Rip Current: a gripping crime suspense drama

by Amanda James

Imogen hasn’t phoned back. I ring again but get the messaging service. Damn it. What if he’s got to her already? No good thinking like that. Right, I need to think clearly. The digital bedside clock says 9.30pm, it’s Sunday. Mark Bradley might be at home if he’s not working late at the station. He tries not to work Sundays if he can help it though – perk of his job. He’s the only one I can think of who could help. But how can I ask for information without alerting him? Mark’s like a dog with a bone and would demand to know why I’m asking such odd questions. I finish the sandwich I got earlier from the Spar across the road and decide I have no choice.

  ‘Bryony? I hope you’re ringing to say you’ve made a terrible mistake leaving us and wonder if I can help you get back on the job.’

  Mark’s deep chuckle down the line is like a warm hug. It isn’t until this moment that I realise how much I’ve missed him. I take a swig of tea and make my voice calm. ‘’Fraid not, boss. And sorry to bother you at home, but I do have a huge favour to ask.’

  A deep sigh comes down the line this time. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I’m down in St Just, Cornwall, at the moment. I’m not going abroad for a few weeks. And, well … an odd thing happened this afternoon. I heard that a guy shot another guy on the cliff path. They struggled for the gun and then fire was returned. They were both injured and I’d like to know who they were and what happened. The police came, but seeing as I’m no longer a copper I couldn’t ask, you see.’

  ‘Ri-ght. So why do you need to know so badly that you ring me at home on a Sunday? And don’t tell me it’s just because you’re curious.’

  ‘Okay, I won’t tell you that.’

  ‘Bryony …’

  ‘Look, I can’t tell you, boss. All I can say is it is of the utmost importance to me. I promise that I’m not doing anything illegal or unlawful, I just have to know.’

  There’s a few moments’ silence and I cross my fingers. Then I hear him exhale long and loud. ‘If it was anyone else, the answer would be no. But I’ll get back to you tomorrow—’

  ‘Oh, thanks, Mark! I can’t tell you how grateful—’

  ‘There will be no more favours after this, are we clear?’ Mark’s tone is serious, firm.

  ‘No. Of course not. I promise, boss.’

  ‘Okay. Goodnight, Bryony.’

  The silence following the end of the call is all consuming. I feel so much more alone than I did before I spoke to Mark … disconnected from everything I ever knew. Perhaps I’ll go out to the Spar again, get a bottle of wine. I need something after the day I’ve had. I’m tempted to phone Nathan. I haven’t so far because I’m worried that the police have his phone. No. No, I’ll leave it until I hear from Mark.

  Out in the street night has fallen and there’s only a man walking a dog ahead. I look behind. Nobody. I zip my hooded jacket up and pull the hood over my head. My mouth’s dry and there’s a flutter in my chest. What if the shooter has somehow followed me? What if he slipped on the bus I took earlier, when I wasn’t looking, came down here to Marazion with me? What if he hung around, saw me go in the B&B, and now he’s going to waylay me, finish what he started?

  Though it’s been a murky day it’s a clear night, cold too. The moon’s trailing a sprinkling of stars but the street lights are few and far between. The Spar looks welcoming at the end of the street and I quicken my pace. I grab a bottle from the shelf and hand over the cash. My hand is shaking as I do and my heart is thumping in my chest. God, what a state I’m in. As I turn to leave, a man comes in wearing dark woolly hat. My heart leaps into my throat. He has a beard too, but half the male population do nowadays. It isn’t him. Of course it isn’t.

  Outside I lean against the shop window until I feel calmer; I talk to myself, force rationality from its hiding place back into the forefront of my mind. I’ve been a copper for many years. I would have seen the shooter get on the bus, would have seen him follow me. I’m just letting everything get to me, freak me out. Not surprising, considering what happened this afternoon. Not surprising at all.

  Back in my room I pour a drink and look at my phone. Nothing from Immi, so I message her again. Then I scroll to Nate’s number. My finger hovers over the call button, but once again I restrain myself. I’ll wait to hear from Mark, then I’ll decide. I pour another drink and check that the door to the room is locked properly. Again. The sooner I hear from Mark, the better.

