The next day, Lydia steeled herself. She had put off phoning Paul Fox for as long as she could and couldn’t delay it any longer. She hated the feeling of being backed into a corner, but that was the situation she was in. And now her ‘one little job’ for Paul Fox had turned into a murder investigation. What Lydia didn’t know was whether Paul would be surprised to learn that the victim was a Fox or not.
He offered to come to her office, but Lydia wanted neutral ground. Somewhere nice and public, just in case Paul decided to shoot the messenger.
Burgess Park was perfect. Halfway between their territories but on Lydia’s side of the river so she still felt a home-turf advantage. Filled with families and runners, dog walkers and commuters getting their daily portion of relatively fresh air and green space before heading down into the bowels of the tube system. Lydia arrived half an hour before their meeting and did a quick lap of the park. No Family members of any flavour, and nobody who looked like hired help, either. There was a man with a buzzcut and muscles who made her look twice, but when he turned around she saw that he had a baby in a sling attached to his remarkable chest.
Lydia took her place on the appointed bench, still a couple of minutes early. She was just in time to watch Paul Fox amble through the nearest entrance, his dark hair grown out a little from its usual close crop. He was wearing his habitual fitted black T-shirt and jeans and he still looked alarmingly good in them. At least Lydia could understand why her younger self had fallen under his spell. She comforted herself that, while it had been insanity for a Crow to date a Fox, at least anybody with a pulse would forgive her lapse in judgement.
‘Hello, Little Bird,’ Paul said, settling a little too close to Lydia on the bench. He stretched one arm out along the back and Lydia had to force herself not to flinch away.
‘I don’t know what you’ve got against email,’ Lydia said, handing him the envelope which contained a single printed sheet.
Paul didn’t dignify that with an answer, which was fair enough. He studied the brief report while Lydia looked everywhere except at him. The familiar Fox tang was there, warm fur and dark earth. Her heart rate had kicked up and it made her want to run barefoot through woodland and to do other, more carnal things, besides. The Fox magic was very animal. In all senses. It was another reason Lydia gave herself a pass for falling in lust with Paul Fox when she had been a hormonal teen. Good thing she was a cool, controlled adult now.
Paul hadn’t spoken for a long time so Lydia finally looked his way. He was watching her and for a second she felt the urge to beat wings and fly.
‘Where’s the rest?’
Lydia made herself look in to his strange light-hazel eyes. They had flecks of yellow which became more apparent in certain lighting. ‘You asked me to check the tunnels. I checked the tunnels.’
‘You found a dead man.’
Lydia stayed quiet.
‘You will find out who the man is and how he died.’ He spoke flatly. It was an order, not a suggestion.
‘The police will do that,’ Lydia said. ‘Better than I can. You don’t need me.’
‘You’re being modest,’ Paul said. ‘I do need you to be more complete in your reports, though. This,’ he waved the paper, ‘is an insult.’
‘I gave you the facts.’
‘Hardly. For example, was he Family? I know that you know.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Hell Hawk. Did everybody know about her secret gift? Had Uncle Charlie taken out a newspaper ad?
Paul just looked at her.
After a short silence, Lydia gave up. She had no wish to prolong the conversation and she could tell that Paul was confident in his knowledge. ‘He was a Fox.’
Paul’s jaw tightened.
Lydia felt the urge to apologise. ‘I took photos,’ she said instead. ‘Do you want to see if you recognise him?’
Paul nodded. Lydia swiped through to the clearest picture and angled her phone so that Paul could see.
After a moment, he shook his head.
‘You don’t know him?’ Like Jason, Lydia has assumed that Paul had known exactly what she had been going to find in the tunnel. The Paul Fox she knew never did anything without working all the angles. The Fox Family were known for being tricks and Paul was the son of Tristan Fox, head of the Fox Family. He had learned from the master.
Paul was staring at her, again. He looked as if he were wrestling with something which either meant he was genuinely thinking something through or that he wanted her to believe that he was. Lydia waited. She wasn’t going to rush to fill the silence.
