Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

‘We’re just trying to find out about Elaine.’

Hathaway leaned forward.

‘I know you won’t believe this but I am a sentimental man. An emotional man. Over the years I’ve thought a lot about Elaine. I’ve imagined her safe in some ashram all this time or living in Australia or America, settled with a family.’

He rubbed his face.

‘But here she is in the ocean under the West Pier in a block of cement.’

Tingley and Watts glanced at each other, then both focused on Hathaway.

‘It’s a sea, not an ocean,’ Watts said. ‘And where her remains were found I’m not sure that even constitutes a sea, it was so near the shore. More like the basement of your dad’s place really. But thank you for your time. We can see you’re upset. Perhaps we can come back on another occasion to discuss her diary.’

Hathaway raised his head.

‘Her diary?’

‘Oh yes. Didn’t we say? It goes up, presumably, right to the day of her death. She was a good writer. Lyrical. Factual too, though. Very factual.’

‘How have you got it?’

‘Now that’s a funny story. You probably thought you’d cleared her place out after you killed her.’

Hathaway stood.

‘I didn’t kill her.’

‘Really? Didn’t take some cold-blooded revenge when she went off with these actors? Didn’t see it as a slight on your manhood?’

‘I’m not like that.’

‘She was living in a flat owned by your father, wasn’t she?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Yes, you do. Forty Kemp Street. Next door to the house where Mancini killed his mistress in the 1930s, though they renumbered the street to stop the ghouls gawking at the house. The second Brighton Trunk Murder. Famous in its day. He did it and got off. Remarkable. He confessed to a newspaper early in the sixties. You might remember.’

‘I do, actually. And my father remembered him doing a music hall show in the late thirties and forties in very poor taste. It was based around killing women – sawing them in half, that kind of thing. Played on the same bill as Max Miller. You’re too young to remember Max Miller.’

‘I’ve seen the statue in town.’

‘My father’s favourite. He was that cut up when Miller died. Could quote his act almost word for word. Did not a bad impression, too. “I was on this narrow ledge. Very narrow. And coming the other way was this beautiful girl. Very beautiful. So beautiful, I tell you, I didn’t know whether to block her passage or toss myself off.”’ Tingley smiled. ‘ “’Ere, you’ve got a dirty mind you have, mister.” ’

‘Not a bad impersonator yourself, John,’ Watts said.

‘You should have heard my Peter Sellers doing Laurence Olivier reciting A Hard Day’s Night.’

Watts frowned.

‘You had to be there. In the sixties, I mean.’

‘I thought if you remembered the sixties you weren’t really there?’ Watts said.

‘Exactly my point, Bob, exactly my point. You’re asking me these questions but how am I supposed to remember?’

‘You’re not doing too badly,’ Tingley said. ‘We know where Elaine lived because she was a civic-minded young woman. She registered to vote when she was twenty-one. Her name showed up on the electoral register for the property. We can’t find you, though. Not so interested in politics? Or wanting to keep under the radar?’

Hathaway had a far away look on his face.

‘I remember the diary. Used to carry it with her everywhere. Always scribbling in it. She had a thing about Anais Nin.’

Hathaway looked at their blank faces.

‘I had no idea who she was either. Wife of a businessman in Paris, wanted to be a writer. Hung out with Henry Miller – the dirty writer? His lover apparently. Her husband was loaded and she took his money and slept around. Nice. Did the rounds, though, I think. She wrote porn herself – you know, female porn. Arty farty. And she kept this diary. There were volumes of them – must have been millions of words. All about her and what she was up to in Paris. Elaine was doing American studies and I think three of these volumes were part of her reading list. Anyway, Elaine started to keep her own diary in this big book. More like a series of big books, actually. How have you got hold of it?’

‘Cat woman came to our rescue,’ Watts said with a grin.

Hathaway looked from one to the other.

‘I’ve no idea what that means but I assume the diary is how you ended up with me.’

‘Actually, no. It was through the band you were in – the three-piece suite.’

Hathaway laughed.

‘Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,’ he said good-naturedly. ‘Who told you about that? It’s true. Billy, our bass player, came up with the name. Didn’t tell us for years where it came from. We were so pissed off, especially as, by then, that whole Avalon and Grail thing was part of the zeitgeist.’

‘The zeitgeist?’

‘I know a few big words, Bob. You don’t get to where I am without a brain.’

‘Seems your band was pretty good.’

‘The funny thing is we were pretty good.’

‘Why is that funny?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Come on, John. Share, since we’re getting along so well.’

Hathaway pointed back at one of the guitars on the wall.

‘That was my very first. A Rosetti. Sounds crap now but at the time… well, actually, it sounded crap then. Then my dad bought me a Fender Stratocaster.’

He nodded to himself.

‘My dad. I didn’t know for ages we were only getting gigs because my dad was leaning on publicans and club owners. It saved him giving me money if I was earning it myself, you see. So we thought we were great when actually we were rubbish. But as time went on we did get better. Very much better. Dan could really sing. Charlie the drummer, despite all the jokes about drummers, never screwed up the beat, however drugged-up he was. Billy had a really fluid bass line. Then Tony joined us on rhythm guitar. He could play anything.’

‘And you?’

‘Me?’ Hathaway looked wistful. ‘I could carry a tune.’

‘So what happened? You seem to have disappeared off the music scene around the same time that Elaine disappeared for good.’

‘There’s no connection.’

‘No?’

Hathaway sat forward in his chair.

‘No. The band split up because of – what do they say? – creative differences. Five guys with big egos – it’s surprising we stayed together so long.’

‘What happened to the others?’

‘You don’t know?’

Watts shook his head.

‘Billy turned out to be a poof and moved to San Francisco to be with others like him.’ Hathaway caught Tingley’s look. ‘I know. If he’d waited in Brighton a few years he could have saved himself the plane fare. Got involved in gay politics with that bloke Harvey Milk. Died in the gay plague.’ Hathaway looked at the ceiling. ‘Had quite a life journey, our Billy. Always the quiet one.’ Hathaway tapped his head. ‘But a lot going on in here.’

‘The others?’

‘Dan stayed in the music business and did pretty well. He had a good voice and he started writing songs. Ended up in the States. Hung out with the Brits – Graham Nash, Terry Reid – that crowd. We knew Graham from when he’d been in The Hollies – we’d played support a couple of times. Good bloke. Got friendly with Graham’s old lady, Joni Mitchell, and Stephen Stills, Dave Crosby, Neil Young. Couple of minor hit albums, lot of session work doing backing vocals. Later he used to play footie with Rod Stewart’s team.’

‘And now?’

‘He went into record producing then Al Stewart – no relation to Rod, this was the Year of the Cat guy – advised him to get into the wine business. Al had got some vineyards for himself – so Dan bought himself a winery up in the Napa Valley. Got in at just the right time. Does pretty well. We’re still in touch. Sends me a case of a rather special Merlot every Christmas. You can try a glass if you like next time you’re over at the house – you seem to be regular visitors.’