The Silver Mark

by Sarah Painter

  Lydia tailed him to the restaurant and ate an overpriced plate of spaghetti while he sat at a lone table and played with his phone for an hour or so. The networking opportunities had either been greatly exaggerated or he had been stood up for a lunch meeting. Lydia would have laid money on the former, as Christopher didn’t look around or give any sign that he was expecting a dining companion. He had a complimentary tote bag which was stuffed, having seriously ransacked the exhibition area, and Lydia steeled herself to follow him into one of the mind-numbing talks after he had finished massacring his berry cheesecake.

  Her mobile vibrated and she answered it, keeping Christopher in her peripheral vision.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’

  Lydia pulled the phone away from her ear as Jason’s voice yelled through the microphone. She hastily thumbed the volume down button the side of her phone before replacing it in position. ‘Stop shouting, I can hear you.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Jason’s voice was now a hoarse whisper. ‘I’m out of practice.’

  ‘I know,’ Lydia said. She had bought a retro-style touch-tone phone with a cord and receiver to make Jason feel at home with the landline that she’d had installed. His motor control was easily good enough to pick it up and press the buttons, but he hadn’t had cause to use it, yet.

  ‘There’s someone here.’

  ‘What?’ The line was filled with loud static and Lydia thought she might have to ask him to shout again.

  ‘Someone is here. They rang the bell and waited outside the door for ages and then they tried to come inside.’ Jason’s words were rushing, tumbling over the crackly line.

  ‘A client?’

  ‘A woman. Brown hair, approximately five foot six.’ He hesitated. ‘Can I say she looks Indian? British Indian. Or is that racist? She has brown skin, but I don’t know if I can say that. I mean, this is a description. A report. But it feels racist.’

  ‘It’s not racist to describe the colour of a person’s skin for the purpose of clarity or identification.’

  ‘I thought I wasn’t supposed to see race. I thought that if you noticed it, it meant you were racist.’

  ‘That’s very eighties,’ Lydia said.

  A slight pause. ‘Well, duh.’

  ‘Ahh,’ Lydia was at a loss as to what to say. Foot in mouth was one thing. Continually reminding a person that they were out of their proper time. Stuck because they had died three decades ago. ‘Sorry, sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Jason said, although his voice indicated otherwise. ‘I’m trying, you know. I’m trying to-’

  ‘I know,’ Lydia said. ‘You’re just so normal and so real these days. I keep forgetting... I keep forgetting you’re new to all of this.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jason sounded mollified. ‘I followed her downstairs to the cafe and I heard her speak to Angel. She sounded northern. Northern English, I mean.’

  ‘Right. Good.’ Lydia still couldn’t work out why he was freaked out. ‘I know we’re not exactly in demand, but it’s not that weird that a potential client might...’

  ‘She’s trying to break in.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Right now.’ Jason still sounded relatively calm, but his voice wavered a little. Either he was moving the receiver away from his mouth, or he was doing that strange vibrating in-and-out of existence thing he did when he was upset. ‘There are little scraping noises like someone is picking the lock.’

  Lydia opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  ‘Trying to pick it, anyway. It’s been going on a while.’

  Lydia put her finger in her ear and hunched away from the noise of the bar. Jason was difficult to hear, now, and she needed to concentrate. Her first instinct was to run outside to her car and race back to Camberwell. To confront the stranger. To protect her home. But she couldn’t leave her post, and she had no real idea of what she would do if she could even get there in time.

  ‘Lydia?’

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘Shall I call the police?’

  ‘No!’ Lydia’s reaction was instant and instinctual. Then she reconsidered. ‘I’ll call Fleet. Hang tight. Don’t worry. She’s probably just an opportunist. She won’t make it in and, if she does, there isn’t much to nick. Just hide in your room until she’s gone.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Jason said.

  ‘I know. But she can’t hurt you. She doesn’t know you’re there and she won’t know. I’m going to call Fleet, now. I have to hang up to do that. It’s okay, Jason. I promise.’