Eventually, he said: ‘I expected you to find some remains. I didn’t know it would be a Fox.’
‘Who did you expect?’
Paul shook his head. ‘You need to focus on what you did find. I want to know who did this. Keep in touch and tell me everything.’
‘I did the job. I’m out. That was the deal.’
‘Job isn’t finished,’ Paul said. ‘You know that I can still expose you. What would Alejandro say if he knew you put his daughter in prison? What would he do? I hear your dad isn’t doing so well these days, I hear the Crows are weaker than they used to be. How well would your family stand up to an attack from the Silvers?’
Lydia bit down on the urge to tell Paul to shut his mouth. She didn’t want to show how much he bothered her, that hearing him mention her father made her skin crawl and her muscles jump. Her body reacted instinctively, though, and she found herself inches from his face. ‘Who says we’re weak? Give me a name.’
Paul blinked. There was a pause and then he looked away. ‘No offence intended.’
Lydia sat back, forcing her fists to unclench. ‘Good. I’ll work the case for a bit longer. But you’ll need to pay. And my rates are bloody high.’
‘You think I care about money?’
‘I have no idea what you care about,’ Lydia said. She stood up, ready to leave. ‘And I don’t give a damn, either.’
Paul put a hand to his heart. ‘You wound me, Little Bird. Why so cruel?’
Chapter Four
Lydia was more settled in the flat above The Fork. She had stuck up some art prints on the wall of her bedroom with thumb tacks and Fleet had created bookshelves using planks of wood and piles of bricks. That wall was a source of joy and comfort. Whatever else happened in her life, books were a constant. Reliable and distracting. And they kept their secrets.
The living room was a good size and it doubled as her office. The sofa was ugly but comfortable, and the office chair was decent. Lydia had rescued a small beech-effect filing cabinet from a skip and repurposed the top for her booze bottles. Fleet had bought her a green-shaded reading lamp with a heavy brass base, as he put it ‘to go with her film noir vibe’. Lydia wondered whether it was him staking his own claim on her environment after Paul Fox had installed a door with ‘Crow Investigations’ picked out on the frosted glass panel like Sam Spade’s detective agency from The Maltese Falcon.
As a whole, the flat was a mix of furniture which had already been in-situ, gifts from Emma, Fleet and her parents, and her small number of personal possessions. Not to mention the resident ghost. And her book collection. All-in-all, the office looked pretty decent these days and Lydia no longer felt embarrassed when clients walked in. She just had to work out a way of handling her client work to maintain money coming in, while also getting enough sleep to stop her from becoming psychotic. She went into the kitchenette off the main room and found a cereal bowl filled with cornflakes and a ghost staring disconsolately at them.
‘I forgot,’ he said, glancing at Lydia.
‘Forgot what?’
‘I poured them before I remembered.’
‘Ah.’ Jason’s increasing abilities to affect his world had been a source of great delight, but recently he was visibly frustrated with the limitations of being deceased. It was human nature to always want, of course, but that probably wouldn’t be much comfort.
‘I don’t even like cornflakes that much,�
�� Jason said. He wiped his face as if expecting tears, looking at his dry hand in momentary confusion. ‘It just sucks, you know?’
‘It does,’ Lydia said. She didn’t know what else to say, but thankfully Jason turned away from the offending cereal and changed the subject.
‘Any news on the other ghost in London? I can’t stop thinking about him.’
‘There are probably hundreds,’ Lydia said, jumping on the chance to encourage Jason to leave the flat. ‘If you got out and about-’
‘I might meet a nice girl?’ Jason interrupted. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘No news,’ Lydia flipped the switch on the kettle and got a mug from the cupboard. ‘Police don’t have a clue who the guy is and Paul says he doesn’t know him, either. Not sure what I can do.’
‘You can’t leave him alone,’ Jason said, his face crumpling. ‘He must be frightened. He’s only just died and now he’s a spirit. It’s a lot.’
