Remember my name, p.1
Remember My Name, page 1
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.
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Also by Sam Blake
Little Bones
In Deep Water
No Turning Back
Keep Your Eyes on Me
The Dark Room
Also
High Pressure
First published in Great Britain in 2022 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Sam Blake, 2022
The moral right of Sam Blake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her 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 novel is entirely a work 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.
Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 83895 295 2
E-book ISBN: 978 1 83895 296 9
Corvus
An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd
Ormond House
26–27 Boswell Street
London
WC1N 3JZ
www.corvus-books.co.uk
For Rex
This one was waiting for you.
Chapter 1
IF SHE’D TURNED her phone off, instead of 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-yearold 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. Ferryman 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.
After Pierce’s death, 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.
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.
Chapter 2
BRIONI O’BRIEN TURNED the page of her book, the movement making her heavy fuchsia-pink fringe fall into her eyes. It was more of a forelock at this stage, and the length reminded her that she needed to get it cut before she returned to work next Monday. But that was a whole week away.
She adjusted the throw on her knees, stretched out on the worn sofa and sighed, enjoying the gentle creaking of the wooden house in the onshore breeze, thankful that she and her sister Marissa had put in underfloor heating when they’d refurbished. Outside she could hear waves breaking on the sweep of smooth sandy beach below the house. Normally gentle and rhythmic, they had been steadily increasing during the afternoon as a storm built. One of the things she loved about Wexford, about this place – as well as its splendid isolation on the edge of the sand dunes – was how, when you were in it, you felt like part of the landscape, an integral part of the universe. Never more so than when the weather closed in.
Brioni yawned. It was only ten o’clock but she’d been for a swim and then for a walk this afternoon, down the beach to the headland, back up along the scrubby fields and home. There had been a bite in the wind that had left her cheeks numb, but she’d bought fish and chips on her way past the pub at the very end of the lane. Unwrapping the paper, she’d sat down in the shelter of the doorstep, savouring their heat and salty tang. As she’d looked out to sea, her rainbow-striped woolly hat pulled down over her ears, the squat single-storey house had protected her from the worst of the wind.
She was tired now but it was good tired, a physical exhaustion that was different from the mental fatigue she got from working on screens all day, looking at rows and rows of code. She’d thought her undergrad years had been gruelling, but it was nothing to the hours she was putting in juggling working at Riverview and doing her MSc. They were sponsoring her tuition, and they paid their software developers handsomely, provided free meals, workout rooms, sleep pods, even, but their staff were expected to put the hours in.
Brioni had never been so grateful to get to Wexford as she had been this weekend. She had an assignment due in next week, but now she needed time to recharge. She rubbed the back of her head, normally smooth shaven in a double undercut, but all she could feel was bristles. It didn’t matter; she didn’t plan to see anyone except the locals until next weekend, and they were so mesmerised by the pink hair, her piercings and the vague American accent she’d picked up, that they’d hardly notice a bit of regrowth.
Brioni picked up the mug she’d put down on the rough wooden coffee table beside her, about to take a sip of her raspberry tea, when her mobile began to ring from underneath the throw.
Pulling it out, she smiled at the name on the display – Marissa.
‘Hi, big sis, how’s things?’
‘Good … just a sec.’
Brioni heard her sister close a door and move further into the house. She could picture it, the cosy pine kitchen littered with brightly coloured children’s toys. They seemed to be on every surface, the home in West London that Marissa now shared with DCI Mike Wesley a total contrast to her own house in Highgate, with its designer folding patio doors and the clinical white decor. That house was an investment now, a place from her past that was haunted by memories of her husband Steve. A place none of them wanted to revisit.
‘Did you get the heating going OK?’
Brioni heard the sofa creak as Marissa sat down with a sigh. She was obviously tired, but these days Brioni could hear the happiness in her voice, like the soothing middle notes on a piano. Whether she was ferrying teenagers to school or Daisy to nursery, she ran their blended home like a summer camp where there was always something to eat and something to do, the radio was always on in the kitchen and someone was laughing. Brioni smiled; it was such a contrast to the time before Mike, it sometimes made her well up. Marissa’s life had been constricted by secrets.
