‘Oh come on,’ Jason said. ‘You know you’re emotionally withholding.’
‘I am not.’ Lydia was stung.
‘Uh-huh,’ Jason said. ‘You have a lone-wolf complex. You think you have to do everything on your own and everything in your own way. It’s not a criticism.’
‘It sounds like a criticism.’
‘Well, it’s something to be aware of, that’s all. You can’t do everything yourself. Not forever.’
‘I know that,’ Lydia said out loud, while thinking, I bloody well can.
* * *
Stepping away from the main Holborn thoroughfare with its Starbucks and Sainsburys Local, Lydia turned down Chancery Lane and back in time. She knew lots of the buildings nearby had been built by the Knights Templar, one of Henry Crow’s bedtime stories had involved a family myth about a newly-arrived Crow helping one of the Knights in his hour of need, and gaining a boon in return, but she hadn’t known that the headquarters of the Law Society was here, too.
Her focus, today, was on the silver vaults. Lydia couldn’t shake the feeling that the unusual silver figurine was important in some way. It had been so completely out of place, with both Robert’s relative youth and the modern aesthetic of the flat. It was another hot day and Lydia was grateful to walk into the shade of the tall Georgian buildings. The entrance to the vaults was through a tasteful doorway set in a white-fronted edifice, complete with black railings. Lydia would have assumed posh flats or an accountancy firm, if it hadn’t been for the understated blue sign which announced The London Silver Vaults. Inside, Lydia descended five levels underground to the arcade of shops, now housed in the old safe rooms. Originally, the vaults were a stronghold for London’s wealthy and the first safety deposit in the capital. All kinds of companies, households, individuals and even criminals kept their valuables in the place, and it had never been successfully burgled. Even a direct hit from a bomb during the Blitz hadn’t damaged it. Silver shops had been trading here since the thirties and each shop was housed behind a thick iron door, in one of the old safe rooms. There was still a massive vault beyond the arcade of shops, and on any other occasion, that would have been what interested Lydia, but today she needed information.
Most of the shops were third generation or more, and their proximity to each other would either result in a close-knit community or a nest of vipers. Crossing her fingers for the second, Lydia walked past open doorways which shone with glittering silver and the lustre of gilt, to roughly halfway down the arcade. She was working on random, just waiting for her gut to lead the way. Her dad always said that Crows had an innate sense of direction and she hoped it was true.
Vault seventeen was fitted with dark wood and glass cabinets, with royal-blue velvet in open cutlery drawers and small snatches of the blue-painted walls, the only colour other than glistening, shining silver, as far as the eye could see. A giant cabinet to Lydia’s right was filled to capacity with cups, vases, platters, bowls, tureens, and fifty other shapes she could not name, all intricately laced with filigree or embossed or etched or moulded with curlicues and flowers. Silver chandeliers hung from the ceiling in a forest of branching arms and twinkling lights, and larger items like an enormous circular serving tray, propped upright to fit into the space, and a wheeled wooden structure topped with a huge silver capsule, so smooth and shiny that its surface mirrored every item around it in perfect detail.
‘Carving trolley.’ A voice emanated from a tall narrow display case, topped with two intricately modelled silver grouse and an art deco candlestick the width of Lydia’s thigh. ‘Late nineteenth century.’ The owner of the voice appeared. It was a small, strangely ageless man. If Lydia had been writing a report, she would have had to put his age at somewhere between forty-five and seventy. He was bald and pale and had large dark brown eyes which were startling against his pallid complexion. He blinked and, a small hiss escaped his thin lips. ‘What do you want, Magpie?’
Lydia tasted metal on her tongue. ‘Just some information. Your help. If you are willing?’
He didn’t move and his expression remained hostile.
‘It’s not much,’ Lydia said, trying to radiate calm.
‘We don’t like magpies down here, they tend to have a problem controlling themselves. All this shine.’
Lydia spread her hands, showing that she wasn’t holding one of her coins. ‘It is stunning, that’s true. But I just want your help with a small identification. Nothing bad. Nothing dangerous. Absolutely your area of expertise.’
