The Rising Tide: the heart-stopping and addictive thriller from the Richard and Judy author(8)

‘I just finished talking to your brother.’

‘Jake?’ Noemie blows out a breath. ‘Right, Jesus, so you know. I’m so sorry, Luce. It’s ridiculous. I didn’t believe it when I heard. When I couldn’t get hold of you, I came straight down. You just know Daniel’s going to be out there somewhere, floating around in that swanky life raft, embarrassed to hell about all the fuss. Probably why he hasn’t shown up yet.’

Lucy’s jaw muscles clench. It’s good to see Noemie, but her forced jollity is awful.

‘Did Jake have any update?’ Noemie asks. ‘I know a lot of the fishing boys just headed out.’

‘No one’s heard from Daniel since the distress call.’

‘When was that?’

‘Around half twelve, Jake said.’

The brief silence is loaded with meaning. Noemie’s tight smile can’t paper over it. ‘He only bought the life raft recently, didn’t he?’

‘It’s pretty much brand new.’

‘Doesn’t it have its own fresh-water system? Probably even churns out a decent latte.’

‘Location light, thermal floor, ballast pockets, torch and signal mirror.’ Lucy grimaces. Joining Noemie in this optimistic little deception feels like a mockery. Abruptly, she recalls something else from the Seago sales brochure. The realization is a knife sliding between her ribs.

‘They’ll find him,’ Noemie says, turning her eyes to the sea. ‘I know they will.’

Doubtless she also knows – just like Lucy and everyone else around here – how strong the currents are along this stretch of coast, how brutal the North Atlantic is in late winter. Skentel, after all, has a one-thousand-year tradition of losing its residents to the sea.

‘I haven’t seen him since Billie’s party,’ Noemie adds. ‘How’s he been?’

‘Fine,’ Lucy lies. ‘Better. Much better, actually.’

‘What about things with Nick? And the business generally? Did Daniel—’

‘I need to speak to the coastguard,’ Lucy says. ‘Beth McKaylin, too.’

Noemie hesitates, nods. ‘In that case I’d better tag along.’

They cross the quay and walk out along the breakwater. The Lazy Susan exhibits no signs of damage. Forty years old, with a fibreglass hull as tough as a Sherman tank, most of the essentials have long been replaced. Everything looks orderly and neat, just as it should.

As Lucy approaches, the group beside the yacht breaks off its discussion.

Beth McKaylin is first to speak, eyeing Lucy’s borrowed RNLI jacket with obvious disapproval. ‘You’re bloody lucky we found her. Another ten minutes and she’d have been on the bottom.’

Among Skentel’s natives, Beth’s surliness is well known. But this is personal – the pair have history. Anger rises like a welt in Lucy’s throat. ‘I don’t give a shit about the boat,’ she says. ‘Daniel’s still out there.’

‘Aye, and we’ll find him, sure enough – if that’s what he wants.’

Lucy stares, outraged. Chilling, how quickly everyone – from her best friend to Beth McKaylin – is groping towards a judgement. Only moments ago she’d wondered if Daniel’s disappearance was deliberate herself. But not because he’d abandoned them. Quite the opposite.

Before she can defend her husband, one of the coastguard officials clears his throat. ‘I’m Sean Rowland, station officer in Redlecker. I take it you’re Daniel’s partner?’

Rowland’s hand, when she shakes it, is reassuringly coarse. ‘Lucy Locke. I’m Daniel’s wife.’

‘This is your boat?’

‘Both of ours, yes.’

He nods encouragingly. ‘The direction finder calculated your husband’s bearing, even though he didn’t report it. That helped us plot the search area. Obviously, we’ve already found the yacht. He can’t have drifted too far.’

‘There’s a storm coming.’

Rowland checks the sky. ‘Just means we’ll have to work faster to wrap this up. You only need to look around to see the effort going into finding him. Daniel’s an experienced helmsman?’

‘Very.’

A thought resurfaces. Lucy didn’t want to confront it earlier. Now she has no choice. Because as well as the myriad features she listed to Noemie, the Seago life raft is equipped with three red hand flares and two parachute rockets. To Rowland, she asks, ‘Has anyone out there seen a flare?’

‘Nothing’s been reported that I know.’

Lucy lets that sink in. A wave slaps the breakwater’s outer wall; salt spray stings her cheeks. Only six weeks since the night she and Daniel sat up there, legs dangling, as snow fell on the ocean. Fur-lined parkas, champagne flutes borrowed from the Drift Net, a deluge of flakes so beautiful it rendered them both speechless.

She glances at the Lazy Susan, tries to silence the buzzing in her head. ‘I’d better take a look down below. See if there’s—’

‘Probably best if you didn’t.’ The female police officer steps forward. She’s taller than her colleague. Blonde hair, wide hips. ‘Not just yet. We’re still piecing together what happened.’

‘But Daniel may have left a note. Something that’ll—’