CHAPTER 10. SITZKRIEG.
"That was political correctness gone mad," Peachornby said as Mason drove the Jaguar back along Eastgate towards the council offices. "They had to give all the prizes to that girl or they'd have been sued by the race relations lot."
"Too right," grunted Mason as he flipped the finger at a cabbie who'd just swerved out in front of him. "Hey, where d'you buy your licence from – Budapest?"
"I suppose they had to drop the standards to let her in," Peachornby mused, without realising that if the standards had been dropped, that should have made it easier for the English girls to sweep the board. "And did you see her dad?"
Mason pooched out his lips and made monkey noises at this. With his beetle-brows, flattened nose and heavy jaw, it kind of suited the skinhead.
"I should have asked if he had any crack or blow on him," Peachornby continued. "That's the only way they know how to make money. Or mugging some white guy."
"Or football. They're good at football," admitted Mason.
"I suppose the ball reminds the apes of coconuts. They probably think they're chasing something to eat."
"Like in the jungle."
The two men laughed as Mason parked the Jaguar in its designated spot. They walked upstairs and, once out of sight of the front-desk receptionists, Mason parodied a chimp's rolling lope while scratching his armpits and grunting, "Ooh, ooh, ooh." A couple of filing clerks turning around a corner stared wide-eyed at Mason and giggled as soon as they were out of sight. Peachornby asked Mason to close his office door behind them.
"I've been thinking," said Peachornby as soon as he sat down and checked his in tray. Which was still empty.
Mason straightened up. "Oh yes, boss?"
"They think I'm thick. They think I'm some numpty you can push around."
"Oh no, boss. I don't think so," his Senior Assistant said loyally.
"Well I'm not some numpty. I won that election fair and square. The people of Sleaford chose me to be their leader and they want me to take full control. Not that Naismith. He's only the Deputy, after all."
"What about them two Polacks? Didn't they...?"
"That was a big waste of money. I'd have won without them – the people of Sleaford were crying out for change."
That wasn't quite how Mason remembered it but his boss knew best. That's why he was the boss.
A look of low cunning crossed Peachornby's face. He rubbed the side of his inflamed nose in what he thought was a gesture denoting shrewdness. "I know what's going on," he said in a lower voice.
"What's that, boss?"
"They think they can use me..."
"Who?" Mason looked confused as if the ideas were coming too fast for his brain to process.
Peachornby lowered his voice still further. Mason leaned forwards over the desk. "Naismith and his Lodge buddies. You think I don't know whose behind those planning applications I signed off on? They think they can bung me a few lousy grand and that'll keep me happy while they make megabucks."
"You've got your garden centre. You must be making some money?" Before becoming Peachornby's Senior Assistant, Mason worked as a labourer at the garden centre. He thought anyone who worked in the back office out of the rain must be coining it in.
"Not enough. And my Dad still goes through the books," Peachornby said. Even Mason could hear the note of resentment in his boss's voice.
"Well, I'm not putting up with it no more. No way. I want a bigger slice. I'm the Mayor of Sleaford after all. This is my town. I own it and it owes me." He took a bottle of scotch from his desk drawer, poured a generous slug into a plastic cup and drank it off in one gulp. He belched.
Mason furrowed his brows and thought. Both men heard the clock tick-tocking on the wall. "What are you going to do then, boss?" he asked after a while.
Peachornby stood and paced before the window. He put his arm across his chest and tucked it under his lapel in a manner reminiscent of Napoleon as he did so. "Did Franco wait for power or did he march on Madrid and seize it?"
Once, years before, Mason thought Franco played left back for Nottingham Forest but repeated exposure to Peachornby's speeches had educated him.
"What about Antonescu? – the Romanian one," Peachornby continued.
Mason's eyes lit up with vague understanding. "Oh yes, the Romanian one."
"Did Antonescu sit behind a desk waiting for someone to knock on the door and offer him the leadership of Romania? Of course not. He jumped up and grabbed it with both hands. King Carol II had no choice but to make him the Marshal of Romania."
Mason nodded like the nodding dog in the back of a car. "And Hitler."
Peachornby's eyes shone with fervour at mention of his supreme hero. He took out his old copy of Mein Kampf. "Hitler. Those business types in 1933 thought they could control him; that they could make him dance to their tune. And they were wrong." Peachornby thumped his fist on the desk making his pen stand and in tray rattle.
"Totally wrong. He seized power and if he hadn't been let down we would still be glorying in the Aryan Thousand Years Reich. I'm going to take over this show and this is how we're going to do it."
