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The officer opens the starboard locker. ‘OK, I’ve got rope, quite a lot of it. Fire extinguisher, barbecue, petrol can. Ah, hang on. Yep. Big cream suitcase, Seago branding. “Offshore life raft”, it says.’
No air, suddenly, in Lucy’s chest. Beside her, Sean Rowland can’t hide his dismay. The police officer steps back on to the breakwater. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Locke. I’m sure that’s not what you wanted to hear. This all must be very confusing.’
Lucy nods, even though it isn’t. The facts couldn’t be clearer. Daniel took theLazy Susanout to sea. He radioedin a distress call. And now he’s missing – in the North Atlantic at its coldest, without the Seago life raft that cost them so much money.
She touches her lips, remembering Daniel’s bloodless kiss at breakfast; how she never pulled him into a hug. This morning, he’d been due to announce final redundancies at Locke-Povey Marine. Last night, considering it, he’d made himself physically sick.
‘Does Mr Locke have a car?’
The cry of a herring gull pulls Lucy’s gaze to the quay. Until now, she hadn’t given Daniel’s Volvo a thought. Did he go to his workshop, like he told her? Or did he drive straight to the harbour from the house? All the marked spaces along the quay are taken. The tiny car park at its southern end is obscured by the breakwater’s shoulder. Could the Volvo be there? It wasn’t at the bottom of Smuggler’s Tumble. There are few other places around here to leave a car.
‘Mrs Locke?’
She turns and finds the male police officer staring. ‘A Volvo XC90. Dark grey.’
‘The big SUV?’
Lucy nods.
‘I’m PC Lamb,’ he says. ‘This is PC Noakes. As Mr Locke went missing offshore, the coastguard’s coordinating search and rescue, but we’ll still need some details. Is there somewhere we could go?’
Lucy glances at theLazy Susan. She’s tempted to leap aboard and scramble through the hatch, just to see the cabin for herself, but how batshit crazy would that look? She needs these people onside. Her role, right now, is Daniel’s trustworthy onshore representative.
Her role is to be his wife.
THREE
1
The Drift Net stands in a prime position on Skentel’s quay. Wide windows either side of its front doors offer a panoramic view. Right now, the glass is hazy with condensation, evidence both of the approaching weather front and the espresso machine running at full tilt inside.
Shopfront businesses open and close with depressing regularity in Skentel. City people, disillusioned with corporate life, arrive armed with romantic ideas masquerading as business plans. They see the town in summer, heaving with tourist wallets, and decide it’s the perfect location for their craft brewery, organic juice bar or boutique record shop. A grand opening follows: trays of Prosecco and faces flushed with delight. And six months later – perhaps a year if a house has been remortgaged or an inheritance spent – the stock disappears, the front door is locked and the windows become advertising hoardings for whichever travelling circus is next to visit.
In general, only two types of business survive. Localstaples like the pharmacy and post office, or high-season shops that make enough during the summer months to close up in winter.
From the start, Lucy wanted to appeal to tourists and locals alike. To succeed, her business would have to be a chameleon, changing its skin with the seasons: a hub for natives to patronize and visitors to discover.
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 shedid 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 thekitchen 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.’