Blind Sea Reach E-Book

Paul Mackereth

• Herausgeber: Valley Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 444

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A sudden procession of larger waves. A flash of hair in the sunlight. Then the sea. Only the sea. When Coastguard Officer Jen Grundel discovers a dangerous secret about the Blyndsea Bay lifeboat, she is driven by an earlier tragedy to investigate. Shunned by her colleagues and rocked by news that could mean the end of the East Coast lifeboat station, she plunges into the treacherous waves of conspiracy and crime that threaten to engulf her home town – and her family. Jen knows that you ignore the sea's blind reach at your peril, even if it means ditching the rulebook and putting yourself in the firing line.

Leseprobe

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Blind Sea Reach

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Paul Mackereth

Valley Press

Author’s Note

This novel is deeply informed by my time working for HM Coastguard, a few years either side of 2010. Although the characters and also the events I describe are completely fictional, that’s not to say they couldn’t happen. In fact, one of the seeds of inspiration emerged from quiet-time discussions with former watch colleagues who combined professional coastguard duties with volunteering for their local lifeboat.

On that note, I would like to dedicate this novel to the many hard-working coastguards who taught me so much, both those based at MRCC Humber, especially my former colleagues on C Watch, led by Tony Tuton, and others I met at the HMCG training centre at Highcliffe. And also to all the devoted volunteers who work alongside coastguard ops rooms at the pointy end of search and rescue.

HM Coastguard has changed immensely since my day, so many of the work practices I describe will have changed, ultimately for the better. My gratitude and respect goes out to the UK’s real fourth emergency service.

A boy, a beach, a perfect breezeless day.

Sou’wester-yellow sand, unblemished blue sky: both stretch away beyond the boy’s imagination. At sand’s end a different, endless, rippling blue begins.

The boy sees the sun and runs towards it, high in the blue that lingers above.

He is alone.

Behind him a group of older children sit in a circle. Beyond them, the boy knows, are shops and stalls with people milling in the morning sun.

But not on the beach. Not with him.

He is alone.

The boy stops. He digs his toes into the sand. This far from the sea, the grains are bone dry. He tilts his head back and stretches his eyes as wide as they go. His retinas speckle with light spots and he spins until he is so dizzy he falls, laughing, onto the sand.

As his eyes clear, his gaze settles on the outline of a flat, picture-book shell half buried in golden sand. He tugs the shell free, brushes away the loose grains and cups it in his hand. It fits his palm precisely.

The boy looks up. He has fallen facing the sea. Maybe he’ll find more shells down by the water’s edge?

The water is closer now. He can hear the lap of tiny wet waves on cool, damp sand.

He stands. Glances around. Takes a step. Walks forward.

Towards the sea.

One

Jen stared at the tree on the clifftop, its outline stark against a leaden North Sea sky. It was too early in the year for greenery, making it easier to see the trimmed remains of a makeshift noose dangling from a branch. Below the tree, two white-clad scenes of crime officers crouched over a corpse. The rope twitched in the fresh breeze. One of the officers stood and batted it away. Outside the cordon, local bobbies, paramedics and coastguard volunteers loitered, chatting, jobs done.

Jen didn’t feel like she belonged here, not yet at least. She should be down on the water with the inshore lifeboat searching for any other performers in this clifftop tragedy. Or back at the ops room, coordinating the incident with her coastguard colleagues. Instead, she was stuck here in a frigid field, marooned in the passenger seat of a coastguard staff car.

A tractor from the nearby farm clattered past. It towed a tank full of slurry and the stink oozed between the car doors’ seals. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. A couple of the coastguards in blue overalls waved a greeting to the tractor driver who nodded back with barely concealed disinterest.

The socialising emergency crews swirled and a familiar figure burst from a conversational eddy. He picked his way across the freshly ploughed field, heading for the huddle of cars parked at the farm a few hundred metres back from the cliff edge. Jen wound down the window and called him over. Eric looked up, smiled, lifted a hand and changed direction towards her. He clutched his tired suit jacket against his chest to protect against the wind. Clearly not dressed for the occasion, Jen thought. He’d probably come straight from a sales call.

‘Hey, Dad. What’re you doing here?’

‘Might ask you the same question, love,’ Eric said. ‘I’m guessing your lot are ‘ere to stop the coppers stumbling over the cliff edge, but why’re you sat in the car like a bloody spare part?’

‘Sam asked me to run comms,’ said Jen. ‘More like “keep the desk jockey out from under the search team’s feet”.’

‘Idiot. As if you’ve never recovered a body before,’ her dad shook his head. ‘Have they found ’owt on the beach?’

‘Not yet, the coppers reckon no other parties involved. Looks like the guy just turned up and topped himself.’

A distant, high-pitched buzz grew in volume until it threatened to drown out the whistle of the wind through the tree’s branches. Jen and Eric both turned their heads to follow the sound. A small orange inflatable rounded a pinch in the cliff face and skipped towards them over the whitecaps.

‘Inshore lifeboat’s a bit close in, isn’t it?’ Eric muttered, his face lined with concern.

Jen ignored her dad’s comment. She was too busy shivering in the nithering breeze blowing through the open car window. She leaned over to crank up the heater.

‘The poor sod drove up from Morley this morning,’ Jen said. ‘His suicide note says he used to come here on holiday as a kid. So much for happy memories.’

Eric didn’t reply. She grabbed a McDonald’s napkin from the bundle in the centre console and blew her nose, jolting her father out of his thoughts.

‘Morley? Bloody Wessies. They think we’ve got nowt better to do than fish their bodies out of the sea?’

‘Or chop them down from trees,’ Jen replied. She paused before asking her next question. She already knew the answer. ‘So, what are you doing here?’

‘I’d just finished up with a new customer near Eastpool, and I heard your sister’s crew number on my scanner.’

