Rip Current: a gripping crime suspense drama Page 2

  Immi is coming round to mine in a few minutes for dinner, hopefully with a list of names and numbers that might be useful to us. Also the name of a willing witness who says he’ll stand up in court and testify against Ransom. Once we’ve fleshed it all out she’s agreed to come down to the station and make a statement. For a daughter to do that to a father, he must be every inch the filth I thought he was.

  ‘Nice apartment!’ Immi comes in laden with wine, flowers, chocolate and dessert. ‘They must be paying you too much, that’s all I can say.’

  I laugh and take the flowers, tell her there was no need to bring gifts, wave to the sofa. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. I have a mortgage the size of Yorkshire and other debts besides. I do like a nice space to relax though – need it when I get home from the wars.’

  Imogen flops on the sofa. ‘Not surprised. I couldn’t do your job for a million a year.’ She points outside to the balcony overlooking the waterfront. ‘Mind you, I would love a view like that.’

  ‘It helps.’ I pour the wine and we talk about the decor, her day working as a receptionist at the local surgery, and all the time I wonder how to step down from this everyday chit-chat to discuss the betrayal of her father. Not an easy task.

  ‘So you said you went to uni and came out with a criminology degree. Then what, you get this DI number?’

  This makes me smile. It was hard enough achieving DI at twenty-eight – some of my colleagues teased me that I must have slept with the boss to get it so quick. ‘Not exactly. I had a good few years working my way up the ranks and got the DI two years ago.’ I hand her the wine and start chopping onions for the spag bol. My speciality dish … thinking about it, it’s my only dish. I do tend to grab food on the run these days. Must try harder to make healthy food instead of eating out, or shoving a meal for one in the microwave.

  ‘Bet your dad’s impressed, eh?’

  I can’t avoid talking about Dad forever but I can’t do it tonight. I can’t see Immi’s expectant little expression crumble, perhaps followed by tears. So I say, ‘Oh yes, he was thrilled that I followed in his footsteps. I set out to impress him and that’s what I did.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad I didn’t follow in my father’s footsteps.’ Immi’s smile fades and she looks into her wine glass. ‘That girl’s face at the window. I’ll never forget her eyes, Bryony. So full of longing and despair. She looked …’ Immi gazes out over the river. Through the window the soft glow of the sunset plays across her face but a grimace darkens her features. ‘She looked … broken, is the only way I can describe it.’

  My hand draws a knife through a red pepper. ‘Yes, broken and trapped.’

  ‘And the woman that opened the door to me last week looked like some fairy-tale witch. The one from Hansel and Gretel.’

  ‘Promise me you won’t go there again doing your acting bit now we’re involved. It’s dangerous and if your dad gets wind of you—’

  ‘Give me some credit. I went in disguise, to try and do a bit of snooping, but all I saw was the girl we saw the other day. I saw a glimpse of another girl and a man down the hall, but the witch more or less shut the door on me.’

  ‘Not surprised. I mean why would she want to talk about Jesus when she’s running hell in there?’ I give her a wry smile and take a drink of wine.

  ‘It was the best I could come up with. And I made a good job of it. The lady across the road asked me in.’ Immi gives a throaty chortle.

  ‘Why did you go across the road?’

  I receive the raised eyebrow. ‘Call yourself a copper? In case people from that house were watching, of course. Had to make it look authentic, didn’t I?’

  Dinner over, we have to get down to the nitty gritty. I push the serving dishes to one side and make a space on the table. Immi gives me her list of names, dates and telephone numbers and she adopts a businesslike manner. I’m glad she’s taken the initiative – it can’t be easy for her.

  ‘Okay, so what do you want to know?’ she says, head on one side.

  ‘How about you tell me it all again, refresh my memory? You’ll be doing this a few times down at the station, so best to get in practice.’ My memory is in no need of refreshing, but I think it will help her to go over and over it. Sometimes a detail is easily overlooked the first time.

