Vince picked up a 45 by a band called The Shakers, five quiffed youths wielding washboards, kazoos and a tea chest. Obviously they were a skiffle band. Vince recognized one of the chubby-cheeked smilers on the cover as the dead Beatnik found lying on the carpet. Vince flipped the record and checked his ID. ‘Chas Starlight, he was calling himself back then,’ said Vince, handing the record over to Machin. ‘Not a lot of Starlight left now.’
‘Dominate Records,’ said Machin, reading the label. ‘They must have been one of Dickie Eton’s outfits.’ Vince recognized the name. ‘Eton lives down here,’ said Machin. He clicked his fingers for recall. ‘What’s the name of that singer, the fella with the big lips?’
Vince gave a how the fuck should I know shrug and offered, ‘Nat King Cole?’
‘Like the Beatles.’
‘The Rolling Stones?’
‘That’s the ones. I heard they wanted Eton to manage them and produce all their records. Eton turned them down. Shrewd move if you ask me. They won’t last.’
* * *
The main incident room at Edward Street police station was all about the Kemp Town three. It was a frenzy of ringing phones and activity: coppers getting a run on where the syringes were supplied; who was out there dealing, and how much of the lethal stuff was on the street.
The heroin had been sent off to the lab for toxicology reports, but just the very raw tarriness of it told Vince that it was pure. Too pure for street consumption. It should have been cut, cut, then cut again. With quinine, laxative or talc. Whoever had supplied it didn’t know what the fuck they had, or what they were doing, and neither did the three who took it. Death by misadventure it may have been, but three of them made it a headline-grabbing incident. Questions were being asked: Does Brighton have a drug problem? Whilst pills were frowned on, they were understood and semi-tolerated. From dodos in the morning medicine cabinets to dexies in the all-night dance halls, it seemed that in 1964 everyone needed a livener. But this was heroin … Blood. Fire. Needles. Nodding zombies. Oblivion. Death. No one understood it. Bad for the image of the town, even for a town that thrived on having a bad image.
So it was all being kept very much on the QT. The blessed fourth estates weren’t being told it was heroin, but amphetamines, pills of some description. Because three dead in a seedy bedsit on heroin – that was going to put a dent in the day-tripper trade. The body on the beach was on the back burner. It had slipped out of the public’s consciousness like it had slipped off the front page. No one really cared about it now, headless/handless/horrific or not. It was an old case already, left to Vince to keep it alive before it completely slipped off the dial and into a sealed file. Those kids slipping their mortal coils on hard drugs, that’s what had seized the Brighton constabulary’s attention now. The papers would lap it up. A sign of the times. The new scourge. The new plague! And that’s where Machin was, too, downstairs giving a press conference with his Supe and the Chief Inspector.
Vince was sitting in Machin’s office, drinking tea, looking at mugshots and reading the reports on the case. He’d also dug up some info on Dickie Eton, real name Neville Roper. A prodigious and precocious talent, and a millionaire before he was twenty-five. Pushy parents from Peacehaven had put their boy on the stage. A talent scout spotted him at Worthing rep, and he was signed up to the Rank Oganization. This slender hoity-toity boy was marketed at first as the new Freddie Bartholomew, and renamed ‘Dickie Eton’. Lots of Little Lord Fauntleroy roles in comedies and musicals. He was also a teenage recording star with four top-ten hits.
But Rank’s plans for Dickie to grow into as big a star as Dirk Bogarde never materialized. He stopped short of becoming a grown-up matinee or pop-idol stardom when he stopped growing. At five foot three inches he was never going to cut it in the big time. He stayed stunted and got bitter and twisted. But he was determined – determined to wreak revenge on all those who scoffed and saw him as a spent force.
He started working for promoter Larry Parnes as a talent spotter in the music business. Larry taught him artist management, looked on him as a son. Then he started working with the record producer, Joe Meek, and learned the production side of the business. Meek, a raging homosexual, looked on him as something a little bit more than a son.
