Peter Guttridge - City of Dreadful Night

‘I could have told them that last night,’ Tingley said. ‘You and your hard head.’

‘Somebody got the number plates, but the van will be stolen or the plates will be cloned,’ I said. ‘And I didn’t get a look at the man who said the message was from him.’

‘Did anyone else?’

‘Apparently not – baseball cap pulled low – you know.’

‘At least for once it was the appropriate headgear,’ Tingley said.

After a moment I smiled and gingerly touched the lump on the back of my head.

‘I’ve got stuff to tell you,’ Tingley said. ‘But not here.’

‘I’ll be discharged later this morning.’

I winced again.

‘Let’s meet at The Cricketers.’ Tingley said. ‘But soft drinks for you.’

‘Will I like what you have to say?’

Tingley waggled his hand.

‘Etsy ketsy,’ he said.

‘Which is Greek to me,’ I said.

‘I’ll see you at one.’

Gilchrist and Reg Williamson were on their way to Lewes Prison to take a new statement from Gary Parker.

‘On the direct orders of Sheena Hewitt, eh?’ Williamson said as they drove out of Brighton. ‘The deal must have been done. Wonder what the scumbag is being offered.’

‘I don’t know, Reg. There isn’t much room for manoeuvre.’ Gilchrist was excited, as she hoped Parker might have some real news for her.

‘You’re kidding, Sarah. They’ll go the temporary insanity route, he’ll be put in some country club loonie bin, get tested in a couple of years and come out in three.’

‘Well, he was under the influence of a lot of drugs,’ Gilchrist said.

‘The guy’s a scumbag born and bred.’

‘Reg, can I ask – do you think those awareness courses you’ve taken have been working?’

Ten minutes later, Gilchrist was tending to agree with him.

Parker was looking even unhealthier than the last time she’d seen him. His face was puffy and sallow, almost green, and his eyes were sunk into their sockets. His mouth was even filthier too.

‘You know what I discovered?’ he said. ‘I discovered that poncey people like cock and twat as much as the rest of us.’ He sniffed. ‘Actually, they love it more.’

Parker’s solicitor was sitting beside him. He was a harassed man in an ill-fitting pinstripe suit. He stared at the table as Parker was talking.

‘Is that your news?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Next you’ll be telling me there are gays in Brighton.’

Parker sniggered.

‘Well, it’s arse bandits I’m talking about. Easy money to be made down at Black Rock. Fucking perverts turning up, cock in one hand, roll of twenties in the other.’

‘You’re saying you’ve been a rent boy?’ Gilchrist said.

‘Stick it up your tight arse. I’ve kicked their fucking heads in, pissed on them, then taken their money is what I’ve done. Easy bloody money.’

Gilchrist’s mind wandered for a moment. Black Rock was where the head of the Trunk Murder victim had been found, then lost again. Then and now there were posh apartments above. Now there was also a lot of nocturnal activity in the bushes below. It was a well-known cottaging place, but Gilchrist hadn’t heard much about gay-bashing there. She guessed it was the closet gays who were being attacked. They weren’t going to report it.

‘What has gay-bashing got to do with Little Stevie and the Milldean thing?’

Parker started jiggling his leg but said nothing.

‘I thought we were supposed to be moving forward in this meeting.’ Gilchrist addressed herself to the lawyer. He adjusted his glasses on his nose and looked from her to Parker. Parker didn’t know which nervous tic to focus on. He was actually quivering. Gilchrist knew he was being given methadone and other medication to help his withdrawal from the cocktail of drugs and booze he’d been living on for years.

Parker chewed at his finger.

‘Bloke I was at school with. Bunked off school with, really. We was mates. Turns out he takes it up the bum. Likes chugging it too.’

‘Little Stevie.’

Parker looked at Gilchrist.

‘You’ve got a mouth on you – bet you’ve chugged a few in your time. Will you chug me?’

‘Mr Parker,’ the lawyer said quietly.

‘That must have messed you up,’ Williamson snarled. ‘Your mate being gay. Did you bash him?’

‘I give him one up the arse is what I did. Fucking poof.’

Williamson leant forward.

‘You lost me there,’ he said. ‘You punish a homosexual by sodomizing him?’

‘So you’re gay, too?’ Gilchrist said.

Parker stubbed a finger on the table.

‘Course not, you ignorant bint.’

‘Mr Parker-’ the lawyer said, his voice gloomy.

‘You do someone, even a bloke, that’s the power. You let yourself be done, that’s something else.’

Gilchrist forced a laugh, though she never felt less like laughing.

‘Oh, it’s that prison thing – you’re only gay if you’re on the receiving end.’

‘Don’t know about that-’

‘Dream on, Parker,’ Williamson said. ‘You’re a jobbie jammer – and, as for sucking men off, is that why your teeth are such a bloody mess?’

‘All right, that’s enough-’ the lawyer said.

Parker swivelled his eyes between Gilchrist and Williamson.

‘I ain’t gay, you dyke bitch, and you, you fat bastard.’

‘If you’re not now, you will be by the time they’ve finished with you in prison.’ Williamson said. ‘You’ll be able to get the Flying Scotsman up you by the time some of those boys have finished with you. Sorry – Flying Scotsman is before your time. It’s a train, boyo – and not a diesel.’

The lawyer was on his feet.

‘I think that’s the end of this discussion.’ He looked down at Parker. ‘Mr Parker.’

Parker was still looking from Gilchrist to Williamson, his horrible teeth bared in a grin. He pointed at Gilchrist.

‘’S OK, Mr Whatsit. As long as she frigs me. Or she could do the milkmaid’s shuffle.’

The lawyer looked exasperated and sank back in his seat. Williamson was clenching his fists. Gilchrist touched his arm.

‘What about this friend of yours?’ she said. ‘Little Stevie.’

Parker seemed to have forgotten his request.

‘He was a rent boy. Made a lot of money in Brighton.’

‘We have no record of him. Besides, I would have thought, given the number of consenting adults, this would be a place where you wouldn’t make money.’

‘He wasn’t on the streets. Conferences. Especially the political ones. All these happily married men wanting to stuff him. He made good money.’

‘You kept in touch, then?’

‘Saw him around.’

‘And?’

‘And fucking what?’ He was scrunched up in his seat now. Gilchrist looked at the ceiling, talked to it.

‘And how did he end up dead in Milldean?’

Parker glanced at his lawyer. The lawyer nodded.

‘He met this bloke. Did him. Bloke left his wallet behind.’

‘So he nicked it.’ Williamson said. ‘And we’re talking blackmail?’

Parker didn’t look at him but said:

‘We’re talking the massacre in Milldean. You fuckers kill him and all his friends. That’s why I’m nervous – you’re all in it.’

Gilchrist stared a hole in the table.

‘Did Little Stevie tell you whose wallet he had nicked?’ she said.

This was the crunch question. This was the deal.

Parker flicked a glance at his lawyer. His lawyer looked straight ahead.

‘Do I have a name to give you?’ Parker leered. ‘Well, yeah.’

Tingley was waiting for me in The Cricketers, sitting at the bar with a rum and pep in his hand. He bought me a tonic water and led me over to a dark corner. I was walking stiffly – my back was in bad shape.