Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

Kingston, a fussy man, was usually punctilious about time but fifteen minutes after he and Watts had arranged to meet he had still not arrived. Watts assumed the frets had something to do with it.

He was thinking about his wife, Molly, from whom he’d been separated since his one-night stand with DS Sarah Gilchrist had been made public in the aftermath of the Milldean massacre. He hoped they could find a way to get back together, but things were on hold for the moment as she’d gone to stay with her sister in Vancouver. It was part of her drink cure – she’d been drinking heavily before they broke up but had given up soon after. Watts felt guilty that he had clearly driven her to drink and was impressed by her new strength of will.

He had promised that he would keep a closer eye on their son, Tom, and daughter, Catherine, whilst she was away. Not that they cared, both off at university and critical of his behaviour. Catherine was coming down to Brighton at the weekend but he wasn’t sure if he was going to see her. A fashionable DJ who lived locally was hosting his annual party on the beach. Last time the entire town had been gridlocked as thousands of people hit the party.

A man sat down on a nearby sofa. Tall, broad-shouldered, with close-cropped hair. In his early sixties, Watts judged. Watts saw that someone had done some work on his face, probably with a Stanley knife.

The man’s top lip was puckered where it had been sliced open then sewn back together. His right nostril too had been sliced and sewn back, and there was a line down to his jaw that could have been mistaken for a laugh line if it weren’t so prominent. From the side, Watts could see his nose had been broken. There was a tattoo covering the back of his hand and his wrist, peeking out of his shirt cuff.

The man put a mobile phone to his ear and began a murmured conversation. Watts had more of his drink and looked across the room. It was quiet, with a mix of foreign and British tourists, some of them looking stiff and awkward in the elegant surroundings.

His father, Victor Tempest, the once best-selling thriller writer, had told him that when they lived in Sussex this had been his favourite bar as he liked to watch the London villains flash their cash. Watts preferred somewhere more informal himself.

Across the room he recognized a man with a small moustache and a self-important posture. He looked at him for a beat too long. The man looked back and his eyes widened. He stood and walked over to Watts.

‘Ex-Chief Constable,’ the man said, standing over him. ‘How nice to see you.’

‘Well, well – Winston Hart, Chair of the Police Authority.’

‘You must be relieved it’s all done and dusted.’

‘Milldean? Swept under the carpet, don’t you mean?’

‘Still banging on, then,’ Hart said.

‘Still a pompous twit, I see,’ Watts said.

Hart tugged at the corner of his moustache.

‘What are you doing these days?’ Hart said.

‘I’m pretty busy,’ Watts said.

‘On the motivational speaker circuit?’

Watts laughed.

‘Never realized you had a sense of humour, Hart. How’s your son?’

Hart flushed. His illegitimate son, Gary Parker, had murdered and dismembered a flatmate and was now confined in a secure establishment.

Watts’s phone rang. He picked it up from the table beside his drink.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Good to see you.’

Hart walked back to his table. Watts was expecting his caller to be Laurence Kingston apologizing for being late. It was Jimmy Tingley, his friend and deadly comrade-in-arms.

‘I’ve just heard that Stewart Nealson has been killed.’

‘Sorry to hear that. Who’s Stewart Nealson?’

‘Remember the grass we met in the Cricketers with his partner, Edna the Inebriated Woman?’

‘The accountant for Brighton’s crime gangs?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘And he’s been murdered?’

‘In a rather nasty way, apparently. I don’t have the exact details but he was found up near Ditchling Beacon.’

Watts glanced back to the sofa as he was listening to Tingley. The scarred man had gone.

Anna went to the kitchen first, as usual. She was surprised that the radio was already on but she was late this morning. It was tuned to the local radio station, Southern Shores. There was a smell of gas so she checked the cooker. Everything was turned off. She opened a window to let the smell disperse.

As she filled the dishwasher she listened to the news broadcast. Since she’d arrived in Britain she’d improved her English best by listening to the radio. A lot of the colloquialisms still went over her head but she understood more each day.

‘A man was found murdered in horrific circumstances by a dog-walker on Ditchling Beacon yesterday morning. Police haven’t yet released the man’s identity or the exact details of his death, but there is speculation that he may have been crucified.’

Crucified? Did she hear that correctly? Like Our Lord Jesus Christ? Anna shuddered and finished loading the dishwasher. She left its door open whilst she went through to the living room for the wine glasses she was sure would be there. Mr Kingston enjoyed entertaining and his friends all seemed to enjoy wine.

‘The council has released details of the arrangements for dealing with Saturday’s Party on the Beach…’

The phone started to ring. Anna screamed.

Laurence Kingston lay by his gas fire, impeccably dressed in a smoking jacket and cravat. His mouth was open. His tongue hung from it, bent at an odd angle, lolling obscenely over his cheek.

Kate Simpson held her phone against her ear with her shoulder as she typed the ‘News Just In’ into the system. She could see through the glass that, in the studio, Steve, the morning show presenter, had clocked it. The phone rang on without Laurence Kingston, chair of the West Pier Syndicate, picking it up.

‘Just in,’ Steve said. ‘Bad news for the West Pier. If you’ve been along the prom this morning you’ll have seen that yesterday’s storms have brought down the middle section and done damage to other sections of the already battered pier. This will be bad news for the West Pier Syndicate who have just got money in place to restore the pier to its former glory. We hope to have a comment from the Syndicate’s chairman, Laurence Kingston, in the next news report.’

‘Not if I can’t get him, we won’t,’ Kate muttered.

She’d been trying Kingston for the past half-hour but she only had his landline. For all she knew, Kingston was already out at the pier surveying the latest wreckage.

‘Can’t raise him, Steve,’ she said through the headphones. ‘We don’t have his mobile.’

‘It’s big news, Katie – find him.’

Find him. Kate looked up the West Pier Syndicate and found a list of its committee members. There was one familiar name. She phoned ex-Chief Constable Bob Watts.

Sarah Gilchrist was looking at the autopsy report for Stewart Nealson, the man found at Ditchling Beacon. Reg Williamson was looking out of the window, his head tilted to see further down the seafront.

‘West Pier is pretty much gone after yesterday’s storm,’ he said.

‘He lived for a few hours – can you imagine?’

‘Vlad’s victim?’

‘Reg!’

‘Once the news is out you know that’s what he’s going to be called.’

‘The stake was angled so that it missed all vital organs. Missed the heart, the liver, the kidneys.’

‘Was that by chance, do you think, Sarah?’

‘The alternative is that these guys knew what they were doing. And that’s alarming.’

‘You think it was more than one person?’

‘Don’t you? That frame? Holding him down – I don’t see it as a one-person job. And digging that deep hole in the flint must have been a real pain.’