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  Nathan’s gut had rolled at the look of utter contempt in Jack’s eyes. Jack, who’d always looked up to him, respected the fact that he’d taken up the slack after Dad was killed. There was no way he could ever admit to him what he’d agreed to do because if he did, for one, it would become all too real, and for two, his family would never forgive him. Nathan pushes his plate away, wishes he’d not stopped smoking five years ago. Forgiveness? Nathan would never forgive himself anyway. In fact the future is about as bleak as it could get.

  The other day he’d realised that he was completely alone now his family had all but abandoned him. The only friends were acquaintances really, criminals like him. Before he’d left college, he’d had real friends, decent people. But as soon as he’d come to work for Kenny he’d dropped them. They wouldn’t want to know him once they knew how he made his living. If only he’d acted quicker with Mum, got her out of that house and away. His dream about starting afresh would never have been easy, but now it’s impossible. Wallowing in self-pity isn’t him, or didn’t used to be, but right now his life seems pretty full up with ‘if onlys’ and not a lot else.

  Two hours later he’s sitting on a bench at the top of a huge hill in a park he can’t even remember the name of. He’s run nearly ten miles according to his Fitbit, but still he can’t outrun the person he’s about to become. The bench has a brass plaque telling the world that Aggie – loving wife, mum and grandma – used to sit here most days and watch the world go by. Anyone who sits here is invited to share her view and let the peace and beauty of their surroundings lift their spirits. Down the hill and across the wide sweep of a valley, Nathan looks at spring strutting her stuff, painting over winter with fresh greens, yellows and white, but inside he’s all out of peace. ‘Sorry, Aggie,’ he mutters and stands to stretch. As he does, his phone falls out of his pocket and picking it up he finds there’s a message from Dawson.

  Where the fuck are you? Call me.

  Nathan realises the phone’s somehow been switched to mute with no vibrate and there are three missed calls from Dawson too. Shit, this must be pretty important to call on a Sunday. Dawson normally spends the afternoon having a ‘spa treatment’ – at least that’s what he tells his wife. What if it’s news about …? This thought prods his heart rate up the scale. Half of him hopes it isn’t the news, but the other half of him hopes it is. Best to get it over with. Nathan’s feet take him in a tight circle and then he finds he’s sitting back on the bench and staring out at Aggie’s view. He presses his spine against the brass plaque hoping that some goodness from her will somehow magically transfer to him. But no blinding flash of inspiration or a lightning bolt is on offer, so he scrolls down the contacts and calls Dawson.

  ‘Oh, nice of you to get in touch. I’ve been trying to reach you for bloody ages!’

  ‘Yes, sorry, Frank. I’ve been out running and—’

  ‘Never mind all that shite. We’ve an idea where Masters might be. Inside information tells us she’s on annual leave. Where is a guess, but Kenny’s girl phoned him to say she’s off on a little holiday to Newquay. Surfing of all things. So we thought you’d better get down there and see if her bestie is with her.’

  Wait a minute. They want him to go all the way to Cornwall just in case Masters is there? Is this all they have? Nathan’s head feels like it’s floating above the park. The whole thing is surreal. ‘Ri-ght …’

  ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

  Nathan sighs down the phone. ‘It’d just be nice if we had more of a definite—’

  ‘Yes, yes it would. It would be nice if Masters phoned us and said, “Hi, you lot, I’m down in Newquay, here’s the address – so you can just get Nathan to pop down and kill me”.’

  Nathan watches his fingers grip the old gnarled arm of the bench. He increases the pressure until he can see the whites of his knuckles under the skin. ‘Okay, I was just thinking it was a bit of a long shot, that’s all. The daughter and Masters don’t spend that much time together, do they?’

  ‘More than Kenny would like. Besides, he’s got a hunch and when he gets a hunch he’s usually right. He’s known Masters since she was a kid, don’t forget – the family too. He remembers that her mother was Cornish. She moved here years back when she married a Sheffield man. He was a copper too. Anyway, I have stuff to do. Call me when you get to Cornwall.’

