by Amanda James
‘Wanna bet?’ she says, standing up and shrugging on her jacket. ‘Right, time we were off. I’ll see you at the trial next week and let’s hope he never sees the light of day ever again.’
As I follow her outside, I notice the slight slump of her shoulders that never used to be there. It’s as if she’s carrying an invisible weight across them. Hate and resentment weigh more than happiness, obviously. This makes me sad, because the carefree girl I once knew has been forever changed because of the sins of her father. Kenny has to go down next week if there’s any justice in this world.
10
Immi looks around the visiting room. It’s more like a community centre – bright, breezy, and smells of rehabilitation. There would be no rehabilitation or reformation for her father though. He is far too twisted with hatred, and the desire for revenge oozes from every pore like poison. Across the table her father is talking, talking, talking. For the last ten minutes she has watched his mouth moving, his eyes narrowing and opening wide again, his constant gesticulating, but she’s switched off, retired to her safe place, the one where her mother lives, where she lived before all this. When she was younger everything seemed so simple and clear. Every day was an adventure. Since she realised what her father was, her days have been edged by darkness. Tinged with grime … soiled.
‘Are you listening to anything I’m saying, Imms?’
Imms. He was the only person who called her that and she had always hated it. Before, she let it go, because it was a term of endearment. Now it makes her want to slap him. ‘Must admit my thoughts have wandered.’ She leaves the ‘sorry’ out, because she isn’t.
He pulls his neck in, folds his arms across his blue grubby T-shirt. She thinks he looks much older and infinitely less powerful in the shirt and jogging bottoms the prisoners here wear. Just another con. A con that still vainly gels his hair, but in the absence of an expensive barber, fails miserably in achieving the desired effect. Without his top-up tan his skin is grey, like his eyes. Eyes that are now boring into hers, indignation almost palpable. ‘Your thoughts have wandered? Charmin’.’
‘Yes. Can you repeat what you said? I was up to the bit where you said that a few guys in here know colleagues of yours, and will be able to do some business if needed.’
‘Yes. Why did you say colleagues as if it was a dirty word?’
‘Well, they’re hardly likely to be businessmen of the year, are they?’
Her father glances at an officer standing impassively not too far away. He leans forward and lowers his voice. ‘Keep your voice down. Why did you say that?’
Immi considers laughing in his face, but lowers her voice. ‘Dad, it’s no surprise that you’re a bad guy. Why do you think you’re in here?’
He shoves his hands through his hair, which leaves him looking like he’s been standing in a strong wind, and hisses, ‘I can’t believe this. My own daughter believing the shite they said at trial. And the arresting fucking officer, AKA your best mate, looking on all bloody high and mighty.’
This isn’t good. Immi takes a deep breath and tries to keep her composure. Her father has mentioned Bryony before, as a friend of the past, but as far as she knew he didn’t know they were friends still. ‘It was hard to witness such damning evidence, Dad. And what do you mean, best mate?’
‘Don’t give me that.’ Her father leans back in his chair and links his hands behind his head. The movement reveals dark sweat patches under his arms, wafts a pungent aroma in her direction. She holds her breath. ‘Facebook friends, Cousin Jake says.’
Shit, Cousin bloody Jake. She forgot that she accepted a friend request from him ages ago. They never communicated because he’s a bit dodgy to say the least, but clearly he’s in with Dad. He must have looked down her friends list … did Dad ask him to? ‘Facebook friends doesn’t mean real friends, does it? I just accepted her request and that was it. Can’t even remember when it was now.’ Imogen is pleased that her voice sounds calmer than she feels.
‘That’s as maybe. But I want you to get rid of her from Facebook, nasty little bitch. She put the heavies on Jozef and Marta. They would never have said what they did if she hadn’t.’
Imogen puts her hand over her mouth to stop herself from saying something she’d regret. What planet is he actually on? She had agreed to see him today just out of curiosity, really. It had been a month since the trial and the first time he’d been allowed visitors. She nearly hadn’t come, and was ready to just cut him off, but the way he’d been before – swearing someone would pay for his predicament – had made her change her mind. Imogen needed to make sure she stayed close to him so she could find out his intentions. She had to be realistic though and not just hang on his every word as if he were a poor wronged victim. He’d see through that immediately. She was also intrigued to find out what the hell he would come up with in terms of a story.
