Cold Hearts

by Malcolm Richards

  An Emily Swanson Novel

  Book #3

  COLD HEARTS

  MALCOLM RICHARDS

  Copyright © Malcolm Richards, 2016

  Storm House Books

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any similarity to real persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For more information about the author, please visit www.malcolmrichardsauthor.com

  TABLE OF 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

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  THREE WEEKS LATER

  DEAR READER

  MORE FROM MALCOLM RICHARDS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Emily Swanson rang the doorbell then sucked in a nervous breath. What was she doing here? She looked up at the house. It was a large but not sprawling affair, with latticed windows and white walls. The drive, which was wide enough to hold several cars, was currently empty, while a towering, evergreen hedgerow smudged out much of the quiet, suburban street.

  Seconds passed. Shrugging off her backpack, Emily removed the letter that had arrived a few days ago, and checked the address: 112 Ford Road, Epsom, Surrey. She pressed the doorbell again.

  Above her, the Friday morning sun was bold and bright. After an overcast July and a rainy August, September was turning out to be uncharacteristically hot. Closing her eyes, Emily took a moment to enjoy the warmth on her skin.

  When she opened them again, she saw a woman smiling at her in the doorway.

  “Diane Edwards?”

  “You must be Emily.”

  Emily was led through a carpeted hall and towards a spacious kitchen at the back of the house.

  “Please sit down.” Diane Edwards gestured to the table and chairs in front of the large bay windows. “I’ll make some tea.”

  Emily smiled politely and turned to view the rear garden. An expanse of vibrant lawn, which was bordered by colourful flowerbeds, stretched out into the distance. A copse of trees stood at the far end, watching over the house. Beneath the table, Emily’s knee began to jig up and down. She wondered if it was too late to make her excuses and leave.

  Diane Edwards returned with the tea tray. She was somewhat older than Emily’s twenty-seven years. Perhaps in her mid-forties. Where Emily’s hair was blonde and fell just above her shoulders, Diane’s was jet black and cropped. As she turned the cups over and reached for the teapot, she offered Emily a slight smile

  “You must forgive my quietness. It’s not often I invite strangers into my home, especially in such unusual circumstances.”

  Emily untangled her arms and placed her hands on her lap. “I’m a little nervous myself. And a little surprised.”

  Diane Edwards eyed her as she poured the tea. “At my proposal?”

  “Mrs Edwards, I—”

  “Please, call me Diane. Sugar?”

  Emily shook her head. “I should probably make it clear before we go any further that me being here isn’t an agreement. I admit I’m curious, but I may not be qualified for what you need.”

  Diane slid a cup of tea towards Emily. “That’s understandable. Perhaps if I elaborate on the details of my letter it will help you to form a decision.” She flashed a nervous glance across the table. “My husband, Max, worked as a sustainable development manager for a big chemicals company. You may have heard of them—Valence Industries. It was his job to find new ways for the company to be more environmentally friendly, or at least that’s my understanding of it. I don’t imagine the chemicals industry has the greatest reputation when it comes to the environment, which is why I expect Max accepted the position. He’d been actively involved in green issues for as long as I can remember. Even back when we first met, he was always off on one protest or another, occasionally getting himself arrested...” She smiled sadly. “Part of Max’s remit was to nurture partnerships with various environmental charities. He’d been working for months on a project to bring clean water to parts of the world where there was none. The project was to launch with a fundraising gala...”

  Diane gazed through the window at long ago memories. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet and controlled. “The official consensus is that Max attended the gala in London in May of last year, then spent the night in his hotel room. When he didn’t show for breakfast the next morning, his colleagues went to look for him. His room was empty. The bed hadn’t been slept in.” She paused again and clenched her jaw. “He was found by tourists early the next morning, washed up on the bank of the Thames.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Edwards.” Emily’s tea cup was frozen in mid-air. She set it down on the saucer with an unintentional clatter. “Your husband drowned?”

  “My husband was an alcoholic.” The words were spoken matter-of-factly, as if Diane had described her husband as a keen golfer or as a lover of antiques. “Max’s drinking almost ripped our marriage apart more times than I can count. Each time, I packed his bags and left them on the doorstep. Each time, I brought them back in. That may sound very weak of me, but I understood that, like any addiction, alcoholism is a curable disease. Besides, in spite of everything, I loved him.” Her expression hardened. “The coroner’s report stated that the alcohol levels in Max’s bloodstream were so high that if he hadn’t drowned first there was every chance he would have died from toxic shock. But you see, before that night my husband had been in recovery for almost ten years. That’s why you’re here, Emily—to find out why, after ten years of sobriety, my husband saw it fit to suddenly drink himself to death.”

