‘Stew was discreet but he might have said something that somebody picked up on.’
‘But you’re not calling it off?’
‘Of course not.’ Hathaway had heard the early reports of the West Pier suffering further injury. ‘In fact I’m more determined than ever. But we’ll have to do a little more planning, just in case.’
‘The basic plan remains the same?’
‘Absolutely. I wanna hit them where it really hurts. Teach them a big bloody lesson.’
Ex-Chief Constable Bob Watts was sitting in a meeting with the deputy chair of the West Pier Syndicate. Theresa Henderson had heavily gelled hair. She was wearing a tight-fitting red trouser suit. Watts thought she looked like a distaff Hillary Clinton. He wasn’t sure how she made her money but he knew she had plenty of it. She leaned forward and parted her scarlet lips in a smile.
‘Bob, we could do with some informal help here.’
Watts looked at Henderson warily. He liked her but he didn’t trust her.
‘Help with what?’
‘The damage to the West Pier.’
Watts waited. She clasped her hands and leaned forward.
‘We’re going to have a nightmare with the insurance company on the pier. We need to be clear what has happened.’
Watts looked out of the window. They were sitting in The Ship sharing a pot of coffee. People hurried by outside, struggling with the gusting wind.
‘I believe you have a notion the pier was firebombed,’ Henderson said.
He looked at her. He’d never got the point of hair stiffened with gel or spray. He imagined for a moment trying to run his hand through her hair. His fingers would get stuck about a centimetre in.
‘I’m certain of it,’ he said. ‘A fire in a storm hardly makes sense otherwise. We both know the Palace Pier people aren’t happy about any competition from the West Pier development. Everyone assumes they firebombed it twice before. Who else is it going to be?’
‘The situation could be more complicated than that,’ Henderson said.
‘In what way?’
‘You’re the policeman. Don’t you think it likely that it’s connected to the death of our Chair? Rather an odd coincidence that he should die on the same morning.’
‘Coincidences do happen but I take your point,’ Watts said. ‘In what way connected, though? What aren’t you telling me?’
‘We think there might have been something fraudulent going on.’
‘Laurence? You know he asked to see me the night of the storm but he didn’t show up.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Henderson said, sitting straighter. ‘But, yes, we think it was Laurence.’
‘“We” being?’
‘Alec Henry and me.’
Alec Henry was the West Pier Syndicate’s treasurer. Watts looked at Henderson. She grimaced.
‘We’re talking twenty million pounds here, so I guess that’s a temptation for anyone.’
‘Do you know what he’d done?’
‘Not exactly. We just know there’s something weird going on with the grants for the development.’
‘What kind of weird?’
‘Possibly fraud on a massive level. The thing is, if it gets out the whole project will be in jeopardy.’
‘You want me to hush it up? That’s not really what I do.’
Henderson looked at him for a long moment. Watts guessed she was thinking he’d somehow hushed up what happened in Milldean. He didn’t say anything.
Henderson leaned forward. ‘Do you know the name John Hathaway?’
Watts nodded.
‘What do you know about him?’
‘A major player in Brighton. Almost certainly a major criminal, though he’s never seen the inside of a prison cell. He’s involved?’
‘His name has come up a couple of times.’
Watts looked out of the window again.
‘OK. I’ll look into it.’
The UK coastguard found the blood-spattered boat drifting at dawn, within sight of Brighton’s piers. Gilchrist saw the report flash on to her screen. She shouted over to Reg Williamson:
‘Listen to this. The UK coastguard have boarded a boat that was drifting off the coast of Brighton, swept into shore by yesterday’s storm. A luxury cruiser registered in Ravenna. The boat was deserted except for the carcase of the owner, an Italian industrialist hanging from the wheel.’ She read on. ‘Ugh.’
‘What?’
‘He was naked. Worse than naked.’
‘How worse?’ Williamson said.
‘He had been skinned.’
‘Jesus. Did someone send us back to the Dark Ages and not tell me? One guy gets impaled, another gets skinned.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I don’t like to ask, but did they find the skin?’
‘Doesn’t say. Blood everywhere. His wife, a former actress twenty years his junior, and the crew are missing.’
‘And the perpetrators?’
‘The dinghy from the vessel is missing. I assume they came ashore somewhere.’
‘In Brighton, do you think?’
‘Who knows? But don’t you think two such barbaric crimes must be linked?’
Williamson reached for a cigarette.
‘I’ve a horrible feeling they are.’
FIFTEEN
Jimmy Tingley, ex-SAS, current status ambiguous, telephoned Bob Watts, disgraced ex-chief constable of the Southern police force. Watts said:
‘I’m on the train,’ then wished he hadn’t.
He was looking out of the window as the train crossed the high viaduct just beyond Haywards Heath. He loved the view across to Ardingly College and its Gothic chapel. He eased his neck in the stiff collar of his shirt. He was thinking about the West Pier but he was dressed for an interview. Funds were running low and he needed to get a proper job.
‘Nealson died in a memorable way.’ Tingley said.
The train went into a deep cutting. Watts frowned at his reflection in the train window.
‘Hello?’
Watts waited, glancing down at the front page of the Guardian. The second lead announced the imminent publication of the report into the Milldean Massacre, in which four civilians had been shot and killed by armed police. He was aware of the rush of the train above the wavering phone signal. His phone rang again.
‘There are tunnels coming up,’ he said. ‘I may lose you. You said memorable?’
‘To you and me.’
Watts frowned.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ said Tingley and the signal was snatched away. But Watts had clearly heard: ‘Vlad the Impaler.’
Watts looked down at his phone. Then at the tremor in his hand.
After his interview, Watts phoned Tingley.
‘How did it go?’ Tingley said.
