The Last King of Brighton (34 page)

Cuthbert's face reddened.

‘His dentures were, for the purposes of identification.'

‘Who was it?'

‘What the fuck do you care who it was, you muppet?' Dave said, hitting him across the side of the head again.

‘Because we fucking buried the pathetic remains in the family grave and now you're telling me we've got some toerag in there with the rest of the Cuthberts?'

‘Believe me – whoever he is he'll be a step up from your blood. Your dad was as much a pain in the arse as you. You're like a family of fucking hyenas. My dad was sick of him just like I'm sick of you. I'm surprised I've let you live so long.'

Cuthbert stared into Hathaway's eyes. His own were dead.

‘So, anyways, your dad was toast, obviously. It was just a matter of who else. My dad had scruples. I wanted him to do the whole bloody lot of you. Pest control. Fumigate Milldean. But you and your sister and brother were just kids. And he totally underestimated how much your mother was involved in the family business. He thought that if he got rid of your dad that would be the end of it.'

Cuthbert's look burned.

‘Anyway, Steve. Finally, you and your scum family are getting what your breed deserved back then. Just so you know. Everyone is going.'

Hathaway was aware that Dave's attention jerked to him when he said that. He continued:

‘Your wife. The not-so-little uns – they've already got ASBOs, haven't they? Your brother and his family. Your sister – and she's definitely no loss, scag that she is. You were scum. You are scum. And none of you deserve to smear the future.'

He nodded at Dave. Dave looked uncertain. Hathaway waited. Cuthbert started to turn his head. Dave raised his hand and shot Cuthbert through the temple. Cuthbert's head snapped away then rolled sharply forward, his body tilted in the chair.

Dave looked at his handiwork, then down at the floor.

‘Wish he'd said more,' he said finally.

Hathaway turned away.

‘Nobody ever says enough. Or they say too much.'

TWENTY-THREE

T
ingley looked at the drinks Watts brought over to their table in the garden of the old pub beneath the Downs.

‘What is that?' Tingley said.

Watts picked up his glass and peered at it.

‘This year's black. Or something. Cider. Nice.'

Tingley tutted.

‘Cider is either for teenagers sitting on park benches or – well – old winos sitting on park benches. Which are you?'

‘Ha. There's not a park bench in sight.'

Tingley's phone rang. He didn't recognize the number. He shrugged at Watts and put the phone to his ear.

‘Tingles, it's Dave. Don't say anything, just listen.'

He sounded winded.

‘Thought you should know things have kicked off. Hathaway's restaurant at the marina was torched and he sent me to the Grand with a message for three Serbs staying there.'

‘Was one called Radislav?' Tingley said.

‘I said just listen,' Dave said fiercely. ‘Then we snatched Cuthbert. Thought you'd be pleased about that.'

‘Where is he?'

Dave was quiet for a moment, though Tingley could hear his ragged breathing.

‘I've crossed a line. I don't regret it. Cuthbert was a shit. You know his loan sharking? Once people borrowed from him he had them for life. He charged interest rates that worked out as high as a couple of thousand per cent.' Dave was speaking more quickly. ‘He lent this nurse five hundred quid to buy a computer for her daughter. Over seven years he's demanded eighty-eight thousand pounds from her. She had two strokes and a brain haemorrhage from the stress. He was a bastard.'

Tingley saw Watts get up from the table and walk away, fishing his own phone out of his pocket. Watts put it to his ear.

‘But Hathaway was talking of doing Cuthbert's entire family. Blaming the Serbs. There's no need for that, so I'm letting you know. The other – well, it's a kind of war.'

Before Tingley could say anything, Dave hung up. He put his phone on the table and watched Watts walk back over.

‘That was Dave. It's kicked off. Hathaway's restaurant at the marina was torched. Something has gone on with Balkan gangsters at the Grand and I think Cuthbert might be dead.'

Watts slumped down.

