CHAPTER 7. THE LIGHTS ARE GOING OUT ALL OVER SLEAFORD.
The manure hit the air conditioning sooner than even Naismith could have expected. Maybe it was otherwise a slow news day because the election result made the front page headlines of all the national dailies. The broadsheets were more restrained but the red tops used all their skills to shout out the result.
'SS – Sleaford' announced the left-leaning Daily Mirror. There was an old picture of Peachornby waving at an earlier BNP rally that looked remarkably like a Nazi salute. The photograph, probably bought for cash from an undercover police officer, made Peachornby look like a dangerous and threatening figure rather than the fool he really was.
The Daily Express came up with 'Sleap-Walking To Disaster'. The normally right wing Express expressed shock at the result, but a closer read of the accompanying text showed that, although the paper did not actually support the BNP, they were with Peachornby on his anti-immigrant stance. The Express's editorial blamed the number of Eastern Europeans flooding into Lincolnshire 'like an unstoppable tidal wave of humanity' for affecting the result and urged the government at Westminster to take firm action to prevent the result from being repeated elsewhere in England.
The Daily Star contented itself by giving the news a couple of paragraphs on page ten. The front page was taken up with banner headlines about some Aston Villa striker's WAG getting ripped off her face on coke at an exclusive Manchester nightclub. One of the foolish girl's so-called friends had probably made a small fortune with that mobile phone footage. And after that, all the male readers could turn to page three to have a look at Nikki from Walsall's tits in case they had forgotten overnight what a pair of breasts look like.
However, it was the good old 'Currant Bun' with its incredible talent for punning that came up with the most memorable headline of the day. It simply said 'Sleazeford'. And that was the name that stuck. But even the sub-editor at The Sun who came up with that name could have had no idea just how he had struck the nail dead centre on the head.
Because Peachornby's victory was just the start of Sleaford's descent to Sleazeford.
***
Two men sat and two men stood in the Deputy-Mayor's office at Sleaford Town Hall. A beech desk took up most of one corner, behind which sat Naismith. Three windows overlooked the council's car park and watery sunlight reflected off a set of historic landscapes of early Victorian Sleaford that the local museum had been told it had no space to display. So they wound up in Naismith's office instead. Funny that.
In front of the desk sat Peachornby, his bulk overflowing the low easy chair. Naismith, no stranger to underhand business techniques, sat in a leather executive chair set to its maximum height. Even with the desk between them, Patryk sensed that Naismith dominated the new Mayor.
Patryk stood near Naismith's desk. Although, officially, only a driver Naismith wanted him in the room. Finally, Mason lounged near the door, a scowl on his face as he tried to make sure that he didn't miss anything.
"I hope you had a good night's sleep?" Naismith asked politely and with the respect due from the Deputy Mayor to the actual Mayor of Sleaford.
Patryk knew that question was a rhetorical one – he could smell the alcohol fumes billowing off the man. Peachornby looked like he'd been out carousing all night and had only managed half an hour's sleep before coming in. He looked hungover and even more pudgy than normal. Bags the size of suitcases lay beneath his bloodshot peepers. Now he looked far more like Hitler's obese deputy, Göring, than he did Mussolini let alone Mosley. However, the man had at least showered and put on a fresh black shirt and tie.
Peachornby grinned. The smile never reached his eyes. "Fine thanks, Naismith, and now I'm ready to pick up the reins of office; to lead Sleaford to a bright and pros... prosperous new dawn; to reclaim its historic soul from the influx...,"
Naismith raised his hand. "Of course, Kenneth. I may call you Kenneth?"
Peachornby looked annoyed but could hardly refuse.
"Now. Don't get too excited, Ken. The Mayor of Sleaford is mostly a symbolic role these days. You'll be expected to open buildings, say a few encouraging words; appear at church fêtes and generally fly the flag for Sleaford...,"
"That's not why I became Mayor," growled Peachornby, "any monkey could do that."
