The Magpie Key Read online

  The Magpie Key

  Crow Investigations Book Eight

  Sarah Painter

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2022 by Sarah Painter

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by Siskin Press Limited

  Cover Design by Stuart Bache

  Also by Sarah Painter

  The Language of Spells

  The Secrets of Ghosts

  The Garden of Magic

  * * *

  In The Light of What We See

  Beneath The Water

  * * *

  The Lost Girls

  * * *

  The Crow Investigations Series

  The Night Raven

  The Silver Mark

  The Fox’s Curse

  The Pearl King

  The Copper Heart

  The Shadow Wing

  The Broken Cage

  The Magpie Key

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Thank you for reading!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Love urban fantasy?

  For Dave. Always.

  Chapter One

  Tucked by the Regent’s Canal, not far from the bustling hub of King’s Cross Station, the sounds of London traffic were mixed with bird calls and the rustling of leaves. The canal water was still and black as oil and the sky had gone from orange to blazing red. Lydia couldn’t tell if it was a spectacular sunset or her eyes playing tricks. She felt as if her chase across London, following Fleet to this place, had happened long ago. Her jangling nerves vied with an intense exhaustion and her eyes were gritty. The sense impressions from the man she had just realised was Fleet’s father were strong and constantly changing, and her head was hurting from the effort of trying to parse them, while staying upright. It felt as if they had been facing this man, next to this shadowy waterway, for hours instead of minutes.

  The man, on the other hand, was still smiling his bright white smile, casting a blinding light across her mind. Fleet moved to stand between her and his father, angling his body as if to hide her from view. ‘I’m here. I’m ready.’

  Ready for what? Dread cut through Lydia’s jumbled thoughts and the bright light dimmed. ‘Don’t,’ she said, reaching out to hold Fleet’s sleeve. She wasn’t sure what Fleet was planning, only that she didn’t want him to do it.

  Fleet’s father reached a hand up under his hat and scratched his scalp. The curiously light eyes were assessing as he looked from Lydia to Fleet. ‘This isn’t the time, son,’ he said, and turned to leave.

  ‘I’m ready,’ Fleet said again. There was a note of pleading in his voice that cut through Lydia. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Lydia tightened her grip on Fleet’s sleeve. She knew that if he decided to move, it wouldn’t stop him, but she wasn’t going to let go voluntarily.

  The other man was already stepping back onto the barge. ‘All in good time.’

  Fleet made a noise that wasn’t a clear word. It was an animalistic noise of distress and every feather on Lydia’s body lifted.

  The man wasn’t visible as the boat slid past them in the water. A sinister black shape against the dark canal. ‘Come on.’ Lydia was still gripping Fleet’s sleeve and she tugged gently.

  * * *

  Lydia wasn’t letting Fleet out of her sight. He wasn’t speaking, and his eyes were flat and empty as they walked back to collect their vehicles. At the last moment, Lydia decided to leave Aiden’s car where it was. She walked with Fleet to where his car was parked in the multi-storey and got into the driving seat before he could object. ‘I’m taking you home,’ she said. What she didn’t say was that she wasn’t risking losing him if she went in a separate car. He looked physically healthy, but there was something terribly wrong. And he still wasn’t speaking.

  Fleet folded himself into the passenger seat and stared out of the window. Lydia navigated the traffic and felt the hum of adrenaline still coursing through her body. It was going to be one hell of a crash when she finally stopped. Once they crossed the boundary back into Camberwell, Lydia felt an easing of her tension. A subtle shift that was most welcome. Home.

  Stopped at lights, she wondered if Fleet felt the same shift. Whether it would help him to open up. ‘So, that was your dad,’ she tried.

  He didn’t answer, didn’t turn from the window.

  The arc lights were on in the car park behind Fleet’s building. Lydia parked underneath one and took a moment to text Aiden to let him know that his car was in a side street near to St Pancras.

  Fleet didn’t speak until they were inside his flat and, even then, it was a couple of short sentences. He was tired. He was going to bed.

  Lydia brushed her teeth and changed into the sleep t-shirt she kept at the flat. By the time she joined Fleet in his bedroom, he was lying on his side facing away from her, his eyes closed.

  She was sure he wasn’t truly asleep, but it was a pretty clear hint. There would be time to talk tomorrow, she decided. And fatigue was flooding her system as the adrenaline leaked away. The last thought she had before the darkness came, was to wonder why Fleet had been so keen to join his father. And why his father had changed his mind about taking him.

