CHAPTER 19. MY FATHER, ALOIS.
Patryk swung by Kassia's kindergarten. The toddlers, an endless stream of chubby little legs, tottered out of the nursery. Some clutched daubs in bright primary colours that would not have looked out of place in a modern art gallery. Others had two or three cardboard boxes taped together and crudely painted which they assured their parents were a 'space-pocket' or a 'dinnersaur'. Most would end up in the recycling bin later that night. One or two clasped a book in their hands. Patryk smiled at the sight of the cute little figures and their adoring parents as a couple of harassed looking nursery assistants waved them off.
As soon as the last baby and toddler had left, Patryk hurried up the ramp and let himself in. Kassia was tidying away the last of the day's debris. It looked like a small army of Vandals and Visigoths had swept through the room ransacking everything in sight. Patryk stepped over a discarded teddy bear and kissed his love on the back of her neck. She straightened and smiled.
"Patryk. Wonderful to see you. What are you doing here?" Sarcasm and suspicion in equal proportions. Not a good sign.
"Because I love you and want to be with you," he replied. The best, possibly the only answer.
"More like he's done something wrong," said the other assistant in passing. She also spoke in Polish.
Patryk stooped and helped pick up the toys strewn over the floor. As he did so, he filled Kassia in on what had happened earlier. She had only one thing to say. "He's right. You've got to stop him, Patryk. You and Naismith built this monster up; now you've got to take him down."
Now he had Kassia as well as Superintendent Donelan and Naismith after him to take down Peachornby.
"But how? I'm only a van driver not some politician or assassin or anything."
"I know, and I love you for what you are. But you've got to stop him; you can't just walk away and leave Peachornby to get stronger. It wouldn't be right. Why not try and find out more about him? He's lived here all his life, as far as I know, so I'm sure there's something in his past that you could use against him."
Patryk thought for a moment. A light bulb switched on in his brain. "Good thinking, Kass. You're right. A man like Peachornby must have a few skeletons in his closet."
He kissed Kassia a quick goodbye and then raced down the steps to his van. Picking up Lukasz from outside the printers, the two men headed north up the B1188 toward Peachornby's village of Dunston. Before they got there, Patryk turned off into a place marked:
Peachornby's Garden Centre.
All Your Gardening and Horticultural Needs In One Place.
Specialists in Conservatories and Hot House Plants.
5% 10% Discount For Senior Citizens.
Coach Parties Welcome.
Tea Shop and Gift Shop.
It was a large sign. A row of Union flags flapped in the east wind. At least the man had sense enough to leave the swastika flags and other Nazi stuff at home, Patryk thought. He pulled up in a parking lot that still had many cars and even a coach parked in it.
The two men walked through the entrance and shop. It had the sickly sweet smell from scented candles and incense sticks. Passing the section devoted to gardening tools they found themselves outdoors in the area devoted to flowering shrubs. Several elderly people were fingering the bushes while talking about prices. A man in a blue windcheater was going on and on about soil pH levels with the expertise of a Cambridge don.
"What are we looking for, Patryk?" Lukasz asked as they walked under an arbour with trellis sides.
"To be honest, I don't really know. Someone who'll dish the dirt on Peachornby."
"Like what kind of boss he is?"
"Partly. Oh, I don't know but we've got to start somewhere."
Lukasz wasn't too sure about the 'we' part. Personally, he was tempted to cut and run. Take his share of the money and jet out on the first flight back to Warsaw. Let Sleaford, Lincolnshire and England sort out their own problems. What were they to them? But on the other hand, he'd not yet made enough and he trusted Patryk.
And after all, this was England not Russia and it wasn't like he'd wake to that three in the morning knock from the Secret Police or some oligarch's private security company. No. Stick with it for the time being but make sure he kept his passport close to hand.
By now, the two men were passing a display of statues set amongst flowering shrubs. An old man well into his seventies was pruning some suckers back with a vicious looking pair of secateurs. He wore the purple and green fleece jacket of the garden centre.
Lukasz looked at Patryk. This man was the only employee who looked old enough to have known Peachornby for a long time. All the others they'd seen so far looked like they were part time college students.
"Excuse me," said Patryk politely. The man straightened up and for one instant, one nanosecond of time, Patryk thought the old man would like nothing better than to plunge the secateurs deep into his belly.
To Lukasz, the man looked unwell. He was gaunt and the bones of his face stood out stark and skeletal. His hair was cropped close to his skull. The man rubbed his stubble and looked at the two Poles with washed out blue eyes.
"Can I help you?" the man asked, politely enough on the surface but underneath, both men sensed arid hostility underneath. And maybe it was his flat Fenland voice or perhaps it was something about the eyes but both Lukasz and Patryk saw some resemblance between this old man and Peachornby.
"Do you know Kenneth Peachornby – the owner?" Patryk asked.
The man nodded and looked warily at them. "I should do. I work for him," the man said. Looking at the man's name badge, Lukasz saw his name was Stanley.
"I mean – do you know him well? What's he like; not just to work for I mean but as a man. I can make it worth your while..."
The man said nothing but led the two Poles behind a row of sheds and plastic storage units for sale. Once out of sight, Stanley took out a pack of Golden Virginia and papers and rolled himself a smoke. No filters. He scratched a match against the rough side of a shed and applied flame. He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke for a minute before exhaling with a sigh of pleasure.
"Doc says they'll be the death of me. But that quack's a year too late at least. I'm dyin' anyway."
"I'm sorry," Lukasz said automatically.
"Don't be. I'm seventy-six and I brought it on myself. Remember them John Player cards?"
The two Poles shook their heads.
