At the harbour office, steaming mugs of sailor’s tea were handed round while the harbourmaster delivered the weather forecast, saying that things were looking a bit ‘lively’ for the couple of days running up to the festival. No one had told the weather it was meant to be flaming June, then, Chloe thought. Over the weekend itself, it was supposed to be mostly fine, but with some showers – ‘that could land anywhere across the South West’ the Met Office had said helpfully. Troy didn’t seem concerned, pointing out that as long as the rain wasn’t too heavy, people would turn out. In fact, if it wasn’t blazing hot, that was a good thing because they were more likely to choose the festival than the beach.

Chloe took notes on the meeting while they discussed the provisions for emergencies, evacuations in the event of fire, rogue waves or, heaven forbid, a terrorist attack. Troy rolled his eyes but Chloe, having been involved in organising events in central London, knew that however remote, this was a threat they needed to be prepared for, just in case.

They ran through a host of dull but essential safety items before a heated discussion about obscure aspects of harbour operation between Troy, the harbourmaster and a woman from the council.

Chloe tried to follow it, but soon zoned out. She’d had half an eye on her phone for messages about the festival and she was still holding out hope Hannah would wish her a happy birthday. When she slid a discreet look at the screen, there were two missed calls. Not from Hannah but from Fraser.

Chloe frowned, but decided to pick up the call. The meeting had almost finished anyway. She made her apologies and went outside, finding a spot by a pile of lobster pots.

‘Hi. Chloe. I’ve been trying to get you for hours. I’m in Austria and supposed to be in a conference seminar,’ Fraser said. He sounded terse but that wasn’t unusual. Chloe struggled to hear him above the sound of chatter and tannoy announcements on his end of the phone and gulls squabbling over the scraps from a recent catch.

‘I’ve had the phone on silent while I tried to get on with some work for Porthmellow Festival.’

‘The Mellow what?’ he shouted,

‘Porthmellow Festival. I’m one of the volunteers who organises it.’

‘You, a volunteer? You mean you’re working for nothing?’

Chloe wanted to scream. ‘Yes, Fraser. What’s the matter?’ She turned cold. ‘It’s not Hannah, is it?’

‘Yes and no. Don’t worry. I’ve no bad news. Could be very good news actually. I bumped into Antonia Craddock at a breakfast meeting. She works for one of our competitors now but more importantly, she’s an old friend of bloody Jordan’s parents.’

Chloe gripped her mobile, willing Fraser to get to the point.

‘Antonia told me that Jordan had gone home.’