Peter Guttridge - City of Dreadful Night

‘But you’re sure it was a phone.’ I sat back. ‘And you’re thinking that the man was in communication with someone outside.’

‘Not just anyone outside. A policeman, perhaps.’

‘Why would you think that?’

‘Just a feeling. And, if nothing else, there was a trigger-happy colleague on the outside.’

‘Why couldn’t he be in touch with whoever sounded that car horn?’

‘Yes – what was that about? An associate of the people in the house?’

‘Could it have been random?’

She shook her head and crossed her legs. I couldn’t help glancing. She noticed but continued:

‘The timing was too neat. It was a warning.’ She paused and tilted her head. ‘But I wonder who the warning was intended for? There’s no one I can talk to about it. If it was a set-up, I don’t know who I can trust. I’ve been waiting for the investigation but, as you know, it hasn’t really happened. I need to get more information.’

I walked behind the desk then looked back at her.

‘Are you saying that we didn’t raid the wrong house by mistake? That some person or persons unknown made sure we raided that particular house and that those people were the intended victims?’

‘Whoever was behind it wanted those people dead and he used the police to do it.’

‘I don’t buy it. Everyone in the armed response unit was in on it?’

‘Not everybody – just a couple – including Finch.’

‘But Foster was running the show – if what you suggest is true, he must have been in on it too. Why the suicide?’

‘If it was.’

‘You think someone has been going round knocking off the people who know exactly what happened that night?’

She nodded.

‘You think Edwards is dead, too?’

‘Or in hiding. And the same goes for the nark.’

‘He’s not been found yet?’

She shook her head.

‘Where can we take this?’ I said, coming round the desk. I moved over to her. I sensed her shrink back.

‘We need to talk to the Haywards Heath men but I don’t see how we can.’

‘I’ve got this friend – Jimmy Tingley. He can do it. He’s very good.’

‘You’ve mentioned him before.’

She looked at her watch and abruptly stood.

‘OK, then. I’d better go.’

‘I’ll call you when he’s got back to me,’ I said.

‘I’ll call you if I can find out anything more at work,’ she said, her hand already on the door knob.

‘Do,’ I said, before she fled from me.

Gilchrist felt like a teenager leaving like that. Watts confused her. She was determined there wouldn’t be a repeat of their one-night stand but she was drawn to him.

On a whim she decided to drive back into Brighton via the Milldean estate. She parked outside the pub and looked down the street to the house that had been the scene of the massacre. It seemed both an age ago and a matter of hours since she’d been crouching in the back garden.

She locked her car and went into the pub. A few heads turned as she entered but she ignored them. She approached the bar at the same time as a slender, unassuming man of middle height. He gestured for her to go first.

‘It’s OK,’ she said, ‘I haven’t decided what I want yet.’

The barman was burly with a big beer gut and forearms like hams.

‘Another rum and peppermint, please,’ the slender man said.

The barman looked him up and down.

‘Sure you’re in the right pub, love? This isn’t Kemp Town.’

‘A double.’

‘Big boy,’ the barman said with a grotesque pout.

There were two unshaven men standing at the bar. They sniggered. The man smiled but didn’t say anything. The barman made the drink and plopped the glass down heavily on the bar. The liquid shivered but didn’t spill. The man placed the exact amount of money on the bar, turned and went to sit by the window.

Gilchrist ordered a glass of wine, ignored the leering men and went to sit a few yards from the man. She wasn’t quite sure what she was doing here but she knew it was the local for at least one of the crime families.

A stocky, crop-headed man in his forties came in with a posse of four noisy youngsters. They all scoped the room.

‘All right, Mr Cuthbert,’ the barman said. The crop-headed man nodded and got into a huddle over the bar with him. The man who’d ordered the rum and peppermint went back up to the bar and put his glass down.

‘Another double when you have a minute.’

The man called Cuthbert glanced over. The barman straightened up.

‘Think you’ve had enough, don’t you, mate?’

‘I think I’ll take one more.’

‘You live here?’ Cuthbert said, staring straight ahead of him.

‘Near enough to walk.’

‘I was wondering why you’d come in here.’ He swept his arm out to take in the room. ‘It’s a pub for locals. Everybody knows everybody. That’s the way we like it.’

The man nodded.

‘That was a double, mind, not a single.’

The barman had stepped back and was standing in front of the rack of spirits and glasses. He flicked a look at Cuthbert.

‘As I was explaining,’ Cuthbert said, still not looking at the man, ‘everybody knows everybody. We’re like a family here.’

‘But this is a public house, not a club. And I am the public.’

He pushed the glass across the bar.

‘You can use the same glass.’

Cuthbert finally turned and as he did so the youngsters gathered in a loose semicircle around the mild-mannered man.

Shit. Gilchrist didn’t want to flash her warrant card in here, but if this turned out the way it looked like it was going to turn out, she would have to intervene. And probably get a good kicking in the process. She recognized Cuthbert’s name. He was a major Brighton villain. She cursed herself for coming in here, cursed the man for ordering such a ludicrous drink in a rough pub.

‘Are you dim?’ Cuthbert said, taking a step forward. ‘We don’t want you here. I don’t know what you’re looking for but, believe me, you ain’t going to find it here.’

‘I just want my drink for the road.’

Cuthbert looked at the barman and gave a quick nod.

‘On the house,’ he said.

‘You’re either the landlord or a leader of the community,’ the man said. ‘Did I hear your name is Cuthbert?’

‘Not that it’s any of your fucking business but, yes, it’s Cuthbert.’

‘I’m Jimmy Tingley.’ Tingley stuck out his hand. ‘And I’ve already heard all the jokes about my name.’

Gilchrist sat back in her chair. Jimmy Tingley. The man Bob Watts had mentioned. The way Watts had built Tingley up she was expecting Arnold Schwarzenegger, not this unassuming individual.

Cuthbert looked at Tingley’s hand, then at Tingley. Didn’t offer his own hand.

‘You’re one of the big three on the estate,’ Tingley said, withdrawing his hand.

‘I am?’

‘You are.’

Tingley looked at the youths, who had stepped in closer.

‘It would be great to talk to you privately.’

‘About?’

‘What goes on here.’

‘And why would you be interested.’

Tingley moved closer.

‘I need your help.’

Cuthbert tilted his head.

‘Get his bag, Russell.’

A young man with a pockmarked face loped over to the table Tingley had been sitting at and picked up a slender bag. As he took it back over to Cuthbert, he rooted in it and came out with a newspaper and a collapsible umbrella. He peered in the bag and passed it to Cuthbert.

‘That’s it.’

Gilchrist was back on the edge of her seat. Tingley remained impassive.

‘What’s this?’ the pockmarked youth said, fiddling with the umbrella. Suddenly it sprang open. The youths laughed as he waved it around.