The Last King of Brighton

by Peter Guttridge

  Hathaway and the others watched them go as the rain rattled on their gear.

  Charlie was looking for something – or somebody – to kick.

  ‘Fucking bastards!’ He turned on Hathaway. ‘So we’ve got your dad to thank for this. Again.’

  Billy and Dan looked away.

  ‘And for a gig with Duane Eddy when he comes to Brighton.’

  Charlie gave a double take.

  ‘You’re bloody kidding me!’

  Hathaway grinned.

  ‘I’m serious. One of my dad’s contacts.’

  Charlie did a little jig. The other two looked bemused.

  ‘Do you think we could talk about it out of the rain?’ Billy said.

  ‘Supporting Duane Eddy,’ Charlie said. ‘Well, this is it. The start of the big time.’

  ‘It’s only supporting,’ Hathaway said. ‘We’re not topping the bill with him.’

  ‘And he is past his best,’ Dan said.

  ‘Bugger off. I suppose you think the Everlys are over the hill.’

  Charlie started putting stuff back into the van.

  ‘Well, I’d like to meet your dad – he obviously moves in interesting circles. One minute he’s pally with the rozzers, the next they’re pulling us over.’

  Hathaway was thinking the same thing.

  On the Bank Holiday weekend, Hathaway went with Dan, Billy and Charlie on to the Palace Pier. The smell of hot dogs, chips, burgers and candy floss thickened the air. After the dodgems and the rifle range, they queued for the helter-skelter, mats in hand.

  ‘Did you read about that bloke Tony Mancini?’ Dan said. ‘Confessed that he did it.’

  ‘Did what?’ Charlie said, watching a couple of girls eating candy floss walk by.

  Hathaway was watching an old woman hobbling along in a headscarf with a see-through plastic rain hat over it. It was a bright, sunny day.

  ‘He’s the Brighton Trunk Murderer,’ Hathaway said. ‘Killed his mistress in 1934, stuck her in a trunk that he carted around for six weeks. She was a prossie, he was her pimp. Went to trial in Lewes and got off. Now he’s admitted he did it.’

  The others looked at him.

  ‘What? All I did was read the paper.’

  ‘There were two Trunk Murders, though, John,’ a voice from the other side of the cordon beside the queue said.

  It was Sean Reilly, in his cavalry twill and check sports jacket.

  ‘The first was never solved. Victim never identified because her head and arms were missing, so the killer was never tracked down.’

  ‘Mr Reilly—’

  ‘Sean.’

  ‘You’re on the wrong pier, aren’t you?’

  Reilly smiled.

  ‘Business meeting.’ He looked at Hathaway’s friends. ‘These gents are the rest of your group, aren’t they?’

  ‘Meet The Avalons,’ Charlie said, gesturing at the others. ‘Supporting Duane Eddy soon.’

  Reilly nodded.

  ‘I heard. And I believe my living-room suite has the same name.’

  The boys looked at him, then at Billy, who was blushing furiously. Reilly caught their looks. ‘It’s a superior sort of suite, mind.’

  He nodded to Billy, Charlie and Dan.

  ‘Gents. I’m Sean Reilly. I work with John’s father. Enjoy yourselves.’

  He waved them off as the queue shuffled forward.

  ‘I thought we were named after some King Arthur thing,’ Charlie hissed at Billy. ‘But we’re named after a fucking settee?’

  ‘And two armchairs,’ Billy said.

  The others looked at him, then Dan said:

  ‘Well, that accounts for three of us – what’s the other one?’

  ‘As long as I’m not a pouffe,’ Charlie said sourly, and they all laughed, including, last as always, Charlie.

  ‘I suppose I’d better be that,’ Billy said, ‘in the circumstances.’

  ‘Too right,’ Charlie said, and they laughed again, Billy limiting himself to a tight smile.

  As Hathaway climbed the steps at the back of the giant slide, he could see Reilly making his slow progress down the pier. A couple of other men joined him fifty yards along and they walked together back to the promenade. Hathaway looked to the pier offices as he stood poised at the top of the helter skelter.

  A tall, thin man was standing in the doorway watching Reilly go. A look of utter hate on his face.

