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Back The Lucky Eight
Chapters (64)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Prologue
  4. Five Years Later
  5. One
  6. Two
  7. Three
  8. Four
  9. Five
  10. Six
  11. Seven
  12. Eight
  13. Nine
  14. Ten
  15. Eleven
  16. Twelve
  17. Thirteen
  18. Fourteen
  19. Fifteen
  20. Sixteen
  21. Seventeen
  22. Eighteen
  23. Nineteen
  24. Twenty
  25. Twenty-one
  26. Twenty-two
  27. Twenty-three
  28. Twenty-four
  29. Twenty-five
  30. Twenty-six
  31. Twenty-seven
  32. Twenty-eight
  33. Twenty-nine
  34. Thirty
  35. Thirty-one
  36. Thirty-two
  37. Thirty-three
  38. Thirty-four
  39. Thirty-five
  40. Thirty-six
  41. Thirty-seven
  42. Thirty-eight
  43. Thirty-nine
  44. Forty
  45. Forty-one
  46. Forty-two
  47. Forty-three
  48. Forty-four
  49. Forty-five
  50. Forty-six
  51. Forty-seven
  52. Forty-eight
  53. Forty-nine
  54. Fifty
  55. Fifty-one
  56. Fifty-two
  57. Fifty-three
  58. Fifty-four
  59. Fifty-five
  60. Epilogue
  61. Acknowledgements
  62. Canelo Crime
  63. About the Author
  64. Also by Sheila Bugler

Clodagh remembered the moment she’d realised she wasn’t the only one. She’d woken up in hospital. Dazed and disorientated, no idea where she was or how she’d got there. When she tried to remember, her mind was blank. She knew something bad had happened, but the memory of it was gone. Along with so much else, although she didn’t realise that until much later.

There was a TV on the wall opposite her bed. Eight photos on the screen and a man’s voice, low and serious, speaking about ‘the terrible tragedy’. A shock of recognition, tinged with fear, when she saw her own face, some letters beneath. At first, they didn’t mean anything but gradually her brain worked out that the letters spelled her name. There were names beneath each of the photos, including the one next to hers. His face on the TV nothing like his face now – he looked happy and bursting with life. Running across the bottom of the screen was the headline that would come to define them:

The Lucky Eight: the survivors of 975.

She had no idea, back then, that the phrase would become so widespread that the only people who never used it when talking about the crash were the survivors themselves. And after today, no one else would be using it either. Because now there were only seven of them.

Two

Detective Inspector Rachel Lewis parked in one of the spaces outside the front of the Blue Dolphin villa. Climbing out of the car, she paused a moment to appreciate the architecture of the classic Art Deco building. Built in the early Thirties, the exclusive East Sussex property had originally been a getaway for some of the country’s richest and most powerful people. Legendary parties had been held here; rumour had it that the hotel had once been a favourite with Edward, Prince of Wales, and his mistress Wallis Simpson. In those days, it had been called the Sandcastle. Following a complete renovation a few years ago, it now had a new name and a new reputation as one of the finest holiday properties on the south coast.

Rachel and her wife, Grace, had spent a weekend here a few months ago. Two nights of unadulterated luxury. If she’d been able to afford it, she would have stayed for two months, not two nights. But they were saving for their future. A future that included children and a house in the Preston Park area of Brighton. As Grace was keen to point out, children and houses were expensive. Which meant that, for now, indulgent weekends in fancy hotels were on hold.

‘Wow.’ Ade Benjamin slammed the car door shut and came to stand beside Rachel. ‘I didn’t think there was anywhere like this in Seaford. It’s something else, isn’t it?’