Lost Lives (Emily Swanson Mystery Thriller Series Book 1) (2 page)

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.

The anxiety in Emily’s stomach clambered up into her chest. The painting unsettled her, yet she found she could not look away.

A sharp rapping broke the strange spell that had been cast over her. Setting the painting down, she tiptoed through the apartment. The gloom of the hallway seeped inside as she opened the apartment door.

“Are you all right there, dear?”

An elderly woman smiled up at her. She was small in stature, barely reaching five feet tall. Time had warped her spine, fusing the vertebrae together so that she stood like a question mark, her head bobbing up and down in front of her shoulders.

Emily returned her gaze.

“I’m fine,” she stammered, not knowing how else to reply. “I’ve just moved in.”

“Me and Andrew were just saying we must go and say hello to the new neighbour, make them feel welcome,” the woman said, in a voice carved from the bricks and mortar of the city. “Because it’s always nice to meet new neighbours and you know that never happens in a place like this. Most people are too busy to spare a minute and say hello to a little old lady like me. But I’ll still give them a wave. Reminds them life isn’t all about running around. Sometimes it’s good just to stop for a moment and take account of the people around you, to have a look around at what you’ve amounted. Goodness, I’m rabbiting on already and I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Harriet Golding. I live right opposite you in number Eleven.”

Emily looked over the woman’s shoulder, at the open doorway across the hall.

“Emily,” she said, managing a smile.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Emily. Now, why don’t you take a break from all that unpacking and let me get to know you a little better over a nice cup of tea?”

Emily hesitated. “I—it’s just that there’s so much to do.”

“Those boxes aren’t going anywhere,” Harriet said. “Humour an old lady and have a cup of tea. I won’t keep you long.”

When Emily showed no signs of moving, she beckoned her with a papery hand and cackled, “Come along, I won’t bite! The teeth went years ago!”

Before Emily could change her mind, she found herself standing in Harriet Golding’s hallway, breathing in dust and a musty odour. Behind her, the old woman closed the door, slipping a chain lock into place.

“Can’t be too careful,” she rasped, the effort of her laughter taking a toll on her lungs. “Don’t know who’s lurking about these days.”

Emily stared at the piles of books, newspapers, and bric-a-brac that filled the space. Beneath her feet a once red and gold carpet was now faded and threadbare.

“You sit yourself right down,” Harriet said, leading Emily into a living room half the size of her own.

Towers of books covered a large table. On a mantelpiece, hordes of china animals huddled together like livestock awaiting slaughter.

“Excuse the mess,” Harriet ushered Emily towards a dog-eared sofa. “My Andrew’s always got his nose in a book. You ask me it’s a waste of precious time. Won’t be a minute.”

Emily stared in awe at the surrounding chaos. There was a door she hadn’t noticed. As she sat wondering what lay beyond, the door swung open.

The man was tall and heavy, his dark trousers pulled high up over his pudding bowl midriff. He wore a brown chequered vest over a white shirt. His dark hair, which was combed into an immaculate side parting, matched the neatly trimmed moustache above his narrow lips. Emily found it difficult to age him. Definitely older than forty but younger than sixty. Something about the way he looked at her made her uneasy.

“Mother didn’t say we were having visitors,” he said, his voice deep and raspy.

Emily stood up. Unable to speak, she looked towards the kitchen door. She heard cupboard doors open and close, and the chink of cups and jars colliding. The man remained in the doorway, his irritation dissolving into nervousness. He stared down at his vest, distracted by a small stain.

“I’m Emily. I just moved in across the hall.”

“Andrew,” he muttered. “Mother already got her claws in you then? She’ll have you over here every day if you’re not careful. Likes to chat.”

His movements stiff and awkward, Andrew hurried towards Emily with an outstretched hand. She shook it and watched as he rubbed his palm on the front of his thigh and then hid his hand back inside his pocket. The space between them filled with cement-like awkwardness until the kitchen door swung open and Harriet trundled into the room.

“Oh, I see you two have met.”

“You didn’t say we were having company,” Andrew replied.

“Can’t plan for a surprise. Now, be a dear and fetch the tea tray. It’s too heavy for me.”

Andrew sloped off towards the kitchen.

“Don’t pay him no attention,” Harriet said, patting Emily’s arm and motioning for her to sit. “He takes good care of me, bless him, but sometimes he behaves like a middle-aged baby. Now, tell me all about yourself, Emily. Who you are and where you come from. And I bet you have a lovely husband on your arm as well, don’t you?”

Emily shook her head.

“No husband?”

“It’s just me. I’ve just moved here.”

“Where from?”

Emily hesitated, then said, “From the countryside.”

“Did you hear that, Andrew? Emily’s just moved here all on her own! That’s very brave of you, dear.”

The old woman patted Emily’s hand while Andrew set the tea tray down onto the table and poured tea into three china cups.

“Mind you,” Harriet continued, watching Andrew pour the milk, “you can’t be too careful in London. Living on your own might seem brave, but you hear all sorts of horrible things happening to people. Lord knows there’s been enough trouble in this building without wishing for more. Got a job, have you?”

Unnerved by Harriet’s words, Emily picked up her cup and saucer and took a sip. The tea had a sweet, flowery taste and an instant calming effect.

“I haven’t started looking for one yet,” she said.

“Give the girl a chance, eh! What’s your profession?”

“I was an English teacher.” The words felt like stones in Emily’s mouth.

“How lovely! Children are so sweet when they’re young, aren’t they? Always speaking their minds like nobody’s business, not a care in the world! But soon as they turn into teenagers, something changes in them. You see all those gangs of youths on the streets, carrying knives and swearing like sailors, and you wonder what’s got into kids today that they have to travel around in packs like dogs, scaring old folk like me. It’s frightening when you think about it, isn’t it Andrew?”

Andrew snorted, picked up the nearest book and began to read.

“Poor Andrew,” Harriet continued. “Walking home one evening he was, after running some errands for me. A gang of heathens appeared out of the shadows and attacked him! Took his wallet, his phone—not that anyone calls him, but that’s beside the point. He had to have stitches, didn’t you, dear? And the police never caught the buggers, did they? Probably didn’t even look if you ask me. It’s enough to make an old woman scared to leave her home. I bet you don’t have all those troubles with teenagers in the countryside do you?”

“It’s all drugs and videogames these days.” The words shot from Andrew’s mouth in quick succession.

“Do you want children some day?” Harriet set out a plate of chocolate chip cookies. “Lord knows, I’ll be dead in my grave before I’m ever made a grandmother.”

Emily stiffened, shook her head.

“Fancy that, a young woman like you not wanting children. What’s that’s about then?”

Emily froze, her mouth half-open, the flesh under her fingernails turning white against the teacup.

Harriet waved a hand in the air. “Oh don’t mind me. Just tell me to keep to my own affairs. Andrew always does, don’t you?”

Emily put down the cup with an unintentional clatter. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to go back home. Not to the apartment across the hall, but back to the safety of her cottage. Except that it wasn’t her cottage anymore, and it hadn’t been safe for a long time.

“Oh look, I’ve gone and upset the girl.” Harriet reached over and patted Emily on the knee. “I am sorry, dear.”

“It’s fine.” Emily could feel tears filling her ducts, her throat hardening. She would not cry, not in front of strangers. She forced a smile to her lips. “How long have you lived in this building, Harriet?”