Peachornby lowered his voice and, drawing parallels with fascist history, explained his plan once again. Now he had finally decided to go ahead and do it, Peachornby felt the hand of history on his shoulder, guiding him to his destiny. He felt good. This day would go down in legend. Generations of future historians would write books about it – the day the white race reclaimed its destiny. As Peachornby ranted, Mason listened and smiled. This sounded like fun and something he could understand.
"If you're sure, then give me the word, boss. Make sure you get yourself a good alibi and leave it to me."
***
A few hours later, in a different place, another group of men were meeting. Their education was better, their language was different but their motives and aims were the same. The single-minded pursuit of wealth and power.
The bar lounge was almost empty. It held a warm, comforting smell of beer overlaying roast pork and roast potatoes with gravy which is what Eslaforde Lodge had enjoyed that evening. Two old men in dark suits, black ties loosened, leaning on the polished counter, were swapping golfing tips and holiday reminiscences and joshing with the barmaid, who happened to be the granddaughter of one of the brethren. She took it in good part. She'd heard far worse at Uni.
These two men weren't worried about being done for drink driving later. No copper who had been on the force for longer than ten minutes would dare pull these men over. Apparently, there was a list of all number plates registered to the local Freemasons and their immediate families kept at H.Q. for the benefit of the dispatchers. In turn, they would advise those cops on traffic duty and tell them to leave that car alone.
And if some overzealous plod made the mistake of stopping a Freemason then one call to Superintendent Donelan – any time, he'd said, even if England are batting – would get any tickets scratched and the unfortunate copper drawing all the lousy dead-beat duties but with no overtime as compensation.
At the far end of the lounge, furthest away from the bar in an area usually reserved for Provincial Grand Officers, a group of men sat talking. One of them unrolled a blueprint and weighted it down at the corners by a couple of pint glasses and a bowl of salted peanuts. A shaded wall lamp cast a friendly yellow glow over their table and the bowed heads of the men grouped around the plans.
"So this is it? The big payola? The one that will make working with that moron worthwhile?" Naismith asked. He lifted his Glenlivet and swirled the amber liquid, studying the way the scotch adhered to the side of the tumbler.
"I was taught to be cautious," said their Worshipful Master, Jeremy Sandiford, raising a smile from the others as they recognised a scrap of ritual, "but I can safely say that when this comes through none of us will ever be on the lowest spoke of fortune's wheel. Very near the top of the wheel in fact."
Naismith glanced over at the bar, caught the eye of the barmaid and nodded. A few minutes later, she brought over a tray of drinks and set them down. Naismith dropped a twenty on the tray. "Keep the change." He knew the girl well; knew she wouldn't say anything. Discretion was an essential trait for anyone working at the Hall. Meanwhile, the two old guys at the bar were working down their fifth double scotch and Naismith heard one banging on about the European Union in a way that would have pleased the Mayor. Sadly, Peachornby's views weren't unique.
The Worshipful Master gently knocked three times on the table. Called from refreshment to labour, the men huddled closer.
Spread out on the blueprint for all the men to view were the Bass Maltings. But not the ruined, abandoned Maltings of the present. These plans showed a huge complex of duplex apartments and condos, leisure facilities together with retail and some office space. Naismith noticed that the central unit comprising the chimney and old boiler houses had been turned into an upmarket restaurant and fitness centre.
Sandiford also showed them a book of A3 sized architect's drawings showing how the Maltings were intended to look after the work was completed. On the sketches, happy, wealthy looking young couples (all white, except for one token ethnic) were dotted around. Some sat outside the restaurant sipping coffee or glasses of wine. There were trees and planters filled with flowering shrubs. And all under cloudless blue skies which made it look a little unrealistic as if Sleaford had been transported to the Mediterranean. However, Naismith has to admit that it all looked good.
Eslaforde Lodge's Junior Warden coughed. "It's been tried before, Jeremy. We've always run up against too much local opposition so it's died the death."
Sandiford looked at Langton-Gore. His brows furrowed. "And that's why we've got that... that moronic bigot in charge, Charles, instead of yourself. I thought I'd explained all that to you. He'll draw the slings and arrows leaving Naismith free to steer the barque of our plans through the planning committee. As an estate agent, you can take charge with all that side of things; the builders and contractors and the like while my practice...," there was a note of pride as Sandiford said that, "...does all the legal work and Atkinson here sources the money through the bank."
Atkinson grinned. On the wrong side of fifty-five, overweight, balding, on the edge of Type 2 diabetes, he'd been passed over for promotion at the bank once too often. He'd never make the boardroom so no big nest-egg lay in his pension pot. No stack of share options. No profit share scheme. Merely a salary that stretched thin at the end of the month. This was his chance to hit the big time and get out before his job was outsourced to some call centre in Mumbai.
