Looking for Rosanna Mee

By Hannah Howe

Aged twenty-one, Rosanna Mee was housebound, severely agoraphobic. Yet, when Faye and I arrived at her flat to deliver legal papers we could not find her. She’d disappeared. How could a woman who had not travelled from her home in three years simply disappear? That was the first in a series of questions that led us into the world of bodybuilding, fraud and murder.

Meanwhile, the kaleidoscope of my life continued to change. As the picture settled I discovered that I was saying goodbye to a friend, hello to a new office and facing a development that would totally transform my personal life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Goylake Publishing
• Release date: Sep 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781838011833

Hannah Howe

Hannah Howe is the bestselling author of the Sam Smith Mystery Series (Sam's Song, book one in the series, has reached number one on the amazon.com private detective chart on seven separate occasions and the number one position in Australia). Hannah lives in the picturesque county of Glamorgan with her partner and their two children. She has a university degree and a background in psychology, which she uses as a basis for her novels.Hannah began her writing career at school when her teacher asked her to write the school play. She has been writing ever since. When not writing or researching Hannah enjoys reading, genealogy, music, chess and classic black and white movies. She has a deep knowledge of nineteenth and twentieth century popular culture and is a keen student of the private detective novel and its history.Hannah's books are available in print, as audio books and eBooks from all major retailers: Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Google Play, Kobo, iBooks, etc. For more details please visit https://hannah-howe.comThe Sam Smith Mystery Series in book order:Sam's SongLove and BulletsThe Big ChillRipperThe Hermit of HisaryaSecrets and LiesFamily HonourSins of the FatherSmoke and MirrorsStardustMind GamesDigging in the DirtA Parcel of RoguesBostonThe Devil and Ms DevlinSnow in AugustLooking for Rosanna MeeStormy WeatherDamagedEve’s War: Heroines of SOEOperation ZigzagOperation LocksmithOperation BroadswordOperation TreasureOperation SherlockOperation CameoOperation RoseOperation WatchmakerOperation OverlordOperation Jedburgh (to follow)Operation Butterfly (to follow)Operation Liberty (to follow)The Golden Age of HollywoodTula: A 1920s Novel (to follow)The Olive Tree: A Spanish Civil War SagaRootsBranchesLeavesFruitFlowersThe Ann's War Mystery Series in book order:BetrayalInvasionBlackmailEscapeVictoryStandalone NovelsSaving Grace: A Victorian MysteryColette: A Schoolteacher’s War (to follow)What readers have been saying about the Sam Smith Mystery Series and Hannah Howe..."Hannah Howe is a very talented writer.""A gem of a read.""Sam Smith is the most interesting female sleuth in detective fiction. She leaves all the others standing.""Hannah Howe's writing style reminds you of the Grandmasters of private detective fiction - Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and Robert B. Parker.""Sam is an endearing character. Her assessments of some of the people she encounters will make you laugh at her wicked mind. At other times, you'll cry at the pain she's suffered.""Sam is the kind of non-assuming heroine that I couldn't help but love.""Sam's Song was a wonderful find and a thoroughly engaging read. The first book in the Sam Smith mystery series, this book starts off as a winner!""Sam is an interesting and very believable character.""Gripping and believable at the same time, very well written.""Sam is a great heroine who challenges stereotypes.""Hannah Howe is a fabulous writer.""I can't wait to read the next in the series!""The Big Chill is light reading, but packs powerful messages.""This series just gets better and better.""What makes this book stand well above the rest of detective thrillers is the attention to the little details that makes everything so real.""Sam is a rounded and very real character.""Howe is an author to watch, able to change the tone from light hearted to more thoughtful, making this an easy and yet very rewarding read. Cracking!""Fabulous book by a fabulous author-I highly recommended this series!""Howe writes her characters with depth and makes them very engaging.""I loved the easy conversational style the author used throughout. Some of the colourful ways that the main character expressed herself actually made me laugh!""I loved Hannah Howe's writing style -- poignant one moment, terrifying the next, funny the next moment. I would be on the edge of my seat praying Sam wouldn't get hurt, and then she'd say a one-liner or think something funny, and I'd chuckle and catch my breath. Love it!""Sam's Song is no lightweight suspense book. Howe deals with drugs, spousal abuse, child abuse, and more. While the topics she writes about are heavy, Howe does a fantastic job of giving the reader the brutal truth while showing us there is still good in life and hope for better days to come."

Book preview

Chapter One

January. A new year, a fresh start and potentially a new office.

I was standing with my friend and colleague, Faye Collister, in a revamped building that dated from the 1960s. Three storeys tall with an attic conversion, the building overlooked Cardiff Bay. At one time a fashionable and chic address, the office block was showing its age, although a fresh layer of pebbledash and the addition of a lift to comply with disability access regulations provided the ‘old lady’ with a facelift.