  Emily cleared her throat. “No offence, Mrs Edwards, but how can you be certain that Max hadn’t been drinking without your knowledge?”

  “When you’ve been married to an alcoholic for twenty-three years you get to learn all the tricks and the lies. You find all the hiding places in your home, the garden, the car. Oh, I’m sur
e if Max had been tempted to drink, he could have tried to hide it from me. But I say try, Emily. My husband wasn’t the kind of functioning alcoholic who could drink a litre of vodka then do a day’s work. He was the kind of alcoholic you stepped over in the street.”

  Emily felt a surge of pity for the woman. Alcoholism didn’t just destroy the person doing the drinking.

  “If he was back to his old ways prior to that night, he wouldn’t have been able to hide his guilt from me,” Diane continued. “He tore our marriage apart. I should have left him. But I stayed. And he knew that. He knew that. Which is why he found the strength inside him to stop drinking. He did it himself, you know. Oh, he tried AA but all that higher power business didn’t agree with him. Max did not believe in religion or spirituality. He believed in nature.”

  Emily leaned back in her chair and let out a steady breath. “Mrs Edwards–”

  “Diane.”

  “Wouldn’t you be better off pursuing a more professional route with someone more qualified? The police perhaps or a private investigator.”

  Emily tried to look away but found her gaze inexplicably drawn back to Diane. It was as if all of the woman’s anguish and desperation had created a magnetic pull.

  “The police saw my husband’s death as an open and shut case. An alcoholic gets drunk, falls into the River Thames and drowns. The ruling: death by misadventure.” Diane hesitated, terrible memories drawing shadows across her face. “I read about you in the newspapers, about what happened at that retreat. And then again last month, with the Doctor Chelmsford trial.”

  Emily’s shoulders stiffened. Instantly, she was back at the courthouse, standing in the witness box as she answered question after question, and desperately avoided Doctor Chelmsford’s snakelike gaze. He would now spend what remained of his twilight years behind bars. Good, Emily thought. It was a fitting end for a monster who had preyed upon the sick and the vulnerable.

  Unhappy about where the conversation was headed, she stared into the cooling contents of her cup.

  “I read about what happened to you in the past,” said Diane. “Losing your mother, then what happened with that boy. What was his name?”

  “Phillip.”

  “Yes, Phillip. And I thought, here is a woman who understands the pain of not only losing a loved one but also the humiliation of having her reputation destroyed. And yet, here is a woman who has risen above it all, who is good and kind, intelligent and resourceful, who is determined. I wrote to you because your story spoke to me. And I believe that you can help me, Emily. I believe you can help me to understand what happened to my husband.”

  Quiet draped itself over the table. Emily was suddenly elsewhere, her mind replaying the events of the last two years like scenes from a film.

  “I don’t think I can help you,” she said at last. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  Diane stared at her with pleading eyes. “I can help with that. And of course, as I mentioned in my letter, you’ll be paid for your time.”

  “I’m just an ordinary person who happened to get caught up in an extraordinary situation. Or two. I don’t have the skills or the resources.”

  “Please, Emily.” Diane was leaning forward now, her hands clamped together in a silent prayer. Most of her calm demeanour remained, but quiet desperation was oozing through the cracks. “You know what it’s like to wake up each morning and wonder why life can be so cruel. You know what it’s like to have all the happiness, all the joy snatched away from you. Something happened that night to take my husband away from me. I know our marriage was tumultuous at best, but I loved him. I need to know what happened. I need to understand why he did what he did.”

  Emily drew in a breath. The network of muscles in her shoulders tightened. She could feel anguish pouring from every one of Diane’s cells. This house is like a mausoleum, she thought. And Diane Edwards was trapped inside; a living ghost doomed to repeat each day in a never-ending cycle of grief.

  Emily wanted to help her. She did. And the money would certainly help now that her savings were almost gone. It was just that she didn’t know if she could help. She was not a private investigator. She was Emily Swanson, the shamed ex-teacher fated to spend the rest of her life atoning for her sins.

  “Last Friday would have been his fiftieth birthday,” Diane said. “I was going to throw him a party.”

  She locked eyes with Emily, transferring her grief. In that instant, Emily knew that she could not refuse.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The call centre hummed with voices. Emily’s return train to London had been delayed, making her uncharacteristically late for her two p.m. shift. As she headed past the network of desks, she saw movement from the corner of her eye. She looked up. Carter West was waving at her. Her pulse raced. She quickly waved back, then ducked into a long corridor. Quiet resumed. Emily headed towards the archives; a small, cramped room at the back of the building filled with shelving units. Pulling a notebook from her bag, Emily ran a finger down a list of reference numbers, then scanned the colour coded ring binders on the shelves.

