AN EMILY SWANSON NOVEL
LOST LIVES
MALCOLM RICHARDS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
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THANK YOU
MORE FROM MALCOLM RICHARDS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
COPYRIGHT PAGE
For Alexander
ONE
CHAPTER ONE
She was drowning, pulled under by a froth of limbs and bodies, swept along by currents of voices, music, and car engines. Dark shadows circled her like hungry sharks. She rose up, dragged to the surface by an impatient crowd. Hands and elbows pushed and shoved. Exhaust fumes and food smells clogged her nostrils.
This was the old part of the city, where archaic buildings stood side by side, defences pitched against the onslaught of the modern. There were no smooth walls here, no towers made of steel and glass. This was all shadows and sculpture, buttresses and winding alleys; the impenetrable heart of a long ago city, beating to a circadian rhythm.
The crowd surged and spat her out, leaving her at the mouth of a narrower street. She paused for a minute, counting to four as she inhaled though her nose, to seven as she held her breath, then to eight as she exhaled through her mouth.
Once enough of her anxiety had seeped away, she moved through the street, checking the address she’d written on a piece of notepaper, until she stood in front of a tall apartment building. A plaque above the entrance read: The Holmeswood. A woman in her early fifties and dressed head to toe in chocolate fur waited outside.
“Paulina Blanchard?’
The young woman’s voice was a whisper above the street noise. She was pretty—mid-twenties, pale skin and green eyes, with shoulder-length blonde hair scooped into a winter hat—and yet there was a nervousness about her, a lack of confidence that Paulina Blanchard found irritating.
“I’m Emily Swanson. I’m sorry to keep you waiting in the cold.”
Paulina nodded, opened the folder in her hands, and took her time to slide a finger down her appointments list.
“Emily Swanson,” she said, punctuating the name with a tap of her finger.
The young woman nodded. “I lost my way. London is very big, isn’t it?”
Paulina’s eyes fixed upon Emily, who smiled uncertainly.
“Yes, well you’re very late and I have another viewing in twenty minutes—a married couple, financial types. I’m afraid we’ll have to make this quick.”
The letting agent pulled open the grand door of the building and they stepped inside. The outside world fell silent.
“As you can see this is the foyer.” Paulina removed her hat to reveal a head of tight, greying curls. “Mail boxes are to your left, the lift is on your right.”
The architecture outside may have been Victorian but the interior was distinctly Art Deco. Faded red and white tiles made a sprawling grid beneath Emily’s feet, while two great pillars flanked her sides. Above the lift doors was a stained glass design of birds and flowers.
Emily’s gaze climbed the steps of the sprawling staircase that sat in the centre of the foyer.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“The Holmeswood used to be a hotel back in the day,” Paulina explained. “After the Second World War, half the city was rubble and no one came to stay. The owners filed for bankruptcy, someone else bought it for a song, knocked down a few walls and turned it into apartments. Is it just yourself or do you have a partner?”
“It’s just me.”
“Any children?”
Paulina watched Emily’s fingers glide over the grooves of the lift doors then slip inside her coat pockets. The young woman shook her head.
She was strange this girl. And how could she afford to rent an apartment by herself in this part of London? Paulina looked her up and down. If she was wealthy her clothing was a clever disguise.
“How many apartments did you say?” Emily asked.
“Thirteen. Four on each floor, with the penthouse at the top. Here on the ground floor, beyond the stairs, there’s an old laundry room. But it’s been out of use for years.”
“Thirteen?” Emily stepped to one side and saw a long corridor disappear into darkness behind the staircase.
“The owner’s a superstitious type. Which is why we have a Twelve-A and the penthouse, Twelve-B. You’ll be looking at Twelve-A.” Paulina tapped her wrist. “That’s three minutes up already and we haven’t even made it upstairs.”
The lift was slow and juddering, moaning like a rheumatic old man as the two women rode in silence to the fourth storey.
“Here we are.”
A long, gloomy corridor stretched out before them. Faded blue carpet covered the floor. At the far end, a window let in little daylight.
“The tenant will be at work now,” Paulina said, marching ahead, She stopped outside of apartment Twelve-A, unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Won’t you come in?”
A small chandelier of imitation crystals hung from the high ceiling of the hallway. A coat stand stood in the corner, its arms empty like winter branches. A few metres ahead the hallway turned to the right.
“There are original floorboards in all rooms except the kitchen,” Paulina announced, continuing her carefully rehearsed sales speech. “On your left you have ample storage cupboards. Doors up ahead lead to the living room, bedroom and bathroom respectively. Access to the kitchen is via the living room. Shall we?”
She moved down the hallway with Emily trailing behind. As Paulina pushed open the living room door her face flushed scarlet.
“I’m sorry, but there appears to be a spot of mess. I’d specifically reminded the tenant to keep the place tidy in mind of today’s viewings, but he clearly doesn’t know the meaning of the word!”