  Jason made a sound of shock, a sort of yelp. ‘Sorry,’ he said a moment later. ‘There was a banging. I thought she had got the door.’

  ‘She’d better not smash my nice glass,’ Lydia said. ‘I don’t suppose you want to slip outside and scare her away? Put a sheet over your head-’

  ‘I can’t,’ Jason said.

  ‘It’s okay, I’m only joking. Go hide. I’ll call Fleet.’

  Lydia ended the call. Her ghost was terrified. And she understood completely. She had brought two murderers to the flat in the short time she had lived there. No wonder he was antsy at the thought of an uninvited visitor. His ability to pick things up, to write his maths proofs on the wall, to turn the pages of the paperback books, all relied on him convincing himself that he wasn’t dead. That he was a live, solid human being. A body which would affect the physical world. Naturally, that same conviction would make him feel fear for that same physicality. A thought struck Lydia. Could he be hurt? Had she powered Jason up in order that he could then be harmed? That was a sobering thought. Lydia reached absent mindedly for her drink, readying herself to call Fleet. She glanced over the rim at the place Westcott had been sitting. He wasn’t there.

  Feather and Claw. Hell Hawk. Lydia stood up quickly and waked out of the bar, looking left and right in the hope she would catch sight of Christopher Westcott. She called Fleet as she walked. He sounded sleepy. Or stoned. Which was an odd thought. Fleet didn’t strike her as the type. ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘Nah. You’re all right.’

  ‘There’s somebody trying to break into my flat.’

  ‘What? Now?’ Fleet was instantly awake. His voice sharp and clear.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not there.’

  ‘Good. Wait... How do you know there’s somebody trying to break in?’

  ‘Anonymous tip,’ Lydia said, thinking on her feet. ‘A concerned citizen just called me.’

  ‘That makes no sense. How do they have your number? Are they a neighbour?’

  Lydia ignored that question and repeated Jason’s description of the intruder. ‘Can you go there? If you’re quick, you’ll catch her at it.’

  ‘If I’m very quick,’ Fleet said drily. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Deptford.’

  ‘My condolences. I’m on my way.’

  Lydia fast-walked into the hotel lobby, expecting to see Christopher at any moment. She had only looked away for a few seconds, he couldn’t have gone far. Turning in the lobby, it hit her how stupid she was being. He had probably just gone to the loo. Back in the bar, Lydia wandered past his table. Still empty and no sign that he was intending to return. No coat, or half-finished drink. Of course, he might just be cautious. Or not have had a coat in the first place. If he was staying in in the hotel and wasn’t intending to go outside... Lydia headed in the direction of the toilets. She hesitated outside the door for a moment, before walking into the gents. If Christopher was using the facilities, he would almost-certainly remember the woman who had accidentally wandered in and caught sight of his penis. However, it would be worth it to have eyes on him, again. It wasn’t as if he was presumed dangerous and he had no reason to be suspicious, either.

  ‘Oops, sorry,’ Lydia said. There was a short-ish young man at the middle urinal and another just coming out of one of the stalls. Neither of them was Christopher and she had clocked that the other stalls weren’t occupied.

  Another circuit of the bar and Lydia had to admit the sad truth; she ha
d lost her mark. She was about to call Mrs Westcott and swallow the indignity of asking her client whether she happened to have the room number that her husband was staying in. The client who was paying her handsomely to stick like glue to her wandering spouse. Her finger hesitated over the call button before she had a better idea.

  In the hotel reception, there was only one member of staff behind the desk. Lydia was pleased that it was a young-looking woman, guessing she would be easier to intimidate. She hated herself a little bit for the observation, but there it was. Not letting the woman finish her polite greeting, Lydia cut across her while drumming her finger nails on the counter top. ‘I’ve locked the key in my room.’ She snapped her fingers for good measure. ‘Westcott.’

  ‘One moment,’ the woman said, fingers tapping quickly on her keyboard. A tiny frown between perfectly-plucked brows. ‘I’m very sorry, Ms Westcott, I can’t find your details here.’