Patryk wondered if even those limited tasks might be beyond Peachornby's capabilities but Naismith had not yet finished speaking.
"I know that, Ken, and as, of course, you will be aware from the recent trends in local democracy...," Naismith stopped, aware of the blank stares from both Peachornby and Mason.
"Many major cities now have their own directly elected Mayors, similar to their U.S. counterparts. London started the trend, of course, but now Manchester, Liverpool and others also have a Mayor who can cut through bureaucracy and get things moving more speedily. That's what we want for Sleaford – a man of vision...," Peachornby visibly swelled, toad-like, at this, "who can make Sleaford into one of the, no the premier small town of the East Midlands."
Peachornby shifted his bulk. "I want to make a victory speech on Saturday. From the Town Hall's balcony. Wearing my chains of office. And I want it advertised on local radio and a full page ad in the Standard."
Naismith nodded. He formed a pyramid with his fingertips and leaned forwards. Patryk was reminded of the way a clinician might inspect a particularly malevolent tumour. "Go on," he murmured.
Peachornby glanced back at Mason. "Go on, ask him," the young man hissed.
"Of course, an office as important as Mayor requires an assistant. I think the budget will stretch to funding a Senior Assistant to the Mayor," Naismith mused, anticipating Peachornby's request. "You can also be his chauffeur. I'll claim it out of the Arts Funding – I doubt if anyone will miss not having this summer's War of the Roses exhibition."
Mason grinned hugely. This was better than a job on the bins. Not just Assistant but Senior Assistant to the Mayor. That would be a big promotion. He hadn't yet realised that he was the only Assistant.
"So, what else did you have in mind? What would you like to do first?" Naismith continued.
There was silence. Mason looked as blank faced as his leader.
"How about this? It would be popular with most people and would send out a clear message to all our more – how shall I put it – recent arrivals."
Peachornby leaned forwards and Mason stepped away from the door frame.
"Why not close the Council's Asylum Centre on Carre Street? I'm surprised you never made more of an issue of it during your campaign. It's regarded as a hotbed of crime and disorder and bringing all sorts of undesirables flocking into our beautiful town?"
Peachornby beamed. This was just the sort of thing he and the BNP believed in – right up their street. Naismith opened a desk drawer and slid a document out onto the leather topped surface. From the drawer he took his gold plated Mont Blanc fountain pen. He looked at Peachornby's clumsy fist and replaced the fountain pen with a disposable Bic ballpoint.
"What's this?" asked Peachornby.
"A document I drew up earlier authorising the centre's immediate closure and sale. Like I say, Ken, your approval ratings will soar when this hits the press."
"Sounds good, boss," growled Mason from the back.
Without looking at the document, Peachornby scrawled his signature in the places indicated by his Deputy. Patryk noticed several red solicitor's seals on the paperwork. As soon as Peachornby had signed, Naismith whisked the papers away and replaced them in the drawer. He turned the key.
Naismith stood and held out his hand. The two men shook. "Good move, Ken. Now, I know you will want to make an immediate start so why don't you go and check out your office down the corridor and meet Donna, your secretary?"
Patryk knew Donna. When she wasn't outside smoking or taking extra long lunches or knocking off early, she was usually visiting her doctor about one or another of her mysterious feminine complaints. She was the slowest, but coincidentally largest breasted, secretary employed by the council. Patryk thought Peachornby would be impressed.
As soon as Peachornby and Mason left, Naismith turned to Patryk with a grin. He unlocked the drawer, fished out the sale documents and gloated over them.
"Like taking candy from a baby – and my hands stay clean. Nobody can link us to that Cayman Islands shell company that's buying the place. As soon as the cops sling out those asylum seekers, we can go ahead and convert the building into a boutique hotel. Sleaford needs a really top-notch hotel in the town centre. There'll be a nice bonus for you – first of many don't forget – as soon as work starts. Hey, you should set up a building firm and bid for the contract."
Patryk shrugged. "I may be Polish but I don't know anything about construction."
