Free That Summer He Died by Emlyn Rees Page B

had to readjust his own to prevent his fingers from collapsing inside hers like a child’s. ‘Firm grip,’ she said, releasing him. ‘You a windsurfer?’
    ‘No. You?’
    ‘Always. That and surfing.’
    ‘Fun?’
    ‘The best. You should give it a go while you’re here.’
    ‘When you two are done chatting,’ Alan said, leaning across James, ‘how about fixing us up a couple of coffees and bacon rolls?’
    ‘Sure, Al,’ she said. ‘Takeaway?’ She glanced at the luminous hands of her diver’s watch. ‘I think they’re planning on setting off in about five minutes.’
    Alan nodded his head and she wrote down the order. She looked at James and said, ‘I work Wednesdays at the Surf School on North Beach. Maybe I’ll see you there.’
    Then she turned and walked away. James watched her bronzed calf muscles disappearing into the steam of the kitchen. His heart was pounding. Was she flirting? Was that an invitation to meet up? It was only then that he realised she hadn’t told him her name.
    He turned to Uncle Alan. ‘Who was––’
    Alan was already staring at him with what looked like a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, though it vanished almost as soon as James saw it.
    ‘Suzie. This is her place.’
    ‘She owns it?’
    ‘Yep.’ Alan picked up a newspaper, leant up against the nearest wall, and started leafing through.
    James stayed at the counter, waiting for Suzie to reappear. He didn’t give a shit what Uncle Alan thought. He wanted to see her again. James looked round, trying to wrap his head around someone not much older than him running their own business like this. It made him feel about two years old.
    Suzie stayed out of sight. A couple of minutes later, Jimmy emerged with their coffees and rolls and James took his and followed his uncle outside.
    A semblance of order had entered the anarchic scene in the form of three uniformed policemen. The eldest – early-forties, with premature splashes of grey in his black hair, tall and paunchy like a boxer gone to seed – was standing at the top of the steps with a clipboard in his hand. Must be Murphy. Animal. That’s what Uncle Alan had said.
    ‘Right, people,’ he barked, his voice abrasive as a bandsaw, his accent as local as the sea, ‘let’s get this show on the road. I’d like you all at the bottom of the steps. Let’s get to it.’
    Down on the sand, James chewed on his roll, washed it down with coffee, and listened to Murphy explaining what was going on. They were to be divided up into groups and allocated different areas to search, the idea being to cover all the surrounding shoreline and countryside.
    ‘What happens if we find something?’ someone called out.
    ‘Any of you find anything,’ Murphy answered, ‘whether it’s an item of clothing or something else, I don’t want you to touch it. Let’s all be very clear about this. Just leave it be and send one of your party back here.’ He nodded at the other two policemen. ‘One of us will be here, so just tell us and we’ll take over from there. Everyone got that?’ A murmur of agreement ran through the crowd like falling dominoes. ‘Good. Now let’s get down to business.’ He pointed to the far left of the assembled throng, the opposite side from where James stood. ‘Right. You. . . Lok Waterstone, Chris Matthews, Simon Crook and Cyrus Mower. . . I want you to head across to North Beach and check out the caves. The tide’s going out, so it should give you a good few hours. You next, Hetherington. Take Biff, Helen, Ross and Emma. . .’
    As Murphy continued to task the different people before him, James finished his coffee and looked around for somewhere to ditch the polystyrene cup. There was a roll bin towards the left side of Surfers’ Turf. He checked out Murphy’s progress. Three-quarters of the crowd still remained to be instructed, standing by rocking on the balls of their feet, like overgrown schoolkids waiting to be picked for a team. He checked out Alan :