Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

‘Then I’ll be the last king of Brighton. And after me – the dark ages all over again.’

‘Oh, they weren’t as dark as people think.’

‘These will be. But why are you sticking your noses in this? I thought you were trying to find out who killed Elaine Trumpler.’

‘And what happened to the West Pier,’ Watts said. ‘And Laurence Kingston.’

Hathaway stepped back from the two men.

‘Kingston? I thought he was a suicide? Probably in a hissy fit. He was that kind of guy.’

‘He may have been murdered. The crime scene guys will move it along.’

‘Who would have killed him?’

‘We were thinking you might have. You had a meeting with him the week before, didn’t you?’

Hathaway moved back to his chair.

‘He was in a funk. Wanted to back out of a deal we were doing.’

‘Good motive for murder.’

‘Please. I persuaded him to hold firm.’ He looked up at the two men. ‘But you two can’t be investigating that – that must be an ongoing police investigation.’

‘I’ve been retained by the West Pier Syndicate to look at recent events.’

Hathaway smiled.

‘Should I start calling you Marlowe, ex-Chief Constable?’

Tingley had drifted over to the desk. He picked up the little red book.

‘What’s this? The thoughts of Mao Tse-tung.’ He looked inside. ‘First printing, 1966. Wow. Bet this is worth something.’

‘They printed ninety million so I doubt it.’

‘Didn’t take you for a Maoist, John.’

‘It was a gift,’ Hathaway said. ‘From Elaine Trumpler. There’s an inscription somewhere in the middle of the book. She hid it there so she could check I’d actually read it. Thought you might want it as evidence.’

Tingley closed the book and put it back on the desk.

‘You’re going to need to give us more than that.’

Hathaway frowned.

‘I don’t need to give you anything at all.’

In Tingley’s car Watts said:

‘Can he do it?’

‘Not a chance in hell. These guys are unstoppable. The police will have to come to an accommodation with them as they have in London. I saw the same thing in Israel in the nineties. Hundreds of thousands of Russian Jews took Israeli citizenship. They included a lot of criminals so they could get easy access to the West. They brought drugs and prostitution to Israel. They thrive and the Israeli cops turn a blind eye as long as they don’t take the violence out of their own communities. If the Israelis can’t deal with them we don’t stand a chance.’

When the two men had left, the woman who had withdrawn to the kitchen walked in on Hathaway. He was standing by the window, looking out. He had a mojito in his hand, she had a diet cola in hers.

‘I’d kill for you,’ she said matter-of-factly.

He didn’t respond.

‘I’d kill for you,’ she repeated, touching the side of his face.

Hathaway turned and raised his glass to her.

‘You said that. I hope it won’t be necessary. But thank you, Barbara, thank you.’

Hathaway made some calls then took his boat over to France later that day. Barbara came with him. She observed him on the crossing. She’d thrived in his home. Relaxed. She knew he was on the lookout for drug use but there was none. She thought he recognized that she was devoted to him.

It was odd for her that she’d slept with both father and son. Odd but not significant, given all the other men she’d slept with in all kinds of combinations. Odder was the fact that she’d forgiven him for abandoning her. All she could think was that in the scale of things he had still treated her better than anyone else. He was the only one who had genuinely cared for her, even if only for a little while.

He’d been astonished when she’d turned up on his doorstep three months earlier. Astonished and cruel. Her sister had died and left her some money, and she’d come back to see the lawyer.

Unusually, Hathaway had actually answered the door himself.

‘Hello, young man,’ she said cautiously.

It took him a moment to recognize her. She had lost a lot of weight over the years. She recalled the last time he’d seen her, hurrying down the police station corridors after him.

‘Barbara, a long time. I thought you were dead.’

‘Didn’t bother to find out, though, did you?’ she said, without bitterness.

He stood aside to let her enter. She stopped in front of him and looked up into his face.

‘Still got my looks, though, wouldn’t you say?’

She grinned revealing artificially white false teeth.

‘What the fuck happened to you?’ he said. ‘You’re a fucking mess.’

She reared back then leaned in, hissing:

‘You mean before or after your father sold me to a brothel in The Hague? Before or after the heroin they stuffed into me to make me compliant? Before or after stag parties did what they wanted with me? What happened to me? Your father. Then cancer. They took my tits but left me alive.’

He couldn’t keep the disgust from his face.

‘Christ,’ he said sourly.

She saw his look.

‘Yeah, that’s right. Blame the victim. If it makes you feel better, you were my first trick.’

‘What?’

‘You think I slept with you for your baby blues?’

He looked down.

‘Actually, you didn’t care why I slept with you. You only cared that I slept with you.’

‘So you blame my father for everything.’

‘He made us both what we’ve become.’

‘We make our own destinies.’

‘Is that right? So, if you hadn’t seen your father beat somebody to death and oversee the murder of your girlfriend you would still have turned out a right bastard would you?’

‘That’s right. I was a bastard long before those things happened.’

She shrugged.

‘I don’t really care. I’m just saying.’

She clasped her hands in front of her, veins standing out on arms and neck.

‘Do you want something from me?’ he said. ‘Money? A flat? A fuck, for old times’ sake.’

‘I’ve had enough fucks to last three lifetimes and then some.’

‘Good, because that bit was a joke. I don’t fuck senior citizens.’

She stepped away from him.

‘Jesus,’ he hissed. He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m just being honest. I thought women valued honesty.’

‘Personally,’ she said faintly, ‘I think truth is much overrated.’

‘Let me give you money.’

‘I need money but not from you.’

‘What, then?’

‘Such a lot of things.’ Sadness behind her words. ‘Don’t you wish we could have another try? Do it better? Different.’

Hathaway gave her a look.

‘I don’t mean you and me. I mean life. By the time you realize you’ve only got one shot, it’s already too late. You, above all people, know that.’

‘It would have turned out the same way for me whatever.’

‘You keep saying that.’ She picked at a scab on her bare arm. ‘I think you’re hard on yourself.’

‘Do you? Do you? You have no idea what things I’ve done.’

‘I think you were fundamentally changed in those teenage years.’

He patted her arm.

‘Nah. I found myself.’

She went and sat down on the sofa. She looked up at him.

‘Does that mean you’re happy?’

‘Are you? You look fucking dreadful so I can’t imagine there’s much happiness in your life.’

‘Actually, Riley’s been after me.’

‘Riley?’

‘Yes. Wants his life back.’

It took him a moment. He laughed. Then:

‘Stay here.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t mean in my bed. I already said. But there are lots of rooms in this house. Empty rooms. Choose one. Stay here.’

‘And do what? The cleaning?’