The Last King of Brighton by Peter Guttridge Page B

We’ve got plans.’
    His father looked over at Ruth.
    â€˜I’ll bet you have.’
    â€˜We’re going to see The Beatles. They’re closing the Hippodrome.’
    â€˜Don’t get me started on that. Are you supporting?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜That should get you whatever you want from yon lass.’
    Hathaway flushed and smirked.
    â€˜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 .
    â€˜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.
    â€˜He was brought in at the last moment. Small time – made his living as a painter and decorator.’
    â€˜Why, then? Who would bother?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Who is “they”?’ Reilly said, amusement in his voice.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Why didn’t “they” just pay someone to shaft him in the Scrubs?’
    â€˜Painful,’ Hathaway said. He giggled. ‘Have you ever been shafted in the scrubs, Charlie?’
    â€˜Piss off.’ Charlie pointed at Hathaway. ‘You thought Muffin the Mule was a sexual practice until you discovered Smirnoff.’
    Even Reilly smiled at that.
    â€˜And your dad thinks music hall died with Max Miller,’ he said. ‘Jimmy Tarbuck has a lot to answer for.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Everything all right, Dad?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Who did it?’ Charlie said.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜But our rifles are just air guns,’ Hathaway said.
    His father shook his head.
    â€˜Adapted to fire pellets but easy enough to convert back. We have half a dozen behind the counter . . .’
    His voice tailed off.
    â€˜Do you think he killed himself?’
    His father scowled.
    â€˜Don’t be bloody daft. A rifle in a