Blind Sea Reach

By Paul Mackereth

A sudden procession of larger waves.
A flash of hair in the sunlight.
Then the sea. Only the sea.

When Coastguard Officer Jen Grundel discovers a dangerous secret about the Blyndsea Bay lifeboat, she is driven by an earlier tragedy to investigate.

Shunned by her colleagues and rocked by news that could mean the end of the East Coast lifeboat station, she plunges into the treacherous waves of conspiracy and crime that threaten to engulf her home town – and her family.

Jen knows that you ignore the sea's blind reach at your peril, even if it means ditching the rulebook and putting yourself in the firing line.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valley Press
• Release date: Nov 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781915606204

Paul Mackereth

Paul Mackereth grew up in a West Yorkshire textile town, but migrated across the Pennines to live in Preston for a while before heading south to London. He managed to find work in a disparate range of occupations (call centre lackey, snowboard bum, pub reviewer, Excel geek and coastguard officer) despite initially working for several years as a careers adviser. Paul returned to Yorkshire in the early 2000s, settling with his wife and cat in a small village a few miles from the North Sea where he enjoys cycling in the Wolds, watching cricket, and pubs. Since abandoning gainful employment, he achieved a Masters in English at the University of Hull and kickstarted his writing ambitions in the process. Blind Sea Reach is his first novel.

Book preview

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Blind Sea Reach

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Paul Mackereth

Valley Press

Author’s Note

This novel is deeply informed by my time working for HM Coastguard, a few years either side of 2010. Although the characters and also the events I describe are completely fictional, that’s not to say they couldn’t happen. In fact, one of the seeds of inspiration emerged from quiet-time discussions with former watch colleagues who combined professional coastguard duties with volunteering for their local lifeboat.

On that note, I would like to dedicate this novel to the many hard-working coastguards who taught me so much, both those based at MRCC Humber, especially my former colleagues on C Watch, led by Tony Tuton, and others I met at the HMCG training centre at Highcliffe. And also to all the devoted volunteers who work alongside coastguard ops rooms at the pointy end of search and rescue.

HM Coastguard has changed immensely since my day, so many of the work practices I describe will have changed, ultimately for the better. My gratitude and respect goes out to the UK’s real fourth emergency service.

A boy, a beach, a perfect breezeless day.

Sou’wester-yellow sand, unblemished blue sky: both stretch away beyond the boy’s imagination. At sand’s end a different, endless, rippling blue begins.

The boy sees the sun and runs towards it, high in the blue that lingers above.

He is alone.

Behind him a group of older children sit in a circle. Beyond them, the boy knows, are shops and stalls with people milling in the morning sun.

But not on the beach. Not with him.

He is alone.

The boy stops. He digs his toes into the sand. This far from the sea, the grains are bone dry. He tilts his head back and stretches his eyes as wide as they go. His retinas speckle with light spots and he spins until he is so dizzy he falls, laughing, onto the sand.

As his eyes clear, his gaze settles on the outline of a flat, picture-book shell half buried in golden sand. He tugs the shell free, brushes away the loose grains and cups it in his hand. It fits his palm precisely.

The boy looks up. He has fallen facing the sea. Maybe he’ll find more shells down by the water’s edge?

The water is closer now. He can hear the lap of tiny wet waves on cool, damp sand.

He stands. Glances around. Takes a step. Walks forward.

Towards the sea.

One

Jen stared at the tree on the clifftop, its outline stark against a leaden North Sea sky. It was too early in the year for greenery, making it easier to see the trimmed remains of a makeshift noose dangling from a branch. Below the tree, two white-clad scenes of crime officers crouched over a corpse. The rope twitched in the fresh breeze. One of the officers stood and batted it away. Outside the cordon, local bobbies, paramedics and coastguard volunteers loitered, chatting, jobs done.

Jen didn’t feel like she belonged here, not yet at least. She should be down on the water with the inshore lifeboat searching for any other performers in this clifftop tragedy. Or back at the ops room, coordinating the incident with her coastguard colleagues. Instead, she was stuck here in a frigid field, marooned in the passenger seat of a coastguard staff car.

