‘He did say he deserved it,’ Alex said. ‘But I just thought he was being negative. He did get down sometimes. Wasn’t the most confident person underneath it all.’
‘Anybody new in his life? Any threats made?’
Alex shook her head. ‘Same old, same old. He wasn’t much for socialising. Just his usual crowd, half of whom were his customers. Other half were people he’d known forever.’
‘Significant other? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?’
‘Not since Katy.’
‘Katy?’
‘I never met her. She died a couple of years before I knew Marty. He never got over it.’
‘How did she die?’ Lydia felt ice run down her spine. She felt she knew what Alex was going to say before the words were out of her mouth. It was a weird moment of premonition and it made her feel vaguely nauseous.
‘Bad luck, really,’ Alex said. ‘Marty was getting into recreational drugs, even then, and he persuaded Katy to take MDMA with him. She died.’
‘Bad pill?’
‘The opposite, premo grade, very pure. They took a whole pill each, rather than pacing it with a quarter or a half. Marty was fine and Katy had a heart attack.’
‘I’m amazed he was doing drugs with his heart condition.’
‘That’s a recent thing, I think,’ Alex said. ‘He developed a weak valve or something through doing too much speed and other stuff… He went in hard after Katy died. Kind of ironic, really.’
‘Tragic, I would say,’ Lydia said. ‘You got a last name for Katy?’
Alex blinked. ‘No, not that I remember.’ She seemed to take in the card Lydia had passed her properly. ‘This is your job?’
‘Yep,’ Lydia said. ‘One more question. Who else knew Marty was sick?’
‘You mean his heart thing?’ Alex gave a short laugh. ‘Everyone. It wasn’t a secret.’
‘Did you know he was sleeping here?’ Lydia said.
Alex hesitated and then nodded. ‘You know the passages I told you about? There are cellars and store rooms underneath this building.’
More underground. Fabulous. Lydia shivered.
Alex, sandwiched between Fleet and Lydia to stop her from losing them, directed the way to a store room with a hessian mat in the middle of the floor and metal shelving lining the walls filled with bar supplies and sundries.
After a little more encouragement, a reluctant Alex kicked the mat away revealing a trapdoor. ‘It’s not fit for human habitation,’ Alex said. ‘Marty showed me once and I told him he would get pneumonia from the damp. He didn’t listen, though.’
Fleet lifted the door, revealing a short metal ladder bolted just underneath the opening. Lydia used the flashlight on her phone to look around. The floor was quite far below the end of the ladder and the beam of light from her phone was too feeble to see very far around the cellar. The light from the room they were in didn’t make much difference, either, it was as if the space below was repelling illumination.
‘You’re not really working for Paul Fox, are you?’
‘He’s paying me for this particular case, yes.’ Lydia thought she could see a sleeping bag and a lumpy shape which might have been a duffel bag. She looked at Fleet. ‘We have to go down.’
He nodded. ‘Me first.’ He reached down and grabbed the top of the ladder, giving it a good shake. The metal screeched and rattled in answer. ‘Not sure about that. I’m a bit heavier than Marty.’
‘Have you ever been down here?’
Alex shook her head. ‘Gives me the creeps.’
Fleet hung his legs over the edge, placing them on one of the rungs of the ladder and then manoeuvred himself around so that he was facing the right direction. He was stood on the ladder, now, his legs under the floor and his torso above it. From a certain angle, it would have made an interesting photograph. Adonis rising from the floor. Or somebody who had been miraculously cut in two but was still smiling.
He descended quickly, the ladder complaining all the way.
‘That’s not encouraging,’ Lydia said.
‘It’s fine,’ Fleet called up. ‘And I’ll catch you.’
‘You first,’ Lydia said to Alex.
‘No way,’ she shook her head. ‘It’s haunted. I’m not going down there.’
‘I doubt that,’ Lydia said, but she mimicked Fleet’s technique and climbed down. It might be easier to have a good poke around without Marty’s friend breathing down their necks, anyway.
The ladder was cold under her palms and the air was musty. She felt her lungs tighten against the damp in the air and she began to breathe in shallow sips.
