NCW PRIVATE – suburban suspicions of a surfing nature

I’ve been sat in the cold since 5:45am and it ain’t getting any damn warmer. Surely somethng’ll happen soon – it has done the last few mornings. A thin sliver of frost blankets the ground and black night envelopes everything around. Streetlights emit a dull monochrome glow which reflects skyward. With the air so still it’s almost a picture postcard scene from some sugar coated pre-digital era, gag inducing, family Christmas flick. Except it isn’t the season and a fat bloke in a red suit, accompanied by his red nosed sidekick, aren’t likely to appear anytime soon.

I hunker down, pull my collar further up towards my ears and light yet another ciggy – I can’t remember how many I’ve puffed since this stakeout began. My stomach growls and I picture the greasy bacon and egg sarnie I’m going to devour as soon as I’m outta here. Not long now. Another wild goose chase, but hey, it’s a bird hunt I’m being paid for so suck it up.

Suddenly a light flickers and the downstairs door of the house I’m watching opens slowly. In an instant the bright glow emitting from the hallway is snuffed back out. I didn’t get a good look at the figure moving towards the van, due to the backlight silhouetting any discernible facial features. The sudden glare has also killed my night vision and I’m now struggling to pick out what’s going on while my eyes re-adjust.

Rearward doors open and there’s some shuffling about in the back of the van – I wish I’d set up cameras now! I can’t see anything. Suddenly the figure closes the barn doors softly, moves towards the driver door, opens it and gets behind the wheel. All done very softly and with minimal fuss and noise. Whoever this, and whatever they’re up to, they’re proceeding with caution that’s for sure.

He (I presume it’s a he – build would seem to suggest so) pauses for a beat before starting up the Ford Transit. Tentatively it’s inched forwards, all the while I note the driver’s head on swivel, checking left, right and left again. Nervous/anxious pretty much describes this behaviour.

As the vehicle passes me I sink down further before starting my engine and creeping forwards, the Transit’s glowing tail lights allowing me to follow at a safe distance. To be honest there’s not another soul around – rightly so at this hour on a Sunday. Therefore I hang back even further, keeping one eye on my own rear view to make sure there’s no third parties in the mix, following me. It’s happened before so I always watch my back – literally.

Twisting and turning along high sided Cornish country lanes I lose sight of the Transit every so often as it cruises round corners. At this stage I’m thinking the person driving would know they’re being followed. I may as well hold up a sign saying: ‘Hey! PI on your tail dude!’ I comfort myself with thoughts that they’re too focused on the job in hand – whatever job that may be.

Before long the lane opens up and I can see the Ford pull up a few yards ahead in what looks to be a carpark. Tall imposing shapes reach towards the still black sky. I suddenly realise where we are and can’t think the last time I was here. Maybe when I was a kid? My old man used to bring me to chuck stones in the babbling brook that runs adjacent to where the Transit’s parked.

My own dilemma now is knowing where to pull up for a decent view of what’s about to go down. I can’t continue along the road as it’s a dead end. And doing a Uy would just look odd and possibly alert Mr Van Driver. Nope, the only option is to head into the same carpark and pray I don’t get approached – like that’s going to be the case. There’s nobody else here and he’s bound to come over. Hopefully he’s not armed! If only I had a dog…

Then a thought hits me. I lean over the driver’s seat and grab a torch from the back seat. If I do have to explain then I’ll say my dog ran off and I’m out looking for him. A thin excuse but one I pray will hold some cred.

I wait a few minutes but across the carpark there’s no movement. I wonder if anything’s going to happen at all! Then, in a flash, the side  sliding side door opens with the inside lit up like Blackpool Illuminations. At that point I begin to laugh, and can’t believe my (or my employer’s) stupidity. The driver of the van is indeed male and he’s wearing a neoprene suit, boots gloves with a hood clinging to his neck, yet to be adorned. Keeping my eyes on him I watch as the chap opens his rear doors and grabs a white pointy nosed object – a surfboard. Locking his vehicle and placing keys in what looks to be a combination safe attached to his wheel arch he walks briskly towards my car. I wind the window down and he says: ‘How’s it going mate? Waves should be good! See you out there…’ And off he trots, picking up the pace as he heads towards the gap in the dunes and down to the beach.

For a minute I sit there chuckling. The guy’s a surfer! That’s why he’s up and out early doors – nothing suspicious here. Move along. I shake my head, re-start the engine of my 20 year old battered Volvo estate and head slowly out the carpark and back onto the road.