Cover

About the Author

Leona Deakin started her career as a psychologist with the West Yorkshire Police. She is now an occupational psychologist and lives with her family in Leeds. Her debut thriller? Gone? was published in 2019.

Also by Leona Deakin

Gone

Dedication

For my little show-off. This one’s for you.

Epigraph

‘No man has a good enough memory to be a successful liar.’

Abraham Lincoln

‘There is always hope.’

‘Girl with Balloon’, Banksy

1

As he walked up the stone stairway, Captain Harry Peterson had no idea that time was running out. In less than an hour, a bomb would rip this building apart.

He looked across the lawn. Everyone was peaceful, content. A hundred officers in full uniform were drinking champagne in front of a marquee. The buttons on their cropped jackets were shining in the sunlight. Their conversation, loud with laughter, mixed with music from the Royal Marines Band.

Harry smiled. He’d seen it all before, many times, but he knew he’d never grow tired of the glamour and decadence of a military ball.

Behind the officers’ wardroom at Her Majesty’s Naval Base, Devonport, a thin man in dark clothes waited patiently. He paced up and down, up and down. He checked the straps of his backpack and the trigger switch in his pocket.

Harry always thought it was a privilege to be in the Royal Navy, but never more so than when he was at Devonport. He smiled as he walked past the two miniature cannons housed on carved wooden lions on his way into the building. He had never wanted to do anything else but this: as a child he’d dreamt of travelling the world on the ships he’d seen in Portsmouth and as a teenager he’d watched films about fighter pilots and tacked a poster of The Dam Busters to his bedroom wall. It wasn’t that he wanted to fight but he liked the idea of being a hero. Who didn’t? He wanted to be a good person.

The man on reception glanced at the rank insignia embroidered on Harry’s jacket cuffs. ‘Good evening, Captain,’ he said.

Harry nodded. He squeezed past the photographer and collected a glass of champagne from a lady dressed in a red-tailed jacket and a gold waistcoat. The biannual balls were themed to separate them from the endless formal dinners and because, as the defender of the seas, the Navy felt it was not only the most senior service, but also the one with the best sense of humour and so Night at the Circus had been chosen for this evening’s event. Which explained the juggler on the lawn and the man on stilts parading around the concourse.

The room overlooking the lawn had been converted into a complimentary gin bar. Its leather sofas and heavy oak tables had been moved aside and the staff were wearing glittery leotards and feathered headdresses. Harry searched for a familiar face, knowing he was unlikely to find one. He wasn’t attached to this base. He’d been invited to attend the ball by Commodore Chris Waite who wanted to sound him out about a job. Harry had no intention of accepting – he didn’t want to move back to Plymouth – but it was never a good idea to refuse a courtship flat out. You had to play the game; people in the military had long memories and perhaps he’d be back here one day. But, for now, he needed to be in London and close to his children. He’d missed so much when they were young, and if he didn’t take jobs stationed near his ex-wife now, he’d never see them at all.

He nodded to a young lieutenant whose girlfriend was wearing an off-the-shoulder peach dress decorated with diamanté. The dress code had been clear: ankle-length dresses, covered shoulders and minimal bling. No doubt there’d be a coven of military wives discussing the young woman’s decision by the end of the evening.

‘Lovely dress,’ Harry said. He thought he’d put in a good word now, just in case she overheard something different later on. She blushed and thanked him with a delighted giggle.

‘Thank you, Sir,’ her boyfriend said.

Harry patted the man’s shoulder.

The thin man continued to pace up and down outside the officers’ wardroom. It wasn’t time yet. But he could hear music and the laughter and he hated them for it. He wished he could see their faces when it went off. It was his only regret. But it was a small price to pay.

Harry turned to see Commodore Waite entering the room with his wife, who was wearing a smart black evening gown.

‘Evening, Sir,’ Harry said, shaking Waite’s hand. ‘Thank you for the invite.’

Mrs Waite kissed Harry on the cheek. ‘When we were out for dinner last month, you called him Chris all night,’ she said. ‘But now it’s “Sir”.’

‘That was pleasure, Mrs Waite,’ said Harry. ‘This is work.’ She was the Commodore’s second wife and still new enough to the military world to be fascinated by its quirks.

She looked at the gin bar surrounded by well-dressed guests. ‘You think this is work.’

Harry and Chris exchanged a smile.

‘How’s it feel to be back? I bet you’ve missed the old place,’ Waite said. It was true that Harry had always had a fondness for Devonport.

‘The place, yes. The people …’ He scrunched up his face.

The Commodore laughed, a loud boom fitting for a man of his status. ‘No doubt you’d whip ’em into shape.’