"Doesn't matter. As long as your letterhead looks good, I'll tell you what to bid. You can sub the actual work out after."
Patryk nodded. It was true. Once you were in the inner circle, you were on the fast track to riches. He'd get Lukasz to print up some stationery later.
"Oh, before you go, Patryk, there's one more job that needs doing," Naismith said, taking a thick sheaf of papers from behind his desk. "We'll have to make sure the number of votes cast tallies with the number of people who actually bothered turning up. Just tick enough names on these lists so they match up. If you could make sure you do that tonight, I'll get them sent off to the Electoral Commission tomorrow."
Naismith handed over the electoral rolls. There weren't many ticks by people's names. Patryk sighed. Another boring evening poring over paperwork loomed for himself and Kassia.
There was a buzz from the desk intercom. "You can send in Superintendent Donelan on your way out, please," Naismith said.
In the waiting room sat a plug-ugly copper with the Telegraph opened at the crossword. The policeman looked up. Patryk reckoned that with a mug like his, the Superintendent would never be selected as the face of friendly community policing. "Donkeys carry superior nuns. Eight letters," he said.
Patryk was taken aback. Was everyone mad in this country? Had the rain waterlogged their brains?
"Of course. Abbesses," the Superintendent said, filling in a crossword answer.
Patryk thought if this was a test, then he'd failed somehow though he wasn't sure how. Now the copper had finished writing, Patryk asked him to go in where Naismith would break the good news about the Asylum Centre's imminent closure.
***
Heading northbound along the A15 highway towards Lincolnshire County Council's offices, Patryk still felt contaminated and dirty from dealing with Peachornby. It was men like Peachornby and Mason who had supported Hitler and the Nazis all those years ago. They were the same kind of people who had killed millions of Poles during the war. Of course, there was a huge difference in power between being Chancellor of Germany and Mayor of a sleepy town like Sleaford.
And, after all, Naismith had the Peachornby situation well under control and it wasn't like Naismith wanted Peachornby to kill anyone. All the Deputy Mayor was after was making big bucks and if some of that trickled his way, who was Patryk to argue? Once all this was over, he and Kassia could return to Poland and buy a nice farm out in the Siedice countryside and raise children. Sounded good to him.
***
The following day, Naismith asked Patryk to swing by Carre Street and check out how the boys in blue were getting on with evicting the asylum seekers from their home. Patryk parked his van at one end and walked down the street. He heard the noise before he saw any action. A crowd of bussed in skinheads, only some with Georgian flags this time, were cheering and yelling. Mason was on the front line, his face distorted with rage.
Holding back the skinhead thugs was a thin blue line of police, supported by a couple of battleship grey Operational Support Unit support carriers with their mesh window screens down. There was some pushing and shoving but it didn't look to Patryk that the elite OSU cops had much to do. There was no sign of the Anti-Nazi League and Patryk guessed that was why Naismith wanted the asylum seekers out so quickly; in order to avoid trouble and minimise any bad press.
However, the Standard's hard-working journalist and photographer were there, taking notes and photos and Patryk reckoned he could guess tomorrow's front page story. Butler was interviewing Superintendent Donelan, who seemed irritated, batting away his questions.
The asylum seekers themselves seemed dazed and confused. Clutching their meagre possessions and cowering away from the taunts they were shepherded towards a minibus emblazoned with a church charity's logo. A bottle sailed out from the throng of skinheads and shattered at the sandalled feet of a young middle-eastern woman who screamed. The police tried to push the yelling skinheads further away from the asylum seekers.
Shortly after, the last of the shaken foreigners was on board the minibus and it did a three point turn before driving past Patryk. Through its windows, he saw a young Indian woman comforting her two small children. Patryk wished he hadn't seen that.
As soon as the minibus was out of sight, the fury left the skinheads and gradually they furled their flags and dispersed. Patryk reckoned they'd talk over their morning's work at Andrei'z' before heading home. Not long after the last of the skinheads had left, a couple of council chippies appeared from nowhere, threw down their smokes and started boarding up the closed centre with plywood.
