The Silver Mark

by Sarah Painter

  ‘Reschedule?’

  ‘This urgent meeting. Whatever important questions you had for me. I assume they are important, my secretary said you were very insistent. And, of course, I know you are a detective, now.’

  The sarcastic emphasis on the word ‘detective’ was barely perceptible, Alejandro’s tone superficially neutral. His eyebrow gave the merest flicker of a lift. Somehow, his politeness felt like more of an insult than Paul Fox’s open taunting.

  ‘JRB,’ Lydia said, lowering the handkerchief. ‘Maria wouldn’t tell me what they do, who they are, or why you were so keen to do them a favour.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And why were they looking after Robert Sharp?’

  ‘You realise that we operate with confidentiality for our clients. It’s a cornerstone of our work.’ He raised a hand. ‘Much like yours, I imagine.’

  ‘Fair play,’ Lydia said. ‘But I don’t represent murderers.’

  ‘Are you accusing my client?’

  ‘JRB?’ Lydia widened her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  ‘The thing about JRB is that they are like many of our corporate clients, they can’t be accused of murder because they don’t really exist.’

  Lydia was still trying to take small breaths through her nose and was gripping the coin in her hand. ‘I know you can’t convict a whole company of murder,’ she managed. ‘I’m not an idiot. But the company is made up of people and those people can be convicted-’

  ‘JRB is a web of different concerns, not a unified entity. At least, not in any meaningful sense. And, like a spider’s web, if I wave my hands,’ he mimed the action. ‘It will simply disappear.’

  ‘There are records,’ Lydia said. ‘Things don’t just disappear. Not in this day and age.’ Unhelpfully, Maddie’s image floated across her mind’s eye. She had disappeared with great success.

  ‘Our family have always been lawyers, you know. Barristers, of course, and judges. Legal experts of one kind or another stretching all the way back to when we first arrived in London fresh from our tour of South America. Before reading and writing was widely available, those who could write things down, read the marks on paper, were seen as one step from magicians. The art of deciphering written language, the ability to be loquacious and ebullient and to run verbal laps around our conversational opponent was as likely to land us at the gibbet as the bank. But we learned. We learned that the ability to persuade or bamboozle, to argue or lambast, was like a weapon. And in the right hands that weapon was more powerful than anything else in the capital.’

  ‘Except the pointy end of a stick, perhaps,’ Lydia said. ‘Or a sharp beak. They’re quite dangerous.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Alejandro acknowledged the reference. ‘The Crows have always been useful allies. The talons to grip, the feathers to hide. Very valuable in their own way.’

  Lydia knew he was deliberately trying to needle her, to put her further off-balance and she was annoyed to find it was working.

  ‘I’m a little bored,’ Alejandro said, leaning back in his chair and gazing out of the glass wall. ‘I’ve been hearing whispers. I feel as if there is something I’m missing, something I should be doing.’ He turned his bright blue eyes upon her. ‘Something we’ve all forgotten.’

  ‘I don’t follow-’

  ‘Do you remember the fire that destroyed the House of Lords? In the eighteen hundreds?’ Alejandro smiled at her. ‘That was us. It wasn’t a Silver who piled the tally sticks onto the fire, wasn’t our hands which sealed the fate of the building. But it was my great, great, great - whatever - grandfather who spoke to the men who stoked the furnace. He explained that it would be much easier to pop them all in at once, that the advice to go slow was an invention of their bosses, fat men who lived in comfort and could afford to give orders that they, themselves, would not have to work late to accomplish. Hundreds of tally sticks, dry as tinder, and the whole place went up in an instant.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Contracts,’ Alejandro said, as if speaking to a stupid child. ‘The Houses of Parliament needed a grand rebuild. And all those oriole windows and gothic spires, statues and carved wooden ceilings, all of that stonework and craftsmanship and material, all of those created money for the people in the industry.’

  ‘And you’re taking inspiration from your ancestors? Whispering in corporate ears to create contract money for your clients?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Alejandro said, shaking his head gently. ‘It’s just interesting, no? The power of the right word in the right ear?’

  ‘And whose ear was Robert Sharp whispering in? Or was it a case of the wrong word in the wrong ear will get you strung up by your neck?’

