CHAPTER 16. ALBERT SPEER'S VOLKSHALLE.
A handsome young man called Daventry pulled up at the lights. Could life get any better than this? Not at this moment, it couldn't. He was driving his brand new Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG coupé in fire opal red. Under the sunny skies, its hard-top was down. The Mercedes was powered by the top of the range 6.2 litre V8 petrol engine giving the car a much higher output and torque than the standard V6. Also, it had the cutting edge ECO stop/start technology. Nice. More than nice. Perfect in fact.
Also Daventry had a very lucrative career as an architect. He loved it at Haider-Allbutt & Associates. This was a firm going places. He even loved putting in the notoriously long hours. Sitting there alone at his draughtsman table after everyone else had gone home, the room in darkness except for one anglepoise lamp shining down on the blueprints. Listening to the night life down below and feeling above it all. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Especially as he knew that with a few more commissions under his belt he'd make junior partner before thirty. Hints had already been dropped. And after that, the sky's the limit. Maybe he'd try and open an office in Dubai or Oman or somewhere. Those oil-rich sheiks couldn't spend money fast enough on building up their property empires. However that was a pipe-dream for the future. Today, however, he was on his way to pitch for another job. Not his usual line of work as he preferred cutting-edge, modernist new builds rather than refurbishments but so what! he was looking forward to the challenge of something different.
His secretary, Angela, sat beside him in the passenger seat. She shifted position, letting her mini skirt ride higher up her thigh. Despite the warm morning, she wore coloured stockings but you could still see the blonde's great pair of pins. Very nice. Angela leaned forwards, leafing through the attaché case in the footwell giving Daventry a look at her breasts. Even nicer. Daventry rested his hand on the gear stick feeling the throb of the engine.
The only fly in the ointment was the bright yellow B&M bin wagon next to him. Although it wasn't just one fly as whole hosts of bugs followed the truck. Rotten garbage fumes flowed over the Mercedes-Benz wrinkling Angela's nose. To Daventry's eyes, that little gesture made her look even sexier. She coughed into her hand, making her boobs shake and tremble under her low-cut top.
Angela looked up from her case. Daventry immediately averted his eyes from his secretary's assets and looked over his door sill at the bin wagon. Hanging off the back, in violation of every health and safety regulation were two bin men. One was older, stooped and hunched, with iron grey hair. The bin man scowled and looked away.
But Daventry's eye locked onto the younger man. This man was young, only Daventry's age, and wore his blond hair in a similar swept-back style. Feeling Daventry's gaze upon him, the young refuse collector turned and looked down into the coupé. The two men held each other's eyes for a long moment before looking away.
Perhaps both contrasted their different lives – one a bin man, the other an architect. Did it really only come down to different starts in life he wondered? Before their divorce, Daventry's parents owned a large detached house in its own grounds instead of renting one on a council sink estate; different schools – the difference between a private education or the local comprehensive, different parental expectations. Was it as simple as that? That a difference in wealth and opportunity at the start of life set people's careers on such different courses?
Lost in thought, Daventry was annoyed that it was the bin wagon that pulled away first from the lights instead of his high-powered Mercedes.
Both of the operatives wore bright yellow hi-viz jackets. On the back of the jackets was written 'Sleaford Smashers'. Daventry noticed that the capital Ss were elongated and angular – like sinister runic lightning flashes. Angela looked up from her case at the pause as Daventry slammed the gear-stick into first and stamped on the gas. His Mercedes shot forwards and Daventry swept effortlessly past the garbage truck. The young man hanging off the back looked on enviously as the coupé motored past, its engine quiet and restrained yet with more than enough horse power under the bonnet.
"He didn't get that through hard work, Shaun," said the older man over the diesel grumble of the garbage truck.
The young man, Shaun, shook his head. He sure wished he was driving that car with a beautiful woman by his side.
Daventry crossed the railway tracks onto Southgate and watched the yellow garbage truck recede behind him in the mirrors. He made a right, moving onto Eastgate and a few minutes later, he parked in front of the Town Hall. A space had been reserved for him and yet another Smasher moved a traffic cone out of the way. The man even saluted him like a 1950s AA patrolman. You didn't get that nowadays, Daventry thought.
