The broken cage, p.18
The Broken Cage, page 18
She had to knock on a couple of doors before she got an answer. A man with a stained green jumper and wispy white hair asked if she was from the council. ‘I’ve had no hot water for a week.’
‘Just checking on you,’ Lydia said, not answering him directly. ‘May I come in?’
‘I can boil the kettle if you want tea. No milk, I’m afraid. Fridge is on the fritz. Things always go wrong in threes, don’t they? Have you noticed that?’ The man was wearing fingerless woolly gloves and checked brown slippers. He shuffled into the flat, not breaking to take a breath. Lydia followed, wondering if this was her Crow power leaking out or whether he was always this hospitable to strangers. She had to assume it was the former or it seemed unlikely that he would have survived on this street. Although, Lydia reassessed as she entered the room which served as living room and kitchen, it was more likely that he was left alone because he had absolutely nothing left to take.
There was carpet on the floor and a single sagging chair which looked like it had been taken from a skip.
‘Did you say yes to tea?’
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Lydia said.
His face fell. ‘The cups are clean. I’ve been boiling the kettle to do the washing up.’
‘Tea would be lovely, thank you.’
‘Are you going to look at the immersion? It’s in the bathroom. Just through there,’ the man nodded back to the tiny entrance hall.
‘Of course,’ Lydia said, and went in search of the bathroom. She was expecting small and grim and that’s what she found. It was clean, though, and smelled of pine disinfectant. A cupboard above the sink housed a variety of prescription tablets and a single well-used toothbrush. There was a floor-to-ceiling cubby in the corner, the front covered with a roll up blind. Lydia knew nothing about plumbing, but she looked dutifully at the hot water heater, hoping that there might be a handy ‘fix it’ button on the front that she could press. She imagined, just for a moment, walking back into the kitchen, triumphant. It would be nice to play the hero.
‘I’ll need to send someone out,’ she said as she walked back in. ‘It’s beyond me, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s all right, dear. Thank you for trying.’
The tea was weak, but served in a dainty cup with a matching saucer. The china had pink flowers on the side and had a worn gold rim. ‘This is very nice,’ she said, after taking a sip.
‘I didn’t complain,’ the man said. ‘I called about the immersion heater but I didn’t complain.’
Lydia nodded, although she wasn’t sure what he was talking about.
‘I don’t want it marked down. I don’t want it…’ He trailed off, faded blue eyes gazing into the distance for a moment. ‘On file.’
‘What didn’t you complain about?’
‘You don’t know?’
Lydia shook her head. ‘Not my department.’
‘No, you’re a heating girl.’
‘Sure.’
‘The noise,’ he said. ‘I definitely did not complain about the noise. It was really loud, though. And late. I don’t sleep much, but still.’
‘Upstairs?’ Lydia could hardly believe her luck. This flat was directly below Stacie’s.
‘There was a ruckus.’ The corners of his mouth turned down. ‘There’s a kiddie there. It’s not right.’
‘The resident is known to us. She has a small boy, I believe.’
‘I’m not saying anything. Don’t write it down,’ the man said. He looked distressed. Lydia didn’t want to lie outright, but she wanted to reassure him, too. She wondered whether the Crows had any contacts at the council, whether there was any way she could check on this man’s welfare.
‘I heard shouting. And she screamed. She was crying, begging him.’
‘Begging who?’
His gaze shifted. ‘The girl who lives there. She’s nice. Takes my bins out for me when it’s icy. She did that once. And there was a leak coming down into the kitchen, over there,’ he gestured into the corner. ‘She made the phone calls. They came and fixed it. I don’t know what she said to them, but they came and fixed it.’ His face brightened at the memory. ‘I wanted to ask her to call about the hot water, but that didn’t seem right. She’s got enough on her plate and I don’t like to take advantage. That happens with kind natures. Some people take liberties.’
‘That’s true.’ Lydia put the teacup and saucer onto the counter. ‘Do you know what happened?’
‘Upstairs?’
‘I’m worried about the scream you heard. I want to help.’