A tractor from the nearby farm clattered past. It towed a tank full of slurry and the stink oozed between the car doors’ seals. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. A couple of the coastguards in blue overalls waved a greeting to the tractor driver who nodded back with barely concealed disinterest.

The socialising emergency crews swirled and a familiar figure burst from a conversational eddy. He picked his way across the freshly ploughed field, heading for the huddle of cars parked at the farm a few hundred metres back from the cliff edge. Jen wound down the window and called him over. Eric looked up, smiled, lifted a hand and changed direction towards her. He clutched his tired suit jacket against his chest to protect against the wind. Clearly not dressed for the occasion, Jen thought. He’d probably come straight from a sales call.

‘Hey, Dad. What’re you doing here?’

‘Might ask you the same question, love,’ Eric said. ‘I’m guessing your lot are ‘ere to stop the coppers stumbling over the cliff edge, but why’re you sat in the car like a bloody spare part?’

‘Sam asked me to run comms,’ said Jen. ‘More like keep the desk jockey out from under the search team’s feet.’

‘Idiot. As if you’ve never recovered a body before,’ her dad shook his head. ‘Have they found ’owt on the beach?’

‘Not yet, the coppers reckon no other parties involved. Looks like the guy just turned up and topped himself.’

A distant, high-pitched buzz grew in volume until it threatened to drown out the whistle of the wind through the tree’s branches. Jen and Eric both turned their heads to follow the sound. A small orange inflatable rounded a pinch in the cliff face and skipped towards them over the whitecaps.

‘Inshore lifeboat’s a bit close in, isn’t it?’ Eric muttered, his face lined with concern.

Jen ignored her dad’s comment. She was too busy shivering in the nithering breeze blowing through the open car window. She leaned over to crank up the heater.

‘The poor sod drove up from Morley this morning,’ Jen said. ‘His suicide note says he used to come here on holiday as a kid. So much for happy memories.’

Eric didn’t reply. She grabbed a McDonald’s napkin from the bundle in the centre console and blew her nose, jolting her father out of his thoughts.

‘Morley? Bloody Wessies. They think we’ve got nowt better to do than fish their bodies out of the sea?’

‘Or chop them down from trees,’ Jen replied. She paused before asking her next question. She already knew the answer. ‘So, what are you doing here?’

‘I’d just finished up with a new customer near Eastpool, and I heard your sister’s crew number on my scanner.’

Jen sighed. ‘Dad—’

His gaze was pulled back down to the small orange inshore lifeboat. The ILB had turned a mile or so to the south and was tracking back along the surf-line to complete its search.

‘I know I shouldn’t worry, but Hazel’s still a bit green for this kind of job.’

‘What kind of job?’

‘Body recovery.’

‘The body was up here, I just watched it get hacked down from that tree. You don’t seem too concerned about the delicacy of my feelings.’

‘I’m sorry, love. But your sister – she’s not got your balls. Don’t look at me like that, Jen.’

‘Christ, Dad. Balls? Seriously?’

Eric winced. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve only just started on with this new firm, I can’t be getting fired for moonlighting on lifeboat business so soon into the piece.’

‘Aye, go on then. I’ll tell Hazel you hope she doesn’t chip her nails clambering out of the bloody lifeboat.’ Jen watched her dad trudge down to the farmyard, shoulders hunched against more than just the early spring chill.

Jen was out for the day with Sam, Flitcombe sector manager for HM Coastguard. Sam should have been briefing her on the intricacies of this steep, cliff-lined shore, but having only moved to Yorkshire from the Solent a couple of months ago, he was hardly an expert. In contrast, Jen’s upbringing five miles further north in the bosom of the Blyndsea Bay fishing and lifeboat community meant she knew this coastline as well as anyone could.

In an effective reversal of their roles, Jen had taken great pleasure in lecturing Sam on the unique characteristics of this stretch of the Yorkshire coastline. He hadn’t been impressed but, fair play to him, he’d taken it with grace. True to form, she’d got carried away with the task in hand, and neither coastguard had complained when the ops room radioed through with this job. Not even when the incident turned out to be a suicide. It was just a shame it offered Sam a chance to level the score by lumbering Jen with comms duties. Still, a morning patronising Sam was never time wasted, and it gave her a day off from humouring the rest of her watch in the ops room.

