‘TV programme? Never mind.’
‘It’s about Elaine Trumpler.’
‘Yes, Elaine.’ She ushered them to her white sofa. ‘A wild child if ever there was one. Would you like green tea or, in the circumstances, some herb?’ She saw their expressions. ‘Just joking – sorry. What is it you want to know about her?’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘After your call, I gave this some thought. Sometime in 1969. We lost track of each other when we stopped being flatmates and because she was filming for a long time, and then there was her townie boyfriend, of course. Then she took off for India.’
‘Whoa – you’re saying a lot there. She was filming?’
‘She was in several films being made in Brighton. Oh! What A Lovely War. On A Clear Day You Can See Forever.’
Watts and Gilchrist both looked blank.
‘There were quite famous films at the time. First one directed by Sir Richard Attenborough, second by Liza Minnelli’s father? Filmed on the West Pier and along the seafront? Anyway, she was a speaking extra. She wanted to be an actress – sorry, I think women call themselves actors now as they don’t want to be seen as adjuncts.’
‘Were you an extra?’
‘For a couple of days. I was one of Vanessa Redgrave’s suffragettes. But dance was my thing and I was going up to London for dance auditions, so couldn’t do more.’
‘And this townie boyfriend?’
‘She kept him very secret, though I met him a couple of times. Great-looking but kind of straight, you know. I only met him early on but they were together for a couple of years after that. We kind of thought they’d gone off to India together.’
‘Even though he was straight?’
‘Well, he wasn’t exactly Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper but everybody was going to India. Mia Farrow went out there and she was married to Frank Sinatra around that time. We all talked about going to India and we were mostly well-brought-up middle-class kids.’
‘You weren’t worried about her?’
‘At the time? Hard to remember, but I think all of us were rootless. People disappeared off all the time so it was no big deal.’ She tilted her head. ‘Should I be worried now? I’m a bit scatty – I realize I didn’t actually ask why you wanted to know about her.’
Gilchrist told her about the remains. Claire Mellon put her hand over her mouth.
‘How awful. Poor, poor Elaine. How did it happen?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Did she say any kind of goodbye?’
‘Not that I recall, but at the time that was cool, you know? We were accepting of whatever people did. If I’m honest, that’s largely because we didn’t really understand what was going on, so we adopted this air of coolness.’ She shrugged. ‘We were just kids – far less mature than the kids these days.’
Mellon offered names of other students who were close to Trumpler. Gilchrist wrote them down.
‘And this townie – do you remember his name?’
‘No. I remember the name of his band, though. The Avalons.’
‘Why does that stick in your mind?’
‘The King Arthur thing, you know? Except I remember Elaine telling me the bass player used to work in a furniture warehouse and it was the name of its most popular three-piece suite. We laughed about it.’
‘And you don’t even remember his first name?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t. But he’s still around Brighton sometimes.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve seen him a couple of times in that bar in the marina – the Asian-looking one.’
‘The Buddha?’
‘I think that’s the name. I’m pretty sure it was him. Much older now, of course, but aren’t we all?’
‘You didn’t speak to him?’
‘To say what? Elaine and I weren’t that close, my life went in a totally different direction, and I’m not in the least interested in him. What’s to say? The older you get the more memories you want to forget – don’t you think so, ex-Chief Constable?’
Back in the car Watts rubbed his hands.
‘The local history archive in the library will have old newspaper cuttings so we can find out who was in The Avalons,’ Watts said. ‘I’ll get down there. I’ll dig out what I can find out about the West Pier then too.’
Gilchrist dropped him off beside the Royal Pavilion. As he walked through the gardens into the museum he was thinking about his parents living in Brighton at that time. Watts had been born there in 1968.
He walked through the gallery, skirting a gaggle of schoolchildren rushing from object to object then scribbling in their notebooks. Watts went upstairs and headed into the local history unit.
Gilchrist had scarcely reached her desk when Claire Mellon rang.
