Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

Elaine looked from him to Hathaway, wide-eyed.

‘Am I being arrested?’

‘Arrested?’ Elaine said. ‘Why?’

‘No, no,’ Sergeant Finch said, attempting a smile. ‘He’d appreciate a word. If you’re too busy, I’m sure he’ll understand.’

Hathaway nodded.

‘OK.’

Elaine had come out of shock.

‘OK? It’s not bloody OK. This is police harassment.’

‘Elaine.’

‘Why on earth would they want to talk to you?’

‘Elaine.’

‘Let me phone my dad’s lawyer-’

‘The chief constable is a family friend.’

Elaine stepped back.

‘Your family is friends with a pig? Oh man.’

‘Johnny. Sorry to spoil your day. Please send my apologies to your girlfriend. A lovely girl by all accounts. But I wanted a little chat with you. Do sit down.’

‘Chief Constable,’ Hathaway said, taking the proffered seat.

‘Please, Johnny, call me Philip. There’s no formality here. I’ve broken bread at your house. Well, your dad’s house.’

Hathaway nodded then waited.

‘Have you heard the news? The Brighton police are officially no more. It’s now the Southern Police Force.’

‘Is that why you wanted to see me?’

‘No. Actually, it’s about your dad. I wanted a quiet word.’

‘Shouldn’t you be talking to him?’

‘Well, as you know, he’s not the easiest man to talk to when he’s got a bee in his bonnet.’

Hathaway frowned.

‘Has he got a bee in his bonnet?’

‘Exactly what I wanted to ask you. See, I thought we had a gentleman’s agreement around town. I thought that meeting on the Palace Pier made that clear. I allow you a certain leeway and you respect the law in other areas.’

‘I thought that’s what we were doing.’

‘Did you?’ Simpson clasped his hands. ‘Your dad seems determined to hog all the action. I hear he’s just taken control of the baggage handlers at the airport to help facilitate his smuggling activities.’

‘Chief Constable-’

‘Philip-’

‘I really don’t know why you’re talking to me about this. I’m in the music business. I manage and promote a few bands, book them into venues.’

‘And the ancillary stuff.’

‘I never got to university. Ancillary?’

‘The little extras. We know your legit business – and it ain’t all that legit – the pop industry is like the bloody Wild West. Be that as it may, we know that’s just a front for your drug dealing, your protection rackets.’

Hathaway thought for a moment.

‘What point are you trying to make, Philip?’

Hathaway was trying to sound calm but he knew he was out of his depth.

‘The deal was that brothels, abortions and protection were mine.’

Hathaway flushed.

‘I don’t touch brothels.’

Philip Simpson adjusted his desk pad.

‘Not you – your father. Jesus, I don’t care about the smuggling as long as I get my tithe, but he can’t do everything. Does he want to be Brighton’s Mr Big? Does he?’

Simpson was red-faced with anger. Hathaway tried to remain impassive.

‘Tell him that’s my role.’

‘Why don’t you tell him yourself?’ Hathaway said, standing abruptly. ‘Or don’t you have the guts?’

The chief constable reddened further as he too stood and leaned forward, his fists planted on the desk.

‘Listen, sonny, don’t mistake friendliness for softness. I’m asking nicely but we can do it a different way. Don’t forget who has all the real power and a private bloody army if I choose to exercise that power.’

‘Didn’t do your predecessor much good, did it?’ Hathaway said. He smirked, though he knew he shouldn’t.

The chief constable reached over and pressed an intercom button.

‘Come on in.’

Hathaway looked from the chief constable to the door.

‘Oh – what? The rough stuff now?’

The chief constable watched the door swing open. A constable came in.

‘You know each other, of course.’

Behind the constable, Barbara came hesitantly into the room.

H athaway tracked down his father in the Hippodrome.

‘We got bingo in half an hour,’ his father said. ‘I expect your mother will be down.’

He looked around.

‘Look at this place – beautiful. Started as a circus, you know. Built by Frank Matcham. I’ve seen so many great shows over the years. And now it’s a bloody bingo hall.’ He shook his head. ‘Progress.’

‘Dad, I need to talk to you.’

‘What’s that?’ Dennis Hathaway grabbed for the red plastic-covered book Hathaway had put on the table.

‘The thoughts of Mousie Tung,’ Hathaway’s father said, chucking the book on his desk. ‘Jesus Christ – you’re gonna start giving all your money away to the poor?’

Hathaway pursed his lips.

‘I think that was Jesus, Dad.’

Dennis Hathaway stood, shoulders forward, the small book swallowed in his big hands.

‘I suppose this is more of that stupid nonsense from your privileged student mates, is it?’

‘Elaine gave it to me, yes.’

Dennis Hathaway snorted.

‘I like Elaine, don’t get me wrong. She’s a beautiful gal and I like her spirit, but Jesus, she has some barmy ideas.’

Hathaway fidgeted. Elaine wasn’t why he was here, but still he said:

‘She wants us to go travelling in India, visit some ashrams.’

‘Are they Commies and all, these ashrams?’

Hathaway smiled and was relieved to see his father did too.

‘They’re places, Dad, not people. Places of spiritual retreat. The Beatles went there and Twiggy.’

‘Oh well, very deep and meaningless, then, clearly.’

‘Meaningful,’ Hathaway murmured.

His father’s smile went.

‘I mean exactly what I say: meaningless. We’re put on this planet to look out for ourselves and our families. Everyone else can watch out for themselves. Do you think Mousie is watching out for others? He’s top of the tree, mate, and he wants to stay there. Funny how all these communist countries, where everyone is equal, all have a dictator at the top of them. Kruschev, Castrato, Mousie…’

Hathaway recalled a phrase Elaine had used:

‘It’s called the dictatorship of the proletariat, Dad.’

His father took his time.

‘Is it?’

Hathaway struggled for Elaine’s words.

‘It’s a phase any communist society must go through-’

His father snorted again.

‘The proles have never dictated anything to anybody. That’s why they’re proles. You weren’t raised to be a prole; you were raised to be a governor.’

‘But governor of what? Dad, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’

‘What – has your girl got a bun in the oven?’

‘About the family business.’

‘What about it?’

‘I’ve just seen Barbara.’

His father sat back. Looked over to the man behind the bar.

‘Find us a bottle of whisky and a couple of glasses will you, Des?’

Des nodded.

‘Not for me,’ Hathaway said.

‘Yes, for you. This is a club – well, used to be. In a club you have a proper drink.’

Hathaway shrugged then leaned forward.

‘Dad, it’s about-’

Hathaway’s father put up his hand.

‘Not before the drinks, son. Protocol, you know.’

They waited until Des had brought over the whisky and two glasses full of ice. Dennis slouched low in his chair, looking round the room.

‘Canadian Club – very nice. Thanks, Des.’

‘No problem, Mr H.’

Hathaway watched Des amble back over to the bar area. He looked back at his father who was pouring two stiff measures.