‘Sorry to disturb your day, John, but the chief constable would like a word.’
Elaine looked from him to Hathaway, wide-eyed.
‘Am I being arrested?’
‘Arrested?’ Elaine said. ‘Why?’
‘No, no,’ Sergeant Finch said, attempting a smile. ‘He’d appreciate a word. If you’re too busy, I’m sure he’ll understand.’
Hathaway nodded.
‘OK.’
Elaine had come out of shock.
‘OK? It’s not bloody OK. This is police harassment.’
‘Elaine.’
‘Why on earth would they want to talk to you?’
‘Elaine.’
‘Let me phone my dad’s lawyer—’
‘The chief constable is a family friend.’
Elaine stepped back.
‘Your family is friends with a pig? Oh man.’
‘Johnny. Sorry to spoil your day. Please send my apologies to your girlfriend. A lovely girl by all accounts. But I wanted a little chat with you. Do sit down.’
‘Chief Constable,’ Hathaway said, taking the proffered seat.
‘Please, Johnny, call me Philip. There’s no formality here. I’ve broken bread at your house. Well, your dad’s house.’
Hathaway nodded then waited.
‘Have you heard the news? The Brighton police are officially no more. It’s now the Southern Police Force.’
‘Is that why you wanted to see me?’
‘No. Actually, it’s about your dad. I wanted a quiet word.’
‘Shouldn’t you be talking to him?’
‘Well, as you know, he’s not the easiest man to talk to when he’s got a bee in his bonnet.’
Hathaway frowned.
‘Has he got a bee in his bonnet?’
‘Exactly what I wanted to ask you. See, I thought we had a gentleman’s agreement around town. I thought that meeting on the Palace Pier made that clear. I allow you a certain leeway and you respect the law in other areas.’
‘I thought that’s what we were doing.’
‘Did you?’ Simpson clasped his hands. ‘Your dad seems determined to hog all the action. I hear he’s just taken control of the baggage handlers at the airport to help facilitate his smuggling activities.’
‘Chief Constable—’
‘Philip—’
‘I really don’t know why you’re talking to me about this. I’m in the music business. I manage and promote a few bands, book them into venues.’
‘And the ancillary stuff.’
‘I never got to university. Ancillary?’
‘The little extras. We know your legit business – and it ain’t all that legit – the pop industry is like the bloody Wild West. Be that as it may, we know that’s just a front for your drug dealing, your protection rackets.’
Hathaway thought for a moment.
‘What point are you trying to make, Philip?’
Hathaway was trying to sound calm but he knew he was out of his depth.
‘The deal was that brothels, abortions and protection were mine.’
Hathaway flushed.
‘I don’t touch brothels.’
Philip Simpson adjusted his desk pad.
‘Not you – your father. Jesus, I don’t care about the smuggling as long as I get my tithe, but he can’t do everything. Does he want to be Brighton’s Mr Big? Does he?’
Simpson was red-faced with anger. Hathaway tried to remain impassive.
‘Tell him that’s my role.’
‘Why don’t you tell him yourself?’ Hathaway said, standing abruptly. ‘Or don’t you have the guts?’
The chief constable reddened further as he too stood and leaned forward, his fists planted on the desk.
‘Listen, sonny, don’t mistake friendliness for softness. I’m asking nicely but we can do it a different way. Don’t forget who has all the real power and a private bloody army if I choose to exercise that power.’
‘Didn’t do your predecessor much good, did it?’ Hathaway said. He smirked, though he knew he shouldn’t.
The chief constable reached over and pressed an intercom button.
‘Come on in.’
Hathaway looked from the chief constable to the door.
‘Oh – what? The rough stuff now?’
The chief constable watched the door swing open. A constable came in.
‘You know each other, of course.’
Behind the constable, Barbara came hesitantly into the room.
NINE
I’m a Believer
1967
Hathaway tracked down his father in the Hippodrome.
‘We got bingo in half an hour,’ his father said. ‘I expect your mother will be down.’
He looked around.
