The Shadow Wing

by Sarah Painter

  Lydia had regretted her choice of words the moment they left her mouth. She felt the traitorous blush creep over her face and thanked feathers he couldn’t see her. ‘He’s been gathering information for years and he tried to recruit me. You know him as the guy who orchestrated the trouble between us. And got the Crows killed in Wandsworth. I call him Mr Smith.’

  ‘He wants a war? Messy.’

  ‘He wants us at each other's throats. If we tear each other apart, we’re not a threat. Plus, we’re more likely to work for him, give up power or information.’ Lydia didn’t mention the Silver Cup. She owed Paul Fox, but she didn’t trust him. Not completely. ‘He’s vulnerable, though. He’s been working outside his remit at MI6. They are looking to clean up his projects and won’t be too sad if he disappears.’

  ‘And how do you know that?’

  Lydia wasn’t going to mention Fleet, it would only provoke some macho posturing. ‘I’ve gone to some lengths to make sure it’s good information. I can’t guarantee that someone else won’t pick up his research in the future, but for now they’ve got bigger fish to fry.’

  ‘It’s not going to be easy to get to him. JRB is just a shell.’

  ‘The Pearls.’

  ‘What about them?’ Paul’s tone was dismissive. ‘Bunch of grocers.’

  ‘You’ve only met the descendants,’ Lydia said. ‘I’ve met the original family and, trust me, they’re not to be fucked with. They’re more powerful than you, me, Henry Crow, Maria Silver and Maddie put together.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Paul still sounded unimpressed.

  ‘But they’ve been trapped. Bit of tricky contract work. Some agreement with the original incarnation of JRB.’

  ‘A written contract? If they’re so powerful, how did that work?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Lydia said. ‘Maybe back in the day, all kinds of things got imbued with power?’ She was thinking of the power in the Silver Cup, power that had been contained in ordinary metal. Maybe power had been contained in the ink and paper of the contract, or in the pen they used to sign. Maybe the Pearls just believed in the power of language to such an extent that it worked its own kind of magic on them. It didn’t matter. ‘What matters is that I’ve got a bargaining chip. I’m going to deliver Mr Smith to the Pearls. He’s the sole owner of JRB and I bet they can make him renegotiate. They want to be free.’ This last part was the bit which made Lydia sweaty with nausea. If this worked and the Pearls broke their contract, what would their freedom mean? Would they stay to their underground realm out of choice? Or would they rise up into the city? All she could do was hope they would be feeling magnanimous toward the Crows.

  ‘And what will they do with Mr Smith? The embodiment of the contract which has kept them trapped all of these years?’

  Lydia shrugged, even though Paul couldn’t see her. ‘Not my problem.’

  * * *

  Lydia didn’t think that a clinical psychologist was going to be any help in predicting Maddie’s behaviour, but she couldn’t get the image of Maddie leaning over her unconscious body and planting a kiss on her forehead. It was somehow more disturbing than the times she had threatened to kill her. Uncharted territory.

  Fleet was pleased when Lydia agreed to the meeting, too, which was a bonus. She could see the tension radiating from him and wanted to ease his concern.

  The psychologist worked part time for the prison service and part time in private practice, and she agreed to see Lydia at the end of the following day. ‘I can fit you in at five.’

  Fleet was still at work at that time. ‘Sorry,’ he said, sounding distracted. Somebody else was clearly still talking to him in the background and a phone was ringing. ‘I was going to come with you.’

  Lydia reassured him that it was fine and made her way to the psychologist’s office. It was north of Camberwell Green in a converted Victorian house and former bakery. The inside had been gutted and remodelled to house several rental offices and a reception area.

  ‘DCI Fleet’s friend,’ the doctor greeted her. ‘I’m Emi Hase. Come in. How can I help?’

  Lydia wasn’t sure what she had expected from the label ‘forensic psychologist’ but it wasn’t this small smiley woman in a floral dress that looked like it had been bought in the children’s department.

  ‘I’m not here to talk about me.’

