Page 88 of The Rising Tide

‘Lucy was at home?’

‘Uh-huh. Just stepped out of the shower. Most days she’d have been down at the Drift Net, making orders or helping out. But Friday she was doing her accounts up at the house.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because, like, there was paperwork scattered all over. Dude, is this relevant?’

‘Probably not.’ Abraham feels a cough coming from deep in his lungs. He breathes slowly, trying to suppress it. ‘Prior to Friday, was Lucy worried about anything? Did she talk much about her relationship with Daniel? How things were going?’

‘She talked about Billie and Fin. Lucy was so proud of them, so nurturing. A real mama bear.’ Tavistock’s throat bobs as she swallows. ‘Sorry. I still can’t believe they’re gone. They were like my niece and nephew, those two.’

She blinks away tears. ‘It’s no secret things with Daniel’s business were pretty dire. The money had them worried, but it never affected their relationship. They were the love story of Skentel. Kind of couple where you’d get burned by the sparks if you stood too close.’

Abraham nods. The cough is building again, a real chest-ripper. His lungs feel like they’re filling with glue. Heglances down at his notes and sees something that chills his blood: the inked motif that’s haunted him in recent weeks, finally complete. There are his initials and date of birth. But the dome that previously protected them has grown vertical walls edged with moss. Abraham sees it for what it is: a gravestone, solid and stark.

There’s no epitaph. Nothing to suggest he’ll be missed.

‘Let’s take a break,’ he croaks.

Bee Tavistock studies him like she’s watching a condemned man.

5

An hour later, he’s standing beside the Taw, smoking another cigarette. The river’s running higher than he’s ever seen it, dirty brown and cluttered with storm debris. He can’t stop thinking about one of Bee Tavistock’s throwaway comments: that when she went up to Mortis Point on Friday, Lucy had just stepped out of the shower.

Had she? Or was she drying off after a high-speed trip back to shore in the family dinghy? Wild thought: what if Lucy Locke was aboard theLazy Susanprior to the distress call? What if this started as a plan for insurance money but morphed into something darker? What if Daniel agreed to go missing, not expecting to almost lose his life? Perhaps Lucy decided she’d be better off if her husband didn’t come back. If so, that might explain his anger. But why confess to the murder of his kids? And how does Billie Locke’s death fit? Was that another accident? Why bind her feet, in any case?

Abraham crushes out his cigarette. Right now, he’s certain of only one thing: both Daniel Locke and Lucy Locke are lying to him. He doesn’t know what they’re hiding. But he does have an opportunity to find out.

Before that, though, he has an appointment he’s anticipating with a good deal more relish.

6

The strains of a piano greet his arrival. Abraham recognizes the hymn: ‘Abide With Me’. The playing is so beautiful that he waits outside the front door, head bowed, until it’s over. Five minutes later he’s sitting in Bibi Trixibelle Carter’s living room, drinking another cup of her excellent Earl Grey.

‘I saw you on television earlier,’ Bibi says. ‘That poor girl. It’s devastating news. Too tragic for words. It must be a very harrowing thing to investigate.’

‘We’re fortunate that events like these are incredibly rare. But that does make them all the more upsetting when they occur.’

‘Despite the awful circumstances, I will say it’s nice to see you again,’ Bibi tells him. ‘I feared your last visit would be exactly that.’

Abraham nods, but his heart soars. How strange, the effect this old woman has on him. ‘There’s something I wanted you to see,’ he says, opening a folder. ‘You told me you saw two vehicles parked in that lay-by Friday morning. A grey Volvo and a smaller black car.’

From the folder he takes a colour printout. It’s a still from the CCTV camera in Wayland Rawlings’ quayside hobby shop. Yesterday, Abraham tasked his team to sift through all the available footage. He was looking, specifically, for sightings of black cars. The team found eight; but it’s this one – Lucy Locke’s Citroën C1 – that interests him. ‘Look at it a while before you answer,’ he says. ‘Was that the vehicle you saw on Friday morning?’

Bibi frowns, affronted. ‘I don’t need awhile, Detective Inspector. I know I said a hatchback, but this is far too small. Before you ask if I’m sure, I’d stake my life on it – and believe me, I don’t make such a wager lightly.’

It’s good enough for Abraham. The figure in grey Bibi saw beside the Volvo could still be Lucy Locke, but he came here expecting to confirm it. He sips his tea and looks around the room. Just like his last visit, his pain has vanished. That aching heaviness in his chest has all but melted away.

To prolong the moment, Abraham reopens his folder. He retrieves seven more images of black cars, all harvested from the quayside CCTV. There’s nothing to suggest a connection. He knows he’s imposing on Bibi’s time without justification, but he doesn’t want to leave, not yet. ‘How about any of these?’

Bibi takes the proffered images. ‘Too big,’ she says, dismissing two SUVs. ‘Not this one, either – it’s a saloon. Nor this Ford.’

Only three remain: a Lexus, a Toyota and a Vauxhall. ‘This one has a surfboard and there was definitely no surfboard on the one I saw.’ Bibi points to the Lexus. ‘What’s that little green window sticker?’

‘It’s too small to make out.’

‘Hmm.’ She examines the Toyota. ‘Are those fluffy dice?’

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