Rip Current: a gripping crime suspense drama

by Amanda James

‘Me? I was just driving Mr. Ransom. I had nowt do with owt. Coppers brought me in and questioned me, but they had zilch,’ he says, glowering. ‘Look, Frank says you have to meet him on Monday morning at Ken’s place. He wants to talk to you about your future with the firm. Says you have to be there at ten o’clock sharp or don’t bother coming.’

  ‘I’ll be there. Of course I will.’

  ‘I’ll tell him then.’ Jason heaves himself to standing and tips an imaginary hat at Nathan. ‘See you around?’

  ‘Bank on it.’ Nathan follows Jason, then locks and chains the door behind him and leans his forehead against the cool paintwork.

  Frank wants to see him about his future? This doesn’t sound good. Maybe he’s going to have three or four thugs waiting to give him a good hiding. Maybe Kenny wants someone to blame. They obviously haven’t found the owner of the voice from the phone call, the person who set up Ransom, have they? So it looks like Nathan is the fall guy. Ransom is clearly furious at being hauled in and perhaps losing his freedom for a while – so someone has to pay.

  If he doesn’t go on Monday then it’s as good as an admission of guilt. If he does, then he could risk a beating, or worse. Could Jason and Frank be in it together? Could Frank be the one that called Kenny? Do they want to punish him to put Kenny off the scent? Nathan’s stomach bubbles and nausea rises from it. He needs air. On the balcony he takes in gulps of fresh air sheathed in kebab grease from the takeaway opposite, and petrol fumes from the stationary traffic at the lights below. He retches and runs for the bathroom.

  He stares at his shocked expression in the bathroom mirror. His dark green eyes look like two emeralds in snow. The contents of his stomach decide to come up again, and the next time he looks at his reflection he sees colour coming back into his cheeks and he starts to feel more normal, whatever that is. The decision has been made. Whatever happens he will go to meet Frank on Monday and take the breakdown report with him. Frank might rip it up in front of him, but he might believe him. It is an official report, after all. Thank God Kevin managed to tamper with the engine just enough to get it to break down a few miles from Nathan’s home. The breakdown guy never questioned it, it seemed legit. Kevin is an excellent mechanic.

  Everyone dreads Monday morning, don’t they? Today, dread is an understatement. Today, to Nathan, it feels like a death sentence. He’s barely eaten since Friday evening after the house call from Jason, and when he managed to grab a little sleep, his dreams were tortured and twisty. Nathan slows his car and prepares to stop at the ridiculously ornate brass gates at the driveway to Ransom’s house. Ransom’s mansion, the owner often laughingly called it. Okay, it rhymed, kind of, but the childish pleasure Ransom got from uttering those words just made him sound stupid, in Nathan’s opinion.

  The gates swing silently open so he drives up the long gravel swathe of brown, flanked on either side by lush green lawns. A mock Georgian manor house sits hunched like a self-conscious imposter at the top of an incline, and, at the top of thick white steps, marble pillars reflect the bright morning sunshine. Before Nathan has even switched off the engine the door opens and out steps Jason. My, my, isn’t he the flavour of the month?

  ‘Follow me,’ Jason says as Nathan gets out of his car, then he turns and leads the way inside.

  Nathan eyes the oak panelling and expensive paintings all along the hallway as he follows in Jason’s echoing footsteps. He has only ever been inside once since Ransom bought the place a few years back. Business was always done on the step or next to the car. Perhaps he didn’t want all and sundry seeing the extent of his wealth. Jason is probably too thick to recognise expensive stuff if it hit him in the eye. He wouldn’t know an antique vase from a pint pot. Frank wouldn’t be in on anything with him – too dumb. Thick but useful with his fists, that’s why he’s here. The last of Nathan’s thoughts doesn’t lighten his mood.

  Jason stops outside a door and pushes it open. ‘Mr. Dawson is in the drawing room.’ He pronounces it ‘drawling’. ‘Wait here and I’ll check he’s ready for you.’ If the situation wasn’t so dire, Nathan would have laughed at Jason’s misplaced air of self-importance.