Waite held up his hand to greet a group of officers on the other side of the room. ‘I better get over there,’ he said. ‘Let’s catch up later, I want to talk about your next move.’

‘Drinks first,’ said Mrs Waite, looping her arm through her husband’s and navigating them towards the gin bar.

‘We better see what they have,’ said Waite.

‘Everything from black pepper to raspberries, I believe,’ Harry replied. He was sticking to his one glass of champagne. He liked to stay in control at work events. He walked to the window and his eyes immediately fell on an elegant redhead in a floor-length dark green gown cinched tightly at the waist with a bronze bow. She was standing in the middle of the lawn. Her hair was tied up so that her face was framed by just a few loose curls. She’d said that there was absolutely no way she’d make it, that work was crazy.

Harry rushed back towards the reception. He loved that she’d decided to surprise him. It’s exactly what he’d have done.

At the door, a grey-haired, muscular officer blocked his way.

‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Sub-Lieutenant Philips from Joint Forces Command. May I have a word in private, please?’

Dinner was announced and the other guests started moving out of the building and towards the marquee in typical military compliance.

‘Now?’ Harry said. He leaned to the side, trying to see Karene through the moving crowd. He wanted to find her, to kiss her.

The man stepped a little closer and spoke in a low voice. ‘Yes, Sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve come here especially. I need to brief you in person.’ The man turned and began walking back to the bar.

Harry knew he couldn’t refuse Joint Forces. He was one of them and it would be impolite at best and dangerous at worst. Plus the sub-lieutenant wasn’t in dress uniform – just his white shirt and his cap under one arm – so he’d been sent unexpectedly. The brief was clearly urgent.

Moving against the flow, Harry followed the man through the crowd. Commodore and Mrs Waite were lingering at the door of the bar as the final group of officers made their way outside.

The sub-lieutenant strode towards the window on the other side of the room so that they were out of earshot.

‘What’s so important?’ asked Harry. He checked the man’s rank and frowned. The epaulettes decorating his shoulders were upside down. That was a rookie mistake. Or perhaps he’d dressed in a hurry.

‘This will only take a minute, Sir.’

Harry peered through the window and back out to the lawn. He could see Karene on the concourse looking for him in the crowd. A man on stilts stomped past the window. Karene glanced up and her eyes met Harry’s. He raised his hand to wave and she smiled.

And then the room exploded.

2

The blast hit Karene with a violent thrust and she jolted backwards, landing hard on the concrete paving slabs. She instinctively raised her arm across her eyes as glass from the windows rained down on her. She was surrounded by hot air, rushing across her skin, and a thick grey cloud of choking dust. She heard the man on stilts fall, colliding with a table which then collapsed, spraying glassware across the floor.

She could see nothing, hear so little: the world dull and distant as though she was underwater. Should she run? Should she hide? She took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Her mouth tasted of metal and something somewhere was burning.

She tried to focus. She was surrounded by fog. A figure in the distance was trying to stand. They stumbled and then righted themselves.

‘Hey,’ she called. ‘Hello?’ But although her lips were moving, there was no sound at all. She tried again, but the figure moved away from her and was swallowed by the grey.

She crawled towards the man on stilts.

‘Are you OK?’ she said, pressing her index finger and thumb into an ‘OK’ sign so that she might at least communicate something.

The man nodded. He sat up. He looked up at the building, just decipherable through the dust, and shook his head.

Karene followed his gaze.

Harry.

She needed to get in there.

She stood up and, staying crouched, ran towards the stone steps.

A strong hand grabbed her by the arm.

‘Get down,’ shouted the man. He had clumps of grey soot in his hair.

Karene shook her head.

‘Hey,’ yelled the man, pulling her down to the floor. He pressed his mouth against her ear so that she could hear him more clearly. ‘This place is full of military personnel. And none of them are running towards the blast area, are they?’

‘Why the hell not?’ she shouted. Her voice squeaked each word.

‘Because we don’t know what that was, if it’s finished or if there might be worse still to come. We need to wait.’

Karene looked at the man in disbelief. ‘How long will that take?’ she shouted, pulling her arm away. ‘People might be hurt. They might be bleeding.’

Harry.

She pushed the man aside and continued up the stairs. She could hear someone screaming. She knew that she was out of her depth but what choice did she have?

She stepped inside the reception. It was dark and thick with smoke. Harry had been in a room to the left. She squinted, looking in that direction, hoping her eyes would adjust. The shapes made no sense. She blinked several times. Large slabs of burning wood blocked her path and the mangled remnants of something metal formed a barrier ahead.

