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.’