‘Nice to meet you,’ Lydia said. She knew that Charlie was teaching her something, but she hadn’t worked out what, yet.
‘Place looks great,’ Charlie said, looking around. ‘You can’t even tell.’
‘I know,’ Ari was beaming. ‘I can’t thank you enough, Mr Crow-’
‘Charlie, please,’ Charlie said. ‘And you don’t have to thank me. That’s what I’m here for.’
Ari ducked his head. ‘Still,’ he said.
Charlie nodded. He took Ari’s hand in both of his for a moment and there was a moment of silent communication between them. Or benediction. Lydia spent the moment wondering how many £2.50 china pigs Ari had to sell in order to make the rent.
It was the same story at the restaurant. Wide smiles, manly hugs, and clasped hands. The chef came out to pay his respects to Charlie and the manager, a woman with enormous hoop earrings and perfect eyebrows, poured their table water herself. ‘I will leave you in the capable hands of Mark,’ the woman indicated a waiter who was hovering nervously to her left. It sounded like a question, not a statement, and Charlie nodded very slightly. ‘I’m sure you are very busy.’
‘The books,’ the woman said, nervous energy pouring from her. ‘You know how it is.’
‘I do,’ Charlie said. ‘I have a guy, though. I could get him to swing by, help you out a bit.’
‘No, no, no,’ the woman said, taking a step back. ‘I mean, that’s so kind. So kind. But I can manage them.’ She gave a laugh which wasn’t a laugh. ‘I just need a few hours in my office and a strong coffee.’
Charlie nodded and the weird tension dissipated.
After Mark had given the menus and taken their drinks order, Lydia lowered her voice to ask: ‘What was that about?’
Charlie hadn’t opened his menu. ‘You should have the sea bass. It’s very good here. Or the Linguini.’
Lydia pointedly opened her menu and took her time perusing it. Annoyingly she did fancy the fish, but she chose a risotto instead, just to be contrary. She had already lost the battle to choose her own drink, as Charlie had ordered wine for them both.
He took a sip and nodded to Mark who was hovering. ‘Run along, son.’
‘The books,’ Lydia prompted.
‘You know we run a fund for the good of the community?’
Lydia nodded. She knew that if people needed money in Camberwell and they couldn’t get it from the bank, they came to the Crow Family. Specifically Uncle Charlie. She also knew that every business, even those who hadn’t been loaned their start-up money, owed an extra business tax. Some people might call it a protection racket and in the bad old days that might have been accurate, but now it was more like a non-optional Rotary Club. At least, that was Lydia’s understanding. Her Dad had been light on the details of the business, having abdicated his position when she was born, choosing a life of safe normality in suburbia.
‘Well, it’s my responsibility is to make sure it’s fair. It only works because everybody pays in their percentage. Everybody benefits, so everyone has to play their part.’
Lydia nodded to show she understood.
Charlie smiled as if she was endorsing the whole system. ‘But sometimes I hear little whispers. Maybe this person is doing better than they are reporting. Maybe they are trying to keep their percentage amount as low as possible, so they are padding out their expenses, making it look like they’re making less than they really are.’
‘So you look at their books?’
‘I don’t,’ Charlie said. ‘I send someone.’
At that moment, Mark appeared with their meals. Lydia wasn’t at all surprised when he put down two plates of sea bass. This entire day was a performance exercise. Charlie was setting out the new world order, one in which he said ‘jump’ and Lydia said ‘how high?’.
‘Really?’ she said, indicating her plate.
‘It’s good for you,’ Charlie said. ‘Brain food.’
Lydia picked up her cutlery and began to separate fish from bone. ‘What happens if you find out the whispers are true?’
Charlie stopped, a fork of sea bass halfway to his mouth. ‘They don’t do it again,’ he said flatly.
Chapter Six
It was a cold morning with the promise of rain as Lydia skirted Kennington Park. She had a coffee in a reusable takeaway cup, courtesy of Angel, and was wearing fingerless gloves and a gigantic scarf along with her usual leather jacket and jeans. It was late November and the shop windows were filled with decorations and every retailer was playing the Christmas Greatest Hits album. Lydia had retained a childlike love of Christmas but she didn’t like to shout about it. It was unseemly for a hard-bitten private eye. She also knew that not everybody had the Crow Christmas memories. The burning log, candles filling the house for the special Christmas Eve dinner. If you went back far enough, Crows were Nordic and they still held onto the old Yul traditions. Light in the long darkness of winter was very important. That and strong alcohol.
The address was off Kennington Road, in a large red-brick Georgian terraced building with uniform rows of sash windows. It didn’t have the feel of a residential building, more one which had long ago been subdivided into offices. There were plain blinds visible at some of the windows, no curtains, and Lydia glimpsed strip lighting. Letting herself in using the key, Lydia was not surprised to find herself in an anonymous entranceway with beige carpeted stairs leading up and a printed notice on the first door to her right which said ‘Kennington Council Reception. Appointments Only.’ To the best of Lydia’s knowledge, there was no ‘Kennington Council’ as the area fell under the jurisdiction of Lambeth.
She took the stairs up and up again, arriving on the third floor and in front of an unmarked door with a Yale lock. Using the second key, she opened the door. Inside was a plainly furnished flat. Living room with a black leather sofa and matching armchair, kitchen-diner with a square beech-effect table and chairs which looked like they had been bought in IKEA ten years ago, and two bedrooms, both with twin beds. If it was a safe house, it would make sense that it would be set up to sleep the maximum number of people, Lydia supposed.
Having deliberately arrived an hour before her appointed time, Lydia spent the next forty minutes going over every inch of the flat. She looked in the drawers and cupboards, not really expecting to find clues to Mr Smith’s employers, but knowing she had to try. Then she did a sweep of every light fitting, smoke alarm, plug-socket, and switch, looking for surveillance equipment. She didn’t find anything. Of course, if Mr Smith was MI5 or MI6, the chances of them using the same level kit as Lydia has access to and would recognise, was slim, but Lydia felt more in control, anyway. She heard the key in the front door and straightened up from her position in the kitchen. She had just prised the baseboard off from under the built-in oven to check the space beneath the kitchen units, and she kicked it back into place before crossing the room to sit in one of the chairs and picking up her coffee. It was cold now, but she took a small sip as Mr Smith walked into the kitchen.
‘You’re early,’ he said, his gaze roaming the room before settling back on Lydia.