High Pressure Page 11

  As they walked through the gates, a mixed-race guy in denim cut-offs and flip-flops appeared around the side of the community centre, a huge bunch of keys in his hand. A pristine white T-shirt strained across his worked-out shoulders and chest; his face was slicked with sweat. He looked more Hollywood than Highgate, as if he’d stepped out of a movie being filmed on Venice Beach.

  He paused to look from Anna to Brioni enquiringly. Anna smiled.

  ‘Morning. Are we in the right place for the soup kitchen?’

  The man grinned as he indicated the door of the centre. It was propped open, no doubt to let what little air there was to circulate.

  ‘Thelma and Sully are in there. I’ll take you through. I’m Dalton, I look after the place.’

  ‘Thank you. Anna Lockharte.’ She held out her hand. ‘This is Brioni.’

  His accent was strange – not London; Brioni wasn’t sure what – but his handshake was firm, assured, his muscular arm covered in military tattoos. Brioni couldn’t quite make them out, and didn’t want to stare.

  Turning, Dalton ceremoniously held his hand out to indicate they should go through the open door.

  Inside the building, to the right of the wide corridor, was a set of double doors leading to what looked like the main hall. Refectory tables were lined up in front of a raised stage. On either side of the room, long trestle tables had been set up, a tea urn on one and another filled with bottles of ketchup and condiments. Someone liked to keep the place neat and tidy; every bottle was positioned with exacting precision. This was obviously where the meals were served from. Brioni exchanged glances with Anna; there was a fabulous smell of baking in the air.

  Dalton led them through another set of double doors and the kitchen opened up in front of them, spotless stainless-steel counters down the centre, cupboards and huge industrial cookers on either side. Brioni felt the heat hit her before she got the full benefit of the scent of baking.

  ‘Thelma – visitors!’ Calling out, Dalton turned to Anna. ‘She’ll be here in a second, she and Scully are cooling off outside.’ She smiled as he called again, ‘Thelma!’

  Brioni looked around. There wasn’t much cooling off anywhere in London, but this kitchen was sweltering.

  ‘Jesus, it’s boiling in here.’

  Dalton grinned. ‘You’re Irish?’ Brioni nodded as he continued, laughing. ‘You Irish don’t do heat, do you? Thelma’s from Dublin, she hasn’t stopped moaning since the heatwave started.’

  Brioni rolled her eyes. ‘Red hair, that’s the problem, we’re not adapted.’

  Before he could answer, a woman in skin-tight jeans and a black vest top appeared from the back of the kitchen. She looked about sixty, but was wiry and lean, her toned arms heavily freckled. She was grinning.

  ‘Feck off, Dalton Hargreaves, I heard that. This heat isn’t natural. I’m Thelma. How can we help you, ladies?’

  Anna smiled and reached out her hand. ‘Anna Lockharte. This is Brioni. Dalton said you’re from Dublin?’

  ‘Tallaght. Born and bred.’

  Anna smiled. ‘I know it – fabulous library and theatre.’

  ‘That’d all be new, I haven’t been back in a while. You’re not from there though.’ Thelma’s blue eyes were sharp, appraising, but friendly.

  ‘Nope. Originally from New York, but my Mum’s Sligo. I live in Dublin now. I work at Trinity, and Brioni’s from Wexford.’

  Thelma smiled and nodded to Bri. They were on shared ground now.

  Anna’s voice took on a serious tone. ‘We’re sorry to interrupt your day, but we were wondering if you’d heard from Marissa Hunt? I think she volunteered here? Brioni is her sister.’

  Thelma’s face clouded, her brow furrowed.

  ‘I wondered when you said Wexford – and you look like her. It’s lovely to meet you. Marissa’s one of the good ones –’ Thelma paused – ‘but we’ve heard nothing, not since she texted to say she was shopping yesterday. She’s not answering her phone.’

  Brioni cleared her throat, trying to keep her voice steady.

