Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

Hathaway recognized the name. The elderly Egyptian who took care of Dawn.

‘Who has been kind enough to write down his reminiscences of those golden days,’ Reilly said, ‘before he retires to the West Indies.’

Charlie looked uncomfortable.

‘And the Borloni Brothers? We kill them?’

Reilly and Dennis Hathaway exchanged glances.

‘This “we” being who, exactly?’ Reilly said.

Charlie exhaled cigarette smoke and glanced over at Hathaway.

‘Me and John. About time we got blooded. Right, Johnny?’

Hathaway and Charlie were running at full pelt along the Palace Pier, their feet thudding heavily on the wet timber. Hathaway was grimly determined, Charlie spurred on by rage. Charlie was ahead. They zig-zagged between punters who had already been scattered by the two men they were pursuing.

What a fucking cock-up. As he ran, Hathaway was listening to the loudspeakers strung out along the length of the pier. They were transmitting the commentary on the World Cup final. He wanted to shoot somebody when he heard Helmut Haller put West Germany in the lead some twelve minutes into the game. He had the gun to do it.

A collision with a gaggle of giggling girls eating candy floss threw Hathaway out. Charlie swerved by them as West Germany took possession again. He was waving his gun around. The girls screamed.

Hathaway righted himself and saw the Boroni Brothers disappear into the covered Palace of Pleasure. Charlie, only twenty yards behind them, was running like his life depended on it. The collision with the girls had winded Hathaway and now he could only trot round the side of the Palace of Pleasure. He flattened himself against its wooden wall as he saw the Boronis come out of a side entrance.

They darted looks around, then dashed over to the Ghost Train. They scrambled on to the last carriage as it started off. The doors to the shed clanked open and the carriage jerked through.

Charlie found Hathaway.

‘We’ve got to get in there. There’s a back entrance.’

Charlie and Hathaway hurried round the back of the large shed. A metal door swung open easily. They slipped inside.

It was dark and noisy. Amplified cackles and shrieks and roars. Flashes of light as gruesome figures were illuminated.

Charlie and Hathaway waited for the train to clatter closer.

‘See you on the other side,’ Charlie shouted as he flitted away.

Hathaway was standing beside a Dracula who raised his cape and roared as the ghost train approached. Hathaway heard the screams from the passengers. There were two flashes, then two more. Screams again. Hathaway tightened his grip on the gun in his pocket. He stood for a moment then turned away.

Back outside, Charlie and Hathaway forced themselves to go slowly, hands clamped over the guns in their pockets. Hathaway glanced at Charlie’s expressionless face. Charlie stopped and looked up at one of the loudspeakers. He grinned. Geoff Hurst had equalized.

‘Bizarre killing of Pier owners. Pursued by clowns then shot to death in Ghost Train.’

Dennis Hathaway threw the newspaper down on his desk and looked at Hathaway and Charlie.

‘Only clowns I know are you two. Anything you want to tell me?’

They shook their heads.

‘You were at home watching Geoff Hurst score his hat-trick, I expect.’

‘Charlie was round at mine. Few beers. They think it’s all over… well, it is now.’

Reilly quietly observed them from the window.

‘Whoever did do it was pretty clever with the clown disguise. No way of being recognized.’

‘Must have been sweating like pigs, though,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘The wigs and the greasepaint.’

‘We have to hope for their sake they were careful about where they got the clown outfits from. Not to mention the guns.’

‘You’re right there, Sean.’ Dennis Hathaway scrutinized his son and Charlie. ‘If you two were doing it, for instance. Not that you would have been since I specifically told you to forget any idea of offing the Boroni Brothers. But, for the sake of argument, if you were, where would you have got the costumes?’

‘And the guns,’ Reilly said.

‘Thanks, Sean,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘And the guns.’

Charlie cleared his throat.

‘The guns you’d get up London, I expect. Round Fulham way, maybe? Stand-up friends of Jimmy White?’

‘Jimmy White,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘Poor sod. Gives himself up because he’s been bled dry on the run and he hopes to get a deal. Bastards give him eighteen years. And another Great Train Robber bites the dust.’

‘Buster and Bruce are still out there,’ Reilly said.

‘Do you know where?’ Hathaway spoke for the first time.

‘Mexico, I heard.’

‘They’ll be running through their money too,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘And the clown costumes?’

‘Buy them outright, mix and match them.’ Charlie shrugged. ‘Not a problem.’

‘And disposal after?’ Reilly said.

‘Dad always says that’s why God created the sea,’ Hathaway said. ‘It keeps its secrets.’

Dennis Hathaway chuckled.

‘Fucking dressing up as clowns. Chasing them along the pier. Wish I could have seen that. Fucking hilarious.’ He turned to Reilly. ‘Where are we on that thin-faced cunt, Potts?’

‘I’ve put the word out.’

Dennis Hathaway nodded and turned back to the lads.

‘OK, you pair of pistols, I’ve got stuff to show you.’

Dennis Hathaway pointed down at the motorboat dipping in the water in West Pier dock.

‘Handy little craft that. Takes about four hours to get to France. You know that Mr Wilson, in his infinite wisdom, has put a limit on how much money you can take out of the country with you? It’s your money but he doesn’t want you spending it abroad. That limit is fifty pounds, which, frankly, wouldn’t keep Johnny’s mother in Campari and sodas for a weekend, never mind a fortnight’s holiday in Ibiza.’

He indicated the boat again.

‘So we shift money in that. And then bring diamonds back in. There’s a couple of shops in the Laines we’ve got an arrangement with.’

‘How often do you do the crossing?’ Hathaway said.

‘Every week. We vary the days and the times of departure, and sometimes we meet a fishing boat from France in the middle and do the swap there. But that can be a bit hairy if the sea is rough. A couple of times we’ve just offloaded stuff on the beach here.’

‘And the customs don’t suspect?’

‘The customs have their work cut out at the airports and Newhaven. They can’t control hundreds of miles of coastline. Doing it on the beach here is a good wheeze, because there’s so much else going on it’s just like hiding in plain sight.’

Hathaway looked down at the motorboat, polished and varnished. He glanced at Charlie.

‘So you want one of us to look after the operation?’

His father nodded.

‘Not me,’ Charlie said. ‘Thanks very much, Mr H., but I get seasick.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Hathaway said.

That evening The Avalons were playing in the Snowdrop in Lewes. All except Charlie crammed into Hathaway’s Austin Healey. Charlie preferred his bike. Hathaway said little as he drove. He was still trying to come to terms with what he and Charlie had done. Well, Charlie really. Charlie had insisted they should just go ahead and kill the Boronis, even though his dad had rejected the idea. He had got the guns. He had got the clown costumes. He had shot them both.

Hathaway knew he had his own dark places, places he kept hidden from everyone, but he had been shocked – and a little frightened – by how eagerly Charlie had taken to killing. He now believed Charlie capable of anything.

The lads were blabbing in the car but he only half-listened. He liked playing with the group but the real juice was his day job. He was looking forward to his first trip to Dieppe.