Dickie persevered. He picked their brains. Then he picked them dry. He took their best clients and set up his own record label in Denmark Street, as Dominate Records. His trademark ‘Sea of Swirl’ producing style, with its swirling percussions and strings, led to many a hit with a stable of girl groups: The Heart Stoppers, The Head Spinners, The Hard-Ons, The Wolf Whistles, The Pick-Ups, The One Night Stands and The Morning Afters. And when the boys became more popular than the girls, he manufactured four-piece Mod bands: The Blues, The Bombers, The Bennies, The Dexies, The Lines, The Head Cases and The Heart Attacks. He had made his fortune.
Vince didn’t find any criminal record there, or mugshots of Dickie Eton. He was, if not totally straight, then certainly undetected.
But there were plenty of Jack’s associates found among the serried ranks of mugshots. And way down the list was a petty criminal called Vaughn Treadwell. His record had him pegged as a lowlife, but Vince had him pegged as his brother – older by a year. Painful reading. More often in prison than out. Not because of the severity or audacity of his crimes, but because he just kept getting caught. Pulling the same stunts now as when he was still fourteen. Chance burglaries, ill-thought-out warehouse lifts, and misjudged muggings where, chances were, he’d end up as the victim and receive a good hiding. It would be comical if it wasn’t so true – and if he wasn’t Vince’s brother.
Then, way back up the top of the list, to the face he’d been avoiding. The real horror story, looking into the face of Jack’s deeds. The man who, as a kid, had put the fear of Christ into him. He turned the pages and found a mugshot of Henry ‘Redskin’ Pierce. Pierce had picked up the nickname Redskin during his wrestling career, since his costume and character of choice was Red Indian. Some said he even had genuine Sioux blood in him, and others said it was because of the razor and knife cuts he’d picked up over his long and violent criminal career. They had never really healed, remaining flushed and fulsome. Against his sallow bloodless complexion, his scars looked like sets of red lipstick kisses.
It was Pierce who did Jack’s bidding. It was Pierce who was the visible one. He collected. He delivered. He maimed. He sent out the message. The wrong look in a packed pub always led to the same thing, some luckless mug lurching around with half his face on the floor, asking himself what the fuck he’d done to deserve that! Nothing, was the answer, because Pierce would have done it anyway. He decided on the looks that you were giving him, even if you weren’t looking at him, even if you were twenty feet away with twenty people between you and facing in the other direction, minding your own fucking business. Because he could. Because it sent out a message: ‘You think I’m your worst nightmare, you should meet Jack.’
Tony Machin bowled into the office, and went straight for the filing cabinet to retrieve a quart of whisky. He poured two shots into two chipped white-enamelled tin mugs, and took what looked like a well-deserved swig.
‘Did the press buy it?’ asked Vince.
‘Buy what?’ asked Machin, distracted as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘That they OD’d on bad pills.’
‘They bought it. We told them they were small-time dealers from out of town, and the pills were homemade. Said we found a chemistry set and a small press for making the pills. They’d obviously got their chemistry wrong and “paid a price for their irresponsible foolishness”.’
Vince gave an approving nod. ‘That should hold them.’
Machin shook his head sceptically. ‘You might be able to bury this sort of stuff in London but down here – they’ll be all over it. Headlines tomorrow, read all about it: “Is Brighton the new drugs capital of England? Are we out of control? Are we becoming like America? Lock up your daughters!”’
Vince laughed, but wasn’t really listening. He was still studying the mugshot of Henry Pierce. One good eye staring out; one sitting there dead like a big streaky dobber.
Machin kept on with his public outcry shtick. ‘Oh, and that other piece of crap they trot out every time something goes wrong in this town: “Brighton used to be such a nice place.” Who are they kidding? It’s never been a nice place. That’s the appeal!’ He then came and stood over Vince and followed his gaze. ‘Henry “Redskin” Pierce. Old Crazy Horse. Forget him, son. The mad Indian’s retired.’
‘Is it true about him being a Red Indian?’ asked Vince, looking up at Machin. ‘I thought he just used to wrestle dressed up as one?’
‘He did – until he almost killed a geezer. But legend has it he really has got Indian blood in him.’
Vince looked doubtful. ‘I think Tonto’s been speaking with forked tongue, kemo sabe.’