Jen sighed. ‘Dad—’

His gaze was pulled back down to the small orange inshore lifeboat. The ILB had turned a mile or so to the south and was tracking back along the surf-line to complete its search.

‘I know I shouldn’t worry, but Hazel’s still a bit green for this kind of job.’

‘What kind of job?’

‘Body recovery.’

‘The body was up here, I just watched it get hacked down from that tree. You don’t seem too concerned about the delicacy of my feelings.’

‘I’m sorry, love. But your sister – she’s not got your balls. Don’t look at me like that, Jen.’

‘Christ, Dad. Balls? Seriously?’

Eric winced. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve only just started on with this new firm, I can’t be getting fired for moonlighting on lifeboat business so soon into the piece.’

‘Aye, go on then. I’ll tell Hazel you hope she doesn’t chip her nails clambering out of the bloody lifeboat.’ Jen watched her dad trudge down to the farmyard, shoulders hunched against more than just the early spring chill.

Jen was out for the day with Sam, Flitcombe sector manager for HM Coastguard. Sam should have been briefing her on the intricacies of this steep, cliff-lined shore, but having only moved to Yorkshire from the Solent a couple of months ago, he was hardly an expert. In contrast, Jen’s upbringing five miles further north in the bosom of the Blyndsea Bay fishing and lifeboat community meant she knew this coastline as well as anyone could.

In an effective reversal of their roles, Jen had taken great pleasure in lecturing Sam on the unique characteristics of this stretch of the Yorkshire coastline. He hadn’t been impressed but, fair play to him, he’d taken it with grace. True to form, she’d got carried away with the task in hand, and neither coastguard had complained when the ops room radioed through with this job. Not even when the incident turned out to be a suicide. It was just a shame it offered Sam a chance to level the score by lumbering Jen with comms duties. Still, a morning patronising Sam was never time wasted, and it gave her a day off from humouring the rest of her watch in the ops room.

The sound of the car door being wrenched open against the wind startled Jen back into the present. Sam clambered in behind the wheel, still kitted out in his foul weather hi-vis.

‘How you getting on?’ he asked.

‘Bored. Obviously. Are we done?’

He grinned. ‘Thanks for staying in the car and dealing with the radio traffic, Jen. I’m sure you’d rather have been out there with the rescue team getting your hands dirty. But it was a great help, and right up your street, what with you being such a local expert. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

‘You really are a tosser, do you know that?’ she said.

‘It’s just one of the many things I know you love about me, Jen.’ He turned the key in the ignition. ‘Call in to the ops room, will you. Tell them we’re closing down here and heading over to Blyndsea Lifeboat Station for a debrief.’

‘What was that?’

‘Blyndsea boathouse. Tell the ops room we’re going for a debrief.’ He turned down the heater. ‘Christ, it’s like a furnace in here.’

Jen shook her head and picked up the radio handset. ‘Been here over a month and still saying Blynd like it rhymes with wind. No wonder everyone thinks you’re a southern ponce.’

She looked pointedly at Sam as she spoke into the handset, ‘Holderness Coastguard, this is Flitcombe Sierra, leaving scene and heading to Blindsea boathouse for debrief.’

‘Bloody northern monkeys can’t even speak properly,’ Sam said, putting the car in gear. ‘Right, Blindsea Bay here we come. I’m gagging for a debrief.’

‘You mean a brew?’ Jen said.

‘Damn right. It’s freezing in that wind. You should be glad I let you stay nice and warm in the car.’

Jen shook her head. ‘Wanker.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sam busy navigating the rutted farm track in a coastguard Astra definitely not built for the job, and Jen still stewing on how he’d sidelined her at the suicide.

Sam nudged her with his elbow and glanced over. ‘Hey, you know those earthquakes they’ve had out in Nepal? I got a call last night from the disaster relief charity I volunteer with.’

‘Right,’ Jen said. Sam had only recently started working in Flitcombe, but their paths had collided a few times at the coastguard training centre down south. She knew him pretty well, a bit too well given recent developments, and had heard him talk before about his overseas rescue work.

Sam continued. ‘Yeah, they wanted to know if I was available to go out and join the recovery op.’

‘What, now? Like in the next few days?’

‘Yeah, should be fun.’

Jen raised her eyebrows in surprise.

Search and rescue as a day job was one thing, but it was a bit sad wasting your hard-earned holiday time in the back of beyond volunteering on disaster recovery. But, on second thoughts, perhaps that was a bit harsh on Sam. She volunteered for Blyndsea lifeboat and could easily be labelled as another search and rescue sad case. To give Sam his dues, unlike a lot of the wannabe action men rescue volunteers she knew, he wasn’t bragging to impress her. He simply lived for search and rescue. It would be endearing, if he didn’t go on about it quite so much.

‘Does Bob Hicks know about this?’ she asked.

‘I tried to catch him this morning when I picked you up at the MRCC, but he hadn’t arrived by the time we headed out. Why, do you reckon he’ll have a problem?’

‘What? With you being in the job a couple of months and buggering off to all parts already?’ She scoffed. ‘I don’t think he’ll stop you – I mean disaster relief work is virtuous and all that – but you’re not exactly endearing yourself to your new boss are you?’

Sam glanced at her and frowned. ‘Shit, I hadn’t really thought of it like that.’

‘Well, think on, Sam.’

Jen turned to stare out through the windscreen, shaking her head and reflecting on how she’d ended up in a car on the Yorkshire coast with Sam bloody Tennyson. He was pretty enough, and definitely smart, but he could be damned naïve at times.

‘I can’t believe they gave the Flitcombe Sector job to a southern tosser like you.’

Sam looked round laughing, no doubt expecting to see Jen’s barb softened with a smile. It wasn’t. She meant it. His face dropped as he turned back to stare at the road.