  Jason comes back and beckons him in. The room is just as ostentatious as the rest of the place, all oak, marble and gold leaf. In front of a huge floor-to-ceiling window stands Frank Dawson, stocky and resplendent in a designer three-piece suit. The suit fails to hide the paunch and can’t compensate for the uncouth belch Dawson greets him with. ‘Oops. Excuse me, just ate a shedload of bacon and eggs. Kenny keeps his own hens, you know. Nothing finer than freshly laid eggs.’ He smooths his jet-black comb over and, as if in contemplation about the merits of eggs, strokes a pockmarked cheek.

  Nathan hasn’t seen Dawson for a while and remembers that the hair was thicker and greyer when last they met. Why people try to look younger by dying their hair black is beyond Nathan. It has the opposite effect. Fake tan and dark hair can’t disguise the crow’s feet pulling at the corners of Dawson’s eyes, nor the turkey neck wobbling as he talks.

  ‘So how are you doing, Nathan?’ Dawson doesn’t wait for a reply, just sweeps his hand at a wing-backed chair next to a grand fireplace. ‘Let’s sit down, have a little chat.’

  Nathan sits and wonders if this is the bit where some henchmen enter stage right and tie him to the seat. ‘I’m well, thanks,’ he says, perching on the edge of the cushion. ‘How are you, Mr. Dawson?’

  Dawson flicks the tail of his jacket up and sits. ‘Mr. Dawson? Call me Frank. No need to be so formal.’

  This isn’t what Nathan was expecting at all. Still, he mustn’t let his guard down. He decides to tackle what Jason said head on. ‘Okay, thanks, Frank. I was a bit worried, to be honest. Jason said that Mr. Ransom thought I was behind him being set up. But my car had a genuine breakdown, you know.’ Nathan pulls the report from his pocket and hands it to Dawson.

  Dawson nods, scans the report and hands it back. ‘Our Jason tends to overdramatise. He has little in the brain department, though to be fair, that is more or less what Kenny thought for a while.’ Dawson strokes his scars again, narrows his eyes. ‘Well, you would, wouldn’t you?’

  Nathan takes a moment to realise that this is not a rhetorical question. He spreads his hands wide. ‘I guess it didn’t look good. But why he suspected me in the first place …’ He shrugs.

  Dawson relaxes back into his chair. ‘As Kenny said, there weren’t too many people who knew about that house. He just narrowed it down.’

  ‘But why would I do that, jeopardise everything? I owe everything to Mr. Ransom. My dad worked for him, loyal to the last.’ Nathan hopes he’s kept the bitterness out of his voice. ‘My mum and brothers live in one of his houses for a nominal rent because of Mr. Ransom, and the jobs he sends me are my bread and butter.’

  Dawson nods in agreement. ‘Hmm.’ A pause. A steepling of fingers. ‘That’s what I told Kenny, and he had to concede I was right. But …’ He holds a podgy finger up in the air. ‘Mr. Ransom wants you to prove yourself. Once he finds out who was behind it, and he will …’ Dawson leans forward and fixes Nathan with his beady black eyes. ‘He has a special job for you. No idea when that will be, but you need to be on standby.’

  Nathan swallows and watches the older man lean back again, brush imaginary specks of dust from his suit. He wonders if Dawson thinks he’s in a gangster movie. Dawson raises an eyebrow indicating that he wants some kind of response. The response in Nathan’s head says, no way in hell will he do a ‘special’ job. Instead he says, ‘What kind of special job?’

  ‘No idea.’ Frank sounds bored now, dismissive. ‘Meanwhile there will be some lucrative deals coming your way. I’m sure you’ve been a little worried that jobs have been thin on the ground?’

  ‘Er, well, I …’

  ‘Okay, must get on.’ Dawson stands and walks to the door, opens it and smiles like a lizard as Nathan walks through it. ‘Bye for now, Nathan.’

  Nathan musters a smile. ‘Thanks, Frank. Goodbye.’
r />   As he drives away, the hulk of a house grows smaller through the rear-view mirror … just like his chances of getting out and starting again.

  9

  ‘So you’re sure that Marta and Jozef will definitely testify against him?’ Imogen twists her hair up into a ponytail and then lets it fall through her fingers. I remember she always did this as a kid when she was feeling unsure or anxious.

  ‘Yep, don’t worry,’ I say, and lead the way into the Fox and Hounds, a little country pub about ten miles from the city. We had agreed that being seen together by any of Ransom’s friends wouldn’t be a good idea.

