CHAPTER 20. HANG OUT THE WASHING ON THE SIEGFRIED LINE.
Willard sat deep in thought. He'd been allocated a little side room off the main open plan offices on the first floor. His door stood ajar but few people came to see him as they all assumed he was one of Peachornby's mob. Displayed on the monitor was a spreadsheet giving details of all the Smasher's shift patterns and rotas including those who had failed to show for duty.
This was a common pattern amongst the Smashers – reliability was not their strong point. As soon as they were safely on the Smashers' payroll, most of them took it as an opportunity to spend their days down the pub or bookies instead of at work. Or else they preferred to laze away their days at home with the curtains drawn shooting things on the X-Box. Mondays and Fridays there were usually more gaps in the chart than people showing up for duty.
Willard sighed. It wasn't a difficult program to set up and operate but it had proved beyond the grasp of Peachornby and Mason. It would be like trying to explain the quantum physics of the Large Hadron Collider to them. Now the equally complex physics of the Sun's rays shone in through the blinds and outside he heard banging and thumping as some of the Smashers who had bothered showing up hauled out more fire-damaged equipment and threw it out into a skip.
Last night, Willard had seen his handler – Sergeant Fiona Wright – who, among other things, told him that Naismith was making good progress. He was now on the general medical ward and although he faced the foreseeable future filled with painful skin grafts he was out of danger. So no chance of getting a manslaughter or culpable homicide charge against these BNP jokers now.
However, the girls in the council offices were in no danger from Naismith's roving eye and wandering hands for the time being. They were missing him.
Willard spun in his chair and peered through the slats of the blinds at the white stone tower of St Denys church in the distance. He wondered what traumas and difficulties that steeple had seen over the centuries. The blitz, the agricultural revolution and the Corn Law riots; before that the Civil War. Willard knew that Cromwell recruited much of his New Model Army from around these parts.
Further back, the middle ages, the War of the Roses and the Black Death. Yes, that steeple had seen it all. But had it ever witnessed some cut-price Nazi thug like Peachornby in charge of Sleaford? Although given the always low standards of local democracy the church had probably buried far worse characters than Peachornby. Most of them were probably pillars of the community in their day.
His desk phone rang, jerking Willard back to the present day. He spun round, glanced at the number on the display and then lifted the receiver.
"Willard," he announced. He listened for a moment. "Sure thing, Mayor. I'll be right over."
He stood and ignoring the hostile glances from the outer office made his way along the corridor to the Mayor's suite. He knocked, waited for an answer but when none came he pushed open the door. There was no sign of Peachornby's Senior Assistant so Willard carried on to Peachornby's private office.
"Where's Mason?" asked Willard.
Peachornby looked up. The man looked rough, far rougher than usual as if he was harried by forces beyond his control. Peachornby looked as if he had not slept for several nights and his doughy face was pallid and waxy with dark bags under his reddened eyes. They went well with his 'tache.
The Mayor picked up a sausage and egg toastie liberally filled with HP sauce and took a bite. Yolk and brown sauce spurted out, splattering down his shirt front. Peachornby cursed, dropping the sarnie onto a paper plate and picked up a wad of tissues with which he smeared the foodstuff over his shirt. Willard watched as the Mayor then dropped the dirty tissues onto an open planning application submitted by some outfit called Saveiro Canadian and then lifted the sarnie, taking a second bite. More yolk and HP sauce squirted out either side of Peachornby's mouth. It was not a pleasant sight. Willard hoped Sleaford's Mayor wouldn't be invited to many official banquets.
"Throwing a sicky," Peachornby mumbled, talking around a mouthful of half-chewed toastie. He got in a punch-up with some men from Mansfield. They dragged him out into the car park and gave him a right hammering. One of them smashed a pool cue over his noggin and he's got conc... conc... concussion or something so he'll not be around for a few days."
Willard thought that anyone smashing a cue over Mason's bonce was wasting their time. That was a skull made of solid bone.
"Well, don't worry, Mayor. He'll be up and about before you know it and in the meantime I could take over his work?" This could be a useful way to worm further into Peachornby's crew.
The Mayor nodded. "Mason said I could trust you. Said your references all checked out. And you did a good job on the Masonic Hall and Connie Club."
Willard nodded. He sincerely hoped that his part in those two incidents would be swept under the carpet. Otherwise he'd be in deep doo-doos.
"Listen. I need you to do a little job for me this evening. Normally, I'd get Mason to do it but...," Peachornby shrugged. His wig slipped slightly forwards.
"Sure, Mayor. What do you want me to do?" Willard was careful to keep his voice relaxed and neutral but inwardly he felt that frisson of adrenaline and excitement. Maybe this might be the opportunity he was looking for? The chance to gather something truly incriminating on Peachornby.
Willard was to be initially disappointed.
"I just need you to drop off some plants from my garden centre. A friend – sort of – owns a centre up north. Near Bolton or somewhere. What with the cold weather up there a lot of his stock's died off. So if you could just drive the van up to Woodall Services on the M1 then he can pick up the plants he's ordered from me. You okay with that?"
"Sure thing, Mayor."
"Thanks, Willard. I owe you one. Now, here's his number. When you get near the services, give him a buzz and he'll direct you," Peachornby said, sliding over a slip of paper on which a mobile phone's number had been written.
Later that afternoon, Willard drove up the B1188 towards Dunston. The radio was tuned to Smooth FM but the easy listening classics failed to soothe his mind. This was a waste of time. He was beginning to think that Superintendent Donelan had overestimated the importance of Peachornby and his BNP mob. Sure, they were an unpleasant, vicious little bunch but they'd get voted out at the next election.
