Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

It was snowing by the time they finished the gig so progress back into Brighton was slow. Once they’d dipped down off the Downs, Hathaway said:

‘Kevin an old friend, is he?’

‘More of an ex-friend, really. Not his fault. Just bad memories.’

The others glanced at each other but nobody said anything.

Charlie filled the silence:

‘My little brother died. Kevin and me were kind of implicated.’

Again nobody said anything until Hathaway said:

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Yeah,’ the other two said, almost in unison.

They drove on past Falmer on their left.

‘We seem to be losing gigs,’ Dan said. ‘Don’t the pubs like the music?’

‘I think it’s to do with my dad,’ Hathaway said. ‘And his arrangements with the pubs for the one-armed bandits’

‘What do you mean?’ Charlie said, as a car overtook and pulled abruptly in front of him. It slowed, forcing Charlie to crunch his brakes.

‘Idiot,’ he muttered.

Hathaway said:

‘The pubs that aren’t using us are the pubs that aren’t using my dad’s machines any more. When he was away, they went elsewhere.’

‘Hang on,’ Charlie said. ‘Does that mean we’re getting these gigs in the first place because your father has influence? That it has nothing to do with talent?’

‘I think the link with Dad helps,’ Hathaway said.

Charlie was getting agitated.

‘I’m not getting this. I’m a bloody good drummer. That fucking Ringo Starr doesn’t compare-’ He pressed his foot hard on the brake again. ‘What the hell is going on here?’

The car in front now had a flashing light on its roof and its hazard lights winking as it slowed down even more. Hathaway looked in the side mirror.

‘There’s a cop car behind us too. Panda.’

‘If it’s trouble, I don’t want any tonight,’ Charlie said, crashing the gears.

The car in front guided them into a lay-by. The car behind followed.

‘What the hell do the rozzers want?’ Charlie said.

Four plain-clothes coppers spilled out of the unmarked car in front. Two bulky coppers came out of the panda. One of the plain-clothes cops wrenched open the passenger door and waved a warrant card at the occupants. He took a deep breath and breathed out.

‘I’m smelling something illegal. You darkies in disguise, are you?’

The back door of the van was wrenched open.

‘What do you know – it’s a bloody pop group.’

This from a red-faced, sour-mouthed sergeant whose white helmet scarcely fitted his enormous head.

‘What’s the problem?’ Dan said.

‘I think you want to say “Sir”.’

‘He definitely wants to say “Sir”.’ Another copper loomed behind the first. He too sniffed loudly. ‘Smells like the casbah in here – or Notting Hill. Want to get out and empty your pockets, gents?

Hathaway looked around at what was going on. He wasn’t worried about drugs – though they’d heard about cannabis, none of the band had tried it yet – he was curious about the reason for the police picking on them.

‘What do you want?’ Charlie said to the plain-clothes man.

‘We have reason to believe there are drugs in this vehicle and we therefore intend to search it.’

‘We don’t do drugs,’ Dan said. ‘But feel free to search.’

The policeman cocked an eye into the back of the van.

‘Bit of a clutter back there. You’d better get your stuff out.’

‘Our stuff?’

‘All of it.’

The snow turned to sleet halfway through the unloading of the vehicle. The policemen in uniform and the plain-clothes coppers were standing at the side of the road under the shelter of the trees.

‘Bastards,’ Charlie muttered as he lugged the big amps out. When the van was empty and the sleet had become rain that was really pelting down, the policemen gave it a cursory glance.

‘OK – our mistake. On your way.’

‘Are you going to help us put the stuff back in – it’s pissing it down.’

‘Language,’ the red-faced sergeant said, wagging his finger. ‘That’s not our job, lads. We’re crime-busters.’ He touched a finger to his helmet. ‘Evening all. Oh and sonny -’ he pointed his finger at Hathaway – ‘tell your dad Sergeant Finch says hello.’

Hathaway and the others watched them go as the rain rattled on their gear.

Charlie was looking for something – or somebody – to kick.

‘Fucking bastards!’ He turned on Hathaway. ‘So we’ve got your dad to thank for this. Again.’

Billy and Dan looked away.

‘And for a gig with Duane Eddy when he comes to Brighton.’

Charlie gave a double take.

‘You’re bloody kidding me!’

Hathaway grinned.

‘I’m serious. One of my dad’s contacts.’

Charlie did a little jig. The other two looked bemused.

‘Do you think we could talk about it out of the rain?’ Billy said.

‘Supporting Duane Eddy,’ Charlie said. ‘Well, this is it. The start of the big time.’

‘It’s only supporting,’ Hathaway said. ‘We’re not topping the bill with him.’

‘And he is past his best,’ Dan said.

‘Bugger off. I suppose you think the Everlys are over the hill.’

Charlie started putting stuff back into the van.

‘Well, I’d like to meet your dad – he obviously moves in interesting circles. One minute he’s pally with the rozzers, the next they’re pulling us over.’

Hathaway was thinking the same thing.

On the Bank Holiday weekend, Hathaway went with Dan, Billy and Charlie on to the Palace Pier. The smell of hot dogs, chips, burgers and candy floss thickened the air. After the dodgems and the rifle range, they queued for the helter-skelter, mats in hand.

‘Did you read about that bloke Tony Mancini?’ Dan said. ‘Confessed that he did it.’

‘Did what?’ Charlie said, watching a couple of girls eating candy floss walk by.

Hathaway was watching an old woman hobbling along in a headscarf with a see-through plastic rain hat over it. It was a bright, sunny day.

‘He’s the Brighton Trunk Murderer,’ Hathaway said. ‘Killed his mistress in 1934, stuck her in a trunk that he carted around for six weeks. She was a prossie, he was her pimp. Went to trial in Lewes and got off. Now he’s admitted he did it.’

The others looked at him.

‘What? All I did was read the paper.’

‘There were two Trunk Murders, though, John,’ a voice from the other side of the cordon beside the queue said.

It was Sean Reilly, in his cavalry twill and check sports jacket.

‘The first was never solved. Victim never identified because her head and arms were missing, so the killer was never tracked down.’

‘Mr Reilly-’

‘Sean.’

‘You’re on the wrong pier, aren’t you?’

Reilly smiled.

‘Business meeting.’ He looked at Hathaway’s friends. ‘These gents are the rest of your group, aren’t they?’

‘Meet The Avalons,’ Charlie said, gesturing at the others. ‘Supporting Duane Eddy soon.’

Reilly nodded.

‘I heard. And I believe my living-room suite has the same name.’

The boys looked at him, then at Billy, who was blushing furiously. Reilly caught their looks. ‘It’s a superior sort of suite, mind.’

He nodded to Billy, Charlie and Dan.

‘Gents. I’m Sean Reilly. I work with John’s father. Enjoy yourselves.’

He waved them off as the queue shuffled forward.

‘I thought we were named after some King Arthur thing,’ Charlie hissed at Billy. ‘But we’re named after a fucking settee?’

‘And two armchairs,’ Billy said.

The others looked at him, then Dan said:

‘Well, that accounts for three of us – what’s the other one?’