Review – A Deeper Song by Rebecca Bradley @RebeccaJBradley #ADeeperSong

First off I’d like to thank Rebecca Bradley for sending me a copy of her latest DI Hannah Robbins novel – A Deeper Song. Second I need to apologise that it’s taken me so long to read and review! Before I share my thoughts, here’s the blurb.

 

The Blurb

How do you fight someone you can’t see?

Detective Inspector Hannah Robbins finds herself on the most perilous case of her career when a young man darts in front of her car. He’s covered in someone else’s blood and has no memory of how he got there.

Digging up the man’s past puts Hannah on a collision course with a dangerous stranger who wants history to remain hidden and who will stop at nothing to keep his secret.

Hannah finds herself in the biggest fight of her life.

Is this finally a case too far?

 

 

My Review

I really like this series not least because it’s written by a former police officer. There’s attention to detail without it being laborious and I always learn something new. This time it’s the reason why clothes go in a paper evidence bag and not a plastic one. Fabric in a sealed plastic bag can sweat and corrupt the evidence. But let’s talk about the actual story.

When Hannah accidentally hits a young man who runs out in front of her car, it sets off a chain of events that will place her in danger. It’s a case that will stretch Hannah and her team to breaking point. Along with that, Hannah has to address the subject of her estranged sister.

During this lockdown period, I’ve not found it easy to read. However as I’ve read most of the DI Robbins series, I know the characters well and it’s been easy to slip back into their world. Hannah has faced a number of different challenging cases but this is the most precarious one yet. I don’t want to give too much away but this book kept me reading into the night, something I’ve not done for a while.

Rebecca Bradley’s writing style makes this so easy to read. As I’ve already said, I learn vital things about police procedure from Rebecca’s novels but it’s never an info dump. The procedure is weaved seamlessly into the story so it continuously flows. A Deeper Song had me gripped from the beginning to the end. I hope Rebecca Bradley has more cases for Hannah and her team to solve.

You can buy A Deeper Song here.

 

The Author

Rebecca Bradley is a retired police detective. She lives in the UK with her family and her two cockapoo’s Alfie and Lola, who keep her company while she writes. Rebecca needs to drink copious amounts of tea to function throughout the day and if she could, she would survive on a diet of tea and cake while committing murder on a regular basis, in her writing of course.

She writes the DI Hannah Robbins police procedural series and has also released two standalone novels, Dead Blind, about a cop who acquires prosopagnosia, also known as face blindness and Perfect Murder about a crime writer who wonders if she could commit the perfect murder so sets out to see.

Sign up to her readers’ club for a FREE novella, the prequel to Hannah Robbins series. Find it on the blog at rebeccabradleycrime.com You’ll also be provided exclusive content and giveaways.

#AfraidOfTheLight @adamsouthward @NolanDom @elle_croft @SRMastersAuthor @Phoebe_A_Morgan @NikiMackayBooks @VictoriaSelman @MsRachaelBlok @h_critchlow @Jo_Furniss @robert_scragg @ClareEmpson2 @JDelargyAuthor @katesboat

 

Afraid of the Light is an anthology of short stories from some amazing crime writers and it’s published today. Proceeds are going to the Samaritans, a charity needed now more than ever. So to give you a taste of what to expect, I have excerpts from two of the stories – Drowning in Debt by Heather Critchlow and Frantic by Clare Empson. The full list of authors and stories are:

Are you Listening? – Adam Southward

Daddy Dearest – Dominic Nolan

Deathbed, Beth Dead – Elle Croft

Loveable Alan Atcliffe – S R Masters

Sleep Time – Phoebe Morgan

Coming Home – N J Mackay

Sausage Fingers – Victoria Selman

Just a Game – Rachael Blok

Drowning in Debt – Heather Critchlow

To Evil or Not to Evil – Jo Furniss

Sheep’s Clothing – Robert Scragg

Frantic – Clare Empson

Planting Nan – James Delargy

Shadow – Kate Simants

 

The Excerpts

Drowning in Debt by Heather Critchlow

They were expecting a lot—that a handful of days could fix a crisis formed over a decade, but the trip was ‘make or break’. They both knew that. As they stepped off the plane into the tense heat of a Bolivian summer, Lucy allowed herself to believe that it would work.

