Lost Lives (Emily Swanson Mystery Thriller Series Book 1) by Malcolm Richards

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.
    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