The Last King of Brighton (11 page)

‘Rehearsal time,' Hathaway said. Charlie groaned and Hathaway kind of knew how he felt. Hathaway was enthusiastic about his music but he was also drawn more and more to the family business. If he was honest, he enjoyed the respect – OK, fear – in people's eyes when they found out who he was. He knew Charlie got off on bandying Dennis Hathaway's name around.

Dan had bought a Vox Continental organ on HP, under the influence of Georgie Fame and the Dave Clark Five. He'd always played piano so had got the hang of it pretty quickly. He was singing ‘Glad All Over', accompanying himself on the organ, when Dennis Hathaway came in and stood at the back of the store. His legs looked like tree trunks in his shorts.

When The Avalons came to the end of the song, Hathaway said:

‘Very impressive lads, very impressive. Freddie and the Dreamers will be quaking in their boots.'

‘Dad . . .'

‘Just kidding. I wanted to suggest something else to you, about the group. Wondered if you could do with a roadie?'

‘We can do it ourselves,' Charlie said.

‘I know you can, but you're musicians. You shouldn't have to lug your stuff as well. I've got a reliable bloke in my office looking for a bit of extra work. A grafter. I'd be happy to lend him to you. He's got his own van so that would free you up a bit, Charlie.'

‘I get paid for my van.'

‘But is it worth the hassle? Anyway, I'm sure we can work something out for all of you. Shall I bring him through?'

The Avalons looked at each other and nodded.

Dennis Hathaway returned a moment later with a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late teens in a white T-shirt and jeans. He had a fag in the corner of his mouth, his hands dug deep in his trouser pockets. He slouched a little, James Dean style, as he squinted through his cigarette's smoke.

‘Alan, say hello to next year's chart toppers.'

He sniffed.

‘All right,' he said in a cockney accent.

The Avalons were busy three nights running that week. Alan was hard-working and efficient, though he preferred to roam the front of house during their actual sets. Hathaway would see him drifting through the audience, cigarette clamped between his teeth, having a quiet word here and there. He immediately guessed what that meant and was annoyed his father hadn't told him.

Saturday night they were at the Hippodrome supporting The Who. Hathaway, Billy, Dan and Tony were chatting up some girls when Charlie jig-a-jigged over.

‘Charlie – you OK? You look a bit—'

‘Right as rain, Johnny, right as rain. Me and their drummer, that Keith guy – he's mental he is – you know he's pissed in his wine?'

‘Pissed in his wine – why?'

‘Not his own wine – the wine of that guy with the big nose. He hasn't noticed – been swigging it back from the bottle. The others know. They're cracking up in there.'

Hathaway reached for Charlie's sunglasses. Charlie reared back.

‘Sorry, Charlie, but you seem a bit—'

‘Did you know our roadie is a dealer on the side?' Charlie said. ‘Uppers, downers, blues, speed. He's a mobile chemist that lad.'

Hathaway waved the girls away.

‘Alan is dealing drugs?' Dan said.

Hathaway turned back but said nothing.

‘He's a right little wheelerdealer,' Charlie said. ‘He's just told me their roadie is offering us a deal on a hundred-watt Vox amp.'

‘Hundred watts?' Billy said. ‘That's bloody enormous. And a Vox? We gotta have it.'

‘We'd never get it in the van,' Hathaway said.

Charlie cackled, jerking his body in another weird jig.

‘They use an ice cream van. They nicked the amp from the
Ready, Steady, Go
studio last week. It's got the show's name plastered all over it.'

‘Receiving stolen goods?' Dan said. ‘We can't do anything illegal.'

Charlie looked at Hathaway.

‘Yeah, right.' He cackled again. ‘That Alan. His speed is bloody . . . speedy. Talk about m-m-my generation.'

The others all laughed at Charlie, though Dave, Bill and Roy probably shared Hathaway's concern that a drummer on speed wasn't going to be exactly consistent keeping the beat.

Hathaway met a girl called Ruth that night. She was up for anything. The next day he took her to the open-air swimming pool at Black Rock. He spent time there when he could, usually chatting up girls rather than swimming. It was sheltered by the cliffs, so could be really hot in the sunshine. When he was a kid he'd often played in the rock pools there. Now he made Ruth shudder telling her how the head of the Trunk Murder victim had been found in a rock pool back in 1934.

