The Last King of Brighton

1963

The axe shattered the window, sending shards of glass cascading to the carriage floor. The big man wielding it thrust his masked head and shoulders through the opening and clambered into the railway carriage. The five postal workers heaping mailbags in front of the door recoiled as he waved the axe in their faces. Behind them the mailbags tumbled as the door gave and six more men, wearing boiler suits and woollen balaclavas, pushed into the carriage. They carried pickaxe handles and coshes.

The masked men rained blows on the five sorters, hitting them across their shoulders and on the elbows, shouting at them to lie on the floor. The mailmen did as they were ordered. It was only five minutes earlier that they had heard someone outside the carriage yell: ‘They’re bolting the door – get the guns.’

‘Don’t fucking look at us,’ a masked man bellowed, kicking one of the postal workers in the ribs. ‘Keep your fucking head down.’

Even so, each of the men lying on the floor stole looks at the masked men as they went about their business. Whilst two of the masked men stood guard with pickaxe handles, two more stacked the mailbags together. Three others handed them down on to the railway line. The smell of sweat was keen in the air.

There were 128 bags in the carriage. Half an hour later, when the man with the axe looked at his watch, all but seven had been offloaded.

‘That’s it,’ he shouted, ‘let’s move.’ He saw one of the masked men glance at the remaining bags. ‘Leave them.’

He remained in the carriage whilst the others dropped down on to the track. A few moments later the train driver and his fireman were dragged into the carriage, handcuffed together. The train driver’s head was bleeding heavily. They were dropped to the floor beside the mailmen.

Another big man loomed over them.

‘We’re leaving someone behind,’ he said, his voice a hiss. ‘Don’t move for thirty minutes or it’ll be the worse for you.’

Then the masked men were gone, taking with them?2.6 million in unmarked bills. It was an hour before dawn, Thursday, 8 August, 1963.

On Sunday, 11 August, John Hathaway was sitting at the breakfast table reading about what the press were calling the Great Train Robbery in his father’s News of the World when the doorbell rang.

The banks had admitted that the used?5,?1 and ten shilling notes stolen from the Glasgow to London night mailtrain were mostly untraceable. One bank had admitted that its money was not insured so it would have to suffer the loss itself.

The police were claiming they had significant leads but they always said that. Although the newspaper was indignant that the train driver, Jack Mills, had been badly injured when he resisted the robbers, it was clear they admired the audaciousness of the crime.

So did Hathaway. From what he had read, the robbery had been planned and executed with military precision. The train had been stopped on a lonely stretch of track at Sears Crossing in Buckinghamshire, at a fake signal. It had been robbed within a strict time limit. And the robbers had disappeared into the night with no word of them since.

It reminded him of a film he’d seen a couple of years earlier – The League of Gentlemen – when Jack Hawkins and a band of ex-soldiers had committed the perfect bank robbery.

‘Except they got caught,’ he said to himself as he opened the front door. He flushed crimson.

‘Did your father say I’d be popping round?’ the woman standing on the step said.

‘He said someone would, with some money, yes, Barbara,’ Hathaway stammered. He stood aside so that Barbara, who worked in one of his father’s offices, could come into the house. She looked back and he gestured vaguely down the hall, then watched as she walked, hips swaying, ahead of him. He could smell her perfume.

His heart was thumping. Barbara, some ten years older than Hathaway, looked like a softer version of Cathy Gale in the Avengers and was his main object of unattainable desire. Whenever he went to his father’s office he tried not to ogle her, at least when she might notice.

She stopped by the breakfast table and put a big brown envelope on it.

‘Now don’t spend it all at once,’ she said, without turning. She was looking down at the newspaper.

‘My paper is saying that the mastermind is somebody in Brighton,’ she said. ‘A miser who lives alone in one room and works with infinite care and patience to come up with criminal plans that he takes to a master criminal well known in the Harrow Road area of London.’

She turned and laughed.

‘Such nonsense,’ she said. She glanced from his burning face to the front of his trousers and then around the room. ‘Have you heard from your parents yet?’

Hathaway’s parents had gone on a touring holiday in the Morris Oxford down through France and into Spain. They were going for three weeks, possibly longer. ‘Let’s see how it goes,’ his father had said. His mother was calling it a second honeymoon.

Hathaway shook his head.

‘They only went yesterday.’

‘Away for your birthday – that’s a shame.’ She took a step towards him. ‘How old will you be tomorrow?’

‘Seventeen,’ Hathaway said, trying to focus on her face rather than her cleavage.