  THREE

  You Really Got Me

  1964

  On New Year’s morning 1964, Hathaway was in bed with Barbara when his parents came home from Spain. Hathaway was dimly aware of a car pulling up outside, then the front door slamming, but he was otherwise engaged. Only when he heard his father bellowing his name did it register.

  ‘Bugger,’ he said, rolling off Barbara so abruptly she cried out. Hathaway put his hand over her mouth.

  ‘It’s my dad.’

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘Get rid of those dancing girls, Johnny boy,’ his father boomed, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. He rapped on the bedroom door. ‘You’ve got about ten seconds to chuck them out the window.’

  Hathaway scrambled out of bed and scrabbled for his trousers, his erection still evident. Barbara pulled the blankets over her head.

  ‘Just a sec, Dad. I’m not decent.’

  ‘What’s new?’ his father said through the door.

  Hathaway looked wildly round the room, saw Barbara’s jewellery on a chair by the window. He started towards it but his father threw the door open.

  ‘Johnny boy.’

  His father strode in, a big grin on his face, looked his son up and down. He wasn’t a tall man – maybe 5’ 9” – but he was big across the shoulders with a barrel chest and his presence took up space. He moved towards Hathaway, scanning the room as he did so. He noticed the jewellery on the chair. He stopped and looked over at the bed.

  ‘Dad,’ Hathaway said, flushing. ‘I wasn’t expecting you home. Is Mum with you?’

  His father ignored him. He looked back at the jewellery. Took a step and picked up Barbara’s necklace. His jaw tightened.

  ‘Dad, why didn’t you phone?’

  His father’s look singed him, then swept to the bed. He took two strides, still holding the necklace, and grabbed the blankets with his other hand.

  ‘Dad,’ Hathaway said, now more startled than embarrassed.

  There was a moment’s resistance, then his father tugged the blankets off Barbara. She lay curled up tight, her head pushed into the pillow, but as the cold air hit her she uncurled and turned to look at Dennis Hathaway. Hathaway could see panic in her eyes but her voice was calm when she said:

  ‘Hello, Dennis.’

  His father’s face was savage.

  ‘Mr Hathaway to you,’ he said. His voice was ice.

  Barbara couldn’t wait to get out of the house. Hathaway tried to calm her but she was having none of it. His father had gone downstairs and was with his mother in the kitchen when Barbara rushed out of the front door. Hathaway rested his head against the door for a moment then went to the kitchen.

  He could hear his mother talking then laughing loudly.

  ‘That Ena Sharples. She’s a one. She bullies Minny Caldwell so.’

  ‘Mum?’ Hathaway said, coming into the kitchen and finding his mother alone.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ she said. She was standing by the sink, washing her hands under the taps. No water was running. She laughed. ‘I do like the Beverly Hillbillies, don’t you?’

  ‘I thought you were with Dad.’

  ‘Your father’s out in the garden somewhere. It looks lovely in the snow, doesn’t it?’

  Hathaway was surprised at his mother talking and laughing to herself, but he was in such turmoil that for the moment he just accepted it.

  ‘It’s Z Cars later,’ she said. ‘Though I prefer Dixon of Dock Green myself.’

  Hathaway hadn’t seen his mother for nearly six months but she gave the impression they’d been together just
a moment ago. She was nut-brown and wearing a yellow summer dress underneath her fur coat.

  ‘Do you want to take your coat off, Mum?’

  ‘No thanks, Johnny. It’s a bit parky. I’ve been used to exotic climes.’

  She said the phrase ‘exotic climes’ proudly, as if it were a foreign expression she’d mastered.

  Hathaway stood awkwardly.

  ‘OK, then,’ he said, unable to think of any other comment that would meet the situation.

  Hathaway spent the rest of the morning in his room. At lunchtime his mother called him down.

  The family ate in the dining room, looking out over the snowy garden. His mother had cooked a gammon, with all the trimmings. His father sat at the end of the long table – it could seat eight – glowering and monosyllabic. His mother dithered.

  At the end of the meal Hathaway’s mother went in the kitchen to do the washing-up. Hathaway had offered to do it but his father said he wanted a word in the living room.