‘Look at this place – beautiful. Started as a circus, you know. Built by Frank Matcham. I’ve seen so many great shows over the years. And now it’s a bloody bingo hall.’ He shook his head. ‘Progress.’
‘Dad, I need to talk to you.’
‘What’s that?’ Dennis Hathaway grabbed for the red plastic-covered book Hathaway had put on the table.
‘The thoughts of Mousie Tung,’ Hathaway’s father said, chucking the book on his desk. ‘Jesus Christ – you’re gonna start giving all your money away to the poor?’
Hathaway pursed his lips.
‘I think that was Jesus, Dad.’
Dennis Hathaway stood, shoulders forward, the small book swallowed in his big hands.
‘I suppose this is more of that stupid nonsense from your privileged student mates, is it?’
‘Elaine gave it to me, yes.’
Dennis Hathaway snorted.
‘I like Elaine, don’t get me wrong. She’s a beautiful gal and I like her spirit, but Jesus, she has some barmy ideas.’
Hathaway fidgeted. Elaine wasn’t why he was here, but still he said:
‘She wants us to go travelling in India, visit some ashrams.’
‘Are they Commies and all, these ashrams?’
Hathaway smiled and was relieved to see his father did too.
‘They’re places, Dad, not people. Places of spiritual retreat. The Beatles went there and Twiggy.’
‘Oh well, very deep and meaningless, then, clearly.’
‘Meaningful,’ Hathaway murmured.
His father’s smile went.
‘I mean exactly what I say: meaningless. We’re put on this planet to look out for ourselves and our families. Everyone else can watch out for themselves. Do you think Mousie is watching out for others? He’s top of the tree, mate, and he wants to stay there. Funny how all these communist countries, where everyone is equal, all have a dictator at the top of them. Kruschev, Castrato, Mousie . . .’
Hathaway recalled a phrase Elaine had used:
‘It’s called the dictatorship of the proletariat, Dad.’
His father took his time.
‘Is it?’
Hathaway struggled for Elaine’s words.
‘It’s a phase any communist society must go through—’
His father snorted again.
‘The proles have never dictated anything to anybody. That’s why they’re proles. You weren’t raised to be a prole; you were raised to be a governor.’
‘But governor of what? Dad, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’
‘What – has your girl got a bun in the oven?’
‘About the family business.’
‘What about it?’
‘I’ve just seen Barbara.’
His father sat back. Looked over to the man behind the bar.
‘Find us a bottle of whisky and a couple of glasses will you, Des?’
Des nodded.
‘Not for me,’ Hathaway said.
‘Yes, for you. This is a club – well, used to be. In a club you have a proper drink.’
Hathaway shrugged then leaned forward.
‘Dad, it’s about—’
Hathaway’s father put up his hand.
/>
‘Not before the drinks, son. Protocol, you know.’
They waited until Des had brought over the whisky and two glasses full of ice. Dennis slouched low in his chair, looking round the room.
‘Canadian Club – very nice. Thanks, Des.’
‘No problem, Mr H.’
Hathaway watched Des amble back over to the bar area. He looked back at his father who was pouring two stiff measures.
‘Cheers, son.’
His father took a swig, Hathaway a sip. The whisky burned.
‘Tell me about the brothels,’ Hathaway said.
‘What brothels?’
‘Your brothels.’
‘Our brothels, you mean. That’s a long story.’
‘And the teenage prostitutes.’
Dennis Hathaway put his glass down.
‘What has Barbara been telling you? And what is she doing over here, by the way?’
Barbara had looked thinner, older. Much older. Worn.
‘Hello, John,’ she said. Her voice was the same.
Hathaway felt himself flush. As he stood awkwardly, Barbara came over and reached up to kiss him on the mouth. Her lips were dry and her breath was sour. Hathaway looked down at her, then over at Simpson.
‘This really is the rough stuff, Chief Constable.’
Simpson smiled.
‘Not at all. It’s what in America is now known as a reality check.’
‘The reality being?’
‘Your father is running women and young boys and girls for prostitution in Brighton.’