The rainforest spilled over the distant edge of the runway, threatening to reclaim the slice of tarmac slashed into its miles of endless green. Paul planted a kiss on her shoulder and smiled down at her. The lines creased into his forehead would take longer to release than this trip, but she thought she saw a glimpse of the careless beach bum of their student days. The maverick she had loved before life smacked them in the face. The sight flooded her with relief. Recently it seemed all she did was annoy him.

‘Come on lovebirds, get a move on,’ Jack yelled. Their friend was already pulling plastic-wrapped kayaks and kit bags from the back of the small plane, sunglasses perched on his head like bug eyes. His hyperactivity was even more pronounced than usual: excitement spiraled around him like a vortex.

They manhandled their kit to the 4×4 that would take them to the lodge and, as she squinted against the sun’s glare, Lucy forgot the unopened piles of letters at home. Her phone was mercifully silent, roaming disabled. No creditors could reach them here. Sweat slid down her back but for once it wasn’t due to fear.

Only two weeks ago, she had crouched under the windowsill as a bailiff hammered on their front door, shouting about the execution of a warrant. He had made his way round their tiny cottage, looking for an open window to enter. She knew there wasn’t one, but her hands hadn’t stopped shaking, even hours after he’d left, when Paul came home to find her curled on the floor.

‘See?’ he’d told her, pulling her to her feet then turning his back as she reached for him. ‘We don’t have a choice. They’ll take the house if we don’t do something.’

 

 

Frantic by Clare Empson

The man in Sainsbury’s is standing just far enough away for Matthew not to notice. My husband continues to consider which bottle of wine we should choose for our Saturday night treat while the blood thrums in my ears.

‘Would you prefer white?’ Matthew asks but I am lost and I cannot reply.

‘This is a beautiful wine,’ the man says holding out an elegant bottle of vivid green glass for us to inspect.

‘Alsace?’ Matthew asks, pleased.

He loves a random stranger interaction.

‘Spanish. Albariño. Try it, you won’t be disappointed. I think your wife will like it.’

I look away, scorched, but not before I am physically weakened as if sped through a vortex of age.

‘Nice guy,’ Matthew says conversationally as we leave the store.

And he holds my hand all the way home as if this Saturday evening is the same as all those that have gone before.

Is love the same for everyone, contentment and dependency layered upon each other like a warning?  I am nothing without Matthew, nothing I want to be anyway. It scares me sometimes. We met at university amidst the blur of Nineties rave when the world was briefly transformed. All around us people discarded their inheritance of shame and caution and threw themselves lemming-like at the pleasure abyss. They listened to their bodies when they danced and hugged whomever they chose. Kissing and sweating and grinding and moving, always moving for it was impossible to stop. And there right at the edges of this fearless new world, Matthew and I recognised each other.

He was reading History, not just for his degree, but for life. His bedroom was full of dusty old texts but he could conjure magic from them, projecting us into a forgotten universe as we toured the places he loved. Sir John Soane’s Museum for its oddest exhibits, an elephant’s tooth, I remember, and a human skull. A wood panelled operating theatre from the eighteenth century, its surgical instruments displayed like weapons of torture. We left clubs behind and lay head to toe on his sofa talking until the first beams of morning light flickered at the windows. We dented meadows of long grass with our kissing and touching and reading. We watched skies turn crimson and then black, picking out the constellations one by one as if we were the first couple to do so. Back then, at the beginning, everything had a meaning.

We have a few rituals for our favourite night of the week. Supper on our laps, lasagne or spaghetti with meatballs, the sauce simmered pedantically until the kitchen smells like Italy. The children always choose a film for us to watch and as they’ve got older, the viewing has improved. Tonight it’s an old thriller called Frantic, a fitting title for the swirl of dread that ripples through me.

 

Wow! These both sound amazing! You can buy Afraid of the Light here.

