Chapter 4
Faster than was wise, Tara Webb turned off the main Trebetherick road and onto Daymer Lane.
This close to the coast, it was inevitable that many of Tara’s callouts would involve near drownings, even actual drownings.
She should be used to them by now. And knew she never would be. She hated the wet ones.
Two hundred metres from the car park her phone rang; she pressed answer without thinking.
‘Tar, it’s me.’ The voice dripped with forced patience. ‘I need an answer on Friday’s meeting.’
‘Can’t talk now,’ she told her estranged husband. ‘I’m on a callout.’
Tara wished she had the nerve to finish the call, to press the end button before he could, but old habits …
She glanced down at the passenger seat. With no time even to open the post before she’d hurried from the house, she’d brought it with her.
On the top of the pile was a letter from Justin’s solicitor.
She’d started to have a visceral, physical reaction when they arrived, which they did with increasing regularity these days.
‘Ten o’clock,’ Justin said, as though speaking to an unruly child. ‘Bodmin offices. She’s making a special trip, so I want you there, Tara.’
The car park was in sight, a woman with an expectant air standing at its entrance.
The morning’s post had also brought a very fancy-looking envelope that Tara was hoping was an invitation to something nice. A gallery opening or an exhibition would be lovely; even a new dress shop would be something to look forward to.
‘I’ll get back to you,’ Tara said. ‘I have to go.’
‘Be there, or I’m sending you the bill. And, Tara, I’ll make sure you pay it.’
Justin ended the call, as he always did. In nearly thirty years of marriage, Tara didn’t think she’d ever once put the phone down on her husband.
Turning into the car park, she pulled into the space nearest the beach path.
The woman on look-out duty was wearing the long, padded coat favoured by open-water swimmers, a knitted bobble hat covering her damp hair.
She was a Merry Mermaid, one of two groups of swimmers who regularly met here.
Tara had been a Merry Mermaid herself once, before she’d fallen out with the group.
She would know several of the women on the beach below and none would be pleased to see her.
Tara’s own swim group were meeting here this morning too but wouldn’t arrive for another half-hour yet. She’d face the enemy alone.
‘I’m the community first responder,’ Tara called over as she locked the car. Deliberately, she kept her face turned away from the ocean. ‘Did you call the ambulance?’
‘Are they coming?’ the woman demanded.
‘On their way,’ Tara replied. ‘Where’s the casualty?’
‘How long will they be?’
‘Is she still on the beach?’ Tara asked.
The woman gestured towards the rocks at the north end of the bay. ‘She’s down there. There are people with her. She needs an ambulance.’
‘Please stay here and tell the paramedics where to come when they arrive.’
Daymer Bay on the Camel Estuary was popular all year round with swimmers.
From recent experience, Tara knew the water temperature had slipped into single figures and the gauge in her car had indicated the air temperature to be eleven degrees.
On top of the wind-chill factor, it would make for a cold day for swimming. Plus, there was a storm coming in.
On her way down, Tara could no longer keep her eyes from the water.
The waves were building, and cloud cover had turned the sea a threatening grey.
White horses were starting to break some distance from the shore.
She felt the shudder building and knew she’d never hold it back.
With a bit of luck, anyone noticing would put it down to the cold.
The group came into view as Tara reached the bottom of the path. Predominantly women, mostly middle-aged, definitely the Merry Mermaids. She called out while she was still several metres away.
‘Good morning! I’m Tara Webb!’ At least half would know her name already but establishing any sort of authority with this lot would be tricky. ‘Where’s the casualty, please?’
The group watched her approach. She didn’t have a uniform as such, but the high-vis jacket, with Community First Responder embossed on the rear, and two medical bags helped a lot. Usually. Oh great, there was Madge. And Caroline. Both giving her hard stares.
‘When will the ambulance get here?’ That, unsurprisingly, was Madge.
The casualty – female, early forties, thin – lay on a towel on the sand, partly covered by a coat. All colour had drained from her face and she was shaking. Her eyes were dull and unfocused, and her long hair was dripping onto the sand.
