CHAPTER 23. THE DUNKIRK SPIRIT.
They didn't want to meet in Sleaford or anywhere near it. Willard sent Patryk a text suggesting they meet in Skegness, in one of the amusement arcades that lined the sea front. Patryk read the text, memorised the details and then deleted it straight away.
"Fancy a run out tonight?" Patryk asked Kassia. "Get a breath of sea air? It'll do you good – you've been looking pale recently."
"So have you," Kassia replied. "I'd love to get out of this hole, even if only for a few hours. It's getting worse, you know. They've vandalised the kindergarten."
Patryk sighed. "Again? I'll have a word with these Smashers and ask them to keep an eye on the place."
"Keep an eye on the place? It's them that are doing it! The old lady who lives down the street, Mrs. Paton, she said it was a couple of skinheads."
"She could be mistaken. Not every skinhead round here is in the Smashers."
Kassia sniffed. "Most are."
Patryk stepped forward and hugged Kassia. "Don't worry. Nobody's hurt and remember why we're here. There's that little farm near Siedice with our names on it." Even so, he felt the young woman tremble beneath his arms. He felt strong, comforting his woman, letting her draw strength from him.
"This is all wrong, Pat. You must see that."
Patryk contented himself with saying nothing, merely stroking Kassia's long, blonde hair and occasionally kissing her ear. Soon after, Kassia recovered herself and hurried to the little bathroom to do her face.
Not wanting to use the council's marked van, they took Kassia's little Renault Clio. After the Transit, the Clio felt small and cramped and underpowered to Patryk but after he'd pushed the driver's seat back to its fullest extent – why do women always drive sitting bolt upright, he wondered, is it to do with them feeling smaller and less secure? – fiddled with the mirrors and changed the radio station to something a bit livelier, he felt a bit happier. Kassia looked annoyed as her girly cocoon was altered but she didn't say anything.
On their way to pick up Lukasz, he pretended he needed some chocolate and coke – diet for Kassia, of course, not that she needed it – as well as a lottery ticket and so swung past her kindergarten on their way to the corner shop. Graffiti had been sprayed over the brick built front. In blood red paint it said, 'Powls Out. Go Back 2 Poweland.' Another daub said, 'english jobs 4 english Wurkers.' Next to it was a crudely drawn swastika. Yes, Patryk thought. It did look like the work of the Smashers.
"If that's the worst they can do, then we've nothing to worry about," Patryk said, trying to reassure the young woman. "And once we've saved enough, we'll be out of here for good."
Kassia looked away. "The little ones shouldn't have to see that."
True, Patryk thought, but as toddlers can't read the slogans wouldn't bother them. They would think it was just a silly grown-up spraying paint around.
Patryk picked up Lukasz who sprawled out over the back seat before heading east along the A52 highway. As the flat countryside spread away on both sides of the road, the two men talked of many things but, as if by mutual consent, they didn't speak about their meeting even though it was at the front of their minds. Kassia said very little but watched the darkness fall over the flat fields and the glimmer of distant lights as they came out. To her, it seemed like the end of the world, the gentle English countryside turned into a post-apocalyptic wilderness by the evil of Peachornby.
And then their Clio reached civilisation. Or Skegness which is the next best thing. The darkness vanished, driven out by strings of coloured light bulbs suspended over the road from the lamp posts, flickering neon signs over the amusement arcades and faded, salt stained old illuminations which dated from decades before.
Signs advertised a seal sanctuary. Patryk joked that any seals seeking sanctuary in Skegness would have to be desperate. Even the cold, choppy waters of the North Sea would be preferable to this.
Patryk drove around the sweep of the coast road until he spotted a sign pointing to a car park. As the three stepped out of the car, the eternal wind buffeted them, dragging at their clothes, chill fingers of air finding every gap in their clothing. Kassia shivered and wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck.
