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  A tickle of excitement in my stomach sets me thinking about what their faces will look like when I pop up out of the blue at the surf school. I might even wait until they come down onto the beach with the pupils and join the queue. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I float a bit longer allowing my cares to drift away. Looking round a moment later, I see there’s quite a big distance between me and the other swimmers and surfers. The tide’s going out and I have relaxed for too long. A reminder about the ocean taking no prisoners pops into my mind and I strike out for shore and a reunion with my mum.

  They’re late. The clock on the café wall says 12.10 and the Atlantic Waves Surf School normally comes down here at twelve o’clock. Another coffee isn’t a good idea because I’m on a natural high as it is. I don’t want to be leaping around Mum and Aunty Jenny like an excited puppy. Defeat nudges my hand towards my phone, but I’m not ready to give in yet. Then I see the familiar green and white VW Camper, sun winking off its wing mirrors, draw to a stop in the car park, and out jumps Mum. Her tawny hair is a few shades lighter because of the spring sunshine, her face tanned. I can’t quite see the blue of her eyes from this distance, but I can see her smile. Mum’s smile is infectious, warm and … it’s like coming home, I guess. An unexpected lump forms in my throat and I swallow the last cold dregs of coffee to shift it. Now to surprise her.

  A little knot of novice surfers gathers around Mum and Aunty Jenny on the beach fifteen minutes later. Jenny is waving her arms about directing people here and there like a demented scarecrow while the wind tugs her auburn hair into streamers. The surfers line their boards up and practice their surfing moves on the sand. Mum is going round straightening legs, instructing, encouraging, laughing. They don’t see me skirting round a family having a picnic behind a red-and-green-striped windbreak a few metres away.

  I creep up behind Mum and say, ‘I seem to have forgotten my surfboard. Do you have a spare?’

  Mum squeals and turns round, tears of happiness already standing. And now I see the blue of her eyes, the sky fades in comparison. ‘Oh my God! Bryony, my baby!’ She pulls me to her in a vice-like grip and says into my hair, ‘How wonderful to see you! I can’t tell you how much I missed you!’ Then she’s showering me with kisses as the surfers look on, bemused. Aunty Jenny barrels into my side with a few crushing hugs of her own and also says, ‘What a surprise!’ Then I lose my footing and we topple onto the sand laughing hysterically.

  ‘Okay, okay!’ I hold my hands in surrender and help Mum and Aunty Jenny up. ‘I think these good people might want to get on with their lesson, ladies.’

  Mum, still laughing, pulls a band from her wrist and sweeps her hair into a ponytail. ‘Yes, I expect they do.’ She looks at the surfers. ‘I also expect you might have noticed that I’m…’—she waves a hand at Aunty Jenny—‘…we, are over the moon to see this person. Meet my daughter, Bryony, down from the frozen north to surprise us.’

  I do a cheesy grin and nod at each face. ‘Hello, all. Hope you’re having fun with these two crazy people?’ Most laugh and say they are. One or two look like they think we’re wasting their valuable surf lesson, so I say, ‘Anyway. Best let you get on.’

  Mum dusts sand from her hands and wags a finger in my face. ‘Er, not so fast. Now you’re here, you might as well help us out this afternoon.’

  I hide a smile. This is what I’d hoped she’d say because otherwise I would have been at a bit of a loose end. ‘Really? Aw, Mum, do I have to?’

  I receive a pretend slap round the head. ‘Yes, you do, young lady. Now go over there and help young Kelly with her balance.’

  In the shade of the evening garden, the warmth of the spring sunshine leaves my skin. If it were up to me we would be inside eating around the log burner, but no. No, Mum and Jen, as she now informs me she’d like to be called – Aunty Jenny is too babyish now apparently, especially now I’m thirty-one… nice – want a barbecue. A barbecue in mid-April. It’s only 6.45 and it’s already getting dark. I zip my jacket up and, through a gap in the tree branches at the end of the lawn, glimpse the last pink fingers of sunset stroking the ocean’s horizon.