  ‘Quite so,’ Alejandro said. He spread his hands. ‘Thus it ever was.’

  * * *

  Lydia felt sick all the way home, and very nearly threw up again in the heat of the tube train. Back at The Fork, the new boy was behind the counter and Angel was sitting in one of the central tables, reading a paperback. A couple of other tables had patrons, but it was the quiet time of day. Lydia hated to admit it, but it was nice to walk through the cafe and exchange a few words with Angel before going upstairs. It felt homely. And it was no bad thing that there was a living soul who would notice if she disappeared for any significant length of time. Her line of work wasn’t without risk, after all. Throwing up in Alejandro’s office had been a salutary reminder of that.

  ‘I haven’t seen you much,’ Angel said. ‘You been busy?’

  Lydia had seen Angel that morning, before she had gone to Silver and Silver. So much for her theory. She would have to work on having more memorable interactions with Angel. ‘Can I have one of those custard tarts?’

  ‘You got cash, you can have anything on the menu.’

  ‘No cash,’ Lydia said. ‘I was thinking you might like to sub me one. Out of the goodness of your heart.’

  Angel’s eyebrows climbed toward her hair line where her hair sprang up. Was it Lydia’s imagination or were her plaits standing to attention. Affronted.

  ‘Never mind,’ Lydia said, backing away.

  That ought to do it, she thought. Better to annoy Angel into remembering her than lie dead somewhere for days before anybody noticed she had disappeared. She was simultaneously proud of herself for the dark practicality and concerned that she was letting the nightmares get the better of her mental health.

  * * *

  Lydia had barely had time to make a coffee when the alarm told her that she had a visitor. She recognised the shape behind the glass but still didn’t quite believe it.

  Emma wasn’t a frequent visitor to Camberwell, let alone to Lydia’s new home. Lydia couldn’t help feeling nervous as she unlocked the door. Was this a confrontation? A continuation of their near-argument the other night?

  ‘I need your help,’ Emma said, as soon as Lydia opened the door.

  ‘Of course,’ Lydia moved back, making room for Emma.

  Emma walked straight down the hall and into the office, sitting in the client’s chair next to Lydia’s desk.

  ‘I mean, your professional help. Your services.’

  Lydia decided to play along. She sat in her chair and clasped her hands on the desk. ‘Okay. What’s wrong?’

  Emma had clearly been crying but she was dry-eyed and utterly calm, now. ‘I think Tom is having an affair.’

  ‘No.’ Lydia said, rearing back. ‘Absolutely no chance.’

  Emma gave a little laugh. ‘What makes us so special? You said yourself that everybody was at it. Everyone was lying to their wives or their husbands or unhappy and just looking for a reason to leave.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s my line of work, it skews the statistics. People don’t exactly come to see a PI when things are going well. It doesn’t mean every relationship is doomed.’

  ‘Mine is,’ Emma said. She still wasn’t crying and her voice was the same, flat monotone. It was terrifying.

  ‘No,’ Lydia said. ‘It isn’t. He isn�
��t cheating. He loves you. And Archie and Maisie.’

  Emma visibly flinched at the sound of her children’s names and Lydia felt like hell. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t need you to be my friend,’ Emma said. ‘I don’t want you to tell me everything is okay and that he loves me and that we just need to talk. I want you to be an investigator and do your job. I can pay.’

  ‘I’m not taking your money,’ Lydia said.

  ‘You are,’ Emma said, her voice grim. ‘Give it to charity if you want, but I’m booking your professional services and paying your going rate.’ A hesitation and a flash of normality, a half-smile Lydia barely caught. ‘How much is your going rate?’

  ‘You sure you want to do this?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘Right,’ Lydia pulled out a fresh notepad. ‘Let’s start with why you think he is playing away.’

  ‘He’s not himself. He’s not happy. I can tell he’s hiding something.’

  Lydia felt herself sag with relief. ‘He’s not having an affair,’ she said, holding up a hand to stop Emma from interrupting. ‘I hear people talking about their partners all the time. The ones that are cheating are never described as unhappy. Never. They are more attentive than usual. Funnier. Lighter. Happier.’

