Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

‘Then confessed to the newspapers in 1963 that he was guilty.’

‘Your point, Dennis?’

‘Sorry, Philip, I do go round the houses sometimes. Well, Mancini did an act on stage in which he pretended to kill women – saw them in half, that kind of thing. Pretty bad taste if you ask me. And Max had the odd chat with him. Only when he had a free evening, Max said – Mancini had a bad stutter so conversation could take longer than normal. And Mancini told him he was suspected of the other Trunk Murder too.’

‘Two dead women found stuffed in trunks within six weeks of each other – even you would think there was a connection.’

‘True – though the other one, the one who was never identified, had no arms, legs or head, and no clothes for that matter. Her missing head the main reason she wasn’t identified.’

‘I’m still not sure what your point is.’

‘He told Max some of the stuff the police were asking. Did you interrogate him by the way?’

‘I wasn’t high enough up the pay scale,’ Simpson said.

‘Well, according to Max, he was asked some rum questions about certain people in town. Do you want me to continue?’

‘I’m not with you yet,’ Philip Simpson said cautiously.

‘Abortions were run by the rozzers then as they are now. Your area of expertise.’

Simpson spread his hands.

‘Still waiting for the light to come on. Oh, wait. You think I’ve ordered the files destroyed because I was somehow implicated? Because of links you’re imagining with abortionists?’

Dennis Hathaway just looked at him. It was Simpson’s turn to lean back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

‘But if that’s the case, why did I wait so long?’

‘Good question. Good question. Somewhere in those hundreds of statements in the Trunk Murder files there is something incriminating – but for whom?’

Hathaway picked the newspaper up and held it out to Simpson.

‘Seen the newspaper today.’

Simpson looked at the cover.

‘Great Train Robbers, getting what they deserve. So?’

Hathaway tapped a column low down on the right-hand side of the front page.

‘I meant this.’

Simpson unclasped his hands and took the paper.

‘You would have known it years ago, you being in the police force and everything,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘But the rest of us – us civilians – only just found out that somebody actually found the head of the Trunk Murder victim back in 1934.’

‘A couple of youngsters found a head in a tidal pool at Black Rock. They didn’t report it at the time. But it was before the dead woman’s remains had been found at Brighton railway station. By the time they recognized the significance of the find, it was too late – the head was long gone. Stupidity and bad luck. So what?”

Reilly walked over to a cupboard. He withdrew a bottle of brandy and three balloon glasses. Simpson nodded to his unspoken question.

‘So it focuses interest on the Trunk Murder again. Makes those files you’re chucking out particularly interesting.’

Simpson took a glass from Reilly. He nodded.

‘What do you want?’ Simpson said as Reilly poured out two measures.

‘What the bloody hell do you think I want?’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘I want to renegotiate our deal.’

‘ Ice hockey?’ Hathaway said. He was sitting with his father, Reilly and Charlie in deckchairs on their private end of the pier. It was a sweltering Spring day and all were wearing shorts and open-necked shirts, except for Reilly, in sports jacket and cavalry twill, still managing to stay cool as a cucumber. All but Reilly had ice cream cones.

‘These Canadian guys in the war kept going on about it so I gave it a watch,’ Reilly said. ‘Good, aggressive game. The Brighton Tigers are among the best in the country – just won the Cobley Cup against the Wembley Lions. They play at the SS Brighton.’

‘Are you a skater, then, Mr Reilly?’ Charlie said.

‘Sean. Used to be. I still do it from time to time. But SS Brighton is closing down in a few weeks – end of May.’

‘Snow melting?’ Charlie said, grinning.

Reilly gave him a look.

‘It’s being pulled down to make way for a shopping centre, and next to it Top Rank are building this concrete box. A monstrosity. A dance hall with bars, opening November. The old place is closing in October with the Tory party conference – there’s probably a joke in there somewhere but I can’t find it.’

‘If it’s a monstrosity, how did they get planning permission?’ Hathaway said. His father just looked at him.

‘It’s all progress, Sean,’ Dennis Hathaway said, grimacing as melted ice cream ran down his cone and on to his wrist. ‘There’s going to be a lot of development in Brighton over the next few years and we’re right in the middle of it.’

He waved the cone at their surroundings.

‘We’ve got to get off this pier before it rots away. Shit.’ His scoop of ice cream had toppled out of the cone on to the wooden boards. He tossed the cone over the railing into the sea and wiped his hand on his shorts.

‘We’ve got the site clearance for Churchill Square shopping centre this year. That’s going to be massive. Three years’ work before any shops open. We’re providing the labourers. And the machinery. We’re investing in Brighton’s future.’ He winked. ‘And our own.’

Billy, Dan and Tony, the group’s new rhythm guitarist, hove into view, also in shorts.

‘Rehearsal time,’ Hathaway said. Charlie groaned and Hathaway kind of knew how he felt. Hathaway was enthusiastic about his music but he was also drawn more and more to the family business. If he was honest, he enjoyed the respect – OK, fear – in people’s eyes when they found out who he was. He knew Charlie got off on bandying Dennis Hathaway’s name around.

Dan had bought a Vox Continental organ on HP, under the influence of Georgie Fame and the Dave Clark Five. He’d always played piano so had got the hang of it pretty quickly. He was singing ‘Glad All Over’, accompanying himself on the organ, when Dennis Hathaway came in and stood at the back of the store. His legs looked like tree trunks in his shorts.

When The Avalons came to the end of the song, Hathaway said:

‘Very impressive lads, very impressive. Freddie and the Dreamers will be quaking in their boots.’

‘Dad…’

‘Just kidding. I wanted to suggest something else to you, about the group. Wondered if you could do with a roadie?’

‘We can do it ourselves,’ Charlie said.

‘I know you can, but you’re musicians. You shouldn’t have to lug your stuff as well. I’ve got a reliable bloke in my office looking for a bit of extra work. A grafter. I’d be happy to lend him to you. He’s got his own van so that would free you up a bit, Charlie.’

‘I get paid for my van.’

‘But is it worth the hassle? Anyway, I’m sure we can work something out for all of you. Shall I bring him through?’

The Avalons looked at each other and nodded.

Dennis Hathaway returned a moment later with a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late teens in a white T-shirt and jeans. He had a fag in the corner of his mouth, his hands dug deep in his trouser pockets. He slouched a little, James Dean style, as he squinted through his cigarette’s smoke.

‘Alan, say hello to next year’s chart toppers.’

He sniffed.

‘All right,’ he said in a cockney accent.

The Avalons were busy three nights running that week. Alan was hard-working and efficient, though he preferred to roam the front of house during their actual sets. Hathaway would see him drifting through the audience, cigarette clamped between his teeth, having a quiet word here and there. He immediately guessed what that meant and was annoyed his father hadn’t told him.