The Fox's Curse

by Sarah Painter

  While in the shop, she chatted with the guy who ran the place and he mentioned that he had a deal on encrypted hard drives. He started talking about data protection for her clients’ private information and Lydia stopped listening. Not so much because she didn’t care about privacy and the laws of the land which governed it, but because she had been taken by another idea. The sight of the external hard drive made her think about her old laptop and backing it up, which made her think of a faster machine with larger storage, which made her think about Jason. If she blew the rest of the money from Paul on a shiny new laptop for herself, she could pass her old one onto Jason. He had the motor control necessary now, and the internet would be a way for him to leave the building in a way that didn’t involve hitching a ride inside her body. Perhaps he could do his maths stuff on there, too, or find some other mathematics enthusiasts to correspond with? Yes, there was a chance he’d stumble into pornland, but the guy was facing an eternity alone. Access to rude videos might be just the thing to cheer him up. And who was she to judge?

  Once she had everything up and running on her new laptop, she wiped her old one and carried it through to Jason’s bedroom. He was standing in the corner, looking forlornly at the blank wall, arms dangling at his sides.

  ‘I brought you a gift,’ Lydia said, putting the computer onto the bed.

  The transformation was instant and gratifying. Jason went from hangdog to excited puppy and she had to ask him to stop hugging her as she was going to get hypothermia.

  ‘Sorry. Yes. Right.’

  ‘Shout if you need a hand,’ Lydia said. ‘I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The next day, Lydia slept in. She had no urgent case to work and she didn’t expect to hear from Fleet. He had explained that he would have to step away in a ‘purely practical sense’. Another phrase which ran around Lydia’s mind, inspiring dread, was ‘we should cool off on physical contact and stop communicating in traceable ways’.

  Lydia checked on Jason and found him hunched over his new laptop, his curtains drawn. He looked up, the glow from the screen illuminating his face in the otherwise dark room and smiled beatifically. At least somebody was happy. And it had taken his mind off Amy.

  She had showered and was making a mug of lacklustre coffee in the kitchenette when she heard somebody knocking urgently on the flat door.

  It was Fleet and she knew something was wrong instantly. He was wearing a suit, but hadn’t shaved and his eyes were wild.

  ‘We have a problem,’ he said, walking in.

  ‘Don’t we always?’

  ‘I’m serious,’ Fleet said. ‘MIT are getting ready to bring you in. They like you for Marty’s death and everyone has been running around getting very excited. They’re waiting on hearing from the CPS but it won’t be long.’

  ‘That makes no sense,’ Lydia said, anger flowing through her, fast and pure. ‘If I killed him, why would I take an employee of the London transport system to visit the corpse? What kind of idiot murderer would do that?’

  ‘Killers do sometimes like to visit the scene of the crime. It’s a glory thing.’

  ‘Do they take a witness along for the ride?’

  Fleet shrugged. ‘Not as a rule. But some do wait around for the police, stand behind the line gawping like any other member of the public.’

  The thought cut through Lydia’s fury, distracting her. ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘Enjoying the spectacle. Relishing the aftermath. Standing in plain sight of the people who are going to try and catch them. It makes them feel powerful, I believe.’

  ‘Bloody stupid behaviour.’

  ‘Killers aren’t usually known for their smarts, no matter what TV dramas would like you to believe. Most people kill on impulse and poor impulse control is correlated with low intelligence.’

  ‘But there are always exceptions.’

  ‘Of course. Sociopaths are more likely to have above-average intelligence. But, again, not as often as you might think. They’re not all Sherlock.’

  ‘I’m not a sociopath,’ Lydia said. She held out her little finger. ‘I pinkie swear.’

  ‘This isn’t a joke, Lyds. They are getting ready to arrest you. It might even be today.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to tell me that.’ The anger had drained away and was being replaced by something else. Denial. This simply could not be happening.

  ‘I’m definitely not supposed to tell you that. Don’t make me regret it’

  ‘By running? Crows don’t run.’

