Lost Lives (Emily Swanson Mystery Thriller Series Book 1) (5 page)

Emily stood, frozen in front of the window, knowing that if she turned around now she would not see Jerome—she would see
him
, cutting at the tethers of the rope bridge with a penknife, watching as each one snapped until the bridge fell and they both tumbled into the darkness together.

Phillip. His name was everywhere; weeping in the raindrops that fell on the windows panes, howling in the wind that whistled past the corners of The Holmeswood. In the street below, it screamed from the mouths of passers-by.

“Are you all right?”

Dizzy, Emily shook her head.

Jerome leapt off the sofa and hurried into the kitchen. He returned with a glass of water.

“Drink this. Maybe the whiskey wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

Emily took the glass and heard ice cubes clink together, singing the boy's name.
Phil-lip
. She and Jerome were both silent, watching the rain slide down the window. The intercom buzzer announced Paulina Blanchard’s arrival.

Emily turned away and picked up her coat.

“Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”

“Will you be all right?” Jerome watched her pause with her back to him. She nodded, then walked unsteadily out of the room.

Shafts of stark winter light pulled her into consciousness. Shielding her eyes, Emily rolled onto her side and checked the time. Ten-sixteen a.m. In the bathroom, she dutifully took her daily dose of medication, then noticing Alina’s portrait, picked it up and carried it into the living room.

The sun had been conserving energy through the rainy days and now it sat high in a chalky blue sky, warming the street below where the tops of winter hats knitted together a spectrum of dark colours.

Propping the painting against the sofa, Emily set about making coffee. It had been a long time since she had suffered the after-effects of alcohol. She felt weak and unsteady on her feet. Her skin prickled.

Paulina Blanchard would be arriving with a locksmith in thirty minutes. The letting agent had reacted as expected—if thieves had stolen Emily’s belongings then it was because Emily had given them the opportunity. And of course it was unfortunate but Emily would have to cover the costs of the resulting lock changes. She had accepted responsibility without complaint, had even thanked Paulina for going out of her way to drop off the spare key to her apartment. Now, as her head began to throb with the dull ache of a hangover, she felt annoyed for having displayed such passive behaviour.

Showered and dressed, she rode the repaired lift down to the foyer. Paulina was already waiting. An elderly man with gnarled hands was crouched down beside the open front door, letting in an unpleasant concoction of bitter cold, car fumes and city noise. It was the same man Emily had seen yesterday. She watched him remove the screws holding the door lock in place.

“Miss Swanson,” Paulina nodded.

She was dressed in the same fur coat. It was probably real fur, Emily thought. Real fur paid for with old money.

“This is Bill. He’s our handyman. He’s been fixing things in The Holmeswood for forty years now. He’ll change the locks on the entrance door. Then, as a precaution, he'll change the lock on your apartment door.”

Emily nodded. “What about the other tenants?”

“One can't be too careful these days,” Paulina said, glancing over at Bill, who was listening in on their conversation. “You never know if those thieves intend to come back. The last thing you'll want is to wake up in your bed and find strangers stuffing their pockets with your jewellery. Most of the other tenants will be at work right now. I contacted as many as I could this morning and left voicemails for those I couldn’t reach, but I'm afraid you'll need to buzz everyone in later.”

The woman stared at Emily, a hint of challenge in her expression, then dug deep inside her pocket and pulled out an envelope. The keys inside clinked like icicles. From a plastic folder she pulled out a printed checklist and handed everything to Emily, explaining that she would need to cross off each tenant from the list as she distributed the keys.

“You could do a sweep of the building now, to see if anyone’s home,” she added, a smile tugging at the edges of her lips. “Although don't bother with the penthouse. The tenant's abroad for another two months.”

Emily stared at the objects in her hands.

“Now if you'll excuse me, I have another appointment. If you could come by the office tomorrow to arrange payment. And please bring the completed checklist with you.”

Paulina marched through the foyer, grunting at Bill as she left. When she was gone, Bill turned to Emily and winked.

“A real charmer that one,” he said.

He pulled the old lock system from the door and dropped it with a clatter onto the open lid of his toolbox.