Sam drove onto The Landing, a short, wide road-cum-launch ramp leading down to a compact sandy beach huddled in the rocky shelter of Blyndsea Reach to the north. He picked a course through the few tourists brave enough to face the March weather and found a parking space near the lifeboat station. Sam slid the car between two cobles, the traditional open wooden fishing boats still common along this stretch of Yorkshire coast.

The boathouse tractor ground up from the beach with the small inshore lifeboat in tow. A couple of shore crew stood ready outside the boathouse with the jet wash. No self-respecting coxswain would let a boat back in the shed still covered in sand and salt water.

Jen waved to the owner of the shellfish stall across The Landing. It was almost Easter, but poor weather was keeping the day-trippers away. With so few tourists about there’d be scant trade in seafood today.

Everything stopped for the repetitive beep of the tractor as it backed the ILB towards the boathouse doors.

The shore crew set to work washing down the ILB. Jen and Sam slipped past; Jen dodging the jet of water predictably sprayed in her direction. She flicked a two-fingered salute in return, not bothering to shout an insult over the jet wash’s piercing whine. The large orange and blue all-weather lifeboat dominated the left-hand side of the boathouse and, behind it, high on the wall, was the long row of honours boards. Notable rescues performed by either lifeboat were listed in neat white lettering. Over to the right, the walls were lined with smartly painted metal lockers. Bright fluorescent overhead lights glinted on polished metal and the grey-coated concrete floor was spotless. Everything was in its place.

Jen spotted her father in the small wood-and-glass-fronted office in the back corner of the boathouse, next to the galley. He was leaning over his cluttered desk, showing something to Arthur Sykes, a short, balding, grey-haired man standing next to him. Whatever Eric was pointing at, Arthur was shaking his head, his face red.

‘What’s that all about?’ asked Sam.

‘No idea. Dad told me he was off back to work, not coming down here.’

‘Who’s that with him?’

‘You’ve not met Arthur Sykes?’ Jen was surprised. Liaison with other search and rescue officials was part of Sam’s job. ‘He’s Blyndsea Bay’s Lifeboat Operations Manager. It’s not like him to be down here, unless there’s press or dignitaries to coddle up to.’

‘Ah, the famous Mr Sykes. Got to admit I’ve been avoiding him,’ said Sam. ‘His reputation as a pain in the arse proceeds him.’ He glanced at Jen to gauge her reaction. ‘Or am I being indiscreet?’

She laughed. ‘I’ve known Arthur Sykes ever since I can remember. “Pain in the arse” doesn’t do him justice.’

In the office, Eric glanced up, shoulders stiff. He looked like he was about to snap at Arthur, then he noticed the two coastguards watching on. He muttered something instead, clearly relieved they’d been interrupted, and came to the office door.

‘Afternoon, Sam. And what’s this? Are you following me, Jen?’ He smiled and the worry lines around his eyes creased deeper. ‘Now, you’re not going to have another go at me about Hazel, are you?’

‘What’s that about Hazel?’

Jen turned to find her sister heading over from the lockers. Hazel’s dry suit was half off, the arms dangling from her waist. Snug thermals hugged her slim figure. Wind-chapped cheeks gave her face a healthy glow and she managed to look pretty despite the strands of wet blonde hair straggling carelessly down her face and on to her shoulders.

Jen nodded at her sister’s perfect nail polish. ‘Hope you didn’t chip that?’

‘Of course not. Thanks for noticing though, Sis.’

Jen huffed. Too nice for her own good, this one.

‘This family catch-up is lovely, but it’s not getting me a cup of tea, is it?’ Sam said. Both Eric and Hazel turned to look at Jen.

‘Oh, right, that’ll be me then?’ she said. ‘A great day out from the ops room this is turning out to be.’

‘Cheers, Sis. It was brassic out there. Lucky you got to chat on the radio, all nice and warm in Sam’s car.’ Hazel smiled at Sam, then headed back to the lockers. She stripped off the dry suit as she walked, elegantly stepping out of the baggy yet constrictive gear.

‘Some girl, that sister of yours,’ Sam said, watching Hazel pull jeans on over her tight thermals.

‘Hey, she’s only eighteen, you sad git.’

‘And I’m only thirty. You don’t think?’ Jen’s narrowing eyes stopped him in his tracks. ‘Point taken. So, fancy a pint this weekend, Jen?’

‘I’ll make you that cup of tea, shall I?’ Jen replied. ‘And you can think about what you’ve just said. I suggest you think very carefully.’

Two

Holderness Maritime Rescue and Coordination Centre, known as the MRCC, enjoyed a privileged position perched on the cliff above Eastpool bay. The first-floor operations room, fully glazed to three sides, looked out on the four-mile eastward march of Highwold Horn into the North Sea. Just south of the headland, a cardinal buoy flashed above the sandbank that protected the broad bay from storms blowing in off the sea. Yachts and dinghies played in the placid inshore waters and fast potters dodged between, servicing their fleets of crab pots. To the south, the flat plain of Holderness curved away towards Spurn Point.

Above it all sat the MRCC, surveying all points seaward. It was an enviable lookout, but these days the location was largely cosmetic. Holderness MRCC’s patch covered some two hundred miles of coastline between Berwick-upon-Tweed and Cleethorpes, and the modern-day coastguard kept an electronic watch. In theory, you could do the job from Birmingham.

Jen glanced up as Brenda waddled into the ops room with a plate of bacon and eggs. Brenda placed the breakfast in front of Barry, the watch manager, along with a clean tea towel. Barry pushed aside his computer screens and slid his keyboard back to make room for his plate.

‘Champion, Brenda,’ said Barry. ‘Black pudding as well, eh?’

‘It was on offer in Morrisons, and I know you like it.’

‘Love it, Brenda. Did I ever tell you about the Admiral’s Breakfast at the Trinity House do?’

A collective groan rumbled around the ops room.

‘Oh, it’s like that, is it?’ Barry tucked the tea towel into his collar. ‘Jen, you’re in the chair for the next five minutes.’

