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‘Take the wheel,’ Jake shouts. ‘I’ll get on the radio.’
Lucy switches positions. He disappears below. She keeps the yacht pointed west, aiming for a gap between the boats returning to harbour. Waves are breaking in all directions. A large one hits from port, swamping the deck. Cold water bursts over her, pouring down the inside of her jacket.
Moments later,Huntsman’s Daughterplunges down the back of another monster. Its trough is so deep she can’t see the oncoming flotilla. When she glances past the stern, even the breakwater has disappeared.
At last, the yacht rises out of its trench. Lucy sees the boats again. Most are shallow-draught fishing vessels, a few day cruisers among them. She wants to get on the horn, urge them to turn around. But the cruisers aren’t designed for these conditions. Even the fishing boats have dangerously pushed their luck. As one of them passes to starboard, its skipper shakes his head at her.
Jake emerges from below and seals the hatch. ‘Coastguard’s reporting waves up to twenty feet past the Point. Winds of forty knots and forecast to get far worse.’ He looks past her to the boats struggling back to Skentel, grimacing as another wave bursts across the bow. ‘You can’t blame them.’
She doesn’t. But of all the days her family could go missing at sea, why this one?
‘Not everyone’s coming in,’ Jake adds. ‘I spoke to a few skippers still in the search area. Good guys. They’ll keep looking, long as they possibly can.’
Which means – whichhasto mean – that no one’s been found.
Lucy’s stomach spasms. She tenses, feels it spasm again. Surrendering the wheel, she leans over the rail and vomits. For a moment she hangs there, staring into the sea. The water’s so turbulent it looks carbonated. Oxygen fizzes in the energy released from colliding waves.
Wiping her mouth, she turns back to Jake. ‘Where’re we headed?’
‘Coastguard plotted a search pattern using SARIS. They took a start position from where our lifeboat found theLazy Susan. Tidal drift’s carrying north-easterly and wind’s still from the west. They’ve got a pretty solid grid mapped out. Trouble is, seas like these, people get lost in the troughs. Easier from the sky, but up there they’ve got their own problems. On the water you have to be up close with the waves falling right, just to stand a chance.’
He sets his jaw. ‘Sorry. I know that’s not easy to hear. At least we still have light.’
But even that is dying.
‘I’m going to run up some sail,’ Jake tells her. ‘I need you to take the wheel again.’ He nods at the deck-mounted ball compass. ‘Keep her pointed at three hundred. Watch out for rogue waves. Some of these are easily big enough to flip us.’
Bracing her feet, Lucy steadies the wheel. All around her she sees foaming water, jagged white peaks. While Jake prepares to unfurl and reef the mainsail, she lets herself cry – huge, wracking sobs that spiral away on the wind. Afew minutes of that and she can concentrate again, on their bearing and the waves and the dipping and lifting bow. Clenching her teeth, she pushes out a thought:Where are you? Please show me.Perhaps, if she focuses hard enough, her family will find a way to answer.
Rain, sharp as needles, stings her face. To starboard, water pulls away from the boat as a giant wave begins to build. Lucy spins the wheel, turningHuntsman’s Daughterto face it. She doesn’t react fast enough. When the wave breaks across the deck, water surges into the cockpit, lifting her off her feet. The yacht rolls wildly. She’s so frightened of being swept away that she forgets for a moment that she’s tethered. Water floods her salopettes and soaks her dungarees – so shockingly cold that it flushes Lucy’s head of thoughts.
Jake clambers back into the cockpit. With the mainsail uncovered, he starts winching. Bit by bit the canvas rises, spooling out from the boom. The wind is wailing now, a banshee lament. Lucy turns the wheel. The sail flaps once and fills.
Jake puts his hand on her shoulder. She wants to lean into him, resists. She wants to close her eyes, wrap her arms around his neck and imagine this all away. Instead, she sets her gaze on the sea.
NINE
1
Ten minutes afterHuntsman’s Daughtercasts off, officers locate Daniel Locke’s Volvo. Abraham Rose gets the call in the Drift Net, while he’s talking to coastguard officials.
When he steps outside, a fist of wind punches him backwards. The harbour looks like the inside of a washing machine – a sudsy froth churned up by the huge swell. Rain blows from one direction, then another. Within seconds, he’s soaked through.
He finds Locke’s Volvo at the back of the quayside car park. A female police officer stands beside it, chin tucked against the storm. Abraham flashes his card. ‘You touch anything?’
‘No, sir.’
He peers through the driver’s window. Inside, the car’s spotless – not a mote of dust or streak of dried mud. On the passenger seat is a Spider-Man booster seat. A canvas tote bag lies on the back seat.
Pulling on a latex glove, Abraham tries the door. It popsopen with a clunk. The female officer shoots him a doleful look. Even in Skentel, people lock their cars – unless they’re not coming back. When the door swings open, the glint of glass catches his eye. He sees, in the door pocket, a bottle of Talisker single malt. Half of the whisky’s been consumed.
Abraham pulls out his mobile. He dials Billie Locke’s number, ducking his head inside the car. The first two attempts fail. On the third, the call connects. On the Volvo’s back seat, blue light glows through the tote bag’s fabric. There’s a waspy vibration. In his ear he hears the girl’s voice: ‘Hey, you’ve reached the auditions for Billie’s favourite voicemail message. Don’t screw it up!’
Abraham hangs up, his gaze returning to the whisky bottle. Immediately, his phone shrills. He straightens so abruptly he whacks his head on the Volvo’s roof.
‘I’m in that hobby shop on the quay,’ Cooper says. ‘A few doors down from the Drift Net. They have CCTV.’
‘Daniel Locke?’