Hathaway swivelled his head to look round the pub.
‘In here?’
Dennis Hathaway gestured at the almost empty room.
‘You see anybody listening? We can go to the end of the pier if you want. I don’t trust anywhere else.’
‘What is it?’
‘We were wondering – Sean and me – if you wanted to get more involved in the business. A bit more responsibility. Sean isn’t sure you’re ready but your friend Charlie has taken to it like a duck to water, so I figured you wouldn’t want to lag behind.’
Hathaway hadn’t really spoken to Charlie about his new duties, although he’d been curious. Now he felt left out.
‘What do you want me to do?’
Dennis Hathaway leaned forward.
‘Your friends the mods and Charlie’s friends the Teddy boys – excuse me, I think they’re now called rockers – they don’t get on, do they?’
‘You could say that.’
‘OK, this is what I have in mind.’
During the first half of May, Charlie and Hathaway went all along the seafront between the Palace Pier and the West Pier talking to businesses. They made a good team. Hathaway was cheerful and charming, Charlie had a dangerous edge. They didn’t threaten. They made promises.
On the Bank Holiday Monday, at the end of the month, Hathaway and The Avalons were up on the Aquarium Terrace drinking coffee in the sunshine. They were all in their mod gear – turtle necks and pegged trousers. They’d been taking a bit of a ragging from a bunch of rockers sitting on the terrace but it was in good spirits. The rockers knew Charlie and liked the group.
They were planning the future of The Avalons, though Hathaway and Charlie seemed disengaged.
‘Look, there’s money to be made on the American air force bases in Germany,’ Dan said. ‘There’s this competition – if you win, you get a tour.’
Charlie snorted.
‘Is that a comment or don’t you have a hankie?’ Dan said, sounding peeved.
‘These competitions are cons,’ Charlie said.
Dan shook his head.
‘Definitely not,’ Dan said. ‘Johnny Dee and the Deedevils won one to tour Sweden.’
‘How did it go?’ Charlie said, looking out at the Palace Pier.
‘Well, they didn’t actually go in the end,’ Dan said, abashed. ‘Two of the group are apprentices and couldn’t get time off work. But the principle remains the same.’
Charlie shook his head.
‘Let’s stick to rugby clubs and universities and colleges. And the parks.’ He looked at Hathaway. ‘We have a gig in Stanmer, don’t we?’
Hathaway nodded absently. He was watching an army of mods come on to the seafront on their Vespas. They parked around the Palace Pier and spread out on to it and the beach.
Next a line of motorbikes roared off the Old Steine, looped up above the Terrace and, a few minutes later, came back down Madeira Drive and parked a few hundred yards from the Palace Pier.
‘Have you heard the Shads are doing bloody panto this Christmas at the London Palladium?’ Billy said. ‘Alongside Arthur Askey as Widow Twankey. That’s disgusting.’
‘You don’t want to go, then?’ Dan said.
‘Sod off. I can understand it with Cliff – he’s so square mums like him. But the Shads?’
‘What are they playing?’
‘Cliff’s Aladdin. And the Shadows are – and this is even worse – Wishee, Washee, Noshee and Toshee.’ Bill shook his head. ‘What next? The Rolling Stones in Puss in Boots?’
‘Now that,’ said Dan, ‘I’d pay money for.’
A group of mods came up on to the Aquarium Terrace. They came straight for the rockers, punching and kicking and pushing them out of their deckchairs. The mods outnumbered the rockers by about five to one.
‘Whoa!’ Dan said, starting to rise. ‘What the bloody hell?’
Charlie grabbed his arm.
‘Probably not a good idea.’
Five minutes later, the rockers were hanging off the side of the terrace whilst the mods were hurling deckchairs down at them. Some dropped from the balustrade to Madeira Drive fifteen feet below. Other mods surrounded them there.
That’s when the rockers from lower down Madeira Drive came running, swinging bike chains and yelling. And the mods came up off the beach to mix it.
Ordinary people scattered.
‘Come on,’ Hathaway said to the others, and they ran across the road on to the Old Steine. Over by the Royal Pavilion, Hathaway stopped them.