  ‘Her phone’s been found, in Oxford Street, but she’s missing. The bomb …’ For a moment Brioni felt overwhelmed, emotion welling up inside her. Apart from Steve, these people were the closest she’d got to Marissa since she’d arrived. She cleared her throat again. ‘We were wondering if you knew any of her friends, if you could think of anywhere she might go if … if she was a bit dazed, maybe. We think she might have got caught in the blast.’

  Thelma pursed her lips. ‘We’re her friends. She doesn’t know too many people around here – well, not that we know of, anyway. Dalton does her garden for her.’ She paused. ‘Did Steve send you?’

  Brioni shook her head. ‘I haven’t had a chance to speak to him – we don’t get on very well.’ She tried to steady her voice. ‘I’ve been away travelling. I’m just back and … then this happened. We need some help to find out where Mar might have gone.’ She paused. ‘I don’t think Steve would like me interfering.’

  Thelma rolled her eyes. ‘When people need help it’s everyone’s business, or at least it should be.’

  Anna smiled. ‘Thank you. I know Steve’s checking the hospitals. There’s just so much confusion when something like this happens, there are so many people affected, and we think she might have lost her ID.’

  ‘Do you really think she was caught in the blast?’ Dalton was leaning on the counter, frowning, his face full of concern.

  Brioni looked over at him. ‘We don’t know. Steve says they found her bag on the corner of the street that joins Oxford Street, beside Selfridges. Her phone was in it. We don’t know if the bag was stolen and dumped – maybe she wasn’t there at all. But if she was, she could have PTSD and be wandering about lost.’

  Thelma let out a breath and looked at the floor.

  ‘Christ, I hope not, she’s a lovely looking girl, anything could happen … Do you think she could have been kidnapped or something?’

  Anna shrugged. ‘Really, we have absolutely no idea. But when you’re in a situation like that you don’t think very clearly. Everyone’s different, but I’ve spoken to a few people who say your mind can fix on one thing and you forget everything else. She may have forgotten who she is or where home is, but from what Steve was saying, this place was an important part of her life.’

  Thelma nodded, as if that made sense.

  ‘One of my aunts was in the Stardust.’ She sighed, looking at Brioni. ‘You won’t remember that. Fire in a nightclub on Valentine’s night. The emergency exits were locked.’

  Brioni stuck her hands in the pockets of her jeans.

  ‘I know about it, no one’s ever going to forget that. It was awful.’

  ‘It was. She was in a bad way, was in shock for months after.’

  ‘Can you think of anywhere Marissa might go, or anyone she might get in touch with –’ Anna chose her words carefully – ‘that Steve might not be aware of?’

  Thelma looked at her sharply and Brioni could see a moment of understanding pass between them.

  ‘I don’t, but I can get the word out on the street that she’s missing. She’s well known in the homeless community – she listens. Not many people like that. If she’s out there, someone will have seen her.’

  ‘Thank you. Can I give you my number? I’m staying at the Hogarth Hotel in Great Russell Street. And I’ll take yours, if that’s OK? She has to be somewhere and we’re really worried about her.’

  Chapter 22

  Brioni looked out of the taxi window as they headed back into the city. She’d got a definite vibe from Thelma that Steve and Marissa’s relationship was not good, which was nothing that she didn’t already know, but she was a bit shaken that a complete stranger felt the same.

  She really couldn’t understand how Marissa didn’t see it, that the control wasn’t love at all, but something quite, quite different. They’d been years apart in age but they’d been close growing up, had had good times when they were on their own together, sea
swimming and walking on the beach. Brioni’s mind drifted to the house in Wexford beside the sea, the rain battering the windows, their running-away bags packed and repacked, stowed under her bunk bed. The biscuits never lasted long, but they’d pore over maps, dreaming and working out their escape: by ferry to Fishguard and on to the bright lights of London, or to Spain, to live in the sunshine.

  Mar had made her escape all right, to Martha’s Vineyard and New York and then to London. But right now, the lights weren’t bright. Steve Hunt was overshadowing everything, his figure blocking any light there might have been. And he’d been the last person to see her. The thought kept coming into Brioni’s head, like a piece of plastic bobbing to the surface of a river, churned and spun around but the colour true.

