‘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.
Hathaway shook his head.
‘Just good at Latin at school.’
‘“Eat and drink, for tomorrow we die”,’ Williamson said. ‘“Gather ye rosebuds whilst ye may.”’
Hathaway laughed.
‘Or as old Omar would say: “Here with a little bread beneath the bough, a flask of wine, a book of verse -”’ he looked at Gilchrist – ‘“and thee”.’
Gilchrist smiled, despite herself.
‘That’s all very well but who killed Elaine Trumpler?’ Watts said.
‘Anyone here know of a guy called Keith Jeffery?’ Hathaway said. ‘Apropos the Swinging Sixties.’
‘Another hoodlum?’
‘He’s the guy who either murdered or ordered the murder of Jimi Hendrix.’
‘Whoa,’ Williamson said. ‘Nobody killed Jimi Hendrix except Jimi Hendrix. He drowned in his own vomit after a drug-drink overdose.’
He sensed Gilchrist staring at him.
‘It’s a pub quiz question.’
‘Rather like Laurence Kingston, you mean?’ Hathaway said.
Gilchrist laughed.
‘Hang on – Elaine Trumpler, Jimi Hendrix and Laurence Kingston? This Keith Jeffery killed them all?’
Hathaway sipped his beer.
‘Jeffery was Hendrix’s manager. Insured him for two million dollars. He was worth more to him dead than alive.’
‘Hendrix was a megastar,’ Williamson said. ‘He would have made far more than two million.’
‘After his death he was a megastar. And Keith wasn’t exactly au fait with the music business. He didn’t really get Hendrix. In 1967, Jeffery put Hendrix on as support for The Monkees – the first boy band, I guess.
‘But he’d put a lot of money into building Electric Ladyland studios in New York. He owed the Inland Revenue a fortune. He’d had to pay off various ex-managers. He was spending money without getting much return. Then Hendrix said he wanted to change managers.’
‘So Jeffery killed him?’ Tingley said.
Hathaway nodded.
‘Took the two million dollars insurance, bought a house in Woodstock, took control of the studios in New York, made a packet out of Hendrix’s heritage. You know these guys can definitely be worth more dead than alive.’
‘He ordered it or he did it?’ Tingley said.
Hathaway spread his hands.
‘One or the other. He claimed to be in his nightclub in Majorca at the time. Claimed he didn’t know about it until the police turned up a few days later. But he was a Geordie wideboy who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty.
‘He started with a little night club that wasn’t doing too well on the outskirts of Geordie-land. It conveniently burned down. Then he had a coffee bar in the centre also not doing too well. That burned down. With the insurance money from both he opened up a dance place. The house band he booked and then managed was The Animals.’
‘I’ve heard of them,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Yeah. Well spare me your rendition of “House of the Rising Sun”. Jeffery was their manager. They had a string of hits. They weren’t The Beatles or Gerry and the Pacemakers and they weren’t as pretty, but that Eric Burdon had a voice on him.’
‘Is there a point to this pop history lesson?’ Williamson said.
‘The Animals split up in 1966. Creative differences. After all those hits they scarcely had a pot to piss in. Jeffery had persuaded them to put their money in an offshore account he set up in the Bahamas. Called it Yameta.