  ‘My husband booked it, Christopher Westcott. Do you need me to spell it? It’s double ‘t’ at the end.’

  ‘No, that’s all right...’ Another pause and more tapping. ‘I’m very sorry, but I can’t find your room in the system. Are you sure of your dates?’

  ‘Of course,’ Lydia forced herself to snap, staying in character. ‘He’s here for the conference.’

  ‘Oh, that could be it,’ the woman visibly sagged with relief. ‘There might be a block-booking under the conference name. Hang on a tick.’ More tapping. Then, ‘nothing, I’m afraid. There was a block booking but that has since been superseded by individual check-in details. No one called Christopher Westcott. She frowned. What was your room number did you say?’

  ‘Oh never mind,’ Lydia said, channelling inner dick. ‘I’ll go and find my husband, it will be the quickest. He’ll have the other key.’

  ‘But, I don’t-’

  Her phone was ringing and Lydia moved outside to answer it. The air was warm compared to the air-conditioned interior and Lydia moved away from the smell of cigarette smoke which was hanging in the air, courtesy of the nicotine addicts gathered just outside the glass-and-metal entrance.

  ‘There’s no one here,’ Fleet said and Lydia felt a shock of relief at hearing his voice.

  ‘Nobody?’

  ‘Angel is in the cafe, she let me in. Not happy about it, mind, I think I interrupted her quiet time.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘I’ve been through the whole building. Even checked the cafe’s kitchen. Which is another complaint you’re going to be hearing when you get home.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lydia crouched down and sat on the kerb. She hadn’t realised how worried she had been until the relief washed over her. She took a deep breath, car fumes and a strange odour that was entirely Deptford. It was strange how the different parts of London had their own unique bouquets. If she went blind, she’d know she was in Camberwell, of course, sensing the Crows without any hesitation, but it was interesting to speculate how many other areas she would be able to identify by nose alone.

  ‘Nothing there,’ Fleet was saying.

  ‘Sorry, what? I lost you for a second.’

  ‘Back alley. Nothing. I did have a good look at your door, though, and someone has definitely had a go.’

  The relief shrank back. Jason hadn’t been mistaken. ‘Bugger.’

  ‘You want me to hang around? I can wait until you get home, if you like?’

  ‘I’m out for the night,’ Lydia said. ‘But thank you. And thank you for heeding my distress call. That’s above and beyond.’

  ‘Always.’ A pause. ‘While I’m here, do you want me to let myself in and look around the flat. Just check on things?’

  Lydia imagined Jason having heart-failure. ‘No, that’s okay. No sign of entry, so I’m sure it’s fine.’ Then something hit her. ‘How would you let yourself in?’

  ‘Kick the door in,’ Fleet said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Which of course, it was.

  ‘Oh, right.’ Lydia felt a little turned on. She was a Crow through and through. Irritatingly.

  After finishing the call, Lydia sat for another moment. She wanted to head straight back to the flat and throw herself onto Fleet. Lucky she had a job to do. Even if it turned out she was crap at it.

  * * *

  So, Christopher Westcott didn’t have a booking at the hotel he had told his wife he was staying at. Lydia put her head on her knees and tried to think. Her brain refused to cooperate. It was filled, not with helpful sleuthing suggestions, but with images of a mystery woman attempting to get inside her home. At least it wasn’t Maddie. At least that world of terror was still safely out of her life. Haunting her dreams, but still. Dreams couldn’t kill her.

  Lydia forced herself to her feet and walked up and down the street. She didn’t really expect to see Christopher, but felt as if she ought to at least try... The sky was pale purple and the air was cooler than it had been for weeks. Lydia didn’t know if it was the unfamiliar area or her sense of abject failure, but she felt uneasy. Unlocking the car, she settled in for a long wait and checked for nearby hotels on her phone. Perhaps if she cold-called them all she would get lucky and find out exactly where Christopher was staying. Or if she trawled every bar and restaurant in the area. He could have got into a taxi, though. Or a car with a friend. Or headed to the tube.

