Brighton Spies

By D.A. Crossman

Brighton, 1984.

 

Fresh out of prison, Matt Waters is on a mission to retrieve two priceless works of art stolen by the Nazis in WW2. But Matt isn't the only agent in town.

 

Assassins are on the loose and the IRA are planning something explosive.

Please note: This book was originally published as The Black Peacock Club.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.A. Crossman
• Release date: Jun 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393469643

Book preview

This book was originally published as:

The Black Peacock Club (2013).

Books by D.A. Crossman:

The last days at White Cloud Air

The Māori Detective

A Sovereign Nation

The delectable Lady d’Estelle

WEBSITE: www.thrillerwriter.org

Acknowledgements

The author acknowledges the work of: Dick Clement & Ian La Frenais, Friedrich Nietzsche, William Shakespeare, Richard Rodgers, Hoagy Carmichael, Herman Hupfeld, and Maurice Ravel.

Many thanks also to Jack, Helen, Clive, Samantha, and Jessica.

This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © D.A. Crossman 2020. All rights reserved.

Published by Starcross*Publishing.

Dedicated to the memory of Anthony ‘Tony’ Howlett

1956 - 2002

Chapter 1

Pentonville Prison,

Friday, 21st September, 1984.

––––––––

Matt opened his eyes with the clamour of the morning bell ringing in his ears.

Rise and shine, young man, Solly called out as the din subsided.

Matt lay still and stared at the nicotine-stained ceiling of the cell. For the last time he told himself, for the last time.

What are you waiting for? Solly demanded. Breakfast in bed?

All right, all right, Matt replied, sliding out of the bunk. I’m going.

And for God’s sake, Solly warned, no trouble, all right?

Matt grabbed his towel and took himself off to the showers. There were half a dozen or so naked white males in the steamy cubicle and as Matt strolled in among the throng, they cheered and whistled and chanted.

Look at him; he’s a pretty black bastard! Look at him; he’s a fucking black bastard!

Matt found a vacant shower, turned on the water and stayed silent. They were dreaming if they thought they could provoke him, today of all days. Nonetheless, it was reassuring to see that Johnson, one of the screws, had positioned himself in the doorway just in case.

Oi! Coonter Kintay! called out one of the men. What are you going to do on the outside? Not going back to that burgling lark are you?

What do you mean? said another. He’s been turd burgling ever since he got here! The men laughed uproariously.

Seriously though, the lag continued, I’m worried about poor old Solly. I wonder what’s going to happen to him now that his lover boy’s out of the picture.

Solly gets so much as a scratch, Matt said casually, and you leave here in a body bag.

All right, Waters, Johnson commanded, taking a step inside the room. Let’s be having you.

When Matt got back to the cell, Solly was waiting for him. Surprise, he said, indicating the brand-new outfit laid out neatly on the bottom bunk. Italian whistle; and the shoes, English leather, of course.

Solly, you’re a diamond, Matt said. The suit was a good fit, but Matt felt rather uncomfortable wearing a tie around his neck.

Well, we couldn’t have you walking round with arrows on your clobber now could we, Solly grinned.

Well, well, remarked officer Johnson, entering the narrow cell. Very smart, Waters. You’re virtually unrecognisable. Come on then, the Governor’s waiting.

The cell-mates embraced. You look out for yourself, Matt said. I’ll see you next week.

Don’t worry about me, Solly said. I’ll be all right.

Matt had grown fond of the old man during the three months they’d been ‘banged up’ together. Solly had a good heart, and he certainly didn’t deserve to be locked up on a five year stretch in ‘the Ville.’ It was a hard ask for a man of his senior years.

Twenty minutes later, Officer Johnson escorted Matt to the main gate. The forecast is rain, Johnson said cheerfully. Matt looked up at the cloudy skies. Here, said Johnson, throwing him a shabby blue anorak from the guardhouse. Can’t have you ruining your new suit.

Mr J, Matt said, I always said you were a sweetheart.

Do me a favour, Johnson said, as Matt stepped out into the free world. Don’t bother coming back.

*

A light autumnal drizzle fell from the skies as Matt stepped off the bus at the top of the hill. He pulled the anorak’s hood over his head, fastened the lace into a bow, and made his way towards the row of terraced houses on the other side of the green.

Returning to his old home in broad daylight was a calculated risk, but he didn’t intend to stay long, and with any luck most of the neighbours would be at work and his presence would go unnoticed.

The ‘For Sale’ sign in the tiny front garden of number fifty-seven, bore a red diagonal label which read: ‘UNDER OFFER.’

As Matt opened the garden gate, a short bespectacled fellow emerged from the house and shut the front door behind him.

