Lost Lives (Emily Swanson Mystery Thriller Series Book 1) (6 page)

Crossing Jerome from the list, she handed him the remaining key.

“Very cosy,” he said, after giving himself a tour of her apartment. “Looks like you’ve been living here for months.”

“I like to be organised. Did you bring your password?”

Jerome pulled out a note pad, flipped to a page and handed it to her. He wandered over to the kitchen saloon doors and peeked in.

“I have apartment envy. That bastard took half of the furniture when he left. Still owes me for it too.”

Emily was now sat in front of her laptop at the table. She brought up a list of available wireless connections, found Jerome’s network, and typed in the password.

“Thanks. I need to get myself online soon.”

“What happened to being organised? Just use mine until you do. And while we’re on a technology tip, you know the whole point of having a mobile phone is that it’s
mobile
. Keeping it in a drawer kind of defeats the purpose. What about when people call you?”

Emily avoided his gaze. “I can call them back.”

“Is this like a country-living thing? What’s the point of mobile phones, you can’t get a signal anyway? You’re in London now, Emily. There are mobile phone masts coming out of the city’s ass. Anyway, I’m no Sherlock but I’m pretty sure that’s not the real reason.”

Emily’s phone had been switched off and sat in the kitchen drawer since the day she’d arrived. What was the point of keeping it on? The only person she’d given her new number to was Lewis, and she could guarantee that if she went to the drawer right now and switched the phone back on, there would be nothing from him. No text messages, no voicemail. Which was probably for the best.

Jerome looked at her, waiting for an answer. To avoid giving him one, she relayed both stories told to her by Bill the handyman and Harriet Golding.

“Ring any bells?” she asked him when she was done.

“It’s hard to say. There were so many fights they all kind of rolled into one after a while.”

“But August the twenty-fourth and the days leading up to it? Smashing a door lock surely would have made some noise.”

Jerome moved across the room and stared up at the perpendicular grids of light illuminating the windows of the opposite building. Tired from the working day, people were slipping into their evening routines. A shirtless man worked out on his living room floor, performing sets of crunches and push ups. Down a floor and to the left, a woman sat in an armchair reading the evening newspaper, while another prepared dinner in the kitchen.

“There’s something relaxing about watching other people's lives, don’t you think? It’s the repetitiveness of it all. The routines, the structure.”

Emily thought about it, but instead of feeling relaxed, she felt a sudden frustration. “If only people had been paying more attention to Alina’s life.”

Jerome turned around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Alina was in an abusive relationship. Everyone knew about it and yet no one lifted a finger to help. Now she’s missing.”

“Presumed missing,” Jerome corrected her. “And I think you’re being a little unfair. People don’t like to pry. I mean, I didn’t even really know the woman. Where were her friends and family?”

“Maybe she didn’t have any. It’s always the same tired story. Shout fire and everyone comes running. Shout rape or domestic violence and everybody closes their curtains, pretends they’re not home.”

Over by the window, Jerome had grown quite still.

“Not everyone is like that,” he said. “Yesterday you called and I answered.”

“I know that, and I’m grateful. I just don’t understand why, if people heard Karl hitting Alina, they didn’t call the police.”

“Maybe they did. You have no idea of who did what because you weren’t here. And I think you’re being very presumptuous.”

Emily stood up from the computer. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Why does it matter to you so much anyway?” Jerome grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “You didn’t even know her.”

“What if I’m right?” Emily said. “What if Alina really is missing and no one is doing anything about it? What if she needs help right at this minute? If she was your sister, or your mother, wouldn’t you want to know that she was all right? That she was alive?”

Jerome shook his head. “You know I came up here to do you another favour, not to be accused of being a bystander watching a car crash.”

He crossed the room then stopped, spying the bizarre portrait lying face up on the sofa. The fingers of Emily’s right hand scrabbled over the top of her left, her nails grazing the surface of her skin.

“This isn’t how you make friends,” Jerome said. “I’ve been trying to get to know you but you’ve avoided every question I’ve asked. You keep your phone hidden in a drawer. I haven’t seen a single photograph of anyone anywhere in your apartment. Exactly who is it that’s closing their curtains and pretending they’re not home? Because it’s certainly not me.”

There was a moment of terrible, awkward silence. Then Jerome lowered his head and stalked out of the apartment.

Emily remained where she was, growing as still as stagnant water. It had not been her intention to accuse Jerome of anything, but he had heard Karl and Alina fighting on many occasions. And so had Harriet. Why had neither of them called the police?