‘Seventeen and this house all to yourself. I expect you’ll be having a party. Probably more than one.’ She took another step. ‘I hope you’re going to behave.’

Hathaway shrugged, feeling his face burn even more, thrown by the look in her eyes. It was both nervous and calculating. He saw her glance down at the front of his trousers again.

‘I’m not much for parties.’

‘What about birthday presents?’ she said, only a yard or so from him now. Her perfume enveloped him. ‘You must like them.’

‘Who doesn’t?’ he said. His throat was dry. She was so close he could smell her soft breath. She reached up and touched the corner of his mouth with a crimson fingernail.

‘Would you like an early one?’

When The Avalons finished their set to desultory applause the landlord came over, a sour look on his face.

‘Didn’t think much of the audience,’ Hathaway said as the landlord handed him a well-stuffed envelope. ‘Didn’t get in the spirit of it at all.’

The landlord looked at him but didn’t respond. Instead he said: ‘Hope your dad’s having a good holiday.’

‘From what I hear,’ Hathaway said, slipping the envelope into his jacket pocket. He was nattily dressed in a dark suit with narrow lapels and trousers, white shirt and slim black tie. The other three in the group – Dan, Bill and Charlie – were dressed in the same way and all had their hair Brylcreemed back.

‘Same time next week, then,’ Hathaway said.

The landlord gave a faint smile.

‘Looking forward to it,’ he said.

Once they’d loaded the gear into the back of Charlie’s van, they went across the road to another pub, ordered halves and Hathaway divided out the money between the band members.

‘He’s a miserable sod that landlord,’ Hathaway said.

‘It must be something in the beer,’ Dan, the lead singer, said. ‘Everybody in the place looked like they were at a wake.’

‘Well, it is a Sunday and they were all ancient,’ Hathaway said. ‘Not one of them under thirty.’

‘What did that woman think she was doing asking if we could do any Frank Ifield?’ Dan said. ‘Do I look like I can yodel?’

‘Well,’ Hathaway said. ‘In those trousers…’

‘Bugger off,’ Dan said, taking a swipe at him. ‘Now if she’d meant yodelling in the canyon…’

‘Hark at him,’ Charlie, the drummer, said. He was a couple of years older than the others. He had his comb out, peeling his thick lick of greased hair straight back into a high pompadour.

‘Good gig, though,’ he said. ‘And you almost got the intro right on “Wonderful Land” tonight, Johnny.’

‘I’m getting there,’ Hathaway said. He watched Charlie patting his hair into place. The drummer saw him watching.

‘Learn from the master,’ he said.

Charlie Laker had been a Teddy boy since he was about thirteen. When not in his stage gear, he lived in a drape jacket and brothel creepers, and thought Duane Eddy was God and Gene Vincent sat at his right hand. He was a car mechanic but he rode a motorbike. The van was his father’s. Charlie gave Hathaway grief about the Vespa he scooted around on.

‘I’m thinking we might need to change our look,’ Hathaway said. ‘All these mop-tops in the charts.’

‘I am not having a bloody mop-top,’ Charlie said vehemently. ‘Those Liverpool queers can do what they like.’

‘It’s catching on,’ Hathaway said, and Dan and Bill, the rhythm guitarist, nodded.

‘Having girl’s hair or being a fairy?’ Charlie said. They all laughed.

‘We should be learning some of their songs, though,’ Bill said. ‘I’ve got that new Billy J. Kramer and the new Gerry and the Pacemakers. I can figure out the chords.’

Three out of four in the group could read music, but the simplest way to keep the act up-to-date was not to wait for the sheet music – which could be a long time coming – but to figure out the chords from listening to the singles again and again. That sometimes meant the lyrics weren’t exactly accurate.

‘Just something to think about,’ Hathaway said, standing.

‘Where are you off to?’ Dan said. ‘It’s your round.’

‘Got someone coming round the house,’ Hathaway said.

‘Oh hello,’ Dan said. ‘Whilst the cats are away. Want us to come back, help you with the cheese?’

‘I can manage, thanks.’

‘Who is she?’ Charlie said. ‘Do we know her?’

‘Not that fat girl who lives at the end of your street?’ Dan said.

‘Bugger off,’ Hathaway said. ‘See you Friday.’

‘Make sure you wear a johnny, Johnny,’ Dan called after him. ‘And for God’s sake don’t let her get on top of you or you’re done for.’

Hathaway ignored the calls as he went out into the street and climbed on his scooter. Barbara’s car was already in the drive when he got back to the house.