  Mum was so lucky to get this house when she moved back here. I remember when she told me that the description in the estate agent’s advert was something along the lines of ‘a lovely 1930s characterful property with sea glimpses’, and I expected a money pit with a view of the sea the size of a postage stamp. A postage stamp that you could only see by hanging upside down out of the bedroom window. Yes, it had needed work but, because it was built on such a huge hill, the view of the sea was quite lovely, cradled in the V of red rooftops winding down to the seafront. When I was little and we came on holiday we used to stay with Grandma and Granddad, and though they lived closer to the sea, there was no view to speak of. I do miss them both. I miss Grandma’s cooking too. Thoughts of her home-made pasties make my tummy rumble.

  The sausages are almost done, Mum says. She’s said this three times but still jabs at them with a long fork as if she expects them to attack her. Jen is sitting in a deckchair sipping a cocktail, her third to my first, I think, and chatting to her husband on the phone. Uncle Graham has opted to stay home and fend for himself. Uncle Graham isn’t daft. Why would he want to be freezing his arse off out here? My cousins, Laurie and Jory, are younger than me and both at uni, so he has the house to himself. I bet he has the log burner going and …

  ‘So you don’t want this hot dog then?’ Mum’s smiling and holding a plate out to me, a charcoal smudge on the bridge of her nose. ‘You’re away with the fairies this evening.’

  I snatch the plate and snort. ‘It’s you that’s away with them, faffing about with the sausages for goodness knows how long.’ I take a big bite and wish I hadn’t.

  Mum gives me a knowing look. ‘Be careful, they’re hot.’

  A gulp of cocktail helps and I sit down next to Jen. She asks about work and I say I have been quite successful lately putting away the bad guys. When Mum joins us with a plate of beef burgers and more sausages and asks about the job, I decide it’s time to do a bit of showing off.

  ‘Remember Imogen Ransom?’ I take a beef burger and help myself to home-made coleslaw.

  Mum nods and speaks through a mouthful of hotdog. ‘Yes, of course. How could I forget? We lived next door to them for fifteen years.’

  ‘Well, not so long ago she asked to be Facebook friends. I accepted, of course, but then she asked to meet up. I hesitated about that because of her dad.’

  ‘Not surprised – he’s a wrong ’un, that one,’ Jen says, pointing a sausage at me. ‘Only met him a few times when we came up to see you, but that was enough.’

  ‘You were after him a few years back, weren’t you?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Yes. But he always wriggled out of trouble. Mr. Teflon – nothing stuck.’

  ‘So what did you say to Imogen?’ Jen asks, taking a bite from the sausage.

  ‘I agreed to meet up, because we were best friends as you know.’ Mum nods. ‘But I hoped to avoid talking about her dad.’

  ‘Not easy,’ Jen says.

  ‘No. But the thing is, it was her that brought him up. Said that’s why she got in touch with me again – to try and help me convict him!’ I watch their shocked faces. And then they both talk at once, asking me what happened. ‘Well, believe it or not, I did.’

  ‘What, he’s in prison?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Yup,’ I say, a note of pride in my voice, though I add, ‘If it hadn’t been for Immi he wouldn’t be though. She went above and beyond to put her own dad away. He doesn’t know she helped of course.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Mum says, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. ‘Poor Maggie must be bedside herself.’

  ‘She was his wife, yeah?’ Jen asks. ‘Nice woman, seemed a bit downtrodden though by Mr. Nasty.’

  I sigh. ‘Yes, but Maggie died not too long ago. Cancer.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Mum says and her eyes fill. ‘She was only my age, perhaps two years older … how bloody aw
ful.’ She wipes her eyes but more tears come.

  I didn’t know Mum would be so upset. ‘Sorry, Mum, I didn’t realise you were close to her. I wouldn’t have told you so bluntly.’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘No, we weren’t that close really. We got on, but we weren’t in and out of each other’s houses every five minutes … I just feel so sorry that she’s dead.’

  ‘Yes, me too. She was always nice to me as a child. He was a real bastard to her, Immi said. That’s one of the reasons she wanted him put away. He had other women, throughout the whole marriage apparently.’

  ‘Poor cow,’ Jen says and hands Mum another tissue and a glass. ‘Hey, come on, Gilly, have a sip of your cocktail – cheer you up.’

