CHAPTER 29. STAUFFENBERG'S BRIEFCASE.
Willard replaced his phone in his hip pocket. He smiled and rubbed his mitt through his suede-cut. For a moment, he looked like a heavier, more thuggish, more dangerous version of Stan Laurel. Looking out of the window, Willard exhaled with relief, expelling hot air from deep in his lungs. It was hot. That humid and sticky heat as the sun boiled the wet ground turning the place into a sauna. Britain. It was usually cold and damp – but sometimes it was hot and sweaty. Willard wasn't sure which was worse.
His shirt stuck to his back. In this sticky heat, Willard was glad he was using Sure For Men. You needed something good and with Sure's 24 hour antiperspirant and deodorant you couldn't beat it on a day like this. Outside, a bunch of Smashers ambled around the car park. One was idly pushing a broom while two more leaned against a tree trunk and smoked. Over on the far side of the lot, another filled in a betting slip while the man who was supposed to guard the entrance and open the doors had vanished from sight. Probably he'd slipped off down the pub. Nice work if you can get it.
But the atmosphere was heavy and oppressive – and not just because of the approaching thunderstorm. Since the roadblocks, Sleaford seemed to have shrunk in on itself, turning its back on the world – separate in a way from the county of Lincolnshire let alone the rest of the country. Willard was surprised more hadn't been made of those roadblocks but he guessed that what with the police's budget cuts, the Chief Constable was glad to shuffle off responsibility for policing Sleaford and let it go its own way.
And Willard had to admit that crime had dropped since Peachornby and his Smashers had taken over. In his experience as a constable on the beat before going undercover, Willard knew full well that most crime is perpetrated by a handful of prolific individuals who are 'well known to the police'. It's not a case of many people committing a few crimes each, but usually a handful of active young men pulling lots. Once Peachornby felt a bit more secure – and finding that his Smashers wouldn't be disbanded straight away – there had been a handful of dawn raids.
Groups of masked men armed with baseball bats, tyre-irons and hammers had gone round certain individual's houses or flats, kicked in the door and given them all 24 hours to leave Sleaford. Seeing the way the wind was blowing, the men left their mum's or baby-mothers and looked for some out of town relly or mate who would let them kip on their couch, play on their X-Box and smoke weed.
Inevitably Sleaford's crime rate fell like a stone. Of course, some of the lads weren't happy about being kicked out. One thought the mob was all mouth and no trousers so he made like a limpet and stayed put. That was a mistake. The following night the vigilantes caught up with him outside the boozer. Willard heard the tea-leaf was enjoying a long stay at the Grantham and District. With the injuries to his legs and knees, it will be a long time before he climbs through other people's windows again.
Of course, that was too much even for the laissez-faire attitudes of Lincolnshire Police's top brass. However, Mason and the rest of his likely lads were all alibied up. Not that the cops investigated too hard – their attitude was that the tea-leaf had it coming and the man didn't wish to press charges anyway. So the investigation ended up buried in file thirteen.
Another lad with a bit more nous than the rest called the Standard to have a moan – and he thought there might be a few squid in the story as well. Willard had heard the story of how the journalist; an honest type called Butler who was getting fed up of writing about the Women's Institute bake-offs, allotment flower shows and school plays – which was the only news permitted by Peachornby – did some digging and found that, yes, the crime-beat regulars had all vanished.
The newshound's last interview was with a seventeen year old mother of two called Cheryllyn who was still wearing jammies at four in the afternoon. The poor girl was crying that her Lukey had vanished. However, she had recorded the scene on her mobile when the Smashers came and wondered what the footage was worth? And who was going to pay for a new front door?
As Willard had heard the story; the girl, no more than a kid herself, was surrounded by mounds of washing and her babby was busy crawling after the family's Staffie and both baby and dog were drooling all over the ironing. Privately, Butler had thought that Cheryllyn's life would be greatly improved without her Lukey – but that should be her choice to make and not the fat führer's.
After thanking Cheryllyn and making vague noises about her fee and expenses, Butler had made his way down the front path, stepping over the abandoned toys and nappies littering the front garden and out to his old Ford Mondeo. As he stuck the key in the lock – no central locking on this clunker – three men stepped out from behind the overgrown privet hedge. One leaned against the driver's door while his oppos flanked the journalist.
"You don't wanna believe that little slag," the Smasher said. Butler vaguely recognised the skinhead from when he used to cover the crime columns. Mason, Massey? Something like that.
The other two shook their heads. They looked like bouncers playing more macho versions of Tweedledum and Tweedledee. "She's always lyin'. Can't take no notice of her." Butler, who had studied English at Uni all those years ago, recognised a double negative when he heard it. Although Cheryllyn might not be the brightest or most accurate witness, he thought that on this occasion, he could believe the girl.
"You wanna give us that?" Mason leaned forwards and plucked the journalist's digital voice recorder from his paw. Mason dropped it to the pavement and ground it underfoot. "Clumsy," he said. Tweedledum and Tweedledee bellowed laughter as if this was the funniest thing they had seen all week.
Butler clenched his fists but catching Mason's eye immediately relaxed. There was no way he could take on these three. He was the wrong side of fifty and had a dodgy ulcer that flared up now and again. They'd flatten him and then stomp him into the ground and think nothing of it.
"Any notes?" Mason asked.
With watering eyes – grit, he told himself to preserve some self-dignity – he shook his head and gripped his laptop more tightly. He knew he would delete his notes and not run this story. Visions of a Pulitzer prize faded away. He knew he would go back to covering the Women's Institute and Sleaford Town Football Club's matches. Sadly, that was more his level these days – not crusading, investigative journalism.
