‘I’m not with you.’
‘I hear you’ve been busy destroying files. Not evidence of police wrongdoing, I hope?’
Simpson clasped his hands in his lap.
‘Who’s been talking to you? No – don’t bother answering that. Old files, Dennis. There’s a thirty-year rule. A clear out, that’s all. But what business is that of yours? Or is some of your family business in there? Does your father feature?’
‘My dad never came to the police’s attention.’
‘Hardly the case, Dennis. I was a copper on the beat from 1933 – one of the first to wear Brighton’s white helmet – and use the new radios. Me and Donald Watts joined at the same time. Your father was well known to us, believe me. Your father ran the seafront. And the racecourse.’
‘Pay you off, did he? He never mentioned you. Besides, I heard the razor gangs ran the course in the thirties. Those London mobsters trying to squeeze out the locals. Brighton Rock and all that.’
‘They were rough days.’
‘Don’t see any visible scars, Chief Constable. You obviously came out of it all right. Or stayed out of the way.’
Simpson looked at him.
‘Why are you trying to antagonize me?’
Dennis Hathaway bared his teeth.
‘You got me wrong. It’s just that sitting behind your desk in your best bib and tucker, raking in your money from your own rackets and taking your tithe from mine, I don’t see you as a scrapper, more a profiteer.’
Simpson thrust out his arm and pulled up his shirt and jacket sleeve. A long scar ran up his forearm.
‘I won’t show you my stomach on such brief acquaintance.’
‘Grateful for that.’ Dennis Hathaway leaned forward. ‘Anyway, I was a big fan of Max Miller. Sadly now gone.’
‘You’ve lost me again.’
‘I wondered if some of those documents you’re destroying are linked to the Brighton Trunk Murder. You know – thirty years ago.’
‘Murders, Dennis; there were two. And, yes, we are getting rid of a lot of the witness statements. There are thousands of them. But why would that concern you – and what’s Max Miller got to do with it? You’re sounding as Irish as Reilly here.’
‘I met Max a few times. Max did variety bills on occasion with Tony Mancini. He’s the pimp you’ll recall who murdered his mistress, Violette Kay, stuffed her in a trunk and kept her under his bed for six weeks until the neighbours complained about the smell.’
‘I recall the case. Bizarrely, neither his landlord nor landlady had a sense of smell so they suspected nothing. He was taken to trial in Lewes but thanks to his brief – who later became Lord Birkett – he got off.’
‘Then confessed to the newspapers in 1963 that he was guilty.’
‘Your point, Dennis?’
‘Sorry, Philip, I do go round the houses sometimes. Well, Mancini did an act on stage in which he pretended to kill women – saw them in half, that kind of thing. Pretty bad taste if you ask me. And Max had the odd chat with him. Only when he had a free evening, Max said – Mancini had a bad stutter so conversation could take longer than normal. And Mancini told him he was suspected of the other Trunk Murder too.’
‘Two dead women found stuffed in trunks within six weeks of each other – even you would think there was a connection.’
‘True – though the other one, the one who was never identified, had no arms, legs or head, and no clothes for that matter. Her missing head the main reason she wasn’t identified.’
‘I’m still not sure what your point is.’
‘He told Max some of the stuff the police were asking. Did you interrogate him by the way?’
‘I wasn’t high enough up the pay scale,’ Simpson said.
‘Well, according to Max, he was asked some rum questions about certain people in town. Do you want me to continue?’
‘I’m not with you yet,’ Philip Simpson said cautiously.
‘Abortions were run by the rozzers then as they are now. Your area of expertise.’
Simpson spread his hands.
‘Still waiting for the light to come on. Oh, wait. You think I’ve ordered the files destroyed because I was somehow implicated? Because of links you’re imagining with abortionists?’
Dennis Hathaway just looked at him. It was Simpson’s turn to lean back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.
‘But if that’s the case, why did I wait so long?’
‘Good question. Good question. Somewhere in those hundreds of statements in the Trunk Murder files there is something incriminating – but for whom?’
Hathaway picked the newspaper up and held it out to Simpson.
‘Seen the newspaper today.’