In the meantime surely Lincolnshire County Council and the Home Office themselves could put the kibosh on Peachornby's wilder schemes? Even though some of them such as the Kamp Kleethorpes holiday camp for asylum seekers had proved to be very popular. Except amongst the shivering half-frozen refugees themselves, of course.
Catching sight of the array of Union flags, Willard pulled into the car park of Peachornby's garden centre and following his directions drove past the main shop and showroom and then onto the glasshouses round the back. He spotted a Transit van with Peachornby's Garden Centre emblazoned on the side within a circle of flags and parked next to it.
As soon as Willard switched off the engine, a much older man with a death's head for a face stepped out of the glasshouse. Immediately, the man plucked a roll-up from behind his ear, sparked up and drew a cloud of smoke deep into his lungs. Willard got out of his Peugeot as the old man approached.
"Where's that other Muppet – Mason? The one that does the retard's dirty work?"
That was quite a lot of concepts to take in at once. Willard seized on the word that stood out. "Retard?"
"Yeah, my useless son Kenneth. If you've got any more smarts than the rest of his crew you'll turn around and drive back to whichever stone you crawled out from under."
"What's the problem?" Willard asked, taken aback by the old man's bile.
"I usually deal with Mason. The lad's a total moron but he's so stupid he's trustworthy. So who are you?" the old man rasped.
"Willard. Head of Security at the council now," Willard said, sticking out his hand. The other man looked at Willard's offer of friendship but didn't shake. "Kenneth's sent me to pick up and drop off some flowers for some guy up north. Call him if you don't believe me."
The old man shrugged and fished out a set of keys from his fleece. "If the retard wants to use somebody he's only just met; it's all one to me. Me, I won't be alive for the trial. Van's already loaded." He tossed the keys to Willard who plucked them out of the air.
The old man grinned – an expression that made his ravaged face even more terrible. "Mason could never catch 'em. Too slow. Dropped 'em every time."
Willard crossed to the Transit. The cab was filthy with soil or compost on the floor and six month's worth of fast food wrappers, newspapers and betting slips littering the dash. It smelled as if someone had used the van to ferry travel-sick dogs around the east Midlands. There was an air-freshener but it hadn't been replaced any time this year.
Willard tooted the horn at the old man's back and then drove out of the garden centre and headed west towards the M1 motorway. As he drove, Willard wondered what Peachornby's father had meant by 'being alive for the trial'. That sounded like more than the usual under-the-table Town Hall corruption stuff. After all, that wouldn't have anything to do with the garden centre.
Willard drove through the darkening Lincolnshire countryside and turned onto the M1 at junction 28, heading north. The notice on the back of the van saying it was fitted with a governor limiting its speed to sixty was just for show so he drove fast, buying time. He kept an eye in his mirrors for a tail but couldn't see anyone following so soon after pulled into Tibshelf services. Hey! Nobody had told him he couldn't stop on the way.
Just in case anyone was watching, Willard used the gents and then bought sandwiches, a can of coke and a Twix from WHSmith newsagents before returning to his Transit. He walked around the back of the van and then, clumsily, allowed the coke to slip out of his hands. Crouching, Willard saw that the back of the Transit was securely padlocked with a top of the range Assa lock. There was no corresponding Assa key on his ring.
Sure, even an undercover officer had heard about plant thefts from garden centres, but this seemed a bit too much security for some rose bushes or whatever. Unless Peachornby was competing in the Chelsea Garden Show which didn't seem likely. He shook his head. He didn't have time to call his handler and arrange for a locksmith to open up. Picking the can up from the tarmac, Willard brushed off his jeans and climbed back into the cab.
Ten minutes from Woodall services, Willard keyed in the mobile number Peachornby had given him. After just one ring, a voice with a strong Manchester accent answered. In the background, Willard heard wailing middle-eastern music.
"Where shall we meet?" Willard asked after saying where he was.
"The truck park. Northbound. Furthest away from the motorway. You're Peachornby's new boy, ain't you?"
"Yes. Mason took a pasting the other day."
The Manc chuckled. "Man had it coming." He stopped laughing as if a current had been switched off. "But no tricks, my friend. And no stupid comments, neither. Okay." The man killed the connection.
Still thinking about what he had just heard, Willard drove through the night. The motorway was busy, but not congested and he made it to Woodall services. He turned off and followed the signs to the large goods vehicles parking area. He drove slowly, unsure what he was looking for but positive that Peachornby's contact would recognise his van. By a stand of trees it was pitch black making dark alleyways between the high sided artics. A few cabs were lit up as drivers sat and relaxed before settling down for the night but most were in darkness.
Willard pressed the brake pedal as a man stepped out from behind one of the trucks and flagged him down, pointing to a gap beside a Belgian registered refrigerator semi-trailer. Willard indicated and turned in, parking next to a Fiat Ducato. This second van was badged as belonging to an outfit going by the name of Bird I'th Hand Plants and Gardens.
Willard stepped down into the petrol smelling night and, even though he thought he'd seen it all in his time on the force, he still got a shock. The man standing before him couldn't have been more of a Hollywood stereotype if he'd worked at it. Like he'd come from a drawer at central casting marked Public Enemy No. 1: Jihadi Mujahadeen. From his lacy skullcap to his sandalled feet, the man looked every inch the Islamist terrorist.
He stood five eight or nine; not tall but he appeared broad and powerful. His face was dominated by a thick, luxuriant beard beneath a strongly hooked nose and thin, cruel lips. He wore white Islamic robes and trousers which seemed to glow in the dim light between the wagons.
His only concession to the evening chill was an explosive filled suicide vest.