ago.
‘Didn’t get much from her though, did we?’ Paul said.
‘Well, if I remember, in a statement I read, Tina said that Alan used to go surfing a lot, and according to Alison he seemed changed when he returned from one of his holidays there. Maybe we need to look into the surfing friends.’
‘Not got any. We’ve only one more bloke to see and that’s his address book finished.’
‘Maybe the last is the best – or is it the other way round?’
‘I dunno, but we’ve got to go all the way to Kingston. The guy runs a car wash on the A3. His name is Silas Douglas.’
‘A car wash?’
‘Yeah. Not really sounding like the Silver Surfer, is he?’
‘Who?’
‘It’s often the way great-looking guys on surfboards are called. I read it somewhere – you know, all bronzed and blonde-haired.’
‘Oh. I thought it was a sort of
Paul laughed.
The car wash turned out to be a small business employing six Polish men. The ramshackle four-car port had hosepipes and buckets and polishers, with a seedy office at the back.
‘Bet you these guys are making illegal benefit claims as well,’ Paul said.
Helen agreed and was astonished that customers were paying up to thirty pounds for a total valet service.
‘All this cash must make a nice income, enough to employ six guys.’
They knocked on the glass door to the office, but were unable to see in as it was covered in posters for firework displays and local events. Then it banged open and they were confronted by a well-built man wearing a baseball cap with a greasy ponytail sticking out the back.
‘Yeah?’
Paul introduced himself and Helen and said they had called earlier. ‘Are you Silas Douglas?’
‘Oh right, right, come in. I’m Sal Douglas and excuse the mess. Shift anything off the seats; it will all end up on the floor anyway.’
He had a very upper-class voice that belied his appearance in baggy torn jeans and a T-shirt. Lined up against one wall were four surfboards, expensive ones, and there was another one lying on a bench with pots of paint.
‘I’m customising that for a client. Wants, believe it or not, Shaun the Sheep. Bloody stupid, but you do what you have to.’
‘Shaun the Sheep?’ Paul asked, shifting a stack of magazines onto the floor.
‘It’s a kid’s cartoon, little runt of the sheep herd that gets up to all crazy things, so I guess he’s now going to be surfing.’ Sal sat behind the muddled heaped desk and grinned. ‘What do you want? It’s not about the bloody neighbours’ complaints, is it? I’ve got a licence to run this place – in fact, I own that block of flats, but they don’t seem to understand, and these used to be the old garages.’
‘We’re here because we know you were friends with Alan Rawlins.’
‘Who?’
‘Alan Rawlins.’
Sal leaned back in his chair, rubbing his head. ‘I know him, do I?’
‘He has your phone number.’
‘Alan Rawlins? Has he bought a board from me?’
‘I don’t know. He did go surfing in Cornwall.’
‘Ah well, maybe I met him there. Come June I pack off to my place near Newquay and don’t come back until the end of summer.’
‘He was a big fair-haired man, about six foot,’ Paul said as he took out the only photo they had of Alan on the surfboard. ‘Aged twenty-six.’
‘Oh Christ yes, I know him. Terrific guy! I taught him. It’s a few summers back, maybe three or four, and he went on to use some of the other bays with the real big waves, fearless. To begin with I thought he was a no- hoper, but . . .’
Sal pulled at his ponytail. ‘I didn’t know he was called Rawlins, but there you go, I meet a shedload of guys every summer.’ He then gestured to a wall calendar. ‘I teach. First I make them use the gym, as you’ve got to have strong leg muscles – lot of squats – but above all balance. Yeah, I remember him now.’
‘He’s missing.’
‘What?’
‘I said he’s missing’
‘In Cornwall?’
‘No, from his place in London. Do you know where he stayed when he was in Cornwall?’
‘No, there’s loads of hostels, B and Bs and other cheap places.’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘Nothing more than I just did.’
Paul looked to Helen and she was making notes. ‘Did he have girlfriends when you met him?’
Sal shrugged his shoulders. ‘I couldn’t tell you. I have my own clan there, but there are lots of bars they all use and if it’s bad weather, which it was this bloody summer – a downpour almost every day – they always hang out at a place called the Smugglers. It’s a beach bar and cafe.’
‘When was the last time you saw Alan Rawlins?’
The big man gave a wide-armed gesture. ‘Look, I didn’t even remember his name. I don’t think he was around last summer. I can’t honestly recall.’ He held the photograph in his big hands. ‘No, he wasn’t. In fact, it had to have been a while ago, maybe a couple of years, because the board he’s using here was one of mine. It’s an old hire board, used to mark them at the front with a large black S and a number, so I knew who was out on the water with one. You can just about make out S three on this board. The one he’s surfing on is old stock that I sanded down, resprayed and sold on about two years ago. He could have even bought one off me, but I can’t be certain as I’ve sold so many over the years.’
Sal passed the photograph back.
‘When you were teaching him you said he was a nice bloke, so you can recall that much about him. Is there anything else?’
‘Listen, if they pay me they’re good guys. You’d be amazed how many kids bounce cheques, give nicked credit cards, but if I remember correctly, he was sort of straight – know what I mean?’
‘So you wouldn’t know if he mixed with any specific people?’
‘No. Wait a minute, hang on.’
Sal got up and crossed to an old filing cabinet. It was in as much of a mess as his office as he hauled open one drawer after another. He then took out a dog-eared file and sat at his desk, again sweeping papers aside. He opened the file and began sifting through a stack of photographs. Paul and Helen waited patiently as Sal continued taking out a wedge of prints, flicking through them and picking up more.
‘I tell you what I’m looking for. Often at the end of a season or the end of a group teaching course, ’cos they pay for ten or twenty lessons at a time, I get a class photo and sell them copies. I would say that the photo you’ve got of him was taken by a bloke I’ve met. He ear ns a buck or two . . .’
‘What’s his name?’ Helen asked.
‘It was Sammy – yeah, Sammy Marsh. I say
He produced a slightly creased photograph and scrutinised it.
‘Yep, I’m right – at least, I think I am. Isn’t that the same bloke in the middle?’
Sal passed the photograph over. There were four men, all suntanned and athletic-looking, wearing wetsuits. The two at the end of the line held up surfboards with S One and S Eight written on them. They all had their arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling to the camera.
Paul and Helen glanced at the photograph. Turning it over they saw it had a faded stamp,