  ‘Maybe he’s the exception that proves the rule,’ Emma said. Her expression was heart-breaking, caught between hope and misery.

  Lydia produced a coin and spun it on the table, watching Emma’s expression glaze a little as she couldn’t help but look at it. ‘Take a deep breath,’ she said. ‘And another.’

  Emma did as she was told. ‘Are you hypnotising me?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Lydia said, although she had been tempted to try. Like most Crows, she had always been able to nudge people’s emotions. Emma was so upset, so scattered, Lydia wanted her to feel better. To make her feel better. What were the ethics on nudging a friend’s emotions for her own good? If you meant well did that cancel out the tricky violation of freewill aspect?

  ‘He’s tried to hide it. Tried to pretend like everything is okay, but I can tell.’

  ‘Let’s imagine for moment that it isn’t what you think. What else might it be? How is his work?’ Lydia realised as she spoke that she didn’t know what her best friend’s husband did.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Emma said. ‘As far as I know. We don’t get a lot of quality time to have actual conversations these days.’

  ‘You’re both busy, you’ve got the kids, you’re tired. It’s understandable that you’re feeling distant and you’re worried that something is wrong, but it’s just the phase you guys are in. It will get better when Maisie is bigger. You’ll get more sleep and-’

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Emma said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Treat me like I’m an idiot just because I’m a mum. I’m tired and I’m emotional but that doesn’t mean I’m delusional. I’m not imagining this. I know my marriage and there is something seriously wrong.’

  ‘Right. Sorry. Give me his schedule. His work details, list of his friends, places he goes, gym nights, everything.’

  Emma blinked. Then she did and Lydia took notes. Just like any other client.

  When they’d finished she said ‘leave it with me.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  At the door, Lydia hugged Emma goodbye. Jason was hovering in the hallway, obviously waiting to speak to Lydia. It was slightly distracting, and made Lydia feel more isolated than ever. Emma couldn’t see Jason, of course, and it just underlined the ways in which they were different. And now Emma wanted Lydia to investigate her husband which could only end up two ways for Lydia, both of them bad. Either she found dirt on Tom and was the gun which fired the fatal shot on her best friend’s marriage. Or she proved that Tom wasn’t messing around on Emma which would result in a guilt-ridden meltdown. Probably with her confessing hiring Lydia to Tom, ensuring he hated her for ever. And that Emma could never look at Lydia without bringing back all of the bad memories.

  Now she was depressed. Jason, however, looked cheerful. ‘What’s with you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maths going well?’ Lydia guessed.

  ‘I’m just feeling good,’ Jason said. ‘Strong. And you’ve not got any client work today.’

  ‘Right… I don’t follow. Why is that good news?’

  ‘We could try testing your mojo. Do some experiments.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Lydia said, hating the way his face fell. ‘I think I need to investigate our uninvited visitor.’

  Jason sagged.

  ‘Do you want to try leaving the flat, though? I could use your help with something. Just behind the building, not far.’

  Jason brightened. ‘An experiment?’

  ‘Sure,’ Lydia said, picking up the envelope from Paul Fox.

  Downstairs the cafe was busy and Lydia cut into the kitchen as quickly as possible. It was a hive of activity and nobody questioned Lydia when she took the fire extinguisher off the wall and headed out of the back door.

  Jason was in the doorway, looking unsure. ‘I don’t think I can cross the threshold.’

  ‘Have you tried?’

  ‘I feel funny,’ Jason said.

  ‘Sometimes you have to push a little,’ Lydia said, glad that nobody in the kitchen was close enough to see her talking to thin air.

  ‘Take my hand,’ she reached for him. ‘Maybe that will help.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he said. And disappeared.

  Lydia put the fire extinguisher down next to the wheelie bins and considered her options. Then she went back into the kitchen and located a large stainless-steel mixing bowl. If nothing else, this would definitely make Angel pay more attention.