Emily was still in the hallway, busy staring up at the chandelier.
“It’s no bother,” she replied.
The living room was tall and wide, with two leather sofas on one side and a dining table and chairs on the other. Currently occupying the space in between was a tower of open boxes, newspapers and packing tape. The most striking features of the room, however, were four arched windows, which ran from floor to ceiling.
“It’s quite the view!” Paulina enthused, unable to tear her gaze from the tenant’s heap of belongings.
Emily moved towards the centre window and pressed her face against the glass. Down below, streams of people weaved in between each other like microbes in a Petri dish. She studied them for a while, then turned her attention to the mountain of boxes.
“Why is he leaving?”
In the doorway, Paulina shifted her weight from one foot to the other. That pile of crap was burning a hole in her mind. She began to construct the angry phone call she would be making once her appointments were over.
“
His wife left him, went back to Germany where she came from. I suppose there’s no point staying on in a big place like this. You have a job I presume?”
Emily stared at the curious array of belongings. The remnants of a life together did not make such a big pile after all.
“I’m relocating.”
“Oh?” Paulina waited for the woman to elaborate, and when she didn’t, the letting agent emitted a sharp huff. “As I mentioned it’s not the cheapest of places.”
“I can afford it.”
Paulina flipped through her file. “We’ll need to run some checks—bank references, credit scoring, that sort of thing—but I’m sure you wouldn’t be wasting my time. Speaking of which, we’d better see the rest of the apartment, hadn’t we? The kitchen is right through here.”
Emily watched the woman as she skirted around the tenant’s belongings and disappeared through a pair of saloon doors. She watched them swing to and fro like pendulums and then returned her gaze to the street outside.
***
Grunts and groans and a plethora of curses ricocheted off the foyer walls as the removal men heaved boxes and furniture towards the staircase. Some had insisted on using the lift for heavier pieces of furniture, but there was barely enough room to fit in a few boxes and an upended coffee table. Emily worried about the old lift as it creaked and rattled its way up and down the building. The accusatory glares from some of the men suggested that lugging furniture up over a hundred steps was not part of their job description. If Lewis had been here he would have laughed at her remorse for the men’s physical exertions. He would have told her this was how they earned their wage.
“Watch it!”
From her position on the staircase, Emily saw two men swaying back and forth with her tan Winchester sofa. They huffed as they knocked it into one of the pillars. The knot in Emily’s chest tightened. Her shoulder brushing the walls, she hurried back upstairs, narrowly avoiding a collision with more men coming out of her apartment.
Winter sunlight illuminated trails of dusty footprints and crept over the broken boxes, newspapers and clutter the former tenant had left behind.
In the kitchen, boxes sat in pyramids on the black and white floor tiles. She looked at each one, reading the labels she had applied when packing up her old home. One read BATHROOM in large black letters, while another box had been crushed in on one corner. If Lewis had been here he would have had something to say about that as well.
A chill teased the back of Emily’s neck. The bottom half of the double-hung window was open a few inches. She pushed down on it but the window remained stuck. That was two things she would have to speak to Paulina Blanchard about. The thought of calling the letting agent did nothing to soothe her already anxious mind.
A loud thump startled her. The Winchester had made it up the stairs in one piece and had been unceremoniously dumped in the living room. Emily avoided the sweaty faces of the removal men. She would make them some tea. That would make her feel better.
Finding a box labelled for the kitchen, she picked at the packing tape that sealed it shut. As her fingers worked, she glanced around the kitchen, admiring its tiled floors, high ceilings, and ample storage space.
Back home at the cottage, even though her kitchen had been small and cluttered, it had been her favourite room. She’d had her treasured old stove that was fuelled by coal, and although it was temperamental and costly to run, she had loved cooking on it. An unpleasant sensation pressed down on Emily’s chest. It was all gone now. The cottage. The village. Her old life. From today, the city was her home, and all of its noise and chaos were her neighbours.
Giving up on the box, she looked out of the window. It being Sunday the street was quiet, with only a handful of pedestrians sauntering by. On the opposite side was a small promenade of shops, including an off-license, a Chinese noodle bar, and a small Italian café named Il Cuore that looked cosy and inviting.
Making her way through the living room’s growing maze of furniture, Emily hurried out of her apartment. She immediately collided with a removal man pulling a trolley laden with boxes. More men spilled from the lift, their faces beaded with sweat. Flustered, Emily muttered an apology, then darted through the stairwell door.
Two men wrestled with her armchair, swaying to and fro as they climbed the steps. Emily skirted past, avoiding their stares.
Panic took hold.
Using the exercise her doctor had given her, she began to count. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. By the time she reached the foot of the stairs, her fingertips and the top of her head were numb.
The foyer was empty. Peering through the tempered glass of the front door, she watched a young couple in hats and scarves walk by.