Skirting the worst of the puddles, they made their way across the pot-holed sand-blown tarmac around a derelict hut and then onto Grand Parade which was no longer grand; fronted with cut-price discount stores – everything you didn't want for one pound, amusement arcades and fast food takeaways. The night-time street smelled of fried onions, fried fish, fried chicken and doughnuts mixed in with oil.
A few groups of people meandered to and fro along the pavements. Couples wheeling squalling babies in pushchairs, an old man shuffling along searching the gutter for dog ends. A group of young men in football tops laughing too loudly – these were the only ones not wrapped up in thick coats against the wind's icy chill. A blast of recorded music from a run-down pub where the posters advertised last week's event. A low depression settled over the three. They recognised this as a place decaying into what future remained with no hope of anything better. A town whose past was all it had to live on.
"Come on," said Patryk. "Let's see what this man Willard has to say." They passed several arcades, the light flickering and bouncing off their faces as they gazed up at the unfamiliar signs making them look like day trippers on the look out for any fun they could find.
"This is the place," he said pushing through glass doors and into an arcade that looked slightly more prosperous and busier than the rest. They were greeted by a wall of heated air, rows and rows of slots jangling away, their electronic clamour luring people to part with money in return for a few hours oblivion.
To one side several machines endlessly pushed two pence coins towards the payout slots. A middle aged man with an exhausted expression watched as his young daughter, about eight or nine years old, dropped coins down the chute every couple of seconds. Patryk thought the man would have trouble in years to come because the girl had the vacant, dead-eyed look of any gambler.
Crossing to one of the machines Patryk fed in a tenner, poured the pound coins into a plastic tub and handed it to Kassia. "Here, you play on the slots while Lukasz and I speak to this Willard. We'll fill you in later."
Kassia's eyes flashed pale blue fire. "No way, you sexist pig! You got me into this mess. You had me filling in all those Xs. You're not just leaving me to pick up the pieces after you've had your fun!"
Patryk looked around. Her loud voice had attracted attention. Even the little girl with the empty eyes looked up from feeding her two pences down the chute. Fortunately, whenever Kassia got worked up, she always went back to her native language. Nobody in earshot looked like they understood what the angry young woman had said.
"Alright. Come with us, then. But let me do the talking. Okay?"
"Who put you in charge?" Kassia spat with venom.
They stood by one of the two pence slots. Now the excitement had died down, the little girl turned away and was drip feeding more coins down the slope. She sent her Daddy to the change machine for more money.
Lukasz nudged Patryk. "There he is." A lone man edged into the arcade and looked about himself. Because of the cold, the man wore a fleece hat covering his close-cropped head and a black Berghaus hiking jacket.
The man nodded to the Poles and they all made their way to the rear of the amusements, out of sight of any chance passers by from Sleaford. He raised his eyebrows in a question when he saw Kassia.
"She's my girlfriend. It's okay; she knows everything," Patryk explained.
"Everything? Wish I did. Maybe she can explain what's going on?" said Willard with a wry smile.
"Men! You're all the same," snapped Kassia.
Willard looked at the angry young woman. He realised that beneath her anger she was one frightened human. Perhaps that was why she was so wound up.
Taking charge of the conversation Willard said, "I guess we're here for the same reason. Peachornby. And what we're going to do about him and his mob."
Lukasz spoke rapidly in Polish.
"Let's stick to English. It'll make things easier. And quicker."
"What he's saying is why is this anything to do with us? We can catch the overnight ferry from Hull and the following day we're in Rotterdam. Day after that we're safely home in Poland," Patryk said. "Your problems are nothing to do with us."
Willard stroked his chin. "Let's see. Electoral fraud – that's very serious by the way – conspiracy to defraud, embezzlement... That's for starters. I could go on all the way down to outstanding parking tickets. Definitely get a tame judge to sign the extradition papers. We could bring you back from wherever you're hiding in Poland. There'd be no safe places if we really wanted to look for you. And we would. You can bet your bottom zloty on that."