Tara pulled a dry towel from her bag and, on her knees, wound it around the woman’s head, turban style.
Before setting off, she’d wrapped it around a hot-water bottle, and it would provide some immediate warmth.
A second towel went around the casualty’s neck.
Normally, Tara would ask the crowd to back off, give her space.
Today, they were providing shelter from the wind.
‘Are you medically trained?’ someone behind her asked.
‘She’s a retired nurse,’ replied a voice Tara thought she recognised. ‘She swims here a lot. She knows what she’s doing.’
‘She’s a bossy cow,’ Caroline muttered.
‘What happened?’ Tara raised her voice to cut above the mutterings around her.
‘She seemed fine in the water,’ the familiar voice informed her. ‘We noticed a problem when she came out. She stopped talking and slumped on the sand. Wouldn’t get changed.’
Classic hypothermia.
Tara reached out and held the woman’s face. ‘Can you tell me your name, love?’
‘It’s Alison.’ Caroline gave a heavy, impatient sigh.
‘I need to hear her speak. How old are you, Alison?’
The woman’s eyes met Tara’s with no apparent intelligence behind them; the lights were on, but no one was home.
Someone said, ‘It was her first time swimming. I think she stayed in too long.’
A classic rooky error. After the initial shock, the body grew used to the cold water, kidding the swimmer into thinking she was fine. The inexperienced always stayed in too long.
‘If there’s any men here, you should turn your backs,’ Tara announced. ‘I’m cutting her swimsuit off. The rest of you, I need her clothes and some more dry towels, dry robes if you can spare them and any hot-water bottles. Quick as you can, please.’
She glanced back over her shoulder to find a less-than-hostile face. ‘Julie, I thought it was you. Get behind her, hold her upright and use your body to warm her up. Open your dry robe and wrap it round her as far as it will go. Does anyone have a hot drink?’
‘Anything else we can do for you?’ Caroline muttered.
As Tara pulled scissors from her bag, Julie did what she’d been told.
‘I need a couple of you to lift her while I take her suit off.’ Tara cut through the shoulder straps of Alison’s swimsuit. The woman’s flesh was cold and clammy. Most worryingly, there seemed to be a thin blue line running around the outside of her lips.
Other women knelt around Alison and together they pulled the wet swimsuit away.
‘Clothes!’ Tara called.
The women, most of them sensible, had organised themselves.
They passed Tara items of clothing and helped her dress the patient.
Tracksuit bottoms, socks, T-shirt, sweater, scarf, then a dry robe, properly fastened.
Cold-water swimmers usually came equipped with hot-water bottles and several were produced.
As Tara was arranging them around Alison’s chest and groin, and one of the other women was offering sips of hot tea, she heard the siren of the ambulance at last.
‘Thank goodness.’ Caroline didn’t bother to lower her voice this time. ‘The professionals are here.’
‘You should repeat that post of yours about hypothermia and tag the Mermaids into it,’ said Becca, an hour and a half later, as the Sea Swimmers, still damp and salty, settled themselves at their usual window table in the nearby café. ‘That’ll really piss ’em off.’
Tara, opening her post, was only half listening.
The letter from Justin’s solicitor was simply confirming the appointment on Friday morning but was a harsh reminder all the same that everything was about to change.
She put it on top of the credit card statement and the newsletter from the local MP.
Hoping the fancy invitation was something that might cheer her up, she’d saved it for last. The envelope was made from heavy, hallmarked paper and her name and address had been written on the front in an elaborate italic script. Something was sliding around inside it.
Pulling it open, Tara found a folded sheet of paper of the same quality as the envelope and a small coin-like object encased in plastic.
Puzzled, and slightly disappointed – a gallery opening would have been nice – Tara unfolded the letter. It had been typed on headed notepaper, sent from a firm of Exeter solicitors, and was very short.
This is your token. Keep it safe. Tell no one. On the event of my death, it entitles you to an equal share of my wealth. Good luck.
Logan Quick