  Nathan shoves his phone in his pocket and stands. His legs feel like he’s borrowed them from a much older man – they’re stiff, reluctant to move. Walking eases the ache, but with each step he’s further away from the man he used to be and towards a monster. In a few days he’ll be in Cornwall, one of the most beautiful counties in Britain. Once, a good few years ago, he’d been on holiday there with some of his mates on a stag do. Nathan had received a lot of ribbing because he’d been more interested in swimming and walking than propping up the bar. The scenery and wild coastline had left a lasting impression on him, but now, if Bryony Masters is there, he’ll remember it for a very different reason.

  16

  Mum was a little surprised when I said I’d invited Immi here the other day, but she said it was fine and that she was looking forward to seeing her again. I’m in the spare room now, making sure it looks welcoming, with a new throw I bought at the market over the old threadbare armchair and a few scatter cushions on the bed. Perhaps flowers? No, that would be going over the top. I smooth the curtains at the window and look out over the garden towards the glimpse of blue through the trees.

  It’s crazy, but I keep seeing Immi as a teenager in my head. In the image, she looks unsure, vulnerable, but still always more confident than I was back then. It was the boy thing that divided us. Immi had boys falling over themselves to get next to her; I had the opposite. As a woman I can look back and feel sad that we let boys define who we were, how we thought of ourselves, but we weren’t alone. Thinking about it, it still goes on to a lesser extent amongst my female friends now. Men, partners, sometimes husbands have an extraordinary dominance in the way women perceive themselves. Maybe that’s why I haven’t settled to anything long term. I’m a control freak and anyone else having a say in what I wear, what I do, makes me come out in a rash.

  The old armchair feels quite comfy with the new throw on it and I settle back and close my eyes. Mum is so sentimental. This armchair used to be in my old room when I was a kid but she can’t bear to chuck it. Same goes for the old rabbit with one ear on the chest of drawers. Funny how inanimate objects hold so many memories … little time capsules dotted here and there in our present tying us irrevocably to our past.

  Thoughts lazily flit in and out as I think about my past, present and future. Imogen might look vulnerable in my mind’s eye because she’s lost her mum and her dad … well … we all know about him. Perhaps I’m playing the mother hen, making her room feel welcoming; worrying about how to make her happy while she’s here. Looking after people is my job, but on a personal level it’s alien to me. As an only child I never had to worry about sharing my toys, competing for affection from parents and, largely because of my control freakery, I haven’t had to share my life with anyone either.

  There was David, though. I came close with him. Because he was a copper like me we didn’t have to explain how we felt after a long day. He was easy going, funny, and we had a great year together … until he started to talk about moving in together; then my defences came up, shut him out. Bam. Part of me wonders if there’s something lacking in me, that I build a fortress, because I did regret it, especially when I saw him dating another officer; they got married recently too. My regret wasn’t enough for me to try and change it back before it was too late, though. Mum says it’s because the right one hasn’t come along. I didn’t mention that I thought that was a load of baloney.

  At the station, Mum parks the car while I hurry along the platform to meet Immi. There’s a fizz of excitement in my tummy and I’m reminded of the sleepovers we had as kids. The illicit cigarettes we had in her room at n
ight, blowing smoke out of the window, and then sipping the vodka she’d smuggled up in a little water bottle. We won’t have to do that now, especially not the smoking, but the feeling of anticipation of being silly and hanging out is still the same.

  The train pulls in and I see her get off straight away – there are only a few other passengers. She’s wearing long beige shorts, a green hoodie and flip-flops. A smile curls my lips. I know it’s spring, but there is a nip in the air. The breeze is intent on whipping her blonde wavy hair across her eyes, but she sees me, grins, and sets off at a jog towards me, dragging her little suitcase bumping behind on unsteady wheels.

  ‘Bryony!’ she says, flinging her arms around me. ‘I’m so glad to see you and to be here!’

