Rip Current: a gripping crime suspense drama

by Amanda James

I swallow hard. ‘Look, I need to think, Nathan. Think very carefully … and do some investigating. If I decide to come I’ll see you this Saturday afternoon at two o’clock on the beach. If I don’t, then you’ll have your answer.’ I end the call before he can say anything else and then hold my breath, stare at my phone. He doesn’t call back. Good.

  In the next few hours I change my mind and back at least a dozen times. Before going home I’m going to get my second in command, DS Brendan Prosser, to do some digging for me. Brendan had told me that the day we went to the house on Westmorland Street together to arrest Ransom was one of the best in his career. He was sad to see me leave and said that if I ever needed anything to give him a call. I don’t do that kind of thing, because I’m never sure if people mean it when they say that, but this time I have to call in the favour. It would be unsafe not to. I must make sure he doesn’t mention anything to Mark though. It was pretty clear after our last conversation that he wanted no more calls asking for his help.

  The phone call to Brendan should be short and sweet. The digging bit will be largely redundant if Nathan is telling the truth. I wonder whether to have lunch before I call him or get right to it. No use in putting it off, but it’s an important call … one that could be the beginning or the end of something. It’s only one o’clock, but the bottle of amaretto on the shelf could be just the accompaniment to such a crucial call home. On the sofa I inhale the almond notes of the amber liquid and take a sip. Then I take another. Immediately I get a head rush and adrenalin is out of the traps and away. Putting the glass out of reach on the coffee table, I pick up the phone and dial Brendan’s number.

  ‘Great to hear from you! How’s tricks?’ Brendan says, a smile in his voice.

  I can hear the bustle of the office in the background, the distant laughter of Maggie, the receptionist. Unexpectedly a wash of nostalgia runs through me and right now I wish I was back there amongst it all. ‘Oh, not so bad, you know. I’m having a little time to decide what to do next … almost completed an online counselling course though, which I’m enjoying so much.’

  ‘That’s brilliant. I’m so happy that you’re happy, Bryony.’

  We talk of office gossip for a while and then I can’t put things off any longer. There’ve been a few silences, mostly awkward, so I take the plunge. ‘As well as ringing to see how everyone is … I was wondering if you could tell me about the delightful Kenny Ransom. I heard on the grapevine that he … he was dead.’ I sit on the edge of the sofa, stretch my hand to the amaretto glass and hold my breath.

  ‘Yep, he sure is, and I for one am not sorry in the least.’

  The amaretto goes down in one and I flop back on the sofa cushions, blowing a sigh of relief down my nose. ‘My God. Hanged himself, I was told?’

  ‘Yeah … though there are a few rumours going round Wakefield that he had help from an old adversary. We’re not buying that though, or at least a blind eye or two might have been turned. Good riddance to bad rubbish. And Dawson and some other choice characters will soon be residents of that jail, if all goes as it should.’

  ‘Wow. You have been busy in my absence!’

  ‘We have.’ There’s a pause. ‘Don’t you miss it, Bryony? You were a sad loss … a bloody good DI.’

  A combination of his words, the realisation that Nathan was telling the truth and the downing of the drink draw a slew of emotion up from my depths. I sniff and swallow a lump in my throat. ‘Oh, that’s a nice thing to say, Bren. And yes, I do miss it, miss you lot … but not enough to come back. The day-to-day frustration of seeing shits like Ransom, Dawson and the rest ruining lives and getting away with it for the majority of the time got too much. I want to make a difference. See results of my actions more than once in a blue moon.’

  ‘I get that. Still, the day we got that bastard was—’

  ‘One of the best of your career,’ I finish.

  ‘The best, I’d say.’

  ‘The best.’ I sigh. ‘Thanks, Bren. Promise I’ll keep in touch.’ And I will.

  ‘See you, boss. Make sure you do.’

  It’s late afternoon and the weak winter sun is angling into my small backyard through the branches of a twisted olive tree. An idea to take up painting while I was here never materialised, but I have taken lots of photos of this place, the village and the breathtaking surrounding countryside. A promise to return here one day is as firm in my mind as the one I made to Brendan about keeping in touch. This place has been like a salve on an open wound. Healing, strengthening, restoring. I feel stronger, confident, and the need to control everything has lessened. Perhaps that got left behind with my old life.

