High Pressure

by Sam Blake

  Maybe that was why he’d been so possessive of Mar. Ever since Mike had said it, Brioni had tried to make sense of it. He must have been under terrible pressure trying to prevent Chanin’s plan from escalating. And have been terrified for Marissa’s safety, too.

  Perhaps that was why he’d been checking up on her in the restaurant?

  Anna would be able to tell her more when she got to London. Their conversation on the phone had been brief this afternoon – she’d been as astounded as any of them. Rob had told her that Steve had been deep undercover. He’d checked out both Steve and Reiss when Anna had told him what was happening; the blank on Steve’s records that he’d thought odd at the time, all made sense now. Rob had said that Steve was a really valuable operative. The CIA hadn’t liked it much when he got married, but the London move was all part of trying to annex Chanin. Steve came from an old legal family – so it all made sense, really.

  Brioni thought back to their conversation.

  ‘All the bells rang when Marissa disappeared. Rob said Steve had reported that he thought she’d been kidnapped to put pressure on him to approve the bombing – either that, or his cover was blown. Reiss Chanin had been instrumental in setting up the White Wolves in the States – Steve was recruited because he was close to the source. They became co-founders of the White Wolves in the UK – it’s a big network. They find members through a website called 8chan, and a neo-Nazi site, the Daily Stormer. But Steve had been resisting taking a step towards planting actual devices. His position was getting really difficult.’

  Anna had paused. ‘Steve knew things were getting sticky and had a plan to get Marissa out of the UK to somewhere safer, somewhere he could join her. But then Chanin went ahead with his bomb.’

  Several things had fallen into place in Brioni’s head then.

  ‘Was that why he didn’t let her work, or drive? Why he was so possessive?’

  Anna had sighed. ‘Read protective for possessive. He knew she was at risk. According to Rob, Reiss came up with the idea for the hoax attacks, but he wanted to build things fast. Steve was trying to work out a way to stop him but maintain his cover, at least until he could get enough evidence to close the White Wolves down. He managed to persuade Chanin to put the operational structure of the organisation on that USB stick.’

  The stick that apparently Reiss Chanin had thought Mar might have posted to Brioni – like her birthday present.

  Which explained her missing suitcase, and who had gone through her backpack the day she’d found Steve. Had it been Reiss or one of his honchos hanging about the house in Stratford, who had broken in, then called to the door pretending to be from the council? Had they been looking for a time when nobody was in, to break in and see if they could find it?

  Brioni ran her hand over her forehead and into her hair. It was a lot to take in.

  Almost overnight, Mar had become the widow of an American hero, destined to have a full military funeral. Brioni wasn’t so sure that Steve was a real hero – he could have come out from his cover much sooner, been honest with her, but he’d hung on until he had as much evidence as he could get. That time had put Mar – his wife – in increasing danger. And he hadn’t managed to stop Reiss blowing up the bus and killing a whole load of people.

  Brioni shook her head, her heart silently breaking. Steve’s relationship with Marissa had been governed by his job, but his need to protect her impacting her life to such an extent that it had driven them apart. No wonder he’d been shell-shocked when they’d seen him that day. How had Steve felt when he knew that Reiss had set off a bomb that might have killed her?

  Was he a hero? He’d put his country ahead of his personal relationships, and that had ended in his death. Would Marissa ever be able to come to terms with the man she’d never known? She must have fallen in love with the elements of his personality he could show, so much so that she’d ignored the parts that took away her own freedom.

  Brioni could feel the damp from the sand beginning to seep through her jeans as, on the horizon, another light flashed in the darkness.

  When they’d got home earlier, Mar had curled up with a blanket and a cup of ginger tea in their dad’s chair, an old book over the arm, and looked out to sea. She hadn’t read at all, had just sat there quietly, watching the tide changing until she’d felt ready for bed. It had been way out when they’d got home.

  On the way home from the hospital, Mar had said she wanted Brioni to move into the house in Highgate and keep her company instead of living in the student hall of residence. Brioni wasn’t overly keen on that idea, but had masked her thoughts. She was quite sure she’d never be able to go into that garden again without seeing Steve hanging from the apple tree, but thank God Mar hadn’t seen him. And Mar loved her house. It was important she was somewhere she felt happy for the next few months, somewhere she was close to her friends. Perhaps Brioni could tactfully suggest that Dalton cut down the apple tree? It seemed a bit drastic, but they could plant another one somewhere else.