 

The Authors

Heather Critchlow

After studying history and social science at Cambridge University, Heather spent ten years writing and editing B2B magazines, before becoming a freelance writer and media consultant. Her work has appeared in The Times and Dow Jones Financial News as well as a range of specialist titles. Heather lives in St Albans with her husband and two children. Represented by Charlotte Seymour at Andrew Nurnberg Associates, she is working on two literary crime novels.

@h_critchlow

https://www.heathercritchlow.com

 

Clare Empson

Clare Empson is the author of HIM, a dark love story, and MINE, a psychological thriller about a catastrophic reunion between a birth mother and her long-lost son.  She spent the first half of her career working on national newspapers and still freelances for The Guardian, The Daily Telegraph and the Daily Mail amongst others.

@ClareEmpson2

 

 

 

 

Review for Blood Red City by Rod Reynolds @Rod_WR @OrendaBooks @sophieglorita #BloodRedCity

As we all know our lives are a bit upside down at the moment and the publishing world is in a state of flux. Some books are being published as scheduled, others pushed back. One common thing it seems is to release an e-book, with the hard copy coming later in the year. And that’s exactly what’s happened with Rod Reynolds latest novel, Blood Red City. Before I give you my review, here’s the blurb.

 

The Blurb

Video footage of an apparent murder on a London train thrusts crusading journalist Lydia into a terrifying web of money, politics and power, in sophisticated, shockingly believable contemporary thriller

A witness but no victim. A crime but no crime scene…

 

When crusading journalist Lydia Wright is sent a video of an apparent murder on a London train, she thinks she’s found the story to revive her career. But she can’t find a victim, much less the killers, and the only witness has disappeared. Wary she’s fallen for fake news, she begins to doubt her instincts – until a sinister call suggests that she’s not the only one interested in the crime.

Michael Stringer deals in information – and doesn’t care which side of the law he finds himself on. But the murder on the train has left him exposed, and now he’ll stop at nothing to discover what Lydia knows.

When their paths collide, Lydia finds the story leads through a nightmare world, where money, power and politics intersect … and information is the only thing more dangerous than a bullet.

A nerve-shattering and brutally realistic thriller, Blood Red City bursts with energy and grit from the opening page, twisting and feinting to a superb, unexpected ending that will leave you breathless

 

My Review

Rod Reynolds’ first three books were set in 1940s America and featured maverick reporter, Charlie Yates. Blood Red City though is contemporary, based in London with two characters sharing the limelight. Lydia Wright is an investigative journalist who’s been side-lined to the night shift to write about showbiz for her paper’s website. Michael Stringer is… well, it’s hard to work out who exactly Michael Stringer is and what he does. It’s fair to say though that Michael is at the fringes of society and works in the shadows. Both are drawn into a possible murder but without a body, nothing can be proved.

I liked the two-hander approach on this story as we found out more about Lydia and Michael as well as the possible murder victim. Of the two, Michael is definitely more intriguing and there are some interesting character developments that I hope will be explored more in a follow-up. Having said that, Lydia is a great foil for him and together they reminded me of Dempsey and Makepeace albeit different careers. It’s the classic case of annoying each other and mutual distrust.

With a plot twistier than the Orbit at the Olympic Park, this is a love letter to London. Born and bred, Reynolds has always wanted to write about his home city and he’s definitely done it justice. I fully intend to ask him at a later date how many Tube and train journeys he did to make sure he got all his information correct, covering North London, Central and making it all the way out to Hampton Court in Surrey. Reading Blood Red City at this time is all the more poignant, as the vibrant, lively city portrayed in the summer heat is currently a shell of its former self. But I took hope in thinking that London will be back to its busy nature, although maybe marching to a slightly different beat.

I’m hoping this isn’t the last we’ll see of Lydia Wright and Michael Stringer. This is a partnership that could run for a while and London is a stage with many scenes and stories to be explored. Definitely want more!

 

You can buy an e-book version here

The paperback will be out later in the year.

