CHAPTER 17. VIVA THE INTERNATIONAL BRIGADES.
Willard – that wasn't his real name but it would do for government work – unlaced his black brogues, and then stepped out of his pin-stripe trousers before hanging them neatly in his locker beneath his matching suit jacket. God, he was so tired. He leaned against his metal locker and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror opposite.
He'd gone from one extreme to the other, Willard thought. Until a few weeks ago he was mixed up with a bunch of Welsh environmental types – all long hair, beards and dreadlocks; hippies who found their fashion sense in a skip – protesting against the M4 extension to Pontypridd. Then after he'd gathered enough evidence to prosecute he'd been swamped with debriefings, filling in paperwork in triplicate and giving testimony in court.
Willard had infiltrated their encampment easily enough; their security was terribly lax and their background checks virtually non-existent. With the recent cold wet weather and muddy camp, the Taffs were grateful for any extra support. Even from the hated English. Within a few weeks, partly because he was the only one not permanently pissed, stoned or high, he had virtually taken over their camp. He organised their food and sanitary arrangements but didn't bother insisting they actually bathed. That would have been more hassle than was worthwhile.
Only their so-called leader, Hazel, had her doubts about him. The others were simply grateful they could disengage their brains and concentrate on getting smashed out of their gourds. And now, based on his testimony, Hazel and most of her tree-hugging group would be spending the next year or so behind bars. Not much chance of getting high for a while – although, come to think of it, given the state of British prisons they could now get wrecked 24/7.
Perhaps his role in their attempt to fire-bomb the contractor's diggers wouldn't bear much scrutiny – it could be argued that he'd exceeded his brief and acted as an agent provocateur – but that had never come out in court. And so the judge had glowered at the longhairs and sent them down the steps. Their middle class parents were in floods of tears but Willard had little sympathy with the environmentalists. If you didn't build motorways then how could you get out of the Valleys and back to the Smoke quickly enough?
Of course, Willard knew he couldn't return anywhere near Pontypridd ever again but, hey! That was no loss. He'd been looking forwards to a couple of weeks R'n'R – a beach on some isolated Greek island would have been nice. Somewhere hot with no mud and no Taffs. But on his last day of giving evidence, he'd been taken to one side by a plug-ugly copper who'd introduced himself as Superintendent Donelan of the Lincolnshire Police.
"You've not played on our pitch before?" Donelan asked.
Willard shook his head. "No, sir, I've never worked the East coast."
Donelan grinned. "Then I have a little job that will be bowling to your strengths. I have a nasty little team on my wicket that I want to have only a short innings. Perhaps you could see your way clear to bowling for our team while pretending to bat for them?"
Like everyone else in Britain, Willard had watched the surprise victory for the BNP in Sleaford's election and then the subsequent Town Hall fire. So it wasn't a bolt out of the blue that he'd been asked to penetrate Peachornby's crew.
"I was due some leave, sir?" Willard said, making a token protest. It would have seemed odd if he hadn't objected.
"When you've finished bowling them out here, I'll make sure you get some serious time off; enough to take in the whole Ashes tour this winter. Deal?"
Willard nodded. He could care less about watching cricket but six weeks in Australia this winter sounded good to him. He nodded.
So now he stood in this locker room of Grantham's Swingbridge Road police station. Gone was the unwashed crusty look and in was the skinhead neo-Nazi look. His head was close cropped with a number two cut, he wore a buttoned-up Ben Sherman shirt, bleached jeans and Doc Martens boots. He shrugged on a green bomber jacket with Pompey, bulldog and BNP badges on the lapels. Yes, I look the part, he thought.
Outside, waiting for the bus, Willard ran through his cover story once again. A south coast tough up from Portsmouth, a member of the notorious 6:57 Crew, so called from the time the train for London Waterloo left Portsmouth station. He'd heard of Peachornby and come up to Sleaford to throw in his lot with the Sleaford Smashers. And also to get a job after coming out of prison following a few racist attacks on Portsmouth's immigrant population.
If any of Peachornby's lot thought to check, then a couple of prisoners had been promised early release if they backed up Willard's cover. It wasn't perfect but hey! what was? From the dossiers Superintendent Donelan had given him, Peachornby's lot weren't exactly big league. The Russian Mafya or Colombian Cartels they weren't. Hell, the guy ran a garden centre of all things.
The bus from Grantham pulled up at Market Square, Sleaford. On the surface, the place seemed normal, uneventful, boring almost. Just a small English market town on a day the market wasn't running. One side of the square was taken up by St Denys church, its white stone bright in the milky sunshine.
Opposite, Willard spotted the local Conservative party association's offices. Somebody had sprayed, 'Torres Owt' on the plate glass window. He wasn't sure whether it referred to an under-performing footballer or the Tories. Either way it was a sentiment Willard could agree with despite the illiterate spelling. Loitering outside were a couple of skinheads like they were on guard – or maybe preventing anyone from entering.
As he passed, Willard spotted a determined-looking middle aged woman inside. She had a perm that made her head look like a helmet and she was answering the phone while ignoring the two young men outside. Willard nodded to the two skinheads outside who nodded back warily at one of their own.
Turning right onto Eastgate, Willard walked until he reached the offices of Sleaford Urban Council. Following the fire, the building looked like somewhere from a war zone. Many windows were boarded up with plywood and scorch marks on the brickwork showed Willard where the fire had burned before being brought under control.