  ‘You’d be surprised how many people think that.’ The doctor had her hands neatly folded in her lap and was unnaturally still. She had shiny black hair in a neat bob, held back from her face with a red Alice band.

  ‘No, really. I’m an investigator and I’m here in my professional capacity. I want to ask about my client. Well, not really my client.’

  ‘We can talk about whatever you want.’

  ‘It’s my cousin. She is disturbed and I want your professional opinion on her behaviour, her perspective.’

  ‘You think your cousin has a problem?’

  Lydia flipped open her notebook. There was something unsettling about the office with its calming pictures on the walls and the box of tissues on the low table. Something in the vibrations of the air which made her feel on alert. Like the woman opposite her had x-ray vision and could see straight into her heart. ‘I know my cousin is a psychopath. I want to know how best to handle her.’

  ‘Psychopathology is rare.’ A pause. ‘And it’s not what you see in the movies. They’re not all serial killers.’

  Lydia quashed the urge to smile. The head doctor didn’t look as if she would appreciate that. She would probably interpret it as a sign of Lydia’s mental illness. ‘What if I am talking about a serial killer? But the professional sort.’

  The doctor paused. ‘Military?’

  ‘Let’s say “yes”. How do I get her to do what I want?’

  ‘I can’t talk specifics without meeting the person. And I would also be extremely wary of diagnosing them as psychopathic without a formal evaluation. Plus,’ the doctor gave the smallest of smiles, ‘I’m not in the business of teaching manipulation techniques.’

  ‘I’m not a patient or asking about a clinically vulnerable individual. I need to know how to handle a person who I believe to be psychopathic. Or, if that’s too difficult, then just some general pointers on what it means to be psychopathic. For example, if I had made a deal with a psychopath, what are the odds of them sticking to it? Are they more or less unreliable than the general population?’

  ‘A clinical diagnosis is not a predictor of behaviour.’

  Lydia stamped on the urge to sigh loudly. ‘I am aware. But what can you tell me? Are they likely to stick to a prearranged deal or plan?’

  ‘Unlikely,’ Emi said. ‘Psychopaths are impulsive. They don’t see consequences in the same way as neurotypical people.’

  ‘But they can be very effective. What about a high functioning psychopath?’

  Emi leaned back in her chair slightly, settling in as if to give a lecture. ‘I didn’t mean they couldn’t see the consequences, that was poorly phrased, what I mean is that they may well comprehend all the possible consequences of their actions, but they just don’t care.’

  ‘Right…’ Lydia was lining up her next question, but the doc hadn’t finished.

  ‘No. You don’t understand. The most important thing for you to know is that your cousin won’t have the range of emotions that you or I experience. She won’t feel fear or excitement or love or sympathy or anything. Psychopaths describe everything as monotone. They can tell they are experiencing physical reactions to danger, such as increased heart rate, but that doesn’t translate to fear.’

  ‘That sounds quite handy.’

  ‘It can be,’ Emi said. ‘But it can lead them to harm themselves. Because they just don’t care. About pain, about hardship, about dying. None of it. That can lead to extremely risky behaviours. Like most people with a mental health condition, psychopaths are more of a danger to themselves than they are to others.’

  Lydia thanked the doctor for her help and made to leave.
>
  Emi hesitated before speaking. ‘Do you really think your cousin is a psychopath?’

  ‘Yes. Without a doubt.’

  ‘And they are trained to kill?’ Em had gone pale, but with a prurient interest lighting her eyes. ‘You know that they have killed someone?’

  ‘Many people. She’s good at it and she likes doing things she’s good at. We all do, I suppose, but with her… It’s like she doesn’t have anything else.’ As soon as she spoke the words out loud, Lydia realised that they applied to her. Or they had done. When she had started Crow Investigations it had been a revelation. She had been completely obsessed, so happy to have found something that she was good at after years of flailing and failing. It suited her and it made her feel useful. And, yes, powerful.

  ‘May I be direct with you?’ The doctor didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’m concerned this may be the result of projection on your part. This is nothing to be ashamed of, but it does indicate the need for ongoing professional support. Is that something you would consider? If so, I would suggest you don’t delay. I can provide you with the details of some highly recommended specialists in this area…’

  Lydia was already on her feet. This had been a waste of time.