Patryk turned away. He felt disgusted. This was a high price to pay to make some decent money and he wasn't sure it was worth it. He hoped Kassia wouldn't find out but as she rarely read the local papers anyway, there was little risk of that. She spent much of her free time Facebooking her friends and family back in Warsaw.
***
"Very good, very professional," Naismith said approvingly as he scrutinised Patryk and Lukasz's building quotes and invoices for the rebuilding and conversion of the asylum centre. Earlier, he'd handed them similar contracts he'd photocopied at Lincolnshire County Council's offices which the three men had adapted, with the aid of a greedy brief at Gilbert Greene and Ellison, Solicitors. The multi page documents lay spread out on Naismith's desk before them.
Patryk was amazed at the sums of money involved. Sure, even a van driver knew that building a hotel wasn't cheap but some of the costs seemed well out of line with what he would expect. Was every en-suite going to be fitted with gold plated taps on Italian marble baths? Were only the rarest, finest grained tropical hardwoods going to grace the dining room? Louis XV crystal chandeliers throughout reception and a kitchen fitted out for a three star Michelin chef? Surely, any council auditor would see the wasteful padding involved.
Sweeping his fingers through his hair, Lukasz reminded Naismith that, contrary to popular stereotypes about Poles, they knew nothing about plumbing or construction. "How are we going to recruit a team to do this work?" he asked.
Naismith smiled and looked at his neatly manicured hands. "I should have thought it was obvious. As I said earlier, of course we're not doing any work. This sum," he smiled again at the amount, "gives us a nice little cushion on top and then we can sub the actual work out to whichever cowboy firm comes in with the lowest quote."
Naismith gathered up the papers, rapped them on his desk to level the pages and then slid them into a manilla envelope. He wetted the flap and sealed it down before sliding it back over to the two Poles.
"As directors of this firm, if you could both sign across the flap to make it a sealed bid. Just to prove there's no collusion between the private and public sectors."
The two Poles did so and then Naismith locked their envelope away in his wall safe. Lukasz spotted a number of similar envelopes inside.
"When do we hear?"
"Thursday," Naismith said. "And don't forget, that's the first of many lucrative contracts to come our way."
***
"Have you thought about that block of disused flats on Mareham Lane, Mayor?" Naismith asked, referring to a low-rise 1960s apartment complex on the edge of town that had become an eyesore and a magnet for low-level anti-social behaviour. "There are reports that Lincolnshire County Council are looking to purchase it in order to provide a permanent home for members of the Roma and Irish traveller communities. As they are obliged to by law. What are your views, Mayor?" Naismith brushed an imaginary speck of lint from his new bespoke single-breasted Savile Row suit before glancing at his Raymond Weil watch.
"We don't want any pikeys around here. Coming here stealing anything that's not nailed down. No, we don't want that," Peachornby said, leaping to the bait.
"So what do you think we at Sleaford Urban Council should do, Mayor?"
Naismith had long since dropped his goading of Peachornby by calling him Ken. He found that Peachornby was far more malleable when his official title was frequently used. Nobody to Naismith's knowledge had ever called Hitler 'Addo' or referred to Portugal's dictator, Salazar, as 'Sally' for example. At least not in their hearing. And if a little pretend grovelling was what was needed to keep the fat führer happy then he was prepared to do what it takes.
Maybe his few weeks clumping about the corridors of power had sharpened Peachornby's intellect or perhaps he was getting advice from the BNP's headquarters because his blank look was replaced by a look of sharp cunning.
"We should buy the land ourselves, stop those commies at Lincolnshire Council dumping their problems onto us. If they want to re-home a bunch of gyppos, what they should do is take over a couple of holiday camps over by Cleethorpes and put 'em all there, away from decent folks where they can be forced to live until we can deport 'em all back to Ireland...," said Peachornby until Naismith raised his hand.
