Gilchrist sighed.
‘I’ll be right back.’
Half an hour later Watts phoned Gilchrist on her mobile as he walked past the statue of Max Miller beside the Pavilion Theatre. He couldn’t raise her nor was there a facility for leaving a message. He walked on to the end of the street. He was hungry. Carluccio’s was to his left but he was fond of a little bodega next to the Coach and Horses. A Spanish family had opened it a couple of years before to sell produce from their Spanish estates, but they also sold glasses of wine and tapas. It was tiny, with scarcely room for the six small tables they crammed in.
Settled there with a glass of tempranillo and little plates of manchego and chorizo stew, he phoned Gilchrist again. This time she replied.
‘You’ll never guess what I’ve got,’ he said.
‘You go first,’ she said.
‘You’ve found something too?’
She arrived twenty minutes later, by which time he’d ordered paella and frittata and more wine. Gilchrist had the diary with her. It was big – A4 size.
‘It’s full,’ Gilchrist said. ‘The last entry is dated Easter 1968. Just about to go off on holiday with her guy to Greece. There must be another diary after this.’
‘Does she identify the townie?’
‘No,’ Gilchrist said, licking her fingers, ‘but it does refer to going to see the band the night before the last entry.’
‘It’s OK. I found some press-clippings about the band. There’s even a photo.’
‘Does it name the band members?’
‘It does.’
‘And?’
‘Does the name John Hathaway mean anything to you?’
‘Bloody John Hathaway.’
She gobbled some more frittata.
‘This is great. I’m starving.’
‘I noticed.’
He pushed the other plate over.
‘I’ve already fed my face.’
‘Do you think he killed her?’ she said between mouthfuls.
‘His dad owned that end of the West Pier,’ Watts said.
‘Where the remains were found. Looking bad for Johnny boy. But is he known as a killer?’
‘He’s known as being above the law,’ Watts said. ‘And every one of his generation got his hands dirty at some time or other. Every one.’
‘I remember checking his file before. He’s never been down for anything.’
‘No. Nor done time. And that’s unusual. But he’s dirty. We know he’s dirty. Maybe this is the leverage you need.’
‘I’ve got enough on my plate without going after a crime kingpin.’
‘I’ll take Tingley with me,’ Hathaway said. ‘Boys’ night out.’
NINETEEN
Watts went with Tingley to the Buddha, Hathaway’s bar at the marina. It was another blisteringly hot day. Hathaway met them in his office on the first floor and took them out on to a private balcony. They sat in the shade of an awning, the glittering sea and the brilliant white boats almost impossibly bright.
‘I’d get a headache, looking at this every day,’ Tingley said. ‘One of those boats yours?’
Hathaway smiled and shot his cuff to check his watch.
‘Just setting off back from France, I think. I lent it to a mate. This marina was a long time coming, you know. Twelve years of enquiries. The site kept shifting. There were referenda and parliamentary bills. The first version in 1970 was just a boat harbour. It’s been added to ever since. I own four places here altogether. And my boat, of course.’
‘John,’ Watts said. ‘As we’re on first name terms, tell me about Elaine.’
‘Which Elaine?’ Hathaway pushed his sunglasses further up his nose. ‘There have been a lot of Elaines.’
‘The one we just dug out of the seabed under the West Pier.’
Hathaway mimed applause.
‘I admire your sensitivity. That’s years of customer care training coming into its own, is it?’
‘So – what about her?’
Hathaway’s face was impassive.
‘I’m no wiser, so let me ask you the same question. Which Elaine?’
Watts turned in his seat to look at Hathaway directly.
‘Elaine Trumpler. Believe you knew her. When you were in a pop group. Didn’t know you had that in you.’
Hathaway wafted his arm towards the dozen or so guitars on display in a corner of the bar.
‘Some detective you are. I can see why your police career was cut short.’
Watts smiled.
‘I’m slow but I get there in the end. So, Ms Trumpler?’
‘Yeah, I knew her. We had a thing. I was in a band – I had lots of things.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘You’re joking, of course. I can’t remember.’
‘Try.’
‘Well, she did a bit part in that film on the pier, I know that.’
‘Were you still together?’
‘No. She was screwing some actor by then. Several actors, I believe. Then I heard she’d gone off to India.’
‘You heard?’
‘We weren’t talking really. Originally she’d wanted me to go with her but I couldn’t do it and, in any case, she then got off with these actors.’
He shook his head.
‘You OK?’
Hathaway looked like the wind had been kicked out of him.
‘Yeah. Funny how old memories catch up with you.’
‘So you cared about her?’
‘Suppose I must have done.’
‘You’ve never married. Never had kids.’
‘This is Brighton, darling. Nothing conventional here.’
‘Nevertheless.’
‘What, you think my heartbreak at losing that bint wrecked my emotional life forever?’ He reached over and began shaking a small bell. ‘Where is that Sigmund Freud when you need him?’
A big blond man hurried out.
‘It’s OK,’ Hathaway said. ‘Just a fire drill.’
The blond man looked puzzled. Hathaway shooed him away. He looked towards Watts and Tingley.
‘So Elaine has turned up under the West Pier, has she? I’m distressed to hear that.’
‘You don’t know why that would be?’
‘My distress? Because I cared about her.’
‘Why she should turn up there.’