  ‘Put some Matt Monro on,’ Hathaway’s mother called from the kitchen.

  Hathaway’s father did so, then brought over to the sofas a bottle of whisky and two glasses.

  ‘Canadian Club. The best whisky in the world – according to the adverts.’

  ‘Dad, about Barbara—’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about her,’ his father said, the ice back in his voice. ‘I want to talk about you.’

  He chinked their glasses.

  ‘I know I’m not educated,’ his father said, ‘but I’m guessing that the fact you’re hanging around the house all day means you decided not to go on to take your A levels.’

  ‘It’s the school holidays, Dad.’

  ‘Oh – that would be it. So you are doing your A levels?’

  Hathaway’s cheeks were burning from the whisky, a drink he wasn’t used to.

  ‘No.’

  According to IQ tests at school Hathaway was above average intelligence. He liked learning stuff. And reading.

  ‘More books,’ his mother would say when he came home with yet another pile. ‘Haven’t you got enough books?’

  But he couldn’t settle at school. The teachers drove him potty.

  ‘So you’re financially dependent on me?’ his father said.

  Hathaway put his glass down. The whisky really burned.

  ‘The group is doing pretty well.’

  His father rolled his whisky round in his glass.

  ‘As I said.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Hathaway’s father didn’t seem to hear.

  ‘Let’s change the subject,’ his father said. ‘I’m afraid your mum’s got worse.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘She’s going through the menopause – her hormones are all over the place. Big change – it can send some people mental.’

  ‘You’re saying mum’s mental?’

  ‘Not exactly – and I hope just for the time being.’

  ‘What does the doctor say?’

  ‘He’s given her some tablets. Valium. Brand-new on the market. Tells me it’s a wonder drug.’

  ‘I heard her talking to herself in the kitchen.’

  ‘All the brightest people do,’ his father said cheerfully. ‘Usually because they find they’re the only people worth talking to.’

  He saw Hathaway’s face.

  ‘Don’t be worried. She’s fine, just a bit . . . irregular.’

  His father topped up their glasses then gave his son a long look.

  ‘What?’ Hathaway said.

  ‘There’s real money to be made in the pop business,’ his father said.

  ‘If we can hit the top ten,’ Hathaway said.

  ‘With me, you berk.’ His father saw Hathaway’s look. ‘Yes, a proper job. Have you any idea what I do?’

  ‘No – but I have been wondering lately.’

  The doorbell rang. Hathaway’s mother answered the door. It was Sean Reilly. His father stood and shook hands with Reilly.

  ‘You’re looking fit.’

  ‘You too.’

  Hathaway stood awkwardly and also shook Reilly’s hand whilst his father poured another whisky.

  ‘Irish, I hope,’ Reilly said.

  ‘Irish-Canadian,’ Hathaway’s father said, handing the glass to Reilly.

  They all sat.

  ‘Son, as you may know, not everything I do is exactly above board. But then I don’t know an honest man who doesn’t try to fool the taxman if he can. I’m no exception.’

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ Hathaway said, though he really didn’t know anything about tax.

  Hathaway’s father and Reilly exchanged a look.

  ‘I thought you might want to join the family firm. It would be management-level entry for you, so to speak.’

  ‘Yeah, but, Dad, I’ve got a job. The group.’

  Dennis Hathaway looked at his son for a moment.

  ‘We’re going to go all the way.’

  ‘I’m sure you are, son, I’m sure you are. But, in the meantime, help your old man out a bit. You’d get a proper salary. Cash in hand, of course. And frankly the way you splash out on clothes and the latest gizmos you can always use money.’

  ‘I don’t know, Dad. What exactly would you want me to do?’

  ‘Nothing much at this stage. But I just wanted an in principle agreement with you at this stage.’

  ‘An in principle agreement?’ Hathaway said.

  His father laughed.

  ‘I heard the leader of the council say it once. I’ve no idea what it means.’

  Hathaway’s mother and father had decided on a welcome home New Year party that night. ‘Invite your friends,’ his mum had said, but none of the group was on the telephone and he didn’t have any friends locally. He didn’t think the invite included Barbara.

