The Last King of Brighton

by Peter Guttridge

  Four men. She wasn’t sure it could recharge in time for four men. She swept it from her pocket and pointed it at the leering, grey-faced man. At least she’d get him.

  Tingley phoned Watts.

  ‘I’ve crossed the line too.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a line.’

  Tingley was silent.

  ‘Sorry, that came out wrong.’

  ‘I know where they are.’

  ‘And Charlie Laker?’

  ‘Him next.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Tingley looked out of the flat’s window at the Ravenscourt Park below. A Polish neighbourhood since the Second World War. Now the hidey-hole for Serbian gangsters.

  Kadire had talked.

  ‘I’m already here.’

  Tingley had meant it when he said the Balkan gang couldn’t be stopped. But maybe they could be stopped from coming to Brighton.

  He watched a car draw up. A big man got out of the front passenger side and scanned the street. The back doors opened and the other men got out on either side. Both were lean, wiry. One of the men scanned the street whilst the other moved to the door of the apartment block and was lost from view. The car drove away.

  Tingley moved away from the window and went to stand beside the door. He heard the ping of the lift down the corridor, then nothing until the key in the lock. He hefted the Sig Sauer Hathaway had given him.

  The two bodyguards came in first. They scanned the room but weren’t really expecting anybody to be here – Tingley had made sure he’d replaced the couple of security indicators on the door. They had no reason to suspect anyone was in the room.

  They didn’t look behind the door. When the man they were escorting was halfway in the room, Tingley slammed the door into him. He shot the two bodyguards, the first in the back and the back of the head, the second, as he turned, in the chest and the side of the head. Perfect double taps.

  The bullets made ‘phtt’ sounds because of the silencer. Tingley swung back the door and kicked the man trying to get up from the floor in the side of the head. He grabbed his feet and dragged him into the room, swung him over and dropped on to his back, swiping the door closed with his left hand. He grabbed the man’s head and pulled back.

  ‘I want names or I’ll break your back as well as your nose,’ he said, bearing down with his knees. ‘All the way back to the slum you came from.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ the man said between gritted teeth.

  Tingley grabbed his hair.

  ‘All the way back.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘You did well, Sarah.’

  Karen Hewitt dropped her hand on Gilchrist’s shoulder and left it there for a moment. Gilchrist stared at the ground between her trainers. She wanted to vomit.

  ‘How’s the girl?’ she said, gulping down air.

  ‘The girl?’ Hewitt said. ‘Oh – she’ll be fine.’

  Gilchrist was being debriefed in one of the station’s ground-floor interview rooms. There was hot coffee on the table in the centre of the room, but even in her state she knew better than to drink it. The coffee in this place spawned as many jokes as microbes, if the jokes were to be believed.

  She smiled at the thought. Tried to smile. She was flashing back to the beach. And still trying to figure out how she had missed the man she now knew was Radislav with her electric charge.

  He had moved so quickly, knocking her arm to one side as he bowled into her. The charge had gone into the man to his right as she fell.

  She had scrambled away from Radislav, twisting his arm to get his hand off her throat. She still clutched the volt gun as the other two stopped in their tracks, watching their friend writhe and judder on the shingle beach.

  She looked down at the grey-faced man, who was scrambling to his feet with difficulty, his attempt to propel himself up with his left arm failing because his hand was sinking into the shingle.

  She stood at bay, her arm extended with the volt gun pointing at each man in turn. From the corner of her eye she saw uniformed police making a slow progress towards them. Radislav saw them too. With an almost pantomime snarl he set off down the beach towards the West Pier, followed by the other two men.

  Gilchrist’s legs were shaking by the time the uniforms arrived. Her volt gun was back in her pocket. Radislav and his two cohorts were too far away to chase. She abruptly sat down.

  Charlie Laker had followed Hathaway to France or was already there. This much Watts surmised. He met Tingley on the Old Steine and drove them down to Newhaven.

  ‘I’m not quite sure why we’re doing this,’ he said. ‘How far are we willing to go in support of a gangster?’

  ‘It’s relative, isn’t it?’ Tingley said as they waited in the line of cars to board the ferry.