‘But as I said before, Dad, there was lots of firm evidence against you … and why would two homeless people you saved, took off the street, betray you like that?’
Her dad shakes his head in bewilderment and says through gritted teeth, ‘That’s not the full story. As I just said, that cow leant on them.’
Imogen holds her breath. Is he about to confess? She leans in and lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘But, Dad, you said they were selling prostitutes from that house behind your back at the trial, abusing your good faith. Is that not true?’
Imogen watches recognition dawn behind his eyes – he’d said too much. His gaze flicks to the officer again and back. ‘I’m not saying that. But what I am stating is that Masters was out to get me as soon as we moved back here three years since, and she’s done it.’
Imogen gives him a wistful smile. ‘She always was too clever by half when we were kids. Ran rings round me at school.’
‘Yeah, well she’s going to be sorry that she crossed me, that’s for damned sure.’ He speaks so softly that Imogen can only just catch his words. The fire in his eyes speaks volumes though, loud and clear. For the first time in her life she is actually scared of him. Of what he is capable of. She has to act quickly. Think. Think!
A deep breath. ‘Look, Dad. You say you’re innocent and I think I believe you. I mean, I want to believe you. Mum did tell me some stuff just before she died about your business that upset me. I know you aren’t legit in some areas … but I know in my heart that you could never do anything so terrible as this—’
‘Your mother did what?’
‘That’s why I fell out with you for a bit … she told me about other women too.’ Imogen watches the blood drain from his already grey face. She laces her fingers together on the table to stop them trembling.
‘Right. I see … now it all makes sense. No wonder you were so cold to me. How could your mum lie to you like that?’ He shakes his head and draws his hand down his face.
‘For goodness’ sake, Dad, give me some credit. I knew my mum, and she was telling the truth. As I said just now, I think you’re telling the truth on this one. So what we don’t want is for you to go causing trouble or worse for you-know-who. Not if we have a chance of getting you out of here at some point.’
‘You mean an appeal?’ Hope shines in his eyes and a slow smile curls his lips.
‘Don’t see why not. You’ve the money to get the best lawyers and I’ll do all I can.’
‘You’ve changed your tune since you came in.’
Imogen allows him a little smile. ‘Well, as I said, you aren’t Snow White, are you? But in the end you’re my dad and I love you. You only ever did any of your dodgy stuff for your family, I can see that. Now there’s just me left and I want to help you get out of this hell hole.’ Imogen watches her father’s eyes fill and hopes she won’t be struck by lightning on the way home.
‘That’s my girl.’
The bell sounds for end of visiting and it can’t come a moment too soon for Imogen. A quick hug and she’s gone. She’s managed the visit without falling apart at the seams in front of him. It i
sn’t until she’s safely behind the wheel of her car that she starts to tremble from top to toe, feels the stitches of the doting-daughter cloak unpicking. Caged like this, desperate for revenge, he’d shown his true colours. The veil had slipped on more than one occasion between the persona of Jack-the-Lad dad, and the real Kenny Ransom. Before he’d had a chance to put it back, the nasty, drug-dealing, racketeering, sex-trafficking piece of slime she’d only glimpsed in the past had been revealed in all his terrifying glory. How on earth she’d managed to carry on chatting as if nothing had happened, she would never know.
Imogen closes her eyes and leans her head on the steering wheel. Dear God, she hopes her father listened to her in there about leaving Bryony alone, because if he didn’t, she doesn’t give much for her chances.
11
I’m a hero at work. We had a big celebration party down the nick the day after Ransom went down, we had another down the pub that weekend, and there’s newfound respect in the eyes of my senior officers whenever we meet in corridors, toilets, canteens … but I feel like it’s all a sham. On my part, at least. Because what did I actually do? Okay, I persuaded DCI Bradley to allow me the chance and it paid off. But what if it hadn’t? If it hadn’t, I would be in a whole heap of shit and, instead of respect, I would be seeing disdain.