  32

  With the taste of Jonathan’s goodnight kiss on her lips, Imogen closes the front door and locks it. Before she goes to bed she needs to check all the windows and doors, though she has to admit she’s a lot calmer than she was a few nights ago when she’d gone to meet Jonathan for a drink. He’d asked her to stay over again, which was nice because it means he’s keen, but it’s Monday tomorrow and she needs to make sure she’s organised.

  Ironing looms large on her immediate horizon, but she’ll stick the TV on and watch Poldark while she does it. The holiday at Bryony’s mum’s has made a big impression on her. Cornwall is so beautiful, and watching the series will give her a much-needed fix. She had been serious when she’d told Bryony that she’d love to move there one day. If things work out with Jonathan that might complicate things, but there are surgeries down there too, after all. Plugging in the iron, she allows her mind to picture a bright future full of sea, windswept beaches, country walks and fresh air. Then the reality of work nudges all that aside and she picks up her first creased garment from the basket.

  She and Doctor Jonathan Blake agreed earlier that they’d keep their relationship under wraps from the rest of the staff at the surgery, just for a while. Even though Imogen’s worries had been put to rest by their little chat, neither wanted gossip to get in the way of how they felt. It was nobody’s business but theirs anyway. It was quite nice having a secret. A delicious, exciting secret that made her happier than she had been for a long time – since her dad had put Leon off, sent him packing. Thoughts of her dad make her stomach twist, her heart sad. Immi turns up the TV to drown out her thoughts.

  The ironing is done, and the programme almost too, when her landline rings from the arm of the sofa. Probably Jonathan to say she’d left her mobile there; well, she hopes she has, otherwise she’s no clue where she left it. It will be nice to have the chance to say goodnight again. Imogen hurries over, butterflies in her chest. For goodness’ sake. What is she, fifteen? The butterflies disappear when she thumbs the screen. Nope. It’s an unknown number.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Imms, love. How’s tricks?’

  Imogen sinks down on the sofa. He’s the last person she wants to speak to right now. ‘Dad,’ she says, her voice flatter than the ironing board she’s been standing at for the past hour. ‘I’m fine, how are you?’

  ‘Bloody hell, don’t sound too enthusiastic. Thought you’d be pleased that I phoned. I haven’t seen you for a good while. When are you coming to visit next?’ His tone has become belligerent, goading.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve been pretty busy lately …’

  ‘Right. So not heard from that bitch Masters, then?’

  Imogen wants to put the phone down. Wants to tell him that she knows all about the fact that he sent Nathan down to Cornwall to kill Bryony. She wants to tell him that she never wants to see him again. That he’s dead to her. But she can’t, of course. He’s suspicious of her enough as it is – knows that she pretended to want an appeal to stop him going after Bryony. A fat lot of good that idea was.

  ‘No, Dad. I told you, we don’t see each other now. We had a drink once and that was it. And I also told you she’s gone abroad. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Of course I bloody remember. But I’m finding out that you don’t always tell the truth, do you, love?’

  What does he mean by that? ‘Not with you.’

  ‘No. And that’s the problem … you’re not with me. In fact you’re very much against me, aren’t you?’

  The ice in his voice brings goosebumps up all along her arms. ‘Dad? What
’s wrong?’

  ‘The fact that I can’t trust my own flesh and blood. My little … little g—’ A sob breaks up his words. ‘My little girl that I worship and adore … could …’

  ‘I-I haven’t done anything, Dad.’ Immi hopes her voice sounds normal, but she catches sight of her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, ashen face, and wide, fearful eyes.

  ‘Oh, you have – too much. Everything I have ever done has been for you. I wanted to make you happy, make sure you’d never have to worry about the future, and then …’ He gives a heavy sigh. ‘But it wasn’t enough, clearly.’

  Goosebumps travel from her arms to the rest of her body. There’s no way she’s admitting anything. Her instincts tell her to keep up the pretence and her words come out in a rush. ‘Dad, I don’t understand. What am I supposed to have done?’

  ‘Goodbye, Imogen.’ He’s sobbing openly now. ‘A father’s love … can only be tested so far … and you’ve tested mine to the limit.’