  Below her, the sound of the water running over the beach continued unabated, rhythmic and soothing. The tide would be fully in shortly, and then it would turn again, gradually receding to reveal a huge expanse of golden beach, the sand washed clean.

  After everything that had happened, they were both starting afresh. She didn’t know how close to harmony they’d be able to get from this chaos, but now they had each other, and the future was waiting. Brioni rubbed the inside of her wrist for luck.

  They were going to be all right.

  Acknowledgements

  You are reading this as a result of an incredible team effort – from my fabulous agent Simon Trewin, to my editor Sarah Hodgson at Corvus and everyone in marketing, publicity and PR. Thank you so much for choosing and supporting Sam Blake, all writers need readers and you are a vital part of the picture.

  When Little Bones was published, I was invited to chat to the Glenview Hotel book club and met up with Gaye Weldon, who I’d met previously when our children were small. As we were chatting about books and stories, Gaye mentioned her experiences backpacking in Thailand and a lightbulb went off in my head. Sometimes the strands of a story take a long time to find the characters who will explore them, but when I started to think about Brioni, I knew that backpacking had been in her past, and Gaye’s story became part of that. Gaye gave me huge insight into her solo travel adventures and I hope brings real authenticity to that part of Brioni’ story.

  I also had huge help on UK policing and the procedures around major incidents from retired major crime detective Kevin Pittman, who spent 11 years working cold cases as a civilian after an incredible career. Thank you so much for those detailed chats Kevin! You made such a difference to the story – any mistakes are completely my own.

  For those of you who have read previous Sam Blake books, you’ll realise that High Pressure connects the Sam Blake series books that began with Little Bones, with the standalones. Although it’s set in London, and the other books are mainly set in Ireland, High Pressure is part of the Sam Blake world that my characters inhabit and regular readers will recognise the links. If this is your first Sam Blake, you have a new world to discover!

  Many readers who enjoyed No Turning Back wanted to see more of Anna Lockharte, and I always felt she needed her own book. This book began with Anna nudging at me, and then I was in London and saw a girl on the Tube who looked like Brioni, and their stories converged. But after finishing this, I couldn’t leave Brioni behind either. Just as Anna fitted perfectly into this story, Brioni’s skills are intrinsic to my next book Remember My Name – I hope you’ll enjoy finding out what happens to her next.

  It's important to me that all the Sam Blake books work as individual books – readers come across them at different times and can read in any order – but I hope for anyone who does read more than one, that you’ll have a sense of familiarity with my world and that the characters are as real to you as they are to me.

  Thank you so much for joi
ning me on the journey.

  Read on for an exclusive extract from Sam Blake’s next gripping thriller Remember My Name.

  Chapter 1

  If she’d turned her phone off, instead of realising he hadn’t hung up and listening in, perhaps nobody would have died.

  Later, this was the thought that leaped around in Cressida Howard’s head, consuming everything else like wildfire, spreading as it found and engulfed every lie, each one tinder-dry.

  She would – eventually – accept that this wasn’t about her. It was all about him. His choices. His decisions.

  And her. That woman.

  But right now, she didn’t have the benefit of hindsight.

  ‘I’m going out.’

  Cressida looked up sharply at the sound of her seventeen-year-old daughter’s voice, her mind still reeling from what she’d heard. Emily-Jane didn’t wait for a response as she passed the partially open living room door, her heels loud on the polished maple of the hall floor.

  ‘When will you be back?’

  On autopilot, Cressida raised her voice as she heard the front door open, the sound of the sea breaking on the rocks beyond the house spiralling in on a gust of wind almost drowning Emily-Jane’s equally automatic reply.

  ‘Don’t know, won’t be late.’

  ‘Where … Em?’ Cressida started to ask, but the dull thud of the front door closing cut off her words abruptly. A moment later she heard the engine of Emily-Jane’s Mini roaring into life and the sound of the wheels spinning on the gravel as she turned her beloved cream car in the drive and went through the gates.

  Staring blankly at her phone, Cressida slowly realised that her only child was leaving the house at 9 p. m. on a dark October evening – a school night, and it was only Monday – and she had no idea of where she was going. Had Emily-Jane mentioned that she was meeting friends tonight? Cressida felt as if she was trapped in some sort of vacuum, an airlock between what had been and what came next, every movement, every thought, laboured. And her husband’s words were moving around her brain like a slow-motion movie of a giant moth flapping around a flame.