Willard caught sight of their faces. "On the other hand, if you choose to help the authorities, then I'm sure any problems will disappear and we would be suitably grateful."
Patryk stepped forwards. He'd got his friends into this mess and it was up to him to get them out. "The old man was right, wasn't he? You're not some newspaperman are you? You're an undercover cop aren't you?"
Willard swore under his breath. He'd shown his hand and now had to take a decision. He was annoyed because standard procedure was to abort the operation once his cover was blown. The officer's safety always came first. His cover story had never been blown in the past but there was always a first. Willard knew he'd have to run this scenario past his handler later but for now there seemed little point denying it.
However, he felt he could trust these three even though they had already coughed to being partly responsible for putting Peachornby in power. Even though they seemed to have no love for the BNP leader or his crew. Willard thought it would be an interesting story and, hey! What was life without risk?
"That's right. But if you breathe a word of that in Sleaford, it would be the worst mistake of your lives."
Gathering round another twopenny slot machine, the three Poles and one English cop compared notes. It was Willard who learned more, that Superintendent Donelan was not exactly playing with a straight bat himself by putting the Poles on the team without telling him. Also, he was amazed at the extent of the graft and corruption within the Urban Council. Amazed but not shocked.
Eventually, just before closing time, they finished talking. Willard had lost over five pounds in twopences down the slots – a much cheaper way of meeting contacts or informers than the pub. He'd have to remember amusement arcades as a venue, he thought. Saves on expenses. They shook hands, swapped phone numbers and just to be on the safe side, Willard let the Poles leave first before heading back down the A52 himself. Using his hands-free kit, Willard called Sergeant Fiona Wright and laid it all out for her. When in doubt, refer the matter up the food chain.
Willard could hear Fiona thinking as he drove. She asked the only questions that mattered. Of course, the officer's safety came first but there was also the question of the time and effort expended so far in the operation. The high-ups worried more about budgets as well and hated to see money wasted. They were more like accountants than thief-takers these days.
"Do you feel safe, Willard? Safe with these Poles knowing you're u/c? If you want, we can pull them in – use the anti-terror legislation to keep them safely banged up for twenty-eight days?"
Thinking hard, Willard considered his response. No way did he want to be taken off this assignment. Far from being routine, this job might be the making of his career especially if he could use Peachornby to track down the other drug kingpins and suppliers.
"No – that won't be necessary, Fiona. I've got a feeling I might be needing them and they have no love for Peachornby's mob. It's not like the skinheads mix with eastern Europeans. Leave them be..."
"If you have any doubts, or suspect anything, then give me a call pronto and their feet won't touch the ground. Got that?" Sergeant Wright butted in.
"Sure. But do me a favour and leave them alone for the moment. I've got a feeling in my gut things are moving fast."
"Well, you're the man on the ground, Willard, and you've done u/c work before so I trust your instincts. But stay in touch, will you? I'm not a happy bunny with these three knowing your identity."
They exchanged a few pleasantries, items of office gossip, before Sergeant Wright rang off. Willard breathed a sigh of relief. He'd not mentioned that Peachornby's father suspected him as well. That would have raised a red flag with his handler and she would certainly have pulled the rug from under his feet.
Back in Sleaford, Willard swung past the Poles apartment. During their conversation, Sergeant Wright had searched the database and pulled their address for him. Kassia's Clio was parked outside and a light was on in an upstairs window. Of course, they could be on the blower to Peachornby but somehow, Willard doubted that very much. Sure, he'd have to keep his wits about him and stay sharp and if he saw anything that raised the hairs on the back of his neck then he'd get out. No hesitation. Just get out.
A few minutes later, Willard pulled up round the back of the flat he was sharing with a couple of other Smashers. They were both passed out in a stupor so he didn't need to bother thinking up an excuse. The gaff stunk of park bench lager and super-strong skunk cannabis. Willard wondered if it came from Peachornby's stock.