‘Hello, it’s the cat woman.’
‘Cat woman?’ she said, dropping down into her seat.
‘Claire Mellon from Beachy Head?’
‘Sorry, yes. How can I help?’
‘I remembered after you’d gone that I have something of Elaine’s. She left it by mistake at my flat after a heavy night and I hung on to it. Over the years I could never quite bring myself to get rid of it in case she turned up again. I dug it out of the attic then forgot to give it to you. Would you like it?’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s her diary.’
Gilchrist sighed.
‘I’ll be right back.’
Half an hour later Watts phoned Gilchrist on her mobile as he walked past the statue of Max Miller beside the Pavilion Theatre. He couldn’t raise her nor was there a facility for leaving a message. He walked on to the end of the street. He was hungry. Carluccio’s was to his left but he was fond of a little bodega next to the Coach and Horses. A Spanish family had opened it a couple of years before to sell produce from their Spanish estates, but they also sold glasses of wine and tapas. It was tiny, with scarcely room for the six small tables they crammed in.
Settled there with a glass of tempranillo and little plates of manchego and chorizo stew, he phoned Gilchrist again. This time she replied.
‘You’ll never guess what I’ve got,’ he said.
‘You go first,’ she said.
‘You’ve found something too?’
She arrived twenty minutes later, by which time he’d ordered paella and frittata and more wine. Gilchrist had the diary with her. It was big – A4 size.
‘It’s full,’ Gilchrist said. ‘The last entry is dated Easter 1968. Just about to go off on holiday with her guy to Greece. There must be another diary after this.’
‘Does she identify the townie?’
‘No,’ Gilchrist said, licking her fingers, ‘but it does refer to going to see the band the night before the last entry.’
‘It’s OK. I found some press-clippings about the band. There’s even a photo.’
‘Does it name the band members?’
‘It does.’
‘And?’
‘Does the name John Hathaway mean anything to you?’
‘Bloody John Hathaway.’
She gobbled some more frittata.
‘This is great. I’m starving.’
‘I noticed.’
He pushed the other plate over.
‘I’ve already fed my face.’
‘Do you think he killed her?’ she said between mouthfuls.
‘His dad owned that end of the West Pier,’ Watts said.
‘Where the remains were found. Looking bad for Johnny boy. But is he known as a killer?’
‘He’s known as being above the law,’ Watts said. ‘And every one of his generation got his hands dirty at some time or other. Every one.’
‘I remember checking his file before. He’s never been down for anything.’
‘No. Nor done time. And that’s unusual. But he’s dirty. We know he’s dirty. Maybe this is the leverage you need.’
‘I’ve got enough on my plate without going after a crime kingpin.’
&n
bsp; ‘I’ll take Tingley with me,’ Hathaway said. ‘Boys’ night out.’
NINETEEN
Watts went with Tingley to the Buddha, Hathaway’s bar at the marina. It was another blisteringly hot day. Hathaway met them in his office on the first floor and took them out on to a private balcony. They sat in the shade of an awning, the glittering sea and the brilliant white boats almost impossibly bright.
‘I’d get a headache, looking at this every day,’ Tingley said. ‘One of those boats yours?’
Hathaway smiled and shot his cuff to check his watch.
‘Just setting off back from France, I think. I lent it to a mate. This marina was a long time coming, you know. Twelve years of enquiries. The site kept shifting. There were referenda and parliamentary bills. The first version in 1970 was just a boat harbour. It’s been added to ever since. I own four places here altogether. And my boat, of course.’
‘John,’ Watts said. ‘As we’re on first name terms, tell me about Elaine.’
‘Which Elaine?’ Hathaway pushed his sunglasses further up his nose. ‘There have been a lot of Elaines.’
‘The one we just dug out of the seabed under the West Pier.’
Hathaway mimed applause.
‘I admire your sensitivity. That’s years of customer care training coming into its own, is it?’
‘So – what about her?’
Hathaway’s face was impassive.