Hathaway looked at Barbara. He was surprised to feel his heart beating at an odd rhythm.
‘That’s not good,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know about the teenagers.’
‘Fuck good,’ Simpson said. ‘All I care about is that these are my areas that your father is impinging on. I control the teen sex. In fact, I control all the brothels.’ He walked over to Barbara and cupped her chin in his hand. ‘Which is where our Barbara comes in.’
‘Get your hands off her.’
Simpson dropped his hand and stepped back, smiling.
‘Steady, John. Barbara, tell this innocent about the brothels you run with his father’s business partners in Antwerp and The Hague. And the little import-export business you have going.’
Hathaway looked at Barbara. He couldn’t read her face. Her expression was cold but pained.
‘Tell me.’
‘I send youngsters to work for your father over here from the Continent and back to the Continent from here.’
Hathaway looked at her for a long, long moment.
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
Simpson coughed.
‘I’m afraid not, John. Barbara here is a whoremonger – and indeed, a whore, though that’s by the by.’
‘You’re a prostitute? Dad said—’
‘You didn’t know, Johnny?’ Simpson said. He pretended to stifle a yawn. ‘Dearie me.’
‘I wasn’t when—’
Hathaway stood.
‘Why is she here?’
‘Well, she’s here because she needs treatment for cancer, but I’m afraid that isn’t going to stop her going to prison for a very long time, unless your father lets me in. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want that on your conscience.’
Hathaway looked from one to the other, his heart still racing.
‘I’ll get back to you,’ he said, stepping out of the room.
‘She’s here for cancer treatment,’ Hathaway said. ‘And Philip Simpson is threatening to put her in prison unless you stop what you’re up to.’
He told his father about his meeting with Simpson. When he’d finished, his father said:
‘You’ve heard about the law of supply and demand.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning we’re in the supply business. We supply what people want. And, as it happens, men want women. Does that come as a surprise to you?’
‘The kids, Dad. I was talking about the teenagers.’
‘Well, that’s a specialized market, in theory, but you’d be surprised how many men like them young. Girls and boys. And not just the over-twelves, so you know. Infant schoolkids.’
‘That’s disgusting. And how could you make such a fuss about that young lad being murdered by a perv then provide them for other pervs?’
‘That’s complicated – it was rape and murder for one thing. But I draw the line at the under-twelves. And correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t your pop groups have groupies around that age? Do they think twice about having sex with them?’ Hathaway’s father took another swig of his drink. ‘Do you?’
‘I’ve never—’
‘I don’t care if you have or not. What I do might be distasteful to you, but I wouldn’t be doing it if there wasn’t a market. Supply and demand.’
Hathaway leaned back.
‘OK. So this is the family business.’ He looked up and away. Finished his drink in one. ‘What about Barbara?’
‘I’m sorry to hear about her illness. I wish she’d told me. As for prison, I’ll have a word with Simpson. Are you going to see her again?’
Hathaway took a long drink of the whisky.
‘Probably not.’
Simpson hadn’t stopped Hathaway leaving but Barbara had come after him.
‘Johnny!’ she called down corridor after corridor as he sped away without looking back. And the last thing he heard her shout, her voice breaking: ‘Like father, like son – you’re just as big a bastard as your dad.’
He glanced across at his father.
‘Mephistopholes,’ a voice called from the bar. Reilly was leaning there, his hand held out. Des put a glass in it and Reilly sauntered over. He grabbed a chair and in one fluid movement sat down and reached for the bottle.
‘Who he?’ Hathaway said.
‘You didn’t know Sean was a scholar, did you, Johnny? But he is. He is. So who’s this Mephy guy?’
‘Mephistopholes. He tempted Dr Faustus with the promise of anything he wanted in return for his soul.’
‘Oh yeah – Liz Taylor got them out on stage somewhere a couple of years ago playing Helen of Troy. Would have liked to have seen that.’ He looked at his son. ‘No offence to your mother.’
Hathaway ignored his father.
‘So what?’ he said to Reilly.