  * * *

  When Lydia woke up the next morning, it was still very early and she was alone in Fleet’s bed. The shower was running and she stretched while she waited for him to return. When the water continued to run, she got up and pulled on her clothes, padding through to the kitchen to make coffee. She had been too tired and too freaked out the night before to notice, but something was abundantly clear this morning. The usually immaculate flat was a mess. Unwashed dishes littered the kitchen counter and there were piles of laundry and paperwork in the living area. It was probably a normal level of untidiness, but for Fleet it looked like a cry for help. She hadn’t been spending as much time at Fleet’s place recently and it had escaped her notice.

  Lydia dialled Auntie’s number while she waited for the coffee machine to do its thing. ‘He’s home. He’s safe.’

  Auntie thanked her, sounding even more formal than usual. Lydia put it down to her telephone manner, grateful that it had been a quick call. She wasn’t doing anything wrong but felt uncomfortable at the thought of Fleet walking in and finding her updating Auntie on his whereabouts.

  The Fleet that walked out of the bedroom five minutes later was a pale imitation of the man she knew. His eyes were exhausted and the faint lines on his forehead seemed deeper than usual. He sat heavily onto the sofa and ran a hand over his head. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  Lydia passed him a mug of coffee and sat next to him with her own mug cradled in her hands. She curled her feet up underneath herself and kept her body facing his. Open. Calm. Ready to listen.

  He sipped his coffee, made a face. ‘That’s strong.’

  She waited. She could feel her tattoos moving on her skin, the power running through her blood and bone. All of it useless in this moment.

  Still staring at his drink, Fleet said: ‘I should apologise.’

  Lydia wanted to tell him not to worry about it, but she kept quiet. She was determined to give him the space to speak, which was increasingly difficult as she wanted to ask a thousand questions. And the stress of the last few days was fraying her nerves. She felt the ache of unsaid words crushing her chest. The business with Daisy at Mikhail’s house and the discovery that money had been transferred from Charlie’s personal account, were momentous events that had been shadowed by her fear for Fleet. It felt strange that she hadn’t been able to tell him, but his red-rimmed eyes and exhausted face kept her lips tightly compressed.

  ‘I’ve not been doing so well.’ Fleet couldn’t look at her. He put his mug onto the low table in front of the sofa and leaned his head back on the cushions, staring at the opposite wall. ‘I can’t talk about it. I don’t know how to talk about it.’

  Lydia waited a while longer, sipping her coffee and feeling her synapses boot up. Eventually, when Fleet was clearly not going to start sharing, she decided on a different tactic. ‘Let’s get out of here. Go for a walk.’

  He became instantly animated. ‘I want to go to the heath.’

  * * *

  Over the last couple of weeks, Fleet had been lying to Lydia. He had tol
d her he was on a course for work in Coventry, but had been in London. When Lydia had tracked his car, it had been parked next to Hampstead Heath. When she had looked for him, the staff of a local pub recognised his picture. That Fleet had lied to her so fluently was still a bitter taste in her mouth. She knew he was in an altered state or, at the very least, going through an emotional crisis, but it still hurt. Now, he wanted to walk the heath with her. Auntie had told her that people came to the heath for two reasons – to lose themselves or to find themselves. Which was it for Fleet?

  They parked in a residential street near the station at the southern end of the park. Fleet had visibly relaxed as soon as they had taken the first path into the heath. It had taken them up a gentle rise, along wide paths and past the deserted mixed bathing pond. Lydia had expected to see people splashing about as the air was already warm, but a sign informed her that it didn’t open until seven.

  The dawn sky over Hampstead Heath was streaked with pink and the air filled with the sharp scent of cut grass. Fleet held Lydia’s hand as they walked together through the wide paths and cultivated parkland to one of the more open areas. Here, the grass grew long in places and was worn and scrubby in others. A stand of trees to their left creaked as if in a high wind, even though there wasn’t so much as a breeze.

  ‘It was here,’ Fleet said, lifting his chin as if he was catching a scent.

  Lydia inhaled, reaching out her senses. She got the usual impressions from Fleet, but nothing else. Then, a wisp of something unusual. She lifted her head and inhaled deeply. Cooking meat. Did someone have a disposable barbecue? Looking around, Lydia spied morning dog walkers, faces sleepy and clothing casual. Nothing out of the ordinary to see. It was definitely too early for barbecues, she realised. Still, there was the unmistakable smell of roasting meat. And, now that she stopped to pay attention, she thought she could hear music, very faintly. ‘What was here?’

  ‘The first place I saw him.’

  Lydia knew she meant his father. She waited for Fleet to speak again, giving him time to gather his thoughts.

  Instead, he started walking while he talked. He was leading her forward, up a gentle rise. ‘You know I did a deal with Sinclair? She had heard that there was somebody new in the city. A whisper. CIs were talking about it in hushed voices and there had been an increase in Fox trouble.’

  ‘The Family?’ Lydia asked, checking that he hadn’t just meant the urban animals which populated the whole of London.