  Fleet closed his eyes briefly. ‘Please. Just get out.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Lydia said. ‘It would reflect poorly on you. They know you know me. No matter how careful we’ve been, somebody knows. They would assume you tipped me off.’

  ‘I don’t care about that.’

  ‘I do,’ Lydia said. ‘And I didn’t do this. I’m not running away.’

  ‘This is serious,’ Fleet said. ‘I can’t stop it.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Lydia said. She was numb and her mind seemed to be working more slowly than usual. A moment later she realised what was happening. She was drowning in shame. She was the Crow who had been stupid enough to trust the Fox. All that time, Paul had been playing her, playing with her. All the time he had been laying his trap and she had walked right into it. In the Aesop tale, the Fox flatters the crow into opening her beak to sing, which means she loses the tasty piece of cheese she was carrying. Lydia had been flattered into working a case for Paul, imagining that he asked for her help because she was good at her job and he genuinely respected her investigative skills. Put like that, it was embarrassingly naive. ‘And you can say it.’

  ‘Say what?’ Fleet was at the front window, peering out at the street with a tense look on his face.

  ‘I told you so,’ Lydia poured a glass of whisky and knocked it back. ‘You were right. I was an idiot to trust Paul Fox.’

  ‘This isn’t the time,’ Fleet said. ‘None of that matters. You need to go somewhere safe. Once the team get here, I have to do my job.’

  Lydia felt cold and sick and very, very small. How had she been so blind? How had she fallen for Paul’s act?

  Fleet was pacing, one hand on his forehead. His phone buzzed and the expression on his face when he read the message was enough to jerk Lydia from her pity party. ‘What?’

  ‘They’re here,’ Fleet said, his voice urgent. ‘It’s happening.’

  ‘Fine,’ Lydia shut down her computer, tidied the piles of paperwork on her desk. ‘Should I pack a toothbrush?’

  ‘This is serious,’ Fleet said. ‘I can’t stop it.’

  ‘I’m well aware,’ Lydia replied. ‘Why don’t you get on with it? Or do you need to wait for back up?’

  ‘Please don’t make this any harder than it already is.’ Fleet’s eyes were impossibly sad, but he was still going to stand to one side while his colleagues put her in a marked car.

  There were feet on the stairs outside and Lydia’s proximity alarm alerted her to what she already knew. She switched it off and picked her jacket up from over the back of her chair.

  Shapes behind the ribbed glass and then hammering on the wood of the door frame.

  Fleet opened the door. ‘No need for all that,’ he said. His body was blocking Lydia’s view, although she imagined some disappointed junior with a brand new battering ram and some training he was eager to put into practice.

  A couple of uniforms wearing stab vests came into the flat, spreading out as if preparing to search. Another copper in plain clothes introduced herself, although Lydia didn’t seem to be taking things in properly as she promptly forgot her name, and then explained that there was a warrant for her arrest and that they would like her permission to search the property.

  ‘No thanks,’ Lydia said. ‘I think I’ll wait for the paperwork on that.’

  ‘Your cooperation would be both appreciated and noted,’ the officer began, but Fleet cut across, reciting the s
tandard police caution Lydia knew well from television, film and books. It was surreal. Her lover was saying ‘you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence…’ and she couldn’t take it in.

  ‘Are you going to cuff me?’ Lydia said, feeling a spurt of panic. The image of the dead crow’s wings zip-tied to the balcony railings jumped into her mind.

  ‘Not if I don’t have to,’ Fleet said.

  The uniforms swivelled their heads to look at him. It happened in unison like a weird dance and Lydia had the sudden urge to laugh.

  ‘There’s no need,’ he said to the room at large. ‘You’re happy to come along and get this sorted, aren’t you?’

  Lydia nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  As they left the flat, she caught sight of Jason standing in the bathroom doorway, mostly hidden by the half-open door. One of the uniforms gave it a curious look and Lydia realised it must have been shut when she had walked past on her way in. She wanted to wave or to say something, but she just met his gaze and tried to convey ‘everything’s fine’ with her eyes.