Jen grunted, engrossed in the information on her screen. With Brenda on galley duties, Jen knew she’d be last in line for breakfast.

The watch had been quiet so far. Routine calls from fishing boats checking their radios worked and the odd yachtie lodging a passage plan. To her right sat Sally, a watch assistant. Trevor, another watch officer like Jen – and Brenda – stood at the chart table.

‘Two minutes, Trevor,’ Brenda said. ‘I’ll need that chart table for the tea and toast.’

Trevor threw down his dividers. ‘I’m in the middle of plotting a search plan ’ere.’

Brenda glanced at the chart. ‘You’ve found your datum? Well, get your fag packet out and draw a rectangle round that – it was good enough for us in the old days, wasn’t it, Barry?’

‘Damn right it was.’ Barry coughed round a mouthful of egg.

Twin banks of desks covered with an array of monitors and radio equipment faced each other across the chart table. Stacked drawers beneath the glass-topped table contained maritime charts for Holderness’s entire patch. Near the head of the chart table was the watch manager’s desk, where Barry sat, still eating his breakfast.

Speakers blared out sporadic radio traffic from passing ships, interspersed with ‘ops normal’ checks from the odd coastguard rescue team out on routine patrol.

On the sole windowless wall, a giant screen displayed a digital chart of England’s east coast. A rash of small yellow triangles tracked the live positions of ships, both those in transit and others moored in clusters off the busier ports.

‘Hurry up with that toast, Brenda love,’ Barry said. ‘I need sommat to mop up my beans.’

Ops room coastguards tended to have predictable job histories: the services, the Merchant Navy, the trawler fleet. Barry was fished from the latter.

‘Brenda?’ Jen said, not looking up from her screens.

‘Jen,’ Brenda replied over her shoulder, not breaking stride on her way out to the galley.

‘I’m just reading through the logs for the suicide job yesterday.’

Brenda stopped, turned slowly, and came back to stand in front of Jen’s workstation. Her shoulders were tensed, lips tight. ‘Why’s that then, Jen?’

Jen looked up. ‘I was on scene, Brenda. I was interested. It’s called doing the job.’

‘Easy, Jen,’ said Barry.

‘All I wanted to say, Brenda, was that your comms log from yesterday seems to have missed out a lot of the actual radio traffic.’

‘They were routine calls, nothing major worth noting. And we had other jobs on.’

‘Are you being deliberately dense? This was a suicide. There’ll be a coroner’s inquest. The radio log is part of the evidence.’

‘That’s enough, Jen,’ said Barry. ‘Brenda, finish off in the galley. Jen, a word.’

Brenda smirked. ‘Sorry, Jen, I think that’s your bacon I can smell burning.’

Jen trailed Barry into the conference room next door. She expected him to tell her to calm down in his usual condescending way and was annoyed at herself for providing him with the opportunity. She had remained calm, right up until Brenda’s smug comment about the bacon.

Jen glanced around the room, taking a moment to compose herself. Chairs were stacked below the windows and a large whiteboard on wheels was pushed into a corner. Just inside the door was an electronic smartboard, supposedly used for PowerPoint presentations. It was covered in flipchart paper. Jen couldn’t think of anyone else on station who actually knew how to work the thing.

Barry was already sitting at the conference table. Impatient, he gestured to the other chairs. ‘Pick any one you want, Jen, in your own time.’

Jen pulled out a chair and sat facing Barry. The tea towel was still tucked into his shirt.

‘Have you calmed down?’

Jen smiled. ‘I’m perfectly calm. I’ve told you, Barry, I’ve stopped getting wound up by what Brenda does. Or doesn’t do.’

‘So what the hell was that out there then?’

Jen was surprised. Barry, for all his many faults, was normally relaxed and easy-going. That might make him good company down the pub but it was a poor skillset for a watch manager, where motivation and a firm hand were vital. She looked him over. Shirt ironed but scruffy. Shaggy, collar-length hair more suited to the seventies. Yellow teeth from too many fags and poor dental hygiene. Not much there to inspire the troops.

‘I was just picking up one of your watch on a piss-poor job.’

‘Watch it, Jen.’

‘Honestly, Barry, I shouldn’t need to. Do you even review the communication logs?’

Barry shifted in his chair. ‘Like Brenda said, we had other jobs on.’

‘A seal on the beach at Fraisthorpe and a fishing boat with a prop full off Amble? Run off your feet, were you?’

Barry finally noticed the tea towel stuffed down his collar. He ripped it out and threw it on the table. ‘Is this a reaction to not getting the Flitcombe Sector job, Jen?’

Jen stared at him. ‘Seriously? You think I’m just saying this because I’m bitter about being passed over for a promotion two months ago?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘Yes, of course I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong about your team’s slack attitude.’ Jen stood and gestured at a large checklist on a whiteboard. ‘When’s the last time we ran some exercises on a quiet shift, a trial distress call maybe? Our watch doesn’t even put in a response to Bob Hicks’ monthly search planning challenge. Only I ever bother.’

Barry waved his arm in dismissal.

Jen sighed. The watch were slack and she was pissed off about the Sector job. It was her own fault; she’d naively assumed the job was hers after she’d covered the role when the last guy went off on long-term sick. The interview feedback said she’d lacked the experience to manage rescue volunteers. Which meant they thought she was too young and too female.

If only it hadn’t been Sam who’d got the job. Pretty yachtie Sam from the south coast. He only had a few years on her but was, crucially, a bloke. To give him his dues, Sam was fitting in well, with the top brass at least. A few of the rescue teams were still feral. Managing volunteers was like herding cats – you were never going to keep them all pointing in the same direction at the same time.

She forced herself to sit back down. ‘OK, maybe I should have discussed the log discrepancies with you before having a go at Brenda. But I’m your deputy, Barry. I should be able to talk to Brenda without her getting her knickers twisted up her fat arse.’