The sound of the car door being wrenched open against the wind startled Jen back into the present. Sam clambered in behind the wheel, still kitted out in his foul weather hi-vis.

‘How you getting on?’ he asked.

‘Bored. Obviously. Are we done?’

He grinned. ‘Thanks for staying in the car and dealing with the radio traffic, Jen. I’m sure you’d rather have been out there with the rescue team getting your hands dirty. But it was a great help, and right up your street, what with you being such a local expert. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

‘You really are a tosser, do you know that?’ she said.

‘It’s just one of the many things I know you love about me, Jen.’ He turned the key in the ignition. ‘Call in to the ops room, will you. Tell them we’re closing down here and heading over to Blyndsea Lifeboat Station for a debrief.’

‘What was that?’

‘Blyndsea boathouse. Tell the ops room we’re going for a debrief.’ He turned down the heater. ‘Christ, it’s like a furnace in here.’

Jen shook her head and picked up the radio handset. ‘Been here over a month and still saying Blynd like it rhymes with wind. No wonder everyone thinks you’re a southern ponce.’

She looked pointedly at Sam as she spoke into the handset, ‘Holderness Coastguard, this is Flitcombe Sierra, leaving scene and heading to Blindsea boathouse for debrief.’

‘Bloody northern monkeys can’t even speak properly,’ Sam said, putting the car in gear. ‘Right, Blindsea Bay here we come. I’m gagging for a debrief.’

‘You mean a brew?’ Jen said.

‘Damn right. It’s freezing in that wind. You should be glad I let you stay nice and warm in the car.’

Jen shook her head. ‘Wanker.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sam busy navigating the rutted farm track in a coastguard Astra definitely not built for the job, and Jen still stewing on how he’d sidelined her at the suicide.

Sam nudged her with his elbow and glanced over. ‘Hey, you know those earthquakes they’ve had out in Nepal? I got a call last night from the disaster relief charity I volunteer with.’

‘Right,’ Jen said. Sam had only recently started working in Flitcombe, but their paths had collided a few times at the coastguard training centre down south. She knew him pretty well, a bit too well given recent developments, and had heard him talk before about his overseas rescue work.

Sam continued. ‘Yeah, they wanted to know if I was available to go out and join the recovery op.’

‘What, now? Like in the next few days?’

‘Yeah, should be fun.’

Jen raised her eyebrows in surprise.

Search and rescue as a day job was one thing, but it was a bit sad wasting your hard-earned holiday time in the back of beyond volunteering on disaster recovery. But, on second thoughts, perhaps that was a bit harsh on Sam. She volunteered for Blyndsea lifeboat and could easily be labelled as another search and rescue sad case. To give Sam his dues, unlike a lot of the wannabe action men rescue volunteers she knew, he wasn’t bragging to impress her. He simply lived for search and rescue. It would be endearing, if he didn’t go on about it quite so much.

‘Does Bob Hicks know about this?’ she asked.

‘I tried to catch him this morning when I picked you up at the MRCC, but he hadn’t arrived by the time we headed out. Why, do you reckon he’ll have a problem?’

‘What? With you being in the job a couple of months and buggering off to all parts already?’ She scoffed. ‘I don’t think he’ll stop you – I mean disaster relief work is virtuous and all that – but you’re not exactly endearing yourself to your new boss are you?’

Sam glanced at her and frowned. ‘Shit, I hadn’t really thought of it like that.’

‘Well, think on, Sam.’

Jen turned to stare out through the windscreen, shaking her head and reflecting on how she’d ended up in a car on the Yorkshire coast with Sam bloody Tennyson. He was pretty enough, and definitely smart, but he could be damned naïve at times.

‘I can’t believe they gave the Flitcombe Sector job to a southern tosser like you.’

Sam looked round laughing, no doubt expecting to see Jen’s barb softened with a smile. It wasn’t. She meant it. His face dropped as he turned back to stare at the road.