  He glanced down. ‘I wasn’t too concerned about that. Trouble for Paul Fox and his clan is fine with me, but it was affecting civilians. An increase in the number of missing person reports from the Whitechapel area. Uptick in street violence. Knife crime has been steadily increasing in the south for a few years, but we saw a surge in Whitechapel, the city, Limehouse, Hackney and even Islington.’

  ‘Sinclair told me you weren’t working for her, when you told me you were in Coventry.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ Fleet said sharply. ‘I was doing my own job. I was using my service contact as a source.’

  He sounded so much like his old self, the in-control copper, that Lydia wanted to cry. Instead, she tried to keep the conversation going. ‘What led you here?’

  Fleet had stopped moving and they stood, side by side, looking over the heath to the city skyline, underpinned by a mass of mature trees and greenery. From this perspective they could have been deep in the countryside, but Lydia felt like she could reach out and touch the buildings. She could see St Paul’s and the Shard, could feel the busy streets and the crowded brickwork, the concrete and the hum of the traffic calling her back.

  ‘I had a vision,’ Fleet said eventually. ‘I’d had a few dreams, but they were easier to ignore. But I couldn’t with this one… I was wide awake. At work. In a meeting with three department heads and the chief superintendent. I don’t know how long I zoned out for or what I said, but when I came back to myself… after… they were all looking at me like I’d sprouted a second head.’

  ‘Feathers,’ Lydia said, squeezing his hand in sympathy. ‘That wasn’t ideal.’

  ‘No.’ Fleet shook his head. ‘Not really. I told them I hadn’t slept and had a hangover. Luckily stress is high in the force, so they probably put it down to that.’

  She expected a wry smile at that, but Fleet’s face was blank. There was something fundamentally ‘off’ about his manner. It made Lydia want to run very fast, take flight, and punch something all at once. ‘This increase in your visions. Do you think it’s linked with your dad showing up?’

  Fleet was gazing into the distance, looking at something that wasn’t really there. His eyes snapped back to hers. ‘You know they used to hold the Hampstead fair on the heath?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lydia said, surprised. ‘I did a bit of research when you were missing.’ Visiting the heath and lying to me about it. She didn’t mention that she could smell the ghost of roasting meat. ‘Coconut shies, shove ha’penny, skittles, all that.’

  His face twisted. ‘Sex, drugs, violence, more like.’

  Okay. She waited. Fleet was still staring at the horizon, trance-like.

  ‘He was here. It wasn’t quiet like this. There were people everywhere I looked, a huge crowd. There was a dancing display. A bit like Morris dancing, but a load of the onlookers had joined in and it was chaos. Getting under each other’s feet, bumping and cursing and falling over. Some of them had sticks and it was two steps from a brawl. Over that way,’ he pointed, ‘there was a hog roast and next to it, a man standing on a wooden box. He was wearing a black apron and he was selling a health tonic. An elixir of life, he called it. He had a wheeled cart which was painted all over with stars. It looked like a magician’s prop, but he was doing a good trade.’

  It sounded like a vivid dream. Except that she knew Fleet had visions. But his gift was usually for the future, not the past.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Fleet said, looking around as if he expected to see the fair appear before his eyes.

  ‘I smelled roasting meat,’ Lydia said. ‘Just now. I thought it was a barbecue but I don’t see one. And it’s far too early. Weird.’

  He gave her a sideways look. ‘Weird, like a supernatural thing?’

  ‘Ghost roast. Yeah.’ Lydia walked across the grass, inhaling deeply. Whatever she had sensed earlier, it wasn’t there now. She thought about Fleet’s vision and wondered if the spirits of Londoners past were crowded around her all the time and she only saw the select few on occasion, or whether Jason and the Fox and the woman at the bunker, were the only ones in existence. She preferred the latter idea. The thought that she was pressed from all sides by invisible spirits was unnerving.

  She turned back to Fleet. He was crouched down, his hand on the grass. ‘What is it?’

  He straightened up, brushing his hands on his trousers. ‘I don’t know. How can I know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  Fleet held up a blade of grass that he had plucked, rolling it between his fingers. ‘Whether this is real?’

  ‘It’s real,’ Lydia said, stepping closer. She put her hands over his, willing him to take comfort from her confidence. She hadn’t realised how bad it had become. Of course, he hadn’t told her until now, so it wasn’t exactly her fault, but the guilt stabbed her guts anyway. If she hadn’t been so distracted, she might have noticed. Might have been able to help. Fleet had been struggling with his visions and she ought to have known. ‘Can you pinpoint something that is different about your visions? Maybe that would help. Like, does time go weird or do things move strangely? Does it affect all of your senses at the same time? If you can work out what is missing in your visions, you’ll have something concrete to look out for. A definite signal for what is a vision and what is reality.’