Barry had the decency to laugh. ‘Fair enough, Jen, but try to be a damn sight less confrontational in the way you go about it. And don’t forget – they’re still my watch.’

‘Then for God’s sake, Barry, start managing them.’ She reached out a conciliatory hand, saw his expression, then withdrew the gesture. ‘Just so you know, I’m not going to stop doing the job properly. Or pulling the others up when they don’t.’

‘I wouldn’t expect you to,’ he said.

A little sadly, Jen thought.

Three

Jen forced her way through the crowd of locals in The Compasses. It wasn’t a pub many tourists stumbled across, which helped make it a favourite with Blyndsea’s fishing and lifeboat community, all out in force for the night’s celebrations. Rather than dragging herself out, Jen would have preferred a bath, a box set and bottle of red, but it was her dad’s fiftieth so here she was.

She reached the bar, greeted a few of the regulars and was surprised to see Hazel behind the pumps.

‘Working tonight, Sis? I thought you’d be celebrating the old man’s birthday?’

‘Janine called in sick,’ Hazel said. ‘And, to be honest, I need the cash. I’m out with Billy in Flitcombe tomorrow night.’

‘Love’s young dream, eh? How is your Billy? I saw his coble broke down again this afternoon.’

‘I know.’ Hazel frowned. ‘Third time this month. But the lifeboat got a run out giving Billy a tow back in. That made Dad happy if nothing else. Another job in the log.’

Billy was a few years younger than Jen, but he’d been a fixture around Blyndsea Bay for a while. She knew him well enough, without ever paying him much attention. It had been a surprise when he hooked up with Hazel last summer. Her sister had dated a few lads, and turned down quite a few more, but Billy was different – more SoCal surfer dude than Hazel’s usual Flitcombe posh boy. She could tell he cared for Hazel, but he was so laidback he often forgot he needed to put any effort into the relationship.

An older bloke in a flat cap and threadbare jacket jostled up to the bar. ‘‘Ere, Hazel, are you chatting or pulling pints?’

‘You mind your manners, Fred, and wait your turn.’ Hazel glanced over to a group at the other side of the bar and winked at Jen. ‘Cider, is it? Someone’s already got you one in.’

‘Shit,’ said Jen, following her sister’s gaze across the bar. ‘What’s he doing here?’

Sam stood laughing with a couple of the lads from the lifeboat.

‘Dad invited him yesterday afternoon while you were off making the tea.’ Hazel grinned. ‘So, have you two…?’ She arched her eyebrow as she put the pint down on a ruffled bar towel, a little cider spilling over the rim.

‘Leave it, Hazel.’

‘You have, you’re blushing!’

Jen grabbed her pint and hastily moved away. She caught a glimpse of her face between the harp strings of a Guinness mirror. Damn, her cheeks were red.

She spotted Alex, another coastguard officer, in a less-crowded part of the pub well away from Sam. Alex was on the opposite shift to Jen – a shame as he was one of the few ops room colleagues she had any time for. Neither of them were inclined to suffer fools.

‘You’re looking a bit flustered,’ he said.

‘Piss off, Alex.’

‘Ah, still wound up about your little run-in with Brenda and Barry?’

‘You heard about that already?’ She raised her eyebrows before taking a swig of cider. ‘Same old same old. Can we talk about something else?’

Alex took a sip of his own pint. ‘Out with it, then.’

‘What?’

‘Come on, Jen. Tell your Uncle Alex.’

‘It’s him.’ Jen looked over to where Sam was now dancing with a couple of middle-aged women.

‘Ah, him,’ said Alex. ‘Isn’t that your mother he’s dancing with?’

‘Is it? Fuck. I didn’t even think they’d met yet.’

‘That’s our Sam, charming bastard…and a fast worker.’ Alex looked at Jen over the rim of his glass. ‘But I suppose you’d know all about that.’

‘Piss off.’ Jen looked around to make sure no one was close. She dropped her voice, ‘I thought we agreed, you know nothing about that.’

‘Oh aye, we agreed alright. What happens in Bournemouth stays in Bournemouth. But he didn’t agree to anything.’

They both looked over to where Sam was spinning her mum round to some fifties rock and roll tune. Sam was laughing and her mum was lapping up the attention. Eric, her Auntie Sylvie and a few other locals were clapping them on.

‘So, since he moved up here for the Flitcombe job have you two—’

‘No.’ She downed the rest of her pint.

Alex took her glass. ‘I’ll get you another. Looks like you might need it.’

Four pints later, the party was still raging on and Jen had navigated the conversational currents without getting stuck in any doldrums. Or stuck with Sam, who was currently entangled in the kraken-like grasp of Arthur Sykes. Arthur would be mid-rant on his favourite topic: HM Coastguard handing out jobs in Blyndsea’s patch to either Flitcombe lifeboat to the north or Eastpool to the south. Sod him, Sam had been handed the sector manager job on a plate. Taking crap came with the territory.

Jen started to enjoy herself. She just needed to avoid Sam and avoid the dance floor. Too many aunties way too keen to pull her into a huddle round a handbag. Seriously, Blyndsea needed to pull itself out of the 1980s. She fell in with a crowd of younger lifeboat crew who dragged her to the bar for a round of Aftershocks. Then another. Jen struggled to keep the drink down as the cough medicine sting hit the back of her throat. For some reason that earned her a penalty shot.

Jen laughed, coughed and grabbed the bar. ‘No more’, she panted.

She was saved when the music was abruptly cut off, replaced by a series of percussive taps on a microphone.

‘Now then, can you hear me?’ It was Arthur Sykes, set to lumber into one of his ten-minute monologues. ‘If I can have your attention please. We’re all here tonight to pay our regards to a person who’s special to all of us…’

Jen’s limbs mutinied and she lurched back onto the bar.

‘You alright, Sis?’ Hazel asked.