  I was wrong earlier about either or. The result of the phone call today means the beginning of something, but it’s also the ending. I can go home without the fear of being found, without having to look over my shoulder … to a new beginning. But I’ll leave my life here. I have a few months’ lease left on the gîte, but I can’t see the point in going back to Cornwall on Saturday and then having to come back out here again to get my stuff. I might as well just go home for good. I can’t wait to see Mum and Jen. I’m also very keen to find out just why Nathan did what he did. My head tells me that it won’t be the same between us – we can’t go back to how we were – but my heart wants to give him a chance to explain.

  Deciding there’s no time like the present I pull out my suitcase and holdall and start to pack. Tomorrow seems like a good day to close the door on the Loire. Valentin and Chantelle will be a bit surprised, and maybe a bit sad, but it’s time. A smile curls my lips. I need to do a spot of matchmaking before I go too. There’s also something else that I might have to do but really don’t want to. Immi has been doing a similar thing to me for the same amount of time in Spain. We have only spoken a few times, but she seemed fine last time we spoke. She has a job behind the bar in an English pub in Barcelona and has made a few friends. At the heart of her I know she’s raw though.

  The old Immi has been crushed by the sins of her father, leaving her empty, withdrawn. Her chance of happiness with Jonathan was dashed before it even had a chance to grow. That’s why we haven’t spoken much, I think. She finds it hard to sustain the cheerful conversation, the jokey attitude, pretending she’s still the person she used to be. I know exactly how she feels. It’s exhausting. But now, I must phone her. I just hope she already knows about her father or I’m going to be the one that has to break it to her.

  ‘Immi … how are you?’ I sit on the bed, tuck the phone between my cheek and shoulder and try to fold a jumper.

  ‘Oh, same old … keeping busy. You?’ There’s a babble of voices and clinking glasses in the background. I picture her wiping her forehead with a bar cloth and scurrying through a gaggle of customers.

  Shit. She doesn’t know. ‘Oh I’m fine. So you’ve not had news from home?’

  ‘No. I don’t have contact with anyone from home. What kind of news?’

  ‘Um …’ I drop the jumper into the case and hug my knees to my chest.

  ‘Is it about my shit of a father?’

  I hear a door close behind her and then all I can hear is her breathing. ‘Yeah. You might want to sit down.’

  ‘If he’s got out on appeal somehow, I swear I’ll hunt the fucker down and kill him!’

  Oh God. She’s going to regret those words. ‘No, he isn’t out … he’s …’

  ‘For God’s sake, Bryony, just tell me!’

  ‘He’s dead … killed himself.’ I can’t say I’m sorry, because I’m not, and she’d know I wasn’t. I screw my face up, imagining her reaction all alone in some back room or store cupboard.

  ‘How?’ Her voice is hollow, monotone.

  ‘He hanged himself.’

  There’s nothing on the line for such a long time apart from her breathing. Then there’s a short sniff. ‘Well, all I can say is the world will be a better place without him. I was going to cheer at first, say hurrah … but then I stopped myself because that would be crass. I’m not gett
ing down on my belly to his level. I must say I’m not in the least bit sorry though.’ Then there’s a sigh and a giggle. ‘But you know what? I’m so glad I can now finally go home. I’m so sick of this job I can’t tell you!’

  I tell her that I’m glad too, that I’m going home and that I’m meeting Nathan to find out what he has to say. She says I need my head examined but understands. She wishes she was coming to Newquay too as there’s nothing left for her in Sheffield. I don’t remind her that Jonathan is there. Immi knows that. Besides, now isn’t the time to have a big conversation about plans for the future. Instead I say, ‘If you’re sure you have nothing to go back to Sheffield for, what’s stopping you coming to Cornwall? I’m sure Mum would make up your old room.’

  ‘Really! Oh, Bryony that would be fantastic! I’ll work to the end of the week here and be with you after that. Oh, what a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.’ Then her tone becomes more sombre. ‘It’s not normally what happens when you find out your father is dead, is it?’

