High Pressure Read online

  Sam Blake has been writing fiction since her husband set sail across the Atlantic for eight weeks and she had an idea for a book. Her debut novel, Little Bones, was No 1 in Ireland for four weeks, and was nominated for Irish Crime Novel of the Year. It launched the bestselling Cat Connolly trilogy. Her first standalone psychological thriller, Keep Your Eyes On Me, went straight to No 1 and its follow-up, The Dark Room was an Eason Ireland No 1 for three weeks.

  Sam is originally from St. Albans in Hertfordshire but has lived at the foot of the Wicklow mountains for more years than she lived in the UK. She has two teenagers, three cats and lives in a 200-year-old cottage with an occasional poltergeist who moves things at the most inconvenient moments.

  Follow her on social @samblakebooks. Visit www.samblakebooks.com for news and events and get a bonus free short story in audio & text when you subscribe to her newsletter.

  Also by Sam Blake

  Little Bones

  In Deep Water

  No Turning Back

  Keep Your Eyes on Me

  The Dark Room

  Published in eBook in Great Britain in 2021 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Sam Blake 2021

  The moral right of Sam Blake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her/by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novels in this bundle are entirely works of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  E-book ISBN: 978 1 83895 619 6

  Printed in Great Britain

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  Prologue

  The luggage carousel in the cavernous baggage hall at Heathrow was already emptying by the time Brioni got there. Passport control had been crazy busy, a huge snaking queue of tired travellers, and then the customs officer had checked her picture several times. It had been taken last year, just after her seventeenth birthday, when she’d looked like every other slightly plump, nerdy Irish teenager. The skinny girl in front of him, with her nose piercing and bright pink hair shaved close on both sides, was a different person. A completely different person.

  Eventually he’d waved her through.

  And now Brioni could see the remaining six bags from her flight orbiting on the luggage belt, none of which looked a bit like the hard-shell silver case she’d been trailing around with her for the last year. Backpacking sounded great, but backpacks gave you backache. She’d only just arrived in New Delhi when she’d realised that, as long as she wasn’t going on any mountain treks, a suitcase with wheels was a much better idea.

  The plan was to work her way around southern Asia, not walk it, and having a suitcase meant her gear hadn’t got soaked in the monsoon like everyone else’s. The NASA-engineered hard shell had given her somewhere comfortable to sit on endless occasions as she’d waited beside dusty roadsides for buses, or in dilapidated stations for trains. And the combination lock had saved her losing everything when an Aussie dope dealer had rapidly departed the Myanmar hostel she was working in, after delving into everyone’s backpacks looking for hidden cash and jewellery on the way.

  Brioni had come to love her case; it had set her apart and had looked after her as she’d headed across South East Asia to Thailand. Her plan had been to finish her trip in Kuala Lumpur. She hadn’t quite got there, and a year later her case was scratched and battered and covered in stickers and, alarmingly, not where it was supposed to be.

  She looked up and checked the board above the carousel again. Her flight baggage was definitely listed as being delivered here. British Airways, Bangkok–London, all twelve-plus wearying hours of it. It had been the cheapest she’d been able to get.

  Could someone really have taken her case? Mixed it up with one of the others currently going around in abandoned circles – how could that even be possible? It was a cabin-sized, super-light Samsonite, but in the state it was in, it couldn’t have looked less like everyone else’s.

  Brioni really was too tired for this. Why had she even decided to check it in? Her brain was fuzzy with fatigue. She hadn’t slept properly since she’d been jumped outside the nightclub in Krabi. After the thirteen-hour bus trip across Thailand, she’d finally dozed on the plane, but had started awake whenever the flight attendant passed her or there was any sort of noise. Everything was catching up with her.

  Brioni closed her eyes, summoning up reserves of strength she really didn’t have. Without her case, she literally only had the clothes she was standing in: hiking shoes, denim shorts and a black T-shirt – and her second-hand leather jacket that thank goodness, she’d slung over her arm at the last minute, thinking it could be lashing with rain in London. She wouldn’t get far with the contents of her backpack either: her make-up bag, a spare tube of pink strawberry lip gloss, her phone, charger, spare knickers and a toothbrush. She didn’t even have toothpaste; she’d used the last bit on the plane.

  Brioni let out a sigh, her head beginning to swim. Thank God she’d stashed her diary in her backpack – that was something.

  She mentally ran through the contents of her case – clothes mainly, but some of her souvenirs: a brass Buddha; her Goddess tarot cards in their golden box she’d carried halfway around the world with her. The gorgeous lilac jewellery box from No. 42 that her diamond nose stud had arrived in. The eighteenth birthday card with it, signed by Mar and Steve. And a good luck card from Mar.

  Whom she still hadn’t heard back from.

  This part of her trip was already a total nightmare, and she hadn’t even got out of the airport.

  Thursday 12th July 2018

  Chapter 1

  Steve Hunt swiped his Oyster card at the ticket barrier and doubled back on himself to head up the steps out of Tottenham Court Road Tube station, checking the time on his phone. According to Marissa’s diary, her lunch date was at 1.30 p. m. in a restaurant called Verdi’s; casual Italian–Sicilian dining apparently.