‘Pretty shitted.’ Jen gave her sister a lopsided grin. ‘Shots!’

An elbow nudged her and its owner told her to shush.

‘Piss off, Fred,’ Jen said, louder than intended. She got a couple of laughs, a couple of disapproving looks.

‘Come on, I’ll take you outside.’ Hazel came round the bar and grabbed Jen’s elbow to guide her through the throng. Jen trod on toes, Hazel apologised.

Their mother, Margaret, hissed a rebuke as they passed.

Arthur droned on. ‘We all know this has been a difficult couple of years for the lifeboat, with the Institute looking to close down stations—’

‘Christ, can’t he just say something nice about Dad rather than moaning about the bloody boat.’

‘Jen, can you shut the fuck up please till we get outside.’

‘Jeez, Hazel. Chill.’ Jen pushed open the door. The blustery wind jolted her sobriety up a notch, then slammed the door shut behind them.

Hazel gave Jen a minute, then handed her a hanky.

‘Thanks, Sis. Bloody shots gave me a coughing fit.’ Jen gave a blast from her nose into the hanky. ‘Such a lady, aren’t I?’

Hazel’s frown melted into a smile. ‘You’re an idiot, trying to keep up with the kids. At least you look better for some fresh air.’

‘Those kids are older than you.’

‘And you’re older than all of us, but who’s looking after who here?’

Jen held out the polluted hanky. ‘Thanks, Sis. You’re a lifesaver.’

Hazel held up her hands. ‘No, you look like you still need it. I’d better get back to the bar.’

‘You go on in, I just need another minute.’

Jen leaned back against the wall outside the pub and watched the trickle of midnight revellers wandering towards the chippy across the road. Paper wrappers spilled from a bin and were quickly swept up by the breeze, scattering chips and scraps of batter across the street. A fine breakfast for seagulls. Jen’s nose continued to stream and now the breeze set her eyes watering. She snorted into Hazel’s hanky as a body plonked down next to her on the wall.

‘This seat taken?’ Jen immediately recognised his voice. Brilliant. She’d managed to avoid him all night and now he had tracked her down while she was honking into a handkerchief.

‘You do pick your moments, Sam,’ she said, punctuated by another blast into the hanky.

‘I am, indeed, a man of great timing.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Here you are. Here I am. The moon is, well, admittedly shrouded in gloom. But there’s an invigorating smell of sea air. Or is that just salt and vinegar from those chips? It matters not, as here we both are.’

He sat there with his foolish boyish grin; pleased with himself. Not arrogant, but confident. She couldn’t see his eyes in the shadows cast by the street light, but she knew they were a stark sea blue. She wrenched her gaze away, down to the chips littering the pavement. Don’t think about his eyes, they’re what got me into trouble in Bournemouth.

‘Look, Sam—’

‘Sorry, Jen. I’m not accepting any “Look, Sams” tonight. You might as well say something else.’ He still wore that foolish smile. Or was that just his pissed face? Christ, he was coming on to her, even with her bloodshot eyes and runny nose. He must really fancy her.

The fresh air had sobered Jen up a little but she was still fuzzy around the edges. It would be very easy to kiss him. His shoulder was touching hers and she leaned into it. Maybe a little nuzzle? No! She recoiled and pushed herself up off the wall only to skid backwards on some chips. Sam half stood and grabbed her as she fell back into him. Her weight forced him down onto the wall. How the hell had she ended up on his lap? His arms snaked round her waist. She slapped them away and pushed herself back up onto her feet.

‘What the hell do you think is going on here, Sam?’

He lost the grin. ‘Well—’

‘Did you think you could just swan up here, take my job and sweep me into bed in one go?’

‘I was kind of hoping—’

‘You arrogant arsehole.’

‘But I thought, well, Bournemouth?’

‘Yes, that was fun, Sam. And who knows, if you’d stayed down south, working at Solent, it might have happened again. But we work together now. And fuck it, Sam, you took my bloody job.’

‘Your job?’ Sam looked like he was sobering up quickly. ‘I didn’t even know you were in the mix until the interviews. You never mentioned you wanted to leave the ops room for a job on the coast.’

It was a fair point. She hadn’t. Not to him or anyone else. It wasn’t even part of her career plan until she’d covered the Flitcombe Sector job.

Coastguard volunteers were renowned for being uncooperative and a nightmare to manage, but she was also a rescue volunteer – for the lifeboat, but it amounted to the same thing. It was in her blood, she understood the psyche. After several frustrated years struggling to tolerate the plodding inadequacies of her watch-mates, managing the local coastguard rescue teams had proved a surprisingly attractive career option. Her alternative in the ops room was a slow countdown to Barry’s retirement.

Jen sighed. ‘Sorry, Sam. I like you, you’re a good guy—’

‘Ah, it’s the old good guy routine, is it?’

‘OK, try this. You landed on my doorstep unannounced and you took my job. I’m not going to give you the hat-trick by shagging you as well.’

‘It’s not like that, Jen.’

‘I don’t know what to say to you.’

He rubbed his eyes. ‘This was a mistake. Look, I’m away on leave for a couple of weeks. I ship out tomorrow to Nepal for that earthquake relief op. Maybe when I get back I can buy you a drink and we can have a civilised conversation?’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ she said. ‘Very adult. Look, I’m knackered, I’m pissed and I’m off home. If you see my dad, tell him “happy birthday”.’

She left him sat on the wall. The party music played on.

Four

A repetitive rattle on the coffee table dragged Jen out of her late afternoon doze. She jerked her head from the couch and a ribbon of drool stretched out from the cushion to the corner of her mouth. Jen’s hand crabbed across the rough pine surface of the table, missing the Nokia but jostling an almost full tumbler of squash. She swore as liquid spilled across the wood, tracking well-stained runnels in the table-top before dripping down onto the cheap, fluffy nylon rug.