  Walking through The Fork was excruciating. Lydia kept her eyes focused forward, but still caught the avid expressions of the punters enjoying a side show with their food. It would be a story for them to dine out on later. ‘I was in this cafe and suddenly a whole group of police were marching this woman out’. She saw Angel looking shocked, her mobile in her hand. She would call Charlie, no doubt. That was probably good.

  It was cold outside and Lydia was glad she had put her jacket on. She was put into a car with the two uniforms. Fleet said ‘I’m following in my car.’ Lydia couldn’t bear to look at him.

  The custody sergeant booked her in, taking details and chatting to the arresting officers as if she was deaf in between asking questions about drug use and suicidal tendencies. The holding cell. Waiting room. Whatever the modern copper had been taught to call it was exactly as depressing as she expected. A single hard bed with a blanket. Blank walls. And air which seemed imbued with panic and despair, with an unhealthy dose of old vomit and industrial strength pine air freshener.

  Lydia sat cross-legged on the bed and closed her eyes. She would breathe and concentrate on not panicking. She would not think about the locked door or the municipal building with its terrifying blandness, its layers of procedure and paperwork, the system into which she had been absorbed. She was powerless. There was nothing to do but wait and hope that the system spat her out again, as quickly as possible.

  They had offered her a phone call and she had said ‘not yet, thanks,’ thinking that Angel would tell Charlie and the only other person she would have called was Fleet. And he was in an office somewhere in this building, maybe drinking coffee and sharing banter with his fellow coppers. His colleagues.

  They hadn’t charged her, which meant there were twenty-four hours before they had to do so or release her. Police didn’t usually bring you in and search your property and take a DNA swab on a whim, though. Not with resources stretched as they were. Lydia couldn’t pretend to herself that this was just a fishing expedition.

  The next time an officer slid open the shutter on the door to check on her, to see if she needed the bathroom or a cup of water, she heard someone shouting and moaning in one of the adjoining cells. The trapped feeling intensified and a surge of pure adrenaline spiked through her system. ‘I think I’ll take my call, now, if that’s all right?’

  The officer said that was no problem and fetched back-up to escort her to the desk. The custody sergeant moved away to give her the privacy required by law, but it hardly felt like enough. Charlie picked up after two rings and Lydia’s knees buckled at the sound of his voice. ‘I’m working on it,’ he said. ‘Bit tricky with the way things are with the Silvers. They’re the best, but they aren’t too pleased with us at this moment.’

  Lydia closed her eyes, blocking out the station and pretending, just for a moment, that she was back at The Fork. ‘I know. Don’t we have our own solicitor, though?’

  ‘Sure,’ Charlie said. ‘But it’s not that simple.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lydia opened her eyes, focusing on a tired-looking spider plant on top of a filing cabinet behind the desk. It was pale and sickly and needed dusting.

  ‘In or out, Lyds, makes a difference.’

  ‘You won’t help me if I’m out?’

  ‘I’m not saying that, I’m saying it makes a difference.’ Charlie didn’t sound happy, but there was a current of resolve. Firm, unmovable. ‘Come on, Lydia, you’re not a child anymore.’

  ‘In,’ Lydia said. ‘Now get me the fuck out of here.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  They had taken her phone and she didn’t wear a watch. With no window to judge the changing light, Lydia had no idea how much time had passed. She kept thinking she could hear the caw of a corvid, and assumed she was hallucinating from fear. She didn’t know why she was reacting so poorly to being locked in a room. With no natural light. Like she was being buried underground. Maybe it was something in her DNA, another gift from her Crow Family heritage, but she knew she was not going to last the night in his place, let alone be able to tough out jail.