‘Your father is offering you everything you want in return for your soul.’
‘Not exactly,’ Hathaway said. ‘We’re having a different conversation.’
Reilly looked at Dennis Hathaway.
‘But that’s the conversation we were going to have. And Sean’s poetical,’ Hathaway’s father said. ‘Has these odd ideas. A literary man.’
Hathaway looked at Reilly.
‘You mean I should ignore the fact that the family business exploits children.’
‘Exploits children?’ Hathaway’s father shook his head. ‘We’re providing a service, I told you. Every bit of business we do – all of it – is providing a service.’
Hathaway looked from his father to Reilly. Reilly gave him a little smile and poured a glass of the Canadian Club.
‘I believe this is known as the tipping point, Johnny. For you, that is. You can walk away from the family business or you can embrace it. In its entirety.’
‘I’m not getting any younger,’ Hathaway’s father said. ‘Next year I’d like to hand things over. Your mum’s not well, as you know. I’d like to retire with her to Spain. You know we’ve got some properties there.’
Hathaway reached for the bottle. He looked at his father. He looked at Reilly. He poured himself a drink. He topped up his father. Reilly shook his head when Hathaway tried to pour him a drink.
Hathaway sat back. He looked over at Des, who was pretending not to listen at the bar. He gestured around the Victorian auditorium.
‘Not exactly the top of the mountain looking down on the world.’
‘So you do know Dr Faustus,’ Reilly said.
Hathaway looke
d at him.
‘I know the Bible,’ he said. He gestured to his father. ‘Obligatory Sunday school.’
‘It can all be yours,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘You can be a Prince of the City.’
Hathaway looked down at his hands. Clenched them. Said just one word.
‘King.’
‘What is this – fucking Prohibition all over again?’ Some days later Dennis Hathaway was looking at Charlie and Hathaway dressed like thirties gangsters in wide-lapelled, baggy-trousered striped suits. ‘I can see Bonnie but which one is Clyde?’
‘This is the fashion, Dad,’ Hathaway said.
‘Yeah, I know that. I saw the film. That’s why all the gels are in berets and midi-skirts. I saw that Warren Beatty when he was over in London a little while ago. Shags anything that moves, apparently. He was with that Hove girl, Julie Christie. I was in the World’s End pub down the end of the King’s Road with Bindon, when Bindon did his helicopter thing, and Beatty almost choked on his orange juice.’
‘Bindon?’ Hathaway said.
‘John Bindon. Small-time villain with a huge dick. He’s an extra in a lot of films. Plays thugs, usually. Typecasting. Twirls it round like a helicopter blade. Bindon shags all the film stars. Might only be an extra but he’s got a lot of extra, if you know what I mean.’
‘And Julie Christie is from Hove?’
‘Missed your chance there, John. She used to work in rep at the Palace Pier theatre after she got expelled from St Leonards.’
‘When?’
‘Back in the late fifties.’
‘Dad, I was about thirteen.’
His father raised an eyebrow.
‘So? When I was thirteen—’
‘Dennis,’ Reilly said quietly.
‘Yeah, well. Another time.’ Dennis Hathaway waved at Charlie and Hathaway.
‘Sit down. I got some news. Hot off the presses. Philip Simpson is resigning next year. Scotland Yard hot on his tail.’
Hathaway nodded.
‘Is that it?’ his father said, sitting back in his chair. ‘Is that all the excitement you can muster?’
‘He’s still upset about Julie Christie,’ Charlie said. ‘How will that affect us?’
Dennis Hathaway’s smile back at Charlie was conspiratorial and Hathaway felt a twinge of jealousy.
‘What do you think, Charlie?’
‘Nature abhors a vacuum,’ Hathaway blurted before Charlie could say anything. His father looked at him and laughed. ‘I always said you read too many books. But you’re right, you’re right. Now, look, if you’re serious about this, we need to do it together.’ He pointed at Hathaway. ‘And if we’re doing it together, you’ve got to give up these ideas of travelling in India barefoot and giving all your wealth away.’
The Last King of Brighton Page 13