The Rising Tide: the heart-stopping and addictive thriller from the Richard and Judy author(3)

‘Eh? Oh, I left Tommo in charge.’

‘Tommo? Is that— Do you trust him?’

Bee regards her strangely. ‘Dude, he’s my boyfriend. Of course I trust him.’

Still, Tommo’s a fresh catch, landed just six weeks ago. Lucy’s only met him once, and hardly in the best of circumstances. ‘Does he know how to—’

‘I called you loads,’ Bee says. ‘Thought I’d better hop up. They found the Lazy Susan.’

That throws her for a second. She’s never quite got used to the name of Daniel’s boat. Their boat, she corrects. Although if ownership were awarded on maintenance effort, Daniel could probably claim it. Lucy may have scrubbed barnacles one or two seasons, diving beneath the hull in full scuba, but it’s nothing to the effort Daniel’s sunk in. Hard work and heartbreak’s a price you don’t see going all-in on a forty-year-old yacht. A saner couple might have learned from the experience of renovating Wild Ridge. Not them.

‘They found her?’ Lucy frowns. ‘Who? Found her where?’

‘Just drifting, I think. Somewhere out to sea. They’re towing her in right now.’ Bee cranes her neck, angling for a peek down the hall. ‘So is Daniel here? I mean … shit, I know she’s not his boat, especially.’ She pulls out her vape pod and takes a hit, exhaling strawberry-scented smoke. Again, she glances past Lucy’s shoulder into the house.

Lucy sidesteps, blocking her view. And feels instantly strange. But the study is visible from the front door. She doesn’t want Bee to see what she’s been doing. ‘Are you saying someone stole her? From the dock?’

‘I’ve no idea. Some guy came in, talking about what he heard. Coastguard chatter, I think. Dunno much more than that, really, but I figured you guys should know.’ She shifts her weight from one Doc Marten to the other. ‘You … um … you good?’

Lucy feels another bead of water climb down her spine. The day feels like it’s unravelling. ‘Yeah, look. Thanks, Bee. I’d better throw on some clothes, find out what’s happening.’

‘You want me to come with?’

She shakes her head. ‘Can you get back to the Drift Net? I’m sure Tommo’s coping fine, but I’d feel better if you were there.’

Bee takes another hit of strawberries. ‘Sure, dude. I’ll skedaddle.’ She pivots and trips down the path.

They found the Lazy Susan. Just drifting, I think. Somewhere out to sea.

Lucy glances behind her. Stalking along the hall to the study is a draggle of wet footprints. Seeing them makes her shiver.

By the front gate, Bee drags her scooter from the bush. She hops on the deck plate and hums away down the lane.

Lucy stands in the doorway, watching. Three herring gulls fly over the house from the west. She knows what it means, a trio of those birds. Closing the door, she rushes back along the hall.





5


Plans change, and now Lucy’s plans have changed too. She hurries to the living room at the back of the house. It’s a cavernous space, dense with shadow. The rugs, bookcases and cracked-leather Chesterfields help anchor it. Dominating the far wall is a cast-iron mantel festooned with Gothic finials and pilasters. The air smells of woodsmoke, mixed with damp loam from the many houseplants Daniel grows. One corner’s so dense with foliage it looks like it’s been claimed by jungle.

Velvet drapes have been drawn across two huge windows bisected by stone mullions. Lucy crosses the room and yanks them apart. Light floods in. The view is astonishing.

Wild Ridge stands on the west-facing peninsula of Mortis Point, four hundred feet above the sea. The back lawn, flanked by cypresses and stone pines, recedes to a ring of natural terraces terminating in vertical cliff faces; beyond them, wild sea. Visible to the north is the crescent of sand forming Penleith Beach. Far below the peninsula’s southern flank lies Skentel.

From here, Lucy has a bird’s-eye view of the town. Its whitewashed buildings cluster around a steep cobbled street barely wide enough for a car. A curving stone breakwater protects its tiny harbour from the Atlantic.

This close to high tide, seawater slaps the quay. Unusually, most of the fishing boats are still tied up. The floating dock is cluttered with yachts. Smaller craft bob in the harbour, lashed to orange mooring buoys.

Lucy sees the lifeboat station, the Norman church and the Drift Net’s sloped roof. Out beyond the breakwater, chugging into harbour, she spots a Tamar-class lifeboat. It’s not the Skentel boat – this one must be from a station further along the coast. Towed behind it is the Lazy Susan.

Their navy-hulled yacht sits far too low in the water. Waves are breaking over the name painted on her bow. Two RNLI crew stand in the cockpit. The mainsail is furled, likewise the jib.

Something greasy hatches in Lucy’s stomach. Snatching binoculars from the cocktail cabinet, she takes a closer look. One of the RNLI crew is Beth McKaylin, owner of the Penny Moon campsite. The other volunteer Lucy doesn’t recognize. She snags the landline handset and calls Daniel.

Down on Penleith Beach, mobile reception isn’t great. After a two-second delay the call goes to voicemail: ‘Hi, you’ve reached Daniel Locke of Locke-Povey Marine …’

Lucy waits for the beep. ‘Hey, it’s me. Something’s up. Call me straight back when you get this.’