Simpson looked at the cover.
‘Great Train Robbers, getting what they deserve. So?’
Hathaway tapped a column low down on the right-hand side of the front page.
‘I meant this.’
Simpson unclasped his hands and took the paper.
‘You would have known it years ago, you being in the police force and everything,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘But the rest of us – us civilians – only just found out that somebody actually found the head of the Trunk Murder victim back in 1934.’
‘A couple of youngsters found a head in a tidal pool at Black Rock. They didn’t report it at the time. But it was before the dead woman’s remains had been found at Brighton railway station. By the time they recognized the significance of the find, it was too late – the head was long gone. Stupidity and bad luck. So what?”
Reilly walked over to a cupboard. He withdrew a bottle of brandy and three balloon glasses. Simpson nodded to his unspoken question.
‘So it focuses interest on the Trunk Murder again. Makes those files you’re chucking out particularly interesting.’
Simpson took a glass from Reilly. He nodded.
‘What do you want?’ Simpson said as Reilly poured out two measures.
‘What the bloody hell do you think I want?’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘I want to renegotiate our deal.’
SIX
Time is on My Side
1965
‘Ice hockey?’ Hathaway said. He was sitting with his father, Reilly and Charlie in deckchairs on their private end of the pier. It was a sweltering Spring day and all were wearing shorts and open-necked shirts, except for Reilly, in sports jacket and cavalry twill, still managing to stay cool as a cucumber. All but Reilly had ice cream cones.
‘These Canadian guys in the war kept going on about it so I gave it a watch,’ Reilly said. ‘Good, aggressive game. The Brighton Tigers are among the best in the country – just won the Cobley Cup against the Wembley Lions. They play at the SS Brighton.’
‘Are you a skater, then, Mr Reilly?’ Charlie said.
‘Sean. Used to be. I still do it from time to time. But SS Brighton is closing down in a few weeks – end of May.’
‘Snow melting?’ Charlie said, grinning.
Reilly gave him a look.
‘It’s being pulled down to make way for a shopping centre, and next to it Top Rank are building this concrete box. A monstrosity. A dance hall with bars, opening November. The old place is closing in October with the Tory party conference – there’s probably a joke in there somewhere but I can’t find it.’
‘If it’s a monstrosity, how did they get planning permission?’ Hathaway said. His father just looked at him.
‘It’s all progress, Sean,’ Dennis Hathaway said, grimacing as melted ice cream ran down his cone and on to his wrist. ‘There’s going to be a lot of development in Brighton over the next few years and we’re right in the middle of it.’
He waved the cone at their surroundings.
‘We’ve got to get off this pier before it rots away. Shit.’ His scoop of ice cream had toppled out of the cone on to the wooden boards. He tossed the cone over the railing into the sea and wiped his hand on his shorts.
‘We’ve got the site clearance for Churchill Squ
are shopping centre this year. That’s going to be massive. Three years’ work before any shops open. We’re providing the labourers. And the machinery. We’re investing in Brighton’s future.’ He winked. ‘And our own.’
Billy, Dan and Tony, the group’s new rhythm guitarist, hove into view, also in shorts.
‘Rehearsal time,’ Hathaway said. Charlie groaned and Hathaway kind of knew how he felt. Hathaway was enthusiastic about his music but he was also drawn more and more to the family business. If he was honest, he enjoyed the respect – OK, fear – in people’s eyes when they found out who he was. He knew Charlie got off on bandying Dennis Hathaway’s name around.
Dan had bought a Vox Continental organ on HP, under the influence of Georgie Fame and the Dave Clark Five. He’d always played piano so had got the hang of it pretty quickly. He was singing ‘Glad All Over’, accompanying himself on the organ, when Dennis Hathaway came in and stood at the back of the store. His legs looked like tree trunks in his shorts.
When The Avalons came to the end of the song, Hathaway said:
‘Very impressive lads, very impressive. Freddie and the Dreamers will be quaking in their boots.’
‘Dad . . .’
‘Just kidding. I wanted to suggest something else to you, about the group. Wondered if you could do with a roadie?’