  From a table in the corner, Imogen scans the lunchtime clientele, her shoulders hunched, eyes missing no one. ‘You sure this place is safe?’

  ‘It’s safer than your place or mine.’ I place two pints of real ale on the table and hand Imogen a menu. ‘Look, just try and relax. We’ve done what we set out to do and against all odds we look like we’re going to get a conviction at the trial next week.’

  ‘I hope so, because all this playing the distraught daughter on my visits over these last twelve months is doing my head in.’ Imogen takes a long pull on her pint. She wipes the froth from her top lip with the back of her hand and leans her elbows on the table. ‘Do you know he actually asked me who I thought the telephone call was from, the one that led him to the house on Westmorland Street.’

  I swallow a mouthful of beer and frown. ‘Eh? How would you know that?’

  ‘No idea. I think he’s going a bit nuts, you know, now that it looks like he’s going down.’

  ‘He’s not ashamed about saying what went on in the house then, you know, in front of you?’

  ‘Not at all, because he’s still protesting his innocence, you see. He says the phone call said that Marta and Jozef were using one of his houses for prostitution – sex slavery. He had no idea about any of it until he got there.’

  ‘Yes, I know his ridiculous story, but I thought he might have come clean to you given that he might get fifteen years for this.’

  ‘No chance! He thinks he’s getting off, so no confession.’ Imogen’s expression grows pensive and she bites her bottom lip. ‘I just hope to God he doesn’t.’

  ‘Doesn’t what. Get off?’ I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth and look at the menu. ‘No way.’

  ‘That’s what you thought the last few times you got close to him. Why is this time any different?’ Imogen picks up a beer mat and starts to shred it.

  All the self-assurance and determination I’ve admired in my old friend over the last year seems to have gone. Why is Immi so worried? ‘Hey, come on.’ I take the beer mat from her cold fingers and pat Imogen’s hand. ‘This time it’s different because we have so much on him. At last we have the phone company’s records and incriminating text messages from him to Jozef and Marta, the next-door neighbour has seen him there on numerous occasions and is willing to testify that he overhead them discussing the girls, he was stupid enough to pay Marta and Jozef by cheque once, and he ran away when we went to the house, had to be dragged back by our officers. Also willing to testify is the wonderful Greg Holsworthy, who you managed to find, who started all this off in the first place.’ My wide smile makes no impact. There’s no return smile. Not even a little one. It’s as if Immi hasn’t heard a word.

  She sighs and shakes her head. ‘But he says the cheque was just a gift to them. He felt sorry for them a few years back when he found them homeless and let them live in his house until they got on their feet.’ Imogen sighs again and takes back the beer mat.

  What’s wrong with her? This defeatist talk is beginning to get on my nerves. Ransom’s whole bloody story is a sham. God knows how his defence lawyer keeps a straight face. I muster a calm voice from somewhere. ‘But given your father’s track record, have you ever heard anything so bloody ridiculous? Besides, those two are going to testify against him to save themselves serving a similar sentence. Haven’t you been listening?’

  Immi’s voice holds a tremor. ‘Yes, but he has money for the best lawyers. I just feel there’s a chance he’ll get away with it …’

  I can see that she’s close to tears but pretend not to notice. ‘Nonsense, he’s going down,’ I say to the menu. ‘Right, I’m having the steak ’n’ ale pie and chips. How about you?’

  Immi’s face breaks into a welcome smile. ‘How the hell do you stay so slim given the amount of bad food you eat?’

  ‘I don’t eat lots of bad food.’ My mind presents ready meals and takeaways and I give her a sheepish grin. ‘Okay, you have a point. As for staying slim, must be in my genes.’ I wish I had her curvy figure. I’ve always felt like a guy next to her feminine shape. I grab the menu and hit her on the head with it. ‘So what will you have?’

  She puts her tongue out. ‘The grilled chicken breast and salad. Shame I don’t have your genes.’

  The pie was delicious and for the last half an hour our conversation has managed to steer clear of Kenny Ransom. Immi has been telling me all about a new doctor, Jonathan, at work and how much she likes him. I’ve been teasing her about him, suggesting that she likes him in that way. She’s hotly denies it but her pink cheeks tell me otherwise. Though we’ve had a nice lunch, I realise I have some work to do when I get home, mention it to Immi, and then she surprises me with a breath-taking change of mood and conversation.