Back in her apartment, Emily tossed the envelope of keys onto the dining table and then moved from room to room, walking off the black cloud that had settled on her shoulders. She pictured the aggrieved faces of the other tenants. People didn't like change, and people certainly didn't like the idea of their security being compromised.

Reading through Paulina’s checklist, Emily made a mental note of each tenant's name. Her memory was strong; teaching classes of more than thirty children each year had kept it exercised.

A knock on the door heralded Bill's arrival.

“Took a bit longer than I reckoned,” he said with a jovial smile. “Those old locks can be a royal pain.”

He knelt down on creaking knees and opened up his toolbox, laying out his tools with the precision of a surgeon.

“Mind you, this one right here,” he said, tapping the door handle with the end of a screwdriver, “ain’t that old at all. You know how I know?”

Not in the mood to learn the basics of locksmithery, Emily shook her head. But that wasn't Bill's intention.

“Because I changed it myself a few months ago. And it was smashed up good and proper too.”

Emily's stomach tumbled and flipped. “A burglary?”

“I don't think so. All the damage was on the inside. As if someone was trying to fight their way out.”

Emily pushed the door until she could see the inside lock. Chips and grooves had been sanded down and repainted, but were still faintly visible.

“In my job, I see broken locks all the time. Burglaries, break-ins, vandals ... but this one stuck in my head because the gentleman that lived here behaved like a lock broken from the inside was nothing out of the ordinary. And he called me direct, you know. Avoided old misery guts like the plague. Asked me not to mention it to her if he gave me a nice tip. Very suspicious if you ask me.”

Emily watched him work the lock off the door with surprising ease. “You didn’t tell anyone?”

“And say what exactly?” Bill asked, suddenly defensive, as if he had been accused of a crime himself. “Nothing to do with me is it? No, Miss. I just do my job, mind my own business and at the end of the day I go home.”

“Was there a woman here?”

“Not that I seen.”

Emily hurried to the living room and returned with Alina’s portrait. Bill looked at the painting, screwing up his face.

“Like I said, not that I seen. Just the big fella. He didn’t talk much, just wanted the job done quick, no questions.”

“Can you remember the exact date?”

Bill put down his tools, dug into his duffel bag and pulled out an invoice book. Emily waited as he flipped back through the receipt stubs.

“Here it is,” he said, stabbing the page with a knotted finger. “Monday, the twenty-fourth of August. Mr Karl Henry.”

Emily drew in a sharp gasp. It was the same day Alina had disappeared.

Bill picked up his tools again and made quick work of fitting the new lock.

“Of course, I told you that in good faith,” he said, avoiding Emily’s gaze. “Old Blanchard found out he changed the locks when he told her he was moving out. She called me up one morning, barking down the phone, asking if I’d had anything to do with it. I told her I didn’t know nothing. You ain’t going to tell her now, are you? Make an old man lose his job?”

“No,” Emily said. “I won’t.”

Excusing herself, she darted into the living room, taking the painting with her. Exactly what had occurred within the walls of this apartment? She thought about the refuse sack she’d found filled with Alina's clothes. Everything she had learned so far pointed to a horribly abusive relationship that the woman had escaped from, yet something felt off-kilter, like standing in a room with an uneven floor.

“I'm all done here.” Bill hovered in the doorway, a key chain dangling from his fingers. “There’s a spare one there. If I were you I’d give it to someone to look after. ”

His eyes moved over to Alina’s portrait. Emily took the keys and slid them into her pocket.

“Like I said, I’d appreciate it if you kept what I told you to yourself. Don’t much fancy being out of a job what with Christmas coming up and everything.”

As soon as he was gone, Emily picked up the bag of entry keys and the checklist, and headed down to Jerome’s apartment.

He was out, so she wrote him a brief note, slipped it under his door, then made her way back upstairs to talk to Harriet Golding.

“Here we are,” said the old woman, setting down the tea tray. “Now tell me everything, you poor girl!”

Emily recounted yesterday’s events, mentioning how helpful Jerome had been when she’d found herself locked out.

“He's a good boy, Jerome.” Harriet turned the cups over and placed them onto saucers. “Shame he’s a queer really, or you two would be lovely together.”