‘Either way, he’s gone back to the reservation. He’s holed up in a retirement home for the blind. Lost the sight in his one good eye.’
Vince couldn’t resist a smirk. ‘What happened?’
‘Not much. No one took it out, as much as I wish they had. He just went blind, about six months ago.’
‘Maybe that eye lost the will to live after all the shit it had seen.’
‘Yeah, maybe, son. Maybe,’ said Machin, handing Vince a mug of whisky.
‘You forget, I don’t drink.’
‘Oh, yeah. Hard to get my nut around that one, son – a copper who doesn’t drink.’ He poured Vince’s into his own. ‘Waste not, want not.’ Machin leaned against the filing cabinet. ‘Anyway, Henry Pierce is finished, out of commission. Wouldn’t surprise me if someone tops him soon.’ He smiled at the thought. ‘Revenge for all the years of grief he’d doled out. Especially now Jack’s not here to look after him.’
‘I’m still going to talk to him.’
Machin frowned. ‘You don’t think we already have?’
Not wanting to seemingly undermine him, Vince threw him an acquiescent smile. ‘I don’t doubt it for a second, mate. Just to reacquaint myself, for old times’ sake.’
‘Be my guest. We’ve done everyone on Jack’s payroll and, surprise, surprise, not a dicky bird. All shtum and alibi-ed up to their orchestra stalls.’
A fresh thought spiked in Vince’s mind. ‘How about those not on his payroll?’
Machin shot him a blank look.
‘He never married, did he?’ Vince continued.
Machin laughed. ‘Jack? Wife, kids and all that stuff? He’s not the marrying kind.’ He refilled his mug. ‘How about you, son?’
‘Married? Not yet, no.’
‘Got someone in mind?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘Good-looking fella like you, all the birds fancied you.’ Machin stared out the window contemplatively. ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, son.’ He pointed to a framed photo resting on the windowsill, gathering dust in the fading sunlight. It was a family portrait: one wife, two kids. Say cheese. ‘There’s my ball and chain over there.’
Vince glanced over at the photograph. ‘Nice,’ was all he could come up with for the fat smiling faces in the frame.
‘Jack had a bird he was keen on. A right eyeful, as it happens – not bad at all. A real looker, if you like that type of thing.’
Vince glanced around at Machin. ‘What type of thing?’
‘Slim ones, not a lot of meat on ’em, like a Jean Shrimpton or a Cathy McGowan.’ Machin shook his head in mild disgust at the prospect of having his way with either the international model or the Zeitgeist pop-show presenter and self-styled Queen of Carnaby Street. ‘No, son, give me a Mansfield, a Russell or even a Dors any day of the week.’ Machin cupped and jiggled both his hands in front of him, as if weighing up some imaginary breasts he’d just sprouted. ‘Real birds, I mean. Something you can hang your hat on.’
Vince smiled, knowing that Shirley the barmaid, with her tits spilling out of her blouse, was more the ideal ticket than Jayne Mansfield, Jane Russell or even Diana Dors.
‘What’s her story, then?’ asked Vince.
‘She runs one of Jack’s clubs in Oriental Place,’ Machin said. ‘Place called the Blue Orchid. We had her followed for a couple of weeks, but nothing came of it.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Bobbie LaVita.’
‘Bobbie … LaVita?’
Machin gave a bemused shrug. ‘You know this town. Here everyone’s a character.’
Vince repeated the name under his breath, pondering it. ‘LaVita. La … vita. The … life.’
‘The what?’
‘LaVita is Italian for “The Life”.’
Just then, the door swung open, and Ginge swung in along with it.
‘Don’t you ever bleedin’ knock?’ Machin asked him sharply. He didn’t like getting caught having a snifter at only four in the afternoon.
‘Sorry, guv,’ said Ginge. He then turned to Vince. ‘You’ve got a call from a Mr Ray Dryden.’
‘Thanks.’ Vince stood up.
‘You can take it in here,’ offered Machin.
‘It’s OK. You’re busy so I’ll leave you to it,’ he replied, wanting privacy for this particular call.
‘I’ll sort you out a desk later,’ said Machin.