Fleet had clicked on a small torch which gave more light than Lydia’s phone. She immediately added it to her growing list of wanted gadgets. The walls of the cellar were rough brick, with patches which looked as if they might have been skimmed at one point in history with a wash or thin plaster, which was now patchy and diseased. The greenish mildew coated the walls at the base, spreading more thinly as you went up and blooming thickly again where the walls met the ceiling. It was much higher than Lydia expected and studying the walls revealed the reason. It looked like the current floor was lower than the one put in originally. As if they had decided to dig a little deeper.
Fleet was looking around, playing the torch beam across the ceiling.
‘Maybe they had plans to stash stage sets down here at one point? Seems awkward, but would account for the space.’
‘Not sure I’ve been in enough basements to make a judgement,’ Fleet said. ‘Not ones that haven’t been converted, anyway. This is probably the last bit of undeveloped space in Whitechapel.’
Lydia crouched down next to the sleeping bag. It was very light and, to her untrained eye, seemed like a good one. She took a note of the brand name and snapped a couple of pictures. Under the sleeping bag, there was a bright blue mat. Also thin and light. Also probably ‘technical’ gear of some kind. ‘Either Marty was a keen hiker, or he knocked off a camping gear shop.’
‘Or he borrowed this stuff,’ Fleet turned his face up to the rectangle of light, where Alex was visible. She was kneeling and peering in. ‘Did you lend him this kit?’
‘No, he brought it with him. I think. Why? Does it matter?’
‘Probably not,’ Fleet said.
‘Is there anything down there?’ Alex said. ‘Have you found his stash?’
‘Not yet,’ Lydia called back. She unzipped the sleeping bag, and spread it open. There were a couple of balled-up socks at the bottom and a pair of boxers which Lydia had no desire to touch.
Fleet had snapped on a pair of gloves and was unzipping the duffel bag. He tipped it upside down and a twist of clothes fell onto the dank floor. Lydia made to look through them and Fleet said. ‘Gloves. And go easy, there might be sharps.’
‘Needles?’
‘Or a blade.’
‘Did he inject?’ Lydia called up. There was no answer and Lydia couldn’t see Alex anymore. Then the trapdoor closed, cutting the available light. Instantly the corners of the room disappeared and Lydia could only see what was illuminated by their torchlight.
‘Hell hawk,’ she swore quietly. Then, loudly. ‘Alex! Open the door!’
There was a scraping sound and Lydia realised that Alex was dragging something on top of the hatch. Marvellous.
‘Well, we probably should have seen that one coming.’ Fleet sounded remarkably calm and Lydia decided to believe that was because he had a wonderful plan.
‘Is there a lamp? He can’t have lived down here in darkness.’ The torch beam swept the floor around the sleeping bag and pile of clothes until it hit a candle stuck in a bottle.
‘How Dickensian,’ Fleet said. ‘I don’t know if I want to use a flame down here.’
‘It’s too damp to go up,’ Lydia said with more conviction than she felt. The mix of odours was varied as well as terrible, and she could easily imagine that some sort of marsh gas was seeping into the basement.
Fleet handed Lydia his torch and bu
ndled up the scattered clothes back into the bag. ‘We’ll look through it when we get out of here.’
Something scrabbled in the dark and Lydia let out an involuntary squeak. Which was embarrassing. ‘How are we going to get out?’ She handed Fleet his torch and then used her phone to play light over the walls, refusing to think about rats running over her feet. It wasn’t promising and Lydia felt a bubble of panic inflate inside her chest. Her fingers began to tingle. ‘It stinks down here.’
‘It’s okay,’ Fleet said. ‘Does your phone have signal?’
Lydia checked. ‘No.’
Fleet moved away, holding his phone up, and Lydia moved with him, not wanting to be standing alone.
‘Nope,’ he said after a moment. ‘But it might be intermittent.’
He was trying to reassure her, which was sweet, and just the fact of it helped Lydia’s pulse to return to normal. They would work it out.
