CHAPTER 26. V FOR VICTORY.
A Polish flag was the least of Peachornby's irritations. A few days later, he stepped out of his newly leased Rolls Royce Phantom. Painted black with tinted windows and two little flags mounted on the bonnet; the flag of England and Sleaford's coat of arms. The Roller was already well known around town. The führer-wagon it was nicknamed.
The limo pulled up outside the newly refurbished Town Hall. As soon as it stopped two Smashers unrolled the red carpet down the steps (costing £14.99 a square yard from CarpetWorld, but Peachornby had adjusted the receipt and charged the Urban Council £44.99). All available Smashers formed up an honour guard on either side.
Mason opened the passenger door and saluted the Mayor. One of the Smashers called out, "three cheers for Mayor Peachornby. Hip, hip, hooray..." On cue, the others all cheered their führer. After all, he had given them their jobs.
Peachornby eased his bulk out of the back of the Roller, checked his syrup, belched and surveyed his bodyguard. Clutching his red ministerial despatch box with the gold portcullis embossed, Peachornby walked up the red carpet like a Hollywood A-Lister closely followed by Mason. He'd got the case second hand off a retired Tory minister who secretly agreed with Peachornby's views and thought Sleaford's Mayor was the breath of fresh air the country needed.
Peachornby nodded to some of the Smashers he recognised. Two of the receptionists held open the double doors for him. A chore they both loathed, having to open the doors and curtsey as Peachornby waddled past while Mason tried to cop a look down their fronts.
However, something else caught Peachornby's eye. Something that hadn't been there yesterday. It was a poster pasted onto the brickwork. He strutted over to it. Which of his admirers had put up posters glorifying their Beloved and Supreme Leader? He would have to remember to promote the man who'd done this. As he got closer, Peachornby's steps faltered.
What? What was this, this... abomination? The poster showed a snap of Peachornby taken at a World War Two re-enactment some years ago. Unsurprisingly, Peachornby was wearing a replica SS uniform and throwing a Hitler salute. But it was the words that shocked the Mayor. 'Peachornby cheated: Get him out NOW.' Leaning forward, he ripped the poster from the wall.
He turned to the assembled Smashers. "Who put this up? Who? Who?" Spittle frothed from his lips. The Smashers looked down and shuffled their Doc Martens. "I want them hunted down," Peachornby flung out before stalking inside.
Or would have stalked inside except the two receptionists had let the glass doors close as he studied the offending poster. Peachornby bumped off the door, his face smacking into the glazing an instant before his belly and, rubbing his boozer's nose, he swore furiously as the Smashers suppressed their laughter.
The Smashers out on traffic and street-cleaning duties soon reported that there were loads of these posters all over Sleaford. From the Holdingham roundabout in the north, which was encircled with them making it impossible for any driver to miss the message, all the way south to the Four Seasons Garden Centre on London Road, Sleaford was festooned with anti-Peachornby and anti-BNP posters.
"Rip them down. All of them," came the order from the Town Hall.
Up in his office, Peachornby poured himself one treble scotch after another. "That's another thing. Why have I only got Tesco own brand whisky? I should've something decent – in case I have visitors."
Mason and Willard stood before Peachornby's desk. Willard thought it very unlikely that Sleaford's Mayor would be receiving many dignitaries in the near future.
"I want the sub-human subversives responsible for this..." words failed Peachornby.
"Atrocity? Outrage?" suggested Willard. Mason flashed him a grateful look. Mason didn't like having to think up words. He preferred to let his fists do the talking.
"Yeah. I want them caught. Put up roadblocks, nobody leaves Sleaford without being searched. Can we borrow the force's chopper? Get onto that Superintendent Donelan and find out. Can we call in the army?"
Willard coughed politely. "I don't think we'll get the helicopter. Not for a few posters." He saw the look of fury suffusing Peachornby's reddened face. "I could check the CCTV cameras, though." he suggested.
"Yeah, do that. Find these traitors," Peachornby said, gulping down the last of his scotch. "While he's doing that, you organise some road blocks, Mason."
"Organise?"
"Sort out," Willard supplied.
"Yeah. Go and see if there's any planks or scaffolding left over from the rebuilding. Get your Dad to knock us up some barriers," continued Peachornby.
Understanding dawned on Mason's face. "Will do Mayor," he said, snapping off a fascist salute.
Down in the Town Hall's CCTV suite – in reality a dingy room smelling of sweat and microwaved ready meals – Willard leaned over the shoulder of the Smasher who had responsibility for monitoring the cameras covering the town centre. The man, Timmins, had been an underpaid contract security guard in his forties and had simply transferred over to the Smashers when they took over, lured by the pay rise that took him above the minimum wage for the first time in years.
Despite joining the Smashers, Timmins had little time for Peachornby's politics. All he wanted was a quiet life, deep in the bowels of the Town Hall, feet up while keeping less than half an eye on the CCTV cameras.
"Can you go back to last night?" Willard asked.
"Sure," said Timmins. He put down a blackcurrant and apple pie and input passwords into the computer. "What time?"
"Try midnight. Then fast forward."
