CHAPTER 24. THE OLD CONTEMPTIBLES.
"Call yourself Head of Security? You're flaming useless," Peachornby shouted, his fist smashing down on his oak desk. His opened copy of Mein Kampf bounced and the gold-edged pages fluttered. "You must have seen the smashed windows when you dropped off the van last night."
Willard thought rapidly. He decided that sticking to his role as a slightly dim but violent thug would be best. He puffed out his chest. "Nothing to do with me, guv. I never went round the back, did I? Just left the keys with your Dad and went home."
A thought struck Peachornby. Willard watched as the lights came on behind Peachornby's eyes. The führer rubbed his jowly cheek and frowned. "So you never went in the greenhouses then?"
"No. Just dropped off the keys and then got off. Anyway, when am I gonna get paid for last night?"
"Soon. I might have some more work in the same line for you, if you're interested?"
"Sure, boss. Just let us know." Willard watched the Mayor's wig dip down as he picked up one of the few items in his in-tray. Interview over. He turned with his hand on the door. Best to stick to his part.
"Who else will I be dealing with boss? I didn't think you'd be selling to the Pakis?"
Peachornby looked up. An evil leer crossed the man's face. "I'll sell to anyone who'll buy. Anyway, if I can poison their comm..., communities, so much the better, you with me?"
Willard's heart jumped for joy. Was this idiot about to open up? Was this retard, as his own father called him, about to confess? Willard wished he was wearing a wire. He decided to offer Peachornby a bone to chew on.
"I knew something dodgy was going down. When they took those boxes out, well I knew you weren't selling flowers. I've been around and I've done time and I guess I'd have been in big trouble if I'd been pulled over."
Peachornby threw Willard a sour look. Maybe he reckoned his Head of Security was as dim as the rest of his thugs, Willard thought. Another bone was needed. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna grass you up."
Perhaps it was the reference to grass that helped the Mayor's thought processes. "So you've worked that out after one trip? Took Mason months."
That came as no surprise.
"Like I say, your secret's safe with me. If you've got any more jobs like that while Mason's laid up then let me know."
Peachornby nodded as he ran his pudgy hand through his syrup, rearranging the wig so it looked as if Hitler had just stepped out of a shot-up Junkers plane.
Willard didn't expect any more than that at this time.
***
It wasn't long before Willard drove another van heavy with the smell of lavender out of Sleaford. This time it was along the M4 to meet a bunch of Jafaican so-called Yardies in their chop-shop garage on the outskirts of St. Paul’s, Bristol. That could have been scary and when he called his handler, she arranged discreet back-up for him.
On the outside, the garage was run down and looked one step up from insolvency but when a rail-thin guy in a black, green and red rasta hat hauled on the chains lifting the shutters to let Mason drive in, he saw there wasn't a car worth under fifty grand in the place. Nice. He was in the wrong job, Willard thought. No, he reminded himself. He might not own a flash motor but he would always be on the outside, sniffing fresh, free air while these guys soon drew a ten stretch or more. Don't bend over in the showers, guys.
The Yardies didn't seemed pleased to see him but after he shook hands – none of that ridiculous high-fiving or those strange, complex gang signs – the men relaxed. One, a big dude in a fashionable embroidered shirt that looked more like a lady's blouse to Willard's eyes, offered him a glass of rum.
"Can't. I'm driving," Willard said.
"That's right, mon. Don't give de Feds a chance to frisk you," the big man said with a grin. "See anything you like?" he continued, pointing to the cars as his men unloaded the van. The smell of paint filled the air.
"All of them," Willard said, returning the man's grin.
"Stick wid Peachornby, new boy, and you'll make out."
No wonder Mason never left the boss's side, Willard thought as he headed out of the garage and took the ring road back to the M4 motorway.
Thinking of Mason made Willard call Sergeant Fiona Wright on the hands-free kit. "When are you thinking of pulling the plug on this?" Visions of six weeks or more relaxing on a tropical island in the Caribbean floated before his eyes.