  ‘I won’t be home. Got to work late … I’ll stay at the 1796. Talk tomorrow, I have to go …’

  She’d hardly had a chance to reply. Had had her finger hovering over the end call button when she’d heard a clatter at the other end, as if he was putting the phone down. And then the sound of a door opening and a woman’s voice, her accent Italian or Spanish. There had been a rattle, as if a glass containing ice had been put down next to the phone. And then her husband’s voice again – low and throaty.

  ‘Good evening, Nina.’

  The pause had been too long, then a sigh … of pleasure? It had been a long time since she’d heard him sound like that.

  ‘Nina …’

  He’d almost sounded annoyed.

  She’d hit the end call button then, her blood rushing to her face, pounding in her ears as she fought for breath, her chest constricting as her heart rate increased.

  And then Emily-Jane’s voice had blended into the maelstrom of confusion in her head, and a pain, acute like a stiletto, had pierced her chest.

  As if it could sense her mood, a gust of wind and rain hit the curved Victorian bay window like spit shot. Cressida leaped up to close the curtains, rattling the heavy cream brocade along the brass rail with as much force as she could, shutting out the night and the storm that had been brewing all day, the sound of the curtain rings shattering the stillness of the room.

  Her arms still raised above her head, she hung on to the draw rods, her brown eyes closed tightly, focusing on steadying her breathing.

  Shock began to build into rage. She took a deep breath and slowly tucked her shoulder-length blond hair behind her ears. Turning to look into the room, at the white marble fireplace with its ornate gold mirror reflecting the light from the chandelier, the huge cream sofas, the glass-topped artisan coffee table where her white wine stood untouched, Cressida crossed her arms tightly.

  She wasn’t taking it this time.

  What had Nina been doing to him to make him sound like that?

  She’d ignored her suspicions before, all the times before, the times when he’d been inexplicably delayed, when he’d vanished ‘back to the office’ at the weekend for an ‘important meeting’. She’d kept herself busy, focusing on their beautiful house, on Emily-Jane, on the school runs and juggling hockey meets and cross-country with work – the speech therapy sessions she gave that were so vital to her clients. On being the perfect mother, the woman who could do it all.

  Then her colleague had proposed setting up their own speech therapy clinic, Phoenix Associates, and she’d become totally absorbed in moving out of the public medical system into private practice, in starting something of her own. Things were easing off now that Emily-Jane drove herself to school, that they had a team of therapists dealing with everyone from tiny children to elderly stroke patients. She only worked three days a week now, had time to swim in Laurence’s ridiculous Disney nightmare of a pool, to get to the gym, to entertain his business associates …

  Cressida bit her lip, folding her arms even more tightly, gripping the baby-soft wool of her oversized cream sweater. She’d been busy, had been happy to get on with her own life while Laurence consolidated his family hotel business. He’d been devastated by his twin brother’s death ten years ago, changed by it. He’d become more focused, more ruthless, and he’d thrown himself into work, continuing their plans to move the Howard Group hotel bookings to a high-tech lifestyle platform that would (he’d said), as they brought their partners on board, become the go-to for everyone, whether they wanted to buy flowers or book a flight. It had been Pierce’s brainchild, and the reason they’d been in Silicon Valley in the first place. They’d been on their way to a funding meeting when a driver, already drunk at 11 a. m., had jumped the lights at an intersection, hitting them side-on, at speed.

  Despite his horrific injuries, Pierce had survived for three days, giving his wife Sinéad time to get to the hospital. He’d come around long enough for them to say their goodbyes. It had been a nightmare for all of them, but Cressida had always felt that a part of Laurence had died with Pierce. He’d come back a different person. She’d understood. She’d made allowances, but he’d become more and more distant.

  He’d been so quiet when he’d first come home, disappearing for impossibly long walks along the seafront. She’d wondered then if he was meeting someone, but those walks had given him time to think, he’d said. He’d said he wanted to keep going – he needed to keep going. Pierce’s ideas would make them millionaires. Dublin was becoming the tech capital of Europe and now was the time to build. There would be long hours and he’d have to travel a lot, he’d said. He’d keep building what they’d started together, and it would grow exponentially, he’d said. He’d said a lot of things.

  And now he’d said a name.

  Nina.

  Cressida took a long slow breath and, heading across the room, reached for her wine, sipping it, savouring the delicate fruity flavour. She lifted the glass to the light, looking at the teardrops caught on its crystal sides, and took another sip.

  First she needed to find out who this Nina was. And then she would work out what to do about her.