Can I help you? he asked, as Matt sauntered up the garden path.

Johnson, Matt said, extending his hand. George Johnson.

The man’s handshake was desultory. What can I do for you Mr, er...Johnson?

Thought I’d take a look at the house.

Yes – well – my name’s Drewin, John Drewin. I’m the agent for this property and as you can see, he said, pointing at the sign, the house is sold.

No it isn’t. It’s under offer.

And we expect the offer to be finalised within the week, Drewin stated punctiliously.

Matt took a step forward. I’d still like to have a look, he said with a hint of menace.

Drewin looked flustered. I’m sorry, he said in an anxious voice, but I have strict instructions from the family.

Family? Matt thought. What fucking family? Did he mean the lousy son who never once came to visit; not so much as a fucking Christmas card? I bet he didn’t even have the decency to turn up at the funerals.

Now if you’ll excuse me, Drewin said, carefully edging his way past.

Another time then, Matt said, stepping aside.

Matt looked on from the garden gate as Drewin hurried over to his car and drove away.

Once the vehicle was out of sight, Matt returned to the house and retrieved the spare front door key from beneath the large flowerpot under the bay window, the place where it had always been concealed ever since he was a boy. Matt let himself inside and closed the door behind him. As he had expected, the place was empty; a mere shell and as quiet as the grave.

He moved slowly from one small room to the next, where all that remained of the lives of Mr and Mrs Maynard were the cream coloured carpets and the various floral wallpapers. He drew the curtains aside in the front of the house, casting a light on the memories that lingered, flickering silently in the shadowy corners of the room. It was here that Mrs Maynard had liked to pass the long winter evenings. He pictured her reclining in her favourite green arm chair beneath the large standard lamp, listening to the BBC on the radio and knitting yet another cardigan.

He walked up the stairs and into his old retreat: the bedroom where he’d spent so many hours reading the books he’d borrowed from the library and listening to LP’s on the mono record player Mrs Maynard had bought for him on his thirteenth birthday.

He hadn’t come back, he reminded himself, to get tangled up in the past, but it wasn’t possible to stem the flood of recollections or curtail the onset of bitter emotions: sadness, anger, and regret.

He’d been so much luckier than those he’d left behind at the orphanage. The Maynards had taken him into their home and treated him like a son; just as if he were their own flesh and blood. But in some quarters, this act of charity had been met with contempt. The neighbours were scandalised that the couple had adopted a black boy, and even some members of the local church congregation had turned up their noses. The couple’s son, Alan, had entirely disowned his parents.

Matt recalled Fred Maynard’s last visit. Mrs Maynard had passed away the previous year and with no one to look after him, the old boy was slowly fading away from loneliness and neglect. He was looking pale and ill, but he still managed to make the journey on visiting days, offering words of hope and encouragement to his adopted son.

When Matt learned he was being transferred he sent word to his adoptive father. He wrote – falsely – that his incarceration was over and that he was being posted overseas. And then, just a month ago, he’d received the news: Fred Maynard had passed on. Matt had felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow and helplessness. He had so desperately wanted them to be proud of him.

Turning his thoughts back to the business of the present, he made his way back downstairs and removed the old Ridgeway’s tea tin from its hiding place in the cupboard under the stairs. As he expected, the tin contained the key to the garage and the all-important keys to the car.

Matt made his way out to the back of the house where the old wooden garage stood at the end of the garden. Matt unlocked the door and stepped inside. He threw off the dusty tarpaulin, and there she was: just as he remembered and still in pristine condition; an original 1961 Jaguar mark ten, the car he’d cleaned and polished inside and out every Sunday morning from the age of seven to seventeen, the car Fred Maynard had promised he would bequeath to his adopted son in his will.

It was in the Jag that Matt had learned to drive, receiving his first lesson from Fred Maynard at the age of fourteen. They’d travelled out into the Kent countryside where the traffic was less congested and Matt had steered the bulky vehicle, gingerly at first, around the tight bends of the narrow country lanes. The car was his by right, Matt considered, moral as well as legal. The prodigal son could go hang himself.

Matt turned the key in the ignition and she started up without the slightest hesitation. He put his foot on the clutch and worked his way through the gears. It had been five long years since he’d last sat behind the wheel of a car. With a certain amount of trepidation, he put the car in reverse and backed her out onto the road.

*

Matt kept to the slow inside lane on the motorway and arrived in Brighton around lunchtime, whereupon the clouds cleared away and a pale sun shone down from the heavens. He’d enjoyed the drive once he’d left the dense city traffic behind and the Jag hadn’t missed a beat. He parked the car on the seafront, bought himself some fish and chips, and retired to one of the public benches where he stared out to sea and breathed in the fresh salty air.