  ‘No. But then he wasn’t a normal father, was he?’

  ‘Far from it. I know your dad’s no longer with us, Bryony, but at least he was a good man. He was someone you could look up to, follow in his footsteps. You’ll always have wonderful memories of him. My memories, on the other hand …’ Immi’s words turn into a sob.

  ‘Hey, come on, love … it won’t be long before we can see each other face to face. We’ll have a laugh and catch up properly. I’ve missed you, Immi.’

  ‘I’ve missed you too.’ She sniffs and then I hear someone calling her name and the babble of bar noise again. ‘Right, must go. I’ll keep you posted about when I’m coming to Cornwall. Bye.’

  As bad news breaking goes, that was better than I’d expected. Of course I realised she wouldn’t be distraught with grief, but people are unpredictable when faced with the unexpected. I remember that from past experience in my old job. Immi did sound more like herself at the end of the conversation, thank goodness. Perhaps we can put all this behind us in time and, in a few years, we will both be able to look back at this over a glass of wine and laugh … or maybe not.

  The sun has gone and evening shadows are creeping across the fields and over walls as I hurry down the winding lane to the bakery to catch Chantelle before she’s off for the evening. Then I’ll go and see Valentin to break some more unexpected, but much more pleasant news. My heart lends lightness to my feet and I run through the chill evening with excited butterflies in my chest. For the first time in a long time I’m looking to my future with optimism. It’s about time things changed for the better and I have a feeling that at last my luck might be in.

  38

  Windy beaches, shimmering white-topped breakers and sunshine. Heaven. Nathan decides that even though the place that has been his home for nearly nine months is stunningly beautiful, nothing can compare to the majesty of the scene in front of him. It wasn’t until he got out of his car a little while ago and ran down the sand dune with the wind in his hair that he realised how much he’d missed the ocean, the salt in his lungs. Whatever happens, he knows he must make his home not too far away from a beach.

  Looking at his watch every few minutes isn’t going to make Bryony appear any quicker. And worrying that she’s decided to stay in France instead won’t help either. Nathan winds his hair around his fist and tucks it into his hoodie. Immediately a few strands find their way back out into the wind, bisecting his view of a young couple in wetsuits whooping down to the water’s edge, bodyboards shoved under their arms. Unexpectedly, Nathan’s blood runs cold. Are these kids experienced? The wind has whipped up a sizeable swell today … and what about rip currents? Low in the sky, the shimmering winter sun turns the water to mirror shards. Shielding his eyes against it, he sets off at a run to the shoreline.

  It turns out that the youngsters are local and know everything there is to know about the ocean, but they thank him for his concern and then plunge headlong into the surf. Looking on, Nathan promises himself that he’ll learn to surf properly one day, and learn about safety in the water. His cheeks flush as he remembers how foolish he’d been the day Bryony saved him. A quick look around. It’s 2.20 and she’s still not here. How long should he wait? Originally he’d thought an hour. Now he’s here, he decides he’ll wait until it gets dark. There’s no way he’s leaving until all hope is gone.

  The nip in the air encourages a quick walk to the café to get a takeaway hot drink. No use making himself uncomfortable if he’s in for a long wait. Once again a niggle of doubt whispers that she might not come at all, but he hides it under a broad smile and sets off back up the beach towards the car park and shops. A few moments later his heart misses a beat, because hurrying down the steep sand ahead is a figure dressed in black jeans and a red hooded jacket that moves like Bryony, is the same height, but … it can’t be her. This woman is fuller in the hips, and the wind is making dark streamers of her long shiny hair. Closer now and his heartbeat quickens, her features are clearer … it is. It is her!

  Nathan waves frantically but his hood blows down and once again he can’t see because of his mass of wild hair. Bryony stops, shields her eyes and looks behind, as if she thinks he’s waving at someone else. A laugh breaks free and is snatched away on the wind as he realises she doesn’t recognise him either. Not surprising, especially with his beard. He powers forward and when he’s a few metres away he sees her mouth drop open and then curl into a huge smile. Then the smile disappears and Nathan can tell that she doesn’t want him to see she’s pleased to see him.