  Caterers arrived late afternoon. Hathaway went up to his room whilst they took over downstairs and thought about what to say to his father about Barbara. He hadn’t imagined there would be a problem, even though Barbara worked for the family business.

  The family business. He wondered exactly what else that business entailed.

  The party was a boisterous affair. Hathaway was surprised that his parents, after a six-months absence, had got so many people there, on New Year’s Day, at such short notice.

  As usual, the women gathered in the kitchen whilst the men stayed together in the main rooms. There were loud voices but also lots of murmured conversations in quiet corners. The Great Train Robbers were a main feature of conversation among the men.

  Hathaway observed his parents’ guests as if for the first time. There were a number of hearty but tough-looking men, bursting out of their suits.

  He was standing by the radiogram helping his father change the record when Reilly came over.

  ‘The twins are here,’ Reilly murmured. Dennis Hathaway looked over the heads of the people around him.

  ‘Better treat them like royalty, I suppose. Who’s that with them?’

  ‘McVicar. Nasty piece of work from some south Peckham slum.’

  ‘Come on, Johnny,’ Dennis Hathaway turned to his son. ‘Time you met some big-time villains. They think.’

  Hathaway looked over at the two stocky men in identical, boxy grey suits. He’d seen their photos in the newspapers, usually surrounded by cabaret people or minor film stars. He followed his father and Reilly over.

  ‘Gentlemen, an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘As we were down here,’ one of the twins said, though Hathaway didn’t know which one was which.

  ‘This is my son, John,’ Dennis Hathaway said.

  McVicar looked him up and down.

  ‘Tall, ain’t he? Hope you’ve killed your milkman.’ He laughed loudly. Dennis Hathaway smiled thinly, the twins not at all. Hathaway smiled politely but had already taken a dislike to the man.

  ‘So you’re down on business,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘If there’s anything I can help you with . . .’

  The tw
ins just looked at him.

  ‘Right, then, let me introduce you around.’

  ‘Before you do that, please allow me to say hello,’ a voice said.

  They all turned to look at the tall, slender man who had just arrived, accompanied by a much broader man of similar height. Both men were in their fifties, Hathaway judged, and both wore sports jackets and slacks.

  ‘Chief Constable, glad you could make it,’ Dennis Hathaway said to the thinner of the two. ‘Gentlemen, this is the newly appointed Chief Constable Philip Simpson, who has brought law and order to the whole of Sussex after the bad behaviour of our previous chief constable, Charles Ridge. These men are—’

  ‘They hardly need an introduction. I even know Mr McVicar there – by repute that is.’ The chief constable indicated the man standing beside him. ‘This is an old friend – a bobby turned best-selling writer. Donald Watts – though you might know him by his pen name, Victor Tempest.’

  Hathaway looked at the man with interest. Victor Tempest. He’d read a couple of his books. Pretty good thrillers.

  ‘So you served together?’ Dennis Hathaway said. Tempest nodded.

  ‘Back in the thirties.’ He pointed at Hathaway. ‘Neither of us much older than the lad here.’

  The twins and McVicar were scowling at Tempest and the Chief Constable.

  ‘Couldn’t you get an honest job?’ McVicar said. He had a sneering way of talking. The twins remained expressionless. ‘Were you bent?’

  Tempest was a few inches taller than McVicar. He reached out and placed his hand on the McVicar’s right shoulder.

  ‘Amusing bloke, aren’t you?’ he said.

  Hathaway wasn’t sure quite what happened next. He saw Tempest give McVicar’s shoulder a little squeeze and the man cried out and reeled away, clutching at his upper arm. Tempest gave a nod in the general direction of the twins and Hathaway’s father, and made a beeline for a group of women by the window.

  McVicar, flexing his right hand and still gripping his bicep, glared at Tempest’s back. Reilly took a step to block McVicar’s way as the London gangster started after Tempest. One of the twins put an arm out and flashed McVicar a cold look.

  Hathaway saw that the chief constable had quietly separated from the group. Dennis Hathaway grinned and started to move away:

  ‘Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen.’ He glanced at Hathaway. ‘Come on, son, time you helped your mother in the kitchen.’