These past six weeks since it happened have made me reassess who I am, what I want and where I’m going. Before Ransom was sent down, I’d thought of my dad and decided to be a good bent copper, but is that what I want to be for the rest of my working life? There are thousands of Kenny Ransoms slithering through the stinking dark tunnels of the criminal underworld, leaving misery, depravity and death in their slime trails. As I sit at my desk staring out at the city, twiddling a pencil, coffee steam swirling leaving a round condensation circle on the window, I know they are there. They’re out there slithering, tunnelling, gorging … and we will never catch them all. We’ll catch some, but more will come. They always do.
Anya’s face is never far from my thoughts either. She was one of the poor girls that actually had a passport, came here to stay with her lovely Aunt Marta and hoped to study. She had overstayed, of course, but the pride and determination in her eyes had brought tears to mine and I’d had to look for something in my bag. Because police officers don’t cry, do they? Anya said she would be back one day to help others like herself. But first she was going to train as a counsellor back in Poland and go round to schools and villages, spreading the word, telling the young women there to watch for the signs, look for the pitfalls, be aware. Anything to stop others falling into the trap she did.
I take a sip of coffee and draw a smiley face in the condensation. We need more brave people like Anya. More people willing to stand up, fight back, despite the fact that they have suffered the most terrible abuse. A thought flits through my mind. Perhaps I could be a counsellor instead? Do something similar – maybe a teacher – actually feel like I’m making a difference every day, instead of making it once in a blue moon when the Ransoms of this world are put away. With this in mind I decide I’ll have a chat to Mark as soon as I can.
‘Of all the things I expected you to say today, this wasn’t one of them.’ DCI Mark Bradley has knitted his bushy black eyebrows so closely together that I think he’ll never separate them again. He purses his lips and perches on the edge of his desk.
‘Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to be saying it … just pondering on stuff lately and—’
‘You thought you’d just jack in a brilliant career in the force and go off to be a counsellor, or a teacher.’ Mark raises his eyebrows – thankfully they do separate – and holds up a wagging finger. ‘And this just after you put away one of the worst slimeballs in this area. I’m baffled, Bryony, to be honest, quite baffled.’ He spreads his hands wide to show how baffled he is and then turns his back on me, looks out the window.
When he puts it like that it does seem a bit drama-queenish. But it has been on my mind for some time … since Dad really. I sit down on a high-backed swivel chair opposite his desk and fold my hands on my lap. What to say next? The truth might be a good idea. ‘Sir,’ I say to his stiff back. ‘It’s not just on a whim. Since my dad was killed, everything seems a bit … pointless, I suppose. I mean, a good man like him just snuffed out in the line of duty. Every day all he ever wanted to do was the right thing. Put away scum like Kenny Ransom, but he was the one that got put away. Permanently.’
Mark whips round, an incredulous expression turning his hazel eyes to hard beads. ‘Er, reality check for DI Masters – life isn’t fucking fair. How old are you? Twelve?’
Nice. That was a punch in the gut. What the hell is wrong with him? I feel my eyes prickle but there is no way I will let him see I’m upset. ‘Not sure what you—’
‘Yes, you are sure what I’m getting at. You are thirty-one years old, one of the youngest to make DI, and why is that? It’s because you’re a bloody good copper and have worked your arse off to achieve it. You’re a chip off the old block. I knew your dad when we were just starting out here. Steve was one of the best coppers I’ve ever met, but he wasn’t one for high ladder climbing like me and you. He was happy with sergeant, each to our own, but he was just as good as either of us. I would have trusted him with my life. Yes, he was out to get the bad guys, but that’s what we all do, day in, day out, isn’t it? Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. That’s the way it is.’
The not letting him see I’m upset bit hasn’t worked. When he started saying nice things about my dad I choked back a sob and now I’m dabbing at my eyes. God, I hate showing weakness in front of superiors. I release a slow breath and say, ‘Yes, I know that’s the way it is, but it shouldn’t be, should it?’