  ‘It’s great to have you here,’ I say, setting her at arm’s length and sweeping my eyes down to her feet, laughing. ‘You certainly look the part.’

  ‘Good. I have to hang cool with the surfing duuuudes.’ She does the snot-bubbling laugh.

  I pull mock disapproval. ‘Oh dear, I hope you’re not going to say that to Mum and Jen’s students.’

  We link arms and walk towards the car park. Immi gives a deep sigh. ‘I can feel the tension slipping away already, the sea air, the seagulls, the …’ Mum gets out of the car and waves. ‘Mrs Masters!’ She leaves her case with me and hurries over to Mum. I get an unexpected lump in the throat watching them hug, because it’s as if we’ve gone back in time. I sense that Immi must feel the loss of her mum even more keenly today.

  Lumps aren’t restricted to my throat, it seems. I notice Mum’s and Immi’s eyes well up as we stand in a circle by the car. ‘Imogen Ransom, what a beauty you’ve grown into,’ Mum says, looking Immi up and down.

  Though it shouldn’t, that comment gets under my skin. Mum often says that kind of thing to me, but I suppose my insecurities run deep. Immi blushes.

  ‘Oh, that’s a lovely thing to say, Mrs Masters. Especially as I’m looking a bit dishevelled after my marathon journey.’

  ‘You can stop the Mrs Masters, makes me feel a hundred. Call me Gilly.’

  ‘You are a hundred next birthday, aren’t you?’ I say, and duck the expected cuff round the ear from Mum.

  Immi stands back and looks at us, an unreadable look on her face. Then she says, ‘I can’t tell you how great it is to be here. I’m so looking forward to seeing your house, Gilly. Bryony has told me how lovely it is.’

  Mum starts talking about the house and says you can see glimpses of the sea on a clear day. She’ll wax lyrical all day if we let her, so I put Immi’s suitcase in the boot and say, ‘Right, let’s get you back, then you can see it for yourself.’

  Immi loves her room and goes bananas about the house. ‘Oh my goodness, what a wonderful place to live. How far is it to the beach?’

  ‘About ten minutes’ walk to Fistral, the main surfing beach, and about fifteen or so to the others.’

  ‘Is that all? It’s bloody paradise,’ Immi says wistfully, looking out of her bedroom window. ‘What I wouldn’t give to live here.’

  This is as good an opening as any to let her in on the thoughts I’ve had bumping about my head for the last few days. I sit in the old armchair and say, ‘If it was up to Mum I’d be here permanently.’

  Immi spins round and comes to sit next to me on the bed. ‘What? So you’d get a job with the Cornwall police?’

  ‘Not exactly. In fact, not at all … I’ve been thinking of jacking it in, doing something else. In the meantime I would do a bit of teaching at the surf school.’

  ‘Shut up, you haven’t!’ Immi’s eyes are round, and a big smile is spreading across her face.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘But that’s fantastic!’ She throws her arms up and claps her hands a few times.

  ‘It is?’ Again I’m puzzled. Did nobody like the fact that I was a copper and just didn’t tell me?

  ‘Yes. It so is. I’ve been really worried about telling you what my shit of a father has been saying, but now you’re quitting and moving he’s going to find it harder to carry it through.’

  ‘Er, he said what? And I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘It’s a no brainer, Bryony. You have to.’ Immi folds her arms, fixes me with a cool stare.

  ‘What has your dad been saying?’

  ‘You know that day in the pub when we were talking – just a week or so before he was sent down?’ I nod. ‘I said then that I was worried he’d find someone to blame for it, remember? Anyone would do if he couldn’t find the one. I was worried he’d come after you … and I was right.’ Immi pauses and her bottom lip trembles. Inside, a little worm of fear spirals a chill down my spine. So this is what she was keeping back when we spoke on the phone a few nights ago. ‘He mentioned it to me a while ago when I visited. I told him that we’d never get an appeal if he did anything to you.’

  I take a moment and then say, ‘So that’s why you were talking about appeals on the phone the other night. I’m surprised he went along with you. Whatever your father might be, he isn’t stupid.’

