‘Still a pompous twit, I see,’ Watts said.
Hart tugged at the corner of his moustache.
‘What are you doing these days?’ Hart said.
‘I’m pretty busy,’ Watts said.
‘On the motivational speaker circuit?’
Watts laughed.
‘Never realized you had a sense of humour, Hart. How’s your son?’
Hart flushed. His illegitimate son, Gary Parker, had murdered and dismembered a flatmate and was now confined in a secure establishment.
Watts’s phone rang. He picked it up from the table beside his drink.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Good to see you.’
Hart walked back to his table. Watts was expecting his caller to be Laurence Kingston apologizing for being late. It was Jimmy Tingley, his friend and deadly comrade-in-arms.
‘I’ve just heard that Stewart Nealson has been killed.’
‘Sorry to hear that. Who’s Stewart Nealson?’
‘Remember the grass we met in the Cricketers with his partner, Edna the Inebriated Woman?’
‘The accountant for Brighton’s crime gangs?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘And he’s been murdered?’
‘In a rather nasty way, apparently. I don’t have the exact details but he was found up near Ditchling Beacon.’
Watts glanced back to the sofa as he was listening to Tingley. The scarred man had gone.
FOURTEEN
Anna went to the kitchen first, as usual. She was surprised that the radio was already on but she was late this morning. It was tuned to the local radio station, Southern Shores. There was a smell of gas so she checked the cooker. Everything was turned off. She opened a window to let the smell disperse.
As she filled the dishwasher she listened to the news broadcast. Since she’d arrived in Britain she’d improved her English best by listening to the radio. A lot of the colloquialisms still went over her head but she understood more each day.
‘A man was found murdered in horrific circumstances by a dog-walker on Ditchling Beacon yesterday morning. Police haven’t yet released the man’s identity or the exact details of his death, but there is speculation that he may have been crucified.’
Crucified? Did she hear that correctly? Like Our Lord Jesus Christ? Anna shuddered and finished loading the dishwasher. She left its door open whilst she went through to the living room for the wine glasses she was sure would be there. Mr Kingston enjoyed entertaining and his friends all seemed to enjoy wine.
‘The council has released details of the arrangements for dealing with Saturday’s Party on the Beach . . .’
The phone started to ring. Anna screamed.
Laurence Kingston lay by his gas fire, impeccably dressed in a smoking jacket and cravat. His mouth was open. His tongue hung from it, bent at an odd angle, lolling obscenely over his cheek.
Kate Simpson held her phone against her ear with her shoulder as she typed the ‘News Just In’ into the system. She could see through the glass that, in the studio, Steve, the morning show presenter, had clocked it. The phone rang on without Laurence Kingston, chair of the West Pier Syndicate, picking it up.
‘Just in,’ Steve said. ‘Bad news for the West Pier. If you’ve been along the prom this morning you’ll have seen that yesterday’s storms have brought down the middle section and done damage to other sections of the already battered pier. This will be bad news for the West Pier Syndicate who have just got money in place to restore the pier to its former glory. We hope to have a comment from the Syndicate’s chairman, Laurence Kingston, in the next news report.’
‘Not if I can’t get him, we won’t,’ Kate muttered.
She’d been trying Kingston for the past half-hour but she only had his landline. For all she knew, Kingston was already out at the pier surveying the latest wreckage.
‘Can’t raise him, Steve,’ she said through the headphones. ‘We don’t have his mobile.’
‘It’s big news, Katie – find him.’
Find him. Kate looked up the West Pier Syndicate and found a list of its committee members. There was one familiar name. She phoned ex-Chief Constable Bob Watts.
Sarah Gilchrist was looking at the autopsy report for Stewart Nealson, the man found at Ditchling Beacon. Reg Williamson was looking out of the window, his head tilted to see further down the seafront.
‘West Pier is pretty much gone after yesterday’s storm,’ he said.
‘He lived for a few hours – can you imagine?’