"Right-o, mate. Just remember, the Mayor won't be happy if any lyin' stories come out. Got that?" Mason said. "We'll be watchin'."
The journalist nodded sadly. There would be nothing appearing in the Standard under his by-line – that was for sure – but he might tip the wink to that ambitious young girl he'd trained for a few months before she'd moved on to BBC Lincolnshire. Fearless, she was, like a terrier with a bone. And a scoop like this would help her career.
"Sure. We all want to present Sleaford in the best light possible," Butler agreed.
Mason looked blank for a moment as he processed the thought. "Glad you see sense." The three men walked away. The journalist waited until they'd turned the corner before he breathed out with relief. He'd half expected a beating and knew that there was nothing he could do. Back in his Mondeo, he locked the door behind him. Only then did he feel safe.
That's how Willard had heard the story. Not from the journalist himself – his lips were sealed – but from that hard-nosed ball-breaker on BBC Lincolnshire. Willard shook his head. The place was going to the dogs.
As Willard breathed, a few verses of poetry came into his mind – something he'd learned for his GCSEs all those years ago. It was funny how some things stuck in your mind when other rubbish the teachers had tried to drum in – quadratic equations for example – had totally vanished. Not that it mattered in the case of quadratic equations or the foreign policy of Henry VIII. Who cares about that? But these lines had stuck. How did they go again? Something like:
'A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true original course;...
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves.'
By some dude called Matthew Arnold – whoever he was, Willard thought.
Maybe they had resonated in some way with his teenage self, but from the vantage of ten years on Willard couldn't see that. He'd spent his fire and restless forces all right. Active little sod, he was. Played football and rugby union for the county – but sadly not at a level good enough to impress the talent scouts. Was a powerful swimmer and not a bad batsman either. Willard knew enough cricket jargon to be able to talk to Superintendent Donelan as more-or-less equals.
And it wasn't just on the sports field that Willard did alright, even if he didn't excel academically. He'd been a hit with the girls at Alderman Allsop's High School. It was a grim 1960s bog-standard comprehensive buffering a corpy estate from an area of private housing. The high school was earmarked for redevelopment and its playing fields had long since been flogged off by the Tories but the buildings continued to cling on – a sad relic of more optimistic times.
Not that he was the best looking lad there – an Irish bhoy called Declan claimed that honour – but Willard gave off an air of devil-may-care recklessness that attracted the girls better than any pheromone. The girls all thought that they could be the one to tame him and lead him up the aisle. But none of them ever had. After he'd left Alderman Allsop's Willard had carried on with his activities – both sporting and amorous – at the police training college at Hendon. So Willard never understood why those few lines of poetry had stuck in his brain.
Except possibly for moments like now. It felt like he hadn't been on his own line or been himself for one little hour for far too long now. Yes, he was getting fed up of acting undercover and would be glad to finish this job and take that much needed leave. Go somewhere far, far away where he could recharge his batteries and find his real self again.
Willard cast a glance at the door marked 'Mayor'. "If only you knew, chum. Hey! Make the most of the good times while they last," he said under his breath.
That call had been Superintendent Donelan himself. "The light's failing – so let's get a quick win rather than a draw," Donelan had said. Willard knew by now that the Superintendent wasn't actually referring to the day. Although, looking out the windows it was true the light was fading outside.
The sunlight had taken on a peculiar hazy, brownish cast to it and the clouds were cumulonimbus building up into a massive incus – the anvil-shaped thunder-head that promised violence in the heavens. Unless Willard was very much mistaken, there was going to be a storm later. A big one. That should clear the air.
No. What Donelan meant was that the funding for this undercover operation was coming to an end and it was time to close Peachornby down – by any means possible. Willard watched the loafing Smashers until he came to a decision. He picked up the desk phone and dialled the dispatcher’s extension. A few minutes later, Patryk stood before his desk.
Willard slid a file into a multi-use transit envelope and wrote a name and address on the next free box.
"Can you deliver this to Superintendent Donelan at Lincolnshire Police's H.Q.? It's quite urgent – and nothing I want to trust to an email or anything. If anyone asks, just say it's a report on traffic congestion."
"About Peachornby?"
Willard nodded. "A bit more gen for the Superintendent. Hey! Between you and me, I think it's the last piece of the jigsaw Donelan needs to take Peachornby down."
As if summoned by his name like an evil genie, the Mayor's door opened. Peachornby waddled out followed by his henchman. Patryk got a shock. Peachornby's toothbrush 'tache was neatly clipped and drew the eye away from his reddened nose. He'd upgraded his toupee and it looked almost natural. As usual, Peachornby was wearing his Johnny Cash – man in black – outfit and his boots were so highly polished, Patryk imagined he could see his face in the leather. However, it was Peachornby's massive belly that stood out, the buttons straining under the pressure. Patryk reckoned the Mayor had made full use of his expense account.
"I'm just going out," Peachornby said unnecessarily. "I'm off to a meeting at the Cogglesford Mill restaurant with some err... investors. Back later." Peachornby looked at Patryk. "Didn't know we were still hiring Poles here. Sleaford jobs for Sleaford workers, that's what I say." Which was the slogan headlining his latest flyer.
"I live in Sleaford," said Patryk.
Peachornby thought but couldn't think of anything to say to that.
"Can we stop off at McDonald's on the way?" Mason asked as they left.