We were looking around the converted attic, a generous space with ample room for our desks, filing cabinets and bookcases. The gable wall was solid brick while the other three walls were made of plasterboard, inserted into the attic to form the room. The wall opposite the gable reached to the ceiling while the adjacent walls stood four metres tall before a gentle slope blended in with the roof.

I noted a fire escape in the gable wall and appreciated the generous lighting offered by two large windows ensconced in the roof. The room was spacious, airy and clean and, unlike our current office, a houseboat, it stood well above the water.

What do you think? Faye asked, her tone expectant.

It’s a decent space, I said, certainly with more room than my old office and definitely better than the houseboat.

With great views of the bay, Faye enthused. She stood in the centre of the room, toying with her golden ringlets, a nervous gesture, one she’d adopted lately.

Uh-huh, I said.

Plus we get to keep a Cardiff Bay address.

Are you thinking of opening an estate agency, I said, because you’ve certainly got the patter.

Just pointing out the advantages, Faye said.

Faye had received word about the attic from a friend who, I sensed, was on a commission. I also sensed that Faye wanted us to accept the lease to please her friend.

What about the disadvantages? I asked.

There are none, really. The rent is reasonable, within our budget. The lift is reliable, although I reckon we should climb the stairs; the exercise would be good for our figures. Faye’s blue-green eyes widened as she stared at my midriff. The stairs would be great for you; they’d help you to lose your middle-aged spread.

I’m not middle-aged, I said. And this isn’t a spread.

What is it then? Faye frowned.

It’s a minor bulge, I said, an excess of Christmas pudding.

Hmm, Faye said. She continued to stare. Then she walked over to the fire escape and opened the door. A cold blast of wind greeted us, along with a few flakes of snow. In the summer, she enthused, we could sit out on the balcony.

It’s a fire escape, I said.

If we paint it white and add a small table and deckchairs we could convert it into a balcony. Faye smiled. She had wonderful teeth, which offered a winning smile. You’d look cool in a straw hat and sunglasses, sipping a pina colada.

I’m off the booze, I said, just the occasional glass of wine.

During the previous summer, I’d fallen into my late mother’s habit of relying on alcohol. The demon drink had blighted her life but, thankfully, I’d come to my senses, before it could blight mine.

I still enjoyed wine with Alan, with a meal and on social occasions. However, I recognised that as a problem solver alcohol left a lot to be desired. Indeed, it created numerous problems, for the drinker and the people around her.

From a distance, that conclusion was obvious. Yet, when embroiled in a crisis it’s difficult to think straight, to see the obvious even when it’s hitting you over the head.

Despite the unpleasant weather, I stepped on to the fire escape. Adjacent to us, closer to the bay, I spied a fancy, modern office block, ten storeys tall. If only we could afford the lease on an office in that block. Maybe one day.

Clouds and a low mist obscured the view, but I sensed the boats bobbing on the water, the bustle on the waterfront and the wildlife that beautified the bay.

Closing the fire escape door, I turned to Faye. Who’s below us? I asked.

Ground floor is a photographic studio. The first floor is a video game studio. I’m not sure who’s directly below us.

No doubt we’ll find out, I said.

In the fullness of time, Faye smiled.

The cold wind had ruffled my long auburn hair, so I dragged my fingers through my tresses and tugged them into place. My knees were cold. Note to self: in this weather, I should wear a longer skirt, or a trouser suit. Faye was going through a phase of wearing floral skirts and plain blouses. I think her boyfriend, Blake, influenced her wardrobe. Faye was very feminine in appearance and Blake’s sartorial selections highlighted that fact.

Returning to my office inspection, I said, The walls need redecorating.

What colour do you suggest?

A pale green is restful. It would relax our clients.

And we could add potted plants, Faye said.

Real or artificial?

Artificial, of course.

Why? I frowned.

If they were real would you remember to water them?

Good point, I said.

A number of pictures adorned the walls, a legacy of the previous occupant. Those lingerie prints will have to go, I said.

Oh, I don’t know, Faye frowned; I reckon they look tasteful.

On second glance, I reasoned that Faye had a point. Exceedingly well drawn, the pictures were tasteful. They depicted underwear through the ages, from breath-defying Victorian corsets, to early twentieth-century bloomers, to modern skimpy attire.

How on earth did Victorian women squeeze into them? I asked, nodding towards the corsets.

I don’t know, Faye shrugged. Have you ever tried a corset, or a basque?

Never, I said. I was a tomboy. I guess, at heart, I still am, and my wardrobe reflects that fact. What about you? I asked.

I own several basques, Faye said. She offered me a mischievous grin. Maybe you should spice up your wardrobe. It might help you and Alan with your little problem.

