you’re dead’.

  ‘This is going to be great,’ Jason said and then disappeared.

  Marvellous.

  Lydia didn’t want to see Fleet at her office. It was altogether too close to her bedroom and she needed to be professional. She was staying in London and that meant Fleet had just been upgraded from fling to official police connection. She needed a good source in the Met and that meant no shagging him every time she felt the urge. No matter how beautiful his smile or deep and rumbling his voice or finely shaped his hands.

  She watched him approach along the pavement on Tower Bridge and, thankfully, the killer smile was not in evidence. He was scowling at the world as if it had personally offended him. Unfortunately, Lydia realised with a sinking heart, this didn’t make him any less attractive in her eyes. In fact, the scowl made her want him more... Damn it.

  ‘This is atmospheric,’ Fleet said by way of greeting. ‘Why not our usual? The bridge to nowhere is a damn sight closer to home.’

  ‘Things have changed.’

  ‘I know,’ Fleet said, leaning in as if to kiss Lydia’s cheek. She didn’t think she had visibly stiffened, but Fleet halted in his movement, anyway.

  ‘Sorry,’ Lydia said, feeling a bit sick. ‘I shouldn’t have... We shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Fleet said. He rolled his shoulders ‘It’s very good for tension. Stress. Circulation. Very healthy.’

  Lydia smiled, grateful to him for not making it difficult. ‘Well, you’re going to need to get your cardiovascular exercise elsewhere from now on.’

  ‘Is that right.’ Fleet leaned back, his elbows resting on the wall of the bridge. ‘And here I was, just thinking you were being dramatic.’ Behind him, the Thames stretched away and the sun dipped low in the sky. Lydia felt her stomach ache with the painful joy of being home.

  ‘So, this isn’t a social appointment?’ Fleet said after a moment of awkward silence.

  ‘Not entirely,’ Lydia replied. ‘I wanted you to know that I’ve resigned from my job in Aberdeen.’

  ‘You’re staying in London?’

  ‘For now,’ Lydia said. ‘And I wanted you to know that you won’t be having any more trouble from Madeleine Crow.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  ‘I don’t believe so, anyway,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m pretty sure.’

  ‘And I should feel good about that,’ he said. His tone was ambiguous, not quite a statement, but not quite a question either. Like he didn’t want to ask in case he got an answer.

  ‘It’s a result.’ Lydia felt him lean next to her, his arm lying next to hers on the top of the wall. She risked a glance and caught him staring at her, his eyes warm and intense. ‘Not your problem anymore.’

  He nodded once, not looking happy. ‘You haven’t asked me about Bortnik.’

  Lydia looked back at the water. There was a glow spread across the bottom of the sky. She knew that in Aberdeen it would have been spectacular, the clear light of Scotland showing a hundred shades of red and orange rather than this monotone smog-choked smear, but she loved it anyway. ‘Any news on Bortnik?’

  Fleet didn’t answer and, after a moment, Lydia risked looking at him. He was studying her. ‘No new leads,’ he said, finally.

  Lydia made sure her expression didn’t change. She didn’t want to lie to him but everything was different now that she was staying. She wasn’t part of the Family business, but she was part of the Family. She knew where her loyalty had to lie, where her own lines had to be drawn.

  ‘I want you to be safe,’ he said, finally.

  ‘I am,’ Lydia said. Then, before her brain could stop them, the words spilled out. ‘I’m not worried about Bortnik or his associates.’

  He smiled properly then, visibly relaxing. ‘Good. That’s good. We should go for a drink to celebrate.’

  Lydia thought about sitting next to this man in the dim light of a pub, maybe in a quiet corner with a scuffed table between them and a glass of something warming and relaxing igniting the glow that she felt into something which would burn bright and hot until she was utterly consumed by it. Bad idea, her brain said. Walk away, Lydia.

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘My round.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was a few days later and Lydia had come to the reluctant realisation that she couldn’t put it off any longer. An attempt had been made on the life of a Crow and if Lydia didn’t manage the situation, Charlie might. And who knew where that dark road might lead?

  Lydia flipped her gold coin, just once, for luck, and pressed the buzzer at the discreet entrance to Dean Street House. The intercom crackled and she gave her name. ‘I’m here to see Ivan.’

  ‘He’s not here,’ the female voice replied.

  ‘That’s okay, I’ll wait,’ Lydia said, sitting down on the step.

  She scrolled through her phone, occasionally pretending to take a selfie, until the door lock clicked open.

  The hall looked exactly the same as last time and Lydia wasn't surprised to see the same woman as before. Her expression suggested that she would scowl if only she still had the freedom to do so. ‘You can’t take photographs, here,’ she said. ‘Our members value their privacy.’

  Lydia didn’t waste time in pleasantries. She side-stepped the brittle woman and took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the high-pitched indignation from below.

  The stairs curved around and up, reaching a wide landing with several panelled doors. Only one was ajar, and Lydia trusted her instinct and pushed it open to reveal a comfortable sitting room decked out in classic club-style. Old leather armchairs, low tables, and thick rugs. The fireplace was laid with kindling but not lit and sheer blinds obscured the windows, hiding the outside world from the clientele or vice versa.