  ‘Well, he seems to think it’s a possibility. I visit as often as I can to discuss various lawyers and stuff. He never seems to be able to decide on the one he wants though.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s just going along with you to make sure you keep visiting. Must be killing him being in there.’

  ‘Maybe, but he seems really keen. Anyway, let’s get back to you moving here. It’s the best news I could have hoped for. If we launch an appeal, once it falls flat, he’ll start on about making you pay again, but you’ll be long gone. He’d have to be really bloody minded to try find you. And there’s no way he’d think of looking for you here in a surf school.’

  Immi’s face is all smiles and rainbows, but the little worm wriggles again and I hug myself. ‘As I said, he’s not a stupid man.’

  ‘Nobody would ever imagine you’d chuck in a DI job, forgo a copper’s pension and leave everything you’d ever worked for, your hometown, your lovely flat, would they?’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘You said you’d love to live here just now.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m a receptionist in a medical centre. It’s hardly the same thing. You’re respected, admired.’ She puts her head on one side, frowns. ‘Actually, I never thought to ask, apart from this beautiful area, what the hell has made you think of chucking it in?’

  ‘Simple. I’m sick of trying to catch men like your father and mostly failing.’ Then words come out of my mouth that I hadn’t known were going to. ‘I honestly think that I only went into the force to impress my dad. Initially, anyway. I did enjoy it, I was good at it … but then Dad was killed and it all seemed a bit meaningless. The bad guys had won – and they keep winning, mostly.’

  ‘But you put my father away. You can’t expect to do that every day of the week – the world isn’t like that, unfortunately.’ Immi shrugs.

  ‘Now you sound like my boss … and aren’t you supposed to be arguing for me to leave anyway?’ I give her a little smile.

  She laughs. ‘I am. And what you’ve told me makes it all the more sensible. If my father holds a grudge, others like him might, and somewhere down the line …’ She shrugs again.

  ‘So I just up sticks and scurry down here in case a bad man might hurt me … kill me?’ I’m teasing now, but only in part. I was never a scaredy-cat.

  ‘No.’ Immi narrows her eyes. ‘You’re twisting it now. I never said he would kill you … but yes, he’d see you hurt. Come on, Bryony. Your heart’s not in it anymore. So why not just leave?’

  ‘Be a surf duuuude?’

  She laughs. ‘Yes, but what job would you do in the long term?’

  ‘I’ve thought about teaching or counselling.’

  ‘Yes, I can see you as a teacher! Miss Masters, sounds quite the part.’

  ‘Mum said the same.’

  ‘So will you do it then?’

  I get up, stare out of the window. Next door’s cat is sitting on the patio table looking right up at me as
if he’s waiting for an answer too. ‘Oh, I don’t know … I’m leaning more towards saying yes, but I need a bit more time.’

  ‘But I know you’ll say yes in the end.’ Immi gets off the bed, puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘I would if I could. Who knows, I might eventually get a job down here too. Nothing’s keeping me in Sheffield after all, is it?’

  The catch in her voice makes me swallow hard. She’s been through so much over the past few years. First her mother dies and then she makes sure that the remaining parent pays for what he’s done. Ensures that he’s sent away for a very long time. You don’t get through that kind of thing unscathed. Immi is a good person – one of the best. ‘Well, if you do decide to do that, whether I’m here or not, it will be a very good move, I’m sure.’

  Immi looks at me, a knowing smile on her face. ‘Oh you’ll be here, Bryony. You’ll be here.’

  17

  Another room, another drawer. Nathan shoves the gun to the back of the dresser drawer in his hotel room. Then he thinks better of it and puts it in the safe in the wardrobe. He has to be sure – the maid might snoop while he’s out. Unlikely, but he can afford no mistakes. Nathan walks over to the window and looks out over the ocean. It’s a grey day and the wind is whipping the waves into stiff crests – an army of water relentlessly assaulting the cliffs ending the beach. Restless, angry, just like him.