Moving over to the laptop, she sat down, a knot of guilt pressing on her sternum. Even if what she had said was true, and she believed that it was, there were subtler words and ways to convey her thoughts. But Jerome had backed her into a corner with his questions, forcing her defences up. She was not ready to share her history with anyone.

Bringing up a web browser on the laptop screen, she wondered if she would ever be ready. Because that would mean telling the truth, and the truth was something she was yet to come to terms with.

For now, she needed distraction, and Alina Engel was it. Typing the woman’s name into a search engine, she scanned through the first page of results. There were various social media accounts in German for women sharing the same name, but none of the profile pictures resembled Alina—which was strange because just about everyone was on Facebook these days. It had been months since Emily had dared to log on to her account. She wondered what she would find if she did. That was the thing about social media—cruel words could be said to someone’s face and eventually most would fade, but type them out and post them on the web, and they remained forever; a bloodstain that could not be washed out.

Emily scrolled through a few more pages, finding only disappointment. She erased Alina’s name from the search engine and typed more words. Seconds later, she scanned through the pages of a missing persons website.

Hundreds of thousands of people were reported missing each year, she read. Most were tracked down or reappeared again days or weeks later, while others simply vanished. It was unnerving to think about. These days, every corner of every town and city, every store and restaurant, every public building, every station was being watched by CCTV. All of those cameras capturing each person's action, no matter how small, and yet there were those who simply vanished like drops of rain into the ether. All that remained of them were remnants. Sheets pulled back on unmade beds. Strands of hair wrapped around the teeth of combs. Their smell still clinging to clothes that hung like ghosts in darkened wardrobes. Only pictures could prove they were once truly alive, that they were once present. Pictures and bags of clothes left behind on kitchen floors.

Some chose to leave or had no choice remaining, while others, who were less sound of mind, simply wandered and became lost. Then, there were those who had been taken against their will. Almost always women or children, most ended up on a mortician's slab, while the remainder were never seen again.

Emily stared at her laptop screen and the faces of the disappeared stared back. Young faces. Old faces. Haunted faces. Happy faces. There were messages from their loved ones, pleading for them to return home. There were appeals to the public to come forward with information. Anguish poured from her screen like a sea of tears, and rising from its depths came Phillip. He wasn't missing—everyone knew where he could be found now—but like the disappeared, he would never be seen again. Like the disappeared, all that was left were remnants.

Often, Emily closed her eyes and imagined what Phillip had left behind. A bedroom, untouched since that day, with piles of laundry littering the floor and posters of wrestlers tacked to the walls. A video game controller, sitting on the arm of the chair, where no one dared to sit for fear of knocking it from its final resting place. His toothbrush, still in the glass on the bathroom shelf. His coat still hanging on the back of the door.

Tears burned Emily's eyes. How long would this guilt last? The answer to that question was too cruel to contemplate, and yet it taunted her morning and night.

Emily wiped her eyes, then typed Alina's name into the website’s search engine. The faces of the disappeared faded into white and were replaced with the words: NO RESULTS FOUND. Was it true then? Had Alina returned to Germany where she now led a happier, safer life? Thousands of people went missing every day. Did that mean every one of their cases remained open? Did it mean every one of them was even reported? And what of all of those bodies lying refrigerated in mortuaries, unidentified and unclaimed? Who were they? Where did they come from? An image came to Emily's mind—Alina laid out on cold steel, her skin as blue as eggshells, her neck stretched beyond all human dimensions.

Emily paced over to the window. She was getting nowhere and her frustration began to weigh heavy on her shoulders. She turned and stared at Alina’s portrait. A thought struck her. Who had painted it? Moving over to the sofa, she picked up the painting and examined the canvas. There were initials scribed in the bottom right hand corner: AC.

Her eyes moved from the painting to the landscape print on the wall. Seconds later, Alina’s portrait hung in its place, her lingering gaze roaming the living room, pulling at Emily’s insides.

Leaving The Holmeswood through the rear exit, Emily hurried past the dumpsters, almost trampling a homeless man asleep in a swathe of soiled blankets and strips of cardboard. Reaching the end of the alley, she stepped out onto a narrow side street. People were coming in thick and fast, and it took her a moment to insert herself into the flow. Once she was in, she floated along like a leaf in a stream.

She could have taken an underground train, but descending stairs and escalators deep beneath the city was a concept that left her struggling for breath. And yet millions of commuters did it every day, pushing and shoving, elbow to face, squeezing out the air, until train carriages and platforms resembled livestock in transit.

