Page 3

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 acavernous 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 theLazy 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.’
People are coming on to the waterfront, now. Someone points at the Drift Net. Someone else raises a finger towards Mortis Point.
They found theLazy Susan. Just drifting, I think. Somewhere out to sea.
Lucy lowers the binoculars. If she leaves in the next few minutes, she’ll beat the lifeboat to the quay. Upstairs, she throws on dungarees and boots. Back in the hall, she grabs her keys from the console table. In the black-spotted wall mirror, she catches her reflection. Her face betrays her disquiet, rust-flecked brown eyes showing too much white. The pallid light has bleached her skin. Her hair, hanging in wet blonde ringlets, offers barely any contrast. She looks like something washed up by the tide from a place deep down dark.
By the front door, she taps the barometer’s glass housing. The mercury plummets further. No wonder most of the fishing fleet’s still in harbour. Everyone’s been warnedof what’s coming. The rapidly changing pressure suggests something even worse.
Outside, a salt wind hisses among the cypresses. Lucy climbs into her Citroën and guns the engine. Her mobile phone’s on the passenger seat where she left it. She taps the screen and it wakes: no messages; no calls; no reception. Tyres spitting stones, she reverses off the drive.
6
The lane takes her east. Little chance of meeting traffic on the peninsula. She drives as fast as she dares.
Reaching the coastal road, Lucy heads south. She doesn’t take the Skentel turn-off, which leads down to the harbour via the cobbled main street. Instead she uses Smuggler’s Tumble, a series of unpaved switchbacks dropping through pine forest to the shore. At the bottom she parks on the gravel circle where anglers sometimes leave their cars.
The air reeks of pine sap and seaweed. As Lucy emerges on to the shingle, a chill wind snatches at her clothes. This close, the ocean looks oily and dark. The swell is far higher than it seemed from Mortis Point. Breakers boom as they collapse into foam.
Crunching along the beach, Lucy checks her watch. Quarter past two. Only a few hours until the storm makes landfall. She thinks about trying Daniel again, but her phone is still flatlining. Reaching the breakwater’s shoulder, she climbs the steps cut into its face.
A crowd has gathered on the quay. Even outside tourist season, lifeboat launches attract interest. All eyes are onthe Tamar-class as it tows the stricken yacht through the entrance channel.
Lucy hurries along the breakwater, her eyes on the oncoming boats. She presses through the gathered onlookers, catching snatches of conversation.
‘…said they own the Drift Net…’
‘…just in time, if you ask me…’
‘…lucky it’s still pretty calm…’
Water spurts in a thick gush from theLazy Susan’s bilge outlet. A salvage pump, presumably installed by the lifeboat crew, discharges seawater via a hose slung over the side.
Beth McKaylin stands at the bow rail. As the yacht closes with the breakwater, she tosses a dock line to a harbour official. More lines are thrown. On the lifeboat, a crewman detaches the towline.