Despite the bombshell Riley had just dropped, every sense was tuned to the sea. Harry was a flippant, carefree bachelor. Cordelia was a sixty-year-old dog breeder with a head cold. Riley was a man who’d just been landed with a daughter. Tonight though, now, they were three sets of eyes with only one focus.
Phillippa Penelope Fotheringham…
‘Come on,’ Riley muttered into the stillness. ‘Give yourself up.’
The floodlight from their little yellow chopper, a Squirrel AS350BA-the best in the business, according to Harry- kept right on sweeping the surface of the night sea.
There was nothing but blackness. Nothing, nothing and nothing.
‘Where are you?’ Riley asked, but he was talking to himself.
Nothing.
There were lights. The mists cleared for a moment-the fog of fear and cold and fatigue-and let her see further than the next wave.
There were floodlights beaming out from the cliffs, but they were so far out of her reach they might as well be on the moon.
She could see a helicopter moving methodically over the water. Was it searching for her? Had someone found her clothes?
It was a long way south. Too far.
Was it coming closer?
‘Just hold on,’ she told herself, but her body was starting to shut down.
She couldn’t feel her feet at all. She couldn’t feel anything.
She was treading water. Up and down. Up and down. If she stopped she’d slip under.
A wave slapped her face and made her splutter.
‘I will not give Roger the satisfaction,’ she muttered, but her mutter was under her breath. To speak was impossible. Her teeth were doing crazy things. She was so cold…
‘I will not be a jilted bride. I will not die because of Roger.’ It was a mantra, said over and over.
The helicopter turned.
It was still too far south. So far.
‘I will not…’
‘If it’s suicide she’ll definitely be dead by now and probably slipping under.’
‘We all know that,’ Harry said. ‘But it doesn’t stop us looking.’
‘No, but…’ Riley was speaking more to himself than to Harry. ‘As a last resort let’s think sideways.’
‘What?’
The crew hadn’t spoken for what seemed hours. They’d swept the expected tidal path and found nothing. Riley’s words had tugged Cordelia and Harry out of their intense concentration, but Harry sounded as hopeless as Riley felt.
‘I’m thinking,’ Riley said.
‘So think away. It’s gotta be more useful than what we’re doing now.’
Riley thought a bit more and then put it in words. ‘Okay. If our Phillippa was a normal tourist with no intention to suicide… What time did she get to the hotel?’
‘Around seven-thirty.’
‘Let’s say she’s jet lagged, tired and hot. She walks out to the balcony and the sea looks great. She might take an impulsive dip at dusk. Eightish, maybe? The lifesavers would have long gone home, but it’s not so dark that the water’s lost its appeal. If she got into trouble at dusk, no one might see.’
‘The party started on the beach at ten,’ Harry said, hopelessness giving way to thought. ‘No one noticed the clothes before then. We’re working on search parameters based on an entry at ten at the earliest.’
‘Sunday night. The beach was busy. One bundle of clothes might well go unnoticed. An entry at eight, she’d be a lot further north by now. And if it was a mistake she’ll be fighting.’
‘Her mother’s sure she’s suicidal.’
‘How much does your mother know about you?’ Riley demanded.
‘I’d hate to imagine,’ Cordelia retorted-which was a lot of speech for Cordelia. She was quiet at the best of times, but tonight her head cold was making her miserable.
There was a moment’s pause while they all thought this through. Then: ‘I guess it’s worth a shot,’ Harry said, and hit the radio. ‘Assuming an eight o’clock entry,’ he asked Bernie in their control room, ‘can you rework the expected position?’
They did two more unsuccessful sweeps before Bernie was back with a location.
‘Half a kilometre north and closer to shore,’ Harry relayed. ‘Let’s go.’
It’d be so easy to slip under.
She was so tired.
The light. Had it turned? Was it coming?
She was imagining it. Her mind was doing funny, loopy things. The stars, the fluorescence of the waves and the roar of the sea were merging into a cold, menacing dream.
If this light wasn’t really in her head she should raise her hand. If she could summon the energy. She could just…
Maybe not.
She must.
‘Something.’
The Squirrel banked and turned almost before Riley barked the word. Harry was good.
So was Riley. His eyes were the best in the business. But still… the water was so choppy. They were in by the cliffs; any closer and they’d be victims themselves.
‘Sure?’ Harry snapped.
‘No. Ten back. Five left. Hover.’
They hovered. The floodlight lit the water. The downdraught caused the water to flatten.
There…
‘Got it,’ Cordelia snapped.
They both had it. And what’s more… There was a hand, feebly raised.
‘She’s alive,’ Riley said, and he didn’t try to keep the exultation from his voice. ‘How about that? Suicide or not, it seems our bride’s changed her mind. Hold on, Phillippa Penelope Fotheringham, we’re coming.’
The light… the noise… It was all around her. She couldn’t think.
She also could no longer make her feet tread water.
A shadow was over her. Someone was yelling.
She was so tired.
Do not slip under. Do not.
Please.
Something was sliding into the water beside her.
She was too weak to clutch but she didn’t need to. Arms were holding her. Just… holding.
Another human.
She was safe. She could let go. She had to let go. She could slip into the darkness and disappear.
‘Don’t you give up on us now, Phillippa Penelope Fotheringham,’ someone growled. ‘I’ve got you.’
She made one last effort. One massive effort because this was really, really important.
‘I am not marrying Roger,’ she managed. ‘My choice, not his. And my name is not Phillippa. I’m Pippa.’
CHAPTER TWO
THERE were sunbeams on her bedcover. She woke and the sheer wonder of sunlight on linen was enough to make her want to cry.
Someone was standing at the end of her bed. Male. With a stethoscope.
