The Silver Mark

by Sarah Painter

  ‘Sorry,’ Lydia said. ‘You’re busy.’

  ‘I’ve got time,’ Jason said. He capped the Sharpie and shoved it into the pocket of his grey suit jacket. It was such a natural action that Lydia found it hard to believe he hadn’t, miraculously, come back from the dead. Then he motioned for her to sit down and the illusion evaporated. Jason often looked fully corporeal these days, giving weight to their theory that Lydia was somehow amplifying whatever energy kept his essence together and functioning in spirit form, but it was a state that could shift in an instant. Either when he moved quickly and there was a strange blurring around the too-smooth or too-jerky motion. Or sometimes when Lydia had been out of the house for an extended period, on surveillance or visiting her parents, and he acquired a very slight translucency in direct light.

  ‘Any idea what a business analyst does? At a firm like Sheridan Fisher?’

  Jason frowned. ‘Not really. Why?’

  Lydia told him about Robert Sharp. ‘I’m just wondering about motive.’

  ‘We’ve got a murder case? That’s huge.’

  ‘Not officially. But I’m going to work it. Good practice.’

  ‘Is that all? Just practice?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Jason’s gaze kept straying to the wall and Lydia could see he was itching to get back to his beloved calculations.

  ‘What are you working on?’

  ‘Just a new proof.’ Thankfully, Jason had given up trying to explain his research in detail to Lydia.

  ‘Is it going well?’

  ‘Too soon to say,’ Jason’s eyes were shining as he spoke. ‘I just-’ He stopped for a moment and, if he had been alive, he would have probably taken a deep breath. Instead he just paused, motionless for a couple of seconds. The words which followed came out in a rush. ‘I’ve had so much time to think. I’ve been running proofs and ideas in my mind for years but it was so slow. Not being able to write things down. To pin the thoughts down in a concrete way. I’ve always needed to see things written down, described visually, and now I can. It’s just incredible.’

  ‘I’m happy for you,’ Lydia said.

  ‘I mean, think about it… I have this unique perspective on reality and time,’ Jason waved his hands. ‘Who knows what I will be able to work out. Maybe I could discover something truly ground-breaking?’

  Lydia wasn’t sure what to say in the face of such unbridled enthusiasm. It made her slightly uncomfortable and, something worse, a little bit jealous. Lydia realised something important. She didn’t just need to work the Sharp case for practice or even for business-development purposes. She needed some more enthusiasm, more passion, in her world. When the dead guy in your house is living a better life than you, she thought, it is time to seriously up your game.

  Chapter Three

  Sunday was the day that Lydia visited her parents, without fail. If she wasn’t doing a surveillance job, of course. Or had been up too late the night before drinking shots and listening to Jason talk about the Fibonacci sequence. Or when she couldn’t face it.

  She was due at midday, sharp, but her phone rang at eleven. ‘It’s too hot in the house,’ Lydia’s mother said. ‘We can’t breathe.’ Then, mutinously, ‘I’m not doing a roast.’

  Lydia tamped down the urge to cancel. ‘Park? We could find a shady spot.’

  She met her parents on the way to Kelsey Park, just around the corner from a quiet side street where she’d found a perfect parking spot. She would be able to make a fast getaway after lunch, at least.

  ‘Lydia!’ Her father recognised her and drew her in for a quick, hard hug.

  ‘This isn’t natural,’ her mother said, indicating the road. ‘The tarmac is melting. It’s like the seventies all over again.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful day,’ Henry said. He looped his arms around both of their shoulders. ‘A picnic with my two favourite girls.’

  ‘Women,’ Lydia corrected, and received an evil look from her mother in payment for her feminism.

  When they got to the local park, it appeared that everybody else in Beckenham had the same idea. The dead grass was covered with people and picnic blankets, with every demographic represented. Families with small children, entwined couples, loners wearing headphones, and groups of teens laughing loudly and calling to each other. The areas underneath the spreading branches of the trees were packed solid as so many people sought the cool shade.