  Two minutes later, she sat in a poky office in front of a computer, typing information into an onscreen template. An open ring binder sat on the desk. The sad face of a teenaged boy stared up at her. Emily had been volunteering at the missing persons charity, LOST, for just over two months. She’d been offered a variety of roles but had settled on volunteering as an archivist. The charity had thousands of missing persons case files on paper that needed to be checked and entered into their electronic database. It was a repetitive task but Emily found the files to be fascinating reading. Lots of the cases had ended happily, with the missing being reunited with their families. Others didn’t.

  The case she was archiving now was that of Jake Nash, who was thirteen years old, Caucasian, from Acton in West London. Jake had disappeared on his way home from school one afternoon in May, 2003. He’d been a quiet boy with few friends. The type that no one noticed until he was no longer there. Emily glanced at his photograph. He would be an adult now. If he was still alive. It was unsettling how easy it was for people to disappear in a country of not much size at all. Emily’s thoughts turned to another young boy, one who she knew would never return home.

  She pushed unwanted memories from her mind, just as a young woman with short, dark hair and a mass of rings in her ears hurried into the room.

  “Don’t say anything,” the woman said, sitting down at the adjacent desk. “Astrid locked me in again. Can you believe it?”

  Emily smiled at the sing-song melody of the woman’s French accent.

  “That’s the second time this month, isn’t it? Come on, Imogen. You need to come up with something new.”

  Imogen picked up a pencil and flicked it at Emily. “It’s true! I keep telling her, ‘Doll, if I’m going to stay over, please remember I’m still there on your way out.’ But out she goes, locking the door behind her. I mean, am I that forgettable?”

  “You should accept her offer of the spare key.”

  “No way, far too early.” Imogen stared at Emily with deep brown eyes. “Anyway, how are you, newbie?”

  “I’ve been here almost two months and I still get called the newbie?”

  Imogen pulled things out of bags and opened folders, spreading chaos over her desk.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I’m fine. Actually, I’ve had a very interesting morning. I’ve been offered a job.”

  “Oh? Something paid I hope. Tell me more.”

  Emily hesitated. “It’s nothing. Just helping someone out, that’s all.”

  “You mean like care work?”

  “Something like that.”

  Emily finished updating Jake Nash’s file. She turned the page to the next profile: Mrs Mary Newell, fifty-two, African-Caribbean, mother of four, who disappeared from her home in June, 2003.

  “I hope it doesn’t involve wiping old people’s backsides,” Imogen said, her face wrinkled with disgus
t.

  Emily was not quite ready to share the details of Diane Edwards’ proposal with anyone. Not until she had made some sort of sense of it.

  A soft knock on the door made both women look up. Carter West raised a hand. Emily’s face heated up.

  “How goes it in the dusty archives?”

  Emily fixed her gaze on the computer screen. “Fine. How are you?”

  Carter was tall and toned but not overtly muscular, with a mess of dark, wavy hair, and a blinding smile. It was his eyes that Emily found most fascinating—both were shades of hazel, but where the right eye erred on the side of brown, the left was a shade greener. It was subtle; something you wouldn’t notice unless you were taking a good look.

  Carter took a few steps into the room. “I’m good. Just finishing up as a matter of fact.”

  An unsubtle clearing of the throat directed their attention to the corner of the room.

  “Hello, Carter.”

  “Imogen, I didn’t see you there.”

  “Funny that.”

  Flashing Carter a quick glance, Emily continued to enter Mary Newell’s details into the database.

  “I’m going to make some tea,” Imogen announced, standing up from her desk. “Anyone want some?”

  “Yes, please.” Emily’s voice was barely a whisper.

  Carter shook his head.

  “I’ll be five minutes.”

  Winking at Emily, Imogen sauntered out of the room. Now that there were just the two of them, Emily’s fingers sped up, stabbing at the keyboard in a frenzy. She could feel Carter’s eyes upon her.

  “Good shift?” she asked.

  “As good as dealing with hysterical parents can be. At least I only have them typing at me in a panic. I’m not sure I could cope with dealing with them on the phone. Sometimes I think you have the right idea, skulking back here.”

  Carter grinned. Emily’s lips betrayed her by smiling back.

  “I don’t skulk.”

  The clack of the keyboard was the only sound in the room for a short while. Carter moved closer until he was a foot away from the desk.

  “So, Emily... I was wondering if you had any free time next week.” His eyes flicked away, then came back again. “Maybe we could finally get that coffee that keeps eluding us?”