"Back in the Sixties and Seventies that was. Smoke yerself to death savin' up enough cards to get a fondue set or toaster. Me and the wife got enough for a wicker chair and coffee table. She also bought herself a heart attack and a hole in the ground and now I've got the big C. Can't complain; if it's good enough for the Marlboro man, it's good enough for me." Stan grinned making his face look even more like a death's head than before.
Lukasz spoke briefly in Polish. This wasn't what they had come for. They weren't here to listen to this old man's life story. They were here to find out about Kenneth Peachornby.
"Say – are you the two guys who rigged that election? The retard was boastin' he had a couple of Polack chancers workin' for him."
Patryk and Lukasz nodded non-committally. "Maybe. But do you know him well?"
"Know him well? I should do. I'm the man who fathered that retard onto the world."
"You're his Dad?" Lukasz gasped in shock. Despite this man's emaciation and Peachornby's weight, now he looked closer there were physical similarities between them. But what kind of man would call his own son a retard? Not a good father, that was for sure.
"That's what I said, wasn't it? And if I'd known how he'd turn out, I'd have had a J. Arthur instead of a shag."
Patryk and Lukasz glanced at each other. A 'J. Arthur'? What did he mean by that?
Sensing their confusion, Stan elaborated, his voice rasping on their ears, "A Sherman Tank – bashin' the bishop, one off the wrist." Now the two Poles understood.
"Not that it's all the retard's fault he's turned out the way he has. He drew the short straw by gettin' my looks and his mum's brains. If it weren't for me, he'd have bankrupted the place years ago."
This sounded more promising. "Go on," said Lukasz.
Stanley inhaled again and then ground the stub underfoot crushing the life out of it. "See that shrub over there?" he said, pointing to a sapling with dark green leaves, orange berries and an array of sharp thorns. They nodded, wondering where the old man was going with this.
Putting on a posh BBC Radio 4 presenter's voice, like he was on Gardener's Question Time, Stanley carried on. "Firethorn, also known as pyracantha. You can plant it almost anywhere and it will thrive, even in shade. It's a hardy shrub and doesn't need any looking after even in the harshest winter. Birds like eating the berries, too, so it's good for their habitats. It's a winner and one of our best sellers." Dropping the BBC impression, the old man finished off. "But does the retard know that? Of course not." Stanley spat onto the path and then fixed himself another roll-up.
"I signed this place over to the retard to avoid death duties. Nearly seven years ago that was and only got six months to go before he'll have it free and clear – unless somethin' 'appens to 'im. Second worst mistake of my life – the worst was comin' home from the King's Arms that August night fifty-two years ago and demandin' my conjugals.
"Should never have signed the garden centre over to him. This is my life's work. I built it up from scratch. Me having to worry at the end of every month if I'd broken even – if I'd made enough to pay off the loans. Only drew starvation wages at first. Yet I still 'ave to stand over the retard's shoulder and do the orderin' and books for him as he's too dumb to work it out for himself. I taught myself Excel spreadsheets but can I get it through his thick head? No. He's too dumb to learn."
The two Poles looked at each other. They wondered how it was for the young Peachornby growing up under Stanley's thumb.
"There's a guy 'ere at the centre, Nigel, who reminds me so much of my younger self. Has a burnin' desire in his belly to make a go of things. He knows his stuff, has some bright ideas to expand and take on the big superstores at their own game. He's like the son I never had.
"People would probably think I was queer for him but if anyone could get the retard out the way, I'd change my will in a flash and leave everythin' to Nigel instead. Cut the retard out entirely."
"But what I don't get," Stanley continued, "is why a couple of Poles are workin' for a bigoted retard like my son. I should've thought he'd be the last man you'd want to see as Mayor." Stanley lowered his rasping voice and spoke confidentially. "You know he's obsessed with Hitler, don't you?"
Patryk and Lukasz nodded. "We've seen his house."
"Then you two muckers should know better. Listen, I was a racist back in the sixties and seventies – we all were back then. It was normal. Send 'em all back; that's what we all thought even if we never come right out and said it.
"But times change and me and the wife changed with 'em, too. We was wrong. But the retard never grew up. He's always bangin' on about the immigrants and how the Jews control the world banks and hangin' about with those hooligan mates of his."
Stanley spat a wad of phlegm onto the path. He fixed them with his pale blue eyes. "So what're you two going to do?"
Patryk thought. "We fixed things so Kenneth would win but now we've got to stop him before he goes too far..."
"You mean he hasn't? Are you tellin' me he wasn't behind the fire?" Stanley interrupted. He laughed, his voice harsh. His laughter became a coughing fit. He doubled over trying to suck air into his lungs. It was a couple of minutes before he could speak again.
"If you want to bring him down, look into the retard's past. Moron tried to burn his school down, you know, and there was a lot of barn burnin's back then so he's got form. Nothin' was ever proved, of course, but there's prob'ly a file or two knockin' about somewhere. Retard used to wet the bed, too. Fire-setters do y'know."
That was information worth knowing but old unproven cases from forty or more years ago wasn't going to bring down Peachornby. Might make things even more difficult with the press but that was about it.
"Anything else?"
Stanley thought for a moment before he spoke again, even lower. His rasp barely above a whisper now. "Okay. He ever finds out I told you, he'll kill me. That said, he'd be doing me a favour. I'm not lookin' to die in some poxy hospice, not me.
"You know he's into this Aryan Nations, white supremacy rubbish? How we're better than the coloureds? As well as being a retard, the guy's a total hypocrite. Listen...," Stanley Peachornby spoke and the two Poles listened. After a few minutes, the germ of an idea came to their minds.