Mark sighs and then in a more sympathetic tone says, ‘Well, no. No, it shouldn’t, but until the government gives us a blank cheque for more officers’–he counts on his fingers–‘more bobbies on the beat, more undercover officers, more surveillance equipment, more money in our pay packets, mo—’
‘Yes, I get that.’ I sigh too. ‘But I do wonder if I’d be best placed to help people if I was a counsellor, a teacher or something.’
‘Or something?’
I catch the smile in his voice and look up from my tissue. ‘What?’
‘You haven’t made your mind up to leave at all, have you?’
He has that all-knowing look that I hate. It means he’s right and I’m wrong. ‘We-ll, I—’
‘No, you haven’t.’ Mark has a big grin on his face now. He comes back from the window and sits behind his desk. ‘Look. You have some leave due, why don’t you go and visit your mum? A bit of sea air and relaxation will do you the world of good. Take a week to get everything here in order and then bugger off for a fortnight. When you get back everything will look different.’
How can he read me so well? It hasn’t crossed my mind before that I’d like to go and see Mum, get by the ocean, but right now I realise that is exactly what I need to do. I smile back. ‘Okay, it can’t hurt anything, can it?’
12
It’s as though the world has stopped, tipped back in time and flicked me off onto the soft yellow sand of Fistral Beach circa 1997. I am ten years old or thereabouts and my heart is so full of adventure and excitement I can hardly breathe. It’s that first-day-of-the-holiday feeling, the anticipation of which has kept me buzzing for the last few days. The fallout from this – packing and repacking, and my endless questioning – ‘Is it time to go yet? And can we go in the sea as soon as we get there? Can we have ice cream too?’ has driven my poor parents to distraction.
The stage is set. The ocean is front and centre being majestic and shouty, the sky, unfeasibly blue, tries to emphasise its horizon in deeper blue, but the sun smudges it, and the sand, soft as sugar beneath my feet, shifts and slides as I jump for joy at the top of the dunes. I know, of course, that it’s not really 1997, and I’m thirty-one, not ten, but I have to try so hard not to whoop as I run down the dune and onto the flat har
d sand near the water’s edge. I love the feeling of being so tiny next to such a vast expanse of water. It’s a great leveller. The ocean feels like a living entity, and for me it captures the true spirit of nature. Until this moment, I had no idea how much I’ve missed it, longed to be right here. Right now.
Very early on in life my mum instilled in me about how the ocean is our friend if we treat it with the utmost respect. We should never underestimate its powers or take it for granted though, because it takes no prisoners. Mum said that over the years growing up here, she had heard of countless deaths at sea. These were often tourists that didn’t heed warnings, or just had no idea about how dangerous the ocean could be. I can’t remember a time when I couldn’t swim, thanks to her. Surfing came later, but feels as natural to me as riding a bike. Or it did … it must be three years since I’ve taken a board out. That will be remedied very soon, but for now I’m going in.
My heart thumps and an adrenalin rush speeds my feet the last few metres and I’m in. The Atlantic rollers smash into my belly but I power on, laughing as the cold seeps through my wetsuit and up my chest. Another wave towers above my head and I turn to the beach as it slaps across my back and over my head, leaving a shower of salt kisses on my lips as it rushes to the shore. Perhaps it’s missed me. Then I’m swimming. Every stroke takes me further from the shore, from my life in Sheffield, from the stench of criminals, from monsters like Kenny Ransom. My body is cleansed, reborn … purified.
I float on my back, weightless. The sky paints a few herringbones and vapour trails across itself for variety, and a tiny puff of cloud competes against freewheeling seagulls for centre stage. The swell under me lifts, and drops, up and down … my body is purified, but my mind still reaches for answers. I hope I’ll find them while I’m here. In a very short while I’ll go and surprise Mum and Aunty Jenny. Originally, the plan was to ring and say I was coming down, but something stopped me. The child in me, I suppose. Besides, Mum would inevitably ask about work and I didn’t want to tell her all the stuff about Ransom over the phone.