‘We can do it ourselves,’ Charlie said.
‘I know you can, but you’re musicians. You shouldn’t have to lug your stuff as well. I’ve got a reliable bloke in my office looking for a bit of extra work. A grafter. I’d be happy to lend him to you. He’s got his own van so that would free you up a bit, Charlie.’
‘I get paid for my van.’
‘But is it worth the hassle? Anyway, I’m sure we can work something out for all of you. Shall I bring him through?’
The Avalons looked at each other and nodded.
Dennis Hathaway returned a moment later with a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late teens in a white T-shirt and jeans. He had a fag in the corner of his mouth, his hands dug deep in his trouser pockets. He slouched a little, James Dean style, as he squinted through his cigarette’s smoke.
‘Alan, say hello to next year’s chart toppers.’
He sniffed.
‘All right,’ he said in a cockney accent.
The Avalons were busy three nights running that week. Alan was hard-working and efficient, though he preferred to roam the front of house during their actual sets. Hathaway would see him drifting through the audience, cigarette clamped between his teeth, having a quiet word here and there. He immediately guessed what that meant and was annoyed his father hadn’t told him.
Saturday night they were at the Hippodrome supporting The Who. Hathaway, Billy, Dan and Tony were chatting up some girls when Charlie jig-a-jigged over.
‘Charlie – you OK? You look a bit—’
‘Right as rain, Johnny, right as rain. Me and their drummer, that Keith guy – he’s mental he is – you know he’s pissed in his wine?’
‘Pissed in his wine – why?’
‘Not his own wine – the wine of that guy with the big nose. He hasn’t noticed – been swigging it back from the bottle. The others know. They’re cracking up in there.’
Hathaway reached for Charlie’s sunglasses. Charlie reared back.
‘Sorry, Charlie, but you seem a bit—’
‘Did you know our roadie is a dealer on the side?’ Charlie said. ‘Uppers, downers, blues, speed. He’s a mobile chemist that lad.’
Hathaway waved the girls away.
‘Alan is dealing drugs?’ Dan said.
Hathaway turned back but said nothing.
‘He’s a right little wheelerdealer,’ Charlie said. ‘He’s just told me their roadie is offering us a deal on a hundred-watt Vox amp.’
‘Hundred watts?’ Billy said. ‘That’s bloody enormous. And a Vox? We gotta have it.’
‘We’d never get it in the van,’ Hathaway said.
Charlie cackled, jerking his body in another weird jig.
‘They use an ice cream van. They nicked the amp from the Ready, Steady, Go studio last week. It’s got the show’s name plastered all over it.’
‘Receiving stolen goods?’ Dan said. ‘We can’t do anything illegal.’
Charlie looked at Hathaway.
‘Yeah, right.’ He cackled again. ‘That Alan. His speed is bloody . . . speedy. Talk about m-m-my generation.’
The others all laughed at Charlie, though Dave, Bill and Roy probably shared Hathaway’s concern that a drummer on speed wasn’t going to be exactly consistent keeping the beat.
Hathaway met a girl called Ruth that night. She was up for anything. The next day he took her to the open-air swimming pool at Black Rock. He spent time there when he could, usually chatting up girls rather than swimming. It was sheltered by the cliffs, so could be really hot in the sunshine. When he was a kid he’d often played in the rock pools there. Now he made Ruth shudder telling her how the head of the Trunk Murder victim had been found in a rock pool back in 1934.
He was surprised to see his father and Reilly walking around, deep in conversation with another two men. All of them looked overdressed in dark suits.
His father saw him and Ruth in their deckchairs. Ruth was wearing a skimpy bikini and Hathaway saw her self-consciousness as his father stared down at her.
‘The hard life of the working man,’ Dennis Hathaway said to his son.
‘I’m working tonight,’ Hathaway said, getting out of his deckchair and tossing Ruth a towel. He nodded to Reilly. ‘What are you both doing here?’
He drew them away.
‘Considering a bit of business,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘What do you think about this whole area becoming a marina? Berths for a few thousand boats, an oceanarium, an ice rink, a sports centre, tennis courts, apartments, a hotel, pubs – the works. Even a fishmarket.’