"Precisely," murmured Naismith, wiping off a few flecks of spittle with his silk handkerchief, "but until then buying that land is a very good suggestion, Mayor. Foreseeing your approval I took the liberty of requesting Gilbert Greene and Ellison, Solicitors, to draw up the necessary documentation. If you would care to place your autograph on the relevant spaces indicated?" Naismith couldn't resist using long words. But they were no longer as confusing to the Mayor as they had been. Maybe Peachornby had also been getting extra tuition from Donna, as the water cooler gossip had it.
Peachornby leaned forwards over the desk towards his Deputy. He glanced down the top page of the form. "Saveiro Canadian Inc., based in the Cayman Islands. Would that be the same bunch as bought the asylum centre the other week? No, I'd rather give the work to a more local firm. Sleaford jobs for Sleaford workers."
Naismith looked up into Peachornby's reddened boozers face. As he did so, Peachornby's Senior Assistant left his place over by the door and crossed to the desk. Despite having replaced his green bomber jacket with an off-the-rack Marks and Spencer suit, Mason was still an intimidating figure. Especially, when he stood there cracking his tattooed knuckles. Whatever his made up duties as Senior Assistant involved, Mason seemed to find a lot of time to spend working out in the gym.
"Of course, Mayor, Saveiro Canadian offered the best price for the land – and we want to get the best value for the hard-pressed tax payers of Sleaford, don't we Mayor?" Naismith said, trying to keep the situation under his control.
"Who's in charge of Saveiro Canadian?" asked Peachornby.
Turning around a sheet of letterhead, Naismith pointed to a list of three names, headed by a Lt. Colonel J. Birkett-Moore, M.C., D.S.C.
"Would that be the same Lt. Colonel J. Birkett-Moore who's a ninety-two year old res... resident of the Giles Farm private nursing home? Who can tell you all the details about the Viet Nam War..."
"Malayan emergency, actually," Naismith murmured.
"...but not what he had for dinner yesterday? A man who staff said was visited a few months ago out of the blue by two Polacks who slipped him a couple of bottles of Laphroaig in return for a few shaky signatures?
"The same as with Mrs. C. N. Usborne, J.P., another ninety year old director and living just down the corr... corridor from Colonel J. Birkett-Moore?"
Naismith didn't let his urbane mask slip for a second. But inwardly he was fuming. He should have covered his tracks more thoroughly, but how had a fool like Peachornby found out? From Donna? Surely not, even though the girl was friends with his own secretary. When Donna bothered showing up, that is. No, it was probably someone from the BNP's head office doing some digging on Peachornby's behalf. Naismith pushed the hows and whys out of his mind until later. He would have to deal with what was in front of him now.
He spread his hands and smiled. "I am in contact with the ultimate controllers of Saveiro Canadian and I can assure you that they have the wish to do the best for Sleaford and preserve the best of our town, rather than see it overrun with undesirables, like Boston has been..."
"Bostongrad, you mean," Mason butted in.
Naismith smiled inwardly. He was sure playing the race card would work. "Exactly. None of us want to see Sleaford go the same way. So if Saveiro Canadian buy the land to preserve it...,"
"Until you redevelop it you mean," said Peachornby.
Naismith sat back in his chair. There was nothing more he could say. Somehow, and he'd find out how, the BNP fools had seen through his scheme. He would have to play his ace and hope the two thugs were as greedy as they were racist. "Like I say, I am in contact with Saveiro Canadian and I know they would be desirous to make a generous donation to anyone who helps expedite the sale process."
There was a blank look until understanding seeped into Peachornby's and Mason's brains.
"And they would be extremely lavish after the said land has been subsequently redeveloped."
Although they might not have understood all the words, Peachornby and Mason caught the gist of what Naismith was implying. They looked at each other and grinned.
"Told you all these Town Hall types are crooks, boss," said Mason.
"Would that be cash?" Peachornby asked. The only sensible question.
"If you want.”