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‘We’re getting to it. Guy here’s a bit … well, you’ll see.’
‘I’ll be right there.’
Abraham pockets his phone. He stares at the tote bag; at the Spider-Man booster seat; at the bottle of Talisker stuffed into the door pocket. Individual beats in an unfolding family tragedy. He thinks of the mother, venturing out across that hostile sea. Abraham doesn’t know much about Lucy Locke, but he does know one thing: however these last hours before darkness play out, her old life is over. A good chance it’ll never be rebuilt.
Exhaustion washes over him. He bares his teeth against it. He has a job to do here; people to help. His illness can damn well wait.
Abraham peers across the Volvo’s roof to the gap inthe breakwater. The first fishing trawler is returning. Black smoke chugs from its stacks as it surfs in. For a moment he fears it’ll smash straight into the quay. But its engine, churning the harbour water in full reverse, drags it back. Two oilskin-clad volunteers on the quay catch tossed lines.
To the officer guarding the Volvo, he says, ‘Don’t let anyone touch it.’ Blotting rain from his eyes, he gives her a closer look. ‘Are you warm enough?’
She offers him a bleak smile. ‘I’ll survive.’
Crossing the car park, head bowed against driving rain, Abraham calls Barnstaple. He should be back there already, running things from the newly established incident room. But events are moving so fast that by the time he returns this could be over.
A forensics team is inbound, tasked with the Volvo and the family yacht. In addition, Abraham requests a police search adviser from Middlemoor. The coastguard is leading the offshore search and rescue, but survivors could wash up anywhere along this stretch of coast.
It’s now 4.17 p.m. The distress call came in at 12.37. TheLazy Susanwas located thirty-six minutes later. If Daniel Locke and those kids are still out there, they’ve been in the water over three hours.
A wave – the largest yet – booms against the breakwater wall. A geyser of white water climbs sixty feet. Raising his shoulders, Abraham strides along the quay.
2
When he enters the shop, he understands Cooper’s warning. The proprietor – pot-bellied with a luxuriant grey ponytail – is dressed like an extra fromThe Lord of the Rings: riding boots, tan leather trousers, unbleached linen smock. His left forearm sports an archery bracer. One side of his face looks like it’s in painful retreat from an enormous white-headed boil growing in the crevice of his nose and cheek. The shop itself is piled high with games, comics and science-fiction merchandise. There are action figures, replica movie weapons, a full-sized Dalek. One corner is stuffed with blank canvasses, easels, paintbrushes and oils.
‘Greetings, traveller,’ says the man, from the stockroom doorway. When he fails to raise a smile, he glances at Cooper, behind him. ‘I hazard we’re met by another forthright officer of the law.’
Cooper throws Abraham a flat-eyed look. ‘Sir, this is Wayland Rawlings. He owns the place.’
‘Or perhaps it owns me,’ the man replies, eyes twinkling. ‘Such is the dichotomy of commercial enterprise.’
‘DI Rose,’ Abraham says. ‘Where’s the CCTV?’
‘Ah. You refer, of course, to our Orwellian older sibling.’
‘What?’
‘Big Brother,’ Rawlings explains. ‘Pray, do follow me.’
In the stockroom, a desk supports two widescreen monitors. An expensive-looking PC rig stands on the floor.
‘I’ve already shown your venerable colleague,’ Rawlingssays. ‘But I’ve rewound the footage so you can experience it first-hand.’
The left-hand monitor displays four frozen images in high-definition colour: an external shot of the quay, two interior shop views and a fourth of the stockroom. The time-stamp reads 11.19 a.m.
‘This set-up didn’t come cheap.’
‘Nor do our vendibles. We do what we can to protect them.’
‘There’s demand for this stuff in Skentel?’
‘Oh, we don’t sell much over the counter these days. Except, perhaps, for the art materials. We’re based here purely because of my romantic attachment to the sea. Most of our wares we hawk on that remarkable invention of Tim Berners-Lee.’
‘The internet,’ Cooper says, as if Abraham were ninety years old.
‘The information superhighway,’ Rawlings adds.
‘Show me the tape.’