Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

‘Famous in Brighton,’ Hathaway said.

‘Do you have a following?’

‘Not exactly,’ Hathaway said. ‘We irritate a lot of people. We’ll be playing Motown and the boys will want to jive-’

‘With each other, mind,’ Billy said, ‘not with girls.’

‘And we’re getting used to beer bottles being thrown at us,’ Dan said.

‘I never feel we’ve connected with them,’ Charlie said, ‘unless they’re showering us with beer and trying to crack our skulls.’

Dawn giggled again and gave him an up-from-under look. When she looked away, Charlie winked at Hathaway.

‘Good-looking lass, your sister,’ Charlie said the next day as he and Hathaway walked down the West Pier.

‘Keep your hands off,’ Hathaway said, only half-joking.

His father was ranting to Reilly about Harold Wilson when they reached the office. He was furious Labour had got in.

‘Bloody bunch of lefties. Dennis Healey, Jim Callaghan, that drunk Brown. And as for Harold Wilson – we should swap him for Mike Yarwood – he couldn’t do worse.’

‘Good morning, lads,’ Reilly said. ‘How was your gig last night?’

‘A triumph, Sean, as always,’ Charlie said. ‘A triumph.’

‘By that he means nobody threw any bottles at us.’

‘A breakthrough event, then,’ Reilly said.

‘We’re gonna have to kick you out of the office in a few minutes. We’ve got royalty coming.’

Charlie and Hathaway both frowned.

‘The chief constable is paying a state visit.’

‘His wife was around our house the other week playing Monopoly with mum and her coven.’

‘A looker, isn’t she? I don’t know what she sees in exorbitantly wealthy Philip Simpson.’

‘Maybe she has a thing about uniforms,’ Reilly said drily.

‘Is he that wealthy?’ Charlie said.

‘He’s coining it,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘But he’s still annoyed about that Bank Holiday do and he wants us to sort out our differences with the Boroni Brothers. That’s what he’s coming for.’

‘How are you going to play it?’ Reilly said.

‘Well, a little bird told me something that has intrigued me.’

‘Wasn’t a Finch, was it?’ Reilly said.

Dennis Hathaway grinned.

‘You two lads get into the storeroom. Listen and learn.’

Philip Simpson arrived about five minutes later. He was in his standard civvies: a checkered sports jacket, khaki trousers and brown suede shoes.

‘I haven’t got long, Dennis. Having lunch with the leader of the council.’

‘Poor you. Frank isn’t exactly a stimulating conversationalist.’

‘You know him well?’ Simpson said.

Hathaway leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

‘I own him, Chief Constable. Anything you want to talk to him about, you may as well talk to me.’

Simpson shook his head.

‘A finger in every pie, Dennis. You’ll be trying to take over the town next.’

There was asperity in his voice.

‘Not a chance, Philip. I like where I am. I’m a born liege lord. But I do like to take advantage of opportunities when they come up. I thought it might be useful to have the council in my pocket. Frank was working for me when I forced him to stand for election as a councillor. Man can scarcely write his own name. He’s been cursing me ever since because of the council meetings.’

‘Now he’s the leader of the council,’ Simpson said thoughtfully.

‘And he loves being the boss man; still hates the meetings. I’ve had to hire someone to read the committee reports and write a one-paragraph precis of each one for him, so he has a vague idea what decisions he’s making.’

‘Or that you’re making.’

‘Far be it for me to take the credit…’

Simpson leaned forward.

‘Do you control planning?’

‘Astute of you, Chief Constable. Let’s say I have input, yes.’

‘There seem to be some opportunities for investment in the town.’

‘Indeed, yes.’

Simpson showed his teeth.

‘Just make sure the man with the biggest private army in the county gets his.’

‘Right you are, Chief Constable, right you are. By the way, I hear you’re shifting shop.’

‘We’re moving to St John Street, yes. We’ve outgrown the old police station.’

‘Just as well to get away from the ghost.’

‘Ghost?’

‘Oh aye. The ghost of the first chief constable. Have you not felt his chill hand on your collar.’

‘I can’t say I have, Dennis.’

‘The first chief constable was a Jew called Henry Solomon. In 1844 a young man was nicked for stealing a roll of carpet from a shop. Solomon interviewed him in his office – your office, I suppose. It was a cold day and there was a fire burning in the room. The young man got angry, picked up the poker and hit Solomon across the side of the head with it – so hard that he bent the poker. There were three witnesses to this but not a one intervened. The wound in Solomon’s head killed him, of course. The young man was hanged at Horsham.’

Simpson frowned.

‘I’m not following.’

‘History, I suppose. That station has a lot of history. Though I hear you’re chucking some of it out.’

‘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.’