He was surprised to see his father and Reilly walking around, deep in conversation with another two men. All of them looked overdressed in dark suits.

His father saw him and Ruth in their deckchairs. Ruth was wearing a skimpy bikini and Hathaway saw her self-consciousness as his father stared down at her.

‘The hard life of the working man,' Dennis Hathaway said to his son.

‘I'm working tonight,' Hathaway said, getting out of his deckchair and tossing Ruth a towel. He nodded to Reilly. ‘What are you both doing here?'

He drew them away.

‘Considering a bit of business,' Dennis Hathaway said. ‘What do you think about this whole area becoming a marina? Berths for a few thousand boats, an oceanarium, an ice rink, a sports centre, tennis courts, apartments, a hotel, pubs – the works. Even a fishmarket.'

‘The fishmarket doesn't do anything for me but aside from that it sounds great,' Hathaway said. ‘We're involved?'

‘We could be. I've got a bit of money lying around. Couple of problems, though. Getting a road in here is tricky. And the porridge makers are being a right pain.'

‘Porridge makers?' Hathaway said.

‘Yeah, the Quakers.'

Hathaway laughed.

‘Do they still exist?'

‘You bet.' Dennis Hathaway pointed up at the cliff. ‘And they have a burial plot up near the gasometers. The plan needs that space.'

‘Then there's the cliff itself,' Reilly said.

‘Yeah, we can't touch that. Full of fossils, apparently. Dinosaurs and all that.'

‘Really?' Hathaway said.

‘Don't get overexcited, John. You're such a bloody kid. They're in the way, frankly.'

Hathaway gestured around.

‘Will this go?'

‘Inevitably,' his father said. He took Hathaway's arm. ‘Me and your mum are off to the theatre tonight.'

‘The Theatre Royal?'

‘Nah, the Palace Pier. Good bit of cabaret.' He looked over at Ruth. ‘Want to join us?'

Hathaway shook his head.

‘No, thanks, Dad. We've got plans.'

His father looked over at Ruth.

‘I'll bet you have.'

‘We're going to see The Beatles. They're closing the Hippodrome.'

‘Don't get me started on that. Are you supporting?'

‘Nah – they're bringing their own support band. Some other Scousers. We'll meet them, though.'

Hathaway's father nodded towards Ruth and leaned in to his son.

‘That should get you whatever you want from yon lass.'

Hathaway flushed and smirked.

‘I've already had that.'

Dennis Hathaway was in London a lot in June for meetings. One day he came back to the West Pier with Freddie Mills, the former world champion. Mills, mashed nose and kid's gap-toothed smile, was friendly and took Hathaway on at the shooting gallery. Hathaway won, though he thought perhaps Mills had once more let him.

On 9 July, Hathaway, sprawled on the sofa in the office after a lively night with Ruth, read in the paper that Ronnie Biggs, one of the Great Train Robbers, had been sprung from Wandsworth in an escape like something out of
Danger Man
.

‘He must be important,' he said to Reilly. Charlie was tilted back in a chair, his feet up on the window sill.

Reilly shook his head.

‘He was brought in at the last moment. Small time – made his living as a painter and decorator.'

‘Why, then? Who would bother?'

‘Money,' Charlie said. ‘He'd make it worth someone's while. Or someone would make it worth their own while by stealing his money from him.' He tilted the chair forward. ‘Or – he threatened to talk unless they sprang him.'

‘Who is “they”?' Reilly said, amusement in his voice.

‘Well, I heard there were other people involved in the robbery who were never caught, never identified. Maybe he threatened to talk unless they got him out.'

‘Why didn't “they” just pay someone to shaft him in the Scrubs?'

‘Painful,' Hathaway said. He giggled. ‘Have you ever been shafted in the scrubs, Charlie?'

‘Piss off.' Charlie pointed at Hathaway. ‘You thought Muffin the Mule was a sexual practice until you discovered Smirnoff.'

Even Reilly smiled at that.

