But young Jack, and Darby Sabini himself, slipped under the net and moved down to Brighton. It’s in Brighton that Jack further anglicized his name, deferring to the royal origin of the town by turning Rinieri into ‘Regent’. Darby Sabini, wise to the last, understood the Darwinian nature of his business and, sensing Jack’s growing contempt for the old-school ways, began to fear his ambition and ruthlessness and decided not to stand in his way. Sabini relinquished his penthouse suite in the Grand Hotel, and retired to the more sedate garden squares of neighbouring Hove.
Whatever mobs existed in Brighton, they were no match for Jack. They’d never seen anything like him. He soon imposed his will and took his slice of everything Brighton had to offer. And that was a lot, including gambling, thieving, fencing, protection, prostitution, pubs and clubs. The town was wide open, ready and waiting, and when the War came, Jack turned even more profit. The black market, ration cards, petrol cards, blackout smash-and-grabs, not to mention headline-grabbing bank and wages robberies. Post-war austerity soon turned into post-war prosperity and ‘You’ve never had it so good’, and no one was having it as good as Jack. With rock and roll playing on the jukebox and a packet of three in every man’s back pocket, Jack invested in vending machines – slots, jukeboxes, arcades. Every time a day-tripper put a penny in a slot machine on the south coast, they also were putting a penny in Jack’s pocket. He had the town sewn up, his enemies stitched up, and ‘allegedly’ the law in his pocket.
But, to Vince, Jack Regent wasn’t just a name on a case file, or a criminal that needed catching. Vince had grown up on Albion Hill, a tough breeding ground for young tearaways, so he had lived under the spell that Jack cast over the town. Kids would sit around and swap stories in hushed tones of his daring deeds: the headline-grabbing jobs he’d pulled, the beatings he’d doled out, the killings he’d committed, and the fear that he invoked in grown men. Young Vince would listen to those whispered stories, and had once asked his mother about Jack Regent. He’d registered the fear on her face as she told him never to mention that name again. Her reluctance to talk just confirmed what Vince had heard on the streets. And therefore, filtered through the imagination of a child, Jack became omnipotent, omnipresent, a bogeyman, a hex and altogether the stuff of nightmares.
Then there was the physical twist that further set him apart and gave him a quality of otherness: Talipes Equinovarus, a club foot. Vince had once read up on Jack’s affliction, and discovered he was in historic company. The Roman emperor Claudius, along with a list of other ailments, was club-footed. But as Roman emperors went, he wasn’t as exciting to read about as his predecessor, Caligula. Then there was Joseph Goebbels, the Nazi propagandist; as well as possessing a forked tongue, he, too, was rumoured to have a club foot. But the most famous club-foot pin-up boy was Lord Byron. Vince had struggled through Don Juan and, whilst Byron’s verse hadn’t stuck in his mind, his reputation had: ‘mad, bad and dangerous to know’. So bad, in fact, that the club foot was rumoured to have been a cloven hoof. Jack Regent would appreciate that, thought Vince.
Vince closed the file, deciding he’d fill in the blanks for himself.
‘Here he is now, come down to help us swedes. Want a lift, guv?’ called out Detective Tony Machin as he saw Vince emerge from the concourse at Brighton station. Machin was leaning against his racing-green Jaguar Mk X, parked where the taxis sat and waited.
‘Don’t tell me – you’ve given up being a copper and become a taxi driver?’ Vince smiled.
‘Better tips, and I get to hear what’s really happening in this town.’
The two men shook hands. It had been about ten years since they’d last seen each other. They’d grown up in the same neighbourhood, but on different hills.
Machin took Vince’s suitcase and put it in the back seat. ‘Let’s get a drink, son,’ he suggested.
Machin shouldered his way into the pub, with Vince following behind him. It was a small boozer off Edward Street, just up from Brighton police station.
‘Two pints please, Shirley.’
‘Make one of those a club soda,’ said Vince.
‘What? Don’t drink on duty?’ Machin asked with a big grin.
‘Don’t drink full-stop.’
Machin stopped grinning when he realized that Vince wasn’t kidding. He looked as if he’d genuinely never heard anything like it before. ‘Fuck me, son, a copper that doesn’t drink.’ He looked around at the barmaid for verification that he wasn’t imagining things. ‘Hear that, Shirley?’