A second later, Fleet said. ‘There’s a door.’ He walked closer to the far wall and shone his torch on a most welcome sight. It wasn’t locked and behind it was another cellar room, much like the one they were stood in. At the far wall of that room, there was an open archway with a passage leading off. ‘Alex was telling me that there was a passage to the Thames. They used to use it to move illicit goods from the river to the bar back in the day.’
‘Seems unlikely,’ Fleet said. ‘But I hope she’s right.’ He moved toward the next room.
‘Hang on.’ Now that there was the possibility of escape, Lydia’s mind cleared. ‘I’m going to check in here, first. See if Marty left anything interesting.’
She systematically shone the torch beam around the room, taking it in sections and looking for more of Marty’s personal objects. She checked the walls as well as the floor, looking for writing or things pinned up. Maybe it was living with Jason, or maybe it was the insanity-vibe she was getting from Marty’s abode, but she half-expected to see disturbing drawings scrawled across the brickwork.
Fleet had Marty’s duffel bag over his shoulder and he scooped up the unzipped sleeping bag so that Lydia could check underneath. Apart from a couple more jars and bottles with half-melted candles, a few plastic lighters and a pack of Rizla papers, there wasn’t anything to see. Unless you counted the few wet patches and piles of what was almost certainly rodent droppings.
There was a small locked cashbox. The kind that used to be used by small-traders that was, essentially, useless as somebody could simply nick the whole thing. Lydia pulled on a pair of gloves and picked it up. Instantly, a flash of silver obliterated her vision and there was metal on her tongue.
‘Swap,’ she said, not elaborating. Rather than hand over the duffel bag, Fleet just took the box from her and stuffed it into the bag, before slinging it back over his shoulder.
Satisfied that she wasn’t missing anything else, Lydia followed Fleet into the next room. The air smelled even worse and Lydia swept over the room quickly with her torch beam. There was a pile of rubbish in one corner, including old takeaway containers and empty bottles of booze. A drip of moisture landed on her outstretched hand and, playing the light over the ceiling revealed rampant mildew and what looked like moss.
Fleet ducked his head to go through the archway. The ceiling of the passage was much lower than the rooms, and there was moisture running down the walls. ‘Even if this doesn’t go to the river, it looks like it could be under it.’
‘Can we get out?’ Now that she wasn’t studying Marty’s living space, Lydia could feel her panic returning. The air was full of moisture and she was painfully aware of the amount of mould spores she was probably inhaling with every breath.
Fleet’s body obscured the end of the passage and she put a hand out to touch his back, wanting the connection. ‘There’s a door,’ he said, squeezing to the side so that Lydia could see. He tried the handle ‘Locked. Doesn’t look very strong though,’ he was studying the hinges and lock, rattling the handle and knocking on the wood. ‘Stand back.’
Lydia retreated down the passage to give Fleet space. He aimed a powerful kick at the bottom corner of the door and it shuddered. Another one and it gave way, swinging open.
Lydia thought she had never found a man so physically attractive as Fleet was in that moment. That might have been the effect of the cooler, fresher air flowing into the passage, though.
Narrow steps led up, finishing with another door. This one closed with a bolt on the inside. Sliding it open proved trickier than kicking the inner door, as the metal was rusted and stuck, but then they were outside, enjoying sweet freedom.
Lydia had never been so happy to hear the evening sounds of London or to see the light-polluted sky up above. They weren’t at the river, but in a back alley. Looking at the building they just exited from, it appeared as if they had walked along the row of connected properties, probably travelling no more than a hundred feet. It had felt much further. There was far too much time spent under the earth in this case for Lydia’s liking.
Fleet slung an arm around Lydia’s shoulders as they walked away from the theatre. ‘Well, that was an enlightening experience.’
‘Why didn’t Marty assume that the curse meant his girlfriend dying? That seems like pretty bad luck to have.’
‘Maybe he did. Maybe it made him feel guilty.’
‘It didn’t exactly narrow our list of suspects. Everyone knew he was ill, and he had that tattoo, so he was broadcasting that he had a touch of paranoia.’
‘Can you look into his ex-girlfriend?’
‘Okay,’ Fleet said. ‘I’m not promising anything, though.’
