Blood Line (26 page)

By late afternoon, Anna was still thinking about Langton. Why had he come in to oversee the board when she had spoken to him last thing yesterday and had spent a long time giving him all the details already? It felt as if he was sitting on her shoulder, and she didn’t like it; it made her feel inadequate.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the roar of a Harley arriving in the station car park. She looked from the window as Silas Douglas locked up his bike. Anna called out to Paul to go to reception to meet him and take him into an interview room.

Silas was wearing biker’s leathers with a lot of fringe and he carried his black helmet under his arm. He was even bigger than Paul remembered and towered above him. Added to the creaking of his leathers was the thud of his studded boots as they headed down the corridor.

‘Do you want a coffee?’ Paul asked.

‘No thanks, but a bottle of water would be good.’

He unwound a white neckerchief that he had used to draw over his mouth and sat with his legs apart undoing his fringed jacket. He had a cotton navy-blue scarf with skeleton heads tied round his head in gypsy fashion. His pigtail was tucked into the jacket.

‘Will this take long,’ he asked, ‘only I’m planning to go to the Isle of Man for a drag race.’

Anna arrived and introduced herself and Silas rose to his feet, head and shoulders above her, putting out his hand to shake hers.

‘Thank you for coming in,’ she said, sitting down opposite him.

‘The bloke who phoned me asked me to draw up a list of the best surfing beaches. He could have got them off the internet, but what I’ve done is sort of earmark the top slots for experienced surfers and middle-of-the-road types.’

Sal Douglas dug into a pocket and took out a printed sheet of paper.

‘Now the top surfers would usually hit the north beaches, as tides are stronger there. Amateurs go for the more sheltered ones. Top of the list has to be Newquay Bay. It’s got three big sandy beaches – bit overcrowded in the summer, of course – but it’s the most famous beach in the UK for surfers. All the competitions are held there. Then there’s Crantock Bay and Holywell where the surf’s best at low tide.’

Douglas concluded his descriptions of the surfing beaches by looking at Anna, and saying with a grin, ‘This guy that’s missing – he could be anywhere between Land’s End or East Devon if he’s serious.’

‘Did you make a customised board for him?’

‘It’s hard to say. I’ve been doing this for years, so Christ knows how many boards I’ve sold. I’ve got a small stake in a shop in Newquay Esplanade and I supply them as well. I also sell direct on the beaches from the back of a van.’

Anna placed down the photograph taken of the boards found in Alan Rawlins’s parents’ home.

‘Take a look at this . . . it might jog your memory.’

Silas picked it up in his huge hands.

‘Well, right off I can tell you that this is not what I’d call top of the range. This is more an intermediate’s board. I was shown another photo and that was one of my old hire boards.’

Anna placed down the photograph of Alan Rawlins carrying a board. ‘This?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one, but as I said before, I couldn’t tell you anything about the bloke holding it. I don’t ever recall making a customised board for him. He could have bought a second-hand one off me, but I’m not the only board-dealer out there making money. Kids who buy my intermediate or beginners’ boards eventually sell them on, plus the hire ones get nicked if people don’t keep an eye on them when they’re off the water. The surfers come from all over the world to Cornwall.’

‘He drove a silver sports car, drophead . . .’

Silas puffed out his cheeks. ‘Again, these guys all have sports cars. You know, it’s a big seasonal thing, guys in their hundreds pulling the chicks, driving around in their flash motors. It’s part-surfing, part-sexual conquests.’ He laughed.

‘This man is homosexual.’

Silas shrugged. ‘We get all sorts and true, there is a clique of the gay dudes. They tend to stick together, but I personally don’t have any time for them. To me, it’s a God-given shame. Great bodies and the women drooling, and they bat for the other side.’

‘What can you tell me about the Smugglers café.’

‘Not much more than I already have. It comes and goes in popularity. One season it’s not the place to be seen at, next it’s thriving. It’s cheap. They do hamburgers and chips and it jumps a bit at night, but the cops have been coming down on them for building fires on the beaches. Can’t hear yourself talk in there; the music is throbbing out, which also gets complaints.’

‘You knew Sammy Marsh?’