The café was just a short distance away, but now it was as if a great chasm had opened up, swallowing the street. Emily teetered on its precipice, her chest tight, her breaths quick and shallow. She lost count and started over. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. She reached for the door handle. Behind her, the lift began to descend, its gears screeching.
As the removal men stepped out they saw a blur of grey and milky white. Emily dashed back up the stairs, gone from view before the men could turn to each other and laugh.
CHAPTER TWO
Petals of blue flame ignited as the boiler clunked and moaned to life. Hot water flowed through expanding pipes. The odour of burnt dust thickened the air. With the removal men now gone and Emily’s anxiety ebbing, stillness fell upon the apartment. Soon, the only sound was the comforting hush of radiating heat.
Outside, the sun sank behind the towers and turrets of the grand old buildings, casting their exteriors in warm tangerine. Emily pressed her face against the window. She could just make out a couple sitting in the window of Il Cuore. She was disappointed with herself. The café was barely twenty metres from the front door of The Holmeswood. The street had been almost empty. And yet she had allowed anxiety to take hold of her, to make her feel unsafe.
Her stomach grumbled in complaint that, not for the first time, it would go unfed tonight.
To take her mind off unwelcome thoughts, Emily moved into the kitchen and began to unpack. Soon, plates and cups sat in clean cupboards while pots and pans hung from hooks on the wall. Outside, night had descended, moss green and bereft of stars.
Emily yawned. Her body yearned for rest but her mind crackled like fluorescence. She wasn’t ready for sleep yet. There was the rest of the kitchen to unpack and her bedframe to build. Make your bed and you make your home, her mother always said. Emily looked around. How many people had this apartment been home to? What had these walls seen?
She stooped down to pick up an empty cardboard box and then she stopped still. Sitting in a corner of the kitchen was a bulky black refuse sack, its drawstrings tied in a loose knot. Whatever the sack contained did not belong to her. She had packed up the cottage herself, had sealed every box and crate without help.
Curious, Emily poked the sack with a finger. Pulling on the drawstrings, she peeled back the edges and peered inside. A grey knitted cardigan stared up at her. Underneath were more items of women’s clothing, all carefully ironed and folded.
She took out a blue and white blouse that appeared to be part of a nurse’s uniform. It was possible the sack had been left behind in the truck during the removal company’s last job. But then Emily remembered what Paulina Blanchard had told her about the previous tenant. Had these clothes been deliberately left behind, along with the rest of the unwanted belongings still sitting on the living room floor?
How sad, Emily thought, as she pulled more items from the sack and laid them out like bodies on the floor. The woman had been in such a rush to leave her husband that she’d left everything behind.
A strange feeling washed over Emily; a sudden dizziness that knocked her off balance.
Leaving the clothes on the floor, she stumbled through to the living room and lay down on the sofa. Tucking her knees up, she waited for the feeling to pass. When
it refused to leave, she pulled her sleeping pills from her handbag on the table and swallowed one down. Switching off the lights, she stared out at the city until her eyelids grew heavy.
Sleep came, and with it came a dream in which she ran through fields of spoiled crops. Something moved behind her, coming up fast. Strewn between the ploughed rows were items of women’s clothing, all soiled and sodden and forgotten.
***
She woke at nine, took a hot shower, and swallowed her antidepressant. A river of traffic flowed by in the street below. Pedestrians made their way to work, irritable and sluggish on Monday morning. Moments later, the rain fell down hard and a multitude of umbrellas popped up. Emily watched them floating away like lilies. Her eyes moved across the street, lingering on the café.
The bedroom was a large space, as long as the living room but half as wide. At the cottage, her bedroom had been miniscule, with all of her clothes squeezed into a single wardrobe. Here, built-in wardrobes with mirror doors covered an entire wall. Emily wondered what she could fill the room with. She had a bed, a chest of drawers and a small dresser. What more did a bedroom need?
Turning her attention to a heap of towels, she folded each one corner to corner, then carried them to the bathroom. As she pulled open the closet door, she had the sudden and uncomfortable sensation of feeling like an intruder. This was not her home—not this apartment, not this city. The sense of displacement overwhelmed her as she perched on the edge of the bath, hugging the towels to her chest. She looked up, waiting for the feeling to pass.
Something was jutting out from the top shelf of the closet. Standing on the tips of her toes, Emily reached up, clasped her fingers around its edges and pulled the large object down towards her.
It was an oil painting. Filling the canvas were the head and shoulders of a middle-aged Caucasian woman, whose white-blonde hair curved sharply around her features and ended just below her ears. Eyes the colour of a crisp morning sky fixed Emily with an unsettling gaze. Below them, thin lips silently judged. The most disconcerting feature of the painting, however, was the woman’s neck. It was elongated beyond all natural human dimensions, long brushstrokes creating a birdlike curve.
Lost Lives (Emily Swanson Mystery Thriller Series Book 1) Page 1