Lydia patted his arm. ‘What was it like for you?’
Jason was vibrating, his outline shimmering in the way it did when he was upset. Lydia was used to it, but it still gave her a headache if she focused on him.
‘I don’t remember,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried to think back, but it’s like I was dreaming. Everything is weird and time doesn’t make sense. I think I only really became reliably conscious about two years ago. But, as you know, it really came together when you moved in. He’s all on his own, you have to find him.’
‘I know,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m stuck with the job until Paul lets me off the hook, really.’
‘Not identify him, find him. Speak to him.’ Jason snapped his fingers, the noise loud in the small space. ‘He could just tell you who he is, too. Case solved.’
Lydia called Fleet on his mobile, hoping there would be news from the lab. A quick result via a bit of insider police knowledge would be just the ticket. Then she could close this case and, hopefully, finish dealing with Paul. Which would make for a more restful existence. Case in point, Fleet was still stuck on the whole ‘working for Paul Fox’ issue.
‘If your lot could do your job and identify the deceased, I’ll have something to give Paul and I won’t have to deal with him anymore.’
‘Not that you would pass on information pertinent to an ongoing police investigation,’ Fleet said, not entirely joking.
‘Naturally not,’ Lydia said, trying to work out why Fleet was in a weird mood.
‘Where did you meet him? Paul?’
‘At the park,’ Lydia said. ‘Why are you so interested in every detail. It’s not that big a deal.’
‘Anything to do with the Fox Family is a big deal in my book. I know the stories.’
‘I know the reality,’ Lydia tried to soothe him. ‘And it’s not that impressive.’
‘Well, Aristotle called foxes ‘wicked and villainous’.
‘The animals or the Family?’
‘The animals, I think, but who knows? It was so long ago. Either way, it’s not a great sign.’
‘One person’s opinion, though. And labelling a whole species like that. That’s very old school.’ Lydia had been going to say ‘bigoted’ but she thought better of lecturing Fleet on the realities of discrimination.
‘I thought you and Aristotle were of one mind on this issue?’
Lydia shrugged. ‘I dunno. I’m trying to keep a more open mind.’
‘Open minds are good. Don’t jump to conclusions, go where the evidence leads.’
‘Exactly,’ Lydia said, pleased that Fleet seemed to be coming round on the issue.
‘But you can’t ignore evidence, either. You’ve got to take it all into account.’
‘Sure,’ Lydia said. She couldn’t get Paul’s expression out of her mind and it kept interrupting her thought processes. He had looked almost lost for a moment, something she had never seen and wouldn’t have thought was even possible.
‘And taking all the evidence into account on Paul and his relatives, adds up to one obvious conclusion,’ Fleet was still talking. ‘Lydia?’
‘Sorry, yes? I’m listening.’
Fleet blew out a sigh of frustration. ‘You can’t trust him.’
‘You know me,’ Lydia said, after a moment. ‘I don’t trust anybody.’
Lydia had a quick check-in surveillance job to do for a long-term client. On the third Tuesday of every month, she watched a tired-looking middle-aged man meet an equally tired-looking middle-aged woman in a Costa near Kennington Park. The woman always ordered a slice of carrot cake and an earl grey tea, the gent had a plain black coffee. They chatted for an hour or two, sometimes having a second hot drink (hot chocolate for her, mint tea for him) and then shared a brief hug goodbye with a chaste cheek kiss. Lydia had captured this meeting in writing and, once, with a discreet video of the goodbye. She had expected it to reassure her client, the wife of Mr Black Coffee, and draw the job to a close, but instead the client insisted that Lydia keep watching. Lydia’s job often felt like an invasion of people’s privacy, mostly because that’s exactly what it was, but when they were doing something morally questionable it was easier for her to justify to herself in the small hours of the night, when she stared at the ceiling and wondered which side of the line between good and evil she was currently falling. However, watching two innocuous-looking friends on their monthly catch-up felt undeniably grubby. If they didn’t start doing something overtly sexual together or turn out to be the heads of a criminal gang, Lydia was going to tell the client that her part in their little play was over. There was a chance that this was some bizarre fantasy that the husband and wife had together, in which she had him followed by a P.I. and it added spice and sensationalism to their marriage, but Lydia didn’t get into this business to be a sex aid, and she had no intention of being one. Not while she had enough other work coming in, at any rate. As a self-employed single person, she recognised that she had to stay flexible. Beggars, choosers, etc.