However, there were signs of rebuilding. A red architect's sign-board had been fixed to scaffolding and a gang of roofers were chucking tiles down into a skip making a noisy clatter. Other men were hacking off fire damaged plasterwork. A couple of bovver-boys loafed on the steps outside watching the workmen. One held out an arm, blocking Willard's way.
"Got an appointment?" the young man spat. The man had a bad case of acne and his face was cratered like the moon. Willard looked at the skinhead and despite the young man's muscles, he didn't rate the skin's chances. This yobbo hadn't trained with the police's elite Operational Support Units after all. Although, he'd probably been on the receiving end of the OSU's strong arm tactics in his time.
"Yeah, here it is," Willard said. He leaned forward and without warning brought his forehead down on the skinhead's nose. The man howled and both hands flew to his face. Blood streamed out from between his fingers.
The second man pushed away from the wall. He seemed unsure whether to help his mate or take on Willard. He decided he was hard enough to have a go until Willard said, "You want to see my appointment as well?" and there was a look on Willard's face that spelled pure trouble. The skin crouched by his mate as if that had been his intention all along.
"You want my advice? Take him to Grantham and District Hospital and get him checked out. Maybe his nose isn't broken and there's no shards of bone moving towards his brain."
The skin with the bloodied nose moaned again, more loudly. "Ged be an amblance," the man said through his hands. By now Willard had entered the Town Hall.
"Mayor's Office," he called over his shoulder to the girl behind the front desk. She looked startled by his sudden presence. Giving her no time to respond, Willard took the stairs two at a time. On the first floor, Willard glanced at the signboard for confirmation but he'd already studied the Town Hall plans in Donelan's office.
He turned left and a moment later walked into an office marked as belonging to Peachornby's Senior Assistant. The room was empty. A desk was against one wall. A copy of 'Readers Wives' was the only paperwork in the in-tray and a desk diary lay open. Glancing at the diary, Willard noticed that no appointments had been booked for the day. Hey! Who would want a visit from a BNP Mayor anyway? Not many.
Opposite was a door prominently marked Mayor's Office. Without knocking, Willard walked right in. Two men looked up from a DVD player showing what looked like a Panzer battle on the Eastern front.
"What the...?" said the Mayor's minder. From his briefing, Willard knew all about Mason; the guy's prison record, even down to his tattoos. "How did you get in?"
"Walked in through the front door. How d'you think?" Willard replied. "Your security's a joke – you know that?"
Peachornby stood and closed down the DVD player. Even he realised it didn't look good to be watching a film glorifying the Third Reich.
Willard smiled. To him, Peachornby looked like a fool. Sleaford's führer was dressed all in black; normally that would make the man look sinister – but that syrup perched on his head wrecked his image. And he appeared to be growing a Charlie Chaplin toothbrush 'tache.
Mason put himself between Willard and his führer. "You've got five seconds to get out," the minder said.
"Only five? Can't you count higher than that?" Willard goaded.
"Right. You're dead, mate." Now it was Peachornby's turn to step forward and hold his assistant back.
"Hey, I know you, don't I?" said Willard to Mason. "You run with the Cleethorpes Beach Patrol? D'you remember that time we joined forces to turn over that Hull City mob? FA cup third leg – what was it; three, four seasons ago?"
Mason's anger vanished as he thought. His brain couldn't hold two thoughts at the same time. "Err...," he cast his mind back over the many rucks he'd been in.
Willard decided to prompt the thug. "We were up from Portsmouth, come up a bit short-handed after the filth canned half our lads after we trashed the train. Needed a bit of local help or we'd have been pulped by Hull."
"You from the 6:57 Crew? That was fun, mate. We owned their ground and ran that mob into the river." Mason stepped forwards but this time he had his hand outstretched and he was smiling now.
As they shook hands, Willard was glad his briefing was so thorough. He knew these two jokers better than they knew themselves. Which given that their IQs probably didn't stretch to triple figures wasn't too difficult.
"So what can I do for you?" Peachornby asked.
"Come to join up. I like what's going on here so I want a job – that's if you meant it about English jobs for English workers."
Peachornby glanced at Mason who thought for a moment. "Anybody vouch for you? Anybody I know, that is?"
Willard named the couple of hooligans banged up in HMP Parkhurst who'd trade their name for early release.
Mason smiled and looked at his boss. "They're good lads, even if one of 'ems Millwall. They'll do for me. We could get him a job with the Smashers?"
Peachornby nodded, feeling pleased that he could give out patronage like some old-time gang boss. "Sure, with the Smashers. There's an opening as a traffic warden, I think."
Willard scowled and spat into a nearby waste paper basket. He looked Peachornby straight in the eye.
"Didn't come here to be no parking attendant," he said. "I guess you need a new Head of Security so I think I'll have that job. Okay with you?"
Peachornby and Mason looked at each other. Neither knew what to make of the tough, confident and capable man before them. He seemed to have more about him than most of the men they knew and that disturbed them.
It was Peachornby who looked away first. "Sure. We could do with a Head of Security. That alright with you, Mason?"
Mason nodded. After the fire, that was sort of one of his duties now but he was glad to shuffle off any work he could.
Finally, Willard shook hands with the two men. He was in with these jokers and that's what counted. Hey! Soon he'd be their best friend...