"I'm here to see Mr. Peachornby," Daventry said.
"Yes, sir. The Mayor is expecting you. If you care to go in another Smasher will escort you to his office," the parking attendant said as he pointed towards the front door. Daventry noted the tone of pride in the Smasher's voice. The man took off his beanie cap and rubbed his scalp. Daventry noticed the man's hair was cropped very short.
Angela took out the attaché case as Daventry fetched his laptop together with a long cardboard tube from the boot. He checked his appearance, straightened his Italian silk tie in the wing mirror and then both made their way across the car park. As they walked, Daventry evaluated the building.
There were many traces of fire damage. Smoke blackened part of the ground and first floors and several windows had plywood nailed over them. Even now, several days after the fire, he could still smell smoke and ash on the air.
Inside, the reception foyer had been cleaned up and apart from water damage streaking the walls and a few lighter gaps where paintings had once hung, the lobby looked presentable. A receptionist with dyed black hair put her caller on pause and looked up.
"Haider-Allbutt & Associates. I have an appointment with Mr. Peachornby," Daventry announced. The receptionist turned round a visitor's book for him to sign and pressed a buzzer. A burly young man, also with a shaved noggin appeared. He wore a cheap polyester shirt and clip-on tie over which hung another hi-viz marked 'Sleaford Smasher'. It was almost like Peachornby's private army, Daventry thought. The young man led Daventry and Angela over to the stairs.
"Sorry. The lift's still out of order," he told them. The man took the steps two at a time as if keen to show off his physical prowess. Daventry matched his pace – he liked to go running when he had the time – but Angela was soon left behind. Holding the charred fire door open, Daventry waited for the girl.
As she puffed up the stairs both men copped an eyeful of her boobs under her low cut top. The young Smasher grinned knowingly at Daventry. Ashamed of himself, Daventry turned away. He took the cardboard tube from Angela when she reached them and stepped between her and the Smasher, shielding her from view.
The Smasher took them left along the first floor corridor to a part of the Town Hall that was completely undamaged by smoke. The corridor was panelled with oak carved like scroll work. The Smasher knocked on a door marked 'Senior Assistant to the Mayor' and waited until a deep voice told them to, "come in".
"Here you are, Mason, that architect fellow Mayor Peachornby wanted," their guide said before leaving. Again, Daventry heard respect in the young man's voice when he mentioned Peachornby. No. More than respect. What he heard was admiration, Daventry amended.
Mason slammed a desk drawer shut and looked slightly embarrassed. Daventry wondered what he had been up to. Something nasty, no doubt. Mason offered his right hand and Daventry noticed the initials HATE tattooed on his knuckles in blue ink. He guessed that LOVE was tattooed on Mason's left but he was wrong. That also said HATE. Maybe he got a BOGOF discount? Two for the price of one, Daventry thought, suppressing a giggle. All the same, he shook with the big skinhead.
Mason then rapped on the further door of his room. A large plaque in Old English black-letter said simply: Mayor. Mason showed Daventry and Angela into Peachornby's office. He licked his lips and didn't bother hiding his admiration of the girl's boobs and bum as she passed. Angela tugged down her short skirt but it was too little, too late. Daventry laid his hand on her arms in a manner he hoped showed the skinhead that the girl was with him. But although he worked out at the gym, Daventry didn't fancy his chances if it came down to a straight fist fight with Mason.
However, Daventry forgot all about Mason when the man behind the desk stood and walked around it. My god, Daventry thought, he's worse than I'd expected. Of course, like the rest of Britain, Daventry had watched the news reports about the BNP's surprise election triumph and he'd done his internet research but to meet Kenneth Peachornby in the flesh: that was something else. Daventry didn't know whether to burst out laughing or turn and flee in horror. He did neither. Instead he bit his cheek hard until he had control of his emotions.
As usual, Peachornby was dressed all in black. This shirt was of a military cut with two chest pockets and epaulettes. The man's beer belly bulged over his wide belt and, looking down, Daventry noticed that Peachornby had tucked his trousers into polished high-leg Doc Martens. Daventry looked up into Peachornby's doughy face. My god, Daventry, thought again, he's actually growing a Hitler 'tache. Who does this cut-price führer think he is?