  The door scraped open and Lydia was led into an interview room which was labelled ‘consultation room four’. The wording reminded her of hospital. Maybe all the institutions shared signage, but whether it was to confuse or calm, she didn’t know. A uniform with a crisp white shirt and a high ponytail smiled kindly at Lydia and offered her a cup of tea. The human warmth was enough to make her want to sob. She was frightened and could feel her wings desperately beating. It was an instinctual and visceral reaction that she was unable to stop. Another fragment of her precious control slipping away.

  Sitting in the interview room didn’t help. The grey walls seemed to press inward, while the fake beech table with two chairs opposite hers and a bulky audio recorder plugged into a wall socket had the air of a film set. It was disturbingly familiar, a sight she had seen on a hundred crime dramas, but also unique and different and unpleasantly real. A sign on the wall said something about SmartWater, a phrase she didn’t recognise or understand. There was the smell of food. Maybe beef mince. It reminded her of school dinners and her stomach turned over.

  ‘We’ll start as soon as possible,’ the nice-looking officer said. ‘Sorry about the delay. Just waiting on your legal representative.’

  Lydia had been given the option to contact a personal solicitor and had declined, so they were going to be in for a long wait. They had offered a duty solicitor, too, the desk sergeant waving vaguely at an anonymous door behind which, presumably, a keen legal mind was sitting in private communion with a wrongdoer, innocent or their late lunch. Who knew?

  She wondered, vaguely, whether if there was a long enough delay, waiting for the non-existent solicitor, that they would run down the clock on their twenty-four hour window. After that time, if they hadn’t charged her, they would have to let her go. Free on a technicality. An administrative cock-up. Like Maria Silver, only she, Lydia Crow, was innocent. Of this particular crime, at any rate. Her mind was still spinning, her thoughts coming fast and staccato. Beating a panicked rhythm.

  Five minutes passed, in which the nice officer tried to make small talk and Lydia managed one-word answers. Not because she was trying to be awkward but because she felt as if something heavy was sitting on her chest and she could hardly breathe. There was a knock on the door and a uniform called the officer out. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, apologetically to Lydia. ‘Shouldn’t be much longer. You want a biscuit or something?’

  Nice cop, Lydia thought. Was she leaving so that Nasty Cop could take her place? Or would they send in Fleet? Sexually Talented Cop. Romantically Involved Cop. Ethically Compromised Cop. She was losing it.

  The room emptied and Lydia leaned back in her chair a little, determined to get a hold of her cognitive powers. She had to stop spiralling and start working through the problem. Paul Fox had been setting her up all along, but why?
And how could he have done it? She began to run over every conversation, every move she had made since opening that stupid padded envelope.

  The door opened and Lydia took her time in looking up. She had just been recreating the moment she searched Marty’s sleeping quarters, trying to work out if there was anything incriminating in her actions, or anything which could be construed as such.

  ‘Lydia Crow, always a pleasure.’

  Her head snapped up as her senses bombarded her with the strange power that always accompanied the courier.

  ‘You?’

  He smiled and Lydia felt the warm glow which had spread through her body when he had healed her. In that second, she could feel his touch again and had to glance down to confirm that his hand hadn’t appeared on her chest.

  His teeth and the whites of his eyes gleamed and even the fluorescent lighting couldn’t dim the healthy glow of his skin. The power which rolled from him seemed stronger than before, or Lydia was in a weakened state, either way she felt like she was going to be sick.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, as if aware of the effect he was having. ‘It’s a small space. And you’re tired, I bet.’ He pulled a chair out and sat down, looking completely at home.

  ‘You’re police?’ Lydia managed to say.

  ‘They’ve got a solid case against you, witness statements which suggest a sustained campaign against the deceased, plus a motive for wishing him harm. Furthermore, they have found evidence at your flat which hasn’t been disclosed yet.’

  Which wasn’t an answer. ‘What evidence?’

  ‘Mobile phone. It’s a burner which was used to communicate with Marty Benson on a number of occasions in the lead up to his death. They will be building a case around this to suggest that you harassed the deceased, who was in a fragile state of mind, and that you lured him to the tunnel with intent to harm.’