  It was hopeless and Lydia banged her head on the back of the seat. Her phone buzzed and she saw Emma’s number. She pressed answer and felt her muscles relax at the sound of Emma’a voice. ‘Do you know how many times I’ve played the shopping game this evening?’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Five,’ Emma said. ‘In a row.’

  ‘Intense.’

  ‘Five. In a row. Guess how many I won?’

  ‘None?’

  ‘Bingo,’ Emma said. ‘I was going to play properly, so that I could start teaching Archie that he won’t always win, but his little face.... I just couldn’t do it. Do you think that’s okay?’

  ‘I think you’re amazing,’ Lydia said. ‘I think Archie and Maise-Maise are the luckiest kids in London.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Emma said. ‘What are you up to? I haven’t seen you.’

  ‘I know, sorry.’ The guilt punched Lydia in the solar plexus. She had planned to be a better friend. Camberwell to Beckenham was so much closer than Aberdeen, but somehow it still felt like a world away. Life priorities, schedules, work. All the usual excuses.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Emma was saying. ‘I know you’re working.’

  ‘Next week? Drinks? I can come to yours if you can’t get out.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Emma’s voice was downbeat.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s nothing.’

  ‘What is nothing?’

  ‘Do you think men still go to strip clubs? I mean, married men. Ordinary men.’

  ‘On stag nights, maybe.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. It’s just a cliche, now, right?’

  ‘Of course,’ Lydia lied. She had caught one of her client’s husbands stuffing ten pound notes into the g-string of a nineteen year old just last month. Couple of pictures taken with her spy camera and that was another marriage over. Lydia felt the weight stretch across her shoulders.

  ‘Couples go together, now,’ Lydia said, trying to distract them both.

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘For kicks, yeah. Spice things up with a little shared thrill.’

  ‘Wow. Does that work?’

  ‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ Lydia said. ‘Long-term relationships are not my forte.’

  ‘It will happen, Lyds.’

  ‘I don’t know if I want it to,’ Lydia said, the words popping out without consultation with her brain.

  ‘You don’t want to be alone forever,’ Emma said. ‘Trust me.’

  Lydia frowned. Emma wasn’t alone. Hadn’t been since she was eighteen, in fact, and she and Tom had locked eyes in a pub in Camden. She was about to ask if everything was okay at home, when
she was distracted by movement on the opposite pavement. A group of young women, appeared from an Italian chain restaurant. They were laughing, talking at full volume and one of them had a helium balloon with the number thirty in pink writing.

  And behind them, coming out of the restaurant with his arm slung around the narrow shoulders of a brunette with a pixie cut, was Mr Christopher Westcott. ‘Oh, thank feathers,’ Lydia said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she told Emma. ‘I’ve gotta go.’

  Lydia picked up her camera and slung her cross-body bag over her shoulder. She waited until Westcott and his companion had got a few metres further down the street before getting out of the car. Lydia knew that it was risky to follow him when the street was quiet, but having lost him once she had no desire to do so again.

  She trailed the happy couple to the riverside, past swish-looking blocks of flats and to a decidedly-regenerated part of the waterfront. They sat on a bench on a wide paved area and Lydia snapped a couple of pictures from behind. Christopher had his arm around his companion and was leaning in. The angle wasn’t good enough to get a clear picture of lip-action, but it was pretty incriminating nonetheless. Lydia continued walking, crossing in front of them to the river, looking out over the water as if that was her reason for dawdling in the vicinity. She gazed at the view for a few minutes before turning around. Christopher Westcott and his young friend were kissing passionately, oblivious to Lydia and everything around them. Lydia used her phone to take a few shots while pretending to take selfies with the river as her background, before strolling away.

  Driving back to Camberwell she was flushed with success. She had finished the job efficiently and would get home in good time to power-up Jason so that he wouldn’t fade. She had a report for April Westcott which, although deviating from her forty-eight hour brief, delivered results. She didn’t need a partner, could handle everything on her own. She could do this. She had everything under control. The thing that Emma forgot about Martin Blank was that he was really good at his job. He didn’t need to join Dan Akroyd’s contract-killer collective.