‘I’m no wiser, so let me ask you the same question. Which Elaine?’
Watts turned in his seat to look at Hathaway directly.
‘Elaine Trumpler. Believe you knew her. When you were in a pop group. Didn’t know you had that in you.’
Hathaway wafted his arm towards the dozen or so guitars on display in a corner of the bar.
‘Some detective you are. I can see why your police career was cut short.’
Watts smiled.
‘I’m slow but I get there in the end. So, Ms Trumpler?’
‘Yeah, I knew her. We had a thing. I was in a band – I had lots of things.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘You’re joking, of course. I can’t remember.’
‘Try.’
‘Well, she did a bit part in that film on the pier, I know that.’
‘Were you still together?’
‘No. She was screwing some actor by then. Several actors, I believe. Then I heard she’d gone off to India.’
‘You heard?’
‘We weren’t talking really. Originally she’d wanted me to go with her but I couldn’t do it and, in any case, she then got off with these actors.’
He shook his head.
‘You OK?’
Hathaway looked like the wind had been kicked out of him.
‘Yeah. Funny how old memories catch up with you.’
‘So you cared about her?’
‘Suppose I must have done.’
‘You’ve never married. Never had kids.’
‘This is Brighton, darling. Nothing conventional here.’
‘Nevertheless.’
‘What, you think my heartbreak at losing that bint wrecked my emotional life forever?’ He reached over and began shaking a small bell. ‘Where is that Sigmund Freud when you need him?’
A big blond man hurried out.
‘It’s OK,’ Hathaway said. ‘Just a fire drill.’
The blond man looked puzzled. Hathaway shooed him away. He looked towards Watts and Tingley.
‘So Elaine has turned up under the West Pier, has she? I’m distressed to hear that.’
‘You don’t know why that would be?’
‘My distress? Because I cared about her.’
‘Why she should turn up there.’
Hathaway steepled his hands.
‘She was filming there. Perhaps you should be talking to the film people – and whichever actor was shagging her.’
‘I think you’re mixing up your years, John. She was filming there in 1968 but disappeared in 1969.’
‘That right?’
‘That’s right. Your father had premises at the end of the pier.’
‘An arcade and a shooting range, yes.’
Watts grimaced. Hathaway looked towards him.
‘Do you think we could assume we’re all adults here, Mr Hathaway?’
‘John. I thought we agreed on first names.’
‘John. You know what we’re asking. Was this something to do with your father?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘You can see our problem here. Your father was a known gangster. Elaine turns up in a bucket of cement, which tends to exclude the notion she committed suicide or was killed in a crime of passion—’
‘My father was not a gangster.’
Watts laughed.
‘OK, clearly we’re not all adults. Maybe it’s because we’re talking about your dad and that reduces you to infantilism. Do you want to call your blond bimbo for your potty?’
Hathaway measured Watts with a long look. Watts was up for a fight. Perhaps Hathaway sensed that.
‘It’s a long time ago, John. Your father is dead. We just want closure for Elaine.’
‘Closure? If only life were like that.’
‘It can be,’ Watts said.
‘Really? How’s your life since those people were shot in Milldean?’
Watts started to speak then stopped.
‘Things are going down the pan,’ Hathaway said. ‘It’s back to the old days. There was a moment, just a moment mind, when this city could have been great. It could have been among the great cities of the world. But no, small minds and local greed won out. I’m from a local family but I hate that this city is run by local families. Jesus, we have a leader of the council so thick he has to have somebody write a synopsis of committee reports so that he can understand them.’
‘There’s a rumour you were behind the firebombing of the West Pier.’
‘Really? And there’s a rumour you and Sarah Gilchrist are still fucking like rabbits. Care to comment?’
Watts flushed.
‘It’s not true.’