  Lydia’s father walked blithely onward, heading straight into the crowd of lounging bodies as if they were no more than the waters of the Red Sea and he expected them to part for him. Which is exactly what they did. Lydia hung back and watched as people rolled out of the way of Henry Crow’s feet, some scrambling to their feet and gathering bags and hats and small children to make way. Henry didn’t glance at them, seemed no more aware of them than he was of the sky or the grass. He just moved through the rapidly thinning crowd to the base of a tree where he turned and sat, leaning against the trunk. Lydia’s mother was right behind him and she had already put down her bags and begun to spread out a blanket on the ground when Lydia caught up.

  As always, Henry’s mental acuity seemed to have degraded in the short time they had spent together. He shaded his eyes with one hand and peered up at Lydia, suddenly uncertain. ‘I think I know you, don’t I?’

  ‘I would hope so, Dad,’ Lydia said, smiling to show that everything was fine, even while her heart twisted.

  ‘Lydia, darling,’ her mother’s voice was a touch louder than usual, and Lydia knew she had used her name deliberately, ‘would you like ham or cheese?’

  ‘Cheese,’ Lydia took the clingfilmed roll her mother was holding out and sat down.

  Her dad accepted a ham roll but began picking bits off and putting them onto the grass.

  ‘What are you doing? I’ll take it if you don’t want it,’ Lydia’s mum held out her hand. She avoided Lydia’s eye. Embarrassed.

  ‘Sorry, love.’ Henry obediently took a bite and chewed while Lydia tried to make conversation to cover the sudden awkwardness, the pall that Henry’s worsening health cast over their small party.

  A small dog was running around in wildly excited circles with a boy of about eight or nine. Lydia focused on the happy sounds. ‘They’re both going to get dizzy,’ she said and her mum rewarded her with a small, grateful smile.

  ‘You’re family, aren’t you?’ Her dad was frowning at her. He looked angry but Lydia could feel his fear.

  She shifted on the grass in order to get her hand into the back pocket of her jeans and produced a gold coin.

  Her dad relaxed back against the tree. ‘Knew it.’

  ‘I’m your daughter,’ Lydia said. No more pretending this wasn’t happening. ‘Lydia.’

  He nodded. ‘We’ve got to be careful, Lyds.’

  ‘It’s all right, Henry,’ her mother selected something else from her bag. ‘Have some grapes.’

  Henry ignored her and Lydia couldn’t bear it. Her father had always been so loving, so unfailingly polite and caring with her mother. That was the worst thing about the memory lapses. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t remember them, it was that he couldn’t remember himself.

  A few minutes later, Henry’s eye was caught by some tweens playing with a ball. They were kicking it half-heartedly across a small circle of unoccupied grass, the heat of the sun already sapping their motivation for the game, despite their youth. He still seemed agitated and his forehead creased as he watched, his hands balling into fists. ‘If Dad catches them with that, there will be trouble.’

  Lydia looked at her mum. Her father was so much worse than she had ever seen. She thought about Jason’s theory, that it was Lydia’s presence which was making her dad worse, powering up his disease in the way she seemed to power up Jason’s life force.

  ‘Wasting time,’ he muttered quietly, venomously. ‘They should be keeping a lookout, not messing like that.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ her mum said, ‘really, darling, everyth
ing is fine. I promise.’

  ‘You don’t know what he’s like,’ he sat forward, lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Listen, Charlie forgot one thing one time, just one thing, and he whipped him. There was blood running down his back.’

  Lydia dug her fingernails into her palm and then re-wrapped her uneaten cheese roll. Her appetite had gone.

  ‘He is frightened,’ her dad said, suddenly. ‘He knows it’s all gone to shit. Everybody knows we haven’t got it anymore. We’re weak. He’s frightened about that. He needs to just let it all go, but he won’t. He can’t.’

  Lydia took her dad’s hand and squeezed gently. She had only the vaguest memories of Grandpa Crow. He had been old, of course. Impossibly old, it had seemed. And he had a face that didn’t smile easily. Hard eyes that were black and shiny, like the back of a beetle, and a tall, thin frame. Uncle Charlie was tall, but thickset with it. Heavy muscular shoulders and a wide chest. Henry, her dad, looked much more like Grandpa’s son. He was strong, and still fit for his age, but he tended to slimness. When Lydia looked in the family photo album, and saw images of Grandpa Crow as a middle-aged man, she could see how her father would look if he didn’t laugh as often.

