Blood Line (17 page)

‘“Silly, really”. Bloody sad, more like it. She’s a nice-looking girl if she did more for herself.’

Helen shrugged. She had found it rather pitiful that Alison had not got over a relationship that ended years 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
Marvel
comic character. Maybe this Silas Douglas is one. I can always live in hope!’

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 café.’

‘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, re-sprayed 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
was
’cos he did a moonlight last year owing rent and Christ knows what else. I think he disappeared to Florida, but he’s not been seen since.’

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,
Sammy Marsh
, with his phone number.

‘Do you recall the names of the other surfers with Alan?’ Paul asked.

‘You must be joking! That was taken years ago, and like I said, the guys come and go every summer.’

‘Do you mind if we keep this?’

‘Not at all. It’s no use to me.’

Paul stood up to shake Sal’s hand. The latter’s grip was so strong it made him wince.

‘Thanks for your help.’

Driving back to the station, Helen jotted in her notebook.

‘You know something strange?’ Paul said thoughtfully. ‘It was obvious that Alan liked surfing, but we’ve not found any wetsuits, flippers or whatever they use, and no surfboard at his flat.’

‘Well, Sal said he hired one of his,’ Helen noted.

‘That was a few years ago, right – and he also said that Alan went off to take in other bays. He had to have become very proficient so he could have bought his own board.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘The other thing: we should look into any information we can find about where he stayed in Cornwall. There’s nothing in his address book, is there, but if he went there regularly, wouldn’t you think he’d have contacts? I have when I go to Wales. I rent a cottage and I’ve got loads of addresses and phone numbers.’

‘Yeah, we can have a nose around. Also, from what Alison said, you know how careful he was about money, saving to buy a property – same scenario with Tina Brooks, saving to buy a flat of their own. So we have this careful guy saving his pennies for what seems like years before he lived with Tina.’

‘Yeah? So what. I’ve been saving all my adult life and I’ve not got a pot to piss in,’ Paul said.

‘He earns good money as a mechanic, fixes up vintage cars and sells them. The Merc is one, right?’ Helen asked.

‘True. Apparently he made a big profit when he sold the cars. Cash in hand as well.’

‘I doubt Tina puts every client through the salon books, so with his money from doing up the cars . . . I guess saving the seventy thousand between them wouldn’t have taken long.’

‘Yeah, maybe not.’

‘In fact there could be more somewhere if it’s cash. How much rent did he pay?’

‘I dunno.’

Helen closed her notebook and stared at the back of the photograph.

‘Maybe we should run a check on this Sammy Marsh.’ She turned it back to look at the four surfers. ‘Handsome-looking guys. I might think about a holiday in Cornwall.’

Paul laughed. ‘You’re not the only one. I was thinking of doing that myself.’

‘Do you surf?’

‘No. I’m not that interested in the surfing.’

‘Honestly,’ she giggled, punching his arm.

Anna had been waiting in reception at Michael Phillips’s company, Aston & Clark, for fifteen minutes. The receptionist eventually said that he could see her. She passed Anna the security badge and repeated that she should go to the fourth floor.

‘Yes, thank you, I remember,’ Anna said curtly.

The same secretary was waiting as the lift opened and she led Anna down the corridor, this time to a different room, but with an identical table and the same offer of coffee and tea placed on a sideboard with two flasks of hot water.

‘Please help yourself. Mr Phillips shouldn’t be a moment.’

‘I hope not.’ Anna sat down, not bothering with refreshments.

It was another fifteen minutes before Michael Phillips finally swept into the room full of apologies. He was wearing the same suit as before, but with a pink shirt with a white collar and cuffs, and a blue silk tie.

‘I am so very sorry, but I had an important meeting and I couldn’t leave. You should really have made an appointment as I have meetings almost back to back today. I’m afraid I will have to make this short.’

‘Really?’ Anna was fuming. ‘Well, Mr Phillips, that can easily be done. I am simply here to ask if you would be willing to give us a DNA sample.’

‘
What?
’

‘You can come to the police station at a time convenient to you, but the sooner the better as it is very important.’

‘What do you want it for?’

‘I am investigating a murder, sir, and I need to eliminate you from my enquiry.’

‘Hang on, hang on – murder? I don’t understand.’

‘We now believe that Mr Alan Rawlins . . .’

‘But I thought he was missing – right?’

‘Yes, but we have found evidence that leads us to believe he may have been murdered.’

‘But I don’t even know him!’

‘Nevertheless, Mr Phillips, as you are a very close neighbour we require your DNA to eliminate you from my enquiry.’

‘That’s all I bloody am, for Christ’s sake – a neighbour. I didn’t know him and I find this all very intrusive, never mind inconvenient.’

‘I would be most grateful if you would agree.’ Anna was trying to keep calm.

‘But I don’t have to?’

‘No. That is your prerogative, but as I said it would assist my enquiry if you would agree.’

‘I don’t. If you want anything from me, you get it via my lawyer because I find this outrageous. I did not know Alan Rawlins.’

‘What about Tina Brooks?’

‘No. I have already told you. Of course I do know
of
her – it’s obvious as we are neighbours – but that is as far as my relationship with either of them goes.’

‘So you are refusing?’

‘Yes.’

Anna pursed her lips, trying to be controlled. ‘You must be aware that by refusing to assist my investigation it appears to be very suspicious.’

‘It can appear, but I am still refusing.’

Anna picked up her briefcase. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Phillips.’

She walked out, leaving him sitting in the centre of the board room, where he remained for some time before returning to his office.

Anna was still seething by the time she returned to her office. She knew that without any implicating evidence against him, Phillips could legally refuse to give a DNA sample.

By now, Paul and Helen had returned from their interviews and were marking up the incident board with their details. They pinned up the photograph of the group of surfers. Brian Stanley came back and he too wrote up a report. He tapped the photograph.

‘I still say Alan Rawlins was a shirt-lifter. Very friendly with each other, aren’t they?’

Paul bit his tongue, refusing to rise to the bait. Stanley continued, ‘I’ve been at that pansy gym – load of wankers there. First they wouldn’t even let me look in Rawlins’s fucking locker.’

‘We’d already checked it,’ Paul said stiffly.

Stanley turned on him and produced a bag with the bottle of aspirin.

‘I took this. I want Forensic to check out if they really are aspirin. I think the guy might be on steroids.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Paul demanded.