  ‘Right. As you know I work at the medical centre. I’m friendly with a nurse who runs some of the confidential drop-in clinics and we were chatting one day about the rise in the number of young Eastern European women that come in with suspected sexually transmitted diseases. There’s hardly any conversation. They have very little English and they normally have some man waiting for them. She was worried that some could be sex slaves, but of course they wouldn’t admit it, even if they could understand the language.’

  ‘Because they’re too scared.’

  ‘Yes. Or they have families that are under threat back home if they refuse to do as they’re told.’ Immi leans her arms on the table and looks at me. ‘So that was fresh in my mind the next week when I ran into an old friend I used to work with, Jan, at a party. Don’t ask me how, but we got chatting about it and how awful it was right here on our doorstep. Jan said that a friend of a friend of her husband’s had overheard a conversation in a pub with a guy and his mates who had used these poor girls. Mentioned the road the house was on.’

  I look down the list. ‘That was Greg Holsworthy?’

  ‘Yeah. Greg’s ex-army and frightened of nobody. He listens in more, and then has a go at the man. Says he should be ashamed of himself and that he’d go to that street, find the girls and call the police. This guy mouths off at him, warns Greg off, and so do his mates. Later on, when Greg’s leaving the pub, they waylay him and smack him around a bit in an alley round the back. Not enough to put him in hospital, but enough to really shake him up. Greg remembers one man had an Eastern European accent. He hissed in his ear that if he so much as sets foot on that street, Mr Ransom would make sure that was the last thing he’d ever do.’

  ‘And because it’s an unusual surname alarm bells started ringing?’

  ‘Yes, but not just that. I’ve heard rumours about Dad over the years. I know he’s a wheeler-dealer and he never talked about work much. Just said he’s a businessman, might not always play by the rules, but has never done anything really underhand. But over the past few years since we moved back here from Liverpool, he’s been investigated by your lot quite a bit. Mum let it slip one day. She was worried, you see, and Dad had sworn her to secrecy, as he usually did, I found out later. But it was at the time she had just had her cancer diagnosis and she was low, vulnerable.’

  Immi sighs and looks at the table. I ask her if she’s okay to carry on and she says yes but asks for coffee. I busy myself in the kitchen and she takes up the story again.

  ‘Mum had just peeled the potatoes and she threw down the peeler in the bowl so hard water splashed up the kitchen window. She didn’t know I’d come in, and I hurried over to put my arm round her. She broke down then, sobbed and sobbed. Said she was so tired of it all, weary. Said that Dad wasn’t all he seemed. He’d led her a merry dance for years, other women, petty crime, drugs – he always said it wouldn’t hurt anyone. Mum had believed him because she loved him despite everything. And he was good to us. Always buying presents laughing, joking. The doting dad … when he had time.’

  ‘I remember he was a good laugh when we were kids.’

  ‘Oh, he was. Still is. He’s the life and soul all right. Mum told me a few home truths about him that evening though. Told me about you being one of the investigating officers when he was questioned too. That’s how I knew you were in the police. Mum was really proud of you. Of how you’d turned out.’ Immi smiles, but shakes her head at the plate of biscuits I offer.

  I picture her mum, Maggie; such a lovely woman, always smiling. Maggie would never have hurt a fly, but she died and her husband lived. Life stinks sometimes. I sigh and pour water on the cafetière. ‘It must have been a shock for her to hear abou
t those poor girls.’

  ‘It was. Mum said that of all the things he’s ever been mixed up in, that was the one she couldn’t stomach. She overheard him talking to one of his men one night when he thought she was asleep. But she only heard bits, not enough to really be sure what he was doing. She thought he was sleeping with younger girls, not that he was involved in sex slavery. That would have killed her quicker than the cancer. After that, they had separate rooms, hardly spoke to each other and she didn’t last more than ten months. Nevertheless, it was so hard to live through.’

  I try to imagine what that must have been like. Dad had left us quickly, so it was a shock, but not the prolonged, drawn-out agony it must be watching a loved one fade before your eyes. It wouldn’t help Immi to mention that, so I say, ‘And so then later, when you heard about what Greg said, you were sure your dad was involved.’