He shot her a look which wasn’t in the least bit vague and Lydia had the uncomfortable sensation of being truly seen.
‘I believe you do.’ He took a long slurp from his own cup, smacking his lips together. ‘Even though you’re not from the council.’ He raised his bushy eyebrows in response to her unspoken question. ‘They never stay for tea. And you don’t have a-’ he gestured to his chest area. ‘Badge necklace thing.’
Lydia tried to look reassuring and friendly. ‘Busted.’
‘Can you help?’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘It’s a new man. I don’t think he’s good for her. I heard the name Ryan. When they were… I heard her shout it. She didn’t sound…’ He shook his head. ‘Her old one was quiet. No screaming. I hope it doesn’t last.’
‘Have you seen him? The new man?’
‘Out front. He got out of one of those noisy cars. Souped-up. He’s a nasty piece of work. You know that just by looking at him. Even if you hadn’t heard… What I didn’t hear.’
Lydia wasn’t generally a fan of people making snap judgements about others based solely on their appearance but in this case, the old geezer had it bang on. ‘I’m not from the council,’ Lydia said. ‘Or the police. Nothing is written down and nobody will ever know that you spoke to me.’
‘I didn’t speak to you.’
‘Exactly.’ Lydia moved toward the front door. ‘Thank you for the cuppa.’
‘Don’t be a stranger,’ the man said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
On reflection, Lydia decided it wasn’t a bad thing that Fleet had left London. It was easier to be the person she needed to be when he wasn’t around. And there were certain activities that, while he might not disapprove of personally, were definitely not legal.
It was late evening and Lydia was back on Stacie’s road. This time she brought the Audi and was settled in the front seat with a travel mug of coffee and a family-sized bag of salt and vinegar crisps. It was past dusk, but the sky was a surprisingly light blue above the dark buildings. Lydia never knew if this was the ambient light from the city or some other phenomenon she didn’t know about, but it was strangely comforting. The never-dark of London was vastly preferable, in her opinion, to the starlit shadowland of the countryside or the pitch black of underground.
She had watched Stacie moving around her living room until she had closed her blinds against the gathering night. Her son had bounced into view on occasion, but was mostly too short to be seen from this angle. He had been wearing a dinosaur onesie that Lydia made a mental note to hunt down for Maisie and Archie. She knew she would likely forget or fail to follow through, but she was awarding herself points for having the thought. She tapped out a quick message to Emma while she was thinking of her. Emma came back almost immediately to say that it was a horror-film-level bedtime and did Lydia want to adopt two children? Lydia tapped a reply with several laughing emojis and then turned her phone upside down and returned her full attention to watching Stacie’s home.
It wasn’t the best street and she understood why Stacie was looking to move. That and the fact that she was renting and was now in a position to buy a place. Have a secure roof over her head for her son. She had already formed an idea of the new man in Stacie’s life and was not at all surprised when he appeared looking exactly as she expected. Thick neck, skinny jeans, mean little eyes set in a face that might have been handsome otherwise.
He got out of a souped-up Honda with a noisy exhaust growling and grime blasting through the open windows. A brief lean down on the driver’s side to talk shit with whoever was dropping him off and then, after a farewell fist bump, pimp-walked toward Stacie’s building.
Lydia was out of the car before she had even formulated an opening line. The growling Honda had barely peeled away when she caught up with Ryan. She almost didn’t bother with a greeting, just reached out with her power to stop him in his tracks, but good sense cut in just in time. She had to check she had the right man, even though every sense she possessed, both as a Crow and a woman who had lived in the world, told her that it was him. And that he was a dangerous bastard.
‘Ryan?’
He turned instinctively before plastering on an insouciant look. ‘Could be, darling. What’s it to you?’ And then, there it was, the long look up and down as if assessing a cow at market.
Lydia’s coin was in her hand and she gripped it with all her might. Not to draw strength, but for restraint. She could make the man walk in front of a truck right now and not even break a sweat. Could make him throw himself with all his might through the window of the downstairs flat. The possibilities flashed across the back of her mind like a flicker book of horror. Satisfying horror.