  ‘Why the hell did you ignore me and go to the arrest?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Never mind, “eh?”. I told you to stay away from that house when I tipped you off that my father would be there around nine. Said you’d be a red rag to his bull, but you went anyway. Why?’

  ‘I just—’

  ‘Wanted to play the hero, yes. Typical.’ Immi turns down the corners of her mouth, her kind blue eyes now chips of ice.

  ‘What’s brought this on?’ I sit back in my seat, fold my arms.

  Her brittle laugh puts my teeth on edge. She points at me. ‘Look at your body language. On the defensive because you know I’m right.’

  I frown. Perhaps she is, but so what. ‘Okay, I did want to be in on it. I’ve been after him for the past few years and I wanted to let him see that I’d not given up.’

  ‘And you think he’ll leave it at that if he’s sent down?’

  ‘Can’t see as he has a choice.’

  ‘Really? Well I do. He told me the other day that he won’t rest until he finds the spiteful shit that stitched him up.’ Immi pushes her plate away and mirrors my pose.

  ‘But he thinks it was a guy, right?’

  ‘Yes, he would never suspect a woman …’ Immi whispers her last few words: ‘Least of all, me.’

  ‘So what are you getting at?’

  ‘I’m getting at the fact that if he told me someone will pay if he goes down, and he’s no closer to finding out who the “spiteful shit” was, my guess is it’s you who’ll pay. He knows who you are, hates the fact that we were neighbours, that we were friends. He sees your joining the force as a betrayal.’

  ‘What? He said that?’

  ‘No not in so many words, but kind of.’

  ‘Come on, Immi. You’re just rattled because of everything that’s happened. In the end he’s still your father.’

  I receive a sad smile. Then she tosses her hair and snaps, ‘Must be nice to have a knight in shining armour for a dad, eh? What does he think of your big coup?’

  Outside the window spring is doing its best to get noticed. Around a paddock of six picnic benches, crocus and daffodils thrust against hedges and camellia buds swollen with new life sway from delicate branches. Bright, cheerful, sunny new life. My dad loved this time of year and so do I. Though now it’s tinged with sadness because he’s no longer here to see it. Immi is looking at me, a puzzled look on her face. She’s waiting for my answer. There’s no best time to give it, but I should get it over with. I clear my throat and look back at the daffodils. ‘My dad … my dad is no longer with us.’

  Her brows form a deeper furr
ow. ‘Eh? What do you mean? He’s left the police?’

  I pick up my pint glass, drain the froth. I’d kill for another but I’m driving. ‘No. I mean he died.’

  ‘Died?’ Immi unfolds her arms, ruffles her hair. ‘But he can’t have. You said he was proud of you when I asked. You never said he was dead.’

  ‘He was proud of me. He died, well was killed, actually, the week after I made DI. I didn’t want to tell you at the time you asked. Just didn’t seem right.’

  I watch her hand take mine across the table but daren’t look at her face. ‘Oh my God, Bryony. I’m so sorry, love. What happened?’

  ‘He was shot while on duty.’ My throat’s blocked by what feels like something the size of an orange. I withdraw my hand and take a moment. ‘Can we not go over it just now …’

  ‘Of course. So sorry for bringing it up.’ Immi pats my hand.

  ‘Don’t be daft, you weren’t to know.’

  ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘She’s getting there. She moved back to Cornwall about a year ago. She’s helping my Aunty Jenny run a surf school in Newquay.’

  ‘Shut up, she’s not! But that’s awesome.’

  I look at her wide smile and mine copies it. ‘It is awesome, yeah. Mum’s fifty-three and fitter than me, I think. Jenny is eight years younger. They make quite a good living and everything is so relaxed down there.’

  ‘Gilly is Cornish, isn’t she? I seem to remember that from when we were kids.’

  ‘Yeah, Mum’s Cornish. She met Dad when he went there on holiday – he was from here. They fell in love and eventually they married and moved here. She always used to say it was a good job she loved him so much, because she’d be back to her beloved Kernow in a flash if she didn’t. Thirty-odd years in Sheffield and she never settled.’

  Immi is silent for a minute and then says, ‘I wish it was my dad that was dead and not yours. Life isn’t fair sometimes, is it?’

  The pain in her eyes is almost too much to bear. ‘No. No, it isn’t, but don’t wish him dead. If he did die, you would never forgive yourself.’