The taste of metal was still there, it was spreading around Lydia’s mouth and she felt, just for a moment, like she might gag. ‘I just want to know what this is.’ Lydia took her phone from her pocket and found the first image. ‘Here. It’s a medieval knight figure. I’d love to know more.’
The man glanced at the phone despite, clearly, not wanting to. And then he took a step forward, holding out a hand for the device with one hand and putting half-moon spectacles which were hanging around his neck on a silver chain onto his nose.
‘Is this yours?’
‘A friend’s. They received it as a gift and would like to know more about it.’
The man shook his head at the obvious lie, but seemed unable to draw his gaze from the pictures for long. He scrolled through the gallery. ‘German, I think. See the porcelain face. That’s typical of the type. Late nineteenth century, possibly early nineteen hundreds…’ He stopped. Peered more closely. ‘Ah, yes. Neresheimer. You can see the mark, here,’ he tilted the phone and Lydia looked dutifully at the photo she had taken of the base. ‘And I think that’s an import mark, too, I would need to see the piece with my magnifier to be certain. But I think that’s Muller import for Chester, 1903.’
‘Is it genuine?’
He glanced at her. ‘It certainly appears so. I assume you want a valuation?’
‘Ballpark would be handy.’
‘Well, very cautiously, and with the proviso that I would need to see the item to confirm, I would guess around fifteen thousand at auction. Maybe more dependent on condition.’
‘Fifteen grand?’
‘Sterling.’ He nodded.
‘Thank you,’ Lydia said. ‘May I trespass on your good favour for a moment longer.’ She had no idea where the old-timey speak had sprung from, only that it felt appropriate for the environment and she had a hunch it would go down well with the squirrelly little dealer.
He inclined his head, the light catching the glass of his spectacles in little flashes. ‘You may.’
‘Have you ever bought or sold a knight figure of this kind?’
‘More than one,’ he said. ‘A couple back in the seventies, early eighties. They had a bit of a renaissance after falling somewhat out of favour.’
‘Nothing recently?’
He hesitated and Lydia wondered if it was for effect. One thing she had learned as a PI was that some people bloody loved their moment in the spotlight. They would draw out whatever meagre bit of information they had, develop their role from casual bystander to key witness, with a mix of exaggeration and dramatic pauses. It was usually easy enough to spot, the self-aggrandising was always a big giveaway.
‘I don’t like to give out details about my clients.’
‘I understand that,’ Lydia said, ‘but this concerns a young man’s death, I thought you might make an exception in the circumstances. For the common good.’
The man’s lip curled. ‘And what is your stake in the matter? What role did you play, Magpie?’
‘I’m looking into it, trying to find the person or persons responsible. I’m an investigator.’ Lydia showed him her card. ‘Take it. Call me if you decide you might be willing to divulge the details of the customer in question. If not, no worries. I understand that you have to operate within the confines of your professional code of conduct.’
‘Very well,’ the man said, looking confused at Lydia’s retreat.
‘May I just note down your name, Sir?’ Lydia had her notebook out
and ready. ‘Just for my records.’
‘Chartes,’ he said, stiffly.
‘First name?’
‘Guillaume. Shall I spell it for you?’
‘Got it,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m sure DCI Fleet will be able to decipher my approximation, anyway. He’s smart like that.’
‘DCI Fleet?’
‘Well,’ Lydia pulled an apologetic face which had exactly no truth in it, and explained that, as Chartes wouldn’t give her the name of the client she wouldn’t be able follow it up and would, instead, be duty bound to hand the lead over to the police. And they would follow it up with a warrant. ‘I hate to give a good lead away like that,’ Lydia said. ‘It doesn’t look great for my business as the police won’t give me any credit for it, and my own professional pride will be dented, naturally, but I can’t, in good conscience, leave any stone unturned in the pursuit of justice.’
Guillaume looked absolutely furious. ‘You’ll run to the police.’
‘They are on the side of the community,’ Lydia said. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about if you’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘I suppose they’ll come down here with their uniforms and cars? Scaring away my customers, making me look bad.’