  Anna’s phone rang.

  ‘Do you mind if I take this? It’s a friend in New York.’

  Brioni shook her head, lost in her thoughts. She hardly heard the conversation, her mind fixed on Marissa. Had she known Steve had a tracking app activated on her phone? How long had he been following her every movement? And where had she been? Oh God, how had they been out of touch for so long? How had Brioni let that happen? She had so little idea of Marissa’s normal routine, her life. How on earth could Brioni work out where Mar might go in an emergency if she didn’t even know where she liked to buy her clothes or where she got her hair done? Somehow she had to find that out; she had to get to know her sister again, to get to know Mar so well that she’d know exactly what she would do.

  Patterns – it was all to do with patterns. Brioni looked at the tattoo on her wrist – harmony out of chaos. People made patterns every day, not just when they travelled, but when they did normal things, like putting the kettle on before they had a shower, or checking their phone before they got out of bed. The feeling of darkness, that had been in her stomach since Anna had called last night, intensified. It had taken her so long when she was a child to work out what that feeling was – worry, deep and dark and right at her core.

  Maybe looking at where Marissa had been would give her some idea of where she might be now.

  Brioni wanted this to be like a mathematical problem, solvable when you had all the data. And right now, she needed a whole lot more data.

  But she knew where she could get it.

  As Anna finished the call, Brioni turned to her.

  ‘You know, if I can access her Google account, I should be able to look at her location history. See exactly where she’s been in the last few days, what she’s been doing – and where she went before she got to Selfridges.’

  ‘Do you think that will help?’

  ‘At the moment we’ve got nothing. We need to build a picture of her life to know how she would react. It might only be a tiny piece of information that will give us a clue.’ Brioni took a ragged breath. ‘At least then we’ll be doing something. I can’t just sit back and see what happens and keep my fingers crossed someone finds her, or she finds her way home. I think finding out where she’s been will help. She could have been ill and had been to the doctor, or attending a clinic. Or meeting a friend somewhere – perhaps she went to the same coffee shop every Thursday and met a bunch of girls. Google stores the photos you take in a specific location in your timeline – there could be pictures. All we’d have to do was find the coffee shop and we’d be a step closer to finding more of her friends.’ Brioni shrugged again. ‘I don’t know, but I need to start somewhere. I’m not good with the alternative.’

  Looking for a body …

  Brioni didn’t say it, but felt sure it was written across her face.

  Last night she’d been haunted by images of Steve. What if he’d done something and Marissa was dead or injured, and he’d planted her phone near the bomb scene to cover his tracks? A bomb going off was the perfect opportunity. The vast majority of women were killed by people they knew, people they were in relationships with. Men who had demonstrated violent or coercive behaviour in the past.

  Anna interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘What about her password? Do you know it, or can you guess?’

  ‘I can give it a try. I just need a laptop.’

  ‘You can use mine – come back to the hotel with me. My friend’s emailing me some stuff from New York I need to go through.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Brioni paused. ‘I feel like I keep saying that.’

  Anna shook her head. ‘Thank me when we find her.’

  Chapter 23

  They were both grateful for the air conditioning in the Hogarth Hotel when they got there. Anna’s room was big. A desk-cum-dressing table was positioned against the wall at the end of a huge double bed; beside it was another single bed, an armchair and side table in the window alcove. Anna had left the blind pulled down to keep out the sun. Pulling back the curtains, she rolled it up as Brioni followed her inside.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable. I’ve a rather lovely bathroom just behind you if you need it.’

  Brioni let the bedroom door fall closed with a click and pushed open the door beside her, to reveal a pale grey and black marble bathroom.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘I know – you just want to light candles and have a long soak with loads of bubbles, don’t you? I don’t dare, though, in case I set off the fire alarm.’

  n Anna opened her laptop and entered the passcode. ‘Right, all yours, see what you can do.’

  ‘This is a gorgeous room, bit of a step up from a hostel.’