Sam drove onto The Landing, a short, wide road-cum-launch ramp leading down to a compact sandy beach huddled in the rocky shelter of Blyndsea Reach to the north. He picked a course through the few tourists brave enough to face the March weather and found a parking space near the lifeboat station. Sam slid the car between two cobles, the traditional open wooden fishing boats still common along this stretch of Yorkshire coast.

The boathouse tractor ground up from the beach with the small inshore lifeboat in tow. A couple of shore crew stood ready outside the boathouse with the jet wash. No self-respecting coxswain would let a boat back in the shed still covered in sand and salt water.

Jen waved to the owner of the shellfish stall across The Landing. It was almost Easter, but poor weather was keeping the day-trippers away. With so few tourists about there’d be scant trade in seafood today.

Everything stopped for the repetitive beep of the tractor as it backed the ILB towards the boathouse doors.

The shore crew set to work washing down the ILB. Jen and Sam slipped past; Jen dodging the jet of water predictably sprayed in her direction. She flicked a two-fingered salute in return, not bothering to shout an insult over the jet wash’s piercing whine. The large orange and blue all-weather lifeboat dominated the left-hand side of the boathouse and, behind it, high on the wall, was the long row of honours boards. Notable rescues performed by either lifeboat were listed in neat white lettering. Over to the right, the walls were lined with smartly painted metal lockers. Bright fluorescent overhead lights glinted on polished metal and the grey-coated concrete floor was spotless. Everything was in its place.

Jen spotted her father in the small wood-and-glass-fronted office in the back corner of the boathouse, next to the galley. He was leaning over his cluttered desk, showing something to Arthur Sykes, a short, balding, grey-haired man standing next to him. Whatever Eric was pointing at, Arthur was shaking his head, his face red.

‘What’s that all about?’ asked Sam.

‘No idea. Dad told me he was off back to work, not coming down here.’

‘Who’s that with him?’

‘You’ve not met Arthur Sykes?’ Jen was surprised. Liaison with other search and rescue officials was part of Sam’s job. ‘He’s Blyndsea Bay’s Lifeboat Operations Manager. It’s not like him to be down here, unless there’s press or dignitaries to coddle up to.’

‘Ah, the famous Mr Sykes. Got to admit I’ve been avoiding him,’ said Sam. ‘His reputation as a pain in the arse proceeds him.’ He glanced at Jen to gauge her reaction. ‘Or am I being indiscreet?’

She laughed. ‘I’ve known Arthur Sykes ever since I can remember. Pain in the arse doesn’t do him justice.’

In the office, Eric glanced up, shoulders stiff. He looked like he was about to snap at Arthur, then he noticed the two coastguards watching on. He muttered something instead, clearly relieved they’d been interrupted, and came to the office door.

‘Afternoon, Sam. And what’s this? Are you following me, Jen?’ He smiled and the worry lines around his eyes creased deeper. ‘Now, you’re not going to have another go at me about Hazel, are you?’

‘What’s that about Hazel?’

Jen turned to find her sister heading over from the lockers. Hazel’s dry suit was half off, the arms dangling from her waist. Snug thermals hugged her slim figure. Wind-chapped cheeks gave her face a healthy glow and she managed to look pretty despite the strands of wet blonde hair straggling carelessly down her face and on to her shoulders.

Jen nodded at her sister’s perfect nail polish. ‘Hope you didn’t chip that?’

‘Of course not. Thanks for noticing though, Sis.’

Jen huffed. Too nice for her own good, this one.

‘This family catch-up is lovely, but it’s not getting me a cup of tea, is it?’ Sam said. Both Eric and Hazel turned to look at Jen.

‘Oh, right, that’ll be me then?’ she said. ‘A great day out from the ops room this is turning out to be.’

‘Cheers, Sis. It was brassic out there. Lucky you got to chat on the radio, all nice and warm in Sam’s car.’ Hazel smiled at Sam, then headed back to the lockers. She stripped off the dry suit as she walked, elegantly stepping out of the baggy yet constrictive gear.

