CHAPTER 33. THE FÜHRERBUNKER FALLS.
Sergeant Brent sped through Sleaford and then headed north along the B1188 to Peachornby's home village of Dunston. After the storm, the countryside was soaked and the fields were waterlogged with standing water lying in the furrows.
The back of the van was crowded with three officers bulky in their Kevlar body armour together with masses of equipment such as helmets and riot shields. A red enforcer battering ram was propped up between one seat and the van's side. As well as that, there were several pizza boxes and the back of the van stunk of cheese, pepperoni, garlic overlaying sweat, testosterone and air freshener. There was a confusing mass of noise from the front, police jargon breaking through the static mixed with Test commentary coming from BBC Radio 5 Live.
The three cops eyed the two Poles suspiciously and muttered amongst themselves in a language heavy with jargon and in-jokes. Feeling a bit overwhelmed and wondering why Superintendent Donelan wanted them, Patryk and Lukasz sat back and talked quietly in their own language.
Donelan swivelled round in his seat. Everybody sat a little straighter, wondering what he was about to reveal. "Do part of a meal for a multitude. Nine letters. Third letter N," he said. Apart from the radio the van fell silent. Lukasz wondered what this cryptic sentence meant. The three cops also looked puzzled.
"Concourse," said Brent enigmatically.
"Thanks," said Donelan scribbling something down. "That's why Brent here's a Sergeant, lads. Able to think outside the box. Not confined within the boundary ropes. That's what's needed in the modern police service."
Once again, Patryk and Lukasz looked at each other. They would never understand this country. They're all completely mad. By now the carrier was approaching Dunston and an air of tense expectation filled the interior.
"Here we are," Patryk called out when he saw the England flag flapping wildly in the gale. It was a splash of white against the night sky. Sergeant Brent did a macho handbrake turn and the OSU carrier sprayed gravel in all directions as it raced up the drive until Brent stood on the brakes and the vehicle came to an abrupt halt directly outside Peachornby's bungalow.
The three cops had been driven by Sergeant Brent before and knew what to expect so they braced themselves. Patryk and Lukasz hadn't and were flung forwards ending up in a tangle of arms and legs on the floor. The enforcer toppled over and the three cops laughed.
"When you two have finished, pad up and let's start play," Donelan commented, folding up his Telegraph.
The cops leaped out of their carrier, two of them carrying the enforcer battering ram. Patryk and Lukasz followed more slowly, struggling into their spare Kevlar vests.
Peachornby's bungalow was in complete darkness and under the storm clouds it looked sinister and malevolent. As his eyes adjusted to the night, Lukasz noticed the black Rolls Royce Phantom parked under the car port. A spark of red glowed brighter in the darkness and then arched away, shedding little sparks as it did so. He smelled tobacco.
"You won't need that, I've got a key," a harsh voice said. "Anyway, the retard's not in."
The cops pulled up and the two holding the enforcer looked disappointed that they wouldn't get the chance to smash down the front door and rush inside shouting, "Police! Police!" at the top of their lungs.
Stanley Peachornby flipped open a packet of cigarettes, pinched off the filter, stuck the cancer-stick in his mouth and struck a match. The flickering flame made his hollow, underlit face look demonic, as if Stanley had risen straight from Hell itself.
"Whereabouts on the field of play is he, then?" Donelan asked.
In response, Peachornby jerked his thumb over his shoulder, past the Rolls Royce Phantom towards the back garden. "In his shed. I'll take you."
The party trooped past the Phantom and then down a path running between a neatly clipped lawn and flowerbeds towards a large concrete outhouse.
"The sheriff's come for yo'," Stanley called, putting on a dodgy Deep South accent. "They're gonna throw yo' ass in the slammer, boy. Yo' gonna ride the lightnin' fo' sure."
"That's enough, Mr. Peachornby," said Donelan.
Stanley Peachornby stepped to one side, onto the lawn, to let the police up to the shed. Lukasz noticed an evil grin on the old man's face as he smoked. It looked as if he was having the time of his life.