On Monday evening there were radio reports that the police had found the farmhouse where the Great Train Robbers had holed up. It was splashed all over Tuesday morning’s papers. Leatherslade farmhouse, somewhere in Oxfordshire. On Friday two men called Roger Cordrey and Bill Boal were arrested. Hathaway recognized Cordrey’s name. His dad knew him. He ran a flower shop in town.

That evening The Avalons were playing in a new pub on the edge of Hove. Hathaway had time to watch the new pop show, Ready Steady Go, and ogle its short-skirted presenter, Cathy McGowan, before he went off on his Vespa. He liked the theme tune, ‘5-4-3-2-1’.

The evening started well but quickly went downhill thanks to the six Teddy boys who were out for trouble. Even before they were three rounds of Newcastle Brown in, they’d been catcalling and jeering. They were sitting to the right of the stage, pinched faces, big rings on their fingers that would cut as they punched.

They’d been OK at first but then The Avalons always started with Gene Vincent and Roy Orbison. It was when they moved on to some of the Liverpool Sound songs that the Teds got uppity.

The pub was only half full. Hathaway looked over at the landlord but he was deep in conversation with someone sitting at the bar.

The first coins were thrown at Hathaway part-way through the group’s second Shadows’ cover, ‘Apache’.

‘Get yourself some guitar lessons,’ the biggest of the Teds called, and the others cackled.

The first bottle of Newcastle Brown hit Dan in the chest a few moments later. When the second hit Charlie’s bass drum, he was out from behind his kit and jumping off the shallow stage before any of the Teds had got to their feet.

As Charlie ploughed into them, Hathaway looked at Dan and Bill and pulled his Fender Stratocaster over his head.

‘Bugger,’ he said, laying the guitar carefully down.

Hathaway had been in his share of scraps. His father had taught him the rudiments of boxing but he’d taken up judo when he was fourteen and moved up the grades pretty quickly.

The Ted who’d thrown the coins was out of his seat and heading straight for Hathaway. Hathaway knew exactly what to do. He was going to grab the man by his velvet lapels, nut him, then do a backward roll, plant his feet in his stomach and use his opponent’s weight to send him over his shoulders on to the floor behind him.

That was the theory. But when he grabbed the Ted’s lapels he felt something slice into his fingers. He let go and saw the blood a moment before the Ted nutted him. He managed to turn his head to avoid getting a broken nose but the man’s hard forehead hit him with a loud crack against his cheekbone and eye socket.

Dazed, Hathaway could do nothing as the man followed it up with a kick to the shin that indicated there was some kind of steel toecap inside his suede brothel creepers. The man grabbed Hathaway’s own lapels, pulled him towards him and nutted him again. This time the nose went. Hathaway keeled over.

Charlie had gone under in a welter of flailing fists and feet. Dan and Bill, neither of them scrappers, hadn’t even really got started. The smallest of the Teds had hit Dan on the side of the head with a bottle that, thankfully, didn’t smash. Bill had slumped to the floor after a kick between the legs.

They could do nothing as five of the Teddy boys wrecked their gear. The sixth, the smallest, stood over Hathaway. He was unbuttoning his fly when the big one pulled him away. He leaned over Hathaway, who was trying to breath through his mouth as blood poured down his throat.

‘Listen, Hank Marvin,’ he said. ‘If your dad ever comes home again, tell him this pub ain’t his anymore.’

Then the six teddy boys sauntered out of the room.

‘What did he mean about the pub not being your dad’s any more?’ Bill said, as the four of them sat in the emergency room of the hospital.

Hathaway shrugged, holding a wadded cloth to his nose. His fingers stung. In his eagerness to use his judo move he’d forgotten that Teddy boys habitually sewed razor blades behind their jacket lapels so that nobody could grab them to nut them.

‘Something to do with the one-armed bandits?’ he said, his voice thick.

One of his dad’s various businesses was leasing one-armed bandits to pubs and clubs along the south coast. He had his own machines in his amusement arcade on the end of the West Pier.

‘I borrowed the money off my dad for that drum kit,’ Charlie said. ‘He’ll go mental.’

‘I don’t even want to think what the Strat cost my dad,’ Hathaway said.

Two nurses came over. They looked disapproving.

‘We’ll see you all together,’ one of them said. ‘And afterwards a policeman will want a word.’