 

The Author

Rod Reynolds is the author of four novels, including the Charlie Yates series. His 2015 debut, The Dark Inside, was longlisted for the CWA New Blood Dagger, and was followed by Black Night Falling (2016) and Cold Desert Sky (2018); The Guardian have called the books ‘Pitch-perfect American noir’. A lifelong Londoner, in 2020 Orenda Books will publish his firsdt novel set in his hometown, Blood Red City. Rod previously worked in advertising as a media buyer, and holds an MA in novel writing from City University London. Rod lives with his wife and family and spends most of his time trying to keep up with his two young daughters.

Blog tour – We Begin at the End by Chris Whitaker @WhittyAuthor @Tr4cyF3nt0n @ZaffreBooks @katherinecrime #WeBeginAtTheEnd

I’m so excited to be taking part in the blog tour for We Begin At The End by Chris Whitaker. A huge thank you to Tracy Fenton for inviting me to take part. I managed to pick up an early proof at Harrogate last year so thank you to Bonnier Zaffre. My blog buddy today is Linda over at Linda’s Book Bag so feel free to check out her post. Before I attempt to give you my review, here’s the blurb.

 

The Blurb

With the staggering intensity of James Lee Burke and the absorbing narrative of Jane Harper’s The Dry, We Begin at the End is a powerful novel about absolute love and the lengths we will go to keep our family safe. This is a story about good and evil and how life is lived somewhere in between.

‘You can’t save someone that doesn’t want to be saved . . .’

Thirty years ago, Vincent King became a killer.

Now, he’s been released from prison and is back in his hometown of Cape Haven, California. Not everyone is pleased to see him. Like Star Radley, his ex-girlfriend, and sister of the girl he killed.

Duchess Radley, Star’s thirteen-year-old daughter, is part-carer, part-protector to her younger brother, Robin – and to her deeply troubled mother. But in trying to protect Star, Duchess inadvertently sets off a chain of events that will have tragic consequences not only for her family, but also the whole town.

Murder, revenge, retribution.

How far can we run from the past when the past seems doomed to repeat itself?

 

My Review

I never find it particularly easy to find the right words for reviews. It becomes even harder when the book shines with such brilliance. Tall Oaks showed us that Chris Whitaker can write a darkly comedic Crime story. All the Wicked Girls had the humour stripped away revealing a beautifully written tragic tale. I didn’t think it was possible for Chris Whitaker to step it up but he has in We Begin At The End. I read it slowly, desperate to eek it out, longing for it not to end.

Whitaker immerses us in the lives of Duchess Day Radley and her younger brother, Robin. Aged 13 and 5 respectively at the beginning of the story, their lot in life is pretty bad. Their mum, Star, is in a bad way and so Duchess looks after her little brother. They get by – just. Until one night when a beaten-up Star returns from her bartending job at a local club. Duchess makes a decision which leads to a chain of catastrophic events for her family and her home town of Cape Haven. Chief Walker, known as Walk, is the other main narrator who has to battle his childhood loyalties with justice and his failing body. I don’t want to tell you too much more about the plot as I don’t want to spoil it for anyone.

I found myself totally wrapped up in these characters’ lives. I didn’t want it to end. It was like having a slice of the best chocolate cake in the world and choosing not to gobble it down in one go but eating just a small amount each time. And when I did finally finish reading it at bedtime, my husband looked at me and said, “Well, you won’t be going to sleep just yet.” My emotion was clear and if he hadn’t been there, I probably would have sobbed.

But it’s not just the characters and the plot that make this book so special. It’s the actual writing. All of Chris’ books have been set in small town America so his words have that lilting American tone. There were times when I just stopped reading because of the beauty of the words. As I’ve read a proof I’m not really allowed to quote but this sentence is so incredible and it doesn’t give any spoilers (and I checked with Chris’ editor).

‘At Caroga Plain a man with a guitar got on and asked the few if they minded and they all shook their heads so he sang about golden slumbers, his voice rough but something in it stripping the roof from the old bus and letting the stars fall in.’