‘Not all pissheads like you, Anthony,’ said Shirley, giving Vince her customary wink and rolling out a gregarious smile. The term ‘bubbly blonde’ was invented for her, but she’d missed out on ‘bombshell’.
Machin was a regular, so she paid him little mind, because her eyes were all over Vince Tciked what she saw: thick black shiny hair swept back, smooth olive skin, green-brown eyes, a strong straight nose and full lips that Shirley decided were eminently kissable, above a chin that held a dimple – like that actor she fancied, Kirk Douglas. But his dark looks gave him a touch of that other one she liked, Tony Curtis. Shirley habitually compared the pub’s punters with Hollywood film stars, thus managing to turn a dingy little backstreet pub in Kemp Town into the Brown Derby in Hollywood with her, ‘Ooh, a fella came in the other night, looked just like so and so …’ All much to the annoyance of her friends, who’d turn up expecting to find at least a Dirk Bogarde or a Terence Stamp, only to be confronted with a Norman Wisdom. Very few of those men matched up to Shirley’s flights of fantastical description, but this one finally did. He was tall, and she liked them tall, just scraping six foot, with broad shoulders. A light middleweight, athletic and fast-looking under a smart light-grey three-button suit, black knitted-silk tie and crisp white shirt. Took pride in his appearance, she could tell by his footwear, for he was wearing polished black Chelsea boots. Classy, she thought. The sight of men’s socks were always a turn-off.
Yeah, Shirley liked him. But she knew her true value in the looks stakes and had him sussed as an arrogant piece of work who also knew his value, and knew she didn’t stand a chance with him. Not sober anyway. She resented pouring his club soda. As she pulled the pump for Machin’s beer, she squeezed her shoulders together and deliberately stooped. It had the desired effect, for both Machin and Vince were instantly drawn to her cleavage; plump, flawless breasts encased in a black lacy bra, under a sheer leopard-spot print blouse.
Machin winked at Vince and said loudly, ‘The beer’s shit but the view’s priceless.’
‘But you can’t see the sea from here,’ she replied, with a wink.
‘I’m looking at the best front in town,’ said Machin, winking back.
‘Cheeky bugger!’ She winked at Vince.
Vince thought about joining in the winking, since it was obviously infectious – like conjunctivitis.
‘He is a cheeky sod, this one!’ said Shirley, her voice full of mock indignation. ‘A disgrace to the boys in blue!’ She looked at Vince; it was him she wanted for the conversation. There was more winking. More mock scandal, and sirens of laughter from Shirley.
Vince had heard enough now and steered his club soda over to a table by the window. He had the case file with him and flicked through it whilst he waited for Machin, who was still courting Shirley with the double-entendre shtick.
Machin was stocky, with cropped hair that saved him from a comb-over. No neck, tough and solid. Vince wondered if he could take him in a fight. He was shorter than Vince, but carried the kind of heft that was hard to knock down. It had always struck Vince as odd that Machin had become a copper, for while growing up, Machin had always got himself involved in the stuff that Vince had grown out of and avoided. But he’d never taken a pinch for any of it, nor picked up a record. So why not be a copper? Pay’s not bad, the pension’s good, and there’s more than enough sidelines and backhanders to make the grief worth it. And that’s exactly how Vince pegged Tony Machin.
Machin dumped hi
mself next to Vince, his bulk reverberating through the foam and vinyl bench. He tapped his head with a forefinger and asked, ‘How’s the bonce?’
‘Still ticking over,’ Vince said, raising his glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers. A coma? What’s that like, then, son?’
‘Eminently forgettable.’
‘You slipped or something, so I heard?’
Vince just nodded, not wanting to get further into the subject, whereas Machin held his beer up expectantly, halfway between the table and his mouth, wanting to get into it.
‘That’s right, I slipped. Lights out. Goodnight, Vienna,’ said Vince, hoping to put the matter to bed. ‘Can’t remember a thing. No big deal.’
Machin nodded slowly, more a gesture of weighing him up than agreeing with him. ‘I see, son, I see,’ he said, eventually lifting the pint to his lips and taking a gulp.