‘That was Gilchrist. She can't join us as she's down at the Grand. There are three dead Balkan gangsters there after a gun battle on the fourth floor.'

‘Radislav among them?'

‘Apparently not. Was Dave one of the shooters?'

‘I don't know. But I think he might have killed Cuthbert.'

Tingley told him the rest of Dave's message. Before he'd even finished Watts was phoning Hewitt to get protection to Cuthbert's family as soon as possible.

Watts put his phone back in his pocket and he and Tingley just looked at each other.

Tingley had never known peace. He knew how he appeared – calm and matter of fact. It was a front he maintained by rigid self-control. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt relaxed, though he also couldn't remember when he could afford to relax.

Gaza, Lebanon, Iran for the Israelis. Iraq, both times. In the nineties, the Balkans, of course, that cesspit. Just back from Afghanistan. And now this. The Balkans on his doorstep.

‘Strictly speaking this isn't any of our business,' he said. ‘You're examining a cold case and liaising between different people about the West Pier.'

‘True. But Stewart Nealson was a friend of yours, wasn't he?'

‘Not exactly a friend . . .'

‘And Radislav is the one that got away.'

‘Not the only one . . .'

Watts gave him a long look and Tingley nodded. He brought out a sheaf of papers from his jacket pocket.

‘Radislav is somewhere outside Birmingham, lying low with his men. Drago Kadire, an Albanian, and another big name – Miklos Verbalin – were the Brighton forward brigade at the Grand. Verbalin is one of the dead. The other two are presumably foot soldiers.'

‘But Kadire got away with some of his men.'

Tingley nodded.

‘And Radislav will come running.'

‘Who will they go for?

‘Hathaway – who else?'

‘Did Dave say where Hathaway is?'

Tingley shook his head.

‘Let's find out,' Watts said.

Hathaway answered on the first ring.

‘It's Bob Watts.'

‘How nice to hear from you, ex-Chief Constable, though your timing could be better.'

‘Got a lot on your plate, have you?'

‘The cross all entrepreneurs must bear.'

‘Sorry to hear about your restaurant.'

‘Yes, that was uncalled for. A malicious act.'

‘So was whacking three of the Grand's paying guests.'

‘Well, they've paid now, that's for sure.'

‘You know that isn't going to end it?'

‘I think it might.'

‘Vlad is still out there.'

Hathaway said nothing.

‘What have you done to Cuthbert?'

Again silence.

‘His family are in protective custody by now.'

Hathaway sighed.

‘Oh dear. Dave did seem to take that very hard, though I did warn him that once he came in, he was in all the way.'

‘You're not going to hurt him?' Watts said. Tingley raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘No, no. Just reassign him.'

‘We need to talk to you.'

‘I get that a lot. OK. Come down to the marina. I'm on my boat. I might have something for you.'

Sarah Gilchrist and Reg Williamson got there first. They'd already been to the house on Tongdean Drive to try to question Hathaway about the torching of his bar and the deaths at the Grand.

They stood on the boardwalk now looking at the charred remains of The Buddha. Williamson had his jacket over his shoulder, his belly straining at his crumpled shirt. He looked out over the harbour, shading his eyes with his hand.

‘He's on one of those boats.'

They walked along a narrow wooden walkway past boats of every shape and size. There was a large double-decker cruiser at the far end with a gaggle of tough-looking men standing before it. Subtle. As they got nearer, a broad-shouldered black guy stepped towards them.

‘Can I help you?'

Williamson produced his warrant card.

‘Looking for Mr Hathaway.'

The man shrugged.

‘Can't help you.'

Williamson smiled thinly.

‘Won't wash, mate. Either we go on or he comes off.'

‘It's all right, Dave.'

Williamson and Gilchrist looked up at the sound of the voice. The tall, good-looking man standing on the rear deck gave a startlingly Simon Cowell-like grin and waved them aboard.

The two policemen were still there when Hathaway and Tingley arrived. Dave had come on board to alert Hathaway of their approach when they were a couple of hundred yards away.