Matt had fond memories of annual August bank holiday excursions to the seaside town. Mr and Mrs Maynard would walk arm in arm along the beach while he raced on ahead, picking up shells and paddling barefoot in the surf. There was the obligatory fish and chips, candyfloss at the pier, and if he was lucky, a ride on the exhilarating roller coaster.

Once again he chided himself for his reminiscences. The past was dust. It was time to make a new life.

*

Matt had no trouble finding Rahman’s Emporium, a corner store on the end of a line of shops in fashionable Ship Street. He parked the Jag opposite the emporium and made his way across the busy road. As he opened the door of the shop, he collided with two young shaven-headed males going in the opposite direction.

You got a problem, mate? asked one of them.

No, I don’t think so, Matt replied.

See you later, Pakki, the youth called out over his shoulder. Be good.

The two boys shuffled past Matt in the doorway and set off down the street.

Inside the shop, a portly middle-aged Indian gentleman was on his knees, sweeping up a myriad of glass fragments with a dustpan and brush.

I don’t know, he mumbled to himself, what this country is coming to.

Good afternoon. Are you Mr Rahman?

Yes, yes, I am he.

Matt Waters. I’m a friend of Solly’s; Harry Solomon.

Ah, Mr Waters, Rahman said, straightening up and treating Matt to a broad smile. Yes, yes of course, we’ve been expecting you. Please, please, come this way. Mother! he called out. Come, come! Mr Waters is here.

Matt took a seat at the small wooden table in the kitchen at the back of the shop, where Mrs Rahman, a smiling diminutive woman in a pink sari, poured the tea from a china pot into three delicate china cups.

You must try some of my sweet-cake, she said, opening a cupboard above the sink. It’s from my grandmother’s recipe.

Hush now Mother, Rahman said. Mr Waters and I have important business to discuss. Now, Mr Waters, first things first. Mr Solly said you have something to tell me please.

His mother’s middle name: it was Rebecca.

Excellent, purred Rahman. Excellent. Please, he said, holding out his hand, I am Vishwanath, but my friends call me Vishy.

Pleased to meet you, Vishy.

I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Waters. Now, please, sit here, drink your tea and I will see to everything. I’ll just be ten minutes, okay?

When he returned, Rahman handed Matt a large brown envelope. Mr Solly said I must give you this. Please tell me, Mr Waters, how is Mr Solly? Is he keeping his health?

He’s fine. He’ll be out before you know it.

I’m glad. Mr Solly has been a good friend to my family and I. But listen to me going on, you will want to get settled. Please to go with Mrs Rahman. She has been looking after the place and she can show you where everything is. Do you have a car close by?

Rahman deposited a large box of groceries, which he insisted on donating without charge, into the boot of the Jag, while Mrs Rahman lowered herself into the passenger seat and buckled up.

A very smart car, Mr Waters, Rahman remarked earnestly. Very smart indeed.

Tell me Vishy, Matt said, starting up the engine. Those boys in the shop, did they make that mess?

Young people today, Mr Waters, Rahman said, shaking his head, they have no respect. I come to this country in nineteen sixty-one. It was a different world then I’m telling you.

*

The seafront flat was on the top floor of a stylish three-storeyed white art deco building on the exclusive Kings Road. It was spacious, modern, and fully furnished. There were three bedrooms, one of which had been converted into an office, and the kitchen-dining area was adjoined to a large living room. Colourful rugs were scattered over the polished wooden floors and a variety of artworks adorned the white-painted walls. The windows on the west side overlooked the elegant Regency Square, and a small balcony attached to the master bedroom afforded a view of the sea and the iconic West Pier.

Matt hadn’t expected this level of comfort. Solly had said, somewhat modestly, that the flat was ‘adequate,’ but to Matt’s way of thinking, it was positively luxurious. Mrs Rahman conducted Matt on a short tour of the premises and explained the workings of the central heating system and the various appliances, such as the washing machine and the electric oven.

You will be very comfortable here, Mr Waters. Everything is spick and span. Here are the keys, she said, passing them over. The small one there is the key to the office. If it pleases you, I will keep the spare set of keys and come and clean for you once a week, every Wednesday afternoon.

That would be lovely, Mrs Rahman. Forgive me, but I gather you were here that day, the day Jacob was killed.

Mrs Rahman cast her eyes to the ground.

Mr Jacob was such a lovely man, she said, her voice full of emotion, so generous and so charming. She wiped away a tear from her cheek and took a moment to compose herself. "Yes, it was a Wednesday afternoon and I came as usual at one o’clock. There were police cars all over the place and an ambulance outside. I saw them carrying