Son? That grated on Vince. They were the same age, more or less, though Machin managed to look a good ten years older. On the plus side, it reduced the times Machin called him by his first name, and Vince enjoyed the distance that gave them. He recognized his own taciturn tendencies when he wasn’t a hundred per cent about someone, and Machin was destined to be that someone. Vince reopened the file on the table, before Machin could use it as a beer mat.
‘Mr Jack Regent,’ noted Machin, in a proclamatory tone.
‘Any clues?’
‘He’s not here. We’ve already looked. Not a stone unturned,’ said Machin, raising a halting hand. ‘And don’t tell me there’s a lot of stones in Brighton. We know, and that’s how busy we’ve been with it.’
‘I don’t doubt that for a second. I hear the south of France, and even Corsica, are nice at this time of year.’
Machin gave a confirmatory nod to the suggestion. ‘Odds on, son. Money in Swiss accounts. Enough to pay off whoever might need paying off. Spend the rest of his days sitting pretty in the sun. With the money he’s made, why wouldn’t he?’
Vince considered this, and it made sense. A man in the autumn of his years, getting out of the rackets to enjoy the fruits of his ill-gotten gains. But Vince hadn’t come down to Brighton to toast Jack Regent’s good fortune. ‘Maybe Regent’s not ready to retire. It’s his town – got a lot invested here. I thought there might be something about the fingerprints on that knife. Could be a frame-up?’
‘Frame-up?’ demanded Machin, looking as if he might blow the head off his beer with a snort of derision. ‘What’s wrong with him just getting sloppy? Jack Regent messed up. It was bound to happen sooner or later. They get away with it for years and then they get complacent, and that’s how we get ’em.’
Vince took a sip of his club soda and mulled over Machin’s assessment. He wasn’t buying it but conceded that, when it came to Jack Regent, he himself did have a vivid imagination. Maybe Vince was looking at it from a kid’s perspective. He’d left Brighton at eighteen and never really returned. Machin had stayed, still lived and worked in the town, and knew Jack personally. To Machin, maybe he was just another villain, more successful than most but still just a villain. Fallible, not invincible. Not a young man any more.
Vince drained his club soda and asked a more sober question: ‘Any clues to who the body was?’
Machin took a large gulp of his pint and shook his head. ‘Not a clue, son. And we can’t keep it on ice forever. He’ll be going in the ground this week.’
Vince picked up the autopsy photos for a closer look. The headless and handless corpse on the white slab. The smooth hairless chest, with skin like a woman. But even dead, and his body decomposing, Vince could detect the musculature of a strong, sinewy type. He looked like an athlete, yet the report revealed that his liver showed fatty deposits, early signs of cirrhosis, and there were shadows on his lungs. A heavy drinker and smoker, then. Vince thought about the victim and, as with the girl on the silver screen, tried to give him life. A history, a story. Maybe it was because he couldn’t see his face, his eyes, but he drew blanks this time. The victim remained faceless and lifeless.
‘Even when you’re dead, you’re still not out of breath,’ remarked Vince. ‘And with all the gases that build up in a body buried at sea, there’s more than enough to float you to the top even if you’re weighed down. Pros usually stab the chest, puncture the lungs, to let all the air out, so you drop like a stone. And, let’s face it, we’ve got to have Jack pegged as a pro, right?’
Machin nodded in agreement.
Vince ran the tip of his forefinger around the corpse in the photograph. ‘No chest wounds on our boy. My guess, he was meant to be found. And planted with a knife with prints on it.’
‘Only trace prints. Nothing to get too excited about, son.’
‘Even so, how hard is it to wipe a knife clean? Then it’s sealed and taped to the body? Whoever did this, wanted us to know who did it – or else frame someone for it.’
Machin didn’t look convinced. He drained his pint and wiped his mouth with the back of his meaty hand.
Just then, the pub door swung open and a suited man lurched in. He was in his mid to late twenties, his freckled face topped off with bright ginger hair that had been dulled down with fistfuls of Brylcreem. Flushed, redder than usual for a redhead, he looked as if he’d just beaten Bannister’s record by running up the hill from the station on Edward Street. He was a copper, and it was urgent. He gave Shirley, with her bawdy banter, a swerve and came straight over to Machin.