  Brioni put her backpack down beside the desk. The pure white linen was pulled tight over the bed, black and white cushions artfully arranged against huge pillows.

  ‘When you’ve graduated with a first in computer science and are making waves in the tech world, you’ll be staying in places like this whenever you travel.’ Anna paused. ‘I need a cup of tea – what will you have?’ She picked up the phone to order room service.

  ‘That would be great. Breakfast tea for me, please. I couldn’t get proper milk anywhere in Asia, I’ve been living on herbal tea.’

  Anna grinned. ‘No taste like home.’ As she waited for room service to respond, she continued, ‘I think you’re right about seeing where Marissa went in the last few days. There might be nothing there, but until we check we don’t know, do we?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Brioni sat down and opened Chrome, her focus on the screen as Anna ordered the tea and sat down behind her.

  ‘It’s incredible, really, isn’t it, that there could be these hoaxes, a terrorist cell gearing up to setting off two bombs, and they’ve managed to stay completely invisible.’ Brioni turned to look at Anna for a moment.

  Anna shrugged. ‘Terrorism is the hardest thing to combat. By its very nature it has to be secret. You’d think people who get involved would stand out a mile in the community, but research has shown there’s no “standard” –’ she made rabbit ears with her fingers, emphasising the word – ‘profile of individual characteristics of group-based terrorists. Lots of different types of people become radicalised – they’re influenced by group thinking, by the people around them.’ She sighed. ‘One of the key things the police will be trying to do is to identify individuals. I know they’re looking specifically at individual social media accounts which will hopefully link them to the people involved. Let’s hope someone has slipped up.’

  ‘Like that pro-Trump tweeter who had left their location on and everyone could see was near Moscow?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Anna continued, ‘My friend in New York is working with the police here. His team have come up with an algorithm to cross-match the followers of the more outspoken political accounts, looking for patterns with the accounts that first tweeted each of the hoax incidents. Going through the reports, they’re seeing that a lot of them held very strong political views, but so far there’s nothing that hints at jihadist tendencies. He’s asked me to take a look to see if there are any cultural or geographic markers that might help. There’s just so much right-wing vitriol to wade through.’

  ‘Social
media has become totally toxic – I think people feel protected behind their screens.’ Brioni turned back to the desk.

  Anna sighed, saying half to herself, ‘I’m starting to feel like the world has gone mad. It’s as if the Second World War has been forgotten. Somehow the rules have changed.’

  Brioni interrupted her. ‘Right, I’m in.’

  ‘Won’t Steve be able to see your login if he checks her email? He might think it’s Marissa.’

  Brioni turned quickly to look at her. ‘I hope not, I’ve double deleted the notification email.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘That’s the type of thing that could give the police a reason to think she’s safe and well, and call off any search. He’s not getting away that easily.’

  As Brioni said it, she realised that was precisely what Steve could do himself – log in from an internet café somewhere and give the impression that all was well. Brioni was quite sure that if his surveillance of Mar was thorough, then it extended to keeping an eye on her emails, too. And her password wasn’t exactly hard to crack – she’d been using the name of their favourite cat since she’d first got an email account, which Brioni had set up for her. Brioni turned to the screen, her hands flying over the keyboard.

  ‘There’s no email traffic after yesterday morning. Looks like she ordered a bunch of stuff from Karen Millen. Nice.’ At least she was making the most of Steve’s money. ‘I need to go through her email properly, but she uses Google Calendar for her appointments.’ Brioni clicked to open the diary function. ‘It just says “Jacinta at 1.30”, no location for yesterday. Let’s see where she went.’ Brioni clicked the Data and Personalisation section of Marissa’s Google account. ‘It’ll be in her location history.’

  Brioni stopped short, suddenly feeling queasy. The screen confirmed that the last place Marissa’s phone had picked up a signal was Selfridges. Seeing it made it too real. Tucking her hair behind her ear, Brioni sat up straighter in the chair, focusing. Marissa didn’t have time for her to falter now.

  Behind her, she heard Anna shift in her chair. ‘Start with yesterday morning.’