  Mum takes a sip, gives her sister a grateful smile. ‘Thanks, Jen. Why are some men so vile and get to live while others …’ Her voice trails off and neither Jen nor I need to ask what she was going to say next. Immi had said similar recently. Dad was right there with us in all our thoughts.

  I say into the silence, ‘At least he’s lost his liberty and when he’s out he’ll be … well, in his early seventies. Serves him right. He’s been drug dealing, handling stolen goods, loan sharking, you name it. But the worst thing he did was what we got him on. Sex trafficking young girls – keeping them as sex slaves.’

  Jen says a few choice words and Mum’s jaw drops. Then she drains her second cocktail in one. ‘I hope he rots in there, fucking bastard,’ she says quietly.

  The vehemence in her words surprises me a bit, but it’s a vile thing to be told and also Mum isn’t much of a drinker; Jen does enough for both of them. I suggest we go in, get warm, and have a nice cup of coffee. I wish I’d been a bit more tactful instead of blurting it all out like that. Mum knew Maggie quite well and to hear that her old next-door neighbour was dead, and her husband was involved in the worst crimes you can think of, must have been a huge shock.

  Broaching the subject of me having a change in career doesn’t seem appropriate at the moment. We’re gathered round the log burner with hot chocolate, talking about surfing and how brilliant I was helping out today. My work life seems as far away now as the moon outside chasing the scudding clouds across the dark sky. And right now, that’s just how I like it.

  13

  If Nathan is going to get another life he needs to find his mum somewhere to live first. Perhaps he can get her a rented flat in Devon near his sister. He would have peace of mind then, and the sea air might do her good. Then if Kenny tried to threaten him with evicting her, or worse if he didn’t do his bidding, he’d find that ship had sailed. His brothers will just have to look out for themselves now. They have jobs, so why not? It’s time Nathan stopped playing dad and started looking out for himself, before it’s too late.

  It might already be too late. The jobs he’s been getting these past few months since Ransom’s been in prison would mean he’d join him immediately, if he was caught, no question. Drug smuggling operations have big financial payoffs – the risks are high – but the misery he’s causing to countless addicts by being involved is too much for Nathan to take. He’d been involved in supplying Class B stuff before, which was bad enough, but this is Class A and far too dangerous in every way.

  Frank Dawson has been getting all pally recently – saying that Nathan’s reliable and well organised. He’s even hinted that there might be a promotion in the next few years if he continues to prove himself. Dawson said that with Ransom in jail and himself not getting any younger it will soon fall to people like Nathan to take more of a hand in running things. Dawson has a mind to retire fairly soon to somewhere hot, enjoy the fruits of his labours. Nice for some. Nathan’s gone along with it, of course. He has to keep them unsuspecting.

  It’s rare for him to have an afternoon off, but today is the day. Nathan changes into his running gear and heads out into the spring sunshine. How long has it been since his last run? Too long. After the hours he puts in he’s too tired to have time for himself normally, so this afternoon is all the sweeter. Freshly mown grass, nodding daffodils, and an endorphin release as he runs lifts his mood further. With each footfall, his escape feels more possible and, as he powers down a hill, his feet have wings. Then his phone vibrates in his pocket. Shit. Not now. He ignores it and clears his mind of possible callers. Five minutes later it vibrates again, so Nathan sits on a bench and swipes the screen. Dawson. Marvellous.

  ‘Nate, my boy.’ Dawson has taken to calling him Nate as if they are big buddies. The only people who shorten his name are his immediate family, and Dawson is far from that. ‘Can you swing by the Ransom Mansion about four? I have something important for you.’

  Nathan would rather stick pins in his eyes. It’s nearly three already. ‘Okay. I’m out running just now but I’ll go back, have a quick shower and—’

  ‘See you at four, Nate.’

  Jason opens the door. Does he live here now, or what? He’s eating a cream bun and there’s a dollop of jam and cream on his nose. Nathan would usually point such an embarrassment out to any normal, decent human being, but he keeps this information to himself as Jason chaperones him down the corridor to the ‘drawling’ room once more. Dawson’s sitting by the fire in a white bathrobe and smoking a cigar. On a stool in front of him, an attractive young woman is massaging his feet, toenail clippings – evidence of a recent pedicure – in a neat pile on a towel.

