Page 77 of The Rising Tide

‘Billie Locke, yes.’ Somewhere in the house a longcase clock is ticking, deep and sonorous. Beneath the mantelpiece, a log pops in the fire. ‘The Volvo was pointing towards you as you drove by?’

‘Away from Skentel. Towards Redlecker.’

‘Just one more question: you’re very precise with the time. Ten past eleven, you said.’

Bibi raises an eyebrow. ‘That’s a statement, not a question.’

‘I’m trying to understand why you’re so sure.’

‘Because right after I drove past, I looked at the dashboard clock and remarked on the time to Marjorie.’ Bibi taps her temple with a thin finger. ‘And then I memorized it.’

Abraham nods. In Bibi Trixibelle Carter, in different circumstances, he thinks he might have found a friend. He finishes his tea and looks around. Above an overstuffed bookcase hangs a cross. In one corner, a set of dusty carvings forms a nativity scene not packed away since Christmas.

He feels at peace here. Less forsaken, less alone. Since his arrival, he’s experienced absolutely no pain.

‘Would you like another cup of tea, Detective Inspector Rose?’

Say yes.

Stay a while.

Talk to her about something. About anything.

‘Abraham?’

He puts down his cup, dredging a smile from somewhere deep. ‘I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere.’

TWENTY-SIX

1

Early evening. Finally, a change in the weather.

The wind dies. The sea grows calmer than it’s been in days. The last clouds sail east, revealing a black sky pricked with stars. Above Mortis Point, a gibbous moon offers its light. And down on the sands of Penleith Beach, Skentel gathers for two of its own.

Lucy arrives with Noemie at around eight. They park at the tail of a long row of vehicles and climb the backshore dune. Beneath them, Penleith’s flat sand recedes gently towards the sea. The high tide has come and gone. Other than the boulders littering its southern flank, the beach looks like it did before the storm. Except, of course, for the crowd.

Lucy sees plenty of familiar faces: Jake Farrell is talking to his RNLI colleagues, Beth McKaylin among them. Wayland Rawlings from the hobby shop is in animated conversation with Ravinder Turkmish from the Bayleaf and Gordon and Jane Watson from the pharmacy. Matt Guinness, Lucy’s old classmate, is standing with his mother and a few of her friends.

The gathering hasn’t just attracted people from Skentel. Lucy also notices families from Fin’s school who live much further away. Marjorie Knox, the head teacher, is addressing a group that includes Miss Clay, who teaches Fin. She sees Ed, looking like he’s hardly slept, along with all Billie’s friends from college, her theatre group and her various volunteer networks. Then there are those Lucy recognizes but doesn’t know well, and an even larger number she doesn’t recognize at all – people from Redlecker, perhaps, or further inland. Already, attendance is in the hundreds. And a steady stream of vehicles is still bouncing down the track from the coast road.

Bamboo tiki torches have been thrust into the sand, yellow flames throwing off smoke. Two guys are feeding a driftwood bonfire close to where a row of trestle tables has been set up; Bee and Tommo are hard at work behind them, serving tea and coffee from six giant urns. Many in the crowd are holding jam jars suspended from wire handles, tealights burning inside them. Some wear glowstick bracelets or necklaces. Others carry flashlights or penlight torches.

One sight closes Lucy’s throat completely: the names of Billie and Fin, spelled out in huge letters on the sand from what must be hundreds, perhapsthousands, of candles flickering in glass containers. There’s something magical about it; something ineffably powerful. Lucy can almost feel the heat rising from her children’s names.

‘You OK?’ Noemie asks, and then curses. ‘Sorry. Keep asking that. Bloody stupid question.’

‘That press conference,’ Lucy replies, studying the crowd. ‘Everyone here must’ve seen it. By now, they all know Daniel’s been charged with murder. It isn’t true, because Billie and Fin are alive. But even thoughIknow that, they don’t – which means to most of them this is no longer a vigil, is it? It’s a wake.’

‘Oh, hon.’ Noemie looks like she’s holding back tears. ‘We don’t have to do this. We can turn around right now if you like. I can drive you back up to the house.’

‘No, I’m OK.’ From somewhere Lucy finds a smile. ‘Look at all these people. You guys … This wasexactlywhat we needed to do – get everyone together in one place and keep the focus on Billie and Fin. We just need to persuade them to keep looking, to have faith.’ She rolls her shoulders. ‘Let’s go down.’

2

Minutes later, she’s holding her own wire-handled jam jar as Luke Creese, the pastor from St Peter’s, lights its tealight.

‘Lucy,’ he says, touching her arm. ‘None of us can imagine what you’re going through. I know you’re not a regular at St Peter’s, but I’ve heard so many stories about you and Daniel, Billie and Fin. I feel like I’m getting to know all four of you. One thing I can say with absolute conviction – there’s aworldof love for you in Skentel. A world of love for you here tonight. If there’s anything I cando to support you – practically or spiritually – you only have to ask.’

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