With the police drawing a blank on the dead man’s identity, and Jason nagging her about leaving a lost spirit wandering alone in the ethereal wilderness, Lydia knew she had no choice but to go on a ghost hunt. To be fair, Jason had made an excellent point. If she could just ask the ghost who he was and how he had died, it could be the quickest and easiest case she had ever tackled. Of course, that involved going back underground, something she wasn’t over-keen to do. Under the earth was not her natural habitat and she could remember the sensation of the ground above pressing down, threatening to cave in and bury her in its suffocating embrace.
Still, Crows don’t flinch, so she pulled on her jacket and boots and headed out. Her London Transport contact, Faisal, was initially unwilling to take her back down to the disused tunnels but she flipped her gold coin high into the air and before it had finished spinning managed to convince him otherwise.
As they neared the unmarked door at the end of the platform, his voice had taken on a quivery tone. ‘It’s a crime scene,’ Faisal said. ‘We’re not supposed to go there.’
He had repeated this several times. Lydia’s mojo clearly hadn’t worked as well as it had last time. Or the resistance was higher. ‘You don’t have to go anywhere near it. Let me through the service door and give me a map. I’ll go on my own.’
Faisal shook his head. ‘That wouldn’t be right, either. Members of the public aren’t allowed on their own.’
That gave Lydia pause. ‘What was our man doing down here? He wasn’t wearing a uniform or high vis, didn’t work for you guys, or an engineering crew.’
Faisal shrugged. ‘They do tours sometimes. You can pay and they take a small group. Maybe he went on one of those and then came back for a private view.’
‘Maybe,’ Lydia said. ‘How hard would it be to get down here without a guide to open the service door?’
Faisal’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t think that’s the sort of information I should give out.’
‘I’m not going to tell anybody,’ Lydia said. ‘You can trust me.’ She took out her coi
n and gripped it hard, letting the confidence of the Crows flow through her, helping her to nudge Faisal into compliance. It was a dirty trick to play and she knew it, but it worked.
‘There’s a code on the door but it’s never changed. If you went on a tour or saw someone open it and you were close enough to see, you could use it yourself. Once you’re down there, there’s nothing to stop you getting back out. The doors are only locked one way. We get urban explorers down there sometimes. Right pain in the neck they are. If we find one and report them, then we get in trouble. They say that we must have left the door open or something, but like I say, you don’t need to leave it open. It’s not high security and it’s not fair to blame us, not our job.’
Lydia nodded and made sympathetic noises, before adding. ‘So, what’s the code?’
Faisal gave her the four numbers and then said, in a worried tone: ‘You can’t go on your own.’
Lydia patted his arm. ‘I wouldn’t get you into trouble, Faisal. I’m not messing about. I’ll follow the rules.’
He visibly relaxed and Lydia put her coin back in her pocket.
‘Rules are, I need to stay with you. But the police said it was a crime scene, I don’t know…’
‘Take me near, then. You don’t have to go to the actual place.’
As it happened, Lydia didn’t need to go there, either. There was nothing. A faint trace of Fox but no sign of the ghost.
Lydia swore under her breath.
Back with Faisal, who was holding a torch and looking miserable, she said: ‘We need to go rambling. Sorry.’
If you had asked Lydia which was worse; walking the twisty, dusty tunnels with no idea what she was about to find around one of the blind corners, or walking them looking for the ghost of a man into whose dead eyes she had gazed, she would have said the uncertainty was worse. She would have been wrong.
The Fox's Curse Page 3
