Rip Current: a gripping crime suspense drama

by Amanda James

  ‘That was before I knew he was a potential murderer.’ Immi clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. I can see we’re getting nowhere on this tack, so I just tell her that we’re off to Cornwall to get away from her father, and where to find us in an emergency. I also tell her not to mention any of it to my mum.

  Immi listens without saying anything, but her hand gestures and facial expressions are priceless. When I’ve finished, she downs the last of her brandy and says, ‘I’ve heard it all now. You’re skulking off to the wilds of Cornwall all loved-up with a man who was sent to kill you. Are you bonkers?’ She throws her hands up. ‘What if he’s doing all this to lull you into a false sense of security? What if he’s some weirdo that gets off with sleeping with his victim first before he kills them? Not thought of that, have you, eh? No.’

  Nathan shakes his head and looks away. I can see that he’s trying not to smile. Immi looks so indignant and childlike with her hair stuck up and in those ridiculous pyjamas. I feel a rush of affection for her and wish it all could be different. It can’t be though. Her father has seen to that. ‘Look, I’m not surprised you’re reacting like this. I would be too in your shoes. It will take a while to sink in … but please, please be on your guard, Immi, okay? And …’ My throat closes over and I have to fight to keep the tears back. ‘And please wish us well. Hopefully we’ll all come out the other side and we’ll be able to laugh again. Get back to normal.’

  Immi’s looked away so I nod at Nathan and the door. He stands and we walk down the hallway. ‘Look after yourself, Immi,’ Nathan says over his shoulder.

  Just as we’re leaving, we hear the pad of fluffy slippers on the laminate behind us and then I’m enveloped in a huge hug. Immi’s face is pressed against mine and I can’t tell if the tears on my cheek are hers or mine. She holds me at arm’s length. ‘You bloody take care, lady. And you.’ She wipes her eyes and glares at Nathan. ‘You’d better look after her because if you don’t, I swear I’ll have your balls in a vice.’

  Nathan grimaces. ‘I promise I will. Bye, Immi.’ He opens the door and slips out.

  Immi and I hug once more and then I leave too, my heart sinking a bit as I hear the door closing behind me. That’s it then. All my old ties are cut. Job, flat, home town, best friend. For now, it’s Nathan and me against the world. And right at this moment as we hurry down the sleeping street at the crack of dawn towards an uncertain future, the world feels like it might win.

  25

  We have taken the three-hundred-and-seventy-mile journey from Sheffield to Cornwall fairly steadily, stopping for coffee, and then for breakfast. I’ve been pleasantly surprised about the way we can just slip into talking about trivial stuff and then back into more important issues just as easily. There’s been no awkwardness. In fact, everything about being with Nathan feels easy, natural, right. It’s a cliché, but it really seems as if we’ve known each other for ages.

  Because we set off before five, the roads are free of traffic queues and it’s just coming up to 11.30 as we pass the road sign for St Just. Even though we slept most of the afternoon away the day before, we’ve been running on adrenalin and looking forward to getting our heads down for a few hours before exploring our new surroundings. I glance at Nathan’s handsome profile and his fingers curling round the steering wheel and hope we’re not too tired to make love before we fall asleep. I can’t get enough of him. Yes, the relationship is very new and that’s to be expected, but I’ve never felt like this before about anyone.

  I’ve tried to analyse my feelings but then given up. My instincts tell me to let it all just happen … see where we end up. This, like many other things that have happened lately, is a new concept to me. In the past I’d want everything categorised, analysed to within an inch of its life and then filed away into the appropriate sections of my head and heart. This new way of thinking is a bit scary, a bit alien, but on the whole, it’s liberating.

  ‘Satnav says the cottage is down here.’ Nathan looks dubiously down a wiggly track the width of a pencil, squeezed on both sides by a robust Cornish hedge.

  ‘Yeah, this will be it. I looked on Google before we left. It’s out of the way, and Cornwall is full of tracks like this. If we meet another car it’ll end in a standoff.’

  I smile at his less than convinced ‘hmm’, but he indicates, and on we go.

