Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

He could hear the music clearly. On the beach it must have been overwhelming.

He saw the boat slow as the driver eased up on the throttle. It sent out a long wave in its wake as it curved into the far end of the pier.

He saw the line go out to secure the boat to a thick stanchion. Secured, the boat bobbed on the waves. Hathaway adjusted the binoculars and looked at the deck of the pier. It was crowded with people facing towards the west, towards the music.

Hathaway focused on a door at the back of a solid-looking building on the pier. After a few moments it opened and four men in jeans and denim jackets spilled out. All were wearing balaclavas.

They each carried rucksacks on their backs. Without looking back they walked to the edge of the pier and looked down at the boat. One by one they clambered over the side and down a rusted ladder to the boat.

The first dropped easily into the boat. The second paused as the boat dipped in the swell. One-handed he took his rucksack and dropped it into the boat. The third and fourth lowered themselves in.

The driver reached out and unhooked the rope. The boat roared away from the pier, heading out to sea. It would be in Varengevilles-sur-mer within three hours.

Hathaway smiled and turned back to the girl sitting up in bed. She saw the expression on his face.

‘Has it taken effect?’

‘Oh yes,’ he said, walking towards her.

Hathaway and Tingley went up to see Hathaway in his mansion on Tongdean Drive.

A black man in a well-cut grey suit answered the door.

‘For Mr Hathaway,’ Watts said.

The man looked him up and down, nodded. Then he looked at Tingley. Smiled.

‘Hello, Tingles.’

Tingley held out his hand.

‘David. You’re looking trim.’

‘You too,’ David said, shaking the offered hand.

‘You’re out of the business in one piece, then,’ Tingley said.

David glanced at Watts.

‘Bob here is a good friend of mine,’ Tingley said.

Watts stuck out his hand.

‘Bob Watts.’

David took the offered hand.

‘If Tingley vouches for you-’

‘I definitely do. He’s the ex-chief constable-’

David kept hold of Watts’s hand.

‘The one who got busted for standing up for his men?’

‘And women,’ Tingley said.

David clapped his other hand over the hand clasp.

‘Pleased to meet an officer who knows what his primary function is.’

Watts let go.

Hathaway appeared in the doorway behind David. He saw Tingley, the dapper, slender man he’d met some months earlier and decided he liked. The big, broad-shouldered blond man with the broken nose he recognized from the press as ex-Chief Constable Bob Watts.

‘If you’re finished with the love-in, Dave, perhaps you’d bring your friends through – where your boss is patiently waiting. Sometime this year would be favourite.’

David turned and grinned.

‘Sorry, Mr H. Mr Tingley and Mr Watts.’

‘Well, I can see that for myself, can’t I?’ He looked at Watts. ‘I don’t know why I bother. Try to ease the unemployment statistics and look what you get.’

‘If David is typical of who you’re hiring,’ Tingley said, looking at Watts, ‘then you’re hiring the best.’

Hathaway dropped his arm on David’s shoulder and winked at Watts.

‘David? He’s just the trainee. Coming along nicely, though.’

‘Thanks, Mr H.,’ David said.

‘All right, hop off and polish your medals or whatever it is you do for your extravagant salary all day. Come in, gentlemen, do. Mr Tingley – not an unalloyed pleasure to see you again but anyway. And ex-Chief Constable Bob Watts – I know you only by repute – though I did know your father. How is the old rogue?’

Watts was thrown by mention of his father.

‘He’s fine, thanks – how do you know him?’

‘Well, Bob – OK to do first names?’ Watts nodded. ‘Well, Bob, that’s a bit of a convoluted story – but who knows – if we make an afternoon of it there may be time.’

Hathaway took them up to a mezzanine where one whole wall was a window. He pressed a button and the window slid open. He led them on to a deep balcony enclosed in more glass. Another button and the glass retracted. Half a dozen ample wicker armchairs were spread across the balcony.

‘Sit, sit. I’m about to have a mojito – my girls make great mojitos – and you’re welcome to join me.’

‘I don’t know what it is but I’ll give it a try,’ Watts said. Tingley nodded. Hathaway raised three fingers and waved them towards a beautiful olive-skinned young woman hovering by a doorway.

‘You obviously don’t have kids who hit the cocktail bars,’ Hathaway said.

‘I probably do,’ Watts said.

‘You probably have kids or they probably hit the cocktail bars?’ Hathaway grinned his perfect white teeth grin. ‘Doesn’t matter – either way your answer is indicative.’

‘How old are your kids?’ Watts said.

Hathaway made an odd face.

‘I don’t have any – but I have a big family.’

Hathaway toasted Watts and Tingley.

‘Here’s to coalitions – may they always fail.’

‘You don’t like coalitions?’ Tingley said.

‘Worst of both worlds, then one member takes over.’

‘Here’s to truth,’ Watts said.

Hathaway laughed.

‘Yeah. Right.’

When they’d all sipped the cocktails Hathaway looked at Tingley.

‘I assume you and David were brothers-in-arms at some stage.’

‘More than once,’ Tingley said.

‘I’ve always had great admiration for soldiers,’ Hathaway said. ‘Never had any desire to join up, let me add, and I was the right side of National Service. But, growing up, I was close to an ex-commando who worked for my father. Became something of a mentor.’

Hathaway raised his glass.

‘Here’s to him.’

Watts and Tingley raised their glasses.

‘Does he have a name?’ Watts said.

Simultaneously, Tingley asked:

‘Is he dead?’

‘His name is Sean Reilly, Bob. And he’s very much alive, James. Later he worked with me for a few years but eventually retired. To Normandy, actually. His health isn’t good but he’s still sharp as a pin. I have a house in Varengevilles-sur-mer, a little village outside Dieppe. He lives there. Lovely place. If you’re a gardening nut, Gerturde Jekyll did the garden on the side whilst she was landscaping a local chateau. Name means nothing, Bob? Your wife does the gardening, eh? Or you’re thinking Jekyll and Hyde. How about Luytens, the architect who refurbished the chateau? No? He created Delhi – or whatever it’s called now. Bob, you did go to school, did you?’

Watts smiled.

‘Anyway your dad’s still kicking? Glad to hear it. He must be a fine old age. I’m afraid, Jimmy, I never had the pleasure of your father, as it were.’

‘Nor did I,’ Tingley said. Watts gave him a glance.

‘Yeah, well, that’s fathers for you.’

Hathaway drained his glass.

‘The West Pier,’ Watts said.

‘And?’

‘It’s been firebombed three times.’

‘And you’re asking me about this why, exactly?’

Watts leaned forward.

‘Come on, Mr Hathaway-’

‘John. My name is John. I thought we were doing first names.’

‘Nothing happens in this town without your knowledge and say-so. The pier’s development syndicate had the money in place to put the pier back in business and you didn’t want that because it would impact on your businesses.’

Hathaway looked out over his garden.

‘You want a confession?’ he said when Watts paused. ‘Because otherwise I’m not quite sure what the point of this bombast is.’