  ‘He’s always talking about the glory days, but they’re gone. They’re not coming back and that’s a good thing.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Lydia’s mother said. She patted her husband’s leg. ‘Would you like some lemon cake?’

  He blinked. ‘Too hot. Let’s get ice lollies.’

  ‘I’ll get them,’ Lydia stood up, torn between wanting to escape and wanting to listen to her dad. It was heart-breaking, but while his defences were down, he might talk more openly about their family history than he ever had before. She wasn’t proud of that thought, but it was there nonetheless. She knew that the Crows had a dodgy reputation, which stretched back to the bad old days when they had operated on the wrong side of the law, offering protection and loans and problem-solving to members of the community, whether they wanted it or not.

  Lydia went to the kiosk on the edge of the park and bought a Magnum for her mum and two Soleros. When she got back, Henry was dozing, his head tipped back against the tree, so she ate both ice lollies as quickly as she could, the fruity ice melting. She was licking syrup off her wrist when her mother said something unexpected. ‘When I met your Grandpa, he told me that your dad was the strongest they had seen in the family for decades.’ She shook her head. ‘He hid it from me. He protected me. He protected us both.’

  ‘I know, Mum. Meeting Madeleine, that whole business, made me appreciate your choices. Bringing me up here,’ Lydia waved her lolly stick to indicate the park and beyond. ‘She is really messed up. And I still don’t know exactly what part Uncle Charlie played.’

  ‘You know why we told you stay away from him, then. You see it?’

  ‘I do. I swear.’

  She smiled sadly. ‘But you’re staying at The Fork.’

  ‘I am,’ Lydia said. ‘I can’t turn down free rent, and the location is really good for my business. And I’m being careful.’

  ‘Money isn’t everything. And we could help you out, if that was an issue. We’ve got some savings.’

  Lydia waved this away. ‘Thank you, but I’m fine. Honestly. And it’s not just the rent. I like the place.’ Lydia struggled for something to say that didn’t involve her ghostly flatmate. She wasn’t going to leave Jason. It would be like killing him. ‘Angel is nice and the cafe downstairs makes it feel safe.’

  Mum gave her a look which spoke volumes, all of them heavy with scepticism.

  Lydia reached across and hugged her quickly. They weren’t an especially cuddly family, but the scent of Mum’s perfume and shampoo sent her back in time to childhood. Sitting on her knee, having a plaster applied to a graze, hiding her face in Mum’s shoulder to avoid having to speak to people at a party, her hand gripped tightly as they crossed a busy road. ‘I really am being careful,’ she said quietly.

  Mum squeezed more tightly for a moment and then let go. ‘Eat your roll,’ she said. ‘You look half-starved.’

  * * *

  The next morning, Lydia woke up with good intentions to focus on her Crow Investigations work (while avoiding being sucked into Crow Family business by Uncle Charlie), exercise more often and cut down on her alcohol intake. The usual Monday-morning bullshit.

  She started off well by searching for the address of the flats she had observed Mrs Lee visiting. Then she added ‘manicure’ into the search and tried again. A Facebook page revealed a home business offering gel nails and ‘unique designs’. She copied all the information into her report and forwarded it to Dr Lee, suggesting that he check the state of her nails. There was a good chance that Mrs Lee had been getting knock-off gel manicures and not rolling in the bedsheets. Which, unless Dr Lee had very strong views on nail art, would be a happy ending.

  After typing up her notes and sending them over to Dr Lee, Lydia looked at the boxes of books she had brought from her flat in Aberdeen. Unpacking them would be a sign of permanence. Something important and grounding. Something she both wanted and feared. Of course, it was too hot to contemplate the task at that moment. And she still needed to sort out some bookshelves, which meant added expense and hassle. Lydia turned away from the boxes, telling herself it was a job for another day.

  Instead, she went back to her laptop and logged into one of the paid-for databases she had learned about during her work at Karen’s investigative firm. Before training, Lydia had been in blissful ignorance of just how easy it was to find people; their places of work, home addresses, telephone numbers, criminal and driving records, the names of their pets, and favourite restaurants.