  ‘Bryony, so good to see you,’ he pants, opening up his arms as he closes the gap between them.

  ‘Hi, Nathan,’ she says in a monotone, folding her arms and planting her feet apart in the sand.

  He lets his arms fall to his sides. Serves him right for getting ahead of himself. ‘You look lovely.’ Nathan points at her hair blowing around her face. ‘Hair suits you too.’

  ‘Thanks. Seems you went for a similar style.’ Bryony allows him a tiny smile.

  ‘Yeah. Helps with my Viking disguise.’ He grins and then there’s an awkward moment in which they both clear their throats and look around the beach. ‘So, shall we go to the café for our chat?’

  She nods. ‘Might as well. It will be warmer in there.’

  From the counter, Nathan waves at Bryony sitting at a corner table against the big picture window overlooking the expanse of Fistral. He gets her attention and gestures at the cake stand but she shakes her head, so Nathan carries the two coffees over and then goes back for his chocolate éclair.

  ‘Sure you don’t want a cake?’ Nathan asks and unzips his hoodie.

  Bryony’s gaze skims his chest, flits to his eyes and away. ‘No thanks. Just let’s get down to this explanation I’ve waited so long to hear.’

  ‘Okay.’ Nathan sits down and, unsure where to begin, takes a big bite from his éclair … and then wishes he hadn’t as he notices ill-disguised mirth in Bryony’s eyes before she turns to look out of the window. He knows why, and hurriedly scrubs a napkin at his chin and nose. The damned pastry had exploded its cream all over the bloody place. Then he reaches for his coffee cup a bit too quickly and it clatters, splashing a good mouthful or two onto the saucer and table. Bryony glances round and then looks away, her hand over her mouth. Shit. He needs to get his act together.

  A few moments later Bryony has obviously got her amusement under control and raises an eyebrow at him while she takes a drink. She looks so beautiful, all he wants to do is take her in his arms, but of course he can’t.

  She places the cup carefully back onto its saucer and says, ‘Just tell me straight, Nathan. No point in being nervous – you won’t shock me, whatever you have to say.’

  He takes a deep breath. Nods. ‘Right. Well, after I got shot, I was in hospital for a week. I had plenty of time to think … mainly about you. There was no way you’d be safe if we were still together. Ransom hated me more than you; he wouldn’t have stopped unti
l he found me, and you too, obviously, if you were with me. He hated Immi more than you too. So I figured that with me out of the picture, you would be relatively protected, while Immi and I were public enemies number one and two.’ Nathan attempts a smaller bite of his éclair while she holds his gaze intently in hers. Her expression is unreadable.

  Bryony’s mouth turns up at one side and she looks up to the left. ‘Okay, I can see the logic in that to an extent. But after the shooting we could have left the country together, just as I did on my own. Ransom has his useful contacts, but he’s not Interpol. There was no way he’d have found us tucked away in a little French village.’ She looks back at him, though her gaze is softer.

  ‘Even so, if we were apart you would be safer. You can’t deny that. They’d be searching for two of us, not one. And as I said numerous times before, you saved my life and I wanted to go a small way to repay that – even if it killed me to do it. Being without you was …’ He sighs and takes a drink. No point in getting emotional, he has a way to go yet. Nathan daren’t look at Bryony though. Let’s just get the words out. To the table he says, ‘When I was in hospital I had a visit from two local police officers and with their help I decided to become an informer in return for new ID, a place to live, a job and a legit CV. It was down to me that the arrests I told you about were made.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Nathan! I know I said I wouldn’t be shocked, but this is something else.’ Bryony’s tone is encouraging and Nathan looks up from the table. Approval is shining in her eyes and there’s a ghost of a smile playing at the edges of her lips.

  ‘It’s been a pretty shocking nine months, that’s for sure.’ He smiles at her and she gives him a genuine smile back.

  ‘So where were you living? What job did you do?’ She leans forward, her elbows on the table, warm hazel eyes searching his face. He tells her and she laughs. ‘You do look like a Viking with that hair and beard. But Adam Jackson … there’s no way that name suits you.’