  ‘Yeah. My first thought was to confront him, but I quickly thought again. We had become estranged after what Mum had told me. It made my skin crawl to look at him, but I never betrayed her. She begged me never to tell him that I knew. She had this twisted loyalty, see, that’s why she stuck with him all that time. Said he was my dad after all and that he loved me. Yeah, right. He loved me so much that he broke up my relationship.’

  This is new. She never mentioned this last time we talked. I put down her coffee and sit opposite. There’s an ocean of sadness in her eyes and she swallows hard, sniffs. I put my hand on hers. ‘What happened?’

  Immi moves her hand from mine, shakes her head. ‘Don’t be nice to me, I’ll be a mess.’ She makes her voice stronger. ‘I was living with this guy, Leon, for three years when we were in Liverpool. He was a trainee chef and the nicest guy you’d wish to meet. We planned to marry, have kids, the whole thing. I’d had long-term relationships before, but this time I knew I’d found the one.’

  ‘Kenny didn’t approve of him?’

  ‘Oh, he seemed to when they met. Said Leon was a grafter, a man after his own heart – would own his own restaurant one day. But then just before Christmas, I came home to the flat and he’d gone. All his stuff was gone … everything. It was as if he’d never existed.’ Immi’s voice trembles and she can’t hold my gaze.

  ‘Kenny had warned him off?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t find out for ages. Thought Leon had just legged it. None of his friends knew anything about where he’d gone, nor his family. Because I was heartbroken, I allowed myself to be persuaded to come back here to Sheffield with him and Mum. Dad had a big business opportunity to run, apparently. Though Liverpool had been good to him over the last fifteen years, Sheffield was his home and this deal was too good to turn down. I never got to know more than that. Dad bought me a little new build not too far from his and Mum’s ridiculous mansion.’

  There’s a silence as Immi struggles to keep her composure and I shove half a biscuit into my mouth to dislodge a lump that’s forming in my throat.

  ‘Not long after Mum died I had a sympathy card from Leon’s sister. She’d heard about Mum from a mutual friend of ours. I phoned and asked her if she’d heard from Leon and she was really evasive, so I pushed her. Laid on the guilt, said I needed to know and that I couldn’t cope after Mum’s death. She said he’d been forced to leave the country and that’s all she would say. It was too risky to say more, but he wasn’t considered to be good enough for me. I asked who’d forced him, though I knew in my heart. Then she said she’d said enough and hung up.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Did you say anything to your dad?’

  ‘No. As I said, we’d become estranged. He’d call or come round but I said I didn’t want anything to do with him because he hurt Mum somehow in the last few months. I honoured Mum’s wishes of not telling him what I knew. I mentioned that they slept in separate rooms, that he was always out working when he should have been home more. He denied any wrongdoing, of course. Said Mum was just finding it hard to sleep because of her illness. I told him I needed space. Then, after I found out about Greg’s story, I planned to bring the bastard down.’

  I tell her how much I admire her and we drink our coffee in silence for a bit. I marvel at her courage and strength. I’m not sure I could have been like her if I were in her shoes. ‘And after that you got friendly with him again, so you could gather evidence?’

  ‘Yep. I decided then that I’d keep a close eye on him. I’d invite him for lunch, dinner, days out. I’d look at his phone after he’d taken a call – you know, past calls etcetera – when he’d gone to the loo before the phone had locked again. I’d look at his messages over his shoulder as I passed by, things like that. Then I’d note it all down. Sometimes took a photo of the messages. I even stayed at his place for a few days; I said I’d really missed him and felt we needed to build some bridges. He was like a dog with two tails, of course. Kenny always liked to control me and his giant ego thrives on praise and gratitude from his minions. The visit was fruitful – I did loads of snooping and listening in on conversations.’ Immi taps her nails on a notebook she’s placed on the table.

  I pick it up and flick through. It’s meticulous. Names, dates, times, transcriptions. Her face is full of pride and I tell her she’s done really well. And she has. This and the other names she’s gathered are useful, some well-known criminals, but it’s nowhere near enough yet. Kenny had been really careful when writing the phone messages she shows me photos of too. Always businesslike: Thanks so much. I will have the product you asked for delivered in a few days. Immi says it was drugs, because she overheard him later on the phone, but there’s no proof. The transcripts are one-sided conversations written down by his daughter. A daughter who holds a grudge. It wouldn’t stand up in court. Won’t even get to court. To access phone records, we’d need more. My boss was very reluctant to put an officer on watch at the house where the girls are. Immi hinted yesterday that there might be more to tell me, and I hoped for something concrete. ‘Is there anything else?’