See what I mean? How am I supposed to write a review that does this book justice? The truth is, I can’t. There is only one word I can give it – extraordinary. But more than that, Chris Whitaker is an extraordinary writer.

You can buy We Begin At The End here.

 

The Author

Chris Whitaker was born in London and spent ten years working as a financial trader in the city.
His debut novel, Tall Oaks, won the CWA John Creasey New Blood Dagger.
Chris’s second novel, All The Wicked Girls, was published in August 2017. He lives in Hertfordshire with his wife and two young sons.

 

 

First Monday Crime – April 2020 @1stMondayCrime @erskine_fiona @PointBlankCrime @margotbookpr #TheChemicalReaction

Well, when we were planning First Monday Crime back in January, we had no idea what was coming. Considering we all have something to do with publishing in various ways – author, editor, publicity, blogger etc. – to find ourselves in a real-life dystopian novel is a bit surreal. But that isn’t going to stop us shouting out about the authors and novels that were due to feature in April’s event. One of the authors booked to come was Fiona Erskine. Her new novel is The Chemical Reaction, a follow-up to The Chemical Detective. Margot Weale at Oneworld has kindly sent an extract for you all to read. But first the blurb.

 

The Blurb

As Jaq is pulled further into a murky underworld of deceit and corruption, things take an explosive turn…

After escaping almost certain death amidst the ruins of Chernobyl, Jaq finds herself in even hotter water. Deep in debt, she decides to take on a risky contract in China. But when her former student and the chemical factory she was meant to be investigating both mysteriously disappear, she realises nothing is as it seems.
From fraudulent art auctions in London to a troupe of male strippers in Shanghai, the mystery of the vanishing factory begins to look ever more complicated as the days pass. Can Jaq work out what happened – and whether it has anything to do with her nemesis Frank Good – before time runs out?

 

The Extract

Twenty nautical miles from the Crimean coast, Black Sea

Dark clouds raced in from the east, the yacht creaking and sighing as it sped towards land in a desperate attempt to outrun the approaching storm.

Jaq grasped the wheel, the varnished wood smooth and warm under her hands, staying the course, filling the sails, running for shelter. The yacht was a living thing beneath her bare feet, bucking and twisting, stretching and straining, rolling and slewing.

A crimson glow lingered above the hills as the sun dipped below the wine-dark sea. Calm water lay ahead. Chaos and darkness, behind.

The rendezvous had gone smoothly, the ‘cargo’ picked up in the Crimea, delivered at the appointed time and place, twelve nautical miles from shore.

Mission accomplished.

A flash of silver lightning split the sky, illuminating the deck. One . . . and . . . two . . . and . . .

Giovanni worked around her, trimming the spinnaker sheet, keeping the huge sail filled as the boat rolled, wrenching every ounce of speed from the Frankium.

Five . . . and . . . six . . . and . . .

She looked up at the sails, perfectly set like the wings of a massive bird, propelling them over the ocean.

Ten . . . and . . . eleven . . . and . . .

They worked well together, just the two of them. Jaq setting the course, both hands on the wheel, keeping the wind behind them, optimising their speed. Maximising tension, minimising resistance. Constant small adjustments. Watching and listening, sensing, anticipating.

In contrast to Jaq’s pool of stillness at the helm, Giovanni darted from side to side, a lithe dynamo in constant motion. Synchronised motion. Perfectly attuned to each other’s needs. In and out of bed.

His dark curls blew about his face in the wind, eyes glinting in the gleam of the running lights, brown irises merging with dilated black pupils as he adjusted his vision to the gathering darkness. His skin was tanned by sunshine, weather-darkened by a life lived in the open air. He wore a striped T-shirt, the fabric plastered to his broad chest, damp with sweat and sea spray, the long sleeves rolled back to reveal muscled forearms. His blue chinos ended above bare ankles. Rubber soles squeaked as his white plimsolls scooted across the teak planking of the foredeck, his compact, wiry frame twisting and turning, bending and stretching.