  Imogen’s lost for words, but he’s ended the call anyway. She chucks the phone on the sofa and hugs herself. It’s as if he knows it was her that grassed on him, got him arrested … but how could he possibly? A spatter of rain on the window makes her heart jump and she’s right back to being terrified again like she was the other night. Imogen rushes to the patio doors, draws the curtain against the deluge and makes sure the doors are locked. Then she checks all the windows upstairs and down.

  The rain is lashing against the window in her bedroom as she gets under the duvet and thinks she just heard a distant rumble of thunder. Great. Dad’s call has really spooked her. If he knows somehow, though he’d have to be a bloody psychic to know – nobody knows apart from Bryony and now Nathan – he might send Dawson round to scare her. He scared her the other night, but then why would he have given her a gun to protect herself from a bad man … who was actually Nathan, obviously? None of it made sense. Was Nathan still working for her father somehow? Had Nathan told him that Imogen was the one that made the phone call? That didn’t make sense either, because he was with Bryony now – he’d had umpteen chances to harm her, so why hadn’t he?

  She’s coming up from the bottom of the ocean. It’s dark but getting lighter … there’s a rush in her ears and then her eyes snap open. Imogen gulps air and realises she’s in bed. How the hell she fell asleep at all is beyond her, the state she was in. The bedside clock displays a digital green 3.10am and thunder growls a little way off. It must have passed over head just now, waking her. She takes a sip of water from the glass on the bedside table and settles back down. The alarm will be yelling at 6.30 and she was awake until past one. She’ll feel like death if she doesn’t get back to … Was that a creak on the stairs?

  Imogen sits up in bed, holds her breath, heart racing. Nothing. Still she sits listening, until rain pelts the window so hard it sounds like handfuls of gravel being hurled by a giant’s hand. Startled, her own hand shoots to her mouth to stifle a scream. For God’s sake calm down, Imogen. Annoyed with herself, she slips out of bed determined to check round the house, just to be sure … and there it is again – a creak on the top stair. Unmistakable. Bryony wouldn’t do the same thing to her again, would she? No. No, of course she bloody wouldn’t.

  Imogen slips her dressing gown on and retrieves the gun from her drawer. She stuffs her pillows in the bed to create a sleeping form and pulls the duvet up. The two last words her father said play over in her mind. ‘Goodbye, Imogen.’ He never says goodbye. He would say bye, see you, cheers, love … but not goodbye. Goodbye is final.

  Flattened against the wall behind the door, Imogen waits. The gun is cold and heavy in her hand and she places her other hand under the barrel, her finger ready to cock it if need be. And it seems it will be: the door handle gives a little squeak as it’s depressed by someone outside on the landing. There’s someone outside on the landing. There’s someone outside on the landing. There’s someone outside on the landing. Oh, dear God, she has to keep calm, breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. She has the element of surprise, not him. He thinks he has, because she’s in bed asleep, but he’s sadly fucking mistaken. That’s right, let the fury flow. Better than fear. Much. How dare they try to hurt her?

  The door slowly opens and a hulk of a man creeps in. Oh shit, he looks so powerful, even in the scant light from the street lamp shining through a chink in her curtains. He sneaks over to the bed. He’s got something in his hands. Imogen can’t make it out … he’s leaning over the bed. Her heart hammering in her chest, she tells herself that it’s now or never and flicks on the light. The man spins round, his hands coming up to shield his eyes, and she sees a plastic-sheathed wire dangling from them. The bastard was going to garrotte her in her sleep!

  ‘Don’t fucking move or I’ll drop you!’ Imogen is relieved to hear how strong she sounds.

  The hulk loses the wire and puts his hands up in surrender, his eyes round, his mouth opening and closing like a landed cod. ‘Hey, hey … I … Look, don’t do anything daft. I know you’re not used to guns.’

  ‘Do you? How?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Because Dawson told you? Or that pathetic waste of DNA otherwise known as Kenny Ransom?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Yeah, thought so. And you don’t have to be used to guns to pull the trigger.’

  ‘Look, love. I didn’t want to do this – it’s not what I do. I’ll just go now and—’ He takes a step towards her.

  ‘Stay right where you are!’ Imogen raises the nose of the gun level with his head.

  ‘Okay, don’t wave that thing about!’