Lydia shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’
Guillaume retreated to the back of the shop, returning moments later with an iPad. He scrolled and tapped for a few moments before giving her the name and address of the customer.
‘You delivered it?’
‘Yes,’ he scowled. ‘Not personally, of course. I used a courier. I suppose you want that, too?’
‘Please,’ Lydia said sweetly.
Guillaume gave her the phone number for the courier company. ‘Not my usual,’ he said. ‘They were busy.’
‘Thank you,’ Lydia said. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
Guillaume glared at her, his pale thin lips disappearing, and Lydia decided it was time for a hasty exit. No sense in pushing her luck and, besides, she had everything she needed. For now.
Chapter Seven
April Westcott called to tell Lydia that her husband, Christopher, was going to a design conference in Greenwich at the end of the week. Although he could feasibly get home, he had told April that he needed to stay at the venue for the whole shebang to take full advantage of the networking opportunities. It was perfectly reasonable. Lydia wouldn’t have chosen to haul arse from Greenwich to Twickenham and back if she had the money to choose otherwise, either. It was going to be a long surveillance job, though. Forty-eight hours to cover, as April was insisting that she keep eyes on him the whole time. She told April as much, giving the woman an out in case she had decided there were better ways to spend her cash. But no. ‘Don’t let him out of your sight,’ April said, her voice brittle. ‘I need to know. I can’t live like this. I can’t stand the uncertainty. It’s going to destroy us.’
‘All right, then.’ Lydia went over a few more details before pocketing her phone.
‘Jason?’ Her ghostly assistant was in the small kitchen, making coffee. And it was odd how ordinary that felt.
He poked his head out of the doorway. ‘Yeah?’
She filled him in on the details. ‘So, I’ll be out Wednesday, Thursday, Friday.’
‘Away two nights?’
‘Have to be,’ Lydia said, not relishing the prospect. She was already tapping on her laptop, looking for a reservation at the conference venue. Typically, given the short notice, it was fully-booked. Marvellous.
Jason carried a mug carefully across the room and placed it on Lydia’s desk. ‘What will happen to me?’
‘What do you mean?’ Lydia was scrolling through listings on a hotel booking site, before her brain caught up and she realised she wouldn’t be able to stay elsewhere. Eyes on him the whole time meant camping out in the hotel lobby and her car. Two nights of that without anybody else to take a shift was going to be brutal. And all to watch April’s husband attend a conference. Lydia found herself hoping he got up to sexy nonsense super-quickly so that she would be able to take a few snaps and call it a job done. That was the problem with adultery work; it made you cynical.
Jason was hovering by the desk. ‘You haven’t been away for that long before.’
Lydia thought about it. That couldn’t be right, could it? She must have stayed with Emma. Or her parents. ‘What about other jobs? I’ve done long shifts before.’
‘Not that long. Not without coming back here at all.’
‘Well, it isn’t that long. Only two days. I know you’ll miss me…’
‘It’s not that,’ Jason said, clearly impatient.
‘Charming.’
‘I don’t know what will happen to this,’ he picked up Lydia’s coffee mug with exaggerated care. ‘How long before the Lydia effect wears off?’
‘Right. Yes. Sorry.’ Lydia was half-listening, back on the conference website and hoping for alternative accommodation options. She knew she wouldn’t be sleeping much, but a room to set up as base would be better than snatching a nap in the reception area or her car. Less conspicuous, too.
‘And we haven’t been testing it. Your ability. You said we would, that you wanted to know more, but every time I bring it up you’re too busy.’
‘I am busy,’ Lydia said. Looking up from the screen. ‘I’m running this business on my own and I need all the work I can get, but it’s not easy covering everything. I’m knackered and I’m doing my best.’
Jason looked properly hurt, now, and Lydia mentally kicked herself. ‘I mean, I have you. And you’re a big help. Really.’
‘That’s my point,’ Jason said. ‘If we worked on this,’ he gestured between them. ‘You might be able to power me up some more. If I get strong enough I might be able to leave the building and then I could do surveillance. It’s like you said before, I should get out of here. It would do me good.’
Lydia perked up. ‘You know I think it might be your past that is tying you here.’ She tried to be tactful. ‘Your passing.’