  Robert Sharp’s finance firm was in the City. More precisely, it was in the Gherkin. Lydia stood outside the bullet-shaped glass-tessellated skyscraper and scoped the reception area. It was filled with large displays of spiky foliage, as well as several dark-suited guards, three shiny-looking receptionists and a doorway scanner like at airport security.

  The hexagonal panes of glass of the Gherkin were mirrored black and, up close, the iconic building had more than a little of the Death Star about it. Lydia knew that the chance of anyone at Robert Sharp’s place of employment letting her in for a look around and a casual chat with his co-workers was minimal, shiny new business card or not. Instead, she started calling the nearest office plant-hire and maintenance firms to find out who supplied Sharp’s company and got lucky in no time. Luckily enough they had a very simple staff uniform of a navy polo shirt with a small embroidered logo on the chest and beige cargo-style trousers. Lydia visited the nearest Gap store for the polo and trousers, and then went to an upscale florist. Lydia bought a plant large enough to be slightly awkward to carry, in the hope that the empathetic reaction to a small woman struggling with a heavy object would make people wave her through a little quicker than they might otherwise.

  ‘Delivery for Sheridan Fisher. PlantLife.’

  ‘You need to sign in.’

  Lydia balanced the enormous plant on the desk and scribbled a name she had cribbed from the staff gallery on the PlantLife website.

  ‘Third floor.’

  The Sheridan Fisher offices were large and open-plan and filled with quiet work sounds. ‘Excuse me,’ Lydia stopped a harried-looking woman in a grey trouser-suit. ‘Can you direct me to Mr Sharp’s desk, please? I have a delivery.’ She hoisted the plant a little, making it appear even heavier than it was.

  The woman frowned. ‘Over there I think.’ She pointed to the far corner. ‘Joseph Hazeldine will know. He works with him.’

  Lydia was surprised that the woman hadn’t reacted to the name but, perhaps she hadn’t been questioned by the police. Lydia assumed they would have visited by now, though, and that that would have started a chain of office gossip. Perhaps the place was too big and impersonal for that to have happened. Or they were really living the London life and had cultivated a ‘don’t ask, don’t care’ attitude to their colleagues. Perhaps
the sight of the police trawling through and asking questions was completely normal. Lydia had absolutely no idea. The world of high finance, corporate analysts and city boys, was completely beyond her realm of experience. She half-expected to see a load of coked-up young men, snorting lines off the toned stomachs of strippers and shouting ‘buy!’ and ‘sell!’ at random intervals.

  In the corner the woman had indicated there was a cluster of four desks with little partition screens, two of which were occupied. ‘Mr Hazeldine?’

  A man with floppy blonde hair and a bright purple tie looked up from his computer screen. He smiled at Lydia, seemingly happy for a distraction. ‘Is that for me?’

  Lydia forced a friendly smile. ‘For Mr R. Sharp, I’m afraid. Do you know where I can find him?’

  ‘That’s his desk,’ Hazeldine said, pointing to the empty desk opposite. Lydia nodded and busied herself with arranging the plant in the corner, behind Sharp’s desk. Again, she was surprised that Sharp’s colleague didn’t seem to know about his death. Of course, Robert’s identity hadn’t been reported in the news, but surely the Murder Investigation Team in charge of the case had to have been in, asking questions.

  Sharp’s desk was neat and there were no handy documents laid out on the plain surface. Nothing, in fact, except for a small action figure of a female superhero Lydia didn’t recognise next to the monitor and an empty smoothie bottle in the rubbish bin.

  Lydia didn’t know what she had expected. Not exactly a black ribbon on the guy’s chair or full-mourning outfits on his co-workers but something. Some indication that a man who had spent most of his waking hours in this spot had, just recently, been callously killed.

  ‘Do you know when he’ll be back,’ Lydia had crossed back to Hazeldine’s side of the desk and was leaning against it.

  ‘No, why?’ He leaned back in his chair and looked up at her, his gaze lingering on her chest before meeting her eyes with a challenging smile. Hazeldine still seemed friendly enough but there was an edge in there, too. Lydia’s normal senses, the ones she used as a woman all of the time, ticked up a little. She resisted the urge to straighten up, and widened her own smile. ‘He’s supposed to sign for the plant. Is he often out of the office?’