A young officer rushed to her side and surveyed the destruction. His uniform was clean, with none of the dust. He must have been further out on the lawn, maybe even in the marquee when the explosion had happened.

‘Are you medical?’ he asked. His voice sounded muffled and distant.

‘I know basic first aid,’ she said. ‘But that’s it.’

‘Any idea how many people were in here?’

She shook her head.

The officer nodded. ‘We need to get inside. And then triage. Ignore anyone screaming and go to the quiet ones. If you’re screaming, you’re breathing. OK?’

Karene looked at the young man and wondered how he was so calm, what hell his eyes had seen.

‘Check if they can respond. Then airway, breathing … Shout if you find a problem. I’ll get to you as soon as I can.’

Karene pulled her dress up to her knees and tied a knot in the fabric to lift it from the floor. Then she stepped carefully around and over the debris. Harry had been near a window to the left of the reception. There were no doors before the smashed-up staircase so she kept moving along the corridor and beyond it until she found a door to the left.

She stepped through it. Thin shafts of sunlight broke through the blown windows and Karene made her way towards the light.

‘Help,’ said a voice. ‘Please help.’

A woman was sitting up against the wall.

If you’re screaming, you’re breathing. That went for talking too.

‘I’ll be back,’ Karene said. ‘I promise.’

She kept moving. There were no other shouts, no moans or screams. Which meant that Harry was silent.

She found him on his back by the window. He wasn’t moving. She dropped to her knees and did as the young officer had instructed.

‘Harry?’ she shouted. ‘Harry! Can you hear me?’

There was no response. She opened his mouth and checked his airway. It was clear. Then she placed her ear beside his lips. She couldn’t hear anything – the ringing in her head was far too loud – but she was sure she felt his breath warm and steady against her cheek. She lifted his wrist and felt for a pulse. It was strong. She checked for injuries but couldn’t find anything. There was a thick layer of dust on his face and she gently wiped it away from his nose and mouth. There was also a small graze on his forehead.

She ran her hands through his hair and down the sides of his head, praying that she wouldn’t feel any wetness. Then she did the same across his torso, feeling under his jacket and finally checking his arms and legs. He seemed OK. Unconscious, yes, but OK.

‘Ma’am, I need you over here.’ The young officer’s voice sounded calm but assertive. This was not a request; it was an order.

‘You’re OK, Harry,’ she whispered. ‘Help is coming and I’m not going far.’ She kissed his head. ‘I love you.’

She crawled back to the doorway where the officer was kneeling next to the woman. She was in a sequinned leotard and there was a large wound on her left arm that was pumping blood on to the navy carpet.

‘I need you to stem the bleeding,’ said the officer. He placed Karene’s hand around the woman’s bicep, just above the wound. ‘Hold her arm up and squeeze here. Harder than that. It’ll slow the bleeding.’

The sequinned woman stared wide-eyed at her arm.

‘Got it,’ Karene said. ‘Squeeze tightly.’

‘And don’t let go until I come back. I need to check the others. Is that your husband?’ he asked looking over at Harry.

‘Yes,’ Karene replied. There was no point disputing relationship statuses in this environment. ‘He’s unconscious but breathing and his pulse is strong. I can’t see any major injuries, just a small wound to his head. He’s been lucky.’

The officer watched her carefully and then said, ‘It’s tempting to focus on the best-case scenario but you need to consider the worst. He’s been knocked unconscious so he may have spinal damage or internal injuries. Shout if you see him stir.’

Karene nodded.

Spinal damage. Internal injuries.

Oh God, Harry.

Karene was relieved when she saw the two paramedics move swiftly past her. Clearly the young officer had sent them Harry’s way. They would take care of him. He was in safe hands now.

3

Marcus Jameson removed his cycling helmet, hung it over the handlebars and leaned his bike against a large boulder. The spectacular view more than compensated for the steep ascent, and, to be fair, uphill cycling was his favourite. He enjoyed the burn as much as the sense of achievement. He took a large swig of water from his bottle and perched on a smaller boulder to eat the slice of banana loaf he’d bought at a cafe near his campsite.

His weekend in Wales had turned into a week and then a fortnight. He knew he was being driven by denial. He cycled to the point of exhaustion every day so that he’d fall asleep quickly and deep enough to see him through until the morning. Keeping busy also made it easier to ignore his phone; to avoid contact with his sister or, God forbid, Augusta who was still leaving regular messages on his voicemail. You’d think after three months of being ignored she’d have got the message.

