CHAPTER 12. REICHSTAG FIRE I.
"Tonight, boss? Okay, I'll call Malkie. He'll know what to do," Mason said bending a paper clip back and forth until it snapped. He dropped it onto the parquet floor and fished out another from the desk tidy.
"They've let him out?"
"Last month, boss. Time off for good behaviour," Mason laughed. A harsh, jagged sound. "Imagine, Malkie getting time off. He can't have lamped any screws this stretch." This time, Peachornby joined in with Mason's laughter.
"There'll be a drink in it for you and anyone you need. And I'm not talking a bottle of Becks – I'm talking champagne," Peachornby said to his assistant.
"Don't like that Frog muck, boss. I'd rather down a bottle of vodka."
"Vodka then. Whatever you want, Mason."
Mason nodded and stood, dropping another broken paper clip. At the door he turned back. "Got yourself a good alibi, boss? After this, the filth will come looking for us. I know them." Forgetting where he was, Mason spat. The glob of spittle landed on the parquet, as out of place in the grand settings of the wood panelled Mayor's office as the Mayor's golden chain would be on the football terraces. Mason scuffed it away with the toe of his Doc Marten's.
Peachornby looked annoyed but was enough of a politician to quickly wipe that expression from his face. "Of course. I'm seeing the Cranberry Alternative Dance and Tambourine Troupe performing Offal..., er, Ophelia at the Lincoln Drill Hall theatre at eight. And then drinks after with the Director and Producer and that lesbo woman from Lincolnshire Council's arts funding. I think there's some top cop going as well. That give you enough time?
"Sure," said Mason, leaning against the jamb. "They any good?"
"Who?"
"The people you're seeing, boss? They fit, those dancers?" The young man made a crude pumping gesture with his arm.
Peachornby shook his head. "Bunch of dykes with hairy armpits. Wouldn't touch them with yours, mate."
The two men laughed.
"Enjoy," Mason called over his shoulder as he finally left.
***
Two men pulled up in a dark red Rover. As it came to a halt, Mason wrenched up the handbrake under a broken street light behind the business centre. In the deep shade the car was almost invisible. Malkie pushed open the passenger door and stood. He stretched his six-three frame. He hated being cooped up in a car – it reminded him too much of being called in to help the police with their inquiries – and it had been a long drive up from Felixstowe.
Malkie rolled a dark blue ski mask down over his face and adjusted it so only his eyes showed. He wore a black nylon jacket, black jeans and gloves. Opening up the Rover's back seat he zipped on black overalls. Now he was only a shadow in the darkness. Under a blanket in the footwell was a cardboard box filled with bottles of paraffin, white spirits, oily rags and old newspapers. Malkie lifted out the box and set it down on the tarmac.
"Your cities are burned with fire: your land, strangers devour it in your presence, and it is desolate, as overthrown by strangers. Isaiah 1:7," he murmured.
"Er, that's right, very right," Mason agreed. "Let's get rid of these strangers."
Malkie had never been the same since he'd come home from those neo-Nazi white supremacist training camps high up the Cabinet Mountains in the Montana backwoods. There, as well as weapons training, he'd been indoctrinated into their strange blend of fundamental Christianity that taught that Aryan Nordic man was God's own chosen people and Hitler was the second coming of Christ.
Mason had never read the Bible. He guessed he was Church of England, sort of, but the last time he'd set foot in a church was old Auntie Dott's funeral and that had been what; four, five years ago? That had been a good do. Loads of scran at the buffet and to top things off he'd been copping a feel up some bird's skirt when her boyfriend caught them at it. Great punch-up that had been – his family still talked about it. Mind, his Mam hadn't spoken to him for a week, she was that angry. Worth it though.
"You've got the security codes?" Malkie asked, dragging Mason's thoughts back to the present. The beanpole's Suffolk accent was comical to Mason's ears but he respected the fire-setting skinhead too much to laugh. Every year, Malkie had the job of lighting the Ku Klux Klan style fiery cross at the BNP's rally. Just before the barbecue that was. And every year he surpassed himself, even when it was pouring with rain. Which, being held in Mid Wales during July, it usually was.
"Sure," Mason confirmed patting his pocket.
"And the security guard?"
"Like I already said, mate. The guy's sixty-eight and this time of night he's stretched out on one of the sofas in the meeting room. This is Sleaford, mate. Nothing ever happens here."
"Ye have brought into my sanctuary strangers, uncircumcised in heart, and uncircumcised in flesh, to be in my sanctuary, to pollute it, even my house, when ye offer my bread, the fat and the blood, and they have broken my covenant because of all your abominations. Ezekiel 44: 7-8," Malkie grinned, his teeth showing white against his black ski mask.
Mason winced at the reference to circumcision and gripped himself, checking that he was still intact. "Yeah, let's get rid of these foreign strangers. All of 'em. Whether they've had the snip or not," Mason agreed. "That guard's in for a big shock tonight." He'd sort of understood what Malkie was driving at here.