‘Vlad’s victim?’
‘Reg!’
‘Once the news is out you know that’s what he’s going to be called.’
‘The stake was angled so that it missed all vital organs. Missed the heart, the liver, the kidneys.’
‘Was that by chance, do you think, Sarah?’
‘The alternative is that these guys knew what they were doing. And that’s alarming.’
‘You think it was more than one person?’
‘Don’t you? That frame? Holding him down – I don’t see it as a one-person job. And digging that deep hole in the flint must have been a real pain.’
‘Are CSI telling us anything else?’
‘They’re still up there. It’s pretty unforgiving ground, though, so don’t hold your breath.’
Gilchrist’s phone rang.
‘It’s Bob Watts.’
She coloured.
‘Hello. Is this a social call?’
‘Alas, not,’ he said. ‘Two things. Have you time?’
‘Well—’
‘Won’t take long. Kate Simpson just phoned me for Laurence Kingston’s mobile number. The radio wants a quote about the further collapse of the West Pier. Thing is, Kingston stood me up last night, which is not like him, and I’ve not been able to raise him since then.’
‘Laurence Kingston,’ Gilchrist repeated, indicating to Williamson to write the name down.
‘And the second thing?’
‘I was down by the West Pier before I was due to meet Kingston and I saw some flashes of light in the fog. And perhaps the sound of a motorboat.’
Gilchrist frowned.
‘What are you saying?’
‘Well, thinking about it, I believe the pier was firebombed.’
‘Firebombed?’
Williamson looked over as he tapped keys on his computer’s keyboard. Then he looked back at the screen and scribbled something down.
‘It won’t be the first time,’ Watts said.
The West Pier had been firebombed twice before in the past couple of years.
Williamson handed his note to Gilchrist.
‘OK, I’ll pass it along,’ Gilchrist said to Watts. She scanned Williamson’s note. ‘And I’m afraid Kingston won’t be answering his phone. I’m sorry, Bob. His cleaner found him this morning. A death by suicide.’
Kate Simpson was stymied until Kingston phoned her back. Steve was blaghing on, in his mid-morning banal flow. She glanced at the morning newspaper and her father’s name jumped out at her. Government adviser William Simpson to be given new responsibilities. She pushed the newspaper away. She’d been avoiding facing the fact that her father was somehow implicated in the Milldean massacre. In the course of the investigation she had found out more about her father than any daughter should have to know.
She was finding it difficult to deal with.
Steve buzzed through.
‘Are you seeing these emails about the West Pier?’
Kate looked at her screen.
‘People are reporting seeing flashes of light in the fog. There are suggestions the pier might have been firebombed again.’
John Hathaway was sitting on the deck of his boat, taking in the late afternoon sun. The boat was his secret hideaway, although anyone serious about tracking him down would have no trouble finding it, as it was usually moored just a few hundred yards from his bar in Brighton marina.
He did usually take the minor precaution of never coming out
on deck until he was a mile or so out at sea, as he was now. But he knew that was stupid, as anyone could see him getting on the boat in the first place.
He looked at the men facing him in a semi-circle. Smart lads, every one. He never just hired muscle, those bulked-up idiots from the local gyms who spent their nights standing outside pubs and nightclubs.
These men were ex-military and all had some semblance of a brain.
‘Stewart Nealson is dead,’ he said, ‘Tortured and killed in a particularly horrible way. Not all of you know him, so for those who don’t: he’s our accountant and the accountant of a couple of other gentlemen in our line of work. His death jeopardizes our plan – and, indeed, may have come about because somebody suspected our plans.’
‘Fuck,’ Gavin said. He was a carrot-top and the sun had brought his freckles out. ‘Is that why he was tortured?’
‘Possibly.’
‘How’d they know to get suspicious?’
Hathaway shrugged.
‘Stew was discreet but he might have said something that somebody picked up on.’
‘But you’re not calling it off?’