‘OK, Charlie and I need to get over to the West Pier. You guys should probably head home.’
Dan and Billy both frowned.
‘What do you mean you’ve got to go to the West Pier?’ Billy said.
‘It’s work,’ Hathaway said.
‘This could get worse,’ Charlie said. ‘You should keep out of the way.’
His voice was almost drowned out by another line of motorcyclists on the Old Steine.
‘This is not a place to stay,’ Hathaway said. He grabbed Charlie’s arm. ‘Come on, we’ll go up through the Laines and drop down.’
When Hathaway glanced back, Billy and Dan were standing in front of the Pavilion, watching them go.
Two days later, Hathaway and Charlie met with Dennis Hathaway and Reilly in the West Pier office.
‘How did it work out?’ Hathaway said.
‘It was a bloody mess,’ his father said. ‘Neither your mods nor your rockers exactly observed the no-go areas.’
‘There were a lot more than we expected,’ Charlie said.
‘I think you’re being a bit harsh, Dennis,’ Reilly said. ‘As riots go it was pretty well controlled. And we were on hand to ensure that all those who requested our protection received it. We were also on hand to pillage those that had turned down our offer. We did best out of the jewellery shops in the Laines.’
‘What about the Palace Pier?’ Hathaway said.
‘We didn’t go near, but the Boroni Brothers were enraged that they were invaded,’ his father said. ‘They had men out pretty sharpish but they still got trashed.’
‘Who are they blaming?’
Reilly shrugged.
‘They suspect us of everything but they’re not saying anything at the moment. I mean, it was a riot, wasn’t it? What they’re planning, who knows? The chief constable was seriously cheesed off. He was caught on the hop. No warning. I told him this was going to be a regular thing – no way to stop it now. He’s talking about confiscating scooters and bikes and taking them to Devil’s Dyke, so they’re going to have a long uphill walk to collect them.’
‘Will he give us a hard time?’
Hathaway shook his head.
‘He just wants a bigger cut.’
When Hathaway got in, his mum was with a gaggle of women in the sitting room. The spirits and mixers were out and they were laughing over the game of Monopoly they were playing for real money.
Hathaway knew most of them but he was introduced to two he didn’t know, both much younger than the others.
‘John, this is Elizabeth, the wife of Donald Watts. You know – whatsisname?’
‘Victor Tempest,’ the woman said. She was a slender blonde with a nervous smile. She put down her Coca-Cola. ‘Hello, John.’
Hathaway nodded.
‘Hello.’
‘And I’m Diana Simpson, the chief constable’s wife.’ She was a curvaceous brunette, arching her back almost grotesquely to lean forward. She touched the corner of her mouth with a red-lacquered fingernail and Hathaway had a sudden flash of Barbara. ‘I hear you’re a pop star.’
‘Maybe one day,’ he said, wondering how both Tempest and the chief constable, both middle-aged, had got off with women twenty years younger than them. ‘We’re playing at the SS Brighton tonight as support for Little Richard.’
‘I used to swim there,’ his mother said.
‘Mum – it’s an ice rink.’
‘It wasn’t always,’ she said
. ‘It was a swimming pool first – biggest sea-water pool in Europe. I couldn’t swim from one end to the other, it was so big. Then they turned it into an ice rink. And now it’s all this other stuff too.’
Hathaway gave a little wave to the group of women.
‘Enjoy your game.’
‘I’ve just gone to jail, which is a bit embarrassing for a woman in my position,’ Diana Simpson said, tossing her hair. Elizabeth Watts watched her, her face impassive.
Hathaway’s older sister, Dawn, was at the concert. She was home for the weekend. She lived in a bedsit in London whilst she did a secretarial training course. Hathaway was pleased to see her. She was sparky and full of life. She was perched on the ratty sofa in the poky dressing room with Hathaway, Billy and Dan when Charlie barged in.
‘I didn’t know Little Richard was a poof,’ Charlie said. ‘Fuck me.’
‘He’d probably like to,’ Billy said.
‘He just nipped my bum.’
‘Sparkly suit, lots of eye make-up,’ Dan said. ‘How did we miss it?’