  ‘However,’ the doctor held up a finger. ‘On the small chance I am wrong in that assessment and your cousin does exist in the manner you have described, I would advise that you do not approach them or attempt to engage with them. And to notify the police.’

  ‘Your advice is noted,’ Lydia said. How wonderful to hand the responsibility for Maddie onto the authorities or to another person. Anyone. But she couldn’t. Maddie was a Crow and she was Lydia’s problem to sort.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Knowing that she couldn’t win was curiously freeing. After leaving the psychologist’s office, Lydia had walked to Camberwell Cemetery and sat among the bluebells next to her family’s tomb and thought through all of her options. There wasn’t a better one as far as she could see and, as long as she managed to take Maddie with her, she felt like it wouldn’t be so bad to die. Of course, given the choice she would prefer to live, but she knew now that Maddie wasn’t going to stop.

  Back at The Fork, she ran over her idea with Jason. He was horrified. ‘I don’t care about Smith. He’s bad news. But isn’t there a chance that they will break the contract?’

  ‘I expect they will.’ This was a problem and not one Lydia had been able to solve.

  ‘But won’t that free them?’

  ‘I can’t fix everything,’ Lydia said, frustrated that she was close to tears. ‘If JRB is no more, then there’s no Mr Smith trying to fuck with the Families, killing Crows to start a war. If the Pearls get free and decide to cause hell once they are, then everyone will have to deal with it. Hopefully they’ll abide by the treaty. And feel some gratitude to us, at least, for passing on the contract.’

  Jason opened his mouth to argue.

  ‘Besides,’ Lydia said, cutting him off. ‘It’s not like they’re exactly harmless at the moment.’ They both looked into the middle of the room, where Ash had been tied to a chair for his own protection, his arms bound to stop him from hurting himself. The Pearl King controlling his body as effortlessly as a child playing with a doll.

  ‘What aren’t you telling me?’ Jason said after a moment.

  ‘I’ve got you something,’ Lydia said, trying to keep her voice steady. She produced the package from her bag and unwrapped the cloth. The bangle looked as peculiar as it had in the studio. It pulled at her. Touching the black surface with one tentative finger made her stomach swoop as if her whole body had just lifted into the air. She felt wings spreading wide, shoulder muscles tensing, and the sharp stab of beak against skin and bone.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s for you to wear. If you want. It will power you up. The way that I do.’

  Jason was frowning, his expression between hope and consternation. ‘Will that work?’

  ‘I believe so,’ Lydia said. She hoped so.

  He reached out and touched it, a smile breaking out. ‘Bloody hell, I think it might work. I felt something then.’ He looked at her with wonder. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘I made it,’ Lydia said. ‘With help.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ Jason said. Then his expression fell. ‘Why?’

  ‘We should sit down,’ Lydia said.

  ‘I don’t need to sit down,’ Jason said. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I might have to go away for a bit,’ Lydia said, chickening out of the truth. She couldn’t say it. The finality of it.

  ‘Where?’

  Then it hit her, the ridiculousness of avoiding death talk with the ghost. He wasn’t just a ghost, either, he was her friend. Her close friend. Hell Hawk. ‘Maddie. She’s not going to stop. I have to stop her.’

  Jason caught on immediately. ‘You’re not a killer.’

  ‘Technically I am,’ Lydia said. ‘And I’ve got to try. She has a twisted idea that we’re meant to be something together. Either running the Family or running around the world killing people, I don’t know which. But sooner or later she is going to snap. She’s going to get tired of waiting or I’m going to do something she doesn’t like. She’ll want to hurt me and that will mean hurting those I love. I can’t have that happen. I can’t.’

  ‘What are you doing to do?’

  ‘I can’t beat her,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m not strong enough. I’m not ruthless enough. She’s a trained killer and a psychopath, I can’t win. So, I’m going to give her what she wants.’

  * * *

  Having made the decision to go down swinging, Lydia felt a sense of peace. It might not be a good plan, but at least she had one. And she had always preferred action to waiting for the sky to fall. Her phone rang with Paul’s number and she answered it straight away.