  ‘Are you willing to kill?’ Watts said. ‘Did you kill Kadire?’

  ‘I called the police to take care of him,’ he said.

  ‘And from now on?’

  ‘We’ll see what happens.’

  They took the overnight ferry. The only time either had crossed to Dieppe before had been on a hovercraft that had done the journey in a bouncy two hours. This was a ferry brought up from Sicily.

  The crew and stewards were Italian. They spoke little English or, indeed, French. It was a four-hour journey that turned into six because the captain, more used to the calmer waters of the Med, deemed the sea too rough to get into port without the help of tugs.

  It took an hour for the tugs to arrive, another hour for them to haul the boat in backwards to its dock.

  Tingley and Watts were only partly aware of this. They’d bought a bottle of duty-free brandy when the boat first left Newhaven. They’d laid on the narrow beds in the narrow cabin and sipped the brandy until around midnight. Conversation had been muted.

  Both had dozed off, fully clothed, lying on their backs, lulled by the sea. They woke at four and went upstairs, expecting the boat to be docking. They waited aft by a big window, watching the lights of Dieppe as the tugs manoeuvred them into port.

  They went down to the car deck, huge trucks dwarfing them on every side. Off the boat they drove around town looking for somewhere to get coffee and croissants.

  The sky was drab, shedding reluctant light on sodden streets. They parked outside a neon-lit worker’s café on the other side of the harbour and sat peering out of the rain-streaked windows at the deserted promenade.

  ‘You a fan of Jean-Pierre Melville?’ Tingley said.

  Watts looked blank.

  ‘French film-maker influenced by Yank gangster movies. Did one that starts with a bank robbery on a seafront just like this – rain sweeping across it.’

  ‘I’m not much of a movie-goer,’ Watts said.

  The coffee was good, served in bowls. The croissants less so. The little pats of butter were straight from the freezer. Tingley put a shot of brandy in his coffee. Watts shook his head.

  After twenty minutes Tingley looked at his watch.

  ‘Time to go.’

  The road out to Varengeville wound along the coast, rising and falling. They passed the remains of World War Two gun emplacements. Tingley drove slowly, occasionally checking the rear-view mirror for anyone following.

  On the ferry they had scoped out the other passengers. Mostly men, mostly rough-looking. Poor, blue-collar, lorry drivers and low-paid workers. None of them looked particularly like Balkan gangsters but how would they know? Besides, the grey-faced Miladin Radislav kept to his cabin for the entire journey.

  They dropped down into a village right on the sea. People in hooded anoraks or raincoats were walking dogs on the shingle beach, the undertow of the water dragging at the pebbles, sucking it out to sea.

  The road rose and curved away from the beach, up and inland. Varengeville was little more than a single street with a few shops along it. A boulangerie was open.

  Tingley watched the road until Watts returned with some kind of quiche and two more coffees in Styrofoam cups.

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nbsp; ‘We go through town and turn right on to a semi-paved road to get to the church. There’s a big car park.’

  Tingley waved away the coffee and tart.

  ‘I’ll have it when we’re there.’

  The unpaved road was narrow and went past a number of large houses protected by high walls. The church was on a promontory looking out over the sea. Tingley parked at the back of the car park off in a corner. They ate and drank their coffee in silence.

  ‘You know I’m going to follow the trail back,’ Tingley said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I hate this tidal wave of sewage washing over us all. It’s my duty to try to stop it.’

  ‘Your duty?’

  Tingley shrugged.

  ‘Besides – what the hell else have I got to do?’

  Watts looked over at the church.

  ‘Live?’ he said. ‘You know I can’t go with you.’

  Tingley reached out and squeezed his arm.

  ‘You’ve got a family to win back,’ he said. He pushed open his car door. ‘Let’s take a look around.’

  There was a headland beyond the church, reached by a path that dipped down into a little shingle cove then climbed up a sleep incline. They slithered in the rain. When they reached the top they could see the back of John Hathaway’s house.