They couldn’t carry this much sail if the gusts increased. At her signal, Giovanni clipped his harness to the jackstay and started forward to drop the spinnaker. The symbol on the billowing white nylon – a black box containing the letters Fr, the chemical symbol for the eighty-seventh element in the periodic table – wrinkled and folded as the nylon sail spooled onto the deck. Giovanni bagged the sail and dropped it down the forehatch.

Fifteen . . . and . . . sixteen . . . and . . .

A massive wave lifted the stern and the boat rolled. The wind snuck behind the mainsail and forced it hard against the preventer. It rattled, straining to break free.

Jaq spun the wheel, trying to stop the boat from broaching, but it wasn’t responding.

‘Gybe!’ Jaq bellowed.

Giovanni ducked as the preventer snapped and the boom scythed across the deck, the mainsail rattling like machine gun fire before billowing out on the other side. The boat righted and steadied itself as she brought it back on course. Giovanni waved a fist in mock anger.

That was close. Too close. The boat was answering the helm again but it felt sluggish, no longer smoothly responsive and finely tuned. What had changed?

Giovanni must have sensed something too. ‘Troppo scuro!’ he hollered. ‘Troppo agitato!’ Too dark. Too risky. She mimed her reluctant agreement to reduce sail. He put a reef in the main and rolled in some of the staysail.

Twenty-five . . . and . . . twenty-six . . . and . . .

The yacht pitched and yawed, the waves rolling past the hull as it barrelled downwind. A shudder ran through the craft from prow to stern.

Twenty-eight . . . and . . . twenty-nine . . . and . . .

Thunder cracked and boomed, the roar of an angry sky dragon, threatening from on high.

Twenty-nine and a half seconds. Jaq did the mental calculation. Thunder and lightning happen at the same time, both caused by an electrical discharge from heaven to earth. Or cloud to sea, in this case. The delay in perception is only due to the different speeds at which light and sound travel. Speed of light 299,792,458 metres per second: instantaneous to all intents and purposes. Speed of sound 343 metres per second. Twenty-nine and a half seconds between the light and sound reaching them meant the storm was ten kilometres away and closing. It would hit the boat long before they made land. And hit them hard. With winds approaching 100 km/hr, 50 knots, they had less than six minutes. All around was darkness; only the rasp of sea spray on her skin, the shrieking wind howling across the Black Sea.

Had she been wrong to release the crew? Essential to the rendition, but after capturing The Spider – the criminal mastermind behind a chemical weapons factory – and rescuing his prisoner, double agent Camilla Hatton, Interpol had taken over. Sending the crew away with Interpol had seemed the obvious thing to do. More than obvious – necessary. The crew were mercenaries, soldiers not sailors, the right men for a dirty job. Task complete, Jaq wanted nothing more than to forget the mission, forget the bloodshed and forget her own part in it all.

After the lightning, then the thunder, came the scent, borne on gusts of wind, the familiar metallic smell of ozone, the telltale chemistry of the sky.

And another scent. Testosterone and sandalwood. Giovanni appeared beside her. ‘It’s getting wild.’

Jaq cocked her head and appraised him. ‘Shall I tie you to the mast?’

A shadow passed over his face as he handed her a life jacket. ‘Put this on.’

She pulled it over her head and tightened the buckle. ‘When this storm is over, let’s find a quiet bay somewhere and—’

She stopped as his expression darkened. What did she see there? Something new. Was it fear? No; Gio was in his element out here in the storm. Something had changed between them. Gone was the easy intimacy, replaced by a new reserve.

‘What’s wrong?’

He put a finger to her lips.

‘I need to check something.’ He turned away and dropped through the hatch.

Jaq stood alone on the deck, fighting the untrammelled forces of nature. No time to think about Gio right now. The yacht was increasingly hard to handle. Even with reduced sail she was strug­gling to maintain course, to keep the wind in the sails, to stop the boat broaching again.

Giovanni popped his head up from the hatch, his eyebrows meeting in a frown.

‘Water in the cabin,’ he shouted. ‘I’m going down to investigate.’

