The Rising Tide: the heart-stopping and addictive thriller from the Richard and Judy author(10)

After a difficult labour, with funding that often looked precarious, the Drift Net was born. The birth trauma was nothing to the uncertainty that followed. Never, in the first six months, did Lucy believe she’d survive another year. People insisted the concept wouldn’t work. That she needed to narrow her focus, temper her optimism, downsize her ambition.

And yet, somehow, the Drift Net held on. Six years later, it’s expanded greatly from its initial offering – a live-music venue that doubles as gallery space for local artists. She’d seen the model work in London. Against all expectations, she made it work even better down here. These days, the Drift Net attracts bands that would never normally venture this far west. Despite the big names, Lucy’s always prioritized local-grown talent. As a result, she’s curated a patronage of music lovers well beyond this stretch of coast.

During the day, the Drift Net transforms into an inexpensive eatery, offering food from a constantly evolving menu. There are speaking events, RNLI fundraisers and meet-ups for those struggling with loneliness or bereavement. Lucy’s worked with charities to offer placements to adults with special needs and to ex-offenders trying to change direction. Skentel’s various clubs and societies use the facilities free of charge.

Lucy’s been praised regularly for its success. But all she did was plant the seed and tend the shoot. The Drift Net’s flourishing has far more to do with heroes like Bee – who manages it during the day – and Tyler, who takes over after sunset. One thing everyone in the town knows beyond doubt: six years after opening, the idea of Skentel without its quayside venue is unthinkable.

As Lucy pushes open the door, a fug of warm air rolls over her. She smells fresh-baked pastries and ground coffee. It’s a large space, low and wide, the light honeyed from so much wood. The bar top is a single slab of oak recovered from a decommissioned naval sloop. Fairy lights hang along it, illuminating the leather-topped stools beneath.

Of the Drift Net’s twenty tables, over three quarters are full. Above the whirr of the coffee grinder and the steamy exhalations of the milk frother comes the urgent murmur of conversation.

It dies the moment Lucy walks in. Obvious that news of Daniel has spread. Customers glance away when she looks at them. Unsettling, how personal tragedy is feared as contagious. A shared look, a touch, and the bad luck rubs off.

The police presence is a catalyst: within moments the chatter is back, louder than before. Carefully, she manoeuvres through it. The station clock on the far wall marks the time: twenty to three. Two hours, now, since Daniel’s distress call. Lucy’s fear is shrapnel inside her head.

Bee is standing behind the bar beside Tommo, her new boyfriend. Despite her unicorn T-shirt and cartoony pink hair, she couldn’t look more spooked. ‘Luce,’ she says. ‘Dude. We just heard. When I came to the house I had no idea. I’m so sorry I—’

‘Don’t,’ Lucy says. ‘Seriously. You’ve no reason to apologize. Listen, I need to speak to the police. Can you keep the kitchen open? The more people we get through the door, the better we can spread the word.’

‘Right,’ Bee says. She turns to Tommo – late thirties, soft belly, T-shirt that says, WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS, GRAB SALT AND TEQUILA. ‘I need to steal you a little longer.’

He nods, an obedient puppy. To Lucy, he says, ‘These things are sent to test us. Be strong and you’ll get through it.’

In Tommo’s expression Lucy sees something that steals her breath. She watches Bee loop an arm around his waist. Then she leads her group to a table and peels off her RNLI jacket.

PC Noakes takes out a notebook. ‘Mr Locke’s date of birth?’

‘Thirteenth of January, 1979. He’s forty-two.’

‘Can you give me a description?’

‘Five ten, average build.’

Lucy pauses, frowns. It’s a pitiful amount of detail, but when she closes her eyes, she can’t visualize her Daniel at all, just that lost little boy from the Polaroid. It frightens her so badly her eyes snap back open.

‘Hair colour?’

‘Black,’ she replies, gasping. ‘And he has blue eyes. Slush Puppie blue, you know? Like the drink.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, I … I’m not making much sense.’

‘Any distinguishing features? Birthmarks, that kind of thing?’

The question makes her flinch. No one’s going to locate Daniel thanks to a birthmark, but they might use one to identify him. Seven miles of cold ocean lie between here and where he disappeared. And the plunging mercury is evidence that something truly awful is approaching.

‘My husband has a scar along his right forearm,’ she says. ‘About four inches long. Fluke of an anchor once ripped it open.’

Lucy touches a point on her bare arm and traces the pattern. An image forms: Daniel lying dead on a hospital gurney, the scar on his forearm lightning white against the surrounding skin. It’s such a shocking picture that her chin trembles, threatens to give.

Noakes finishes writing. ‘Can you tell me the last time you saw Mr Locke?’

‘Please,’ she says. ‘Not this “Mr and Mrs” stuff. His name’s Daniel. You can call me Lucy. I last saw him around eight this morning.’

‘Did he give you any indication where he was going?’

Again, Lucy casts her mind back: Daniel in the kitchen, staring through the window at the gunmetal clouds. ‘He told me he was going to work.’