Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

Settled there with a glass of tempranillo and little plates of manchego and chorizo stew, he phoned Gilchrist again. This time she replied.

‘You’ll never guess what I’ve got,’ he said.

‘You go first,’ she said.

‘You’ve found something too?’

She arrived twenty minutes later, by which time he’d ordered paella and frittata and more wine. Gilchrist had the diary with her. It was big – A4 size.

‘It’s full,’ Gilchrist said. ‘The last entry is dated Easter 1968. Just about to go off on holiday with her guy to Greece. There must be another diary after this.’

‘Does she identify the townie?’

‘No,’ Gilchrist said, licking her fingers, ‘but it does refer to going to see the band the night before the last entry.’

‘It’s OK. I found some press-clippings about the band. There’s even a photo.’

‘Does it name the band members?’

‘It does.’

‘And?’

‘Does the name John Hathaway mean anything to you?’

‘Bloody John Hathaway.’

She gobbled some more frittata.

‘This is great. I’m starving.’

‘I noticed.’

He pushed the other plate over.

‘I’ve already fed my face.’

‘Do you think he killed her?’ she said between mouthfuls.

‘His dad owned that end of the West Pier,’ Watts said.

‘Where the remains were found. Looking bad for Johnny boy. But is he known as a killer?’

‘He’s known as being above the law,’ Watts said. ‘And every one of his generation got his hands dirty at some time or other. Every one.’

‘I remember checking his file before. He’s never been down for anything.’

‘No. Nor done time. And that’s unusual. But he’s dirty. We know he’s dirty. Maybe this is the leverage you need.’

‘I’ve got enough on my plate without going after a crime kingpin.’

‘I’ll take Tingley with me,’ Hathaway said. ‘Boys’ night out.’

Watts went with Tingley to the Buddha, Hathaway’s bar at the marina. It was another blisteringly hot day. Hathaway met them in his office on the first floor and took them out on to a private balcony. They sat in the shade of an awning, the glittering sea and the brilliant white boats almost impossibly bright.

‘I’d get a headache, looking at this every day,’ Tingley said. ‘One of those boats yours?’

Hathaway smiled and shot his cuff to check his watch.

‘Just setting off back from France, I think. I lent it to a mate. This marina was a long time coming, you know. Twelve years of enquiries. The site kept shifting. There were referenda and parliamentary bills. The first version in 1970 was just a boat harbour. It’s been added to ever since. I own four places here altogether. And my boat, of course.’

‘John,’ Watts said. ‘As we’re on first name terms, tell me about Elaine.’

‘Which Elaine?’ Hathaway pushed his sunglasses further up his nose. ‘There have been a lot of Elaines.’

‘The one we just dug out of the seabed under the West Pier.’

Hathaway mimed applause.

‘I admire your sensitivity. That’s years of customer care training coming into its own, is it?’

‘So – what about her?’

Hathaway’s face was impassive.

‘I’m no wiser, so let me ask you the same question. Which Elaine?’

Watts turned in his seat to look at Hathaway directly.

‘Elaine Trumpler. Believe you knew her. When you were in a pop group. Didn’t know you had that in you.’

Hathaway wafted his arm towards the dozen or so guitars on display in a corner of the bar.

‘Some detective you are. I can see why your police career was cut short.’

Watts smiled.

‘I’m slow but I get there in the end. So, Ms Trumpler?’

‘Yeah, I knew her. We had a thing. I was in a band – I had lots of things.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘You’re joking, of course. I can’t remember.’

‘Try.’

‘Well, she did a bit part in that film on the pier, I know that.’

‘Were you still together?’

‘No. She was screwing some actor by then. Several actors, I believe. Then I heard she’d gone off to India.’

‘You heard?’

‘We weren’t talking really. Originally she’d wanted me to go with her but I couldn’t do it and, in any case, she then got off with these actors.’

He shook his head.

‘You OK?’

Hathaway looked like the wind had been kicked out of him.

‘Yeah. Funny how old memories catch up with you.’

‘So you cared about her?’

‘Suppose I must have done.’

‘You’ve never married. Never had kids.’

‘This is Brighton, darling. Nothing conventional here.’

‘Nevertheless.’

‘What, you think my heartbreak at losing that bint wrecked my emotional life forever?’ He reached over and began shaking a small bell. ‘Where is that Sigmund Freud when you need him?’

A big blond man hurried out.

‘It’s OK,’ Hathaway said. ‘Just a fire drill.’

The blond man looked puzzled. Hathaway shooed him away. He looked towards Watts and Tingley.

‘So Elaine has turned up under the West Pier, has she? I’m distressed to hear that.’

‘You don’t know why that would be?’

‘My distress? Because I cared about her.’

‘Why she should turn up there.’

Hathaway steepled his hands.

‘She was filming there. Perhaps you should be talking to the film people – and whichever actor was shagging her.’

‘I think you’re mixing up your years, John. She was filming there in 1968 but disappeared in 1969.’

‘That right?’

‘That’s right. Your father had premises at the end of the pier.’

‘An arcade and a shooting range, yes.’

Watts grimaced. Hathaway looked towards him.

‘Do you think we could assume we’re all adults here, Mr Hathaway?’

‘John. I thought we agreed on first names.’

‘John. You know what we’re asking. Was this something to do with your father?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘You can see our problem here. Your father was a known gangster. Elaine turns up in a bucket of cement, which tends to exclude the notion she committed suicide or was killed in a crime of passion-’

‘My father was not a gangster.’

Watts laughed.

‘OK, clearly we’re not all adults. Maybe it’s because we’re talking about your dad and that reduces you to infantilism. Do you want to call your blond bimbo for your potty?’

Hathaway measured Watts with a long look. Watts was up for a fight. Perhaps Hathaway sensed that.

‘It’s a long time ago, John. Your father is dead. We just want closure for Elaine.’

‘Closure? If only life were like that.’

‘It can be,’ Watts said.

‘Really? How’s your life since those people were shot in Milldean?’

Watts started to speak then stopped.

‘Things are going down the pan,’ Hathaway said. ‘It’s back to the old days. There was a moment, just a moment mind, when this city could have been great. It could have been among the great cities of the world. But no, small minds and local greed won out. I’m from a local family but I hate that this city is run by local families. Jesus, we have a leader of the council so thick he has to have somebody write a synopsis of committee reports so that he can understand them.’

‘There’s a rumour you were behind the firebombing of the West Pier.’

‘Really? And there’s a rumour you and Sarah Gilchrist are still fucking like rabbits. Care to comment?’

Watts flushed.

‘It’s not true.’

‘There you go, then. Rumours. What can you do with them? As I was saying, things are going down the pan. The Geary plan for the Lord Alfred Centre is gone – and there are a number of villains past and present who are grateful those foundations aren’t going to be dug up. Brighton Centre, that fucking seventies eyesore, that, if I was going to firebomb anything, would be top of my list, is now not going to be refurbished. And the West Pier, of course.’