‘The photographer, yeah everybody knows him. He took that picture I gave Detective Simms and the lady officer.’

‘You told them that he did a moonlight flit to Florida. Do you know why?’

‘Not really no, but I’ll be straight with you, Sammy was a bit of a ducker and diver, regular Mr Tambourine man, moving from beach to beach knocking out good weed. He’d sort of cornered the market as everyone does a joint down there, kind of goes with the sport and I used to buy off him as well.’

Sal smiled and shrugged his massive shoulders.

‘He used to have this big Rasta looking out for him. Sometimes it could get a bit hairy and Sammy didn’t like competition, I know that.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, I don’t know all the facts, but some kids were all sharing a farmhouse, a good way out from Newquay, and they were growing their own cannabis plants. Had several greenhouses – lights – the lot. They were underselling Sammy and he didn’t like it. He got unpleasant, warned them off, and in the end I think they started working for him. I dunno . . .’

‘Was he violent?’

‘Sammy?’

‘Yes.’

Silas gestured with his hand to about his shoulder level sitting down. ‘He was only this big. Like I said, this Jamaican dude, Errol, was his heavy arm, but he also had a few other bodyguards.’

Paul produced Errol Dante’s mugshot. ‘Was one of them this man?’

Silas looked and nodded. ‘Yeah that’s Errol, but I haven’t seen him for a while and nor have I seen Sammy since he went to Florida. I’m only there come the summer months.’

There appeared to be little else that Silas could help them with and so he was thanked for coming in and left the station.

Anna watched from her office window as Silas, ‘call me Sal’, replaced his helmet, having drawn up the white scarf to cover his mouth. He fired up his Harley and almost collided with Langton, driving his beat-up old Rover. She was glad she had seen him as it gave her a few moments to gather her thoughts on how she would approach the fact that he’d been ‘busy’ the night before. She expected him to come in to see her straight away, but when he didn’t she eased up the blinds of the window looking into the incident room. He was standing beside Paul, who was writing up on the board the information from Silas Douglas. Quickly flicking the blind closed as Langton turned towards her, she hurried to sit at her desk.

He did sort of knock, but it was only a tap and the door opened as he strode in.

‘You free for an early dinner tonight?’

Taken by surprise, she blinked and then nodded.

‘Good. There’s a small Italian round the corner, we can walk to it. Say in ten minutes?’

‘Fine. Do I see you there or . . .?’

‘No, we’ll walk over there together. I just want to catch up on a couple of things.’

‘I would have thought you caught up enough last night.’

He hesitated, swinging the door open. No matter how long she had known him, he could still make her hairs stand up on end when he gave her that cold, arrogant look.

‘Just doing my job, sweetheart. Ten minutes.’

He closed the door and she could have kicked herself for bringing it up. She had always hated it when he called her ‘sweetheart’ – now even more so. She also reckoned that the promise of a dinner between them wasn’t what he intended by this evening’s date. Instinct told her he was going to use it for another reason.

As Anna made her way to the ladies cloakroom to comb her hair and freshen up, Langton was in deep conversation with Brian Stanley in the incident room. Exactly ten minutes later, he was waiting for Anna in the corridor.

‘Let’s go,’ he said briskly.

‘Do you mind if I just tell the team I’m off?’

‘Already told them.’ He took her elbow and guided her out. It didn’t feel right. It felt as if he was pushing her.

They hardly spoke during the short walk to the restaurant and he no longer held her arm, but walked quickly. As always she had to speed up to keep up with him.

Sole Mio was a small restaurant furnished with checked tablecloths and candles stuck into wine bottles. The owner greeted Langton like an old friend and asked if he’d like his usual table. As it was virtually empty being so early, they had a choice, but Langton went to a small booth at the side and eased himself in, leaving Anna to sit opposite. He picked up the menu, glanced at it briefly and suggested that she have the house special.

Anna hid herself behind the menu. She was feeling very nervous and unable to read. Langton took out his reading glasses to look over the wine list.

‘I’ll have the sea-food spaghetti,’ she told Langton as he signalled for the waiter. He ordered the food, asked for a bottle of Chianti and then removed his glasses, tucking them into his pocket. He then spread out his cutlery, leaving a larger space in front of him.

