Another squall hit them as they crossed the middle car park, passed the electrical substation and rounded the firehouse. They put their boards on their heads against the rattling hail. Behind the exit for the fire engines was a multi-level surfboard rack. Sam was not the only volunteer firie with an addiction. He and Gordon slung up their boards before rinsing off in the open-air showers.

Sam tossed Gordon a towel and they climbed the back stairs. Gordon was surprised to see a furtive shape, a tattooed bald male in board shorts and a black windcheater, hunched at the screen door, sliding something out from under the mat. It didn’t take a moment to work out who it was, because Cnut had, at some time in his murky past, decided to have a face tattooed on the back of his head, the snarling features of that face being, approximately, Cnut’s own. Cnut never answered questions about his unique tatt, but it was understood that he had many enemies, in the surf and out, and his markings were like those of an animal designed to deceive its predators.

On seeing Cnut slip a mauve manila folder under his arm, Gordon glanced at Sam, who was unfazed.

‘Got it all, mate?’ Sam said.

Cnut shoved the folder behind his hip as if preparing to deny possession. He forged down the steps past Gordon and Sam, grunting, ‘Yeah, all good—you saved me life.’

‘Get it signed and notarised and you’re sorted,’ Sam called after Cnut.

To Gordon’s questioning look, Sam shrugged. ‘Drug dealers need home loans too.’

‘Cnut’s buying in the area?’

‘Laundering, you might call it. He’s put together a stake he needs to stash somewhere. No place better than property. He’s putting down forty percent on a one-bedder in Capri, we’re loaning him the rest.’

Gordon shook his head in amazement. It was years since anyone in his acquaintance had been a buyer, not a seller, of real estate.

‘Cnut’ll end up richer than us all,’ Sam said as he took his house key out of a waterproof neoprene pouch he stored in a potted geranium and inserted it in the screen door lock. ‘He’s in a recession-proof industry.’

‘Real estate?’

‘Marching powder.’

‘Backed in by the Bluebird Building Society,’ Gordon said. ‘Operating out of a condemned firehouse.’

Sam grimaced as he fiddled with the key, which stuck in the lock. ‘Don’t diss your mobile loans officer. The parent company likes to keep a local presence and the shareholders don’t have to know that we only exist as telephone support working from home.’