They shook hands. Daventry smiled automatically but hoped the toilets in the Town Hall were well supplied with disinfectant for when he washed his hands later.
"Coffee? Tea?" Peachornby asked politely.
Nothing would induce Daventry to drink with this man – unless that was the only thing that would win him this contract. "Thanks, but no. We had something on the way up."
"Good journey?" said Peachornby, trying to break the ice.
"Slight hold up on the A15 coming up but no – not bad," Daventry admitted.
"We got stuck behind a big Turkish lorry – massive it was and the driver wouldn't let us past," Angela moaned.
"Shouldn't be allowed on our roads – these foreign drivers coming over here and undercutting the honest British working man. You know they don't have to pay any tolls to use our roads yet our drivers must pay through the nose to drive abroad? And they can buy much cheaper diesel. It's all the fault of the Marxist E.U. At this rate there'll be no British haulage business in ten years time."
"Is that a fact?" said Daventry, mildly, as he took the cardboard tube from Angela. He flashed his secretary a quick 'shut-up' glare. He didn't want to hear many more rants from the BNP man. "Would you like to see the plans?"
Peachornby nodded so Daventry uncapped the tube and slid out his proposed design blueprints, spreading them out over the desk. He'd also prepared a PowerPoint presentation but wondered if he'd made the display a little too complex for these men to grasp. Daventry smoothed down the plans and moved to one side to allow Peachornby and his henchman to look their fill.
The Mayor had requested a rebuild of the burned section of the Town Hall. It was a brief every architect's office would kill for – money no object and no hassles over planning permission. It wasn't as if the Urban Council was going to object to its own design, after all.
Daventry was surprised his submission had been short-listed. Previously, after a token tendering process, Sleaford Urban Council just went straight to a practice in Lincoln that, purely coincidentally, belonged to one of the Deputy Mayor's Lodge brethren. Usually, nobody else got a look in. Then Daventry remembered that Naismith was out of action following the fire. The Deputy Mayor must be kicking himself to have missed out on this tasty commission.
Peachornby and Mason peered at the blueprints and the computer generated mock-ups of how the place would look when completed. Daventry had chosen a traditional design in keeping with the existing building but using more glass and eco-friendly materials such as a sorghum covered roof to catch and recycle rainwater, solar panels and underground pipes to extract heat from the ground. It wasn't cheap but over time those features would pay for themselves.
It was soon obvious that Peachornby liked what he saw. Daventry wondered if he should set up his laptop and run through his presentation to seal the deal.
"Where's our flagpole?" Peachornby asked.
This confused Daventry for a moment. The design specs hadn't called for any flagpole. "Flagpole?" He recovered quickly. "If you want a flagpole, Mayor, then I can incorporate one."
Now it was Peachornby and Mason's turn to look bewildered.
"I can put one up for you," Daventry explained using words of one syllable. That brought smiles.
"We only want one for the flag of England. We're not having that E.U. rag here," said Peachornby.
After a surprisingly short discussion as Daventry pointed out the highlights of his plan, the conversation, such as it was, faltered.
"The price," Mason reminded his boss.
"Oh, yes. How much?" Peachornby said, stretching his back.
Daventry named his bid. Given the extent of the damage, it was for a few million pounds. He was launching his spiel about how this represented excellent value for money until Peachornby interrupted him.
"Not enough, my friend. That's too cheap."
Daventry looked into Peachornby's blood-red peepers before turning away. Here it comes – the inevitable scam, the rip-off. The bung, the brown envelope, the under-the-counter deal. Older, wiser colleagues had warned the young architect about these Town Hall deals but usually, these days, the councillors were more subtle than they had been back in the Sixties or Seventies when a funny handshake secured almost any deal. But what could you expect from a BNP Mayor?
"Too cheap?" asked Daventry, pretending to misunderstand. Let this Peachornby idiot commit himself first. "The plan meets all your specifications – orders – and is fully costed."
"You know what I mean," said Peachornby with a leer. "Bung an extra quarter mill on it and we've got a deal. Hundred for me, extra hundred for the builder and fifty large for you. Sounds good?"