‘There you go, then. Rumours. What can you do with them? As I was saying, things are going down the pan. The Geary plan for the Lord Alfred Centre is gone – and there are a number of villains past and present who are grateful those foundations aren’t going to be dug up. Brighton Centre, that fucking seventies eyesore, that, if I was going to firebomb anything, would be top of my list, is now not going to be refurbished. And the West Pier, of course.’
‘We’re just trying to find out about Elaine.’
Hathaway leaned forward.
‘I know you won’t believe this but I am a sentimental man. An emotional man. Over the years I’ve thought a lot about Elaine. I’ve imagined her safe in some ashram all this time or living in Australia or America, settled with a family.’
He rubbed his face.
‘But here she is in the ocean under the West Pier in a block of cement.’
Tingley and Watts glanced at each other, then both focused on Hathaway.
‘It’s a sea, not an ocean,’ Watts said. ‘And where her remains were found I’m not sure that even constitutes a sea, it was so near the shore. More like the basement of your dad’s place really. But thank you for your time. We can see you’re upset. Perhaps we can come back on another occasion to discuss her diary.’
Hathaway raised his head.
‘Her diary?’
‘Oh yes. Didn’t we say? It goes up, presumably, right to the day of her death. She was a good writer. Lyrical. Factual too, though. Very factual.’
‘How have you got it?’
‘Now that’s a funny story. You probably thought you’d cleared her place out after you killed her.’
Hathaway stood.
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘Really? Didn’t take some cold-blooded revenge when she went off with these actors? Didn’t see it as a slight on your manhood?’
‘I’m not like t
hat.’
‘She was living in a flat owned by your father, wasn’t she?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Yes, you do. Forty Kemp Street. Next door to the house where Mancini killed his mistress in the 1930s, though they renumbered the street to stop the ghouls gawking at the house. The second Brighton Trunk Murder. Famous in its day. He did it and got off. Remarkable. He confessed to a newspaper early in the sixties. You might remember.’
‘I do, actually. And my father remembered him doing a music hall show in the late thirties and forties in very poor taste. It was based around killing women – sawing them in half, that kind of thing. Played on the same bill as Max Miller. You’re too young to remember Max Miller.’
‘I’ve seen the statue in town.’
‘My father’s favourite. He was that cut up when Miller died. Could quote his act almost word for word. Did not a bad impression, too. “I was on this narrow ledge. Very narrow. And coming the other way was this beautiful girl. Very beautiful. So beautiful, I tell you, I didn’t know whether to block her passage or toss myself off.”’ Tingley smiled. ‘ “’Ere, you’ve got a dirty mind you have, mister.” ’
‘Not a bad impersonator yourself, John,’ Watts said.
‘You should have heard my Peter Sellers doing Laurence Olivier reciting A Hard Day’s Night.’
Watts frowned.
‘You had to be there. In the sixties, I mean.’
‘I thought if you remembered the sixties you weren’t really there?’ Watts said.
‘Exactly my point, Bob, exactly my point. You’re asking me these questions but how am I supposed to remember?’
‘You’re not doing too badly,’ Tingley said. ‘We know where Elaine lived because she was a civic-minded young woman. She registered to vote when she was twenty-one. Her name showed up on the electoral register for the property. We can’t find you, though. Not so interested in politics? Or wanting to keep under the radar?’
Hathaway had a far away look on his face.
‘I remember the diary. Used to carry it with her everywhere. Always scribbling in it. She had a thing about Anaïs Nin.’
Hathaway looked at their blank faces.
‘I had no idea who she was either. Wife of a businessman in Paris, wanted to be a writer. Hung out with Henry Miller – the dirty writer? His lover apparently. Her husband was loaded and she took his money and slept around. Nice. Did the rounds, though, I think. She wrote porn herself – you know, female porn. Arty farty. And she kept this diary. There were volumes of them – must have been millions of words. All about her and what she was up to in Paris. Elaine was doing American studies and I think three of these volumes were part of her reading list. Anyway, Elaine started to keep her own diary in this big book. More like a series of big books, actually. How have you got hold of it?’
The Last King of Brighton Page 22