Whoever the caller was, they’d rung off before Jen could attempt another grab at the phone. When she eventually managed to pick it up, the screen showed a missed call from her dad. What the hell did Eric want? Any normal person would still be hungover from the party.

The party. Christ.

She replayed, yet again, her drunken conversation with Sam from the night before. Maybe she should have just snogged him. Even brought him home for something a little more physical. The situation couldn’t be any more awkward and at least then she’d have emerged satisfied from the fractious affair. Although they’d both been pretty pissed, so perhaps not. Bad drunken sex would have added to the considerable mess already set to fester for the next couple of weeks until Sam returned from Nepal. Jen cringed at the thought. Cringe. The perfect word to sum up her love life in recent years.

She rolled off the couch and checked the time on her phone – six in the evening. Handy that her dad had called. If she’d slept any longer there’d be no time for a snack and a shower before work. Jen cautiously moved her head. No pounding, no daggers: things were looking up. Whatever Eric wanted could wait until later.

Jen’s living room was sparsely furnished, a design choice dictated in part by the limited space. An old two-seater couch, the stained coffee table, a beanbag and a terrible nineties chrome-and-glass TV stand – that was it. Decoration was limited to a few framed family photographs on a shelf above a wall-mounted gas fire. One of her dad with the Mersey-class all-weather lifeboat the day it was delivered to Blyndsea Bay fresh from the boatyard; another of Jen and Hazel in their dry suits, the first time they’d crewed the inshore lifeboat together. That one had only been snapped a few months ago. In the middle of the shelf stood an old photo of her family on the beach in front of Blyndsea Bay’s crumbling cliffs. The glass covering the photo was smeared with a staccato pattern of fingerprints.

An equally plain bedroom opened directly off the living room. There was a double bed, a bedside cabinet, a chest of drawers, a single wardrobe and a generic framed art print. Jen stripped as she walked into the bedroom, adding her joggers and t-shirt to the pile on the floor, then padded naked back through the lounge to the small kitchen to toss a ready meal into the oven.

The letting agent who’d advertised the poky attic flat three years ago had joked that only seagulls could spy in through the tiny living room window. He’d unwisely added that Jen would be free to walk around in the buff whenever she pleased. She’d stared him down and he’d mumbled something about the possibility of a discount on the first month’s rent.

Murky light drifted feebly in through the tiny north-facing window, making the small room seem even more confined. Most prospective tenants would have walked away as soon as they looked in through the door. Jen liked an airy space as much as anyone, but she’d guessed the flat had an ace hidden up its sleeve. Get close to that attic window – nose-to-glass close – and the view was panoramic.

Two rows of pantiles underlined a broad canopy of treetops just beyond the roof’s edge. The sweep of trees rolled down the steep sides of Church Ravine before rising to meet the open fields of Blyndsea country park. To her right, the eastern edge of the park ended in cliffs framing the bay, while to the north the grassland stretched for half a mile before giving way to an endless expanse of maudlin sea.

Not quite endless, Jen corrected herself. The sea eventually made landfall in Siberia after first washing up against the Arctic ice cap. She might be splitting hairs, but you had to get these things right.

It was a stunning view, but Blyndsea Reach was the cherry on the cake. The causeway of rock speared eastward from the furthest corner of the country park then collapsed into a narrow, low, rocky peninsular that widened and contracted with the tide. Jen had grown up along that spur: crabbing with schoolfriends in tidal rockpools, learning the best rocky outcrops for line fishing with her dad, fumbling with boys in the Reach’s chilled secret coves. And other things besides.

Jen shivered in the draught from the rotting window frame and hurried through to the shower. Passing the shelf, she absently reached out to touch the middle photo.

Five

An hour later Jen was on the road to Eastpool in her old, battered Renault Clio. Watch handovers were an improvised dance where timing was everything. Turn up before 7.15 – morning or night – and you’d be accused of unseemly enthusiasm, but arrive after 7.45 and expect abuse for slovenly timekeeping. The drive from Blyndsea Bay to Eastpool took about twenty minutes. She should arrive right in the 7.20 to 7.35 sweet spot.

Her lifeboat pager vibrated in her trouser pocket. She carried it everywhere, but she had no chance of responding to a shout tonight. Still, a job kicking off now for Blyndsea lifeboat should keep the ops room busy. Jen smiled. Nothing worse than a dull night shift. She made a mental note of the weather: good visibility, strong south-westerly breeze, sea state moderate. Then again, it could just be another routine tow-in, all over by the time she reached the MRCC.

She waited at the entrance to the car park for one of the departing day shift to pull out through the gates. She waved and he gestured back at the building with a shake of his head. It looked like she was walking into a mess. At least Barry was in the chair tonight so she wouldn’t have to babysit the children.

Jen parked up, then battled the wind that almost wrested the car door from her grasp. She slammed the door shut and locked it with the key. The remote locking had packed up years ago.

‘Evenin’ Jen.’

She looked over towards the rescue team’s crew house. The station officer for Eastpool was leaning against the garage door with a bulging kit bag at his feet. This didn’t look good.

‘Hey, Brian, what’s up? You been paged for a job?’

‘Stuffed if I know. My pager’s in there.’ He kicked the kit bag. ‘Any idea when Sam’s back from his trip abroad?’

‘Do I look like his keeper? How the hell would I know?’ What was it with people hassling her about Sam?

‘No need to bite my head off, Jen. I was only asking.’

Great. He’d been surly to begin with, now she’d pissed him off. Jen didn’t have time to fuss over his feelings.

‘What’s this about, Brian? I’m due on watch.’

‘I’m done with it, Jen. This southerner coming in, thinking we know nowt about the job.’ He nodded down at his bag. ‘My resignation’s in there.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Brian. Now? Really? With Sam off on leave?’

‘Yeah, and that’s another thing. Him buggering off to bloody Nepal after he’s only just got here. Tossing everything up in the air then leaving us in the lurch.’