  Luckily we don’t meet another car, but have to stop when two pheasants fly into the path ahead. They’re unfazed by the car horn and only scuttle off when I get out and shoo them away. Also luckily, the track is no longer than a couple of hundred yards, and round a sharp bend it opens out into a wide gravelled area beyond which stands Trevella Cottage. It’s built of local stone, covered in wisteria, drips honeysuckle from a standing arch built to the left of it in a tiny cottage garden and, to its right, there’s rolling green countryside as far as the eye can see. Perfect.

  ‘Wow. This is like something out of a fairy story,’ Nathan says, switching off the engine.

  ‘It is. And I’m going to use a phrase that I avoid using if at all possible, but this place is “totally awesome”.’

  ‘Don’t you mean totes?’

  ‘No, Nathan, I do not. If I ever say the word totes, you have permission to shoot m—’ Nathan’s smile dies on his face and I cringe at what I’ve just said. ‘Let’s rewind that last sentence and go have a look round.’ I twist my hand around the hair at the back of his neck and draw him in for a kiss.

  On the threshold of our new home, I heave a sigh of relief. Trevella Cottage is just as perfect as the outside and just as I’d been led to believe from the photos on the website. There had been a nagging doubt at the back of my head on the long drive down, because the description of ‘A more quaint, compact, delightful getaway or indeed, more permanent dwelling, in our opinion would be very difficult to find’ seemed too good to be true. My apprehension had painted a picture of a Dickensian hovel complete with rats and damp walls, but no, this place was heavenly. Heavenly? Another word I would never use.

  Inside, a clean lemon-and-white sitting room and light wood offshoot kitchen are modern yet quaint, and so welcoming. I feel a relieved smile creep over my face; the whole cottage is lovely and quintessentially chocolate box. No doubt Immi would have a ready snort of derision at my expression if she were here. She isn’t, thank goodness, and I must stop wondering about whether we’ve done the right thing. So far it couldn’t be better.

  Twenty minutes later, as I’m fluffing up the quilt on the double bed in the lovely olive-and-white painted bedroom, I hear Nathan shout that lunch is ready. We’d picked up some fresh bread from the local bakery and a few essentials from the small supermarket. A smile curls my lips. I can’t believe how happy I feel right at this moment. Since Dad was killed, happiness has been a stranger. I’ve only seen glimpses of it from time to time and it never has substance, always leaving, hurrying away before I realise that it was ever here.

  It’s the little things that matter. They often turn out to be the big things. Right now, the prospect of having lunch in this lovely cottage, making love and then falling asleep in my man’s arms swells my heart with joy. I’m not a spiritual person really, but sometimes I think that Dad is watching over me. I send him silent thanks. I’m so grateful for this chance to start again. To make a new life. Tossing a couple of pillows against the brass headboard, I take one last look through the deep sash window over the rolling fields and hurry out to the kitchen.

  ‘We have bread and butter, olives, a selection of cheese and a few slices of that roast gammon.’ Nathan pulls a chair out for me at the rough pine farmhouse table and I sit. ‘Not sure whether you want beer, wine, water or tea?’

  ‘Wow, this looks delicious. Just water ,thanks, not sure my eyes would stay open if I had alcohol this afternoon.’

  ‘Mine neither. Mind you, we are going to bed after this, aren’t we?’ Nathan has a naughty twinkle in his eye as he sits down and pops an olive into his mouth.

  I watch his
mouth as he chews and imagine kissing it … kissing me. ‘Not sure,’ I tease. I butter some bread, avoid his gaze. ‘I wondered if we should have a walk instead, take in our surroundings more. We could pop into the pub down the road …’ I stop when I see his crestfallen face. I know exactly what’s on his mind. ‘You don’t fancy it?’

  ‘Yes, but I fancy you more. I thought we were going to, you know …?’

  Carrying on the teasing would be too cruel. ‘I’m joking, Nate.’ Oh, that was a surprise, calling him Nate. I’d not intended to.

  His face lights up. ‘My family call me Nate. It’s great that you did too.’

  ‘Just popped out. I must admit, I like it. I’ll call you Nate, but Nathan when I’m angry with you.’ I make my lips a thin line and fold my arms.

  ‘Oh. You look angry now,’ he says, a hunk of bread hovering near his lips.

  ‘That’s because you haven’t kissed me for …’ I look at the Rolex. ‘About twenty minutes, Nathan.’