‘Of course not.’ Hathaway had heard the early reports of the West Pier suffering further injury. ‘In fact I’m more determined than ever. But we’ll have to do a little more planning, just in case.’
‘The basic plan remains the same?’
‘Absolutely. I wanna hit them where it really hurts. Teach them a big bloody lesson.’
Ex-Chief Constable Bob Watts was sitting in a meeting with the deputy chair of the West Pier Syndicate. Theresa Henderson had heavily gelled hair. She was wearing a tight-fitting red trouser suit. Watts thought she looked like a distaff Hillary Clinton. He wasn’t sure how she made her money but he knew she had plenty of it. She leaned forward and parted her scarlet lips in a smile.
‘Bob, we could do with some informal help here.’
Watts looked at Henderson warily. He liked her but he didn’t trust her.
‘Help with what?’
‘The damage to the West Pier.’
Watts waited. She clasped her hands and leaned forward.
‘We’re going to have a nightmare with the insurance company on the pier. We need to be clear what has happened.’
Watts looked out of the window. They were sitting in The Ship sharing a pot of coffee. People hurried by outside, struggling with the gusting wind.
‘I believe you have a notion the pier was firebombed,’ Henderson said.
He looked at her. He’d never got the point of hair stiffened with gel or spray. He imagined for a moment trying to run his hand through her hair. His fingers would get stuck about a centimetre in.
‘I’m certain of it,’ he said. ‘A fire in a storm hardly makes sense otherwise. We both know the Palace Pier people aren’t happy about any competition from the West Pier development. Everyone assumes they firebombed it twice before. Who else is it going to be?’
‘The situation could be more complicated than that,’ Henderson said.
‘In what way?’
‘You’re the policeman. Don’t you think it likely that it’s connected to the death of our Chair? Rather an odd coincidence that he should die on the same morning.’
‘Coincidences do happen but I take your point,’ Watts said. ‘In what way connected, though? What aren’t you telling me?’
‘We think there might have been something fraudulent going on.’
‘Laurence? You know he asked to see me the night of the storm but he didn’t show up.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Henderson said, sitting straighter. ‘But, yes, we think it was Laurence.’
‘“We” being?’
‘Alec Henry and me.’
Alec Henry was the West Pier Syndicate’s treasurer. Watts looked at Henderson. She grimaced.
‘We’re talking twenty million pounds here, so I guess that’s a temptation for anyone.’
‘Do you know what he’d done?’
‘Not exactly. We just know there’s something weird going on with the grants for the development.’
‘What kind of weird?’
‘Possibly fraud on a massive level. The thing is, if it gets out the whole project will be in jeopardy.’
‘You want me to hush it up? That’s not really what I do.’
Henderson looked at him for a long moment. Watts guessed she was thinking he’d somehow hushed up what happened in Milldean. He didn’t say anything.
Henderson leaned forward. ‘Do you know the name John Hathaway?’
Watts nodded.
‘What do you know about him?’
‘A major player in Brighton. Almost certainly a major criminal, though he’s never seen the inside of a prison cell. He’s involved?’
‘His name has come up a couple of times.’
Watts looked out of the window again.
‘OK. I’ll look into it.’
The UK coastguard found the blood-spattered boat drifting at dawn, within sight of Brighton’s piers. Gilchrist saw the report flash on to her screen. She shouted over to Reg Williamson:
‘Listen to this. The UK coastguard have boarded a boat that was drifting off the coast of Brighton, swept into shore by yesterday’s storm. A luxury cruiser registered in Ravenna. The boat was deserted except for the carcase of the owner, an Italian industrialist hanging from the wheel.’ She read on. ‘Ugh.’
‘What?’
‘He was naked. Worse than naked.’
‘How worse?’ Williamson said.
‘He had been skinned.’
‘Jesus. Did someone send us back to the Dark Ages and not tell me? One guy gets impaled, another gets skinned.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I don’t like to ask, but did they find the skin?’