‘Some girl, that sister of yours,’ Sam said, watching Hazel pull jeans on over her tight thermals.

‘Hey, she’s only eighteen, you sad git.’

‘And I’m only thirty. You don’t think?’ Jen’s narrowing eyes stopped him in his tracks. ‘Point taken. So, fancy a pint this weekend, Jen?’

‘I’ll make you that cup of tea, shall I?’ Jen replied. ‘And you can think about what you’ve just said. I suggest you think very carefully.’

Two

Holderness Maritime Rescue and Coordination Centre, known as the MRCC, enjoyed a privileged position perched on the cliff above Eastpool bay. The first-floor operations room, fully glazed to three sides, looked out on the four-mile eastward march of Highwold Horn into the North Sea. Just south of the headland, a cardinal buoy flashed above the sandbank that protected the broad bay from storms blowing in off the sea. Yachts and dinghies played in the placid inshore waters and fast potters dodged between, servicing their fleets of crab pots. To the south, the flat plain of Holderness curved away towards Spurn Point.

Above it all sat the MRCC, surveying all points seaward. It was an enviable lookout, but these days the location was largely cosmetic. Holderness MRCC’s patch covered some two hundred miles of coastline between Berwick-upon-Tweed and Cleethorpes, and the modern-day coastguard kept an electronic watch. In theory, you could do the job from Birmingham.

Jen glanced up as Brenda waddled into the ops room with a plate of bacon and eggs. Brenda placed the breakfast in front of Barry, the watch manager, along with a clean tea towel. Barry pushed aside his computer screens and slid his keyboard back to make room for his plate.

‘Champion, Brenda,’ said Barry. ‘Black pudding as well, eh?’

‘It was on offer in Morrisons, and I know you like it.’

‘Love it, Brenda. Did I ever tell you about the Admiral’s Breakfast at the Trinity House do?’

A collective groan rumbled around the ops room.

‘Oh, it’s like that, is it?’ Barry tucked the tea towel into his collar. ‘Jen, you’re in the chair for the next five minutes.’

Jen grunted, engrossed in the information on her screen. With Brenda on galley duties, Jen knew she’d be last in line for breakfast.

The watch had been quiet so far. Routine calls from fishing boats checking their radios worked and the odd yachtie lodging a passage plan. To her right sat Sally, a watch assistant. Trevor, another watch officer like Jen – and Brenda – stood at the chart table.

‘Two minutes, Trevor,’ Brenda said. ‘I’ll need that chart table for the tea and toast.’

Trevor threw down his dividers. ‘I’m in the middle of plotting a search plan ’ere.’

Brenda glanced at the chart. ‘You’ve found your datum? Well, get your fag packet out and draw a rectangle round that – it was good enough for us in the old days, wasn’t it, Barry?’

‘Damn right it was.’ Barry coughed round a mouthful of egg.

Twin banks of desks covered with an array of monitors and radio equipment faced each other across the chart table. Stacked drawers beneath the glass-topped table contained maritime charts for Holderness’s entire patch. Near the head of the chart table was the watch manager’s desk, where Barry sat, still eating his breakfast.

Speakers blared out sporadic radio traffic from passing ships, interspersed with ‘ops normal’ checks from the odd coastguard rescue team out on routine patrol.

On the sole windowless wall, a giant screen displayed a digital chart of England’s east coast. A rash of small yellow triangles tracked the live positions of ships, both those in transit and others moored in clusters off the busier ports.

‘Hurry up with that toast, Brenda love,’ Barry said. ‘I need sommat to mop up my beans.’

Ops room coastguards tended to have predictable job histories: the services, the Merchant Navy, the trawler fleet. Barry was fished from the latter.

‘Brenda?’ Jen said, not looking up from her screens.

‘Jen,’ Brenda replied over her shoulder, not breaking stride on her way out to the galley.

‘I’m just reading through the logs for the suicide job yesterday.’

Brenda stopped, turned slowly, and came back to stand in front of Jen’s workstation. Her shoulders were tensed, lips tight. ‘Why’s that then, Jen?’

Jen looked up. ‘I was on scene, Brenda. I was interested. It’s called doing the job.’