‘And your dad thinks music hall died with Max Miller,' he said. ‘Jimmy Tarbuck has a lot to answer for.'

‘As I was saying,' Charlie said. ‘Biggs is sprung, killed and buried somewhere he'll never be found. Mark my words. He'll never be heard of again.'

Reilly shifted in his seat but said nothing.

Just over two weeks later, Charlie and Hathaway were sitting in deckchairs outside the office. They were arguing, first about whether Michael Caine was better in
Zulu
or in
The Ipcress File
, then about the relative merits of the Rolling Stones and The Beatles. It was a slow day.

Dennis Hathaway stomped out of the office. He went over for a low-voiced discussion with Tommy, who ran the shooting gallery, then headed over to the lads.

‘Everything all right, Dad?'

‘No, it's bloody not. Freddie Mills is dead. Shot in the head in his car in a yard behind his club.'

Charlie and Hathaway both struggled out of their deckchairs.

‘Who did it?' Charlie said.

‘They're saying it's self-inflicted. With one of my bloody rifles. I lent him it from the shooting gallery when he was last down. According to Andy, his business partner, he'd told his staff he was going off for his regular nap in his car.'

‘But our rifles are just air guns,' Hathaway said.

His father shook his head.

‘Adapted to fire pellets but easy enough to convert back. We have half a dozen behind the counter . . .'

His voice tailed off.

‘Do you think he killed himself?'

His father scowled.

‘Don't be bloody daft. A rifle in a car, a man of his bulk? If he was going to shoot himself, that's what handguns were invented for.'

‘Who, then?' Charlie said.

‘His chinkie was on Charing Cross Road.' Reilly had stepped out of the office. ‘Right on the edge of Chinatown. The Tongs were shaking him down.'

Dennis Hathaway shook his head.

‘It's the bloody twins. The chinkie went bust – probably because of the stuff going out the back door – and the twins got him to turn it into a club – The Nite Spot. They used to hang out there.'

‘So why kill him?' Charlie said.

‘As a warning to me,' Dennis Hathaway said. ‘Freddie's been doing some negotiating on my behalf.' He balled his fists. ‘Look, there are two main gangs in London. In the fifties it was the Cypriots and the Italians but today it's homegrown, cockney boys. Now, what you think about them depends on where you're sitting. Some say they keep petty crime down in the areas they control better than the rozzers can. Others say they terrorize the communities they live in – and live off.

‘Frankly, I don't give a toss what they do as long as they stay out of my backyard. But they want to expand out of London. It's obvious they're looking at Brighton. They've been talking to those other tossers, the Boroni Brothers down here. Encouraging them to have a go at us. Divide and rule, that's their plan. But it can't happen. I won't let it happen.'

‘So what do you want to do?' Reilly said. ‘Pay them off? You know you can't pay them off – they'd bleed you dry. Start a war?'

‘We can't win a war.'

‘What, then?' Hathaway said.

‘We'll have a parlay at Freddie's funeral. I want you boys to come up with Sean and me.'

Hathaway and Charlie exchanged glances. Stood straighter. Dennis Hathaway shook his head.

‘Freddie Mills dead. Bloody hell.' His son thought he saw tears in his eyes. His father was both brutal and sentimental. ‘First time I saw him fight was here in Brighton. In a booth down on the beach not long before Adolf kicked off. Not what you'd call a stylist but he could hit hard – and he could take it as well as dish it out. He was a light heavyweight really but he fought heavyweight, so he had to take a lot of punches. I saw him win the world championship in 1948 – and lose it in 1950 at Earls Court. Knocked out in the tenth round. Freddie retired after that. He had headaches the rest of his life from the batterings he'd taken. But in his day he took any punch you could throw at him.'

Dennis Hathaway growled suddenly.

‘The fucking twins trying to muscle in down here. I knew that New Year when they turned up with that prick McVicar they weren't down for the sea air. But we've got to keep them the fuck away – they're fucking mental.'

‘Sean told me it was only one of them,' Hathaway said. ‘That the other is OK.'

‘Fucking bum-bandit boxer,' Dennis Hathaway said. ‘Not enough he wants to fuck you up the arse, he wants to punch you in the face whilst he's doing it. Freddie was the same.'