‘Thanks, Dave. You make yourself scarce.'

Watts smiled at the sight of Gilchrist and Williamson when he and Tingley came on to the rear deck. Hathaway excused himself from the two policemen and came over, hand extended. He looked fit and lithe in navy linen trousers and a white silk shirt. He also looked remarkably relaxed considering what had been going on.

‘Gentlemen, good to see you. I've just been accused of several murders by proxy. I think you know DS Gilchrist, Bob – rather well, in fact. But have you met acting DI Williamson?'

‘We're disturbing you,' Tingley said to Williamson.

‘Mr Hathaway was being unhelpful,' Williamson replied, shaking his hand. ‘But he assures me he has something to tell us all.'

Gilchrist nodded at Watts and Tingley.

‘Well, isn't this jolly,' Hathaway said. ‘Drinks all round? Oh, I know our coppers are on duty but this is a boat so pretend you're in international waters.'

They all had beers.

‘You were about to confess,' Gilchrist said. ‘The Serbians in the Grand?'

‘You're a one, DS Gilchrist. No, I have a bit of a roundabout story to tell. It starts with Elaine Trumpler.'

‘That's a cold case,' Gilchrist said.

‘But the police would be arresting the murderer.'

‘If he's still alive,' Watts said. ‘Are you saying it was you, not your father?'

‘Not so fast,' Hathaway said, putting his hand up.

‘Your father was not known for turning the other cheek,' Watts said. ‘Your father was known for violence. Competitors disappearing without trace.'

‘I can't comment on his business methods.'

‘Really? Even though you inherited them. Where's Cuthbert?'

Hathaway looked down at his hands on his knees, tilted his head and looked at the four people facing him.

‘And here was I thinking we were getting on so well.'

He spread his hands.

‘My father was a psychopath – I think you call them sociopaths these days. And for years I worried that it was a genetic thing, that I was the same. But I'm not. I know that. My fear that I carried the gene is the reason I never had children.' He looked out over the marina. ‘One of the reasons.'

‘Who do you think topped your father?' Tingley said.

‘Who said he was topped?' Hathaway said, menace in his voice.

‘He disappeared. Your mum died of grief.' Tingley saw Hathaway's look. ‘That's what I heard anyway.'

Hathaway jabbed his finger at Tingley.

‘You've got a cheek, Jimmy, saying such things to my face. But I'll answer your question. I don't know who topped my father and after all this time I don't care. All that bollocks about revenge is a dish best eaten cold is just that – bollocks. No dish meant to be served hot tastes anything like as good cold.'

‘Thanks for the gastronomic tip,' Gilchrist said.

Hathaway turned to her.

‘Let me tell you my dad's philosophy. Courtesy of some Persian wise man. “The moving finger writes and having writ moves on. Nor all your piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all your tears wash out a word of it.”'

The four of them looked at him. He shook his head.

‘Nobody has any culture any more.' He pointed at Watts. ‘Your father would know it.
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
, written in the eleventh century, as translated by Edward Fitzgerald in the nineteenth century. Very big for most of the twentieth century. Words to live by.'

‘No good crying over spilt milk, you mean?' Watts said.

Hathaway gave him a curious look.

‘I made a decision to live in the present and the future. Decided not to get bogged down in revenge. Wasteful emotion. What's done is done. Move on. Carpe diem. All that.'

‘You've seized a few days since then,' Watts said.

‘That I have, ex-Chief Constable. Though, actually, you're mistranslating. Everybody does. Horace was actually using the word “carpe” in the sense of “enjoy, make use of” – it actually means “pick, pluck or gather”. And it was the start of a sentence that went on “quam minimum credula postero” – “enjoy the day and put little trust in the future”. The ode is all about tomorrow being unknowable so focus on now – and drink your wine.'

‘The wonders of a classical education,' Gilchrist said, almost admiringly.

‘You're a constant surprise, John,' Watts said.