Daventry only had to think for less than a second. Sounded good to him and now he'd be able to afford that conservatory – no, upgrade that to an orangery – on the back of his executive detached and those two weeks in Barbados his fiancée, Rochelle, had been nagging him about for the last few months.
Mason coughed. "Oh, yeah," said Peachornby. "The building firm..."
"We usually use one of the big nationals as our preferred contractors – they're very reliable," Daventry suggested. Plus they gave some decent kickbacks to the architect's practice as well.
"I'd rather hire a local firm. Local jobs for local workers. Mason's Dad's a builder and he's very good."
Daventry doubted if Mason's father had the relevant experience and qualifications for a job of this size but what the hell... they'd cross that bridge when they came to it. For an extra hundred grand he'd persuade Haider-Allbutt's partners. After all, they all had their own under the counter deals going on that wouldn't stand too much scrutiny.
Nodding acceptance, Daventry told them he'd email and post a revised price and make sure Mason's Dad was the preferred contractor. Didn't matter too much as he knew a competent surveyor who could oversee the work in progress. Gathering up his blueprints, Daventry shook hands and was pleased his plans had been chosen. Even if the Mayor seemed more interested in the bung than the design.
Escorting Angela back through Mason's office, they left the Town Hall. But first, Daventry scrubbed and scrubbed his hands to wipe away the stain of dealing with the two BNP men. When he was satisfied his hands were clean, he picked up Angela and then they stepped out into the car park.
***
Meanwhile, the bright yellow garbage truck moved slowly along Eastgate blocking the following traffic until it swung into the housing estate off Ashfield Road. After emptying the bins, the men returned to the Town Hall and cleared the dumpsters from their store round the back. They were slightly ahead of schedule and had time for a smoke break.
Enjoying the sunshine, the driver and his mate leaned against the dumpsters and compared the gee-gees in the Racing Post. They were soon joined by the parking attendant. All three men fancied the same nags running in the 2:30 and 3:35 at Leicester and on the back of that the attendant went for an accumulator as well as his usual each ways. He handed the driver's mate a tenner to nip into William Hill and place the bets for him when they were passing.
Meanwhile, the two loaders at the back strolled around to the car park at the front. They spotted the fire opal red Mercedes and walked over to it.
"Nice motor," said the young man. It gleamed in the sunshine and the young man lowered his shades to view it.
The older man spat and ran his hand over the bristle on his noggin. Since he'd joined the Sleaford Smashers he'd gone for a number two haircut. "Wish that was yours?"
"Yeah, it's a lovely car." Shaun reached out his hand, almost but not quite touching its bodywork, his palm hovering a fraction of an inch away.
"It's not right. What right has that fancy-dan got driving something flash like that when men like us have to graft all day? People like him who've never got their hands dirty in their life? That's what Peachornby says. We'll see how Mr. fancy-dan likes this."
Before the younger man could stop him the old man took out a key and scratched along the driver's side of the Merc. The screeching rasp set Shaun's teeth on edge but he did nothing to stop his colleague. The jagged line grew longer, stretching from over the wheel arch and then along the driver's door panel, defacing the pristine beauty of the high-end motor. The old guy took away the key and rubbed its tip over his pants leg removing any flecks of red paint that could link him to the vandalism. He spat a second time onto the tarmac.
"That'll teach him to rub our faces in his money. C'mon, mate." The two men left the scene of the crime but Shaun looked back at the damaged Mercedes. What was the need for the old guy to do that? He'd been a good man to work with until he fell under the spell of Peachornby and the BNP. But now he was always going on and on about how the rich are getting richer by grinding down the poor and blaming the politicians for bringing in all the immigrants in order to keep the working man's wages down.
Maybe there was some truth in what he was saying, the young man thought as they reached the bin wagon, but there was still no need to damage a beautiful car like that Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG coupé. To Shaun, its driver just looked like a successful man who'd made the most of his breaks. That's all.
In hundreds of ways like this, great and small, under Peachornby's malign influence respect for law and order was breaking down. Gradually, Sleaford was becoming Sleazeford.