Timmins did complex things with the mouse and then the daytime scene on the monitor vanished to be replaced by darkness. Willard saw he was looking at the Post Office on Station Road. The traffic was still driving past, but it was nowhere near as congested as during the day.
"Fast forward a bit, mate," said Willard.
Timmins left-clicked the mouse and the image sped up; two, six, twelve times. The cars and pedestrians moved jerkily, appearing on the screen one second and vanishing the next. So far, so routine. Then a group of pretty girls in short skirts and high heels came into focus. Two of the girls were leaning on each other, using the other for support. Although there was no sound, Willard could imagine their squeals of laughter and drunken shouting. The camera panned down, following their progress.
As the girls approached Station Road, Willard watched as one of the women – a leggy girl with dyed pink hair – raised her arm and pointed to a group of bins lined up along the side of the street. The girl broke away from her friends and ducked behind the last of the bins, out of sight. The others formed a protective barrier screening her from sight of any passers-by.
The CCTV camera zoomed in as the girl hitched up her skirt, wriggled her thong down her thighs and squatted.
"Thought you weren't allowed to spy on people like that?" Willard said.
Timmins shook his head. "I've told Davey before about doing things like that. He'll lose his licence if he's not careful."
"Not worth it," Willard commented as they both watched the girl finish and readjust her clothing before rejoining her friends.
"Dirty mare never even wiped."
"Carry on. Let's see who put those flyers up."
After the girl, there was little activity until an unmarked white van pulled up opposite the Post Office. One man – at least the figure moved like a man – leaped out of the Transit and rapidly pasted a section of brickwork. He then unrolled the poster, stuck it up and then raced back to the van. Immediately, it zoomed off up along Southgate towards the town centre.
"At least two of them – the fly-poster and a driver," said Willard. "Can you wind it back? Let's have another dekko." This time Timmins played the video in slo-mo. Willard saw that the man had taken precautions. He wore a ski mask and black hoodie, giving nothing away. Willard guessed that he was a thin male and taller than average but that was about it.
"Can you zoom in on the number plates?" Willard asked.
Timmins did so and Willard made a note of the registration. After that, they followed the van as it progressed through Sleaford with the man jumping out to stick up posters. After Willard had seen enough without learning anything of value, he thanked Timmins and left him to his dreary room. Back outside, Willard breathed in the fresh air and then called Sergeant Wright and asked her to check the police's national computer to see who that van's registered owner was.
"Everything okay your end?" she asked.
"Sure. But I think Peachornby is falling apart. To be honest, I'll be glad to wrap up here."
"Trouble?"
"Not really – but I think he's more dangerous than you're giving him credit for."
Sergeant Wright laughed. "I saw him on the news the other night; the guy's just a fool. A flaky nut-job, that's all. A nine days wonder."
"You're not on the ground, Fiona. Hey! Peachornby is an idiot but you should see the way his Smashers adore him, even when he cocks-up. It's his ideas that are dangerous, not him. I've seen notes on his desk from other councils. Some of them are thinking of copying his policies – but not his language. It only takes someone with more smarts than a jellyfish and then this country could be in trouble."
There was a pause. "I'll escalate your concerns, Willard."
So nothing would happen, then. Willard stood, looking out over the car park towards St Denys church. He didn't think his handler was taking his worries seriously. Hey! Okay, this wasn't like infiltrating the Mafia or the cartels but in his own way, Peachornby's ideas might be more dangerous to the fabric of society than class A drugs or unrestricted alcohol.
All the same, he'd flagged up his concerns and now it was the responsibility of people like Superintendent Donelan and those at the top of the tree to decide what to do about Peachornby and his Smashers. A few minutes later, his Nokia rang.
Sergeant Wright's news wasn't unexpected. The man had taken care to conceal his appearance so it seemed as if he knew what he was about and it turned out that the Transit had been bought for cash in Nottingham a week ago. However, the new buyer hadn't yet filed the change of ownership. The seller said that the buyers were young men with eastern European accents but in the East Midlands that didn't exactly narrow things down. The seller had assumed they were fly-by-night, cash-in-hand builders or plumbers, similar to countless other outfits in the area.
Willard smiled as he closed the call. He wasn't going to say anything but he had a good idea as to the identity of the man defacing the town with his posters. If he caught up with the man, hey, he'd just tell him to be careful.
***
Meanwhile, in an apartment over on the far side of town, a small group of men and women met. They called themselves the resistance. One of them had designed a new poster with a World War Two V for Victory theme which was the next stage of their campaign. None of them expected the posters to do too much – at least at first – but it was a start. No-one was happy about letting their adopted home descend into fascism without striking back. Some of them were old enough to remember the sufferings of their own country under communism before the Solidarity movement broke its iron shackles.
Unfortunately, the English seemed content. Whether they were happy or plain apathetic, they just seemed to plod along without noticing, or caring, what was going on around them. The Standard had initially raised a few issues but since Peachornby's Smashers had intimidated shopkeepers against stocking the paper, the Standard had dropped its open hostility to the new regime and concentrated instead on less controversial stories – such as the price of agricultural feed or traffic congestion.