Two hours later, Hathaway was home. His hands were bandaged and his nose had been reset. He had a lump like a goose egg on his shin and he felt about a hundred. He wanted to telephone Barbara but he didn’t know her number. He didn’t really know her home circumstances. He thought she might be married but he hadn’t liked to ask – he didn’t want to spoil what was going on. He’d noticed a faint white mark on her ring finger, as if she took off her wedding ring before she met him. And although she sometimes met him late in the evening, she never stayed the night.

He sat on the sofa listening to Please Please Me on his parent’s radiogram, thinking about Barbara. He’d had girlfriends before but he’d been a virgin until that Sunday. She’d been patient with him. She’d seemed sad and, when he asked to see her again, anxious. But she’d agreed. Since then she’d taught him things. The evening she’d asked if he’d like her to French him had been a revelation.

She didn’t like to come round to the house because she didn’t want the neighbours talking, but there was a hotel she knew on the seafront down towards Hove that they’d gone to once. She paid for the room.

He was modest enough to wonder what this glamorous older woman saw in him, but he was arrogant enough not to worry about it. He was dying to brag to his friends but she’d pleaded with him not to. She said she’d feel embarrassed.

That was why she wouldn’t go out anywhere with him, though he wanted her to come and see the group. The only time they had gone on a date was to a late-night screening of some Hammer horror film. They’d sat in the back row and, of course, he couldn’t keep his hands off her. She’d unbuttoned his trousers and used her hand on him.

Although he was in pain, just thinking about her now got him excited. He had trouble sleeping that night.

On Saturday, the doorbell woke Hathaway. He tried to ignore it but it persisted. He put on his dressing gown and slippers and padded down the stairs. He hoped it might be Barbara. He picked up the newspaper lying on the doormat.

He squinted in the glare of the sun when he opened the door.

‘Good grief, Johnny. You’ve been in the wars, I see.’

‘Mr Reilly.’

‘Sean, please. Do you mind if I come in for a moment?’

Sean Reilly was, as far as Hathaway could figure it, a kind of Mr Fix It for his father. Hathaway wasn’t clear exactly what his father did – he wasn’t interested actually – but whenever there was a problem he called on Reilly.

Reilly was middle-aged, in his mid-forties judging by the way he’d mentioned seeing action with his father in World War Two. But he was in pretty good nick. He moved gracefully and was well muscled. He reminded Hathaway of one of his judo instructors. He smiled readily enough but Hathaway had always found his eyes cold and hard.

‘Have you heard from Dad?’ Hathaway said when they were sitting on the sofas in the front room. He was suddenly anxious about why Reilly was there.

‘Your mum and dad are fine. I believe they’re buying some property in Spain. As an investment and for a holiday home.’ Reilly crossed his legs. He was wearing cavalry twill trousers and polished brogues. ‘No, I’m here to find out what happened to you.’

‘Oh, just a rumble with some Teds. It was nothing.’

‘So I see,’ he said, gesturing at Hathaway’s face. He chuckled. ‘Are you telling me I should see the other fella?’

‘Not exactly, no,’ Hathaway said sheepishly. ‘We got leathered.’

‘It happens,’ Reilly said cheerfully. ‘Any other broken bones aside from that swelling that used to pass for your nose?’

Hathaway realized he had no idea what he looked like. He stood and looked at his face in the mirror over the fireplace. Jesus. Huge yellow and black bruises around his eyes, his nose a swollen mess. He gulped.

‘Ah, that’ll all be gone in a fortnight, don’t you worry,’ Reilly said. ‘Sit yourself down again.’

Hathaway sat and Reilly continued:

‘I wondered what you made of these fellas?’

‘Looking for trouble, like I told the police. Razor blades in their lapels, steel toecaps in their brothel creepers. They were ready to rumble.’

Reilly nodded.

‘Your mates OK?’

‘Charlie the drummer got a good kicking – couple of broken ribs – and Bill the rhythm guitarist has swollen goolies. Dan the singer had to have stitches in the side of his head but no concussion or anything. It’s the equipment we’re most bothered about. We had no insurance.’

Reilly nodded again.

‘You say you spoke to the police?’

‘At the hospital. We just told them what had happened.’

‘Was there anything you didn’t tell them?’

Hathaway frowned.

‘What kind of thing?’

Reilly shrugged.

‘You tell me. Did these thugs say anything to you?’

‘Said I needed guitar lessons.’

Reilly smiled.

‘Aside from that.’

Hathaway told him what the Teddy boy had said about the pub not being his father’s anymore. Reilly sat forward.

‘And he used exactly those words?’

