for the purchase of spare parts, from spark plugs to hub-caps and steering wheels. There were also extensive costs from a leather upholstery company for repairs and rebuilding of car seats. This secondary business Alan had run in his spare time was extremely well organised and detailed.
She noticed that some of the writing on the Post-it notes was different, and drumming her fingers on the side of the desk she made a mental note to get a sample of Mr Rawlins’s writing. She was certain that he was the other person. This would mean that he too was making a considerable amount of money on the side. Many of the purchases were cash and no tax or VAT documents surfaced. Had Mr Rawlins been up here in the room, concerned about it getting out just how much money he was being paid by partnering with his son in his little business?
Anna now opened the top drawer. This had more personal items, with piles of surfing locations and holiday brochures for Florida, the Bahamas, the Cayman Islands, Spain and Portugal, plus rentals in Newquay and numerous estate agency listings for properties in Cornwall. A few had red rings around them and all were in the vicinity of three to five hundred thousand pounds. She was unable to find anything that indicated that a purchase had been made. There was nothing that connected Alan to Tina’s flat or any mention of her. There were no bank statements; no cheque books and no credit-card statements, unless they had been removed.
Anna swivelled from side to side in the desk chair. She took off the hood from the computer. She knew it would have to be examined and hoped it would give more insight into Alan Rawlins. So far, all she had basically gained were details of the income from the sale of the cars, the gay pornographic magazines and DVDs. She was certain that their possible victim led a separate life from Tina. Anna had no indication that Tina was aware of it, but neither had she as yet discovered a motive for Alan’s murder, unless his girlfriend had found out that he led a double life. The question was obvious: was that sufficient motive to kill?
Chapter Eight
Errol Dante was enormous, at least six foot four, with dreadlocks down to his waist. He also had the most pungent body odour that permeated the prison’s small interview room. Errol had three gold teeth, and a gap between two of them that made him have a lisp. With his strong Jamaican accent it was very difficult to understand what he was saying.
Although it was not easy, Paul and Helen had established that he had lived in Cornwall for a period. He first denied ever being there or knowing Sammy Marsh, but when told that they knew he had shared a flat with Marsh, he did a swinging head move.
‘Oh yeah, fink it was ’im dat I know. I rented a caravan from ’im.’
‘Did you also know Alan Rawlins?’
‘No man, dunno ’im. I gotta work in da kitchen. I don’t need dis hassle. I’m helpin’ cook de grub here.’
The thought of this man cooking in the kitchen with the heat and his body odour was sickening to even contemplate.
Paul first showed him the photograph of Alan Rawlins. Errol kissed his teeth. ‘Na, I dunno him.’
They next showed him the photograph of the surfers, which led to a long ramble about when he worked at the Hotel Jolly in Antigua and he ran the water-skiing on the beach.
‘This was taken in Cornwall, Mr Dante.’
‘Look a lickle like Antigua to me, man.’
‘So are you saying you never met any of these men?’
‘I dunno. If dey was in Antigua maybe. I meet a lotta guys from da Carlisle Hotel; dey don’t have water-skiing or ski-boats der.’
‘You admit that you knew Sammy Marsh.’
‘I dunno ’im, man.’
‘You lived in his flat. We know you shared his flat in Cornwall – he was a photographer.’
‘Ohhh I dunno. I crash out maybe on his floor. He’s not a good guy, lemme tell you he’s not a good guy. I rented this shithole of a caravan.’
‘Why?’
‘ ’Cos I’m just tellin’ how it is. Stitch you up, man – know what I mean?’
‘We know he dealt drugs.’
Errol swung his dreadlocks again and shrugged his shoulders.
‘We know you were arrested on a drug-related incident, Mr Dante.’
He blew out his cheeks. ‘He informer, man. I was just smalltime, bit of hash here, lickle weed der. Him disrespeck me, man. Fockitup. Me no know ’im, right?’
Paul was immensely frustrated. He slapped the table with the flat of his hand. Then leaning forward, he shook his finger.
‘We know that you
‘If he dead, man, I wanna shake de killer’s hand.’
‘It’s not Sammy Marsh who is the victim – it’s someone else.’
‘Me no know. Lot of people want dat man out of der hair. He was an informer, you hear me? I get picked up and I done nuthin. Fuckin’ stitched me up, man.’
Helen tapped Paul’s knee beneath the table. He was becoming so agitated and she wanted to have a try.
‘Errol, we are here asking for your help. We are not connected to any Drug Squad. We are just trying to trace this man.’ She pushed Alan’s photograph forward again. ‘We believe that he is a murder victim and we are simply asking if you knew him.’
She then moved the group shot of the surfers across the table. ‘We also need to identify these men with our victim. We know that Sammy took this photograph because his studio stamp is on the back of it.’
Errol kissed his gold-capped teeth again.
‘Him long gone, lady.’
‘Yes, we know that, but could you give us any other contact from Cornwall who might know who these people are?’
‘He was a piece of shit. He hadda finger me. They come to my woman’s place in Brixton. Cornwall is a shit-’ole, stinking rain every day.’
‘Well, maybe you should try and help us get Sammy back – pay day, and if you help us we can talk to the Governor here . . .’
‘I dunno where he is, lady.’
‘But you know people in Cornwall that knew him – right?’
He nodded and sucked his teeth again.
‘Me no inform on ’im, even though ’im a pussy-’ole.’
Paul gave an exasperated sigh. He was so tense he wanted to reach across the table and punch Errol. Helen gave him a look, warning him to stay calm, but he took no notice.
‘If you say he tipped off the cops about you, what’s it to you?’ he snapped.
‘A lot, brother, a fuckin’ lot. That’s all I’m sayin’. He’s a batty man like a mean prancin’ lickle shite.’
‘He’s a what?’ Helen asked, incredulous.
‘Let’s just say he’d not screw
‘So you are not going to help us even though we’re saying that if you do we can help you?’ Helen battled on.
‘G’way! Yuh no pull ma strings.’
Tight-lipped, Paul picked up the photographs. ‘Well, then we’ll just encourage the powers-that-be to send you back to Kingston, Errol. It’s on the cards – you know that. You’ve got no right to even be in this country.’
‘I’m gettin’ married so you can’t diss me, brother.’
‘Who to – the mother of your fifteen kids?’
Errol gave a wide grin and laughed. ‘Na, but she ain’t no juvie either. I’m gonna have a legit reason to be in