Our ‘little problem’ was my failure to conceive. That failure had pushed me towards the demon drink. The memory and disappointment still agitated my nerves, set them on edge, made them raw. It was difficult, but I tried to accept the situation and not dwell upon it.

Alan isn’t the problem, I said. I’m the problem. And I don’t want to talk about it.

I understand, Faye said. She offered me a supportive look, a look loaded with compassion. I’m sorry.

I nodded and we moved on.

Okay, I said, the office looks fine. We’ll take it. The move and redecoration will keep us busy for a while; what’s the situation with our clients?

We have these legal papers to deliver, Faye said, extracting a brown envelope from her shoulder bag, a few background checks on behalf of a chemical company – they’re worried about industrial espionage – and Mrs Green reckons that her husband is cheating on her again.

I thought we’d already established that Mr Green was loyal and straight, I said.

That is a fact, Faye said. We’ve proved that he’s putting in long hours in the office; he’s working his butt off, not his secretary’s.

Then we should tell Mrs Green that her suspicions are unfounded; we can’t keep on taking her money.

She’s paranoid about infidelity, Faye said.

In that case, I sighed, she’d be better off seeing a psychologist, maybe Alan, than us.

Hailstones tapped on the window panes. They sounded very loud. I hadn’t considered that factor. Would the hailstones distract our clients? Possibly. However, hailstones were an irregular occurrence; we couldn’t allow them to influence our decision.

Tell me about the legal papers, I said; are they business or personal?

Personal, Faye said.

I hate delivering legal papers to domestic premises.

Why is that? Faye asked.

Because they always mean trouble for the recipient. With businesses, there’s a corporate responsibility, but with an individual it’s personal. Maybe we should drop the personal notices from our rota, I suggested.

They are good earners, Faye said, basically, money for nothing.

I noted the date on the envelope encasing the legal notice. This is three weeks old, I said. Why haven’t we delivered it yet?

I can’t get an answer, Faye said. We need a signature, and the neighbours haven’t seen Ms Mee for over a fortnight. She seems to have disappeared.

I’m in the area later, I said, checking on the security cameras we installed in the discount supermarket. I’ll deliver this if you like.

And I’ll see the landlord about the lease on this place.

I nodded.

Glancing at the lingerie pictures, I sighed, How do you breathe in a basque?

That’s the point, Faye grinned. You don’t; you want your lover to take your breath away.

Hmm, I frowned. I think I’ll stick to my oversized ‘Love Is’ tee-shirts.

And what is love? Faye asked.

It’s the sigh of forgiveness when he squeezes the wrong end of the toothpaste. I waved the legal papers at Faye. See you later.

Oh, and watch out for the neighbour’s Yorkshire Terrier, she said. He’s only little, but he’s yappy and looks keen to bite.

My joy runneth over, I said.

Just another day in paradise, Faye shrugged

.Chapter Two

The legal papers were from a property owner. Probably, they were an eviction notice. Whatever the legal technicalities or circumstances, I didn’t feel comfortable throwing someone out of their home, on to the street.

After ensuring that the security cameras at the discount supermarket were in order, I drove inland, ten miles north to Llancaiach Fawr in the Rhymney Valley. I travelled there in my shiny red Porsche. The car was performing well and I was delighted with my purchase.

A glacial vale sparsely populated until the nineteenth century, the Rhymney Valley developed through heavy industry: iron, coal and steel. According to legend, a giant harassed the local fairies so the fairies asked an owl for help. Sure enough, the owl slew the giant. Then, as the fairies burned the giant’s body, the scorched earth revealed an abundance of coal.

The barons of Victorian industry lived in many fine houses and the address on the legal notice led me to one of those houses, a manor house with Tudor roots. The address indicated that the owner had divided the house into individual flats, probably during the late Victorian period after the local mines had exhausted their supply of coal.

Built of stone, the manor house contained a slate roof, four chimneys and an abundance of arched, leaded windows. The windows varied from the miniscule to the palatial. They dotted the façade in apparently random fashion, as though the architects had designed the building ad hoc.

On closer inspection, the windows did form a pattern, each aligning with the three storeys contained within the manor house.

A black door stared out from an impressive gatehouse, while a flagstone path led to a drystone wall. The drystone wall enclosed a large expanse of land, gardens which the residents had parcelled into individual plots. Small fences, low hedges and ground-covering plants defined those plots.

A small wood adorned the rear of the building and through the trees, I spied an upmarket housing estate, an estate littered with mock Georgian houses. I wondered if modern architects ever lived in the homes they designed. I sensed, probably not. Apart from the estate, the manor house stood in splendid isolation, a desirable residence, if you could afford the rent.

With a leather bag swinging from my shoulder, I walked along the flagstones to the black door, a communal entrance. An arch above the door revealed its Tudor origins while a plaque on the wall listed the residents and their individual addresses. Rosanna Mee lived on the