  ‘Gorin,’ Lydia said and a face appeared around the wing of one of the armchairs. It was a pudgy face, pale and unhealthy, and topped with the slicked-back unnaturally black hair that she associated with Mafia films.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Lydia took the chair opposite Ivan and sat down, causing him to raise his eyebrows. He had a newspaper folded on his lap with a pair of reading glasses on top and a half-tumbler of clear liquid on a side table. ‘Vodka?’ Lydia couldn’t resist asking.

  He gave her a look of pure hatred. ‘Water.’

  ‘Doctor’s orders?’

  ‘Again I ask. Who are you?’

  ‘Lydia Crow,’ Lydia said, leaning back in the chair. The thin woman arrived and Lydia stopped wondering what was taking her so long. She was flanked by two large men who looked as though they would like nothing more than to work off their lunch by beating something up.

  ‘Leave us,’ Ivan said, without looking away from Lydia.

  The woman had her mouth open, ready to apologise or explain, but she closed it and turned on her heel, trailing goons.

  ‘You tried to have Madeleine Crow killed,’ Lydia said, cutting to the chase. ‘But your man came after me by acciden
t.’

  Ivan’s eyes flickered. ‘I know nothing of this. I think, perhaps, you have me confused with somebody else.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Lydia said. ‘Don’t worry. Charlie Crow is unaware of this unfortunate mis-step and I have no intention of telling him.’

  ‘At the moment, I assume.’ Ivan tilted his head.

  ‘This isn’t a shakedown,’ Lydia said. ‘It’s a courtesy visit. I wanted you to know that Madeleine’s actions were not sanctioned by any member of the Crow Family and that Charlie Crow greatly regrets any distress caused.’

  ‘This is all very fascinating, but I fail to see what it has to do with me. I live a quiet life. I do not know these names.’

  ‘I am not acting on behalf of my family in any official capacity,’ Lydia said. ‘But I would like your word that you aren’t going to continue to seek revenge against Madeleine or any member of my family.’

  Ivan seemed determined not to speak any more than absolutely necessary and Lydia couldn’t help but admire his cool head. She hoped that making contact hadn’t been a bad move, but she was too far along to back out, now. She had made her choice.

  After an interminable pause, Ivan inclined his head. ‘I sincerely regret any inconvenience which may have been experienced.’

  Karen always said that a good investigator had to be willing to keep undesirables close. ‘Knowledge is everything in this game and that sometimes means you have to show a friendly face to the devil himself.’ Ivan wasn’t quite the devil, but he wasn’t far off, and Lydia fought the impulse to run from that stuffy room, down the stairs and far away. ‘Good,’ she said, briskly. ‘And now to the second reason for my visit.’ Lydia held out her shiny new business card, printed that morning. ‘If you ever have need of a good investigator I’m currently looking for clients.’

  Ivan took it and glanced down. ‘Crow Investigations?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Very discreet, very reasonable, very effective.’ Lydia stood up. ‘I’d be grateful if you would bear us in mind.’

  ‘You would want to work for me?’ Ivan sat forward. ‘I do not understand. Why would you do this?’

  Lydia forced a wide smile. ‘After you took out a hit on my cousin, you mean? That was personal, wasn’t it? You and I, we have no personal problems. And I want to prove that to you by treating you professionally. I don’t want any lingering doubt in your mind that there is any sort of vendetta or bad blood. That’s the kind of thing that can escalate.’ She paused. ‘You know my family. I presume you know about the other Families, too. Which means you know how important a truce can be.’

  Ivan swallowed and Lydia saw fear in his eyes. ‘I am not looking for trouble. Not with you. Not with your uncle.’

  ‘Good,’ Lydia stood up. ‘I will leave you to your morning vodka.’

  She was almost at the door when Ivan spoke again. ‘You said ‘us’. I thought you didn’t speak for your family.’

  Lydia shrugged. ‘I don’t. That doesn’t mean I’m working alone. It would be a mistake to think of me as without allies.’

  ‘This is real, then?’ He held up the card. ‘You are serious?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Lydia said, with as much confidence as she could muster. ‘Deadly.’

  * * *

  THE END

  Thank you for reading!

  I hope you enjoyed meeting Lydia Crow and her family as much as I enjoyed writing about them!

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  Acknowledgments

  As always, this book could not have been written without the loving support of my family and friends. Whether reading early drafts, encouraging me when I feel hopeless, or celebrating the small wins, you are all amazing and I am blessed to have you in my life.

  Very special thanks to Dave, Holly, and James, Keris Stainton, Clodagh Murphy, Matthew Daspher-Hughes, and Stephanie Burgis.

  Also, much love to Emma Ward for cheering me on, and letting me use her name!

  A book is always a collaboration and you would not be holding this story without the vital work of my ARC readers, cover designer, and editors. In particular: Jenni Gudgeon, David Wood, Tricia Singleton, Beth Farrar, Kerry Barrett, and Stuart Bache. Thank you, all.

  As ever, thanks to my wonderful agent Sallyanne Sweeney for providing expert guidance and support, and for being encouraging even when I insist on genre-hopping and doing random side-projects!

  Finally, a massive thank you to you, dear reader, for giving me your time and supporting my dream.

  I hope I never let you down.

  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).

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  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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