  Outside, she closed the door and put the bowl on the floor, away from the plastic bins. She put the envelope in the bowl and doused it with lighter fluid before getting her phone and starting to film. ‘Stop sending me stuff,’ she said, for the benefit of Paul and then put the phone in her jacket pocket for a moment while she lit a match and dropped it into the bowl. It would have been better with Jason holding the camera, but she managed to get her phone back on target in time to catch the envelope burning merrily. Black smoke whooshed up into the air and the flames reached an impressive height. Lydia mentally congratulated herself for having the foresight to commit arson outside. She filmed a few seconds more and then sent the video to Paul Fox’s mobile.

  Almost immediately, her phone rang. ‘There goes a grand’s worth of cocaine.’

  ‘Hilarious,’ Lydia said. ‘Don’t call me again. We’re done.’ It was the closest to happiness she had been in days. With strange misfirings of her power, throwing up in Alejandro’s office, bad dreams, Emma’s marital problems, and the knowledge that Yas Bishop had attempted to break into her flat, there was a horrible sensation that felt suspiciously like panic. Except she was Lydia Crow. She didn’t do anxiety. ‘I just need to sort it,’ she said out loud. That made her feel better. She would sort it. She always did.

  * * *

  After changing her outfit for something that didn’t smell of smoke, Lydia tried to find Jason. She knocked on his bedroom door a few times and tried to coax him out, but there was no response. She opened the door a crack and looked inside, expecting to find him writing on the wall or lying on his bed, but he wasn’t there.

  Just in case he was listening, she spoke out loud, detailing where she was going and when she expected to return. She hovered by the door, expecting him to appear and ask questions, maybe tell her she was being foolish. Lydia was faintly disgusted with herself for feeling bereft. She had lived on her own since leaving home aged eighteen and she didn’t know why she was suddenly being so pathetic.

  * * *

  Downstairs, Lydia was threading her way through the cafe tables, when the light abruptly changed. Visible through the big windows, the sky turned from cornflower blue to gunmetal grey in an instant. The colours of the street were turned up to high defi
nition, as if lit by hidden lights. Outside, there was an electric feeling in the air, as if the weather was about to finally break. Lydia thought about going back up to the flat to find an umbrella before remembering that she wasn’t the kind of person who owned such things. It would be handy for stakeouts, though, and something she should probably buy on her way to Bayswater.

  She had decided to visit Yas Bishop, her sneaky visitor. Repay the favour, and find out what Yas had been looking for. Plenty of people would be freaked out by a phone call from a private investigator, not many responded by trying a little B&E. Perhaps she would find out why Yas had sent an expensive silver statue to Robert Sharp, too. And if she could glean some details about the mysterious JRB, then so much the better.

  By the time she emerged from the Edgware Road station, fat drops of rain were falling. Lydia had picked up the free Metro paper and she held it over her head as she ran down the busy thoroughfare of Edgware Road, dodging pedestrians wielding umbrellas or similarly hurrying to beat the rain, which was coming down heavier and heavier. Skidding past a retro-styled laundrette on the corner of Star Street, Lydia found herself on a suddenly quiet road. Lined with cars, of course, but with the classic yellowish brown London stock bricks. They were handmade bricks, Lydia remembered being told in school, which gave them a distinctive appearance. And in-demand now, for restoration work. They were the same colour and type as the half bricks found stuffed in Robert Sharp’s pockets. A detail that would be more useful if there weren’t hundreds of similar buildings in the capital.

  Yas Bishop’s house was halfway down the street, which was a no-through road, the end blocked by bollards. Lydia was glad she had decided not to drive as she would probably have had to drive to Kilburn to find a parking space. Not for the first time, she wished she was a copper and could park wherever the hell she liked. It would almost be worth going through the physical training. On the plus side, Uncle Charlie would probably disown her.

  As far as she knew, Yas lived alone. The curtains in the windows facing the street were closed upstairs. The downstairs windows had venetian blinds with slanted slats, half-open. Lydia stepped up to the tastefully-painted sage green door and rang the bell. She could hear it inside but no answering footsteps. After trying it three times, Lydia leaned as far as she could over the black iron railings which edged the space leading to the basement. She tried to peer into the downstairs window which was above this space, but the distance and plain voile curtains scuppered the attempt. She cupped her hands around her eyes, anyway, and looked for movement.