  Charlie Laker sat in the thirteenth-century church of St Valery, contemplating the gaudy, abstract stained-glass window done by Georges Braque in 1954. He’d seen the artist’s tomb in the graveyard earlier, topped by a mosaic of a white dove.

  ‘The Tree of Jesse,’ Patrice Magnon said, following Charlie’s look.

  ‘Could have fooled me,’ Charlie said. He patted Patrice on the back. ‘Thanks for coming in with us.’

  Patrice smiled thinly. Glanced at the grey-faced man sitting alert in the corner.

  ‘Did I have a choice?’

  After some discussion, Watts and Tingley went in by the front door. Watts had declared he was too old to be scaling walls. They buzzed at the gate and walked through a cobbled courtyard to where Dave was waiting for them in an open door. There was the scent of honeysuckle around them. Clematis hung from the front of the house.

  Dave had an uncertain smile on his face and a gun in his hand.

  ‘What the fuck are you up to, Tingles?’

  ‘Unfinished business with Radislav.’

  ‘And you?’ Dave said to Watts.

  ‘Making a stand.’

  Dave frowned.

  ‘This is . . . unexpected.’

  Tingley walked right up to Dave.

  ‘Are you going to let us in?’

  ‘More bloody coppers,’ Hathaway said when Dave led them into a long, gloomy drawing room. He was sitting in a wing-backed chair, a pistol on the table beside it. ‘I’ve only just got rid of the French flics.’

  ‘Ex-copper,’ Watts said. ‘Are they going to protect you?’

  ‘Hardly. They don’t know anything. Neighbours heard an explosion. I fobbed them off. Do you know what happened?’

  ‘I’m not psychic,’ Watts said.

  ‘Lippy, aren’t you?’ A woman’s head appeared from behind the wing of another chair. Hathaway gestured at her.

  ‘This is Barbara. Very loyal. First love of my life. It’s just his way, Barbara. Barbara was close to Sean Reilly back in the day. She’s in mourning. Barbara, this is ex-Chief Constable Bob Watts and Mr Tingley.’

  ‘Reilly’s dead?’ Tingley said. He’d been looking forward to meeting the old soldier.

  ‘They came in through the garden. I have a dozen men here but these scum waltzed in through the French windows to Sean’s room. He had a surprise for them.’

  Hathaway looked down.

  ‘Sean took care of them. Well, most of them. My men, once they got their arses in gear, took care of the rest.’

  ‘Radislav?’

  Hathaway shook his head.

  ‘Is Charlie Laker over here?’ Watts asked.

  ‘Don’t know. I expect so – every other bugger is. So much for my weekend retreat. Why the hell are you two boy scouts here? Gone soft on me or something?’

  ‘Must have,’ Watts said. ‘Where’s Cuthbert?’

  Hathaway glanced at Dave, standing by the door.

  ‘Thought you knew. He was long past his sell-by date. But the rozzers don’t need to keep a guard on his family. I was just winding him up. I would never harm them. I’m evil but I’m not a monster.’

  ‘Subtle difference,’ Watts said.

  ‘Life is all in the subtle differences,’ Hathaway said.

  Barbara stood.

  ‘I need a fag.’

  As she passed Watts, she said:

  ‘I met your dad once.’

  ‘I hear that a lot,’ he said.

  ‘He made a pass at me.’

  ‘That too.’

  She left the room. Hathaway was looking at Watts, sizing him up.

  ‘Your dad, yes. Somewhere in this house is something that might interest you.’

  ‘I’m sure there are lots of things,’ Watts said.

  ‘The bulk of the police files for the Brighton Trunk Murders.’

  ‘They were destroyed,’ Watts said.

  Hathaway shook his head.

  ‘Nah. Philip Simpson desperately wanted them destroyed for some reason but my dad got hold of them, gave them to Sean for safe keeping.’

  ‘Why would I be interested?’

  ‘Family history?’

  Watts glanced at Tingley.

  ‘I’d be more interested in what you meant when you said William Simpson’s birth was the Immaculate Conception.’

  Hathaway stood.

  ‘Is this the time?’

  He saw the look on Watts’s face.