A line of light shone around the shed's metal door.
"The retard calls that his bunker," the old man said. "He keeps most of his Nazi stuff in there. Weapons too, he says."
Donelan looked at the man. Just then Peachornby's voice boomed out of the shed before ending on a quaver. "I'm armed. I want a helicopter, ten million quid and a flight to... where don't they have extradition again?"
"North Cyprus," his father shouted back. "That's where you said you wanted to go." Under his breath, he muttered, "retard".
Superintendent Donelan waved his men and Stanley Peachornby back. Reluctantly, they obeyed. Sergeant Brent looked as if he'd rather order them to smash their way in and drag Peachornby out by the scruff of his neck.
"Have you any hostages, Kenneth? I may call you 'Kenneth'?"
There was a silence from inside the shed.
"No, he hasn't," Stanley said, drawing deep on his cig.
"Kenneth? Are you alright in there?"
"I'm thinking," Peachornby shouted.
"You'll be 'ere all night then," Stanley Peachornby commented.
"Sir, shall I set a perimeter barrier; call up a negotiator?" asked Sergeant Brent. With such a senior officer on site, he thought it best to play it by the book. "Do you want to request the firearms squad, sir?"
Superintendent Donelan looked at Stanley Peachornby. "Do you know what weapons he has in there, Mr. Peachornby?"
His father was saved from answering when the metal door screeched open. Revealed in the light stood the Mayor of Sleaford himself. As usual, he was dressed in his favourite colour. A holster was on his left hip and in his right hand he clutched a Luger pistol. He raised the pistol and held it to his head.
"GUN! GUN! GUN!" yelled Sergeant Brent as he had been trained.
"I'll do it. I'll shoot myself. Get me a chopper or I'll kill myself," Peachornby said.
Patryk opened his mouth. "I think it's only a replica."
As soon as Patryk said that, Donelan himself stepped forwards and plucked the weapon from Peachornby's sweaty, nerveless grasp. He pushed Peachornby forward towards Brent and his men. Immediately, Brent dropped Peachornby onto the lawn, face down, while one of the constables grabbed Peachornby's wrists, wrenched them behind his back and cuffed him. One of the others searched him finding an SS dagger tucked down his boot. As soon as he was secured, Sergeant Brent read him his rights.
Meanwhile, Donelan checked the Luger, making sure it was safe and then dropped it into an evidence bag supplied by a second constable. It was only a dummy, after all.
Through the open door of the concrete shed – the führerbunker, Lukasz reckoned it was called – they saw that it was filled with Nazi regalia, flags and posters. A big map on one long wall showed the Eastern Front at the greatest extent of Germany's conquest in 1942. In a corner stood a mannequin wearing a SS-Standartenführer's uniform. As well as that, there were blood red swastika flags and a bookcase filled with books glorifying the Third Reich. On top of the bookcase stood a model of a Tiger tank with its gun barrel aimed at the door.
Stanley Peachornby took one look. "You couldn't even manage to top yerself like yer hero, could you? You retard."
At a glance from Superintendent Donelan, Patryk and Lukasz led the old man away.
Now he was secured and no threat, Donelan helped Peachornby over to the carrier. Now that all his dreams had turned to ashes, his life as devastated as Berlin in 1945, Peachornby burst into tears.
However, Donelan looked happy at the quick, clean resolution that didn't bust the overtime budget. Trying to cheer the Mayor up, he said, "Look on the bright side, Kenneth. We've got New Zealand on the run. Last I heard, they're eighty-five for six. And Coney's out LBW. Only scored fourteen." That didn't seem to lighten Peachornby's mood. "You don't follow the game? I thought every true Englishman followed cricket."
As Peachornby was bundled into the back, Patryk looked at Lukasz and shook his head. "What a crazy, crazy country," he said in Polish. Lukasz nodded.
And that was that. Peachornby's Reich ended that night.