Lightning split the dark sky, fingers and tongues of silver all around. The shriek of wind in the rigging vied with the crash of the sea against the hull of the yacht. The waves were getting bigger and stronger, foaming salt water sluicing down the deck.

The boat vibrated from the aftershock of another thunderclap. And kept on quivering. Jaq stood still. The juddering beneath her feet felt different. Not the familiar tremors of the craft yielding and rebounding. Something less elastic, something tearing and wrenching. Something below the waterline, dampened by the sea and yet violent enough to be sensed on deck.

A sudden screech, louder than the wind, than the waves, louder than thunder. The boat itself was crying out. Rebelling. Out of control.

The boom heaved across and then back, the yacht pitched and yawed. She was falling, sliding across the sea-drenched deck, halting her slide by grabbing the jackstay. Jaq lay panting, opening her eyes wide to make sense of the dark shape that rose up in front of her.

No time for panic, or for despair – the boat was going over.

‘Gio!’

Hand over hand, she hauled herself up the tilting deck away from the water.

The boat continued to heel as another massive wave caught her broadside.

Merda! One choice, two options.

Option one was to use the motion of the boat, dive under the starboard rail as the boat turned upside down, use the swell from the capsize to throw herself clear, facing the full fury of the sea.

Option two was to stay where she was. Easier for a rescue vessel to find. Remain in the boat. Allow it to roll over her. Swim to an air pocket, pull herself out of the water into a cave protected from the waves. Hope that it would not sink, rely on the inherent buoyancy, trust in a well-maintained compartmentalised design to ensure that the Frankium remained afloat.

Trust. Could she trust anything connected to Frank Good, the owner of this wretched craft? Given the evidence so far? Was there even a choice?

Jaq took a deep breath. As the deck thundered overhead, she plunged into the water. The shock of immersion gave her new strength. She swam down, kicking wildly, scooping the water in mad, desperate strokes as the wounded boat completed its death roll. As she emerged a huge wave crashed over her. Tumbling and turning, she surfaced, only to be buffeted by a new wave, at the mercy of the angry sea.

Something rose beneath her, erupted from the water and arced through the air. The life raft had launched itself and inflated. By the time she reached it, she no longer possessed the strength to haul herself on board, but she caught a tether and clung to the side.

A flash of lightning lit the upturned hull of the Frankium, bobbing on the waves, a pale sea creature.

No sign of Giovanni. She had to get the raft to the upturned boat and send him a signal.

She started to swim back towards the yacht, towing the raft behind her, but the currents were against her, arms aching as the distance only increased.

How to get out of the water and into the raft? It was no use fighting the waves. Could she use them? She positioned herself between the next wave and the raft, hoping to surf above it. Bad idea. The force of the wave slammed her into the side, knocking her breath away so that she almost lost hold of the rope. Burra! If at first you don’t succeed, try something different.

Many years ago, she had learned how to right a kayak. Johan, then her instructor, now her best friend, had superb upper body strength, but she always beat him in the timed drills. Brains over brawn. Use the buoyancy as your friend; let physics do the work. Time to apply that here. Once her breathing was almost back to normal, she repositioned the raft between her and the next wave, tipping the side towards her until it was almost perpendicular, grabbing the ropes inside. As the wave passed underneath, the raft scooped her up and she collapsed, like a flapping fish, into the bottom of the vessel.

She lay on the rubber floor for a few minutes, gathering what was left of her wits, then scrabbled around for the paddles and a waterproof pouch of survival gear: flares, water, energy bars, first aid kit, compass, rope, a handy-billy block and tackle, knife.

Where were they? She checked the compass. North led back to Crimea, east to Russia, west to Bulgaria, south to Turkey, the direction they had been heading. There was no sign of land – black ocean pitched and heaved in all directions – and no sign of her captain.

‘Giovanni!’

The worst of the storm had passed, the intervals between lightning and thunder extending, the intensity decreasing, the wind dropping, the waves subsiding.

She let off a flare. If Giovanni was already in the water, then he’d soon find her. She unwrapped an energy bar and washed it down with a swig of fresh water. Then she wrapped herself in a blanket, took up the oar and paddled towards the upturned boat.