The two men crossed Kesteven Street. There was nobody about. Mason input the door code and let them into the council offices. There was a smell of polish and spray from the cleaners earlier that evening. Without switching on the lights, Mason crossed to a small ante-room just by the reception desk. A bank of lights was flashing amber. Mason punched in the code and all the lights turned to green.
"That's the fire alarms switched off," Mason whispered.
"What about the sprinkler system? Have you deactivated that?"
Mason snorted laughter. "It's only for show. Winfield, the guy in charge of lookin' after this dump, keeps putting off the fire inspection. I think he's dipping into the maintenance money."
They returned to the reception area. Malkie looked around. "This is no good. Not enough combustibles. Where's the bin room or where they store paper?"
Mason wasn't sure of the word combustibles but he knew Malkie was the expert arsonist and understood that a fire needed fuel. Mason remembered when they torched that Bengali restaurant in Nottingham last year. That had been fun especially after the fire reached the opened cans of cooking oil and tablecloths. The place had gone up like a rocket. That would teach 'em to come over here and start selling that foreign muck. All the same, you couldn't beat a good vindaloo after a night on the ale with the lads.
Their boots squeaking over the tiled floors, Mason led Malkie up the stairs to the first floor. They walked through an open plan office, all the monitors except one switched off. Mason thought the place looked different by night – all the desks and chairs squat, sinister hulks in the dim light from the windows.
Using the keys he'd lifted from the Security Office earlier that day, Mason opened the stationery store. In the confined, windowless room, Malkie switched on his torch and shone the beam over the racks. Reams of copier paper filled several shelves, toner cartridges for the photocopiers, manilla files and notebooks provided enough raw material to make Malkie smile. The firebomber took out a savagely serrated hunting knife and slashed through some of the reams of paper. Scooping up handfuls, he threw the paper over the nearest desks in the office outside. After a moment, Mason enthusiastically followed suit.
"You sure there's only one security guard here? I don't want this turning into a murder inquiry," Malkie muttered as they worked.
"Yeah, only one old geezer crashed out in the meeting room. He's right next to the fire exit so he'll be okay," Mason replied. "Don't know why you're worried as you're booked on the first flight out to Amsterdam tomorrow. Two weeks of getting your end away. Wish I was goin' with you."
Reassured, Malkie carried on until he was happy with the mounds of paper and card scattered about the desks and easy chairs. The chairs were old, left overs from earlier offices and made before modern fire regulations. They would go up like bonfires.
While Malkie sprinkled paraffin and white spirits around the office, he sent Mason round the office to open several windows to provide oxygen to feed the blaze. Even with a breeze blowing in, the hydro-carbon reek of the accelerants filled their noses. To Mason it smelled disgusting but to Malkie, well he loved the smell of paraffin at night. It was the smell of a cleansing fire.
The neo-Nazi skinhead grinned with expectation. This was going to be so good. Maybe not the biggest fire he'd ever set but probably the most important. This would make the national news for sure. Malkie savoured this moment, drawing out the pleasure until Mason nudged his elbow.
"Come on, mate, haven't got all night."
Malkie nodded and lit the oily rag. He held onto it for a second until he hurled it into the nearest heap of paper. Mason watched as flames licked out of the pile until, with a whoompf, the pile caught fire. Looking up, Mason saw the flames reflected from the white polystyrene ceiling tiles until the seat cushions caught fire and a thick pall of acrid black smoke hid the blaze from view. All this took less than three minutes.
"Come on, hurry up," Mason said, pulling Malkie away from the sight.
Shaking his head, Mason led Malkie out of the office and down the back stairs to the basement where Mason unlocked the bin room. The two men tipped over several metal dumpsters. The bad, sour smell that filled the room instantly got worse. Shredded paperwork, cardboard, food waste and bin bags spilled out onto the stained concrete floor. Malkie and Mason poured the last of the accelerants over the mound of waste before Malkie lit it. More flames erupted, fanned by the drafts from the ventilation louvres.
Grabbing some bags filled with card, the two men ran out of the bin room and up the stairs, leaving the door open. Turning around, Mason saw the smoke billow out of the store, into the corridor and into the lift shaft. He coughed but then they rounded the stairwell return. The two men wedged open the fire door leading to the reception foyer. Tendrils of smoke followed them.
Finally, Malkie set a third fire in the staff room off the foyer. With all the old chairs and personal belongings, there was no shortage of food for this fire. Malkie chucked the last bottle of turps straight onto the new fire like a grenade laughing wildly as he did so.
Safely out in Kesteven Street the two men looked back at the offices. A flickering orange glare lit up the first floor offices.
"Gonna be a burning tonight," Malkie said with a smile. "Thou sentest forth thy wrath, which consumed them as stubble. Exodus 15:7."
"Sure, whatever. C'mon, mate, lets get out of here. Enjoy Amsterdam."
"To the labourer comes the reward." The two men got back into Mason's Rover and a few minutes later were speeding west out of Sleaford and along the A52 and then the A607 to the East Midlands Airport. Mason wished he was going to Amsterdam as well. But he knew that Peachornby had bigger and better plans for him.
Hopefully followed by much bigger rewards. Oh, yeah, bring 'em on, baby.