“Where’s Andrew today?” Emily asked, feeling her face heat up. Harriet didn’t mince her words.

“He's at the unemployment place. They keep trying to send him off to jobs he just can't do. It's his back you see. Arthritis at his age! Poor little bugger. I keep telling him, don't let them put you in a situation where you're going to get into trouble. But he doesn't listen to me! He just does what they tell him to and then before you know it, he's off his feet again, dosed up to the eyeballs on painkillers. It's an unfair system is what it is, Emily. All those bloody scroungers who can work but won't. Meanwhile, it's my poor Andrew who's getting grief. Of course, what he really needs is the love of an honest woman. At least he's got his old mum, eh? Tea?”

Emily nodded and remembering why she was here, placed two of the keys onto the table.

“They’ve changed the locks on the front door,” she explained, as Harriet filled their cups. “It means your old key won’t work anymore. You have to use this new one.”

“Eh? What's that? They’ve changed what?”

“The entry key to the building,” Emily repeated. “They’ve changed the lock to prevent the thieves from getting in.”

Harriet waved a dismissive hand. “Oh I don't know anything about that. Explain it to Andrew when he gets back. He’ll be here soon. It's a terrible thing, isn't it? So much crime on the streets. Still, at least you’re safe and sound. Called the police did you?”

Emily shook her head.

Harriet pushed a cup of tea towards her, urging her to drink. “Fat lot of good they would have done anyway. Bloody useless the lot of them!”

It seemed no one was immune from the old woman’s acerbic tongue today.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Emily said. “The missing persons notice I told you about said Alina went missing on the twenty-fourth of August. It was a Monday. Do you remember Bill the handyman coming around?”

“Now you’re asking something! I can barely remember last week never mind months ago. What’s that old fool got to do with Allie anyway?”

Not wanting Harriet’s proclivity for gossip to get the old man into trouble, Emily chose her words carefully. “He may have come up to make some repairs.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know what he’s up to. I keep myself to myself these days. People’s business is people’s business, if you know what I mean. But I do remember something. It must have been around that time because it happened just before Allie went and left Karl.”

Emily waited as the woman took a sip of tea and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I remember hearing a tremendous crash one night. Scared me half to death it did. I was asleep in my bed and for a minute I thought the good Lord had come down to take my soul. But then I heard shouting and I thought, here we go, they’re at it again. Only it wasn’t just them.”

“What do you mean?”

Harriet took another sip of tea, then reached for a biscuit. “I got out of bed and I went up to the front door to have a listen. Andrew was fast asleep, snoring like a bear. He’s terrible! He could sleep through fire and brimstone that son of mine. Anyway, they were shouting at the top of their lungs, the pair of them. Fighting like cats and dogs. But then I heard a third voice. A woman’s. She wasn’t shouting like they were but whatever she said to them, they both went quiet. In fact, everything went quiet. I took a look through the peephole and I could see light coming out from under the door. I never heard another sound. I waited for a while, but then my old hip started playing me up, so I went back to bed. You know, thinking about it, I didn’t see Allie after that. But like I said, people’s business is people’s business. Whatever happened, she’s best off out of that relationship and away from him.”

Emily was quiet, absorbing Harriet’s words. Her intercom buzzed across the hall. Anxiety crawled inside her chest.

“I’d better get that,” she said, rising to her feet. “If you remember anything else ...”

“You know what you need,” Harriet said, dipping the biscuit into her tea. “A nice class of kiddies to keep you occupied. Stop you dwelling on unpleasant business.”

***

By the time Jerome knocked on her door at a little after seven-thirty, Emily had distributed the remaining keys. Reactions from her fellow tenants had been mostly as expected. She’d avoided their scolding eyes and passive-aggressive comments as she’d checked off names from the list. One or two had been sympathetic—the young woman who lived in number Four, and the young couple with their boisterous three-year-old son—the only child in the building it seemed—from number Two.

Finally meeting the occupants of apartments Nine and Ten, both male and financial types judging by their sharp suits, had proven fruitless. Emily attempted to strike up conversation in the hope of discerning further information about Alina Engel. All she was able to extract was a strained smile from one and a wary glance from the other.