He knew he was prone to hermit-like behaviour. He’d been told it often enough during his regular psychological assessments while at MI6. The ‘shadow’ side of his outgoing, optimistic personality was a loner in denial. He’d been told to watch out for signs he was retreating from reality and, on leaving the service, he’d done just that. He’d focused on keeping himself busy, putting effort into his social life, and he’d found a new purpose working as a private investigator with Dr Augusta Bloom. They had joined forces after he’d heard her speaking on the primary motives behind criminal exploits, and he’d joked that no one was better placed to investigate mysteries than an ex-spy and a criminal psychologist. Using his skills to help people had been satisfying. Until it all fell apart.

He’d spent the first few weeks after Bloom betrayed him hiding in his flat in London. But when it became clear that his sister, Claire, wasn’t going to leave him alone, he changed tack. His trips looked like something productive – travelling, exercising – but he knew, deep down, it wasn’t constructive at all. He was still alone, still hiding. The problem was he couldn’t trust his own judgement any more. It had all started earlier in the year when he’d convinced Bloom to help a teenage girl find her wayward mother. In doing so, he’d inadvertently embroiled them in the scheming mind games of a psychopath who had ultimately tried to kill him. So how could he trust his own judgement any more?

Jameson’s phone rang, interrupting the peace of the Welsh valley with Queen’s ‘Bicycle Race’. He checked the screen. He didn’t recognize the number.

‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Marcus Jameson?’ It was a woman’s voice.

‘Uh-huh,’ he replied throatily, swallowing a mouthful of banana loaf. ‘Who’s this?’

‘My name is Karene Harper and I need your help. Did you hear about the bomb at Devonport Naval Base?’

‘Sure,’ Jameson replied. ‘It was all over the news.’

‘Well, I was there. My partner – Captain Harry Peterson – was injured in the blast.’

Jameson placed his cake on top of its paper bag. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘But he never arrived at hospital.’

‘What? How do you mean?’

‘He was taken away in an ambulance but never arrived anywhere.’

‘But that explosion was two days ago. Have you checked all the hospitals?’

‘Of course I have.’ Her tone was clipped and irritated. ‘The police say he likely discharged himself, but he hasn’t been in touch with me or with his children.’ After a beat of silence, she said, ‘You’re thinking he’s probably dead?’

Jameson hadn’t been entirely sure how to phrase that statement and realized his silence may have been abrupt. ‘There can be a lot of chaos around these explosions,’ he continued. ‘It’s not always easy to identify …’

‘He was unconscious but breathing after the blast with no sign of serious injury.’

‘That doesn’t necessarily—’

‘I know,’ she interrupted. ‘And if he’s dead, then that’s one thing, but right now I just need to know if you’ll help us find him.’

‘Us?’

The line went quiet for a moment and then he heard a familiar voice.

‘I knew you’d screen my call,’ said his business partner Augusta Bloom.

Jameson’s free hand curled into a fist. ‘Oh, that is low.’ They’d worked together for five years and that was plenty. He had no interest in working with her again. It had transpired during that last case that Bloom and Seraphine Walker – their unexpected psychopath – were old acquaintances. And they’d both played him. Seraphine had presented herself as Sarah, and he’d fallen hard for the intelligent, charming alter-ego. And Bloom had opted to keep him in the dark, keep him in danger. In the many hours he’d spent pondering her choice, he kept coming back to the same disturbing conclusion. And so he wanted nothing more to do with Bloom.

‘Maybe, but I need you,’ she said. ‘Karene is an old friend and this has military written all over it. You once asked me for a favour and now I need one in return.’

‘Yeah and look how that turned out.’ That little favour had nearly resulted in his death.

‘I don’t know how many times I can say I’m sorry, Marcus, but I will continue to do so until you believe me. For now, this is not about me or you; it is about my friend and her missing partner. You know you can get access to the military in a way I cannot. You don’t even need to see me if you don’t want to. You can work directly with Karene. She’s fine with that.’

Jameson clenched his jaw. She was making him sound like a petulant child. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

‘You will?’

‘Yes.’ He hung up.

4

‘Will he help us?’ Karene asked. Her voice was softer now, much weaker than it had been on the phone.

‘He can’t resist a mystery,’ said Bloom, handing her friend a box of tissues from the desk. Her words sounded surprisingly convincing considering she didn’t really believe them. The events three months earlier had ruptured their relationship to such an extent she wasn’t sure it could be mended. She had left him in the dark. He’d seen it as a betrayal. But it had been tactical. He refused to see that she’d had no other choice. Her goal had been to stop Seraphine. Whatever the cost. ‘I hope he’ll come around,’ Bloom said and she really did.

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