‘Well, he also called me Hank Marvin but aside from that, yes.’

Reilly sat back in his seat.

‘What about the landlord – did he wade in?’

‘No, but he’s only a little bloke. He did call the ambulance.’

‘And the police?’

Hathaway thought for a moment.

‘I don’t know. The ambulance whisked us off to hospital pretty quickly – police might have come after we’d gone.’

Reilly stood.

‘All right, then.’

‘What did he mean about the pub not being Dad’s anymore, Mr Reilly?’

‘Sean,’ Reilly said. ‘I don’t rightly know. Maybe something to do with the bandits, you know?’

‘Are you going to tell my father what happened?’

‘Do you want me to? No, I think he knows you’re old enough to look out for yourself.’ He squeezed Hathaway’s arm. ‘You were unlucky this time but you’ve learned for next time.’

Hathaway touched his nose tentatively.

‘I hope there won’t be a next time.’

Reilly smiled.

‘Tell your mates not to worry about the equipment. I’m sure we can find some way of making a claim through the business.’

‘Great – thanks, er, Sean,’ Hathaway said.

Reilly glanced over at the newspaper.

‘Looks like they’re on to the gang.’

Hathaway looked at the front page. There were photographs of three men the police wanted to help with their inquiries into the Great Train Robbery. Bruce Reynolds, Charlie Wilson and Jimmy White.

‘They found their fingerprints at the farm. Seems a bit careless. As for Roger and Bill…’

‘Those men who were caught at the start of the week? Is it the same Roger Cordrey dad knows? The florist?’

‘It is. Bill Boal’s his friend. The chances of Bill being involved in a robbery are about zero. Last thing he got charged with was fiddling a gas meter back in the forties.’

Hathaway pointed at the photographs.

‘You know these men as well?’

Reilly shook his head slowly.

‘I’ve heard of them. Hard men. Rumour is they were in that airport robbery last year.’

Hathaway remembered reading about the wages robbery committed by half a dozen bowler-hatted men armed with pickaxe handles and shotguns. A man called Gordon Goody had been tried but acquitted, because when, in court, he put on the hat he was supposed to have worn at the robbery, it was two sizes too big.

‘The one Goody was acquitted for?’

Reilly laughed.

‘That was a good gag with the hat.’

‘Gag?’

‘The story goes that he bribed a policeman to switch the hats.’

‘How do you know these things?’

Reilly shrugged.

‘You’d be surprised what you pick up at the racecourse.’

Hathaway nodded, feeling out of his depth but thrilled to be having a conversation with someone clearly in the know.

‘Will they catch them?’ he said. ‘The Great Train Robbers?’

Reilly smiled.

‘Doubt it – they’ll be out of the country by now, I would think.’

He moved towards the door.

‘Better get going.’

Reilly shook Hathaway’s hand and patted him on the arm before he stepped out of the house. As Hathaway was closing the door, Reilly turned.

‘Just remember one thing, John.’ He smiled, but again the smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘There’s always a next time.’

‘Oh, John.’ Barbara’s face hovered near Hathaway as she seemed to be trying to figure out a place to kiss him that wouldn’t hurt him. She’d come straight from work but still seemed dolled up to Hathaway. She was wearing a tight skirt and an angora cardigan that clung to her breasts. Hathaway wrenched at the buttons of the cardigan.

Afterwards, as she lay on his chest, still straddling him, he said:

‘Did Reilly tell you?’

‘In passing,’ she said. ‘I had to wait an age before I was alone so I could phone you.’

‘Thanks for coming round.’

She gave a low laugh.

‘It’s absolutely my pleasure.’

‘Mine too,’ he said as she rolled off him and on to her side.

After a minute or two:

‘I’ve been wondering how Reilly heard,’ Hathaway said.

‘From the publican, I presume,’ Barbara said, sliding her hand down Hathaway’s stomach. ‘He’s an old customer of your dad’s.’

‘Not any more,’ Hathaway said, giving a little grunt.

Barbara nuzzled her face into Hathaway’s neck and murmured in his ear.

‘How much do you know about what your father does?’

‘Very little,’ he said after a moment.

‘That’s what I thought. When I first came to see you, on that Sunday, I thought you knew far more.’

‘What do you mean? Is there stuff I should know? Barbara?’

Barbara was sliding down Hathaway’s side.

‘Barbara?’

‘Darling,’ she said after a moment through the curtain of her hair. ‘Don’t you know a lady doesn’t talk with her mouth full?’