While Emily Swanson had stood there making her demands, Helen had copied the entire contents of the flash drive onto her desktop. Now, the files filled her screen, staring back at her. Tempting her.
She could sell the story, make thousands of pounds, and skip years of churning out shitty stories for shitty magazines. Or, she could do as Emily had intended—she could hand the evidence over to the police. Helen continued to stare at the screen. Evan Holt entered her thoughts and an awful, twisting pain tore through her stomach. Valence may have killed him, but what if Emily was right? Would Evan still be alive if Helen had kept quiet about TEL? It was possible.
And what about Anya and Josh Copeland? If she sold the story, would she be responsible for endangering their lives too?
Helen logged off from the computer. The files disappeared from the screen. She would wait a while, perhaps a month or two—enough time for Valence Industries to believe their dirty secrets were safe once more. Then, she would dig those secrets up again and show them to the world. And, just like Christine had suggested, she would do it by the book. The Copelands would be taken into police protection, and London Truth would get their exclusive. Helen smiled. It wouldn’t be the huge career jump she wanted, but it would be a jump all the same. Best of all, she wouldn’t have to share the spotlight with that rank amateur, Emily Swanson.
THREE WEEKS LATER
The rain was turning rusty autumn leaves into pulpy mush. In the streets, Londoners put up their umbrellas and bounced off each other in an endless stream, their summer colours now replaced by drab greys and navy blues. An icy wind chased them along the pavements. Winter had begun its slow approach towards the metropolis.
Emily sat at a desk, watching rain sail past the third floor window, and feeling grateful to be indoors where it was warm and dry. Having slept poorly the night before, she was tired. But her nerves were providing a much-needed jolt to her brain.
She peered at the other people in the room, noting with some anxiety that she was the only woman. Some of the men were already eyeing her. Why was she here, this thin-framed girl who barely looked strong enough to stand on her feet? Surely she’d stumbled into the wrong room.
Emily stared at the desk, at her new notebook and pen. Her right foot bounced up and down. She brought it to a standstill. At the front, two of the men muttered to each other. One of them cast a quick glance in Emily’s direction. Emily stared right back.
A tall, upright woman, who was dressed in a black trouser suit. strolled confidently into the room. She took a moment to set down her bag and throw her coat over a chair before addressing the group.
“Good morning. My name is Erica Braithwaite. Just to confirm that you have the right room, this is day one of IQ Level 3 Award for Private Investigators. Hopefully, you will have provided your real names on the register. If not, I’ll have my surveillance team track you down.” Her eyes roamed the room and landed on Emily. “Just my little joke. As you’ve signed up for the more intense version of the course, I’m assuming you have little to no experience of private investigation. This course will teach you the fundamental basics that you’ll need to begin your new career—the law, probity, standards, and core investigator competency. Once you’ve completed Level 3, there’s a range of other courses to teach you the skills and knowledge needed to become a successful and diligent practitioner within the private investigation sector. So, if you were expecting a crash course in snapping pictures of cheating lovers, or a guide to practical disguises, you have my sincerest apologies and the door is over there. But if you’re staying, let’s quickly go around the room and introduce ourselves before we take a look at the course overview. Let’s begin with you.”
Emily swallowed. Erica Braithwaite was looking at her. And so were the men. Suddenly, she was eleven years old and back at school. One of the men had a smile on his lips, as if he still couldn’t believe this little woman was here and not at home, washing dishes.
Emily cleared her throat, untangled her fingers, and took in a breath. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. She looked away for a moment, out of the window, at the failing rain. Then she stared not at Erica, but at the men.
“My name is Emily,” she said. “Emily Swanson.”
EMILY SWANSON WILL RETURN
DEAR READER
I hope you enjoyed reading Cold Hearts as much as I did writing it. Emily Swanson will return soon!
As an indie author, reviews are so important to help new readers find my books and to help me get paid advertising. If you enjoyed Cold Hearts, I’d be so grateful if you could spare a few minutes to leave a short, honest review on the site from which you purchased your copy. Even just a few words will go a long way!
Thank you!
Malcolm
MORE FROM MALCOLM RICHARDS
The Hiding House
Walking After Midnight
Lost Lives (Emily Swanson Book 1)
Cruel Minds (Emily Swanson Book 2)
Cold Hearts (Emily Swanson Book 3)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Great big thankyous and debts of gratitude to my friends and family for their continued support. With special thanks to Kate Ellis, Alasdair Gray, Dutch Hearn, Victor Martinez Cecilia, and of course, to Mr Smith, who always knows what to say when words fail me.
To my readers, including my fabulous launch team—you are all awesome! A thousand thankyous.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cornish born Malcolm Richards writes psychological mysteries and thrillers focusing on everyday people placed in extraordinary circumstances. After studying for a Bachelor of Arts in Writing at Middlesex University, Malcolm worked as a reading recovery teacher, a nurture group leader teaching young children with complex behavioural and emotional needs, and as a teacher of creative writing. When not writing, Malcolm enjoys composing and producing music, spending more and more time in the countryside, and trying to catch up with too many series.
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