"Sorry, Willard. Not for a while yet. Orders from high-up. You know who I mean..."
"Bowl them all out," Willard groaned.
"That's right. Now he wants a five nil series whitewash for the good guys. Which means..."
"Donelan wants me to find out and take down everyone Peachornby's dealing with. I get it."
"Stop interrupting me," Sergeant Wright snapped. "But you're right, Willard. He wants to know everyone Peachornby is supplying. And he wants watertight, copper-bottomed evidence. The sort of stuff that'll make even a top defence barrister throw in the towel."
Willard overtook a slow-moving caravan heading back to the Smoke. "Well, what about Mason? He'll be out soon – it'll take more than a good hiding to keep that thug in hospital for long – and then I'll be out of the loop."
That was a good point. "I think I know a way to keep him out of circulation for a while. Leave it to me – and stay safe out there. Peachornby may be a fool but you don't want him suspecting anything."
They arranged a venue for his next debriefing and then signed off. Sergeant Wright had hinted that there might be another job for him after this if he was interested – infiltrating a rogue security company up in Sunderland. Willard swore and thumped his steering wheel. He'd never finish. Soon as he'd wrapped things up here at Sleaford, there would be an order thinly veiled as a request, 'if he could just see his way clear to...' And then another.
***
But Willard's problems were nothing compared with Mason's. His injuries, although painful, weren't life threatening. He lay flat on his back in bed. He was the youngest on his ward by at least thirty-five or forty years. The others were old guys who'd had strokes or bad falls or something. They sat and gazed apathetically at the telly mounted on one wall. The old men seemed to love the endless property makeover shows, the cookery programmes and the cooking dinner in other people's properties which make up daytime TV. He didn't get to watch MTV or anything worthwhile.
But the old guys seemed to be much tougher than Mason. He was the only one who came down with the dreaded C. difficile infection. Abdominal pain and a fever were the least of his concerns when diarrhoea kicked in so, for everybody's health and safety, Mason had to be moved into an isolation room off the ward until the virus cleared. And it showed few signs of clearing any time soon.
Mason had suffered from 'delhi belly' more than once in his time. Going for a late 'ruby' or kebab after a Leo Sayer – an all-dayer – on the 'sauce' with his mates and then racially abusing the staff: "what's the matter, Gandhi, can't you take a joke?" almost guaranteed a little 'extra' added to his curry.
But every few weeks, there he was again in his white shirt, sleeves rolled up to showcase his muscles and tatts; in with the lads necking Cobra lager, all ordering Tindaloos or Phalls to prove they could take the searing, mouth-burning heat. "This the hottest you got, Gunga Din?" "This place is gash. Should've gone the Taj Mahal." "Oi, I ordered chips with that, Sabu. Don't you speak no English?"
Ripping pieces off the naan bread and throwing them in a food-fight. The respectable customers eating up quickly and skipping dessert to get away before a punch-up broke out. A spilled bottle of flat lager, the yellow liquid looking like piss as it spread over the tablecloth, drowning the poppadom shards before leaking onto the carpet.
"Oi – you – that went over my kecks, you numpty." Brays of ass-like laughter as one skin stood and pulled his soaked trousers away from his legs.
One last Cobra and then time to pay the bill. By this time, Mason and his mates were so paralytic they could barely stand so when the manager added a bit – or a lot – extra to their bill to cover damages and loss of trade the skins all dropped a few tenners each onto the plate. Occasionally, they got change.
Then it was out into the night again in search of a club that wasn't too fussy about its clientèle. One with dark lighting lit only by strobes and a well-worn, sticky carpet surrounding the dance floor. Preferably one where you were mates with the bouncers so if you got into a barney, you knew you'd have back-up. Somewhere which specialised in 'grab-a-granny' and a Seventies night referred to those gyrating on the dance floor and not the music. Somewhere the local slags wouldn't laugh in your face when you asked them if they 'wanna dance'.