  He’d googled it. It looked nice. And it was only a seven-minute walk from Tottenham Court Road, which gave him plenty of time to scope out whoever she was meeting and get over to the Irish embassy for this ridiculous presentation thing Eva had organised.

  Marissa had said she was meeting Jacinta, a girl she’d been to uni with in Dublin, and who now was working for some energy company. Her employers might be interested in one of the homeless charities Marissa was involved with.

  It hadn’t sounded quite right to Steve. He’d met Marissa just after she’d finished her last year of chemistry at Trinity College Dublin – she’d taken the summer off and was waitressing in Martha’s Vineyard. He’d been working in New York for a tech start-up. They’d got married on the beach, and when the job with Cybex had come up in London, they’d moved to the UK and he’d found the picture-perfect family home in a leafy street in Highgate.

  But he was pretty sure that this week was the first time she’d mentioned anyone called Jacinta.

  Verdi’s looked very cosy on Google Street View. It had a big window facing on to the quiet one-way street that lin
ked Tottenham Court Road with Gower Street. Marissa always liked to know what was going on around her. He was pretty sure she would have booked a table near the window – unless, of course, she didn’t want to be seen with ‘Jacinta’, or whoever it was she was having lunch with.

  She’d been meeting someone, Steve had guessed from her diary entries, at least twice a week for the last twelve months. Not just for lunch; there were visits to museums, antiques fairs and all sorts of other weird shit in there, too. And then there were the weekends she went back to Ireland, to see her father and air out the family house – not that her pop recognised her any more or had cared much about his daughters, even before his mind had started to go. And there was that time she went to Bristol for some sort of mindfulness weekend, and the refugee conference in Birmingham. The events were all real – he’d checked. And she’d been there; he’d activated the ‘find my phone’ function on her iPhone long ago. But he couldn’t be totally sure what she’d been doing when she was in each location.

  Weaving through the crowd at the top of the station steps, Steve paused, glancing up at the Dominion Theatre, their latest show Bat Out of Hell emblazoned over the doorway. He half-smiled to himself.

  They’d been to a show at the Dominion almost their first weekend in London. He couldn’t even remember what it was – that seemed like a lifetime ago now. She’d been so excited to move here. She’d said she found New York isolating, as if she didn’t fit. Here, she’d felt she’d know people, that she could build her life … their life. Perhaps she should have got a job when they got married and first moved to New York, but he didn’t want her working. He’d found lots to keep her busy, introduced her to volunteering at the shelter, and her allowance was more than generous. There was no point in her being out of the house every day doing some dumb research job. Anything could happen.

  Steve glanced at his phone again. He needed to get moving, there was a lot going on today – and then he’d found out about Marissa’s lunch date … Steve felt his phone vibrate in his hand. Reiss’s name appeared on the screen in a Facebook message.

  Reports of shots fired in Wimbledon; steer clear.

  Reiss had attached a blurry photo of a crowd looking panicked.

  Steve paused outside the open doors of the store on the corner of New Oxford Street, his eyes on the screen, frowning. He ran his hand through his dark hair, changing screens, checking his social media accounts.

  ‘You all right there, mate?’

  One of the uniformed doormen appeared behind beside him. Steve grimaced and held up his phone.

  ‘Something’s happening in Wimbledon – a terrorist shooting or something.’

  As he said it people around him turned to look, and he turned the phone to them. A voice behind him said, ‘Check the hashtag #LondonAttack.’

  The security man pulled out his own phone.

  ‘Something’s going off. Look, there’s photos.’

  ‘It’ll be packed, it’s the women’s semis today.’ Steve heard a different voice behind him but didn’t turn to acknowledge the speaker. He scanned the hashtag on Twitter.

  ‘There’s something happening in Trafalgar Square, too.’ Glancing up at the security man, Steve clicked through to the Metropolitan Police Twitter feed, reading out loud: ‘“Unsubstantiated reports of gunshots at Wimbledon Tennis Club and an explosion in Trafalgar Square. Both areas being evacuated. Keep calm and vigilant. ”’ He paused. ‘They put “Run Hide Tell” at the end of every tweet. You’d wonder what they think you’re going to do.’

  ‘They don’t want anyone hanging about and taking photos when these things are going down. Dudes think they can make money out of the news networks if they get video.’ Another voice by way of explanation.

  The crowd around him was growing, their phones out, checking the hashtag, sharing the news. It was spreading it like a virus. Something was happening and it was gathering momentum.

  Steve looked at the time on his phone and said to no one in particular, ‘Christ, I need to get going. I’ve a meeting. I’m going to walk – reckon we need to stay out of the Underground.’

  The crowd around him had filled the broad entrance to the store. Other employees joined the group, everyone finding solidarity in the moment, in checking their phones. Suddenly the blaring of a siren cut through the roar of the traffic – a police car, followed by two fire engines, heading down the Charing Cross Road. Steve felt the tension in the crowd go up a notch.