Charlie looked appreciatively at Dawn.
‘Excuse the language. Didn’t know we had visitors.’
Hathaway introduced her.
‘You work for my dad, don’t you?’ she said.
‘That I do,’ Charlie said. ‘He had his son working for him but decided he needed somebody reliable too.’
‘Bugger off,’ Hathaway said, reaching for his guitar and taking a string out of his pocket.
‘Oh, here he goes again,’ Charlie said. ‘Bloody Banjo Bobby.’
‘What do you mean?’ Dawn said.
‘This is a banjo string. A “G”. I’m putting it at the top of the guitar, then all the other strings one lower than they should be. It sounds great – you can bend them all over the place.’
‘Until it goes out of tune,’ Billy said. ‘Then your chords sound crap. And it sounds crap when you strum it.’
‘Chords?’ Charlie said. ‘In the plural? When did he learn another one?’
‘Boys, boys,’ Dan said. ‘There are so many ways a guitar can go out of tune, it’s a wonder they’re so popular.’
‘And you can bugger off,’ Hathaway said. ‘Your idea of musicianship is shaking a tambourine.’
‘I shake maracas too. And play the mouth organ.’
‘What, your Manfred Mann mouth organ?’ He turned to his sister. ‘Dan bought – by mistake, he claims – a mouth organ that only plays the chords for the mouth organ riff on “5-4-3-2-1”, the Ready Steady Go theme. He used it on “Love Me Do” and the results were diabolical.’
‘I saw that Tony Jackson in a club in London,’ Dawn said. ‘He was so out of it he threw his tambourine into the audience and it hit a girl in the face. He nearly got lynched by her boyfriend and his mates.’
‘We supported him once. He was out of it then too. He peed against the dressing room wall instead of using the loo.’
‘Ugh – that’s disgusting.’ She turned to Charlie. ‘So you’re getting quite famous, supporting all these big names.’
‘Holding them up, do you mean?’ Charlie said, and Dawn giggled.
‘Famous in Brighton,’ Hathaway said.
‘Do you have a following?’
‘Not exactly,’ Hathaway said. ‘We irritate a lot of people. We’ll be playing Motown and the boys will want to jive-’
‘With each other, mind,’ Billy said, ‘not with girls.’
‘And we’re getting used to beer bottles being thrown at us,’ Dan said.
‘I never feel we’ve connected with them,’ Charlie said, ‘unless they’re showering us with beer and trying to crack our skulls.’
Dawn giggled again and gave him an up-from-under look. When she looked away, Charlie winked at Hathaway.
‘Good-looking lass, your sister,’ Charlie said the next day as he and Hathaway walked down the West Pier.
‘Keep your hands off,’ Hathaway said, only half-joking.
His father was ranting to Reilly about Harold Wilson when they reached the office. He was furious Labour had got in.
‘Bloody bunch of lefties. Dennis Healey, Jim Callaghan, that drunk Brown. And as for Harold Wilson – we should swap him for Mike Yarwood – he couldn’t do worse.’
‘Good morning, lads,’ Reilly said. ‘How was your gig last night?’
‘A triumph, Sean, as always,’ Charlie said. ‘A triumph.’
‘By that he means nobody threw any bottles at us.’
‘A breakthrough event, then,’ Reilly said.
‘We’re gonna have to kick you out of the office in a few minutes. We’ve got royalty coming.’
Charlie and Hathaway both frowned.
‘The chief constable is paying a state visit.’
‘His wife was around our house the other week playing Monopoly with mum and her coven.’
‘A looker, isn’t she? I don’t know what she sees in exorbitantly wealthy Philip Simpson.’
‘Maybe she has a thing about uniforms,’ Reilly said drily.
‘Is he that wealthy?’ Charlie said.
‘He’s coining it,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘But he’s still annoyed about that Bank Holiday do and he wants us to sort out our differences with the Boroni Brothers. That’s what he’s coming for.’
‘How are you going to play it?’ Reilly said.
‘Well, a little bird told me something that has intrigued me.’
‘Wasn’t a Finch, was it?’ Reilly said.
Dennis Hathaway grinned.
‘You two lads get into the storeroom. Listen and learn.’