  ‘Ah, Nate, my lad. Take a seat, Sally has just finished, haven’t you, doll?’

  Doll? Bloody hell, what century is he in? Nathan takes a seat and keeps his thoughts to himself.

  ‘I have, indeed, Mr. Dawson … unless you’d like the essential oil rub?’ Sally keeps her hands stroking his feet, flutters her eyelashes. Nathan wonders if that’s code for a bit more than a rub of his feet.

  ‘I’d love to, but me and the boy here have a bit of business. Same time next week.’ Dawson grabs his wallet from a side table, leans forward and stuffs a couple of fifty-pound notes down the V of her shirt. Once they are alone Dawson says, ‘She’s bloody good with feet, that one.’ A lascivious wink. ‘Good in bed too.’

  Nathan does his well-practised fixed smile. The girl must be in her early twenties to Dawson’s early sixties. Money talks. ‘She was certainly an attractive young lady.’

  ‘Want an evening with her, Nate? You certainly deserve a bonus with all the extra work you’ve taken on lately.’

  Is he for real? She’s a human being, not a possession. ‘You’re alright, Frank. I have a girl, we’re thinking of making a go of things.’ He hopes his cheeks don’t betray him.

  ‘You have? You never mention her.’ Dawson knits his bushy brows together.

  ‘It’s early days, but—’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  Shit, what was it? Inspiration comes to him via a book spine on the shelf behind Dawson’s head. ‘Jane.’

  ‘Jane what?’

  For God’s sake, don’t say Eyre. ‘Jones.’ Nathan cringes inwardly at his lack of imagination.

  ‘Right.’ Dawson unknits his brow and stubs his cigar out. ‘Well, there’s no reason why you can’t spend the night with our Sally. What Jane doesn’t know won’t hurt her.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks, Frank.’ Nathan shifts in his seat, looks at the fire. Why the hell has Dawson got it lit on such a nice spring day anyway?

  ‘Nothing like a real fire, eh? This room is freezing at the best of times.’ Dawson stands, turns his back to the fire and lifts his robe, then briskly rubs his buttocks. Nathan looks out of the window to avoid the sight of Dawson’s genitals wobbling in front of him. ‘Anyway, I brought you here so Kenny can call in that special job we were on about a while ago.’

  Nathan looks up at Dawson; a sour taste floods his mouth and his heart starts to pound. ‘Special job?’

  Dawson lowers the back of his robe and sits back down. ‘Yeah, you know. We talked about Kenny wanting to track down who the grass was – the one who lured him to that house the day he was arrested.’


  ‘And he’s found him?’

  ‘Not exactly … he’s decided who’s going to pay though.’

  Nathan’s heart rate starts to gallop. Shit, what exactly does that mean for me? ‘Oh. Who?’

  ‘The tasty looking DI, Bryony Masters – you remember her from court. Used to be friends with his daughter, still acquainted, apparently. They were neighbours years back – imagine that, your kid’s childhood friend banging you up?’

  Is he fucking mad? He wants to get revenge on a police officer? Correction – Ransom wants Nathan to get revenge for him. His mind casts about for an anchor, anything to stop his head spinning. ‘Um, yeah, that must be tough for Kenny. And I remember her from court? I wasn’t in court.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s right. Well, I have a photo of her, details of where she lives, where she eats. Loads for you to be going on with. Hang on, I’ll send Jason for it.’ Dawson speaks into his phone. ‘Yes, in the bureau in the dining room. Yes, Jason. Red folder …’

  Dawson’s droning voice takes on a dreamlike quality as a scream builds in Nathan’s head. What the fuck does Ransom expect him to do? The terrifying answer is waiting in the darkest part of his psyche like a murderer in an old Victorian London alleyway. Nathan realises that Dawson has finished speaking and is staring at him. ‘Why does Mr. Ransom think that this Masters has anything to do with it?’

  ‘Because she’s been after him for a few years. He reckons she got someone to set him up and then arrived at the kill like some, now what were Kenny’s words?’ Dawson folds his arms over his paunch and looks up to the left. ‘Ah yes. Like some conquering emperor.’