‘Doesn’t say. Blood everywhere. His wife, a former actress twenty years his junior, and the crew are missing.’
‘And the perpetrators?’
‘The dinghy from the vessel is missing. I assume they came ashore somewhere.’
‘In Brighton, do you think?’
‘Who knows? But don’t you think two such barbaric crimes must be linked?’
Williamson reached for a cigarette.
‘I’ve a horrible feeling they are.’
FIFTEEN
Jimmy Tingley, ex-SAS, current status ambiguous, telephoned Bob Watts, disgraced ex-chief constable of the Southern police force. Watts said:
‘I’m on the train,’ then wished he hadn’t.
He was looking out of the window as the train crossed the high viaduct just beyond Haywards Heath. He loved the view across to Ardingly College and its Gothic chapel. He eased his neck in the stiff collar of his shirt. He was thinking about the West Pier but he was dressed for an interview. Funds were running low and he needed to get a proper job.
‘Nealson died in a memorable way.’ Tingley said.
The train went into a deep cutting. Watts frowned at his reflection in the train window.
‘Hello?’
Watts waited, glancing down at the front page of the Guardian. The second lead announced the imminent publication of the report into the Milldean Massacre, in which four civilians had been shot and killed by armed police. He was aware of the rush of the train above the wavering phone signal. His phone rang again.
‘There are tunnels coming up,’ he said. ‘I may lose you. You said memorable?’
‘To you and me.’
Watts frowned.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ said Tingley and the signal was snatched away. But Watts had clearly heard: ‘Vlad the Impaler.’
Watts looked down at his phone. Then at the tremor in his hand.
After his interview, Watts phoned Tingley.
‘How did it go?’ Tingley said.
‘Pointless. Who wants a disgraced cop?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Did you say Vlad?’
‘I did.’
‘Can you meet?’
‘Where?’
/> ‘Cricketers?’
‘Nah – I’ve moved on. Let’s meet in the Bath Arms.’
‘Big change.’
‘It’s a couple of hundred yards away. And it has free wi-fi.’
‘Don’t give me too many shocks at once, Jimmy. New pub and new technology? Next you’ll be drinking a proper drink.’
Watts phoned Sarah Gilchrist next.
‘I’m meeting Jimmy in the Bath Arms. Want to join us?’
‘No offence intended, Bob, but some of us work for a living.’
‘This is work. We can help you with Stewart Nealson’s kebabbing.’
Tingley looked pretty banged up.
‘You OK?’ Watts said, sitting down beside him. Tingley had a laptop on the table in front of him. The light from the screen gave him a terrible pallor and highlighted the black around his eyes.
‘Lost focus – my mistake.’
‘Where?’ Watts said. Tingley was a gun for hire and the government sent him to all the world’s hotspots.
Tingley took his drink.
‘Rum and pep. Loverly.’
Tingley, discreet as ever.
‘What’s with the high-tech?’ Watts said.
‘It’s all about intel. You know that, Bobby.’
‘And what intel are you looking at?’
‘Vlad the Impaler. I’ve been thinking about this. Those two in the bed?’
Watts nodded. The police operation that had gone disastrously wrong in the Milldean suburb of Brighton and had wrecked Watts’s career. It had been the armed entry into a house to arrest an armed robber. In the course of the operation four unarmed civilians had been shot dead. One had been identified as a local male prostitute but the others had never been identified. DNA indicated that two of them – a man and a woman who had been in bed together – were from somewhere in the Balkans.
‘So now the Serbian mafia have come for payback.’
‘Do you think Vlad could really be here?’ Watts said.
Tingley stared straight ahead.
‘God, I hope so.’
The Bath Arms was on the junction of two of the laines. A jewellers faced one side of it, a church converted into a pub the other. Watts and Tingley saw Gilchrist walk past the church in her civvies through a jumble of people. Jeans, white T-shirt and leather jacket were her off-duty uniform. She came into the pub, saw them, then about-turned and went out again.
The Last King of Brighton Page 18
