The Rising Tide: the heart-stopping and addictive thriller from the Richard and Judy author

The Rising Tide: the heart-stopping and addictive thriller from the Richard and Judy author

Sam Lloyd


Readers are gripped by The Rising Tide


‘A first class thriller’

‘Compelling and powerful … it’s impossible to put down’

‘A story full of buried secrets that will have you guessing to the very end’

‘If I could give this more stars than five then trust me, I would’

‘The North Devon setting was atmospheric … a cracking read’

‘Pure brilliance! I was quite literally gasping for breath’

‘Beautifully written and beyond atmospheric’

‘This book will have you gripped – hook, line, and sinker’

‘The story is intense, atmospheric and so chilling’

‘Sam Lloyd writes stories that take you right to the heart of the action, and make you forget you’re even reading’





Dedicated to James Shrouder

and a library of memories,

past and future,

amusing and terrifying.





‘The true end of tragedy is to purify the passions.’

Aristotle





This is going to be one of those letters you’ll never read. Maybe because I’ll burn it. Maybe because it’ll go down with the boat.

I’ve given this a lot of thought. If there was another way, believe me I’d try. It’s tough when two people have this much shared history. It’s so hard to cause pain, even short-term pain. Even if it’s the right thing to do.

The coming storm will be the most difficult you’ll ever face. At points, I’m sure, it’ll feel unbearable. You’ll think it’s too much, that you don’t have the strength to cope. But I know you, Lucy. Your strength runs deep. You’ve survived tough times before and you’ll survive this.

Pain can be purifying – do you remember telling me that? Suffering can be kathartic.

At first, you’ll find this hard to forgive. But give it a year, maybe two, and you’ll think differently. You’ll look back and see I was right. That this was the best solution.

For all of us.





PART I





ONE




1


The news doesn’t strike cleanly, like a guillotine’s blade. There’s no quick severing. Nothing so merciful. This news is a slovenly traveller, dragging its feet, gradually revealing its horrors. And it announces itself first with violence – the urgent hammering of fists on Lucy Locke’s front door.





2


Lucy’s in the study, hunched over Daniel’s laptop. Breath whistles past her teeth as she frantically casts about. Onscreen is her husband’s company balance sheet. Spread across the desk is a mess of bank statements, invoices and scribbled notes. Around her feet, cardboard folders spill over with receipts.

She’s tempted to cram every scrap of paperwork into the fireplace and toss in a match, but that won’t help them. If there’s something here she’s overlooked, it’s vital she finds it.

Lucy’s wet hair leaks cold water down her spine. The study is unheated and the bath towel around her torso offers little comfort. In the hall, the barometer mercury is plunging. No storm has yet broken. But gunmetal clouds, rolling in from the Atlantic, are pregnant with threat.

This doesn’t feel like the end of the world. Not quite, not yet. In their nine years together, it isn’t the first crisis they’ve weathered. She’s saved him before. She knows she can save him again.

Lucy rocks back in the chair, tries to control her breathing. Glances around the grand old Georgian room.

On a side table stands a silver plastic photo frame, a relic from back when they were penniless. She’s bought Daniel plenty of others since, but he’s never replaced the original. In this house, items with little value gain it as they age: the scarred furniture, the chipped crockery, the art on the walls; all of it connects to a thousand different memories, priceless artefacts of the Locke family story.

The frame holds a photo of all four of them – Lucy and Daniel, Billie and Fin – taken six years ago on Penleith Beach. Fin’s in a sand-crusted Babygro. Billie sits cross-legged beside him, an elfin twelve-year-old in a neoprene shorty. Daniel – in faded board shorts and nothing else – crouches over a foil barbecue. Summer sun has caramelized his skin. His eyes aren’t on the steaks but the ocean, as if something out there has caught his attention.

Lucy, just into her thirties, wears the world’s most contented grin. Her denim cut-offs and tie-fronted bikini top reveal flesh as smooth and supple as a seal’s. Two belt-hoop stretchmarks on her abdomen are subtle evidence of her motherhood. Above them, her breasts are a far more obvious sign.

She’s always teased Daniel about that, claiming they’re the reason he keeps this photo close. And yet in truth she loves the image too. She can’t remember who took it, but the photographer captured something of them Lucy has always felt, yet never managed to express.

When she realizes how tightly her jaw is clenched, she turns away. Too hard, suddenly, to contemplate her family.

Balanced on the desk is a stack of unopened post. Lucy begins to tear through it, alert for further shocks. The first three envelopes yield junk mail. The fourth is from an insurance company. She checks the date – flinches when she realizes how long it’s been sitting here. When she scans the policy document, the muscles of her abdomen pull tight.