‘I know, databases, security. It’s okay. Whatever you can find, would be great.’
Fleet gave her a funny look. ‘You mean right now, don’t you? I was thinking we could go back to mine…’
Lydia shook her head, glad to have a reason other than her weird resistance to a normal relationship. ‘I want to look through his stuff, write a report on tonight before I forget stuff.’
‘Fair enough,’ Fleet said. ‘I’ll head to the office, now. You want me to let the investigating officer know you’re looking into Marty’s death?’
‘Nope,’ Lydia shook her head so violently she gave herself a crick in the neck. ‘Bad idea.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Fleet said. ‘I just feel like you should get some recognition for the work you’re doing. It’s good stuff.’
‘I don’t want any recognition from the police, thank you. I would like to stay firmly off their radar.’ She paused. ‘Present company excepted.’
‘Of course,’ Fleet said, smiling down at her. She felt her stomach flip and stopped walking to press herself against Fleet and kiss him thoroughly.
‘Well, now I don’t want to go to work,’ Fleet said, running his hands over the silky material of her top.
‘Me neither,’ Lydia said, feeling her nerve-endings respond and her skin tingle. ‘But I feel disgusting, so a shower is definitely on the cards.’
Fleet groaned. ‘Now I’m going to be thinking of you naked in the shower, too.’
‘Good,’ Lydia said, smiling.
Back at the flat, Lydia spread out the contents of Marty’s bag onto the floor of the office and sat back on her heels to survey it. She had laid out a bed sheet first. Partly to protect the floor from anything oozy or infectious and partly to make sure she didn’t miss or lose anything. It was a sad collection, made all the worse by the knowledge that this was, likely, the sole possessions of Marty Benson, only grandchild of Blackthorn Fox, estranged daughter of Tristan Fox’s great aunt. She had made Paul spell out the family tree to the best of his knowledge, but it had plenty of gaps.
She reached for the whisky bottle and then remembered that she had deliberately left it on top of the filing cabinet and that there was a mug of coffee by her side instead. Better habits. She had never found that alcohol particularly dulled her senses, always feeling that it made her sharper and more awake, if anything, but she didn’t feel in the mood to ta
ke any chances.
Marty had two grey t-shirts and a pair of branded jogging trousers, all very bobbly and old. Three pairs of socks, not clean. Two pairs of boxers. Ditto. A comb with a few straggly brown hairs ensnared in its teeth, a toothbrush and almost-empty tube of toothpaste and a bar of soap comprised his personal toiletry kit, housed in a zip-lock plastic bag.
There were four plastic lighters, like the ones which had been strewn around his sleeping area, and an old tobacco tin with a packet of papers, the cardboard cover torn away, nestling on top of a small quantity of weed. There was a blister pack of medication, too. Heart-shaped yellowish white tablets, half used. Presumably his beta blockers.
Surveying the items, Lydia felt sympathy for Marty. She knew that the Fox family code prevented them from being part of the wider social system, for registering for benefits or even state-sponsored healthcare, but she couldn’t stop feeling that this was what happened when a person fell through the cracks of the world. Of course, the Foxes looked after their own. Marty had been given a place to lay his sleeping bag, after all. And it was entirely possible that she was viewing his possessions from her own biased position. Maybe she was too middle class, too conventional, too suburban to appreciate the true quality of Marty’s life. But she doubted it.
There was one item which didn’t seem to belong with the others. For starters, because she couldn’t see how often Marty would have the opportunity to have a long leisurely bath. A plastic yellow duck with a red bill.
Lydia picked the duck up. It was softer and more pleasant to hold than she expected. Slightly squishy rubber rather than cheap hard plastic. She squeezed it experimentally, then turned it over. There was a thin cut along the base of the duck which opened when she squeezed. Jumping up and heading to the bathroom to fetch her tweezers, she put the plug into the sink and dug around inside the duck with the tweezers. With a bit of work, she got hold of something and managed to pull it through the slit. A bit of a clear plastic. Once there was enough of the plastic through to grab hold of, she pulled the rest out. A small plastic bag filled with pills.
The Fox's Curse Page 13