Buses were a little better, but then you had to contend with gridlocked traffic and drivers who, when the lights finally turned green, drove like police officers in pursuit of criminals.

For now, Emily kept her feet firmly on the ground, making her way to the bank to pick up her replacement bankcard, then continuing on towards Islington. Moving past the bars and restaurants of Upper Street, she crossed the road and came to a stop. Through the tinted front window she could see Paulina Blanchard, who sat behind a meticulously ordered desk.

Sensing eyes upon her, the woman scowled and waved Emily in.

“Good morning, Miss Swanson,” Paulina said, her eyes fixed on her computer screen. “Did you find your way all right?”

Emily nodded as she pulled out the checklist. When Paulina showed no interest in taking it from her, she dropped it onto the desk.

“If we could sort out payment for the new keys before you go,” the letting agent said.

“Of course.”

Paulina made swift work of the transaction. When she was done, she handed Emily a receipt, then returned to her work. Emily hovered on the other side of the desk.

“Is there something else I can help you with, Ms Swanson?” Paulina didn’t look up.

“I wanted to talk to you about the former tenants.”

“Oh? This isn’t about unpaid bills I hope.”

Emily shook her head. “He left a lot of things behind, including his wife’s clothing.”

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t have a forwarding address for Mr Henry if that’s what you’re after,” Paulina said. “I’m sure I’ll still have his number on file though. Obviously, I can’t give it to you—customer confidentiality and all that. Did you want me to tell him something?”

Emily shifted her weight from one foot to the other. This was an unexpected opportunity. One that filled her with a sudden nervousness. Who better to ask about Alina’s whereabouts than the man she supposedly ran away from?

“Perhaps you could give him my number? Tell him there are things I’m not sure he meant to leave behind.”

“Such as?” Paulina pulled up a client file on the screen and began searching for Karl Henry’s details.

“Some personal items.”

Paulina’s eyes narrowed. Closing down the database she picked up the tenant checklist. “Indeed. I’m afraid I don’t have time to call him right now, but I’ll make sure to get hold of him later this afternoon.”

Emily hesitated. “You never mentioned his wife was missing, when you showed me around. You said she’d gone back to Germany.”

Paulina Blanchard folded her arms and met Emily’s questioning gaze. “Well, I’m sure that’s nobody’s business but Mr Henry’s.”

***

The prospect of conversing with Karl Henry occupied her mind as she disappeared into the heaving throng—so much so that there were brief instants when she lost the need to count. When she reached The Holmeswood, she hurried across the road and entered Il Cuore. The café was crowded and heavy with chatter. Finding the only empty table, she sat down and placed her bag in her lap.

Jerome had watched her come in. After taking a few more orders, he made his way over.

“Good morning, Miss Swanson,” he said, bereft of his usual smile. He turned his order pad to a new page and tapped it with the nib of his pen. His eyes found a spot just above Emily’s left shoulder. “What can I get you?”

“I’m sorry,” Emily said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Jerome’s gaze moved down to her shoulder then fluttered across her face. He nodded.

“I wasn’t being angry with you specifically. I was being angry at the situation. Please don’t take it personally. I was hoping that we could become friends.”

Jerome slipped into the chair opposite. For a moment, he sat sulking like a scolded child. Then he said, “You hurt my feelings.”

Emily felt her face sting.

“But you were right. I could have done something. I could have called the police on any number of occasions. But I didn’t. I turned a blind eye just like everybody else. Maybe if I hadn’t, Alina would have been saved from a few bruises. Maybe she wouldn’t have disappeared.”

Dozens of indecipherable conversations filled the space between them.

“Then you believe me? You think something might have happened to her?” Emily reached across the table, then retracted her hand.

Jerome shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she did take off. Or maybe Karl really did do something to her. Either way, I should have spoken up. We all should have.”

Shamefaced, he hung his head. Across the room, unserved customers raised their voices in complaint.

“We all make mistakes,” Emily said, she reached her hand across the table again and this time she kept it there, squeezing his wrist. “God knows, I have.”

Jerome looked up with sad eyes. “I better get back to work.”

“Apology accepted?” Emily asked.

“I tell you what.” A hint of a smile returned to Jerome’s lips. “Come and watch Real Wives of Bognor Regis with me tonight and you’ve got yourself a deal. I’ll even cook up some red pea soup, just like Grandma Miller used to make.”

Emily smiled. “Okay.”

“There’s one more thing. If we’re going to be friends, then you need to let me get to know you. That means no more evasive manoeuvres.”

Across the table, Emily’s heart began beating like the wings of a panicked bird.