  It was already 1.15.

  Whatever was going on, he needed to get moving or he wouldn’t get to the embassy for Eva’s presentation.

  This could snarl up the traffic all over the city. And it sounded as if shit was happening all over the place. He’d no idea why Eva had chosen to do this today; it was a crazy news week between the football and Trump’s arrival. Normally everyone was focused on Wimbledon at this time of year, but it wasn’t even getting a look-in. The papers were still full of the boys in the Thai cave and the presidential balloon. It was almost as if she didn’t want any press, but then perhaps she was being smart; the business, education and technology journalists weren’t getting much out of the World Cup, and there were only so many articles they could run deriding the President of the United States of America. As Reiss was always saying, she wasn’t PR Director just because she had great tits.

  Pushing out of the crowd, Steve didn’t wait for the lights as he crossed Tottenham Court Road. Pausing in the middle, he let a cab pass and then jogged across the road. On the other side he walked briskly, his blazer over his arm, his tie loose at his neck, the end lifted by his movement. He could feel the sweat starting to trickle down his back under the crisp cotton of his pale blue shirt.

  Boy, it was hot.

  The perfect day for terrorists to strike, when tempers were already fraying and people were so focused on their own issues, they weren’t likely to be vigilant. And they had picked locations where there were guaranteed to be crowds, where any activity would grab the headlines. It was the mixed doubles quarter-finals this afternoon in Wimbledon; the first game should have started by now, if the courts hadn’t been evacuated. Steve had played a bit of tennis in college but wasn’t interested enough to be paying Centre Court prices for tickets. Reiss, his right-hand man at Cybex, was all over it, though, made a point of taking clients at every opportunity. Which was why he’d got stuck with doing this presentation. Today of all days.

  Steve hurried on, the thoughts of spending the afternoon in some stuffy embassy making small-talk with even stuffier academics overshadowed by the much more immediate need to find out what was going on with Marissa. He felt his mouth dry, his stomach turning over with pent-up anxiety and tension.

  Who was she meeting?

  Heading down a side street towards the restaurant, Steve kept to the shaded side. Around him he could hear people talking, see them checking their phones. News of whatever was happening in Wimbledon and Trafalgar Square was spreading.

  Verdi’s was in the middle of a row of elegant shops towards the end of the road. Behind him, Steve heard another siren and glanced over his shoulder to see a squad car heading towards him, its lights flashing. A moment later it passed and, brake lights flashing, stopped at the end of the street.

  The rear door swung open and immediately a tall dude in a blazer and chinos appeared, crossed the pavement and got in. Although he looked a good ten years older than Steve – maybe forty-five – Steve could tell from the way he moved that he was he was fit, and even from this distance, over six feet tall. Before the man had the door closed, the car was heading off towards Gower Street, its right indicator flashing as the sirens blared on.

  Steve straightened his back, pulling himself up to his full five foot nine. He was fit, worked out three times a week, played squash with Reiss. He knew he looked good for his age, didn’t need to be wearing a jacket in this weather to look like he was someone.

  As Steve arrived outside the restaurant he slowed so he could glance in, as if he was jus
t passing. He saw Marissa immediately, her blonde hair swept up in a ponytail, a white halter-neck blouse emphasising her tan and hollowed-out collarbones. She was sitting on her own, nursing a glass of white wine about three tables in from the window. As he looked in, she looked up, catching his eye, her eyes opening wide, her smile surprised.

  She’d always been a good actress.

  Chapter 2

  Brioni braced herself against the stairs as the number 13 bus lurched around Hyde Park Corner. She drew in a sharp breath, trying to make her already lean self even thinner so she didn’t make contact with any of the other passengers crammed in front of the double doors downstairs. It was just as well she’d lost her puppy fat when she’d been away. Living on rice had its advantages.

  At the last two stops the driver had refused more passengers, igniting tempers among those queuing to get on. He was right to, though; even with people getting off, there was barely room to breathe. Brioni had been on trains like this in India, and she was starting to think London was almost as bad as New Delhi. Exactly like India, it seemed to be a city crammed full of people permanently in motion. It was a bit less chaotic, and there were actual road signs that people obeyed – mainly – and she hadn’t seen a cow yet, but personal space just didn’t seem to exist, on the Tube – really on the Tube – on the buses, even on the broad pavements that lined Oxford Street.

  The sheer number of people gave her a headache, made her feel claustrophobic. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to this many people in one place. At home in Ireland it had been the exact opposite; there had been lots of cows there, but there had been lots of space, too – too much space. Built on coastal rock now covered by a sand dune, their house had a field on one side and a steep slope to the beach and the sea on the other. Space, but the wrong sort of space.

  Maybe that was why she’d gone travelling – to find herself and how she fitted in on the planet. Brioni still wasn’t sure. Despite the oppressive heat on the bus, she felt her skin goose-bump. Memories of a dense, hot night – of leaving a bar in Krabi with a group of men behind her – sprang into her head.