‘No,’ Jason shook his head. ‘I’m not interested. I told you.’
‘If you would let me look into how you died, then maybe that would help… Let you move around more freely.’
‘No!’ Jason was shimmering, his outline vibrating. Lydia watched him control himself with effort. ‘I don’t want that. It’s too risky. There’s a reason I don’t know what happened when I died. We don’t know what would happen if you told me. But if you could power me up. Use your mojo,’ Jason traced shapes in the air. ‘Then, I could be a proper investigative assistant. I could be your partner.’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t know how.’
‘Where else are you going to find someone who will work for free? Someone who doesn’t need sleep? Or food?’
The man made sense. Lydia had been managing fine, but it was jobs like the Westcott one which brought home how hard it was to fly solo. In Karen’s firm there had been a core staff of four and a host of regular freelancers. Long surveillance jobs were done in shifts. ‘But how? I haven’t the first idea-’
‘Isn’t this stuff, I don’t know, passed down through the generations. Isn’t there a magic book or something in the Crow Family archive.’
‘We don’t have a Family archive,’ Lydia said. ‘At least, not as far as I know. And I’ve never heard of the ‘The Big Book of Crow Magic’ or anything.’
‘Didn’t your parents keep you away from all that, though? I mean, how would you know? There could be a whole training school and they might have burned your letter.’
Lydia gave him a look. ‘You’ve been reading again, haven’t you? That sounds like Harry Potter.’
Jason’s face lit up, as it always did when he talked about books. ‘Oh God. Yes. Years and years with no entertainment and now... You have no idea what it’s like to be able to pick up a book and turn the pages. Speaking of which, can you bring me some more?’
‘Of course. Anything in particular?’ Lydia had started to pick up piles of paperbacks in the loc
al charity shops and bring them home for Jason.
‘Thrillers. Crime. The last Harry Potter.’
‘No problem.’
‘And your instruction manual so we can work out how you work.’
‘You’re still on that, then.’
‘Seriously, Lydia. How can you not be more curious? Don’t you want to know how your Family powers work?’
Lydia shivered.
‘Sorry,’ Jason said, looking suddenly concerned.
‘It’s fine,’ Lydia said, still shivering. She wrapped her arms around her body and hugged and then, realising it made her look weak, dropped them and got up to go to the kitchenette. She ran the cold tap until it was freezing and filled a pint glass. She couldn’t put it into words, couldn’t explain to Jason why she felt such dread at the thought of delving into the Crow Family power. The Family history was murky and in the bad old days, being a Crow meant being part of something people feared. Protection rackets, heists, and Feathers-knew what else. These days, Charlie said he was all about protecting the local community and Lydia was pretty sure the Crow Family businesses were, at least mostly, legit, but there was a solid reason Henry Crow had abdicated his throne. The mysterious powers which had run through the Crow bloodline for centuries were now a vestige of their old majesty. Gold coins and a little bit of persuasion. Heightened intuition. The mere idea that there might be more, as in the case of Maddie, had brought out the very worst in Charlie. The hunger for the old magic. But what was the phrase, better the devil you know? Perhaps it wasn’t an entirely daft idea to find out more. Knowledge was power and all that. She didn’t have to do anything with that knowledge, after all. It would still be her choice.
* * *
Henry Crow stayed at home a lot, happy with the company of Lydia’s mum and the snooker on the TV, but Lydia knew that he still had a Thursday evening ritual of visiting his local. On the corner of her parents’ road, The Elm Tree had been a fixture of Lydia’s upbringing. Drinking cola on the small patio which was called, rather grandly, the garden, and learning how to play pool with her mum. The Elm Tree had been refurbished in the last few years and now the exterior was bright white, the porticos and bay window adorned with fresh window baskets, overflowing with blooming flowers and greenery. Inside the pub remained largely untouched. It had been scrubbed clean and the walls were no longer nicotine-yellow, but the interconnecting rooms, snug sitting spaces, and old wooden bar with its collage of photographs and cardboard bar mats were all intact.
The Silver Mark Page 6