‘Easy, Jen,’ said Barry.

‘All I wanted to say, Brenda, was that your comms log from yesterday seems to have missed out a lot of the actual radio traffic.’

‘They were routine calls, nothing major worth noting. And we had other jobs on.’

‘Are you being deliberately dense? This was a suicide. There’ll be a coroner’s inquest. The radio log is part of the evidence.’

‘That’s enough, Jen,’ said Barry. ‘Brenda, finish off in the galley. Jen, a word.’

Brenda smirked. ‘Sorry, Jen, I think that’s your bacon I can smell burning.’

Jen trailed Barry into the conference room next door. She expected him to tell her to calm down in his usual condescending way and was annoyed at herself for providing him with the opportunity. She had remained calm, right up until Brenda’s smug comment about the bacon.

Jen glanced around the room, taking a moment to compose herself. Chairs were stacked below the windows and a large whiteboard on wheels was pushed into a corner. Just inside the door was an electronic smartboard, supposedly used for PowerPoint presentations. It was covered in flipchart paper. Jen couldn’t think of anyone else on station who actually knew how to work the thing.

Barry was already sitting at the conference table. Impatient, he gestured to the other chairs. ‘Pick any one you want, Jen, in your own time.’

Jen pulled out a chair and sat facing Barry. The tea towel was still tucked into his shirt.

‘Have you calmed down?’

Jen smiled. ‘I’m perfectly calm. I’ve told you, Barry, I’ve stopped getting wound up by what Brenda does. Or doesn’t do.’

‘So what the hell was that out there then?’

Jen was surprised. Barry, for all his many faults, was normally relaxed and easy-going. That might make him good company down the pub but it was a poor skillset for a watch manager, where motivation and a firm hand were vital. She looked him over. Shirt ironed but scruffy. Shaggy, collar-length hair more suited to the seventies. Yellow teeth from too many fags and poor dental hygiene. Not much there to inspire the troops.

‘I was just picking up one of your watch on a piss-poor job.’

‘Watch it, Jen.’

‘Honestly, Barry, I shouldn’t need to. Do you even review the communication logs?’

Barry shifted in his chair. ‘Like Brenda said, we had other jobs on.’

‘A seal on the beach at Fraisthorpe and a fishing boat with a prop full off Amble? Run off your feet, were you?’

Barry finally noticed the tea towel stuffed down his collar. He ripped it out and threw it on the table. ‘Is this a reaction to not getting the Flitcombe Sector job, Jen?’

Jen stared at him. ‘Seriously? You think I’m just saying this because I’m bitter about being passed over for a promotion two months ago?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘Yes, of course I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong about your team’s slack attitude.’ Jen stood and gestured at a large checklist on a whiteboard. ‘When’s the last time we ran some exercises on a quiet shift, a trial distress call maybe? Our watch doesn’t even put in a response to Bob Hicks’ monthly search planning challenge. Only I ever bother.’

Barry waved his arm in dismissal.

Jen sighed. The watch were slack and she was pissed off about the Sector job. It was her own fault; she’d naively assumed the job was hers after she’d covered the role when the last guy went off on long-term sick. The interview feedback said she’d lacked the experience to manage rescue volunteers. Which meant they thought she was too young and too female.

If only it hadn’t been Sam who’d got the job. Pretty yachtie Sam from the south coast. He only had a few years on her but was, crucially, a bloke. To give him his dues, Sam was fitting in well, with the top brass at least. A few of the rescue teams were still feral. Managing volunteers was like herding cats – you were never going to keep them all pointing in the same direction at the same time.

She forced herself to sit back down. ‘OK, maybe I should have discussed the log discrepancies with you before having a go at Brenda. But I’m your deputy, Barry. I should be able to talk to Brenda without her getting her knickers twisted up her fat arse.’

Barry had the decency to laugh. ‘Fair enough, Jen, but try to be a damn sight less confrontational in the way you go about it. And don’t forget – they’re still my watch.’

‘Then for God’s sake, Barry, start managing them.’ She reached out a conciliatory hand, saw