Jen frowned. ‘You can’t have it both ways, Brian. You either want him here sorting out the sector – and we both know it needs sorting – or be happy he’s off playing the hero elsewhere.’

Brian looked at the floor, saying nothing.

‘Look, can’t you hang fire until Monday, have a chat with Bob about it?’

‘Bob Hicks? He’s nobbut a jumped-up ops room larker an’ all. Nah, sod it. There’s my gear, I’m done.’ Brian climbed into his pick-up, fired up the engine and accelerated hard out of the car park, narrowly missing Trevor’s car coming in through the gateway.

Jen cursed. Bloody coastguard volunteers. She hadn’t even got the sector manager job and here she was still clearing up their shit. For Sam. Men and their stupid bloody egos.

‘Now then, Jen,’ Trevor said. ‘Was that Brian Wells tearing out like a lunatic? Hardly the behaviour you’d expect from a copper.’

‘Aye. The silly bastard’s just quit.’ She pointed at the kit bag. ‘Do us a favour, Trev. Grab that and dump it outside Bob Hicks’s office, will you? He can sort out Brian’s tantrum on Monday.’

Trevor shouldered the bag. ‘Bet you’re relieved you didn’t get Sam’s job now, aren’t you?’ he said with a smirk.

‘If I had, I’d have fired that stubborn sod before he got the chance to do something like this.’ Although that was unlikely. Stubborn he might be, but the shame of it was that Brian made a damn good coastguard volunteer. Jen climbed the steps to the ops room. ‘Now stop staring at my arse and get a move on. The day watch will be wondering where the hell we’ve got to.’ A bit harsh on Trevor, he wasn’t that kind of bloke – but it did wipe the smug grin off his face.

The ops room was a hubbub of radio chatter and ringing phones. Judging by the meaty odour still lingering over the chart table, the day watch had fried up some liver for tea.

Two impatient heads popped up from behind their computer screens. One belonged to Dave, the day shift’s watch manager – which meant Barry must be a no-show. She swore and headed over.

‘Evening, Dave,’ she said. ‘Go on then, what’ve you got for me?’

He looked surprised. ‘You’ve heard Barry’s called in sick?’

‘No, but despite Barry’s many, many faults, he’s not often late. Besides, you’re only ever pleased to see me when I’m here as your relief.’

Dave squinted at her, then laughed. ‘Aye, well it’s been a busy one. You can catch up on the rest, but we’ve just kicked off on a missing coble over your neck of the woods. We’ve paged both Blyndsea lifeboats, they’ll be launching anytime.’ The sound of crew numbers blared out from the radio channel reserved for rescue ops, accompanied by a whine of engine static. ‘That’ll be the ILB to sea now.’

Jen was surprised to hear her sister’s ID among the crew list. Hazel was supposed to be out on a date in Flitcombe tonight with Billy. What the hell was she up to heading out on the inshore lifeboat?

‘What’s the name of the missing coble, Dave?’

He checked the incident log on his screen and looked up, surprised. ‘Dander. Isn’t that one of the Andersons’ boats? You’re in for a difficult night if it is.’

Jen blinked. No, Dave must be mistaken. The Andersons were a former fishing family who now kept themselves afloat through criminal activities. They still ran a few boats out of Eastpool harbour, but on the odd occasion they put to sea, they rarely bothered throwing their nets in the water.

‘Fuck, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I almost wish it was one of the Andersons’. That’s Billy Wainwright’s boat. Our Hazel’s fella. I see it most days on Blyndsea landing.’

She looked round to check on how the watch handover was progressing. Trevor was pulling his gear from the team locker. Brenda was already logged on and had just finished recording the crew list from the inshore lifeboat.

‘Brenda, get me Blyndsea boathouse on the phone, I want to speak to whoever’s in charge.’

Brenda looked up, face like a smacked arse – standard practice when Jen was in the chair. Brenda swallowed her retort, turned back to her comms screen and hit the hotkey for Blyndsea boathouse.

Dave was still immersed in the incident log. ‘First Informant was a Hazel Grundel. That’ll be your sister, then?’

‘Aye—’

Brenda interrupted. ‘Jen, Blyndsea Lifeboat Station on hold.’

‘Cheers, Brenda. I’ll take it over here. Get yourself off, Dave. We’ll be fine.’

‘The search plan’s prepped – I’ll run Trevor through it before I go – but the coble’s been missing a while and we’ve no definite drift start point, so expect a decent-sized search area.’

Jen nodded thanks and plugged her headset into the watch manager’s desk. ‘Brenda, page Flitcombe and Highwold lifeboats, then jack up all three coastguard teams. We want lookouts at the usual vantage points and ground teams out searching the shoreline.’ She keyed her comms screen to pick up the on-hold call to Blyndsea boathouse. ‘Duty Watch Manager at Holderness Coastguard here, who’s this?’

‘Jen? It’s your dad. Look, I can’t hang about, the boat’s nearly in the bloody water.’

‘What’s going on, Dad? And why’ve you got Hazel crewing the ILB? She can’t be in any fit state for a shout.’

‘It’s Saturday night, Jen; we didn’t have a lot of choice. A few regulars are out of town and both boats need crews. We’re scraping the barrel, love. And Hazel wouldn’t exactly take no for an answer.’

‘Christ, do we have any idea where Billy was heading?’ Silence from the other end of the line. ‘Dad? You still there?’

‘Yes, love. He just told Hazel he was off to shoot a fleet of pots he’s had out of the water for repairs. We know all his usual fishing spots. I gave them to your lot earlier.’

‘What time did he launch?’

‘The tractor driver said quarter past four. Quick job like that, he should have been back not long after half five. Look, I’ve been through this already, Jen. I’ve got to go.’

He was right, the details would be in the incident log. Jen needed to focus, treat this like any other rescue.

‘Go. We’ll brief you on your search instructions once you get into the water.’