  He laughs. ‘Sorry, I need to eat first. Keep my strength up.’ He stuffs half the bread in his mouth and gives me a wink.

  I love watching him sleep. All the worries and cares of his waking life that he often carries with him like a second skin slip away and he’s peaceful, calm, and serene. Maybe I look the same. Sometimes, my worries and cares weigh so heavy across my shoulders I wonder if I’ll look old before my time. They aren’t the same ones I carried when I was a DI, but they’re just as heavy, perhaps more so. No matter how happy I am now and looking forward, until I know for sure that Ransom will leave me alone, I’ll be forever looking behind too.

  Snuggling down against Nate’s warm body I go over again what he’s told me about his family, friends and past relationships. As far as past relationships go, like me, he’s not had many, not for the same reasons though. I absolutely get why he couldn’t fall for someone who was happy staying within the criminal culture – same goes for friends too. Poor Nate. I do think he’s been quite lonely for a very long time. Ransom’s ilk reach deep inside a person, twist, maim, destroy. When Nate asked about why I’d not settled with anyone I was a bit economical with the truth … blamed the job, the unsociable hours. I don’t want him thinking my controlling nature will come between us. And it’s funny, but so far I haven’t felt controlling at all where he’s concerned.

  My eyes feel heavy and I close them. Perhaps we’ll go for dinner in St Just tonight. Or perhaps go further afield. It’s only about fifteen minutes to Sennen and about the same to Penzance. Penzance might be best. We’ll be more anonymous there. It would be nice to get to meet the locals, but the more we do, the easier it will be for anyone to find us. Immi is the only one that knows our address, so I shouldn’t worry. She’d rather die than tell. Nevertheless … we’ll keep ourselves to ourselves, just in case.

  26

  Imogen is about to run a bath when she hears the doorbell. It’s almost 8pm, not that late, but since Bryony and Nathan had woken her in the early hours two nights before, she’d been a bit jumpy to say the least. At the top of the stairs she can see a tall shadow through the glass panes of the door. Who the hell could it be? She’s not expecting anyone. The bell goes again. Making sure her phone is in her pocket, she hurries downstairs and stands to the side of the door. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Frank Dawson. Tried to ring but you didn’t answer.’

  Imogen’s immediately cautious. What they hell does he want? She flicks her phone open and sees two missed calls two hours earlier when she was in the supermarket. ‘Right. Well, is it important? I was just about to have a bath and put my feet up. It’s been a long day,’ she says, opening the door a crack. Dawson’s wearing a suit more expensive than her entire wardrobe and stinking of aftershave. His piggy little eyes focus on her legs under her short bathrobe and he smiles. If he has any ideas of that nature he can fuck right off!

  ‘Nothing really important. Silly, to be honest, but I left my favourite pen here last time when I brought you … you know. Can I come in and get it?’ The toe of his shiny shoe is already insinuating itself over her threshold.

  ‘Pen? I haven’t noticed one. But come in and have a look.’ Imogen pulls the robe tight around her and leads the way into the kitchen. She can’t remember him going anywhere else last time he was here. Looking at her kitchen with fresh eyes, it isn’t any wonder that she’s not noticed a pen. It’s a tip. A pile of washing waiting to go in the machine on a chair, breakfast dishes on the table, tonight’s ready meal cartons on the counter. She really hasn’t been herself since Bryony came. Every time she tries to settle to anything, her mind is preoccupied by what she told her. Also she spends a lot of time worrying about her old friend’s safety now that she’s shacked up with that low life Nathan.

  Dawson’s lifting her washing, holding it at arm’s length. She hurries over and retrieves it; she doesn’t want his grubby hands on her underwear, dirty or not. ‘I thought I might have dropped it by this chair,’ he says, getting down on his knees and looking under the dresser. ‘I was sitting on it most of the time, wasn’t I? Oh, wait … Later I went over to look at your plants on the windowsill, didn’t I? I remembered my old mum used to have a little cactus just like that one.’ He gets up and goes to the window. ‘Ah yes, here’s the pen behind the pot!’ He waves it at her in triumph. ‘I must have put it down when I picked up the plant.’

  To Imogen the pen just looks ordinary. Why he’s making a special journey here to get it is a mystery. But now he’s got it he can bugger off. ‘Oh well, that’s good then,’ she says, walking back towards the hall. When he doesn’t follow, she turns round. ‘Was there anything else?’