‘The fishmarket doesn’t do anything for me but aside from that it sounds great,’ Hathaway said. ‘We’re involved?’
‘We could be. I’ve got a bit of money lying around. Couple of problems, though. Getting a road in here is tricky. And the porridge makers are being a right pain.’
‘Porridge makers?’ Hathaway said.
‘Yeah, the Quakers.’
Hathaway laughed.
‘Do they still exist?’
‘You bet.’ Dennis Hathaway pointed up at the cliff. ‘And they have a burial plot up near the gasometers. The plan needs that space.’
‘Then there’s the cliff itself,’ Reilly said.
‘Yeah, we can’t touch that. Full of fossils, apparently. Dinosaurs and all that.’
‘Really?’ Hathaway said.
‘Don’t get overexcited, John. You’re such a bloody kid. They’re in the way, frankly.’
Hathaway gestured around.
‘Will this go?’
‘Inevitably,’ his father said. He took Hathaway’s arm. ‘Me and your mum are off to the theatre tonight.’
‘The Theatre Royal?’
‘Nah, the Palace Pier. Good bit of cabaret.’ He looked over at Ruth. ‘Want to join us?’
Hathaway shook his head.
‘No, thanks, Dad. We’ve got plans.’
His father looked over at Ruth.
‘I’ll bet you have.’
‘We’re going to see The Beatles. They’re closing the Hippodrome.’
‘Don’t get me started on that. Are you supporting?’
‘Nah – they’re bringing their own support band. Some other Scousers. We’ll meet them, though.’
Hathaway’s father nodded towards Ruth and leaned in to his son.
‘That should get you whatever you want from yon lass.’
Hathaway flushed and smirked.
‘I’ve already had that.’
Dennis Hathaway was in London a lot in June for meetings. One day he came back to the West Pier with Freddie Mills, the former world champion. Mills, mashed nose and kid’s gap-toothed smile, was friendly and took
Hathaway on at the shooting gallery. Hathaway won, though he thought perhaps Mills had once more let him.
On 9 July, Hathaway, sprawled on the sofa in the office after a lively night with Ruth, read in the paper that Ronnie Biggs, one of the Great Train Robbers, had been sprung from Wandsworth in an escape like something out of Danger Man.
‘He must be important,’ he said to Reilly. Charlie was tilted back in a chair, his feet up on the window sill.
Reilly shook his head.
‘He was brought in at the last moment. Small time – made his living as a painter and decorator.’
‘Why, then? Who would bother?’
‘Money,’ Charlie said. ‘He’d make it worth someone’s while. Or someone would make it worth their own while by stealing his money from him.’ He tilted the chair forward. ‘Or – he threatened to talk unless they sprang him.’
‘Who is “they”?’ Reilly said, amusement in his voice.
‘Well, I heard there were other people involved in the robbery who were never caught, never identified. Maybe he threatened to talk unless they got him out.’
‘Why didn’t “they” just pay someone to shaft him in the Scrubs?’
‘Painful,’ Hathaway said. He giggled. ‘Have you ever been shafted in the scrubs, Charlie?’
‘Piss off.’ Charlie pointed at Hathaway. ‘You thought Muffin the Mule was a sexual practice until you discovered Smirnoff.’
Even Reilly smiled at that.
‘And your dad thinks music hall died with Max Miller,’ he said. ‘Jimmy Tarbuck has a lot to answer for.’
‘As I was saying,’ Charlie said. ‘Biggs is sprung, killed and buried somewhere he’ll never be found. Mark my words. He’ll never be heard of again.’
Reilly shifted in his seat but said nothing.
Just over two weeks later, Charlie and Hathaway were sitting in deckchairs outside the office. They were arguing, first about whether Michael Caine was better in Zulu or in The Ipcress File, then about the relative merits of the Rolling Stones and The Beatles. It was a slow day.
Dennis Hathaway stomped out of the office. He went over for a low-voiced discussion with Tommy, who ran the shooting gallery, then headed over to the lads.
‘Everything all right, Dad?’
The Last King of Brighton Page 8