However, for the time being, he could still authorise big loans and he knew that as long as the interest on them was kept up, not too much scrutiny would come their way. After all, at the end of the day, the bank was only interested in making money and as long as the cash flowed in, they didn't look too closely at how it was made.
Of course, the bank signed up to all the money laundering regulations and lending restrictions laid down in Basel II and had sent Atkinson on all the required courses. That's what they said to him. But ultimately it all came down serving the great god Mammon. Make money. If you get away with cutting corners then senior management weren't about to object. If you got caught out, then you got your knuckles rapped.
Langton-Gore opened his mouth to speak but once again Sandiford beat him to it. "Don't worry, Charles. After our friend Peachornby has got himself into big trouble, there will be fresh elections and we'll make sure you'll win – it will be your turn after all." Sandiford turned to Naismith. "You've still got those two Polish chaps in your pocket?"
Naismith nodded, "Of course, Worshipful Master. They're fully on board and their rates are very reasonable."
"There you are, then. All sorted, brethren?" Sandiford said, waiting for the other men to nod agreement.
"Anybody talks about this and you know what will happen? Having your tongue torn out by the root and buried in the sands will be the least of your problems."
The men laughed. Eventually, after exchanging secret handshakes, the men broke apart, eager to get on with their parts in the redevelopment of the Bass Maltings.
***
While the Freemasons were meeting, a few hundred yards away three people sat around a table in Andrei'z'. Two drank Tyskie and the third vodka and diet coke. Since the bar's association with the BNP, custom had dwindled still further. The girl behind the counter was circling possible jobs in the vacancies column. Her pen scratching the paper was only sound until one of the men spoke in Polish.
"Did we do the right thing, Patryk?"
Patryk drank down the neck of his bottle. "Getting cold feet, Lukasz? You can get out any time you want."
"That's not what he meant, and you know it," the woman said. Patryk turned to his girlfriend, stung by her sharp tone. He placed his hand on her forearm.
"We're making top money now, far more than we ever could in our day jobs. Cash and tax-free. Naismith's looking after us. I don't know about you, Lukasz, but when we've got enough, Kass and I are going to buy a little farm we've got our eye on out by Siedice."
Lukasz looked at his friend. "Sure, and I want to set up an internet based printing company. But how much money is enough? How will we know when to get out and go home?"
"That's what I want to know, too," murmured Kassia. "Don't get too greedy, Pat."
"What's the matter with you two? Peachornby hasn't got the brains of a sea slug. Naismith's got him like this..." Patryk pushed the ball of his thumb down hard on the table. The next elections aren't for four years. We'll be loaded by then. And who knows? Naismith might decide to fix the next election, too."
"Ssh," hissed Kassia, nodding towards the barmaid who was also from Warsaw. "You don't know who's listening." It didn't appear that she had heard, or cared. "Listen, Patryk; and you too, Lukasz. I'm getting scared. Since the BNP's win, there's more skinheads in town now and one of them pushed me into the gutter. And didn't you hear about the Indian shopkeeper who got badly beaten up the other day? He said it was a couple of white men."
Patryk kept his voice low. "Could have been anyone. A robbery gone wrong. Us Poles are white and some of us are bad people, too."
"Yes, but these called him a... a...Paki," tears formed in Kassia's blue eyes.
"That's all right. Don't worry. Nothing will happen to us."
Kassia rubbed her eyes and sniffed. "They told him to eff off out of this country. Effing go home. No Pole would say that."
Patryk had to admit the truth of that. "No. Okay – so maybe these skinheads are liking their bit of power. But you want to go home? Really? I was a van lad working for a haulage company, you were wiping old ladies bottoms in a nursing home, Kass, and what were you doing...?
Lukasz swept his hair back and looked up. "I was unemployed, wasn't I?"
Patryk smiled. "So who wants to go back? Me, I was crashing out in my step-dad's apartment and I don't think he'd welcome me back with open arms. Not now he's moved his latest squeeze in with him."
Lukasz shook his head. "No. I admit we're on a roll here. Let's run with it for the time being. But be careful, Pat. Let's not bite off more than we can chew."
After a moment, Kassia shook her head. But there were still tears in her blue eyes. "Okay, we'll stay for the time being. But you watch that Peachornby, Pat. He's not a man, he's a monster."
"No – he's a fat fool and Naismith knows what he's doing." Patryk raised his bottle and drank. After a minute's silence the two men started talking about Legia Warsaw's chances in the Ekstraklasa League. Bored, Kassia got up and started talking to her friend behind the bar. Men! Men and their power games. She just hoped that she and her friends wouldn't get hurt.