  ‘She’s here.’

  Her stomach sank. ‘Where?’

  ‘Beckenham. Couple of streets from your folks place.’

  ‘That’s close to Emma’s, too.’ Lydia hadn’t intended to produce her coin, but it was there in her hand nonetheless. She squeezed it.

  ‘I know,’ Paul said. ‘She’s just sitting there. Plain sight.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Bumble Bee Cafe on Bromley Road. She’s been at one of the outside tables for the last hour.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  The traffic was mercifully light and Lydia made it to Bromley Road in record time. She parked at the more residential end and speed-walked toward the parade of shops, cafes and pubs. Paul was waiting outside the dry cleaners. ‘She’s still there,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what she’s doing. Well, she’s eaten a toastie and an ice-cream sundae, but I mean…’

  ‘I know,’ Lydia put a hand on his arm. ‘Thank you for contacting me. And for watching Emma all this time. I won’t forget it.’

  Paul looked sideways at her. ‘That plan you mentioned… What aren’t you telling me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Lydia said brightly. ‘Can you go to Emma’s? I’m going to try to redirect her attention, but if I fail…’

  Paul nodded, his face serious. ‘I’m the back up. I won’t let her near Emma.’

  ‘I will pay you back,’ Lydia said. She was looking down the street, trying to see if she could see evidence of the psycho up ahead.

  ‘I know you will,’ Paul said, which wasn’t entirely reassuring. And then he loped away, taking a side street in the direction of Emma’s house.

  * * *

  The Bumble Bee Cafe was as nauseatingly cutesie as Lydia remembered, with cartoon bees decorating the windows and tablecloths. Maddie was pouring tea from a hive-shaped teapot and the juxtaposition was enough to make Lydia’s head spin.

  ‘Let’s take a walk,’ Lydia said. ‘You’ve had enough tea.’

  Maddie tilted her head and gazed up at Lydia from behind enormous sunglasses. ‘And how would you know a thing like that?’

  ‘My boyfriend’s a copper. It has its perks.’ Lydia
wasn’t going to throw Paul under the bus. ‘You are being watched.’

  ‘Please,’ Maddie said, standing up. ‘Don’t pretend the Met has the resources. They’re not interested in little old me.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ Lydia said, moving away from the cafe. ‘Aren’t you going to pay?’

  Maddie pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head. ‘When are you going to stop pretending to be normal? You’re the head of the Crows. You should act like it.’

  Lydia didn’t answer.

  ‘And I don’t know why you’re pretending things are all cosy with your policeman. I know you haven’t been seeing him much lately. Has he lost interest?’

  ‘He had to go away for work,’ Lydia said, trying not to panic that Maddie seemed to know so much about her day-to-day life.

  ‘That’s men for you,’ Maddie said, watching Lydia with bright eyes. ‘Unreliable.’

  Lydia didn’t take the bait.

  They were walking down the street toward Lydia’s car and away from the busy parade. It was safer for the general public but probably not Lydia’s smartest move. Her mind was racing at Maddie’s proximity to Emma and her family, not to mention her own parents. She knew she had to refocus Maddie, but the chat with the forensic psychologist hadn’t exactly buoyed her confidence.

  They reached Lydia’s car within minutes.

  Maddie nodded at a bus stop over the road. ‘This has been fun, but I’m going in another direction. You should think about what I said. You can’t rely on your policeman.’

  ‘I hope you’re wrong,’ Lydia said, trying to keep her tone friendly and non-confrontational. ‘I’ve moved my stuff into his flat. It’s what he has wanted and I said “yes”. This is the last of my stuff.’ She patted the roof of the car. Inside there were boxes, a duffel bag, a rucksack and a couple of bin bags of clothes. She had filled the car after Paul had called, figuring that she would need to sell the story.

  Maddie went still. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Lydia forced a shrug. ‘I don’t want to lose him. And things have to change or we’re just stuck. He’s right. It’s the next move for us. Anyway, I can’t live at The Fork forever.’