  Dawson’s leaning with his back against the sink, tucking the pen in his top pocket. ‘Not really, though I am wondering if you’re cool with having the gun here. You looked less than enthusiastic when I gave it you.’

  What did he expect? Flowers, tears? ‘It’s a gun. It kills people. I don’t like them.’

  ‘But you’d like it less if someone broke in and tried to hurt you and you didn’t have it.’ He looks at her as if she’s five.

  ‘That’s hardly likely, Frank.’ Immi wonders what he’d say if he knew she’d already had to brandish it at a ‘burglar’ two nights before. ‘But yes, I’ll keep it for now, if that’s what Dad wants.’

  ‘He does. He’s quite worried about you to be honest. This Bryony, she’s supposed to have gone abroad, you say?’

  This turn of subject unnerves her. ‘Yes, that’s what she told me.’

  ‘Upped and left the police – just left a good career, went abroad?’ Dawson’s dark eyes are on hers, cold, calculating.

  ‘Yes. I don’t know much beyond that. We weren’t really close anymore, Facebook contacts, that’s all.’

  ‘Were you? Were you really?’ Dawson gives her a thin smile.

  ‘Yes, and if that’s all, I’d like to have my bath now.’ Imogen walks from the kitchen and waits by the front door. Her heart’s thumping, she wants Dawson out. He’s beginning to scare her.

  He walks down the hall towards her. ‘You see, Imogen, I have evidence to suggest that you are more than Facebook contacts. I’ve some pictures of you with her a few months ago. You seemed to be out for drinks.’

  ‘You have pictures? What the hell for?’ Her face is aflame. She folds her arms across her chest, tries to hold her nerve.

  ‘Not denying it then?’

  ‘One drink. Is that a crime?’

  ‘Not sure your dad would be pleased.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Can you leave now?’

  Dawson holds his hands up. ‘Just doing you a favour, that’s all. Your dad hates being double-crossed.’

  ‘What? I haven’t double-crossed him, whatever that even means.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He looks right into her eyes, unblinking. She sets her jaw and looks back. Then he opens the door. ‘Anyway, thanks for letting me get my pen, and make sure you lock the door behind me. As I said, there’s a bad man on the loose. If he sees you in
that robe there’d be no telling what he might try.’

  As soon as he’s outside, Imogen slams the door and locks it. He’s the only bloody bad man on the loose as far as she can see. A shudder runs through her when she thinks of the look in his eye when he spoke his parting shot, and she checks that all the doors and windows are locked. Why was he trying to scare her? Did her dad really suspect that she was against him? The prospect of a bath no longer appeals and she wanders to her room, takes out the gun and makes sure she knows how to load it. When Bryony came round the other night it was empty. There are a few written instructions and it takes a while, but it’s ready now if any bad men should come calling.

  Used to living alone, Imogen’s spooked after Dawson’s visit. The house feels too big, too quiet, too … threatening. On impulse she decides to take Jonathan the new doctor up on his offer of a drink. They did have a rough patch, but that’s been ironed out now and they’ve been getting closer lately, but Imogen isn’t sure if their work relationship would encroach on a romantic one. It might be awkward, him being a doctor, her being a receptionist. But isn’t that putting herself down? Right now she couldn’t give a damn because she can’t be alone. Not tonight. She calls Jonathan and he’s pleased. They agree to meet in an hour, so that’s good. No time for her to prevaricate, agonise over what to wear, just shower, change and out.

  Heading for the bathroom she feels a bit better, more settled. Nevertheless, before she gets in the shower, she runs to her bedroom, gets the gun, puts it on the windowsill and wedges the linen basket against the door. Better to be safe than sorry.

  27

  Dreams actually do come true. From his seat at the kitchen table, Nathan looks up from his iPad across at Bryony. She’s chopping carrots and humming something that sounds like ‘You Can’t Touch This’ and wiggling her bum from side to side in time with the tune. It feels like they’ve been together years and he honestly doesn’t know how he’d live without her. Admitting that even to himself is a hell of a shock. Bryony is everything to him. Two days, that’s all it’s been. The whole thing is surreal. Surreal and wonderful.