  They stare at each other for a few moments and Imogen swallows hard. What the hell should she do now? To phone the police she’d have to force him downstairs and there would be plenty of opportunity for things to go wrong in that scenario. Why the fuck had she left her mobile at Jonathan’s? There’s no other option though.

  ‘Right … I’m going to call the police—’

  ‘No!’ Hulk clasps his meaty hands together in prayer. ‘Please don’t do that. I’ll get sent down and—’

  ‘You should have thought about that before you came here to kill me, shouldn’t you, you fuckwit?’ Anger is back and it feels empowering. Good.

  ‘I didn’t want to … it was …’

  ‘Yes, why don’t you tell me who it was, and why they want me dead? And what’s your name?’

  ‘My name?’

  ‘Yes, I can’t keep calling you fuckwit, can I?’

  ‘Er … Harry.’ His face flushes.

  ‘No it isn’t. If you don’t tell me your real name I’ll shoot you in the foot and then look at your ID.’

  He unclasps his hands and holds them up again. ‘Okay, it’s Jason.’

  Imogen remembers that the man holding Nathan’s mother was a Jason, and a ‘dumb ass ape’ according to him. Hmm. Yes, this guy fits the bill. ‘Okay, Jason, tell me everything. If I think you’re spinning me a line I’ll shoot you in both feet. I’m Kenny Ransom’s daughter, as of course you know, and I’m just as tough as he is, so be careful.’

  Jason nods, rubs his hands over his face a few times and begins. ‘It’s … it’s all to do with your dad. Well, and Mr Dawson. He left a recording device here—’

  ‘A what? What kind of a device?’

  ‘It was a pen. It picked up you having a chat with your dad’s enemies and you admitted to grassing your dad up …’ He lifts his arms and lets them fall back to his sides with a slap.

  If the wall wasn’t supporting Imogen’s back she would have collapsed. Fucking hell! That’s why Dawson was so keen on collecting the pen. So her dad knows everything … now his call makes absolute sense. He also knows where Bryony and Nathan are. No. No. NO! Anger, her friend for the last few minutes, trickles away and instead sorrow floods her heart. Her dad sent a thug to kill her. To actually kill her. Yes, she’d betrayed him, but he is her father. Her flesh and … Jason takes a step forward.

  ‘Sta
y where you are,’ she says in a small voice. It’s as if the awful realisation of what her father has tried to do has drained her of all strength. The gun shakes in her hand and her legs are trembling.

  ‘Look. If you just let me go I promise I won’t come back. I’ll tell them that you weren’t here. You weren’t here last night, so—’

  ‘My God. You came here last night?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Determined, then.’ Imogen cringes as a tear slips from the corner of her eye and rolls down her cheek.

  ‘So they’ll believe me—’

  ‘My … my father phoned me here earlier. So he knows I’m here. Then I expect he phoned you and told you to come.’

  Jason takes two steps forward and raises his hands. ‘I just want to be let go. I promise I’ll never come back …’

  Imogen shakes her head. ‘Stay there … you’re too close.’

  He smiles as if he’s her bestie. ‘Look, Imogen, I can see you’re upset. I would be if my dad had … you know. But that gun’s shaking and it might go off. How about if I just go out now and that will be it. Yeah?’

  Imogen shakes her head. ‘No.’ She has to find strength from somewhere. He’s too close now. A few more steps and …

  ‘You don’t want to shoot me, do you?’

  ‘No, but I will if I have to.’ There’s a click as she cocks the weapon and Jason’s face drains of colour.

  ‘Right. Move away from the door because I’m going through it.’ He lowers his arms and then runs at her. Not at the door … at her.

  Imogen steadies the gun and pulls the trigger.

  33

  Considering that my head was all over the place last night I was out like a light as soon as I closed my eyes. Perhaps half a bottle of red wine helped, but today I do feel a bit more like myself. I look more like myself too. The lady that runs this guest house, Pat, helped to take my mind off everything at breakfast. She told me the history of the Mount and asked if I’d be going over to take a look. Much as I’d love to, I need to be absolutely sure that my phone has a signal in case Mark calls. Cornwall is dodgy for signal at the best of times, so I don’t want to be stuck out on an island really.