‘I’m a friend of Stacie’s.’
‘Is that right?’ He was still looking lascivious, still had no idea what was happening.
‘I’m Lydia Crow.’
A beat. He had heard of the Crows.
‘You’re not welcome here,’ Lydia said. ‘Time for you to go.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Stacie,’ Lydia gestured to the house. ‘This part of London. You’re not welcome. Not after what you did.’
He crossed his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits in a pose that was straight out of the hard-men films he probably watched late at night with a spliff and a lager. It was a pose that was meant to show off his biceps, to make him look serious. A real villain. But Lydia knew real villains. And Ryan was just a nasty little man. It wasn’t difficult to control his body. It was as easy as deciding what he was going to do, just as if his body belonged to her. If she wanted to squeeze her own arms tightly around her body, she would just decide to do so. Now, she decided that she wanted Ryan to do the same.
His eyes narrowed in confusion as he felt his arms tighten around his chest without his volition. The hands that had been tucked into his armpits in a Jason Statham gangster impression were now reaching around his shoulder blades in a painful stretch, his elbows jutting out toward Lydia in an almost-comical way.
‘Are you left or right-handed?’ Lydia asked, conversationally.
‘What? What are you doing? How are you-?’
‘I’m guessing right. You punched Stacie on the left-side of her face. Or was it more of a side-swipe? That could’ve been with your left, I suppose.’
‘Is that what this is all about?’
She could see the genuine irritation underneath his growing fear.
‘That was just…’
‘No talking,’ Lydia said. She had the instinct that he had been about to sing the song of domestic abusers around the world ‘she was asking for it, she wound me up, she made me do it’. And she was suddenly certain that if this weasel began to justify his actions she couldn’t be held responsible for her own. His thin lips compressed so firmly that they rolled inwards, became invisible.
‘I know you think that Stacie is alone and that you can do whatever you like. You think you’re the big man and you’re taking advantage of a sweet opportunity, but I’m here to explain that you are gravely mistaken. Camberwell belongs to the Crows. That means Stacie and her family are under our protection. You’d better get out of Camberwell by dawn and never set foot inside our boundary again.’
His eyes bulged with pain and fear, but Lydia wasn’t sure it was enough. She pulled his arms a little further. ‘You didn’t tell me which side you use the most. So I’ll dislocate them both, I think. Just to be sure you’ve got the message.’
Sweat was pouring down his face, now. That was better. Part of Lydia wasn’t sure if she could follow through, but another part of her knew that his type could sense weakness like a shark finding a drop of blood in an ocean. If she backed down, he might come back. Might take out his rage and humiliation on Stacie or her son.
He was screaming behind his closed lips. Lydia felt a lick of referred pain and she instinctively channelled it away. That was interesting. The link that she had created, the link that allowed her to control Ryan’s body, seemed to have a two-way functionality. She would have to watch that. Control it. ‘Unless you’ve had enough? Perhaps you have received the message?’
She unlocked his lips and released the pressure on his arms by a fraction. Ryan began sobbing.
‘Off you pop,’ Lydia said, making a little shooing motion. ‘Trip to A&E is probably a good idea. Anywhere outside Camberwell.’
He began staggering away.
‘And, Ryan?’
He looked back, terror and confusion and snot all over his face.
‘You had better pray that nothing happens to Stacie or her son or any member of her family, because if it does I’ll be paying you another visit.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
The next day, Lydia’s run took her to the river. She had to keep busy and moving and to avoid, if at all possible, thinking too hard about what Fleet was going to say when she told him about Ryan. Her instinct was to keep it to herself, but the feeling that Fleet was keeping things from her and the agony it was wreaking on her psyche, had given her an entirely new appreciation for open communication.