‘Anna,’ he said quietly.

She glanced up and gave a shaky smile.

‘How you doing?’

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘Remember I once told you that I’d worked with your father? I’m going back quite a long time now – fifteen years or more . . . Anyway, I got my first murder enquiry as a DCI. Jack wasn’t on the case with me, but I’d just been working alongside him learning the ropes so to speak.’

He paused as the waiter showed them the bottle of wine and then uncorked it and poured a drop for Langton to taste. He swirled it around the glass and then drank it.

‘Lovely, thank you. Just leave the bottle on the table.’

The waiter poured a glass for each of them and did as requested.

‘The case was a murder enquiry, obviously. The victim was a twenty-two-year-old waitress – a single mother with a little girl aged three. She was found in an alleyway not far from where she worked; her throat had been cut and she was almost decapitated. She was or had been a very pretty woman, but the unusual thing about the case was, she had not been raped and her handbag, with her wages in, was still beneath her body. So robbery was not the motive and we could find no one who had a bad word to say against her. The first suspect we looked at was her ex-boyfriend. He was a pleasant enough guy and—’

Anna interrupted. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Just listen, will you?’

He sat back as his starter was brought to the table, a shrimp salad.

‘Did you order a starter?’ he asked Anna.

‘No, just the sea-food pasta.’

‘Do you want that brought now, or will you wait until my main course is here?’

‘I’ll wait.’ She took some bread and buttered it, watching as he ate at his usual fast pace, jabbing at the salad with his fork.

‘Okay, where was I . . . the boyfriend was not the father of her little girl, so I traced him, a Spanish waiter, and I discovered that he had quite a history of petty crime. He’d also legged it to Marbella so I went over there and questioned him, and he gave me three or four names of men he knew my victim had been seeing. I came back and I tracked down all four of them, questioned each one, and they gave me two more names. Seemed my innocent little single mother had quite a sexual appetite.’ He took some bread and wiped around the salad bowl, then picked up his wine glass and sipped before placing it carefully down beside his plate.

‘I schlepped from one end of the country to the other. Was into the case four weeks when the parents admitted they had kicked her out when they discovered she was pregnant. I had a slew of ex-boyfriends, plus women who had known the victim, but what I was still trying to uncover was a motive. Who, out of all these people I’d interviewed, would have sliced her throat and left her dying in this back alley? I checked into her bank accounts, all the boyfriends’ bank accounts; she had a pittance of a savings, so after another two weeks the case was getting cold. I had nothing.’

Langton stopped speaking as his starter plate was removed and he began to twist his napkin.

‘I was having a drink and Jack Travis came into the bar. He asked how it was all going. This was my first solo DCI case, right, and I wanted to make an impression. I said to him, “I’ve fucking turned over every possible stone and got zilch.”’

Their main courses arrived so he remained silent until the waiter had left, pouring more wine for himself and topping up Anna’s glass. She waited, toying with her pasta. Langton had a Saltimbocca alla Romana with vegetables and again ate hungrily before he continued.

‘Your dad listened. I’d had a few beers and then he asked if I minded if he gave me some advice.’

Langton held up his hand and pointed his index finger.

‘He said that one – in a murder enquiry, always look close to home. Someone had hated my victim enough to slash her throat – not to take her money, not to rape her – but just slash her and walk away.’

He ate another mouthful and then held up his hand again.

‘Two – the motive was hatred. It wasn’t robbery, it wasn’t sexual. It had to be someone who knew her, knew what time she left her job, knew she walked up that alley as a short-cut to the bus stop.’

He ate more, chewing his meat, and gestured towards her plate as she’d hardly touched a morsel.

‘Is that all right?’

‘It’s fine.’ She took a mouthful, but the food felt greasy and she could hardly swallow. Langton repeating her father’s words had made her feel very emotional.

‘Three – by looking at the kill, it had to be someone close to her. She had no defence wounds, no struggle, no blood or skin under her fingernails, which meant she faced her killer and wasn’t afraid of him.’

Again he paused to eat. Anna just moved her pasta around the plate.