‘Not you – your father. Jesus, I don’t care about the smuggling as long as I get my tithe, but he can’t do everything. Does he want to be Brighton’s Mr Big? Does he?’
Simpson was red-faced with anger. Hathaway tried to remain impassive.
‘Tell him that’s my role.’
‘Why don’t you tell him yourself?’ Hathaway said, standing abruptly. ‘Or don’t you have the guts?’
The chief constable reddened further as he too stood and leaned forward, his fists planted on the desk.
‘Listen, sonny, don’t mistake friendliness for softness. I’m asking nicely but we can do it a different way. Don’t forget who has all the real power and a private bloody army if I choose to exercise that power.’
‘Didn’t do your predecessor much good, did it?’ Hathaway said. He smirked, though he knew he shouldn’t.
The chief constable reached over and pressed an intercom button.
‘Come on in.’
Hathaway looked from the chief constable to the door.
‘Oh – what? The rough stuff now?’
The chief constable watched the door swing open. A constable came in.
‘You know each other, of course.’
Behind the constable, Barbara came hesitantly into the room.
NINE
1967
H athaway tracked down his father in the Hippodrome.
‘We got bingo in half an hour,’ his father said. ‘I expect your mother will be down.’
He looked around.
‘Look at this place – beautiful. Started as a circus, you know. Built by Frank Matcham. I’ve seen so many great shows over the years. And now it’s a bloody bingo hall.’ He shook his head. ‘Progress.’
‘Dad, I need to talk to you.’
‘What’s that?’ Dennis Hathaway grabbed for the red plastic-covered book Hathaway had put on the table.
‘The thoughts of Mousie Tung,’ Hathaway’s father said, chucking the book on his desk. ‘Jesus Christ – you’re gonna start giving all your money away to the poor?’
Hathaway pursed his lips.
‘I think that was Jesus, Dad.’
Dennis Hathaway stood, shoulders forward, the small book swallowed in his big hands.
‘I suppose this is more of that stupid nonsense from your privileged student mates, is it?’
‘Elaine gave it to me, yes.’
Dennis Hathaway snorted.
‘I like Elaine, don’t get me wrong. She’s a beautiful gal and I like her spirit, but Jesus, she has some barmy ideas.’
Hathaway fidgeted. Elaine wasn’t why he was here, but still he said:
‘She wants us to go travelling in India, visit some ashrams.’
‘Are they Commies and all, these ashrams?’
Hathaway smiled and was relieved to see his father did too.
‘They’re places, Dad, not people. Places of spiritual retreat. The Beatles went there and Twiggy.’
‘Oh well, very deep and meaningless, then, clearly.’
‘Meaningful,’ Hathaway murmured.
His father’s smile went.
‘I mean exactly what I say: meaningless. We’re put on this planet to look out for ourselves and our families. Everyone else can watch out for themselves. Do you think Mousie is watching out for others? He’s top of the tree, mate, and he wants to stay there. Funny how all these communist countries, where everyone is equal, all have a dictator at the top of them. Kruschev, Castrato, Mousie…’
Hathaway recalled a phrase Elaine had used:
‘It’s called the dictatorship of the proletariat, Dad.’
His father took his time.
‘Is it?’
Hathaway struggled for Elaine’s words.
‘It’s a phase any communist society must go through-’
His father snorted again.
‘The proles have never dictated anything to anybody. That’s why they’re proles. You weren’t raised to be a prole; you were raised to be a governor.’
‘But governor of what? Dad, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’
‘What – has your girl got a bun in the oven?’
‘About the family business.’
‘What about it?’
‘I’ve just seen Barbara.’
His father sat back. Looked over to the man behind the bar.
‘Find us a bottle of whisky and a couple of glasses will you, Des?’
Des nodded.
‘Not for me,’ Hathaway said.
‘Yes, for you. This is a club – well, used to be. In a club you have a proper drink.’
Hathaway shrugged then leaned forward.
‘Dad, it’s about-’
Hathaway’s father put up his hand.
‘Not before the drinks, son. Protocol, you know.’
They waited until Des had brought over the whisky and two glasses full of ice. Dennis slouched low in his chair, looking round the room.
‘Canadian Club – very nice. Thanks, Des.’
‘No problem, Mr H.’
Hathaway watched Des amble back over to the bar area. He looked back at his father who was pouring two stiff measures.
‘Cheers, son.’
His father took a swig, Hathaway a sip. The whisky burned.
‘Tell me about the brothels,’ Hathaway said.
‘What brothels?’
‘Your brothels.’
‘Our brothels, you mean. That’s a long story.’
‘And the teenage prostitutes.’
Dennis Hathaway put his glass down.
‘What has Barbara been telling you? And what is she doing over here, by the way?’
Barbara had looked thinner, older. Much older. Worn.
‘Hello, John,’ she said. Her voice was the same.
Hathaway felt himself flush. As he stood awkwardly, Barbara came over and reached up to kiss him on the