‘Vince, meet Ginge, our copper-topped copper,’ said Machin, giving Vince his now customary nod and a wink. ‘He’s a good boy, local, give you all the help you need with the new faces in town. What’s up, Ginge?’
Ginge was still catching his breath as he told him, ‘Bodies.’
CHAPTER 4
BODIES
Three of them. Two white men and a half-caste girl, but all reduced to the same waxy, junkie pallor. What little colour they had in their faces had left them the minute they’d taken the lethal dose of heroin. Hard to age, early twenties maybe, but they looked as if they’d already lived a lifetime – and all of it bad. Undernourished and frayed-looking, with dried foam around their mouths, vomit on their clothing. Two blood-stained syringes on the ash-smeared oatmeal carpet.
Vince bent down for a closer look. The pretty half-caste girl wore her nails long and painted letter-box red, but they were now hanging from her fingertips by bloody threads. Two nails completely off, embedded into the carpet. They looked like falsies but weren’t, which meant she’d obviously tried to dig her way out of the misery and pain she suffered just before the heroin finally dragged her under.
He stood up and looked around the Kemp Town bedsit. Not even a bed, just a sit. A green vinyl sofa sagged on the floor, with yellow foam bulging out of the tears. A beaten-up leather patchwork pouffe with its kapok guts hanging out. The floor was littered with sweet and chocolate-bar wrappers. Mars bars, Bounties, Opal Fruits and Crunchies had been on the menu – junkie diet.
The main feature of the room was a big shiny hi-fi, a small stack of 45s and 33s beside it. Everything else was fixed to the walls: fireplace, central-heating radiators, empty shelves, a small green-streaked washbasin in the corner. A hundred-watt naked light bulb hung from the ceiling, to throw a brutal light on the death scene. It was like a place to shoot heroin in the comfort of not being in your own home. A horse stable but little more.
Machin was holding up a small cellophane wrap of tarry-black nuggets in some tweezers. He dropped this in a plastic evidence bag.
‘What a bloody mess,’ he said, handing Vince the baggie. ‘Not seen this stuff before. The gear we see is usually just a dirty white powder.’
Vince inspected the nuggets. The sample had an organic purity about it, more like black Moroccan hashish. ‘IDs?’ he asked.
‘A woman downstairs says she’d seen the bloke with the beard coming in and out, but didn’t know who actually lived here. Said they made a racket, playing their music all night.’
Vince gazed do
wn at the bloke with the beard. Not much of a beard, not much of a bloke. Looked like he weighed about eight stone. Stained drainpipe jeans, scuffed winkle-picker boots, a turtleneck jumper with holes. A vague stab at the Beatnik look, perhaps? But, by the tracks on his arms, Vince could tell he was already a seasoned junkie who’d let the fashion plate, along with everything else in his life, slide off the table.
Photos were taken of the bodies and the room. What evidence there was there was gathered. Then the three corpses on the floor were bundled on to stretchers, strapped and carted off for autopsies and toxicology reports. Simple: death by misadventure and desperation.
‘The whole building belongs to a Paul DeGelb,’ said Machin. ‘You heard of him?’
Vince nodded. ‘Slum landlord in Notting Hill. Crossed his path when I was working out of Shepherd’s Bush. DeGelb probably owns the freehold, but can’t shift the tenants downstairs who’ve been there for years. You gradually get them out by turning the place into a shit hole. Get some junkies living in the building, up all night, playing loud music, pissing the other tenants off. They soon enough sell up or leave.’
‘Well, he’s started buying property down here. Got some other places in the Avenues.’
Vince kneeled down to flip open the lid of the hi-fi. The long-playing 33 record on the turntable was Rachmaninoff’s Third Piano Concerto. ‘Not exactly soothing rhythms to nod out to, this. They look like they’d be more into Bob Dylan,’ he observed. He then flicked through the stack of records. Some were by bands of the day, loud and electric; some were brass-band marching music; also a recording of animal noises and a recording of Donald Wolfit’s selected Shakespeare monologues. A disparate collection, certainly, but all with one element in common: loud and annoying.
Kiss Me Quick Page 4