Philip Simpson arrived about five minutes later. He was in his standard civvies: a checkered sports jacket, khaki trousers and brown suede shoes.
‘I haven’t got long, Dennis. Having lunch with the leader of the council.’
‘Poor you. Frank isn’t exactly a stimulating conversationalist.’
‘You know him well?’ Simpson said.
Hathaway leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.
‘I own him, Chief Constable. Anything you want to talk to him about, you may as well talk to me.’
Simpson shook his head.
‘A finger in every pie, Dennis. You’ll be trying to take over the town next.’
There was asperity in his voice.
‘Not a chance, Philip. I like where I am. I’m a born liege lord. But I do like to take advantage of opportunities when they come up. I thought it might be useful to have the council in my pocket. Frank was working for me when I forced him to stand for election as a councillor. Man can scarcely write his own name. He’s been cursing me ever since because of the council meetings.’
‘Now he’s the leader of the council,’ Simpson said thoughtfully.
‘And he loves being the boss man; still hates the meetings. I’ve had to hire someone to read the committee reports and write a one-paragraph precis of each one for him, so he has a vague idea what decisions he’s making.’
‘Or that you’re making.’
‘Far be it for me to take the credit…’
Simpson leaned forward.
‘Do you control planning?’
‘Astute of you, Chief Constable. Let’s say I have input, yes.’
‘There seem to be some opportunities for investment in the town.’
‘Indeed, yes.’
Simpson showed his teeth.
‘Just make sure the man with the biggest private army in the county gets his.’
‘Right you are, Chief Constable, right you are. By the way, I hear you’re shifting shop.’
‘We’re moving to St John Street, yes. We’ve outgrown the old police station.’
‘Just as well to get away from the ghost.’
‘Ghost?’
‘Oh aye. The ghost of the first chief constable. Have you not felt his chill hand on your collar.’
‘I can’t say I have, Dennis.’
‘The first chief constable was a Jew called Henry Solomon. In
1844 a young man was nicked for stealing a roll of carpet from a shop. Solomon interviewed him in his office – your office, I suppose. It was a cold day and there was a fire burning in the room. The young man got angry, picked up the poker and hit Solomon across the side of the head with it – so hard that he bent the poker. There were three witnesses to this but not a one intervened. The wound in Solomon’s head killed him, of course. The young man was hanged at Horsham.’
Simpson frowned.
‘I’m not following.’
‘History, I suppose. That station has a lot of history. Though I hear you’re chucking some of it out.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘I hear you’ve been busy destroying files. Not evidence of police wrongdoing, I hope?’
Simpson clasped his hands in his lap.
‘Who’s been talking to you? No – don’t bother answering that. Old files, Dennis. There’s a thirty-year rule. A clear out, that’s all. But what business is that of yours? Or is some of your family business in there? Does your father feature?’
‘My dad never came to the police’s attention.’
‘Hardly the case, Dennis. I was a copper on the beat from 1933 – one of the first to wear Brighton’s white helmet – and use the new radios. Me and Donald Watts joined at the same time. Your father was well known to us, believe me. Your father ran the seafront. And the racecourse.’
‘Pay you off, did he? He never mentioned you. Besides, I heard the razor gangs ran the course in the thirties. Those London mobsters trying to squeeze out the locals. Brighton Rock and all that.’
‘They were rough days.’
‘Don’t see any visible scars, Chief Constable. You obviously came out of it all right. Or stayed out of the way.’
Simpson looked at him.
‘Why are you trying to antagonize me?’
Dennis Hathaway bared his teeth.
‘You got me wrong. It’s just that sitting behind your desk in your best bib and tucker, raking in your money from your own rackets and taking your tithe from mine, I don’t see you as a scrapper, more a profiteer.’
Simpson thrust out his arm and pulled up his shirt and jacket sleeve. A long scar ran up his forearm.
‘I won’t show you my stomach on such brief acquaintance.’
‘Grateful for that.’ Dennis Hathaway leaned forward. ‘Anyway, I was a big fan of Max Miller. Sadly now gone.’
The Last King of Brighton bt-2 Page 7