Another bottle in your hand, or maybe onto something stronger like a rum and coke. If your boss was good and bunged a bit of overtime your way, or you got a hot tip from someone in the know and backed the right gee-gees in the bookies, or maybe boosted a few tools from the building site then treat yourself to a couple of lines of charlie in the upstairs gents.
If you didn't have any gear on you – and the way the town was flooded with filth these days, them and their bloody sniffer dogs then you didn't wanna be carrying, not if you had previous – then a word with the doormen would see you right. A twenty slipped into the right hand – not Big Mikey, not now he's born-again – and one of the girls criss-crossing the floor selling shots would slip a little bag into your hand. Then up the stairs, shake out the white powder onto any handy shelf, roll up a note and snort it up. Wait for the bite to hit and you're top of the world, mate.
Back downstairs, feeling awesome, some git jostles you, "watch it, pal," you snarl and then stand in a knot with your mates. One of them leaning against a pillar, more comatose than awake by now. Checking your watch, the last dances of the night coming up. Knowing you need to make your move now or you'll be forced to chat up some random minger in the kebab shop on your way home.
Pushing out like a ship into the thinning crowd on the dance floor as those sober enough to care make an early dart to beat the rush for the taxis. The girls left almost as desperate as yourself but they're all dogs. Shout over the booming house or dance music, last year's Ibiza mix thrown together by a DJ too lazy or out the swim to go to the White Isle for this year's tapes, oldies but still goodies.
Then hopefully some girl, mate of mate or completely unknown gripping you in a bear-hug, squeezing the life out. Your group you came in with broken up, gone their own ways now. Some copped off as well, others not so lucky gone for a last kebab and home. Dangerous now, vulnerable without your pals backing you up like a pack of hyenas but you can handle yourself, mate, don't you doubt it.
So, taking your new girl out into the fresh air of the rain-washed streets. Her squeals of dismay as she stumbles over her killer heels and peers around for her own group of friends. Then, if you hit the jackpot, a drunken lurch down a nearby back-alley, dodging the pools of piss and puke and then a fumble before a quick knee-trembler up against a graffiti daubed brick wall.
Of course, if you strike the double roll-over lottery it's back to her place, tiptoeing up the stairs and in bed. Perhaps she has a sister, older or younger; who cares, mate, and then you've won the Euro-millions. Mason liked to brag how he'd won the Euro-millions several times. And, then with a laugh in the bar the next day, say how he'd never gone to bed with a dog – but woken up with one.
That was enough chat about women. Time to talk football and organise where and when the next ruck was taking place. This is life. This is living and don't you forget it.
Meanwhile, back in the hospital, nobody suspected Sister Monica Davis. In exchange for her co-operation, certain discrepancies over her time sheets and the contents of the controlled medicine cabinet were made to vanish and she was treated to a spell in rehab with the tax payer picking up the tab. Her colleagues were told she had been seconded to another hospital up north. Spreading best practice it was called. Which rather surprised the other nurses as all Sister Davis had been good at was gossiping and spreading bitchy rumours before pushing off early.
But all the same, Mason was one sick skinhead.
***
Willard was surprised at the extent and depth of Peachornby's contacts. All the guy's Aryan Brotherhood claptrap disappeared out the window when there was money to be made. Chinese and Vietnamese, Tongs and Triads, Waqir and Iblal again as well as more Asians from the northern post-industrial cities all the way down to Birmingham and a bunch of Turks from the aptly named Shooter's Hill, London. The Mayor was an equal opportunity supplier, thought Willard. In that respect he'd get the approval of any leftie journalist from the Guardian. If you had the money to buy, then he would sell as much high grade cannabis as ordered.
However, it must be time to wrap up Peachornby's empire, Willard thought. We must have enough to pull the rug from under his feet by now.