  ‘Well, I guess we have nothing else to do until the barbarians reach the gate.’ He made a wry face. ‘I just meant that his pretty young wife confided in my mother, who told me and my sister, that they never had sex. Had separate bedrooms, in fact.’

  There was movement in the corridor outside the drawing room. Dave turned then looked back, an odd expression on his face. A bunch of men crowded past him into the room. They were led by a man with scars on his face.

  ‘Mr H.,’ Dave said. ‘Charles Laker to see you.’

  ‘What happened to the man on the beach?’ Karen Hewitt asked Gilchrist. ‘The uniforms said he looked as if he’d been tasered.’

  Gilchrist held Hewitt’s look.

  ‘Beats me. There was a lot of confusion. Maybe he got in the way of one of the others. What is he saying?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Hewitt said.

  ‘And Kadire?’

  ‘Kadire’s out on bail.’

  ‘What?’

  Hewitt threw up her hands.

  ‘Tell me about it. Hathaway has disappeared, so has Tingley, so we just have an uncorroborated claim that he tried to shoot Hathaway. Smart lawyer and a lot of cash behind him, he’s out the door.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Disappeared.’

  ‘And Radislav?’

  ‘We don’t know where he is either. So it goes on. Do you know where Bob Watts is?’

  Gilchrist shook her head.

  ‘That’s three strikes,’ Hewitt said.

  ‘Am I out?’

  Watts was unconscious on the floor, a vicious blow to the back of his head with the butt of a machine pistol doing the damage. Tingley was inelegantly bound to the wingback chair. Dave stood over him.

  ‘Sorry about this, Tingles.’

  ‘You switched horses?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, no. I was Mr Laker’s man from the start.’

  ‘So all that hand-wringing about crossing the line?’

  ‘Well, Cuthbert was Laker’s man so I didn’t think he’d want his family wiped out. Had to think of some reason to phone you.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Why?’ Dave was almost jeering. ‘I’m a soldier of fortune. A mercenary. I go where the money is.’


  Barbara came in shooting. The recoil of the sawn-off almost knocked her off her feet but she kept her balance. The blast was a terrible violation of the room. Dave fell against the fireplace and lay, still and broken, arms flung out. The Serbian by the window was writhing on the floor, blood spreading from his right hip down his trousers and up his shirt.

  A shattered hip, Tingley judged. He tried to stand, taking the chair with him. Barbara looked at him and the chair hanging down behind him. She looked at Watts, slumped on the floor.

  ‘Where’s my John?’ she said.

  ‘They took him,’ Tingley said, turning sideways on to her. ‘Could you? I can’t reach.’

  ‘What good are you going to be to me?’ she said. ‘Scrawny guy like you.’

  ‘I’m better than I look.’

  ‘Then why are you tied to a chair?’

  ‘Misjudgement. But I won’t make another one.’

  Barbara took a knife from her jacket pocket. Tingley laughed.

  ‘You come prepared.’

  She sawed at the rope.

  ‘You have no idea.’

  She cut him free and pointed at Watts.

  ‘I’ll take care of him,’ Tingley said. He looked over at the man with the shattered hip. ‘What about him?’

  Barbara was already striding out of the room.

  ‘Fuck him.’

  Tingley gathered up Watts. Though his friend outweighed him by a couple of stone, he hoisted him up and brought him out of the room.

  ‘You are deceptive,’ Barbara said as they went down the corridor.

  They got into Tingley’s car, Watts laid out on the back seat.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We find Hathaway.’

  It took until dusk. They’d driven to Dieppe, haunted the ferry point, driven out into the country. They found him on the cliff-top beyond the church, silhouetted against the sinking sun in the west. He was hanging in a crude frame, a black silhouette outlined in orange flame from the sun beyond him. Naked. Impaled.

  Barbara gave an animal moan and dropped to her knees. Watts, who’d come round in the car hours before and immediately vomited, looked at Tingley.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ he whispered.

  Tingley and Watts moved closer. Hathaway was keening.

  ‘John?’ Watts looked up at him.

  ‘We should kill him,’ Tingley said. ‘Put him out of his misery.’