The sun was out and the pavement was packed with tourists in bright summer clothes, carrying backpacks and holding out their phones to photograph everything. A street performer had gathered a crowd and Lydia cut down the steep steps in the embankment to the muddy foreshore to avoid the noise. She didn’t get an answer on Fleet’s mobile so she called his office to ask them to pass on a message. ‘He’s not in the office today,’ the man said. He was a civilian administrative person and Lydia knew he wouldn’t be authorised to give out any information on Fleet. Which was quite right. But she wasn’t asking for information, she was giving it. ‘I know, he’s on that course in Coventry. Can you pass a message on, though? I can’t get him on his mobile and I don’t know if he’s checking email while he’s away.’ Fleet had frequently complained about the black hole of his inbox.
‘Did you say Coventry?’
‘Yes. The course goes on until Friday I think.’ Lydia walked down to the edge of the river. Down here the mud bank was exposed and she could see a couple of people walking hunched over, digging in the ground. Mudlarking. The word came to her, dredged up from a news story on the Thames.
‘Hang on,’ the voice said.
One of the hunched figures straightened. They were wearing multiple layers of green-coloured waterproofs and some serious-looking wellies. The face deep inside the green hood was attractive, blonde wisps of hair escaping from a woollen headband. The mudlarker wasn’t paying attention to Lydia or to anything at all except for the object in her hand. She brushed mud from it reverentially.
‘There’s no course at the moment. Not in Coventry.’
‘Right,’ Lydia said automatically.
‘DCI Fleet is on holiday this week. I can take a message for him, but if it’s urgent then I can pass you to DI Lowry.’
‘That’s all right,’ Lydia said. The words still coming on autopilot. ‘No worries. It’s not important.’
Hell Hawk. Lydia walked up and down the stretch of river for a few minutes, trying to ease the adrenalin from her system. There would be an explanation. She wasn’t one of her own clients, jumping to conclusions and mistrusting their partners. Running to a PI when a good sit-down conversation would have saved them the trouble and cash.
The mudlarker was crouched down, rinsing their prize with a bottle of water. She glanced up and saw Lydia, smiling in a friendly way which was most unusual in London. Lydia instinctively took a step back and checked behind her for the pickpocket or mugger.
‘It’s a clay pipe,’ the mudlarker said, her voice full of excitement. ‘Look.’
Lydia peered at the object politely.
‘Eighteenth century, probably. I’ve got a whole collection, now, but this one is in really good condition. Look how long the stem is.’
Where was Fleet? The fact that he had lied to her seemed to be hitting her in stages. The initial shock was giving way to a clenching pain in her chest.
‘Are you all right?’ The mudlarker held out the remains of her water bottle. ‘Do you want some?’
Lydia shook her head. ‘I’m fine. Thank you, though.’
The mudlarker beamed. ‘We look out for each other down here. We’re the weirdos, sifting through history, but everyone is welcome.’
Lydia wondered if that was why the woman was being so friendly. She had marked Lydia as a fellow weirdo. Another thought hit her, overtaking her internal monologue about Fleet for a moment. ‘Do you ever find coins?’
‘Sometimes,’ the woman’s expression dimmed a little. Disappointment that Lydia was jumping immediately to valuables, perhaps. Or maybe she thought Lydia meant modern currency.
‘Ever find anything like this?’ Lydia produced her coin.
The mudlarker’s eyes widened. ‘No. I don’t think so. Is that gold?’
Lydia nodded. ‘Look at the engraving. The crow. If you find anything like this, anything that feels like this, you call me.’ She pocketed her coin and passed the woman her business card. As an afterthought she added. ‘Or anything pearl or mother-of-pearl. Or silver.’
She didn’t know why, but there was something about that clay pipe. Something was tugging on her arm, but she didn’t know what. Stupid intuition. If only it would speak directly. And if only she knew whether it was her own instincts or an invisible spirit whispering into her ear. Or, worse still, something from Maddie lodged inside and manipulating her from beyond the grave. Feathers. That was a bit dramatic. And crazy. If she wasn’t careful, she would end up babbling in the Maudsley. She had to pull herself together. And maybe Fleet hadn’t lied. Maybe the course had been cancelled and he just hadn’t updated her, yet. Or the person who answered the phone at his office had been messing with her. So many good explanations. There was no need to panic.
