CHAPTER 14. NIGHT OF THE LONG SCREWDRIVERS.
"Hey, what's this boss?" Mason called out.
Peachornby and his oppo were busy ransacking Naismith's office. They hadn't found much. Naismith's laptop was password protected, of course, so they had been told to send it by courier to the BNP's in-house computer specialist, a man named McKee. A geek whose knowledge and love of IT was equalled only by his knowledge and love of the Third Reich.
Years ago McKee had applied to go on Mastermind but even the briefest background checks run by the pinko commie-loving Beeb had led to his application form being screwed up and filed in the nearest round filing cabinet. Also known as the bin.
Peachornby knew unless Naismith was also some sort of computer genius then McKee would be in like a ferret down a burrow and all of Naismith's files would be laid bare. No way. He'd have to find somebody else to crack the code. That said, there were loads of ads in the Standard for people who could fix computers. If he pretended that he'd forgotten his password, surely one of them could unlock the laptop.
No, he didn't trust McKee and those namby-pambys at head office one inch. No way, Jose. Those guys would think nothing of ripping him off – and him the most successful and high profile member of the BNP apart from its leader himself. They were envious of his success, he knew it. That's why they kept sending that man Gould down.
Of course, they said Gould was there to help and advise but Peachornby knew that the man was really sent to spy on him and report back. Oh yes. Well, nobody was going to purge him like they had purged Ernst Röhm and his S.A. brownshirts. And don't forget Röhm had been murdered in the end.
Well, Peachornby wasn't going to let those slackers at head office steal a march on him. So he'd keep Naismith's lappy for himself, buy a second hand one in town and send that on instead. See what McKee made of that. A thought wandered into Peachornby's brain and found it had plenty of space up there.
An empty lappy would look way too suspicious. He'd have to remember to load it up with lots and lots of boring and irrelevant council information first before sending it on. That would keep McKee and Gould busy for a while as they sifted through thousands of useless files. Load up some porno sites and give them an eyeful as well. Peachornby smirked at his own cunning. Before he could forget his ruse, Peachornby jotted it down over the Daily Star's page three girl's boobs; Julia from Gerrards Cross today, and then he ripped out the page, stuffing it into his pocket.
Now Naismith was out of the way, he needed something to shore up his position here, make himself unassailable, make himself too powerful to be rubbed out. If he could just find out what Naismith was up to, then he, the great Kenneth Peachornby, could take over from where Naismith left over.
Who knows? This time next year he could stand for leader of Lincolnshire County Council and – his brain swelled as he thought of this and his eyeballs bulged in their sockets – he might challenge the BNP's leader as well. After that... who knows? Number Ten Downing Street itself? Britain was ready for change and who better to lead it than Kenneth Peachornby? It had a certain ring to it. Peachornby imagined himself summoned to Buckingham Palace to have his audience with the monarch.
While he was there, he might as well get himself knighted. He imagined the steel touch of the sword on his shoulders and that plummy voice saying, "Arise, Sir Kenneth." That would do for starters. Then he'd stride into parliament, fling open the doors, march to his place behind the dispatch box and really sort out this country once and for all. Anybody who made trouble, any trouble at all; he'd round 'em up, stick 'em against a wall and shoot the bastards...
"You with me, boss?" Mason called again, snapping Peachornby out of his reverie. Mason was standing by Naismith's desk, a ten inch screwdriver in hand. He'd jimmied the lock and a drawer stood open. No way could those gouges and scratch marks be disguised but it didn't much matter as Peachornby didn't think his Deputy would be back any time soon.
Mason pulled out a heavy cardboard tube, capped at both ends. At a nod from his leader, Mason popped open the tube and slid its contents out onto the desk. The two men unrolled the plans and weighted down the corners with a stapler, a desk diary and a phone charger.
They stared at what lay beneath them. It was better than the lost map to Captain Kidd's treasure chest, the plan of Area 51 and the secret recipe of Coca-Cola all combined. Their mouths hung slack as they stared and a string of drool trickled out of Peachornby's mouth until he sucked it back up again with a horrible slurping sound. He rubbed his lips with the back of his hand.
"I don't believe it," Peachornby said.
"Wow. No wonder they rigged the election," Mason said.
"I'd have won it anyway. I didn't need their help. The good people of Sleaford were ready for a new direction..."
"Of course, boss. Sorry."
To the right people, what was displayed was the key to a fortune. Millions, multi-millions, gazillions. Peachornby imagined what he could do with that money – he could really take over the BNP with that behind him. Mason merely reckoned he could pay off his debts, get that loan-shark and his heavies off his back, get straight with the child support, move out of Mam's and rent an executive box at Lincoln City FC's Sincil Bank ground.
Laid out before their gaze were detailed plans for the redevelopment of the Bass Maltings themselves. The two men pointed things out to each other as they studied the diagrams. Also in the tube were planning applications, future press releases and financial projections. Neither man could make much of these. Peachornby left that side of things at the garden centre to his Dad while Mason could never make his wages stretch to the end of the week. Nowadays, he owed a serious wedge to the local money-lender. Well, if this job came off, he'd be minted.
"Wow," said Mason again. There wasn't much else to say.
Some rusty cogs moved in Peachornby's brain. "We can't use any of these people. They'd go straight to Naismith's Lodge buddies. We'll have to find our own."
"My Dad's a roofer. He's got loads of mates in the building trade."
Even Peachornby knew that a huge project like the Bass Maltings would be out of Mason's Dad's league. You'd need the big, national construction companies. The firms who bid for government contracts and were quoted on the stock exchange. All the same, it was a start.
"Cheers, Mason."
They looked some more, both of them contemplating fantasies of vast wealth coming their way. Eventually, Peachornby rolled up the papers and pushed them back into their tube. There was a tear in his eye. Now he would never be regarded as a no-mark ever again.
"Not a word to anyone, Mason. Got that? No one."
"What about my Dad?"
"Well, apart from him of course.”