Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

‘No – but I have been wondering lately.’

The doorbell rang. Hathaway’s mother answered the door. It was Sean Reilly. His father stood and shook hands with Reilly.

‘You’re looking fit.’

‘You too.’

Hathaway stood awkwardly and also shook Reilly’s hand whilst his father poured another whisky.

‘Irish, I hope,’ Reilly said.

‘Irish-Canadian,’ Hathaway’s father said, handing the glass to Reilly.

They all sat.

‘Son, as you may know, not everything I do is exactly above board. But then I don’t know an honest man who doesn’t try to fool the taxman if he can. I’m no exception.’

‘I don’t blame you,’ Hathaway said, though he really didn’t know anything about tax.

Hathaway’s father and Reilly exchanged a look.

‘I thought you might want to join the family firm. It would be management-level entry for you, so to speak.’

‘Yeah, but, Dad, I’ve got a job. The group.’

Dennis Hathaway looked at his son for a moment.

‘We’re going to go all the way.’

‘I’m sure you are, son, I’m sure you are. But, in the meantime, help your old man out a bit. You’d get a proper salary. Cash in hand, of course. And frankly the way you splash out on clothes and the latest gizmos you can always use money.’

‘I don’t know, Dad. What exactly would you want me to do?’

‘Nothing much at this stage. But I just wanted an in principle agreement with you at this stage.’

‘An in principle agreement?’ Hathaway said.

His father laughed.

‘I heard the leader of the council say it once. I’ve no idea what it means.’

Hathaway’s mother and father had decided on a welcome home New Year party that night. ‘Invite your friends,’ his mum had said, but none of the group was on the telephone and he didn’t have any friends locally. He didn’t think the invite included Barbara.

Caterers arrived late afternoon. Hathaway went up to his room whilst they took over downstairs and thought about what to say to his father about Barbara. He hadn’t imagined there would be a problem, even though Barbara worked for the family business.

The family business. He wondered exactly what else that business entailed.

The party was a boisterous affair. Hathaway was surprised that his parents, after a six-months absence, had got so many people there, on New Year’s Day, at such short notice.

As usual, the women gathered in the kitchen whilst the men stayed together in the main rooms. There were loud voices but also lots of murmured conversations in quiet corners. The Great Train Robbers were a main feature of conversation among the men.

Hathaway observed his parents’ guests as if for the first time. There were a number of hearty but tough-looking men, bursting out of their suits.

He was standing by the radiogram helping his father change the record when Reilly came over.

‘The twins are here,’ Reilly murmured. Dennis Hathaway looked over the heads of the people around him.

‘Better treat them like royalty, I suppose. Who’s that with them?’

‘McVicar. Nasty piece of work from some south Peckham slum.’

‘Come on, Johnny,’ Dennis Hathaway turned to his son. ‘Time you met some big-time villains. They think.’

Hathaway looked over at the two stocky men in identical, boxy grey suits. He’d seen their photos in the newspapers, usually surrounded by cabaret people or minor film stars. He followed his father and Reilly over.

‘Gentlemen, an unexpected pleasure.’

‘As we were down here,’ one of the twins said, though Hathaway didn’t know which one was which.

‘This is my son, John,’ Dennis Hathaway said.

McVicar looked him up and down.

‘Tall, ain’t he? Hope you’ve killed your milkman.’ He laughed loudly. Dennis Hathaway smiled thinly, the twins not at all. Hathaway smiled politely but had already taken a dislike to the man.

‘So you’re down on business,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘If there’s anything I can help you with…’

The twins just looked at him.

‘Right, then, let me introduce you around.’

‘Before you do that, please allow me to say hello,’ a voice said.

They all turned to look at the tall, slender man who had just arrived, accompanied by a much broader man of similar height. Both men were in their fifties, Hathaway judged, and both wore sports jackets and slacks.

‘Chief Constable, glad you could make it,’ Dennis Hathaway said to the thinner of the two. ‘Gentlemen, this is the newly appointed Chief Constable Philip Simpson, who has brought law and order to the whole of Sussex after the bad behaviour of our previous chief constable, Charles Ridge. These men are-’

‘They hardly need an introduction. I even know Mr McVicar there – by repute that is.’ The chief constable indicated the man standing beside him. ‘This is an old friend – a bobby turned best-selling writer. Donald Watts – though you might know him by his pen name, Victor Tempest.’

Hathaway looked at the man with interest. Victor Tempest. He’d read a couple of his books. Pretty good thrillers.

‘So you served together?’ Dennis Hathaway said. Tempest nodded.

‘Back in the thirties.’ He pointed at Hathaway. ‘Neither of us much older than the lad here.’

The twins and McVicar were scowling at Tempest and the Chief Constable.

‘Couldn’t you get an honest job?’ McVicar said. He had a sneering way of talking. The twins remained expressionless. ‘Were you bent?’

Tempest was a few inches taller than McVicar. He reached out and placed his hand on the McVicar’s right shoulder.

‘Amusing bloke, aren’t you?’ he said.

Hathaway wasn’t sure quite what happened next. He saw Tempest give McVicar’s shoulder a little squeeze and the man cried out and reeled away, clutching at his upper arm. Tempest gave a nod in the general direction of the twins and Hathaway’s father, and made a beeline for a group of women by the window.

McVicar, flexing his right hand and still gripping his bicep, glared at Tempest’s back. Reilly took a step to block McVicar’s way as the London gangster started after Tempest. One of the twins put an arm out and flashed McVicar a cold look.

Hathaway saw that the chief constable had quietly separated from the group. Dennis Hathaway grinned and started to move away:

‘Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen.’ He glanced at Hathaway. ‘Come on, son, time you helped your mother in the kitchen.’

Hathaway’s father murmured to him as he led him away:

‘London hoodlums. No bloody manners.’

Hathaway got trapped in the corner of the kitchen by two of his mother’s friends, one of whom kept reaching up to ruffle his hair. His mum was chattering on, not really caring who was listening.

‘We were having a nice lunch when we heard the President had been assassinated. Terrible. Ever such a nice restaurant overlooking the beach. That Lee Harvey Oswald – how could he do that to such a good-looking man?’

Hathaway noticed McVicar in the kitchen doorway, ogling the younger women. He was still rubbing his arm.

When Hathaway went back into the main room he drifted towards Reilly and his father. They were standing with a small group of men that included the twins. They were talking about the Great Train Robbers. Hathaway had been following the reports avidly. Over the past few months a number of men had been arrested. There were nine in custody.

A Brighton man Hathaway vaguely knew was saying:

‘I saw the smudges in the paper. Didn’t do Buster any favours, mind.’ Hathaway remembered seeing the Wanted photo for a Ronald ‘Buster’ Edwards in the newspaper back in September. ‘But did you hear what happened to Gordon?’