  Immi frowns. ‘I told you Greg was prepared to testify against him. He’s shitting himself but he says he’ll do it.’

  The temptation to just pacify her and leave it for my colleagues to handle is strong, but I can’t do it. She needs to know the truth. ‘That’s really brave of him. But until we have solid proof that Kenny can’t wriggle out of this time … we don’t have enough, love.’

  Placing her coffee cup down gently she gives me her hard stare, the kind she used to give me when we were kids and she’d made her mind up to do something. ‘I thought you might say that. So I have a cunning plan that will give us what we need. I can’t tell you what it is though because you’ll say it’s entrapment or some twaddle.’

  My heart sinks. I sit back and exhale. ‘I don’t like the sound of this, Immi. You’re a registered informant now. Anything you do to jeopardise that—’

  ‘Ooh yes, a CHIS, so exciting!’ She frowns. ‘Now what’s it stand for again? Don’t tell me. Um … clever hot intellectual spy. Yes?’

  I have to laugh. ‘No, it’s Covert Human Intelligence Source. I registered you to make sure it would put some distance between us and to protect you from being identified as the source. You can’t do anything that would put yourself in danger, or undermine this investigation.’ I fold my arms, try to look stern.

  Immi mirrors my pose. ‘It won’t. Trust me.’

  4

  Nathan Walker likes to dream. Dreaming is what gets him through the day. He dreams about moving to somewhere sunny, somewhere where there’s a beach. Somewhere where the air is fresh. Clean of the stench of the filth he’s mired up to his neck in every waking moment. Somewhere away from Kenny Ransom. In that place he’d set up a little shack on the beach, sell food, drinks, beach stuff. How hard could it be? Nathan wouldn’t need much to get by. He isn’t bothered about possessions, the high life, he only wants peace. Peace and the knowledge that he isn’t hurting anyone. Nathan hurts people on Ransom’s behalf daily. Not physically – though he has been forced to strong-arm once or twice – but rather coercin
g them into doing Ransom’s bidding.

  He observes his mother watching daytime TV. Slack jawed, expressionless eyes, a slow tap, tap of a nicotine-stained finger on the chair arm. Is she conducting some internal concert or marking the passing of the minutes, hours, days of her miserable existence? Because she is miserable. Since his dad was killed, two years back, she’d become this husk, this automaton … this thing in a chair. Nathan and his younger brothers, Jack and Kevin, keep an eye on her. His sister, Angie, keeps an eye too as much as she can from nearly three hundred miles away in Devon with her husband and two kids. Jack and Kevin still live at home, thank goodness.

  Nathan goes into the kitchen to make a cuppa and thinks about Angie. Just two years his junior, they were close growing up. He misses her and is more than a little jealous that she met a nice guy on holiday, married him, and managed to escape. She’s the only one who has. Nathan is glad she has, but wishes he could do the same. Perhaps when Mum dies? But she’s only fifty-six and has years of life yet. If you can call it a life.

  From the kitchen window he sees a sparrow feeding its young on the bird table. That’s why he stays. Mum looked after him and now he has to repay in kind. If he left she’d end up in a care home of some sort. Jack and Kevin are good boys, but they’re working on their own escape plan, and rightly so. What’s the point of all of them being trapped? Jack’s got his own website business off the ground and Kevin is a mechanic. Nathan made some wrong choices when he was a teenager, followed in his dad’s footsteps because he wasn’t academic, had a low opinion of his abilities, but mostly he was lazy back then, if truth be known. If he had his time over again, he would do everything differently.

  ‘Cuppa, Mum?’ Nathan puts his mother’s mug down on the stained coaster and pats her cold hand. The skin on the back of it feels like chicken skin. Old before her time.