She smiled and gestured to the chairs that were as hard and unyielding as they looked. Thankfully, Mr Awad arrived less than a minute later, rescuing their backsides from any prolonged discomfort. If Simmons was right about Locke, men like him operated on a cocktail of reputation, respect and a healthy dose of fear. If he was even half the character he was being painted as, Porter imagined at least some of the men who worked for him would have heard a rumour here and a whisper there. He wondered whether Awad was one such man as he came around the counter towards them.

Awad was a short, balding man, around the same age as the receptionist. He wore a pair of faded green overalls, suggesting he was a hands-on manager, but a white shirt and tie peeked out over the top of the zipper pulled up to his chest. He subconsciously wiped both hands on the front of the overalls, and extended one of them towards Styles, who happened to be standing closest.

‘Rafi Awad,’ he announced, blinking quickly through his small wire-framed glasses. ‘I’m the site manager.’ His eyes contradicted the confidence in his tone as they flicked nervously from Styles to Porter, over and over again. ‘Mary tells me you gents are with the police?’

‘That’s right, Mr Awad,’ said Porter, taking the lead. ‘We’re investigating a missing person’s case. The young lady in question was the daughter of the former owner, Nathan Barclay.’

‘Oh, that was well before my time,’ said Awad, a little too quickly for Porter’s liking. They hadn’t even hinted at the direction of their questioning and already he was trying to distance himself from whatever they were looking into.

‘But you are aware that Mr Barclay used to own Atlas?’

‘Yes, but that was over thirty years ago. I don’t see what—’

‘When did you start working here?’ asked Styles, cutting across him.

‘Let me see, I started off as a forklift driver back in ’89, so been here over twenty-five years now,’ he said with a hint of pride.

‘Is there anybody here who would have been employed when Mr Barclay was in charge?’ asked Porter.

‘There’s a few old-timers, but what has that got to do with—’

Porter held up a hand to silence him. ‘As I explained at the start, Mr Awad, his daughter, Natasha Barclay, is missing. Obviously, Mr Barclay hasn’t been around for some time to speak to, so we need to look at anywhere she might have frequented, her father’s place of work being one.’

‘Well, there are two that spring to mind,’ said Awad, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, ‘There’s Willy Thompson. He drives one of our forklifts. You might try Alec Brookes as well. I’m pretty sure he was around then, although it’s that long ago I really doubt …’