Peter Guttridge - City of Dreadful Night

‘And that is certainly not the kind of language we tolerate in first class. In fact, we may have to reconsider whether we fly you at all.’

Kate was crimson as she looked quickly from side to side to see where she could stand unnoticed. The man behind the counter pointed dramatically at some chairs off to the left.

‘Please,’ he said, his voice quavering almost parodically as he tried to do fierce. ‘Kindly go and wait over there. If we allow you to travel, you will be informed later.’

Both her mother and father stood in front of him, unmoving. When she had replayed this event in her memory as she got older, she had remembered nuances or suddenly realized things (or perhaps fictionalized things). Like the fact the man behind the counter was gay. Her memory had stored that unassimilated at the time, not totally understanding what was going on but like an animal aware of the atmosphere.

It was typical of her parents that not only did they get the upgrade, but the man also ended up apologizing to them for the ‘misunderstanding’.

In the nineties she was watching TV one night and recognized with an embarrassed jolt her parents on the news. It wasn’t her parents but it might as well have been. Hand-held camera footage of Neil and Christine Hamilton bearing down on the Man in the White Suit when he was announcing he was standing against Hamilton in a by-election. The same arrogant attitude; the same self-righteousness; the same hard faces. That was her parents at their worst.

By then her father was inside New Labour and her mother was riding on his coat-tails to write high-profile pieces for the qualities.

She didn’t mean to be so bitchy about her mum. There was just something about her – always had been. Again, things heard but not understood until much later. Kate sitting on the stripped pine stairs whilst a raucous dinner party went on below.

‘Oh, God.’ Her mum’s voice loud, brittle and bored. ‘I suppose that means I’m going to have to give you a blow job tonight.’

So where did that leave Kate? Why didn’t it bleed down into her? The genes were there. Was her anti-competitiveness simply a resistance to the obvious, or some perverse version of the same impulse? Could she deny her genes? She guessed she had little to do with it.

She’d avoided going into journalism, though that was the easy option. She looked around and the newspapers were full of kids of famous people. Had they no shame? She accepted that if they couldn’t write, they wouldn’t be there. But she also accepted that there were hundreds of other journalists who could write just as well, or much better, but didn’t have the inside track. She avoided taking advantage of her parents’ connections, those newspaper deals made over lunch and dinner with editors and publishers. She reacted against it. Hence her local radio gig. Was she shooting herself in the foot?

She sighed, picked up the diary – and did a double take.

Monday 9th July

The victim’s head has been found.

Her mobile phone rang. She checked the number. Answered.

‘Kate, it’s Bob Watts. Wondered if you wanted to meet to discuss the Trunk Murder with me and a serving police officer.’

‘They found the head!’ she said.

‘I take it that’s a yes.’

They agreed to meet in the Hotel du Vin in two hours’ time. Kate idly wondered who the serving policeman was but was eager to find out more about the head. She read on.

Actually, it was found back on 10th June before we’d even found the trunk in the left luggage office. The story would be farcical if it weren’t so tragic.

A young couple from a lodging house in Baker Street had gone for a walk on the rocks under the cliff at Black Rock on Sunday 10th June. It was about 4 p.m. The tide was out. Ina crevice where a pool of water had collected, they saw pieces of newspaper clotted with blood. They were wrapped round a female human head.

I went with Hutch and Pelling to interview them.

The girl – pretty but shy and inarticulate – said she had wanted to pull it from the water but the young man wouldn’t let her. They had left it there.

‘ Why wouldn’t you let her?’ Pelling asked, puzzled.

The young man, Fred, was pimply, slope-shouldered, with a dusting of dandruff on his shoulders. He shifted in his seat.

‘ Dunno. ’

The girl, Barbara, said: ‘Fred thought some person had committed suicide by throwing themselves from the cliff above and that the police -’ she looked round quickly at the officers around her – ‘having taken away the remains they required, had swept the other parts into the sea. ’

We all looked at the young man. I’m sure we all thought the same. Halfwit. He seemed to shrink in his seat.

At least they hadn’t kept it entirely to themselves. They’d mentioned it to their landlady and Fred had told his boss. However, we only found out about it when Fred mentioned it to one of his employer’s customers. The customer had realized the significance of the information when news of the torso murder appeared in the press.

Hutch decided the girl and the boy should each be separately taken to Black Rock. I stayed with the young man whilst they took the girl to show them the pool.

I didn’t attempt any conversation with him. I’m not a snob, but what would we have to talk about? As a matter of fact, I was irritated not only by the fact he had been such an idiot but also by his relationship with the girl – what could such a pretty girl see in him?

They brought her back and left her with me while they took the man out to Black Rock. They were gone a couple of hours. I took full advantage of their absence. The girl proved not to be so shy after all.

Their stories matched exactly, but by now there was no head in the pool.

Jimmy Tingley phoned.

‘Just checking in,’ he said. ‘No real developments my end. You?’

‘Nothing here,’ I said, glancing across at Gilchrist, feet up on the sofa, frowning as she speed-read the files, occasionally jotting down notes. ‘Have you been able to check out the Haywards Heath guys yet?’

‘I’m certain they’re dirty but I haven’t got close yet. Do you want to meet?’

‘I’m coming into town for a little get-together to discuss the Brighton Trunk Murder shortly.’

There was a pause on the line.

‘First or second?’ he finally said.

‘You know about them, then – want to join us and then we can have another chat after?’

He agreed and I put the phone down. Gilchrist was looking steadily at me. I smiled and she smiled back, then dropped her gaze back to the files.

Kate arrived first at the Hotel du Vin. A sudden gust of wind just as she stepped off of Ship Street ballooned her skirt out and up, earning a whistle and a few grunts from some builders on the other side of the lane. She went to the loo to comb her hair and sort her make-up, then settled herself on one of the sofas that ran along the wall to the side of the bar. She sipped her wine and gazed up at the rafters far above.

Watts walked in accompanied by a tall woman about ten years older than Kate, with broad shoulders and a long stride. He flashed a big smile as he walked over to Kate whilst the woman deftly checked out the room. She nodded at a man at the bar. Kate glanced across. She hadn’t noticed the unassuming man sitting there but now he slipped off the bar stool and walked across to them, carrying a coloured drink in his hand.

Watts made the introductions. Kate tried not to react when she heard Sarah Gilchrist’s name – she read the tabloids. She tried not to give her the once-over but, of course, she did. Gilchrist was attractive and had a strength about her. Kate was surprised to see her with Watts. She’d assumed it had been a one-night stand. Were they actually having an affair? She recalled that other wine glass in Watts’s bungalow.