She cleared her throat before she answered.
‘I did, not a bother. I’ve decided to stay the whole week. I’ve been swimming every morning so far and walking every day. It’s so quiet down here out of season, you can almost hear the hares chewing the grass.’
Marissa laughed. ‘And we were so desperate to leave.’
‘I know. Be careful what you wish for. You should try and get back more often, Daisy loves it.’
‘I know. But the whole air-travel-with-a-toddler-and-all-their-kit thing is a bit of a struggle if we’re going to get rained on for weeks. At least there’s masses to do here when the weather’s bad. She barely sits still for two minutes, I don’t think I could manage it unless I could persuade Mike to take a week off, too, and he loves the heat.’
‘Good point. Is he busy at the moment?’
‘He’s always busy. As he says, crime is a growth industry. But listen, I called because I was wondering if you could do me a favour? Well, it’s for a friend actually, in Dublin.’
‘Tell me more.’ Brioni shifted on the sofa, tucking her feet underneath herself. She could hear a hesitation in Mar’s voice which meant that this wasn’t a simple ask. ‘Tell me – who, what, when …’
‘It’s a bit of a long story, but there’s this woman I met at a fundraiser at the London Irish Centre. Her husband’s in hotels, they have a couple in London as well as their flagship hotels in Dublin – the 1796 in the city centre and the Reynolds Regency House in Ballsbridge. They sponsored the raffle at the London Irish event, I think. Anyway, we got talking. She’s lovely, her name’s Cressida Howard. You can look her up, her husband is Laurence Howard.’
Brioni picked up her laptop from beside the sofa and opened it, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she searched for Marissa’s friend.
‘The 1796 is right near my office, very fancy. It costs a fortune …’
‘That’s it. Right beside Grand Canal Dock. But the hotels are only part of his portfolio.’ She paused. ‘He’s the founder and CEO of Ferryman. Their corporate headquarters are right next door.’
‘Oof. Big. The Amazon for lifestyle.’
‘I know. I didn’t realise when I met her, we were just chatting. You know when you connect with someone? She must have googled me because she sent me this gorgeous card after the event, just saying she’d read about … well, everything, and if I ever needed anything, to call.’
‘That was lovely.’
‘I know, most people run the other way when they find out how Steve died, but … Anyway.’ Marissa cleared her throat. ‘We’ve been in touch ever since on and off, and she’s just called me. She was really upset. She needs some help.’
‘Fire away. What can I do?’
‘She thinks … well, she knows her husband’s having an affair, and she wants to get as much information about his movements and this woman he’s seeing as she can. I told her about you when we met and she remembered. She suspects it’s not the first affair but she’s never had proof before, and now she needs to know everything so she can divorce him. Ferryman is worth millions and she says he’s the type that would fight her for every penny.’
‘More, actually.’
Brioni scanned the web page in front of her – an article about an investigation into the Ferryman empire. The company she worked for was a tech giant, but Ferryman was even bigger.
‘Precisely. So he can get the best lawyers and the minute he knows she’s on to him, he’ll cover his tracks.’
‘Why doesn’t she hire someone? There are great investigators out there.’
‘You know Dublin, it’s too small. Something will leak. She doesn’t trust anyone at this stage.’
‘She wants me to do some digging and see what’s going on?’
‘Would you? You can find out anything online and you won’t leave any tracks. Cressida’s worried if she even looks at this woman’s Facebook page she might accidentally like something and then she’ll know she was looking. And …’ Marissa paused. ‘I just keep thinking if I’d talked to someone sooner, looked for help, well, things might have been different.’
‘Mar, don’t. None of what happened with Steve was your fault. Some men think they control everything, that they don’t have to follow the same rules as everyone else.’