Vince gave him an appreciative nod and followed Ginge out the door.
Machin cleared up the evidence of booze by simply knocking it back. He then slumped into the chair that Vince had vacated, gazed at the family portrait and smiled. Then he wondered if he’d get to charver Shirley again tonight.
Ray Dryden had joined the Met along with Vince as part of the new fast-track graduate intake, and they soon became close friends. Ray read Modern Languages at university, but got caught up in detective novels and decided that was the life for him. He was smart, though not really up to the physical side of things. To make up, he had tons of enthusiasm and knew his way around research libraries, halls of records and drawers of press clippings. He was good with names, dates, paper trails, piecing data together and thumb-tacking it on to a cork board and, to his credit, getting results. A year ago, Ray had joined the small team that ran the London bureau of Interpol.
Vince’s hunch, like everyone else’s, was that Jack was somewhere out of the country. Jack Regent’s Corsican connection was too strong to ignore, therefore Interpol had been put on alert. Vince had put in a call to Ray as soon as he was thrown the case.
‘What do you say, Ray?’
‘Why the sudden air of secrecy? You don’t trust our Brighton brethren?’
‘London, Brighton – all the same to me.’
‘The Eddie Tobin situation?’
‘It’s still a bad beef.’
‘Don’t let it get you down, Vince. It’ll blow over, you’ll see.’
‘I don’t want it to blow over, Ray. I saw a girl getting killed up on that screen.’
‘Girls get killed on the screen all the time, Vince. They call them actresses.’
‘This wasn’t acting. This was for real, and I’m going to prove it.’
‘Did you actually see her get killed? Did you see any blood?’
‘No,’ said Vince, almost wishing that he had, just so the vagueness of the crime would crystallize. ‘And I know what you’re going to say next, but I’m sure if I’d have stayed on my feet long enough, I would have.’
The silence on the phone swelled into an uncomfortable tumour of doubt and uncertainty.
‘Do you believe me, Ray?’
‘If you say it’s so, Vince, then I’m with you – you know that. But that’s another case, yeah?’
‘What have you got for me?’
‘What do you know about the Unione Corse?’
‘Nothing.’
‘They’re the French equivalent of the Mafia,’ said Ray Dryden. ‘Corsicans but operating mainly out of Marseilles. Involved in all the usual rackets, but big in smuggling. Heroin, hash, cigarettes, gold, any other
contraband they can get hold of and turn a profit on.’
‘Brighton’s just had three junkies turn up dead on heroin.’
‘Shit! When did this happen?’
‘We found them today. The stuff that killed them was so pure, it looked like it had just come off the boat.’
Ray exhaled a whistle of astonishment that acknowledged not only the tragedy but the synchronicity of the events. ‘Vince, you’re going to be very interested in what I’ve just found out. Sitting comfortably?’
Vince, knowing him like he did, knew Dryden was going to come up with the goods. Because when Ray Dryden got stuck into something, he stayed stuck in. Notepad and pen out, Vince made himself as comfortable as he could get, considering he was perched on the corner of a desk in the incident room. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘French cops first discovered a heroin-processing lab near Marseilles in 1937,’ Ray began. ‘It was a huge operation, manufacturing tons of raw opium into opium paste, then into morphine, then heroin. Some of the raw opium was brought in from Turkey, where farmers are licensed to grow opium for legal pharmaceutical drugs. The rest came in from Indochina, via the French colony out there. It’s refined in Marseilles then shipped out – to the States mainly. In the thirties and forties, there was a big heroin epidemic in Harlem, New York. All the gear coming in at the time was thought to be supplied by the Unione Corse, along their opium routes, then distributed internally by the Mafia. In 1947, the Yanks discovered the first big import: seven pounds of the stuff was seized from Corsican sailors in the Brooklyn docks. Purest brand they’d seen. Anyway … You still there?’
Vince had let out an audible sigh at this history lesson of French villainy. He wished Ray would sharpen it up and put a point on it. But he realized that Ray was on a roll, and that he’d have to listen to the full fruits of his labour before they got to what he needed to hear.
‘Ray, I’m enthralled. Pray continue.’
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