As she drew closer, she could see the rudder and skeg, but where was the keel? The huge underwater fin stuffed with five tonnes of lead had only one job – to keep the boat upright. Nothing remained but a tear in the hull and jagged holes where the keel bolts should be.

‘Giovanni Fantucci!’ she yelled as loud as she could. She brought the life raft alongside the stricken, upturned yacht to where the cabin should be, and struck the side with an oar. Was it her imagination, or was there a faint noise in return? She knocked again, twice this time.

Then listened. Nothing.

She tried again, smashing harder, scanning the water, expecting him to emerge: his flashing white teeth and dark brown eyes. And then came the reply. Three faint taps, three scratches, then the taps again. Dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot. SOS. Giovanni was under the wrecked boat and needed help.

Heart racing, cold hands fumbling, she threaded the life raft’s painter around the rudder shaft and tied a bowline. She set off another distress flare before diving into the dark water. Her life jacket fought against her, pulling her back. She surfaced and removed it, tossing it back into the life raft before diving again, using her hands to pull herself under the boat, jackknifing under the rail and swimming up through the companionway into the cabin. If she didn’t find air soon, she was not sure she could make it out again. Her lungs were bursting, close to the point of no return. She took a gamble, let go of the rope and kicked upwards.

A hand came down and caught hers, guiding her into an air pocket. She took a breath. Deus. He was alive. She took another breath. And another. Bolas, it was worse than she thought. There was barely enough room for Giovanni, and the water was up to his shoulders. The air, what little of it there was, was stale. No: worse than stale. Oxygen-depleted.

‘Lucia?’ he whispered.

Who was Lucia? No time for that now.

‘It’s Jaq. I’ve got the life raft. Can you swim out with me?’

‘Trapped,’ he gasped. ‘Can’t move.’ He was panting hard.

Merda. Alive, but only just. And her presence was using up his oxygen supply. She felt around his body. One arm was wedged at a strange angle between a loose floorboard and the base of the mast. She tried to yank the fallen board free, but even before he screamed, she knew his arm was trapped and broken.

‘I’m going to get you some air. Then I’m going to get you out of here.’

No reply.

‘Gio. Don’t leave me. Don’t give up. I need you.’

Silence.

‘Lucia needs you.’ Whoever she was.

‘Lucia.’ He sighed.

How could she get air to him? There was nothing in the life raft: no oxygen tank, no scuba mask, no tubing. Even the life rings were foam-filled.

Could she open an air hole from the top? The knife would never pierce the hull. She had no drill, no saw, no blowtorch.

A plastic bowl floated past, followed by an empty Tupperware box. Tupperware. Suddenly she knew what to do.

‘Gio!’ she whispered. ‘I’m going to get you out of here.’ Jaq kissed his cold cheek. The stubble rasped against her lips. She took a shallow breath and dived down.

She used the position of the mast to guide her to the locker. She yanked it open and scrabbled around until she found it: the little Tupperware box confiscated from a man who’d tried to kill her. She stuffed the box into the waistband of her shorts. You never knew when a kilo of Semtex might come in handy.

There was only one way to free him. It might kill Giovanni. Deus perdoa-me. But if she did nothing, he would die anyway. Alone in a cold, dark cave, suffocating in his own exhalations. She was out of other options. Better a bang than a whimper.

Jaq was going to blast what remained of the Frankium to smithereens.

And pray that she didn’t kill her lover.

 

Wow! Will Gio survive? There’s only one way to find out! The Chemical Reaction is currently out in e-book and the hardback will be published 16th April. You can buy/pre order here

Or if you want to support an independent bookshop then check out hive.co.uk

 

The Author

Engineer by day, writer by night.

Fiona was born in Edinburgh, and grew up playing guitar, riding motorbikes and jumping into cold water. After studying Chemical Engineering at University she leaned to weld, cast and machine with apprentices in Paisley. She is now based in Teesside and travels internationally as a professional engineer.

Her debut novel The Chemical Detective, the first in a series, was published in April 2019.